Saturday, February 14, 2015

bitches need romance.

i need somebody to make me a mixtape. i might even be willing to tell you exactly what to put on it to achieve maximum giggling heartswooning meltiness, but you gotta find a boombox and some blank cassettes and lock yourself in your room figuring out which songs to put in what order. i used to really, i mean really really, get into my mixtapes. i would try to time the songs so that nothing got cut off and make these painstaking inserts with all of the artists and titles neatly printed within, then listen to each one on my drugstore walkman to make sure that it flowed the way i wanted it to. you know, because i had messages to convey. deep, lusty messages simmering with hormones. LIKE THOSE FOUND IN UNREQUITED CRUSHES. man i miss those days, when you could pour out all your soppy little tender lovefeelings onto a memorex cassette and if the object of your affections was grossed out by them you could save face by claiming you just wanted him to notice how amazing those chord progressions were. i mean, duh.

a sampling of my teenage angst:
ben harper "forever."
juliana hatfield "congratulations."
they might be giants "women and men."
faith no more "land of sunshine."
tribe called quest "jazz (we've got)."
fiona apple "carrion."
cranberries "i still do."
smashing pumpkins "soma."
the roots "i remain calm."
pj harvey "fountain."
hole "softer, softest."
phish "talk."
ben folds five "missing the war."
the breeders "mad lucas."
eels "flower."
k's choice "not an addict."
sinead o'connor "gloomy sunday."
ida "little things."
pearl jam "off he goes."
tori amos "the wrong band."
ani difranco "hour follows hour."
90s era sam was emo as fuck.

YESTERDAY WAS MY GODDAMN BIRTHDAY. i know you don't give a fuck because today is valentine's day and that imaginary boyfriend you've been lying to your friends about either needs to materialize bearing an armload of expensive flowers or be killed by some wild shit like a bear or an army of weaponized bees. as much as i despise heart-shaped cakes and unimaginative glittery red cards, my birthday has long provided a welcome distraction from all of the anxious hand-wringing inspired by cupid and his satchel full of arrows. thank horus for getting older.

valentine's day really stresses you regular people out. i feel kind of bad for humans not born on february 13 with those of us who get to ride a sugary birthday wave until we crash against the shore somewhere around the middle of next week. single people: chins up. nobody has a good valentine's day. if you're with someone, guaranteed that asshole is going to do something irritating to ruin what was supposed to be your perfect day. it's inevitable. the more you hype a thing, the higher the likelihood that it gets ruined. when i was a kid my mom made a super fucking huge deal about picture day. hot combs, bobby pins, straighteners, rollers: THE WORKS. she would walk me to school bound in a straight jacket, threatening my premature death at her hand the entire way if my pictures didn't reflect the concerted effort she'd put into my appearance that morning. and every year i failed, playing as hard as i could all day before tumbling into the makeshift lifetouch photo studio at two o'clock covered in scrapes and dirt and pieces of lunch. that's what valentine's day is like: paying fifty bucks for a picture of a dirty six-year-old who never picks up her toys and feeds her vegetables to the dog.

and if you're not with someone: MORE PANTS OFF DANCE-OFFS ALONE IN YOUR APARTMENT. it's just you and hulu and the delivery dude from that filipino place you love so much, and that motherfucker is only going to be around for 45 seconds max. the problem with this stupid day, obviously, is that romance is dead and everyone is an idiot. plus our expectations are too goddamned high. i'm not saying you have to lower your standards in order to better enjoy the feast of saint valentine (YES I AM), i'm just saying that olive garden is delicious and affordable and unlimited breadsticks > a teddy bear from walgreens any day. don't be let down today by this garbage holiday because no one proposed to you with a blood diamond so expensive it's going to get him evicted, just remember that almost everyone you know is sad and poor and of limited imagination. in the meantime: ROMANTIC SHIT WE NEED TO BRING THE FUCK BACK.

1 lovemaking. maybe i'm old. scratch that, i'm probably old. I AM THIRTY-MOTHERFUCKING-FIVE TODAY. and you know what i wanna do on a friday night? let me set the scene: i wanna drag my tired ass home after a grueling week of making the white man money, swap my pajama-style work clothes for my work-style pajama clothes, order $37 in takeout from grubhub, SOB THROUGH AN EPISODE OF SHARK TANK, fall asleep while waiting for my dinner, sleep-eat on the toilet, drink half a bottle of wine standing over the kitchen sink, then pass out awkwardly in my desk chair. what i don't wanna do? get fucked. ever again. you don't have to interlock my fingers or stare meaningfully into my eyes, but i can't have bitches climbing on me like a goddamn jungle gym. I'M KIND OF OLD, OKAY. and so are the rest of you. now get down off that chandelier in your fancy lingerie and ask that dude to make gentle love to those swollen ankles.

2 breakfast in bed. okay, i'm definitely old. i want to eat my frittata like i'm in a fucking hospital bed, propped up on four ice-cold pillows with a catheter of saline dripping at a steady clip into my thirsty veins. i can't get enough goddamned rest. i had to go into the hospital for a sleep study last week because for the past eight months i've been hitting my head and burning myself on the radiator while sleepwalking, and every time my alarm goes off it feels like the beginning of a bad dream. i'm tired of new shit happening to my body. every time i look in the mirror new moles and skin tags are waving back at me like, "HAY GIRL HAY!" when do we get a break!? all of a sudden half my hair is gray and i'm allergic to a bunch of shit i wasn't two weeks ago. IS THERE TRULY NO REST FOR THE WICKED. i don't need a wilting rose, just put the toaster on the right setting and hand that shit to me without blocking the tv for too many seconds. viva la romance!

3 handwritten letters. pictures of boobs are okay and everything, but they're just, you know, hanging there. or propped up on a clavicle. or rolling into a stubbled armpit. i like tits in my phone, for sure, but what i really like is handwritten proof of undying devotion. the next time you drop your phone in the toilet without having uploaded your most recent cache of sexts to the cloud you're gonna wish a bitch sent you a couple hallmark cards. it is the very best feeling. 

4 know what kind of shampoo i use. the honeymoon period only lasts so long, my dudes. there are only so many months i can keep my toenails clipped reasonably short while simultaneously remembering to take all my trash out every week and maintain my image as the shea buttered, poreless clean freak you encountered the very first time you entered my apartment. i can keep that up for two maybe three visits and then SORRY HO, THERE'S A RING AROUND MY TUB. i'm a real person. but the nicest thing someone can do for you is make life easier, and if you're at target and buy me a tube of eucerin sensitive skin cream i will wash your feet with my hair. who needs a horse-drawn carriage when you bring home a bacon egg and cheese biscuit with a coke (extra ice) because you know that shit's my jam!? NO ONE, THAT'S WHO. swoon city.

good luck, everybody. i hope you know how much i love you.
valentine mixtape, what.

Friday, January 30, 2015

revenge of the nerd.

ay i'm about to fucking kill somebody. a few months ago i was sitting at home, changing my sheets while listening to rachel maddow recount the highlights of the some senate committee meeting, when i heard the worst sound i have ever heard in my life except for that one time a dude audibly cried while i was generously giving him a blowjob: the sound of my kitchen ceiling splitting painfully in half, followed by a deluge of water crashing thunderously to the counter, sink, and floor below. before i could even grasp what was happening, before i could even unfold the useless martha stewart for target dishtowel i would attempt to throw helplessly atop the tide pool, i heard the pitter patter of raindrops echoing from the adjacent bedroom i'd just left. horrified, i rounded the corner to see water streaming down the same wall this motherfucker upstairs ruined the last time he nonchalantly decided to ruin my goddamned life. two seconds later it was raining in my bedroom, too. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, A PLAGUE. helen, who keeps a packed suitcase by the door at all times in case i act up, was like, "bitch, i'm going to laura's."

i know you don't get to decide how the people around you live. i have had my own place since i was 18, and i figured out early on that i had absolutely zero say in the choices my building's cohabitants made, despite how counterintuitive they might appear to me and my own life decisions. for instance, the gentleman who rented the apartment next to mine on ravenswood who would string his sopping wet laundry from our "porch." which, if you've ever been to chicago, you understand to mean "square foot section of threadbare plywood threatening to plummet you to your death if you so much as drink a beer while standing on it." the back of our building overlooked a paved alley littered with abandoned car parts, jagged rocks, and shards of broken glass. fighting my way through the tangle of dishwater grey underpants that smelled like burnt fish grease and car exhaust was the worst part of of my day, but unless i married that dude i couldn't say shit about it. and maybe he didn't like the way i spent every evening quietly sobbing to stereolab records while eating hundreds of calories' worth of my feelings, but oh yeah it never affected him because i didn't hang my snot rags and cheese-eating pants outside where he might trip over them on his way out with the trash.

i wouldn't want anyone to dictate my goddamned choices, which is why i refuse to ever buy a condo. (see also: extreme poverty.) the idea of regular-ass people fine tooth combing over my credit history while i shift awkwardly in a puddle of sweat as they decide whether or not my criminal record is white collar enough for me to move my collection of old sassy magazines into the square foot windowless box next to the one the live in. you can't tell at a glance that the woman across the hall will regularly f                                                     ight with her boyfriend and force him to sleep in the hallway outside your door, and the first morning i discovered him i was like, "FUCK I JUST SIGNED THIS GODDAMNED LEASE." then i learned that if you run a cool-mist humidifier on the highest setting 24 hours a day and blast kanye's "graduation" through your noise-canceling headphones not only will you feel like you live inside a fancy spa but you will also drown out 98% of the arguments wrought between furious macy and her ever-penitential kevin. my nasal passages have never been so clear!

so the kid upstairs. when it happened the first time he bravely came bounding down the stairs and knocked on my door, wagging his tail while offering to "help with a mop" as my mattress and my macbook pro floated past us down the hallway. i even felt kind of bad for him? BECAUSE HE'S OBVIOUSLY NOT VERY SMART. but then it happened again, a deluge of swamp water streaming horror movie-style down the new walls that had just begun to dry from the last motherfucking time, followed over the course of the next several weeks by some missing package deliveries and his newfound interest in a muffled cacophony that can only be described as "making shitty hip hop beats." i'm done with this fool. it's time to get his ass back.

first i was thinking i might release a bag of spiders under his door. bugs don't gross me out or scare me. did you know that there are millions of microscopic bugs living in your eyebrows and shit? EIGHT-LEGGED DEMODEX MONSTERS. face mites are real and spend their entire life cycles tucked away inside our hair follicles, plotting evil from within. that means everything they do: mating, laying eggs, eating oil and dead skin cells, happens in your goddamned face. so i'ma be worried about a bag full of crickets strategically placed outside his crib? NAH, BRO. there are tiny arachnids shitting and fucking in my hair follicles. are bed bugs commercially available? i know they could potentially ruin my life as much if not more than his, but that's a risk i'm willing to take. do i know any roach dealers? IF SO, GET AT ME.

or maybe i could just buy a barking dog cd and play that shit on repeat? i would be risking eviction as ours is a cat-only residence, but it might kind of totally be worth it. a few years ago one of my friends moved to this pretty sweet studio in logan whose only drawback was a dog across the courtyard with an untreated case of separation anxiety that resulted in obnoxious barking from eight in the morning until whenever its owner arrived home in the evening. reason 5,874,239 i will never own a dog: that asshole could get me kicked out of my goddamn house due to an imaginary joke disease that i would have to become a recluse to cure. the only thing more eardrum-shredding than a crying baby is a barking dog, especially one not close enough to throw your shoe at. (oh settle down, i would never throw a shoe at someone's dog.)

ooh! what if i stopped his mail!? i'm pretty sure that he signed for the giant box of topricin cream and joint supplements ups delivered to my building the other day, but i can't be totally sure because THAT SHIT NEVER MADE IT TO MY MOTHERFUCKING DOOR. what kind of asswipe steals someone's arthritis medicine? especially the topical kind!? i mean, come the hell on. pills i can understand, but unscented homeopathic mobility cream? shame on you, my dude. fucking with the mail is a felony blah blah blah but listen, there are only so many joke pizzas i can send to this dude's crib. he probably wouldn't even be mad, as every time we have awkwardly shared an elevator ride his eyelids have been at half mast. that'll teach him, all his comic books and shit sent to some unsuspecting jerk on the other side of town. except who the fuck even gets mail anymore? i'm the only asshole rushing straight home from work to check for the latest issue of glamour in the post. it would probably be a relief for homeboy's electric bill to end up somewhere in minnesota. meanwhile money i owe from ten years ago has followed me to four consecutive apartments. just my fucking luck. 

here's a thought: i could start a motherfucking heavy metal band. but a kind of moist one since i can only play the fruity piano and the clarinet. anyone wanna start a liturgical quartet!? i guess my only recourse is to move into the apartment above his and do work. somebody bring over a goddamn bassoon. TURN DOWN FOR WHAT.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

forest whitaker, perfect human.

dear forest whitaker, aka the love of my (sort of) young life, on the eve of your breakout performance in the third and final installment of the taken trilogy aka the greatest cinematic achievement of the 21st century: i'm not 100% sure when the spark of my undying love for you was lit, but i'm pretty confident it was about 2/3 of the way through the movie "panic room," which i saw in the goddamned theater even though my boyfriend at the time had a bootleg copy fourteen motherfucking dollars you're welcome, during the scene in the kitchen when it becomes clear that burnham isn't really a bad guy, he's just there to steal that money so he can buy baby diapers. or medicine for his grandma. i had seen you in movies before, of course, but nothing ignited my passion like watching your tortured soul balance the instinct to protect that little sassy-mouthed diabetic kristen stewart against jared leto's promise of a fortune hidden beneath that metal floor. oh, the gut-clenching drama. my heart was beating in my throat the entire time and when you made it out of the house alive (SPOILER ALERT IF YOU HAPPEN TO STILL BE LIVING IN 2002) it was rock solid proof that you are a good person, because i don't understand how to distinguish an actor from the character he plays on television or in a movie. i cried, my dude. then walked home from the movies listening to poe on a motherfucking walkman. fuck youth. AND TECHNOLOGY.

how do i love thee? let me count the ways.

listen, i saw fast times. but that movie is for white people and i was probably too young to understand half the shit that was going on. but i for sure watched you as herman in the "bully for arnold" episode of diff'rent strokes. am i the only one who had a serious thing for willis? oh i know, CRACKHEAD. but for real, in the early 80s there were very few young black men available for schoolgirl crushes so willis was goddamned it. 1986 platoon and 1987 good morning, vietnam. i am generally uninterested in war movies for two reasons: 1 there's too much shit happening and too many people dressed in the same goddamn clothes for me to figure out exactly what the fuck is going on and 2 NO MOTHERFUCKING LOVE STORY. i'ma need to see some dudes kissing if i am going to give up 2+ hours to a bunch of brain-rattling gunfire and indistinguishable shouting. but i watched them, despite myself, for you.

i didn't see bird until a couple months ago? but HOLY SHIT, DUDE. fucking amazing. downtown is the most hilarious buddy cop movie not named turner and hooch, which reminds me that i need to put it in my queue so i can steal the shit from netflix. i missed a lot of your movies in the 90s, probably because i had a lot of homework to do. also i spent a shitload of time reading sassy and YM and, correct me if i'm wrong, they didn't really do a whole lot of features on dudes like you. ugh i went through this gross matt dillon phase after he was in seventeen and if i could have those hours of my life back i could probably have a fucking PhD, shit. back on the horse with ghost dog, though. and then light it up because omg rosario. which really means BECAUSE OMG USHER. but also you! because you're perfect!

if i ever get to awkwardly corner you at a party the first thing i'm going to do after i recover from hyperventilating and stop myself from gently stroking your face while i openly weep, i am going to get my shit together and talk to you about what a jam waiting to exhale was. i was definitely too young to understand the intricacies of what i was watching, but angela bassett torching that convertible full of [mr. darnell from lean on me]'s possessions made my heart soar. YOU ARE AN ANGEL.

omg here is a list of bullshit movies i paid actual money to see just because you were in them:
phone booth.
the air i breathe.
the great debaters.
vantage point. (which was so awful, come on!)
street kings. yes it was kind of dumb but common + keanu + samantha irby at 28 years old = OF COURSE I SAW THIS IN T HE THEATER, MY DUDE.
repo men.
our family wedding.
black nativity.
out of the furnace.
and i even saw the goddamn butler, even though my blackness does not like it when i watch slave shit or servant shit. i risked pissing off my ancestors to watch terrence howard simulate sex with oprah. that's gotta mean something, b.

we almost met once! a few years ago i put on my party clothes because i somehow wrangled a ticket to gaze upon that sweet, sweet face when you won some fancy chicago award that of course i don't fucking remember. i'll tell you what i do remember: 1 i wore a dress from bloomingdale's that was lovely but had this itchy net overlay so i basically stood at the back of the cocktail reception eating mini crab cakes and scratching my butt the whole time 2 you were so gentle and soft-spoken and i just wanted to shove you in my bra and nuzzle you like a tiny kitten 3 the asshole seated in front of me during the Q&A portion of the ceremony kept baller blocking my attempts to ask for your hand in marriage and by the time i thought to reach down and pull his underwear up from the back of his pants robin robinson, the lovely host and living chicago legend, had already moved on the supercut video of your most riveting performances 4 i brought a sign that i spent all afternoon making that read "hey forest, i'm into buttsex" that i decorated with glitter and puff paint but at the last second got too chickenshit to bring it in because i didn't realize it was gonna be some bougie black shit where everyone was wearing shiny nude pumps and talking about the white party last night at ______.

here are some facts i learned from the internet that make me want to wash your feet with my hair. you went to college on a sports scholarship. you are a big man, both in height and width, and it takes little to imagine you terrorizing opponents on a football field. *bites lip* you speak so serenely and calmly that it's no surprise to learn that you came to film through music: you played the trumpet and trombone before singing in musicals at high school. plus you have good politics. i think? i mean, i guess so!? what the fuck do i know, i only went to high school. ANYWAY HERE IS A QUOTE: "i'm now on the president's committee for arts and humanities. i'm not policy making, but i'm interested in political engagement. i have a foundation called PeaceEarth and we are currently working in the sudan, where we are training youths in conflict resolution and peace. we are about to start work in mexico."

singing and tromboning and international peace-making are all panty-dampening activities, but i don't even want to be gross like that with you. seriously, that bashful thing you do in your interviews is intoxicating and if you wanted to i would probably let you walk me like a dog on a leash, but you're so nice that you probably wouldn't even fucking want to. i'm sure of it. and even though your smile makes me glad i'm trying out those new always super-absorbent pantiliners at work today, i'm not even gonna come at you all disrespectful and shit. i'm not going to tell you that there's a 76% chance i would shave my armpits for the first time in four years if you texted me on the bootycall side of 11pm, but that is for real a possible thing. probably not because it would take fucking forever BUT i would put lotion on my heels and that's real. do you really have barack obama's phone number? it would be so sexy if you did. but like i was saying i'ma keep this strictly profesh.

listen, i'm not sure how things are going with you and keisha but i assume they're good. you guys aren't the type to be throwing hot chicken grease on each other in the middle of the street. and i'm here for black love, i really am. but if you ever get tired of looking at her pantyhose hanging over the shower rod or whatever other boring shit bores married couples into the arms of their internet stalkers, feel free to email me and see if i'm still a lesbian. you can come over and i'll put on the otis redding pandora station and cook the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs. you look like a motherfucker i gotta make greens for. in the meantime i already fandango'd my tickets to see TAK3N several times this weekend, even though this dude at the laundromat offered to sell me a chinese copy for three dollars and a pair of my unwashed panties. THAT'S LOVE, OKAY. and deserving of at least five minutes of you making out with liam neeson in a prison cell. fingers crossed!

yours forever and ever,

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

christmas is the pits.

HOLD UP, DON'T CHASE THAT HANDFUL OF NORCO WITH A VODKA SODA YET. why not wait until after you've scrolled through nine hundred perfect instagram christmases before you slice your wrists open the long way? (jk don't do either of those things.) christmas is the motherfucking worst. is hanukkah bad? PROBABLY. eight consecutive nights of not getting what you want because life is horrible and nobody loves you!? OY GEVALT. somehow we've wound up at the end of another shitty year, and i don’t know that i am any more depressed december 24-jan 3 than i am on march 8 or july 17 or october 29, but this is definitely the time of year more people text and call reminding me why i fucking should be. “HEY SAM INSTEAD OF COMMITTING SUICIDE WANNA COME TO MY HOUSE AND EAT SOME HAM CUZ YOU AIN’T MARRIED AND YOUR P’S ARE DEAD?” well now that you put it that way, let me put down this noose i was working on and practice smiling while saying, “hi i’m samantha, ____ and i are just friends and i’m totally okay with that” until it sounds like i fucking mean it. jk i’ma for real spend christmas just maxing this cinnabon and watching homeland and trying to wrestle this holiday sweater onto the goddamn cat. because the only thing worse than what’s left of my family is your family. your uncle’s racist jokes make me want to punch that motherfucker in the throat and i don’t understand why there are cornflakes on top of the tuna casserole. i fucking hate that i had to put pants with a zipper on them and take a fifteen-dollar cab to sit in this drafty house and participate in the lie that this grated cauliflower tastes anything like a mashed potato. SIR, I KNOW A POTATO WHEN I SMEAR I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER ON ONE.

i’m old enough now that people i sat next to while they peed themselves are sending out unironical holiday update letters, and boy does that make me want to die. it’s goddamn adorable when your madre sends me a list of vacations she and her third husband spent drinking wine this past year, but if you cheated off my chemistry final i’m not really trying to read some trite christmas bullshit you wrote in the third person. WHY BECAUSE I AM JEALOUS. oh no, i’m not. if i wanted a toddler, i could’ve made one with jon our freshman year of high school. i want to know how many kids your kid bit in daycare and how bad your hemorrhoids got this year. can we please start doing that? i’ll send you photos of me and helen acting out old episodes of sex and the city (SHE IS SUCH A MIRANDA) and you nerds tell me how your marriage is a sham. in the meantime, christmas newsletter madlibs:


we hope your year has been filled with death and destruction. chicago continues to agree with me and helen; we thought life would slow down as we got older, but perhaps we’re just not capable of any less activity! sam did slow down a bit for a couple weekends and took the dirty-ass amtrak to southwestern michigan, spending long days with a delightful friend in a borrowed lake house because soul-crushing poverty. lounging, reading, exploring, and just being with good friends was a special treat.  too bad about her indentured servitude, otherwise she might be able to get used to this! we hope that life will go on without dying in a fire or hurling ourselves off a cliff in despair. we know that is a challenge at this time in our lives, but we are truly grateful for the terrible fortune and horrible friends that we have and the chance to live in misery most of our days. may your days be as hashtag blessed. please have a painfully average holiday season and a very negative and disappointing 2015!


1 buy yourself some goddamn presents. let’s talk about what we really miss about the holidays of our youths: tumbling out of bed and scampering in your jammies into the warm, tree-lit living room. the tree, which maybe had two or three small boxes under it when you’d gone to bed, is now bursting forth with gifts. mom is smoking a newport over the wafflemaker and you can hear the sizzle and pop of bacon between the strains of all the black christmas songs playing on v103. there are parades to be watched, toys to be inventoried, forgotten batteries to be fetched from the store before it closed at three. then passing out on a heap of wrapping paper before the sun even goes down. 
there was nothing on earth better than ripping the packaging off my new abject poverty barbie and her husband incarceration ken then scripting their fights about money while bathed in the warm, candy-colored glow of the twinkling tree lights. 

the reason christmas sucks as an adult is because motherfuckers are broke or cheap and no one ever buys you a goddamn thing you ever fucking want. i do not understand, in this age of amazon in which we currently live, giving someone a shitty gift. what your thumbs were too tired, my guy? GET AT THAT ITUNES CARD. i would never expect someone to buy me anything i want in real life, because i like overpriced bullshit. but i also like magazines. and cocktails. skip that shitty 3-piece white diamonds gift set you copped in the checkout line at walgreens (perfume!? and lotion!?!? and shower gel!?!?!?!?! WHAT AM I THE PRINCE OF ZAMUNDA!?) and get my bourbon next time i'm falling asleep next to you at the bar. or buy me a big gulp and the sunday times. a double espresso and some nail polish remover. you know, shit i will actually use. next time you're at target grab me a bag of kotex overnights, in jesus name.

my christmas list:

1 a marimekko unikko duvet and shams.
2 a pair of superretrofuture ciccio eyeglasses. 
3 geno's old fancy as fuck tv that he's selling me at a discount.
4 some NEST reed diffusers because i just got one and holy shit my crib smells amazing.
and because i'm my own santa, i ain't gotta justify the price or find it on sale or only get one because that's the polite thing to do. i'ma spend my christmas bonus on seafood and fancy eye cream because that's what oprah would fucking do.

2 get some luxurious motherfucking jammies. i am 34 years old and i just got my very first robe. it’s long and black and made of jersey and is the most glamorous thing i’ve ever owned. seriously, it’s all i wear now. i am a big believer in the power of pajamas. i don’t need to meditate, i just need to put on these soft pants with the busted elastic waistband and this fleece hoodie and bury myself under the duvet for twelve hours. i like asos playsuits and cuddl duds and those slipper socks your boss gives you every christmas because he’s awkward and has no imagination. and the shit doesn’t have to be expensive, all of my inside clothes look like i foraged them from a fucking dumpster.

I HATE LINGERIE. nothing worse than getting trussed up like a pig just to have everything ripped off ten minutes after you struggle to get the shit on. so that's not what i'm talking about. self-care is one of those phrases everyone and their mother is going on about, so let's do that for real. i'ma go to king spa and get, like, four layers of skin sloughed off after sleeping for an hour in the sauna, eat a bunch of kimchi and soondoobu, then slather myself in neutrogena sesame oil. overfeed the cat, snuggle up in my robe, and try not to move until january 3.

3 eat some fatty fucking snacks. gorge on whatever the fuck you want, cutie: cakes, pies, cookies, cakes, muffins, cheeseburgers, more cake. jesus didn't die for you to spend half an hour tabulating calories on his birthday. my girl rosamund and i were having a deep philosophical discussion a couple weeks ago about our favorite lazyperson foods, and dips were the clear motherfucking winner. WHO THE FUCK DOESN’T LIKE DIP.

buffalo chicken dip.

8 ounces cream cheese
1/2 c finely chopped celery
1/2 c hot sauce
1 rotisserie chicken, shredded
1 c crumbled blue cheese

preheat the oven to 425. in a medium saucepan over moderate heat, melt the cream cheese until smooth, about 3 minutes. add the celery, hot sauce, and chicken. mix it up. transfer the mixture to a 9" pie plate and sprinkle the crumbled blue cheese on top. bake until hot and bubbly, about 25 minutes. serve with crackers, bread, or carrot sticks.


white bean dip with herbs.
1/4 c plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, very finely chopped
1 tsp finely chopped sage
1/2 tsp finely chopped rosemary
two 19 ounce cans cannellini beans, drained
2 tbsp water
cayenne pepper

in a medium skillet, heat 1/4 cup of the olive oil until simmering. add the garlic, sage, and rosemary and cook over moderately high heat, stirring, until it smells good as hell and the garlic is just beginning to brown, about 1 minute. (waltz around the kitchen for a few seconds, feeling like a real fucking cook.) add the beans and toss to coat.

transfer the beans to a food processor. (or a blender, if you ain't got one? but really my dude, EVEN I have a cuisinart mini prep. get it together. we grown.) add the water, season with salt and cayenne, then process to a smooth-ish puree. put the dip in a small serving bowl if you're fancy like that, drizzle the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil on top and serve with pita chips.

taco dip because duh.

1 lb ground beef
16 ounce can refried beans
1/2 cup taco sauce
1 tbsp chili powder
1 tsp ground cumin
1 c sour cream
1/4 c chopped onion
1/4 c chopped tomatoes
1/4 c black olives (sliced and OPTIONAL, vomit. )
1/4 c jalapeƱo chilies (rings)
1 + 1/2 c shredded cheddar cheese

preheat oven to 350. in a large skillet, brown ground beef and drain. (gross, i know, but worse if you don't.) add refried beans, spicy taco sauce, chili powder, and cumin. Spread the mixture into a 9" x 13" baking dish. spread sour cream over meat mixture. layer onions, tomatoes, olives (OR NOT), and jalapeƱos over the sour cream. top with the cheese. bake at 350 for 30 minutes. serve with tortilla chips or just suck it off your fingerscoops, you savage. eat until you puke.

4 GET THE FUCK OFF THE MOTHERFUCKING INTERNET. i just got a spam email from a fat people dating website which i opened to find your cousin terrell informing me that he "can handle [my] love handles.” why yes, kind gentlefellow, let us get married posthaste. i gotta get the fuck off the internet, b. at least until all of the nuclear family gathered under the tree unexpected marriage proposal lose your first ten pounds for free ads are safely off my timeline and you kids stop filling my newsfeed with your 2014 retrospectives. I'M NOT CLICKING THAT SHIT. besides, i already know what you did this year: posted some boring articles, took a couple buzzfeed quizzes when that was still a thing, and changed your profile picture 137 times. bring on the new year.

the internet is a beast, man. and if you are a lonely little poinsettia this time of year you have to get off it for a few days or you will hurt yourself. first off, everyone is dumb. second, we are living in spectacularly shitty times, which makes the internet NOT FUN AT ALL. and that would be okay if everyone we knew on facebook was a measured individual of reasonable intelligence. BUT THEY ARE NOT. easier said than done, for sure, but that's why i have a plan:
-read some good shit. so i have a bunch of shit lined up to read over the next couple weeks. HOLIDAY BOOK CLUB, WHAT:
"boy, snow, bird" by helen oyeyemi.
"tigerman" by nick harkaway.
"a brief history of seven killings" by marlon james.
three is a reasonable enough number, yeah? i hate being mocked when i aim too high and fail.

-relax while listening to some tunes. i like to make a playlist to listen to while lying around pretending i never have to go back to work. i hate christmas movies, always have. if i want to bawl my eyes out i'll go over my bank statements, thanks. christmas eve i like to put fresh sheets on the bed then lie splayed across the whole thing while dozing on painkillers and brooding to some smooth emo jams. click here for this year's winter mixtape.

-marathon the shit out of some television programs. now that serial is over (GET AT ME, ADNAN) and sons of anarchy is gone forever (welp) i have a little free time to devote to becoming wholly consumed with some new shit. maybe damages? orphan black!? help me, netflix!

-WRITE A FUCKING BOOK. did you read meaty? if not, what the fuck are you waiting for!? have you just been rul busy? OR DO YOU FUCKING HATE ME. go get it. anyway, i'm writing another book. and the shit is due to my editor june 15. which is kind of really soon. not really but really. january will drag on, so i can probably get a lot done then, but i spend the entire month of february celebrating my birthday so that's gonna fly by. (party at red lobster, details forthcoming.) what happens in march, college basketball? snooze, so i guess i can write then. april will be warm enough to make excuses not to be in the house, and even though i hate being outside i hate doing work even more. may flowers, gotta smell 'em, then boom: JUNE BOOK DEADLINE. you guys will have to wait a year for book two, though. in the meantime, stuff your stocking with the first one.
5 donate some money or time. but probably money. oh, i know. helping people is v v boring. I HATE IT, TOO. but you know what’s an easy way to be a decent person? donating some of your movie popcorn money to places that do good work. listen, i used to volunteer and maybe if you’re not the kind of person who cries all the time you can too, but i cannot put on another mesh bonnet to use an ice cream scoop to feed adult persons meatless spaghetti ever again in my life. one can only do so much useless sobbing. at first i thought it was gonna rage, that i would be infused with the spirit of loving kindness and float away from that church basement on a cloud of goodwill. but in reality i had to be scrubbed down and sanitized then covered in plastic to shovel slabs of cornbread dressing until my back hurt while pretending not to be worried about where i’d last seen my purse. so now i just give money. it absolves me of some guilt while also being easy on my knees and lower back. last week i fucking gave half my paycheck to the aspca because they have a new commercial featuring sad ass kittens and pitbulls left to starve out in the goddamn cold. i could barely give the woman on the phone my debit card number i was crying so much, and she reassured me in her kindest dealing with an unstable human voice that my generous donations were going to help so many unfortunate little animals. then i got to hang up without getting bitten or shit on. and that's worth 18 cents a day for real.

GOOD LUCK, EVERYBODY. if you're having a rough time just think about how many assholes have to choke down their mother-in-law's gross jello mold while sitting on a plastic-covered sofa, then look around your empty studio and know that you've made the better choice. you're in your soft clothes, warm taco dip is churning through your guts at a breakneck pace, and you haven't incurred any monumental credit card debt trying to appease children who are either going to murder you in your sleep or make a living sliding down a stripper pole in ten years anyway. bah humbug, you herbs.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

winter beauty tips for the slovenly and unkempt.

head. when i was a kid, my "lipstick" was a reddish-brown eye pencil my mother, who dyed her hair fire engine red every four weeks without fail, used to draw on the eyebrows that had fallen out never to return when she was pregnant. i would trace my lips with the pencil and fill them in as much as i could without wearing it down so much that she would notice, then dab a little vaseline on to make it shiny. i would also pat some of her heavily perfumed oil of olay cream on my cheeks and eyelids because listen, i'm motherfucking luxurious, b.

i'm not going to go into a whole thing about how growing up poor turns you into a ravenous, insatiable hoarder of nice things once you get enough money for an apartment and the occasional double cheeseburger. BUT IT'S TRUE. my very first paycheck was probably 70% rent and 30% mac lipglass. winter is a rough time of year to try and be cute. maybe if you live in malibu it's possible for you? but those of us in the heartland just resign to bundling up and dragging our chapped lips and ashy hands out to olive garden  for some fancy spaghetti every once in a while until the tundra thaws out enough to put an open-toed shoe on. when it's balls cold outside this is how we dress: warm tights, socks, giant boots, pants, base layer shirt, thin sweater over that, gross outside hoodie over that, puffy warm coat that is too hot to even put on in your steamy, radiator-heated apartment, hat, scarf, mitts: it's like wearing a motherfucking space suit in real life. i'm surprised anyone can stand upright while trying to get the bus to work. so i'm not gonna be worried about getting my lipstick right when the avalanche i gotta walk through will just rinse the shit off my face. but i do have to keep a job.

i have Very Specific Hair. which is not to say that my hair is more moody and petulant than anyone else’s, it’s just the kind of hair that when bitches on the train is like, “girl, what do you use!?” i gotta sigh and be all, “HOW MUCH TIME YOU GOT.” so, if you are a yeasty little beast and have gross, scaly seborrhea crawling from under your bangs down into your unruly eyebrows, i rotate jason tea tree shampoo on my barefoot chai recycling plastic bottle days and head and shoulders dry scalp care with almond oil on my mcdonald’s drive thru styrofoam hummer days. and once a week i wide tooth comb some 99 cent suave conditioner through my hair to get the big knots out? ugh i’m lying. once a month, maybe. i have read all of the curly hair blogs about co-washing and sulphate-free shampoos and conditioners and i tried all that shit but i am scaly and itchy and FUCK THAT. last week i did my yearly under the bathroom sink purge, and found no fewer than 827 bottles of styling creams and 592 tubes of various curl-defining gels. and this is the part of caring for natural hair that becomes a giant toilet into which you flush all of your disposable income: THE SEARCH FOR A STYLING PRODUCT THAT IS JUST A TINY BIT BETTER THAN THE ONE YOU'RE ALREADY USING. because even if you've found a good one, and your curls are lengthened yet defined yet supple yet not crunchy, you are never fully convinced that you are using the very best product you could be. it is the curly hair curse, this neverending quest to find the one product that does everything your hair needs just a little bit better than every fucking thing else. the one product i have stayed married to despite several fleeting affairs (miss jessies! mixed chicks! aveda pomade!) is paul mitchell the conditioner. it's frothy blue elixir from the gods, and if you've seen my hair in real life YOU ALREADY KNOW. also, you can use the shit as body lotion. quit playing.

because i'm your elderly abuelita i use pond's cold cream and moisturizer pretty much every goddamned morning in the winter, because they make your skin feel like gorgeous fried chicken. i wipe the cucumber cold cream all over, dangerously shave my lip hairs in the dark, then wipe it all off with a warm washcloth and slather on the moisture. then i dance around for a minute because you for real cannot let your face touch your shirt with that greasy shit on it. but trust me: after you fight through the congested commuter train out into the throng of hot dads in their biker shorts and clicky shoes blocking the condiment island at starbucks before finally stumbling ten minutes late into work your skin will be the goddamned wave. no ashy spots, so bleeding cracks, just glistening, supple babybutt skin.

i'm going to spend as little time as possible dwelling on the sickness i have when it comes to lipsticks and blushes. in my defense, i do not wear: eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, bronzer, highlighter, luminizer, concealer, face powder, primer, false eyelashes, or liquid foundation. so i promise i will not bore you to death with any of those. yes, i probably have $300 in yves saint laurent lip stains but THEY ARE THE BEST AND I NEED THEM. see also: 1 occ matte lip tar. my jam shades: anime, nylon, hoochie, rollergirl; messy as shit but worth it if you like neon pink lips, except you have to use a brush so ugh. 2 bite beauty high pigment pencil. my jam shades: pomegranate, grapevine, violet; super bright and creamy! i like my shit bone dry, though, so i gotta have 2a bite beauty cashmere lip cream. my jam shades: moscato, sancerre, rioja, port; good color payoff, starts out liquid and dries to a powder finish that doesn't move never ever. THE BIG DOGS: i probably have tried every 3 mac matte lipstick ever produced, and they are almost the perfect ratio of vivid to dry. my jam shades: ruby woo, flat out fabulous, all fired up, dangerous. but the best of the best of the best, my #1 lover, is 4 NARS velvet matte lip pencil. it's bright as shit and dry as fuck and if you see me on the street please know that i have more dragon girl pencils on my person than i do dollars and/or credit cards and/or money in general. like i said, it's a sickness. send help.

shoulders. i’m not going to talk to you about drinking water. i fucking hate that shit, when all you wanna do is read about a bitch’s skincare routine and she’s all, “i just drink eight glasses of water a day and sleep eight hours a night and tee hee lots of sunscreen.” FUCK YOU, BITCH. i could drink 37 glasses of water before lunch and still wake up the next morning with cystic period chin and a nose sprinkled liberally with blackheads. to achieve my picture perfect complexion i rely heavily on three crucial elements: 1 daily exfoliation 2 organic coconut oil and 3 motherfucking instagram. and mac studio fix in C6 if i am feeling like a person who tries. i am supremely lazy. and usually i am already in my pajamas with some incense lit and my night wine, ten pages into whatever i most recently added on goodreads before i remember that i wore a pound and a half of blush to work that day. so i keep a pack of alba good and clean towelettes by the bed because i hate ruining my pillowcases and these have a smooth side and a rough, nubbly side because i’m one of those idiots that feels like if it doesn’t sting or scrape or catch fire then it’s not really working. i keep several exfoliating cleansers in the shower: philosophy microdelivery peel, lush dark angels, and my broke shit: st. ives blackhead clearing green tea scrub. yeah i know they never  go the fuck away, and if you are not a sufferer of the blackhead wrath go kiss your mother on the mouth, because this shit is a nightmare. it’s like the curly hair thing: you already know that what you’re already doing is probably as good as it’s going to goddamned get, yet strolling through the aisles at target you can just hear the new products calling out to you from the shelves, all of the pore strips and the clay masques and the extraction tools. and i get it, man. i’ll be all the way in the cheese section and hear that new motions leave-in calling my name and then before you can say "economy sized box of oreos" i am in the hair aisle contemplating spending $137 on the newest pudding/elixir/lotion/creme to turn these dusty slave knots into silky ringlets. and why do we believe them, these disingenuous candy-colored tubs and tubes!? because that's the real american dream, that if you just work hard and pray, someone will invent a non-sticky gel that stretches a curl and doesn't flake by two in the afternoon.

knees. i'm not going to talk to you about eating better, either. the best skin i have ever had was when i was living on a steady diet of half-thawed toaster strudels and packets of lipton rice mix with approximately 4000mg of sodium apiece; i've had three bushels of kale since monday and my shit is as dull and dry as all of these orangey red leaves strewn all over the sidewalk. COME ON, VITAMINS. i don't fuck with body scrubs because i haven't gotten any handicapped bars installed in my shower yet and i haven't yet tried one that doesn't turn my bathtub into an oil slick. but i would take a cheese grater to my backside if i could. IT MAKES ME FEEL SO CLEAN. so, i improvise. i stand on the bath mat and lather up with bliss hot salt scrub and then rinse off my individual parts without playing slip and slide in the goddamn shower. my broke shit: yes to coconut polishing body scrub. smells like you're in hawaii, which is fine because it's the closest i'll ever get to the beach.

have you ever wondered why there are so many goddamned kinds of lotion? i've decided it's because none of them really works. i'm a sucker for scientific drawings of microscopic lotion drops piercing six layers of epidermis as much as the next guy, but i have never been not ashy after using regular-ass jergens in the dead of winter. i switched to oils a couple years ago, and basically i look like a motherfucking ten year old. my friend michelle uses organic coconut oil, so now my ass uses organic coconut oil. i buy big jars of kelapo from amazon (sorry factory workers) and i use it all over. added benefit: if you have a disgusting scalp, coconut oil will hook you up. and i am the fucking grossest, i'm talking flaky eyebrows and a constellation of grody dermatitis stretched along my hairline, and a dab every morning has cured me. i also use neutrogena sesame formula and regular johnson's baby oil. shaving is for jerks but sometimes i do it, and barbasol soothing aloe costs maybe fourteen cents and lasts forever. angie gave me some lush charity pot lotion which i keep on my desk along with a container of their lemony flutter cuticle butter because sometimes i'll be writing and look down at my hands and get grossed the fuck out at my lack of self care.

toes. I FUCKING LOVE INFOMERCIALS. i'm not sure if it's the delirium caused by being awake at two in the morning or if the promise of a product that is too good to be true is just too goddamned hard to resist, but if a man with big white teeth makes me a promise for $29.99 plus shipping who am i not to believe his claim? i've tried: several snuggies, a nutribullet, a pair of pajama jeans, proactiv, oxiclean, and the slap chop. I REGRET NOTHING. my most recent bleary-eyed infomercial purchase? the amope pedi perfect. it's pretty much a rolling scraper with a motor, and it is by far the best beauty tool i have ever purchased. and i bought that cindy crawford skincare! in less than a minute it ground my callouses to dust and left my gross december feet super smooth. i'm going to level with you: come wintertime, i really let a lot of shit go. i'm not peeling off nine layers of waterproof clothing to contort myself in a goddamn pedicure chair for twenty minutes, i'm really not. but if this marg can last until april it will be nice to not rip holes in my socks with my razor sharp heels. it sells itself. ask your mom for one for christmas.

i don't paint my fingers or toes regularly because shiftless, but i do enjoy purchasing nail polish. look, whatever keeps me from walking out into traffic, okay? my fave kinds are marc jacobs and deborah lippman and rescue beauty lounge. i use $5 scented frankincense and musk oils from the african dude on my block (along with clumps of black soap and tubs of raw shea butter), but sometimes i order fancy ones from the long winter soap company to switch it up. perfume makes me sneeze, but beauty is suffering and i keep a bottle of jo malone french lime blossom around anyway and as soon as i get paid i am treating myself to some tom ford black orchid. I'VE BEEN SO GOOD, SANTA. umm i am a certifiable maniac for blush, not kidding, and my absolute favorite is cha cha tint by benefit. i love a bright orange cheek and i wear that shit every fucking day. don't be scared, babies. GIVE IN TO THE MANGO FACE. if i ever go out at night which (come on i am almost thirty-five i don't fucking go anywhere ever) is rare i use mac powder blush. my jam shades: frankly scarlet, modern mandarin, and dollymix. like i said, i don't fuck around. crazy doll cheeks all the goddamn time. try it so we can be on some grey gardens shit together.

so now that you know i basically sit in my apartment writing jokes with lipstick on while watching family feud, holler at me if there's some new shit i need to know about. also: please note that this is why a bitch doesn't have any savings before you yell at me about my fancy taste and irresponsible choices. also also: i don't have life insurance, but i do have a backup plan in case i ever get fired and have to survive on lipstick from the grocery store. best cheap gloss: maybelline color elixir is really so fucking good. best cheap matte: maybelline color sensational creamy matte is almost good enough to compete with my boyfriend nars. best HELLA CHEAP stain: nyx soft matte lip cream is six motherfucking dollars. also also also: i swear to god i am going to open a savings account. i might have a new car's worth of beauty products in my work bag right now. ugh, god. just remember that i used to use a dollar store eye pencil as pretend makeup, okay? i've earned these sumptuous ruby red lips.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

yo i am obsessed with serial.

i am usually approximately three years behind the cultural zeitgeist. i started watching game of thrones in the middle of the third season, i stopped watching mad men when peggy still had a baby (remember that!?), and i have never watched: the wire, true detective, american horror story, homeland, bob's burgers, the walking dead, or breaking bad. that's right, my dude: I HAVE NEVER SEEN A SINGLE EPISODE OF THE BEST SHOW(S) EVER MADE. see also: all star wars, indiana jones, the princess bride, goonies, etc. but since the advent of the twitter machine it's harder and harder to ignore the shit everyone else is into if you want to have any idea what the fuck everyone on your timeline is fucking talking about. which is why i had to spend part of last summer catching up on scandal, because i was sick of spending thursday nights dumbfounded by my goddamned facebook feed. i almost had to quit twitter. i had no idea what the fuck you bitches were talking about. WHAT THE HELL IS A FITZ.

so a few weeks ago mya texted me on some ALL CAPS muy importante shit like, BITCH ARE YOU LISTENING TO SERIAL and (six hours later when i checked my texts) i was like, “wait, what the fuck is that?” as usual, some cultural phenomenon is sweeping the goddamned nation and i’m too busy watching episodes of family feud from 2010 to notice. i'm not too behind in the podcast game, tho. i listen to black girls talking and black girl nerds and basically every other iteration of african-american woman with laptop and/or microphone. my girl and i were headed up to south haven for a super long weekend and i downloaded all seven of the available episodes, because only assholes go to fucking the goddamn beach on a weekend meteorologists have predicted a minimum of 37 inches of motherfucking snow. we obviously weren't leaving the crib and would have plenty of time for eating dinner in bed in our jammies while huddled around the radio.

i was instantly hooked. the kind of hooked that made me fucking crazy because the whole point of the thing is that the story unfolds, week after week, and you don't get to find out what happens until after however many weeks and they decide to tell you what the fuck happens. that shit is maddening. we finished the first seven episodes within the first couple days and i was like, WHAT IS MY LIFE NOW. i immediately looked for other ways to get my fix (without finding out what happens in the end, mind you) and started downloading podcasts about the fucking podcast. serial is obviously my heroin. i was pacing the room scratching at my neck and everything.

okay, so here's the deal for those of you who don't know: it's baltimore, 1999. hae min lee, a popular high-school senior, disappears after school one day. six weeks later detectives arrest her classmate and ex-boyfriend, adnan syed, for her murder. he says he's innocent, though he can't exactly remember what he was doing on that january afternoon. but someone can. a classmate at woodlawn high school says she knows where adnan was. the trouble is, she’s nowhere to be found. TELL ME THAT'S NOT COMPELLING AS FUCK. and the description of episode two is even juicier: their relationship began like a storybook high-school romance: a prom date, love notes, sneaking off to be alone. but unlike other kids at school, they had to keep their dating secret, because their parents disapproved. both of them, but especially adnan, were under special pressure at home, and the stress of that spilled over into their relationship. eventually hae broke up with adnan. and then, depending on who you ask, adnan was either understandably sad and moping around, or full of rage and plotting to kill her.

FUCKING SWOON, MAN. no disrespect, but i wanted nothing more when i was a little bucktoothed kid than to have a licentious secret romance with some unpalatable lothario from the wrong side of the tracks. add to that fantasy the possibility of my demise at some jealous lover's strapping young hands and you'd have the makings of a modern-day romeo and juliet. this was before, of course, i realized that i am the goddamned dirtbag from the wrong side of the tracks, and the likelihood that i'd end up an ihop waitress in some dusty faraway town i'd fled to after shooting my deadbeat husband with a rifle is the fucking opposite of romantic. romeo and juliet aren't real, but adnan and hae are and their story is totally gripping. some observations:

adnan sounds kind of fine. oh man, i am so fucking dumb. because the first thing i thought when i first heard my man on the prison phone pleading his case was THIS DUDE SOUNDS KIND OF FINE. you're lying if you didn't think that shit, too. ugh why do potential murdering sociopaths gotta be so sexy. also striking is his 1 charisma/vocabulary and 2 seeming lack of acid-soaked vitriol. fifteen years is a long fucking time, but i couldn't be in jail for fifteen minutes before i started spitting on the name of everyone i used to love who couldn't save me from the penitentiary. HOW IS MY DUDE SO CALM. and, like, laughing and shit!? if you called me while i was locked away in jail serving a bogus life sentence it would sound like wolverine was on the other end of the goddamned phone, all gnashing teeth and visceral growling. homeboy just sounds so goddamned smooth and relaxed. it makes my heart race. every time he speaks i'm like, "i wonder if his fine ass could use a pen pal?"

my blackness really wants jay to be innocent, tho. but if not adnan, then who? well jay, DUH. but i don't want jay to be guilty. i mean, not more guilty than he's already admitted to being. maybe you have to be black to understand, but every time some fucked up shit happens and one of our own is even peripherally involved the first thing we think is PLEASE DON'T LET IT BE MY COUSIN. because we're all cousins. every time they say jay's name i cringe and say a little prayer that there was a crazy serial killer or something on the loose in 1999 and he was too stupid or too scared to defend himself and copped to it because he didn't watch enough law and order to fucking know better. i'm no lawyer, but even i know not to confess until somebody shows me some mitochondrial DNA. (sounds like i know what i'm talking about, amirite? thought so. come at me, detectives.)

sarah koenig’s voice is hella fucking soothing. the first night we tried to listen to the shit i fell asleep halfway through it. that NPR flow just gets me, bro. that's why i don't know shit about world events, because every time i try to listen to morning edition it knocks me right out. i don't know how you people listen to that shit in your cars. i would drive through the front of a building. hot damn those gentle inside voices are all i need to lapse right into a coma. it took me four tries to get through the first episode. zzZzzZz

podcasts about the podcast. this is how i knew it was a fucking sickness. after a handful of episodes i texted mya BITCH YOU RUINED MY LIFE WITH THIS SHIT and she replied with a link to the slate podcast that is basically a couple nerds sitting around speculating about the serial podcast. WHAT. WHY IS THIS NOT MY LIFE. all i ever want to do now is creepily ask people if they’re listening to serial then ply them for opinions if they are or immediately walk away shoulders slumped under the weight of crushing disappointment if they aren't. some friends of mine throw a weekly party thursday nights during which they eat cereal while discussing serial and that shit is so meta i can't even stand it. i hate leaving my apartment so i can't go to it, but for real if you want to text me at 7am thursday morning to talk about the newest episodes i am 100% down for real.

could i be a murderer!? i don’t know why other people find the shit so compelling, but 99.9% of the reason i am like a basehead about this shit can be explained in the first five minutes of the first episode when sarah asks us, the listeners, can you remember everything you did last wednesday? and of course i paused and was like, "YES I DO. i took the train to work and got a giant starbucks and i was wearing my blue jacket and did i eat breakfast? umm, i dunno. did i notice which barista was working? ehh, maybe the dark haired guy?" so what if, while just living your life, some terrible crime happens and someone points the finger at you and, without the help of cell phone records or facebook posts, you have to reconstruct a day six weeks in your past? i can't stop thinking about that, that a crime could be occurring around me at any time and if you were to ask my whereabouts a month from now i wouldn't even be able to tell you if i fucking ate lunch that day. who the fuck are we kidding, I ALWAYS EAT LUNCH. but not always at the same time! what if the day you get killed i at my sandwich at 2 instead of 1!? then the cops think i did it plus i live alone so no one can account for where the hell i was all night and then BLAMMO. in jail for life on some bullshit. i'm just saying, it could happen. (this show is fucking me up.)

if this shit does not come to some sort of satisfying conclusion i might kill myself. i'm not even kidding, my dude. i'm too chickenshit to look up how many episodes serial is supposed to run, but if at the end of this my complete emotional investment is rewarded with some shrugged shoulders and a "meh, we tried," i am going to cry real tears and bitch all over the internet. I AM NOT PLAYING. if ol' girl doesn't get on the mic and announce that it was professor plum in the kitchen with a lead pipe then i am going to freak the fuck out. i'm not even kidding. i will unravel.

so get into it. i need bitches to talk about serial with who won't judge me for wanting to put some money on adnan's books. also, season two should be an investigation into why my iphone looks like garbage. look at that raggedy fucking shit. shattered like my heart is.

buy my book so i can get a new phone.

Friday, October 3, 2014

how to take a sexy selfie.

i miss my motherfucking flip phone. wasn't life so much goddamned simpler when you only had to worry about 160 probably-misspelled characters and grainy, pixelated barely-recognizable genitalia? keeping up with the new shit on my phone is a full-time fucking job. every time i download a new operating system i'm as helpless as your grandma, pressing every single tiny button while squinting at the screen trying to get one lousy motherfucking call to connect. i spent seven real minutes trying to send a picture of this gross patch of discolored flesh on my side jibs to one of my doctorfriends the other night only to have the shit not go through because some jerkbag i haven't thought about since the bush administration tore himself away from call of duty long enough to try to casually ask me "watz up" accompanied by one of those headless lifting-up-my-undershirt-to-show-you-my-abs-like-a-ginuwine-circa-1999-album-cover photos he'd obviously taken in the locker room at planet fitness. and this is the problem with missing your old nokia and not changing your number every time you end a relationship: ASSHOLES YOU HATE CAN STILL TEXT YOU.

technology is why you either have to move the fuck to china or kill anyone who dumps you, because no one ever just goes the fuck away anymore. remember in the olden days when a bitch would stop calling and your ass just burned her shit in the dumpster behind your house and moved the fuck on? even in these marvelous times if you stop fucking me, I AM UNFOLLOWING YOUR TWITTER, B. we ain't gotta talk, my guy, just throw that travel toothbrush i bought at the gas station at 3am in the trash and delete all those eggplant emojis i sent you then never waste a single one of my anytime minutes ever fucking again.

the best dick shot i've ever received was from a dude who stretched out his flaccid wang while he was taking a dump and took a picture of it then sent it to me at two in the afternoon, totally unsolicited. i was just minding my fucking business checking my phone on the bus when my screen filled with the slick, glistening, taco meat-sprinkled lower quadrant of the belly of a beast so monstrous it was sweating while evacuating its bowels, an uncircumsized penis stretched to an impressive five and three-quarters inches, and the bunched up track pants and athlete's foot covered toes of a man too old to still be wearing adidas shower shoes in real fucking life. romance is alive and well, sweethearts.

so i get a text the other day from a number i'd already deleted that was like, "yo, sam. you been on my bird lately. send me a pic and show me what i've been missing." first of all, kill yourself. second, do you really expect me to push this cat off my lap and empty the crumbs from the trader joe's pastry pups that have settled in my bosom over the trash can and put some lipstick on just to take a picture of the same haggard face you grew tired of looking at five yea--OH OKAY FINE I'M BORED AND THIS EPISODE OF MY CAT FROM HELL IS A RERUN ANYWAY.

here's how i work my selfie magic: first you gotta make everyone at your job think you're just going to take a really huge shit. my apartment is the size of your average prison cell, and standing in my bathtub with one elbow in the toilet bowl and the other on the ceiling fan doesn't really fucking work for me. so now i only take selfies in the spacious handicapped bathroom at work, because there's never any toothpaste on the mirror and the lighting is hella good. seriously, sometimes i ain't even gotta filter the shit out of my pictures. HOORAY FOR RECESSED LIGHTING. but here's the thing: when bitches know you are punched in and they've already looked for your ass hovering anxiously over the coffee pot in the breakroom or making personal calls in your boss's office with the door closed, eventually they're going to wonder who has been running the exhaust fan in the good bathroom for so goddamned long. so to prevent awkwardly stumbling over the asshole in HR you hate as she stands with her ear cupped to the door while your duckface uploads on your slow-ass office wi-fi, just announce as you go in that last night you had indian food and a gallon of coffee so you're just going to read the newspaper on your phone and you'll see them in an hour. hashtag #SUCKERS

second you should probably be wearing your repulsive pajamaclothes, you know, for authenticity. i don't believe in false advertising. if there is a chance a person is actually going to come to my crib to eat an assortment of spoiled mayonnaise-based dips and cheese dogs warmed up in the oven (ie engage in sweet, sweet foreplay) then i'm not pushing my tits up to my tonsils and putting on eye makeup before awkwardly leaning against the bathroom door and taking a picture of my naughty business. i don't just sit around in fifty dollars' worth of reinforced satin on a tuesday night. i put on this fancy bra special for you and the entire intercloud to enjoy, but now i am uncomfortable and this itchy lace is digging into my soft meats so instead i'ma just keep chilling in my gross nightshirt with the hole in the armpit so you know exactly what to expect once you cross my actual threshold. i'm not trying to be like mcdonald's commercials with their plump and juicy trickery, hiding the stretch marks on my national geographic tits and blurring out my abundance of moles; nah fam, you're getting these drab greyish patties and cold, wrinkly fries right out the goddamned gate.

and finally, make sure your face is an accurate reflection of exactly how you are feeling in that moment. nothing is sexiif you are feeling sexxxy, maybe you want to cross your eyes slightly and part your lips a little bit, like you're sucking an invisible straw or maybe a tiny, skinny penis. alternately, if you are feeling like you can't even believe the nerve of this stupid motherfucker texting you after three goddamned years with this old thirts trap bullshit, you probably should look like you want to beat his sweaty pre-corpse to death. seriously though, what is the appropriate selfie face? trying to make a hot cum face while taking sixteen blurry pictures of your boobs because you keep dropping your phone is so fucking embarrassing, ugh. but if you smile or look really cheerful that's the weirdest shit ever. have you ever gotten a super smiley picture from someone!? i'm not going to show you my ass hair and while leering at you like a clown THAT SHIT IS LIKE A HORROR MOVIE, BRO. good luck masturbating to this face.

so i sent this picture to dude and was like, "i'm gay now. delete my shit." at which point i immediately received approximately 137 texts all reading: OH SHIT, SON. WASSUP WIT A 3SOME, DOE? ugh fuck cell phones altogether. hit me on my beeper.