you're just like a sister to me!

issue seven. at the gynecologist a couple weeks ago i learned, from an abandoned magazine left behind in the waiting room, how to turn my bathroom into a mini vacation. did you know that just by purchasing a whimsical toothbrush and throwing a teal mat on the floor that you can transform that tiny room you don't have space to take a relaxing shit in into what feels like a weekend getaway? that a jazzy soap dish and citrus room spray can put you in a beachy state of mind? yeah, ME NEITHER. like most mental patients, everything in my bathroom is white so that i might give all of the butt germs lying around a liberal splash of bleach without fear of non color-safe consequence. more importantly, i also learned that i'm ovulating normally. and i got the warning speech about my old-ass rotten eggs. so if you want to get me pregnant you better hurry up and do so, because there's a good chance that alien hellspawn might see the cold light of day.

january magazines are my absolute favorite. they're so shiny and perfect and filled with the promise of an amazing new year. you know you want to lose some weight, GURL. you know you need a fucking makeover! and you really do believe that shit will come true while standing in line at walgreens clutching your gift receipt waiting to return that jean nate body wash set your clueless cubicle-mate gave you for christmas, you really do believe that this is the year you're going to freshen up that hairstyle and stop wearing sweatpants to dinner. resolutions are nothing but a laundry list of your inherent flaws that starts mocking you two days after you write them, but reinventing yourself (with the aid of a few helpful ladymags) seems like a totally plausible undertaking.

so you buy them. self because, despite the fact that you have the USDA's nutritional guidelines and weight watchers' complicated points system committed to memory, you need yet another step-by-step guide detailing how to eat mini meals and filling snacks to lose that fifteen pounds of mashed potato you put on over the holidays. even though you ALREADY KNOW that four grapes and two peanuts is your morning snack and a sliver of avocado and nine sugarfree jellybeans is supposed to somehow get your ass through an entire afternoon, you still drop five bucks to read about that shit some more. this time, though, you're going to stick with it. and omg SO AM I. this year is going to be the one we actually take our lunches to work and make ziploc bags of tasteless air-popped popcorn and dried apricots every morning to keep in our desk drawers! this year we're measuring peanut butter instead of eating it from the jar! this year we're turning the oven on for the first time in the five years we've lived in this apartment to bake lean pieces of fish!

because if and when we do, that glamour we bought is totally going to come in handy. it's time for a new haircut, and i'm not sure whether or not high-waisted slacks are still in. and since my diet of egg whites, bread crusts, mineral water, and three m+ms at a time has been so successful, i'm going to need some new clothes. do the kids still wear sweaters? how are the models feeling about pants this year? are sleeves still in style? what about orange, are people still rocking orange? is it still okay to wear shoes?! it's exhausting. and by the time i've figured it all out and saved enough pizza money to update my wardrobe the trends have all changed again. which is okay, i guess, because that "half a banana, sip of juice, and three bites of a peach" diet was over by january 10th. BITCHES GOTTA EAT.


you're too awesome for me to want to have sex with you. what is this obsession magazines have with women becoming really good friends with dudes? one of these days, after i finish working on all the other books i'm halfway finished writing, i am going to write a book called, male friends: worth the heartbreak? this month's cover features none other than the vampire, one of my very best male friends, and the blog debut of my mighty skin beard. "being friends with dudes" is a clear example of things that sound better in your head than they will ever actually be in real life. like "taking a spin class" or "eating a bowl of peas when you have a really bad craving for pizza." once you try to put it into practice you quickly find out that the effort is hardly worth it. especially when you're friends and you don't necessarily want to be. you got guilted into the shit. or you never found the right time to tell him you've had a crush on him for years and that watching him go on dates is like twisting a hunting knife in your heart. more often than not, unless you've decided to put him in the friend zone, the shit sucks.

i know, sister. 1 sometimes you get bro'd and that shit comes right out of nowhere. one minute you're holding hands and staring into the eyes of that sensitive dude who you are convinced is just too shy to make a move on you, and the next he's telling you about what a great friend you are and he'll always have your back and, by the way, does that girl meghan you sit next to in latin american studies have a boyfriend? (what?!) or 2 maybe you've had sex before and, for whatever reason most commonly known as "someone goddamned else," he decides he doesn't want to do that anymore. but you're so cool and smart and great! do you think we could still be friends? ie, do you want to sit on the sidelines and provide emotional support without receiving the benefits of my penis? (WHAT?!) and occasionally 3 there's a dude who keeps hanging around to help you move or fix that weird noise your radiator is making despite the fact that you don't want to have sex with him. and he says he's okay with having been relegated to the friend zone, but we all really know he's just waiting for you to get drunk and forget how much his ear hair grosses you out. (um, this one totally works for me.)

there are, of course, some organic male-female relationships that are strictly platonic. i know, because they always seem to happen to my ass. i make jokes and listen to rap music, so dudes are always asking to be my goddamned friend. that's how the vampire and i started out. he sent me an email and we went to dinner and halfway through the meal this dude was like, "so my girlfriend thinks...." and i was like, YAWN. and now we're buddies. pals, even. and i always say yes when a man offers up his friendship, because i need to get a new air conditioner in a couple months and i do not plan on carrying that shit upstairs myself. and once you get over the implicit soul-crushing rejection you'll find that dudefriends come in handy for a variety of things, especially decoding the behavior of that weirdo in the acid wash jeans who actually wants to fuck you. but it's still a bit of a letdown, you know? there's not a woman alive who SIMPLY CANNOT WAIT to listen to all the problems you're having with that bitch you're sleeping with instead of her. sometimes we want to hear how pretty we look today.

your strategy for surviving male friendship:
1 you have to understand that he doesn't want to sleep with you. will he? absolutely. but does he want to? NO HE DOES NOT. or else he would've already. so stop embarrassing yourself throwing that ass at him all the time. it's gross. if you're going to be a friend you need to actually be this dude's friend. seriously. you have to go into it prepared to offer everything you do to your girlfriends. that shit is hard, and if you can't sit still and provide a compassionate ear and sensible sounding board to a dude you sometimes masturbate to? admit that shit and save yourself some agony.

2 perfect your poker face, babygirl. you need to sit in front of a mirror and put "million dollar baby" on the old television machine and dare yourself to cry. you got it? dry-eyed even at the end when they're in the hospital room?! OKAY THEN. you are now ready to have a platonic lunch across from a hot piece of smoked sausage who is going to regale you with stories of this girl with a banging body who is limber enough to tuck her heels behind her ears. because you're like his sister, except better than his sister because he can talk to you about raunchy sex stuff and ask for advice about girls. and don't try sabotaging that dude because you think it'll give you an advantage. that shit doesn't work. trust me, i've tried.

3 stop trying to bang his friends. i know it's tempting, because he just has so many of them! and they're all so fucking cute! but they know why he isn't banging you, and even if they might think about it, it's unlikely that they ever will. so it just makes you look desperate and shady. it really can be nice to have guy friends, but only when they know they can relax and be friendly to you without your reading into shit. i used to be the worst about this, because it feels really good when someone is nice and showing you attention, but that dude and his friends are off-limits. especially if you don't want to look trashy. or you're going to need a rebuilt carburetor or some furniture moved in the near future.

4 use him as much as humanly possible. if there is a man in your life, he should be carrying your shit around. and driving you places. and escorting you to events. you're not going to torment me with all that moony rhapsodizing about that girl you met last week while i carry cat litter on the bus, my man. YOU ARE PICKING THAT SHIT UP. that's my payment for giving you "the female perspective" or whatever dumb reason you back burnered my ass. i'm not going to another wedding, funeral, block party, or store opening by myself, because it is the job of my manfriend to go to that shit with me and be silent while giving everyone the impression that we might be a couple.

oprah's richer than god, and that's why she gets to be famous and fat. "celebrity diet secrets: how they eat and stay so skeleton-thin!" bitches love that whole "stars are just like us" gag, myself included. nothing brings joy to my heart like a picture of ali larter in a ball cap with no makeup on paying a parking meter! or drake sipping a latte while texting at a red light! ben affleck holding his daughter's hand while crossing the street! stars love starbucks! and break traffic laws!! and try to keep their young children from becoming roadkill!!! omg, CELEBRITIES ARE JUST LIKE ME.

i want to know what lady gaga eats, i really do. and i want to know that halle berry gobbles down rare steaks with butter melting down the sides. i always think to myself, "self, if you weren't such a total pig asshole and could limit yourself to four kale smoothies a day the way vogue says charlize theron does you wouldn't be so fucking ugly." but i probably still would, because that bitch gets to spend an hour meditating and swim five hours a day while i have to boss around people who don't listen to me and take four advil at a time because my boss is causing me to have tension headaches. famous people don't stress eat, ho. that's just us regular folk who need a spoonful of cookie dough just to open the electric bill.

magazines are always trying to pretend that a bitch can eat whatever rihanna had for breakfast and look just like her by dinnertime. sure, i can buy an organic banana and spread some flaxseed oil on a piece of ezekiel bread and eat that while drinking a coconut water while standing in my kitchen, but the minute i walk into work and my paycheck is late and fistfights are breaking out and shit is a mess and people are yelling at me i am going to solve my motherfucking problems with a croissant. you know, the ones with the almond paste inside and the slivered almonds on top? those ones. with a full fat latte. and, maybe in an hour, i'll probably have some cheese.

you could be skinny RIGHT THIS MINUTE if you quit your job, shipped your kids off to boarding school, and devoted your entire day to looking perfect. by all means, let eva longoria work with these animals all goddamned day. let's see what her diet looks like then. two 7-eleven yogurts, nine diet cokes, half a lean cuisine, a couple of those expensive chocolates that pharmaceutical rep dropped off, six excedrin, a spoonful of the peanut butter she hides in the bottom drawer, a turkey sandwich from the deli even though that lean cuisine was supposed to be her whole lunch, and that snickers bar that's supposed to be for emergencies only? yeah, ME TOO.

my vagina stinks. how come i'm the only one who knows when i need to go to the gynecologist? every month there's some sort of "beware down there" cautionary story with a checklist of clues to know when your dirty snatch needs medical attention. i know that if my underwear smells like gyro meat at the end of the day that i need to make an appointment to have my little girl checked out. what are the rest of you doing? self-diagnosing?! you know that doesn't work! you are going to fuck around and get a kidney infection, ho. that burning pee means something! i was in the hospital this weekend because CROHNS DISEASE IS AN ASSHOLE, and all i could think was "thank goodness i didn't let this go." it's not the same, of course, but i never have to flip through a cosmo to see if three out of the five major signs of broken vagina are happening inside my pants. get your pap smeared, girlfriend.

my taco armpits are obviously the result of this natural deodorant i insist upon using. these hippies have won the war, friends. they've got me using tea tree oil on my scalp and rubbing herbs under my arms and catching my period in a piece of natural sea sponge all in an attempt to make up for the years i spent driving a car that couldn't pass an emissions test, i guess. i don't know, if you listen to enough bitches in the parking lot of whole foods they start to get to you after a while. i'm pouring vinegar down the tub drain and cleaning my dishes with baking soda and shit, and i swear on mother earth that if i die of alzheimers or whatever cancer it is i'm trying to avoid by smelling like an ox and standing in my kitchen twice a month mixing borax and fels-naptha to MAKE MY OWN FUCKING LAUNDRY SOAP i am going to claw my way out of the grave and snatch you by your white-person dreadlocks.

gross winter skin. every january i set three reasonable goals for the coming year. this year's included the following: 1 go grocery shopping 2 find someone hot and manly to have sex with and 3 wash my face every night before bed. the month isn't even halfway over and two of these lofty goals have already been achieved, and i would've conquered all three if i didn't seem doomed to falling asleep fully-clothed with all of the lights on every goddamned night only to wake up with mascara sealing my eyes shut.

magazines love talking about the dreaded winter dryness, and the solution is a simple one: butter yourself up like a turkey and bundle up in thick socks and long sleeves. black children are not allowed to walk around with dry skin. one time when i was a kid i was walking through the basement of our church after sunday school on my way to shoot dice in the parking lot before service, and right before I BURST INTO FUCKING FLAMES this old lady named augustine grabbed me by the arm and swatted me hard on the bottom. annoyed, yet strangely sexually aroused, i was all, "goddamn, what was that for?" and she pointed at my knees and said, "girl, you ashy!" i looked down and, eep!, I TOTALLY WAS. which came as an utter shock considering that my mother had just finished her morning routine of slathering me in cocoa butter and bacon grease right before i'd left the house.

it's a crime to be black and ashy, isn't it? this morning on the train this woman was literally spackling her small child with a thick layer of vaseline. the white man next to her looked on, horrified, but the rest of us just nodded in approval. i even asked her to wipe a little bit on the webbing between my forefinger and thumb. (i hate that part! that shit is a dead giveaway that your black ass has not properly moisturized.) my friend michelle uses coconut oil head to toe, and my boy ron swears by olive oil. on his face and everything. my hippie ass uses glycerin and this moisturizer from lush that is basically solidified lard that melts as you rub it in and smells like cloves. the cosmetics industry has declared war on white women, and it's high time you girls fight back: one bottle of palmer's at a time.

fuck expensive creams. during the winter months, i want you broads to buy your beauty products from the black section of the drugstore. you know, that one dusty bottom shelf with all the fake kente cloth prints and little brown people on the packaging. it's okay, we won't bite you as you squeeze past where we're browsing the olive oil hairspray and ambi fade cream to grab some baby oil, GURL. it's so crazy to me, the money you'd spend on bullshit lotions that are 98% water or whatever. get some jojoba oil and rub that shit on your knees and elbows and pat a little around your eyes before you go to bed. you'll wake up looking like a sophomore in high school. have you ever seen an old black lady? we look 42 at 85, and it's not just because chicken is so delicious. moisturize your situation.

computer love. sexting combines my two most favorite things: talking dirty sex talk and not having to communicate with a real live human being sitting in the same room. also, you can do it at work! or on the bus! while getting a haircut! OR SHOPPING FOR GROCERIES!

sitting in your room by yourself is the best. sometimes it's fun to have someone over and talk to them and see if they laugh at the parts on 30 rock you think are hilarious, but mostly don't you just want to not worry about dozing off in front of a motherfucker and drooling on his shit? this is why phone sex is the best, because it's sexier than actual sex and way less messy. like, i don't have to tell you that helen is taking a shit in the next room during phone sex, but it you're at my house that's the kind of thing that can really destroy the mood. and that asshole shits like clockwork. dude arrives, helen greets him, i take my pants off, helen drops an atom bomb in the other room. HUGE BONERKILLER.

but people don't use the phone to make calls anymore. watch television shows? check. play video games? check check. stream cubano music on pandora all day long? check check check. everything other than dialing a number and having a conversation, unless you count ordering pizza and placing bets with your bookmaker. so the perverts among us have had to evolve and participate in sexting, which is mostly boring. because i don't know what the problem is, but even though they have their cell phones in hand 98% of their waking hours, dudes never fucking text you back right away. so even if you've sent a picture of your tits in the hottest bra you own and you've said written some nasty, slutty shit that would make your mother smh OMG, are you really supposed to wait an hour and a half for the response?! GTFOWTBS.

and i know i'm supposed to keep the romance and mystery alive, redbook, but when is it appropriate to introduce sexting into your relationship? i mean, how many weeks of "i just ate lunch :)" and "what R U doing l8r?" before you can type, "I WANT YOUR BALLS IN MY JAWS jk. no srsly." i have a swoony crush on this hot georgia peach named drew. i text drew all the time. i <3 him and i want to :-* him. but so far i have been very respectful. hard to believe, i know. sooner or later, though, i'm going to send him something disgusting. it's just the natural progression of things, right? plus, it's cute when girls do it, isn't it? he'll want to give me ((())) because i'm such an O:-) or, if i send him some tits, he'll want to, um, whatever the emoticon for making your fingers into an O shape and poking the index finger on your other hand through it over and over again.

the problem is that you run the risk of turning a dude off. remember that dude who sent me some phone porn before he even knew my last name? (yeah, i know: WHICH ONE?) that was awful, and it made me not want to see it in real life. also, you run the even bigger risk of someone facebooking your boobs, and i'm all tattooed and shit and could never believeably deny that the picture was me. or live down the fact that my shower curtain came from the "kids furnishings" section at target. don't make fun of me, that shit is totally cute. LOL

you need to stop fucking dudes who don't read.

happy new year, bitches. it's finally 2012, and i fully expect to be as salty and miserable as i was last goddamned year. life only gets worse, right? i'm about to turn 32 in a month and i have no idea what in the fuck a "kreayshawn" is. i also don't know how to use spotify. i have a desktop computer. i listen to cassettes sometimes. i put orthotics in my gym shoes. i still say "gym shoes." i take potassium supplements. i enjoy how effortless it is to eat lukewarm soup. i own compression socks. mtv is mostly irritating to me. everything, everywhere is too fucking loud. i bristle at the sound of laughing children. i put things in my bra for safekeeping. i clip coupons. i sleep at every available opportunity. i am the last person on earth who still gets netflix dvds IN THE GODDAMNED MAIL.

in other words, i'm getting old as hell. and so are you fools. i have friends who are, like, forty-seven and shit. and every passing year just becomes more of a reminder that i have no fucking idea what's cool anymore. and even if, like i do, you go on all the websites and read all the blogs you're still going to be standing on the train platform next to a motherfucker half your age who's twice as informed as you are. every day i live in fear that i'm going to be that asshole inappropriately dressed in some young shit while the kids make fun of me and hide my regularity medication. am i immature? ABSOLUTELY. i'm still sexting hot dudes and buying lunchables and diet coke instead of nutrient-rich dark green, leafy vegetables at the grocery store. i need to not go out every single night of the week and try harder to get to work on time. i shouldn't start all my sentences with "dude." but there's a difference between "emotionally stunted" and "hip."

i don't make resolutions because fuck that. my general operating system is "i'm perfect. why change?" and so far i've been pretty successful staying the goddamned same and getting rid of anything or anyone who finds himself unhappy with who that person happens to be. and at first that shit sounds unreasonable, but it really is the most realistic way to get through life. FOR ALL OF US. if you're a toxic fucking asshole, chances are that's how you'll remain unless a deathbed conversion forces you to get with the goddamned program. and that's fine, because there are plenty of damaged bitches with low self-esteem who hate themselves enough to keep your shitty ass around. and that works for the rest of us, too. change is hard, so instead of trying to be nice or thin or smart if the shit doesn't come naturally to you then fuck that. be mean and fat and dumb and find some motherfuckers who can deal with that shit.

that said, i most certainly DO make resolutions for the types of dudes i want to have sex with. keeping in mind that it is mostly impossible to meet an unsavory person and mold him or her to fit our demands and expectations, i have to look for motherfuckers who have some of my necessary criteria already intact. seriously, dudes, if i don't have the patience to train a dog i most certainly can't be bothered with trying to get a hard-headed dude to do what the fuck i want. so i have to buy him from the store pre-assembled and hopefully meeting all of my classifications. there totally needs to be a DUDE IKEA. someplace you can get this one's personality and that one's dick moves and that other one's generosity and sloppily cobble them together with an allen wrench for less than you'd pay for a venti americano to make the perfect mid-priced college dorm room first real apartment boyfriend. but since life is totally stupid that will never fucking happen, and i figured since this is our last year on earth i might as well update the man list so that we might be able to at least cut our teeth on choicer cuts of meat before the planet implodes and burns us all to a goddamned crisp.

THE 2012 MAN REQUIREMENT LIST:

1 BE MASCULINE AS FUCK. i'm sick and tired of whiny dudes eating salad while wearing girl jeans trying to talk to me about their motherfucking feelings. can we be done with that already? SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH THAT SOFT SHIT. i eat broken glass for breakfast, son. i have the heart of a lion and it pumps lava through my veins. it is simply NOT POSSIBLE for me to have enjoyable sex with a dude in his little sister's t-shirt who has shampoo blood and takes diet pills. i need some calloused hands against my backside, friends. if 2011 was the year of the baby-faced emo drinking his similac while rubbing his wilted penis into your thigh and calling you mommy, PLEASE OH PLEASE let 2012 be the year that men grow some fucking facial hair and and locate their motherfucking testicles AND FUCK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU IN A BED HE CHOPPED DOWN A TREE TO MAKE WITH HIS BARE HANDS. i want to know that a man with a deep voice who slaughters his own meat is not going to put up with any of my goddamned shit. i want to know that a bossy dude with a dick like a beer can isn't going to cry while getting a goddamned blowjob. we need some dudes who put their fucking foot down and are not going to tolerate any of that backtalk, little girl.

where all the real men at?! where are the motherfuckers who smell like whiskey and gasoline? where are the motherfuckers who climb up on the roof to fix shit? where are the motherfuckers who will shake a bitch when she gets mouthy? i don't want to fuck a dude who has a "hairstyle." i don't want to fuck a dude who has "emotions." i want a grizzly bear with a near-constant erection to boss me around and pay for shit while LOOKING LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING MAN. you want a skinny dude who weeps while listening to morrissey? i can't hate. but i'm not one of these broads that enjoys telling a man what to do. i want you to get your grown man on and already know what the fuck you need to do. where did all this moisture come from? single mothers deifying their now-intolerable husband-sons?! I'M OVER IT. get a mentor or join the boys and girls club and man the fuck up. then go build a fire, guzzle a scotch, eat a steak, and TELL ME WHAT I CAN DO WITH THIS SASSY LITTLE MOUTH.

2 read some goddamned books. not a sports page, not a magazine, A FUCKING BOOK. or some smart blogs. or a newspaper that isn't free. there are two important things to consider about books: 1 you have to have, at the very least, some basic level of intelligence to read a book from start to finish. comprehension doesn't come naturally to everyone, and if you know this asshole can follow a plot and invest in some characters then chances are he's not as stupid as he might look. if he can engage in a thoughtful, animated discussion about a book then you should slap a leash on that bald eagle and marry him before he has a chance to object. 2 i can't fuck with a dude who doesn't know how to occupy and entertain himself, and i've finally reached the age that "i watch television" just isn't enough. even if it's all masterpiece theater and nature documentaries, if a man can't sit his ass down somewhere and read some shit i don't want his penis near me.

people who read books have better imaginations and tend to have more intellectual curiosity than those who don't, and after that heady first few months of fucking without ever having a conversation and maybe getting some tacos once in a while you're eventually going to want to wake up next to a dude who can challenge your opinion on that jonathan franzen piece in the new mcsweeney's. men are boring. and six months from now you and that dude are going to be sitting across from one another at brunch without a motherfucking thing to talk about. and that's cool, but if he reaches for his game boy as you pull out your brand new copy of "the marriage plot" then, i'm sorry to break it to you, BUT YOU CAN'T HAVE SEX WITH THAT GENTLEMAN ANYMORE. video games in general don't bother me because i'm a big fan of "keeping quiet" and "leaving me the fuck alone while i'm talking to anna on the phone," and who can argue with the benefits of rapid-fire hand-eye coordination? but if he can't make it through a real book he and his xbox have to kick rocks. he doesn't even have to read good books; even the trash in the magazine aisle at walgreens will suffice. AS LONG AS HE READS IT.

3 he cannot live with his mother... as elaborate and compelling as it may initially seem, the excuse he gives you for currently sleeping in the twin bed leftover from his youth is never really as good as you want it to be. i mean, if you can verify that she is an invalid and that he spends his every waking moment at her bedside tending to her care, maybe that's a good enough excuse. i said maybe. the likelier story is that he's comfortable. and his mama cooks for him and throws his laundry in the wash right after she finishes straightening his room. and she doesn't mind having him on her unlimited texting family plan. and, i know, he's saving money. pfffft. that "money he's saving" is going right into that bmw he can only afford BECAUSE HE LIVES AT HOME. the flashiest dudes i know can only afford to be that way because all the big bills come in mommy's name. and that is the opposite of sexy. i'd rather have sex on a milk crate bed next to a window with an old bedsheet and the lining of a winter coat in place of a curtain than ALWAYS GO BACK TO MY PLACE because, you know, "ma be going to bed all early and shit."

4 or go by a childhood nickname or rap alias. if your rap career hasn't taken off by now trust me, IT ISN'T GOING TO. this might just be black people, but have you ever introduced yourself to someone only to have him respond in kind with a name that sounds like a cartoon character or some shit? i'm sorry, sir, but what in the fuck is a "don swagga?" or a "little poo?" i went to a hip hop show a few weeks ago at which a dude who called himself "big boom" insisted upon paying for my whiskey. this motherfucker was easily old enough to be my father, but definitely not old enough for that shit to be charming. at first i thought he was joking, but he repeated himself three times. "they call be big boom," he said, and i just wanted to be like, "who is they? prison mates?" i talked to him for just as long as it took me to finish my drink, then WALKED THE FUCK AWAY. i want to call you what your mother calls you, please. or some derivative thereof. sincerely, samantha.

5 he must take his ass to the fucking doctor. the sexiest thing a man could ever say to me is "my doctor wants me to..." or "i was talking to my therapist yesterday." this is one of those basics that should go without saying, yet don't you find yourself always saying this shit?! some things just can't be treated with nyquil, dude. get those weird bumps checked out. have somebody take a look at that foot you continue to limp on. 47 advil a day is not normal, son. TAKE YOUR ASS TO THE GODDAMNED MINUTE CLINIC.

6 and have a passport and a cell phone with a contract. you're 36 years old and you haven't yet been out of the country? COME ON, MAN. not even to jamaica?! look, i hate hot and dirty places too, and this isn't really as much about seeing the world as it is about only having sex with A GROWN-ASS GODDAMNED MAN. and i guess everything on this list pretty much boils down to "let's stop banging manchildren." seriously, you only speak one language and you don't have a bank account and you have to go "put minutes on your phone" and i'm supposed to let you fuck me in the ass?! yeah, right. we aren't doing that anymore. i'm serious, jerks. if he can't commit to a cell phone provider, then he is most certainly not going to commit to YOU. either that or he has some sort of nefarious criminal background, because my credit looks worse than afghanistan and i have a motherfucking cell plan. AND CABLE. after a certain age it is simply unacceptable to no longer have a bank account. that "living off the grid" shit is just another way of saying "mentally, i'm seventeen." and that's just gross. you need a lease with your name on it, a com ed bill with your name on it, a passport with your name on it, a phone bill with your name on it, and a drivers license with your name on it. if you don't, kindly put your dick away and come back when you've procured those things.

7 he should not hesitate to lick your fucking butthole. oh, i know: that shit is gross. and, well, probably. but you need to know that he's willing to do it. i'm not sleeping with anymore dudes who have specific requirements. we need to take back the night, sisters. dudes are the ones who need to be good at sex. that's right, I SAID IT. a monkey could bring a man to orgasm, real talk. women are complicated below the belt, so much so that if i was in bed with a woman i'm not sure i could get her off in under an hour and I HAVE THE SAME GODDAMNED PARTS. seriously. my vagina is a goddamned labyrinth, and finding your way around to all of the good places is difficult. and knowing what to do once you've gotten there is increasingly moreso. also? TITS. a man's job is to kiss you, gaze lovingly into your eyes, fuck you, eat you out, do whatever boob shit you're into, stroke your hair, talk you into anal, bite you, slap you, tickle you, punch you, kick your teeth into your stomach, dislocate your jaw, stab you, electrocute you, and make you come seventeen times ALL WHILE NOT GETTING YOU ACCIDENTALLY PREGNANT OR LOSING HIS ERECTION, so how come my motherfucking ass is expected to be the one with an arsenal of motherfucking tricks?! what are there, like, three ways to handle a penis? get out of here with that bullshit.

so in 2012 imma need to know what the fuck you plan to do to ME. i'm going into every sexual encounter for the rest of my life saying "i have two and a half sex tricks that may or may not be successful. NOW WHAT HAVE YOU DONE FOR ME LATELY?"

8 and hopefully isn't on facebook and shit. facebook is for girls. i mean, posting every five minutes, commenting on every single fucking thing, uploading all 6,227 pictures you took on your trip to the dells last weekend: GIRL SHIT. when a dude posts his every meal and "checks in" at home and gets in comment wars all i can think is, "this shit is moist. he should probably be somewhere reading a book and trying to grow some motherfucking chest hair." it's totally suspicious and weird when someone says "i'm not on facebook," especially because EVEN YOUR GRANDMOTHER HAS A FUCKING FACEBOOK. what the fuck are you hiding?! in reality, though, that's a welcome goddamned change. facebook stalking and twitter interpreting is totally fucking exhausting. and pointless. i've said before that staying up all night squinting at your smartphone trying to figure out the subtext of a bunch of out-of-context comments and tweets is totally fucking dumb. but we do it anyway, because WHO THE FUCK IS THAT BITCH WITH THE BLONDE HAIR WHO KEEPS MAKING SEXY COMMENTS ON ALL HIS SHIT?! "decoding facebook comments" should be my part-time goddamned job. and manspeak email translation?! i'm a veritable expert.

fucking dudes was way less complicated back when bitches had voicemail pagers and payphones. i want to get back to that simpler time, when i could exist in blissful ignorance in the assumption that whomever i was banging was at home daydreaming about the next chance he'd get to see me. not like nowadays, when i have to text ginger to look at some asshole's current status and tell me whether or not that bitch with her tits out is really trying to fuck him or if i've just got a bad case of the ladybrains. this is mostly about how psychotic it is to be a woman in the digital age. my blood pressure can't take this shit anymore. damn you, zuckerberg.

"why didn't he comment on that link i posted?!"
"does he think my status is funny?!"
"is he getting the wrong idea because that dude i haven't spoken to since sophomore fucking year won't stop putting heart emoticons all over my page?!"
"when is he going to change his relationship status?!"
"he really 'likes' katy perry?!"
"oh god, ALL HIS SPOTIFY SONGS ARE DUMB."
"how can i politely tell him to change his profile picture so i won't be embarrassed to tell my friends who i'm dating?!"
"didn't he get my 'words with friends' invite?!"
"why isn't he on chat?!"
"why is he ignoring my chat request?!"
"did he notice how cute my cover photo is?!"
"he spends so much time on facebook."
"did he get what i was saying subliminally in my status about 'disrepect?!'"
"WHEN IS HE GOING TO CHANGE HIS MOTHERFUCKING RELATIONSHIP STATUS?!"

no thanks, son. i can't be going through all that. in the meantime, i gotta go check and see if the dude i tagged in my last post understands that i was basically saying "let's fuck."

this shit goes double for lesbians, too. if she doesn't read, DON'T SCISSOR THAT BITCH.

blind dates are for adorable people.

this is how a man sets you up on a blind date: last weekend i was in the car with caitlin and ron coming home from smoque, where i almost decided to give up on men entirely and marry a piece of their delicious brisket. caitlin and i were talking shit in the front seat when all of a sudden ron interrupted our mindless ladychatter from the back, "hey samantha, what are your titties, about a 40DD?" i glanced over my shoulder in mock horror to watch him tapping away at his iphone. instead of waiting for a confirmation he continued to text while murmuring aloud to himself, "yep, she has a nice big ass, too. shit sits all high on her back, mm hmm." caitlin demanded to know who he was talking to. "i found somebody new for sam to have sex with," he said. "nice dude, smart, doesn't talk too fucking much. isn't that what you're up there bitching about?"

this is how a woman sets you up on a blind date: she browbeats her boyfriend into exhaustively scrolling through the mental rolodex of every man he's ever worked for, talked to, or shared a goddamned elevator with until he can come up with one who has a job and isn't married and might be convinced to eat dinner across from a woman she's only willing to describe as "very smart" and "super funny" with "an amazing personality" and then drops your unsuspecting ass in the middle of the dating ocean in a goddamned inner tube with no flippers or oxygen tank. GROAN.

if i was a lesbian that shit would be perfect. bitches love talking about how awesome our personalities are, and i'm sure i'd be in a civil union right this minute if you jerks were setting me up with your former softball coach instead of that dude your boyfriend played intramural soccer with a couple summers ago whose facebook status just changed back to "single." and i appreciate the consideration, i really do. i just wish you assholes would stop setting my dumb ass up like a cow going to slaughter. i keep getting blindsided by dudes who have no idea what they're in for and have a hard time masking their disappointment. sometimes they don't even fucking try, stupid bastards. and it's not that i don't appreciate the effort, because i do. i really do want to put a spanx on to awkwardly sit across from that dude your husband met in the dominicks parking lot after he backed into your volvo who just broke off his engagement and talk about television shows he pretends to never have heard of over a plate of mid-priced pasta. yes, please. sign me right up. but could you first maybe give him a heads up about WHAT THE FUCK I LOOK LIKE?!

women are polite. AND DELUSIONAL. we like to think that all that matters is a sense of humor and good taste in music, when what really matters is that a man cannot insert his penis into one of my jokes, so if he isn't interested in fucking this face or this body then what is the goddamned point? zoe and her boyfriend at the time orchestrated a blind date for me last year, and when she emailed me the proposition the first thing i said was, "did you tell this asshole what i look like?" and of course she hadn't because, according to her, in real life it shouldn't matter if your bra has four hooks. and of course it shouldn't. i'm pretty goddamned amazing. humble, too. but if a dude doesn't want to drink a beer across from someone with minotaur thighs and deceptively slender ankles, i am going to look like A MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE. zoe is the sweetest, and i wish i weren't such a shithead malcontent and could walk around with her brand of wide-eyed optimism. but my wide-hipped realism knows fucking better.

it was my first blind date in the history of ever. now let's clarify what i mean when i say BLIND. having a beer with a dude you met on the internet isn't really a blind fucking date. i mean, you've seen some blurry, faraway, dimly-lit pictures, haven't you? and you know he likes foreign films and quiet evenings cooking together at home, don't you?! well then that asshole is not a goddamned stranger. i know how many times you read his match.com profile, gurrrrrl. you can recite his "favorite hot spots and destinations" blindfolded while hanging upside down from your meticulously painted toenails, bitch. STOP PLAYING. anyway, real blind dates are terrifying events, the mere prospect of which causes me to break out in a cold, anxious sweat, coordinated by my well-meaning friends who ignore any physical or personality flaws of mine to arrange dinner plans between me and handsome friends of theirs who are mistakenly convinced that they are about to eat a steak across from the hottest, smartest, funniest woman they will ever encounter on the face of this earth.

and i don't get nervous because there's something wrong with me, i get nervous because my fucking friends are all, "sam's hilarious and so smart and you are going to love her," and never like, "listen dude, this bitch snores and she writes dick jokes and sometimes she has to wear a brace on her wrist and her thighs touch. is that cool? does that sound like someone you might be attracted to? YOU'RE NOT GOING TO FIDGET AWKWARDLY AND KEEP CHECKING YOUR WATCH THE WHOLE NIGHT, RIGHT?" so these unsuspecting dudes are expecting halle berry with a genius IQ and a book of limericks tucked in her handbag to come strolling in, and then here i come lumbering into the goddamned bar in a dirty t-shirt with a bald head and four frayed-edged books falling out of my bag, glasses askew, already shitty drunk, and he's like, "OH, HAI. are you the person the girl i'm supposed to be meeting brought as her bodyguard?"

zoe had sent me an email of highlights: background, education, job history, dating overview; it was like a curriculum vitae for his penis. at that point, though, she'd already done the same thing on my behalf, and even if he sounded like total trash i was going to have to get my shit together and meet him. i mean, what the fuck was i going to say? "sorry, munchkin, i'm too busy and interesting and important to get drinks with a dude working on his phD in some shit i've never heard of because i never took physics in high school. i'd much rather stay home in my pajamas and watch the town again." pffft.

i remember it was snowing that night, thus causing the conundrum of whether or not to suck it up and wear my unattractive gross winter boots or risk breaking my ass in half in front of some hot dude by wearing some less sensible shoes and trying to walk on ice. i opted for the former, and made sure i got to the bar early so i could hide my feet under the table. after which i'd only have to worry about crushing one of his toes beneath them. the bartender, who knows me by name, sent over a drink. right after i'd ordered a beer. and a goddamned shot. and before any of this could be reconciled, the most adorable dude i've ever seen in my entire fucking life came smiling toward me with his hand outstretched. the waitress and i exchanged a silent OH SHIT, GURL as he surveyed the table. "i'm an alcoholic," i joked, then bit my tongue because that would only be funny if i'd been surrounded by half a dozen club sodas. le sigh.

it wasn't a bad date, it just wasn't exactly a date. i told a lot of jokes (SO MANY JOKES) and stories and he laughed a lot and pretended he wanted to hang out again. which we didn't. ever again. zoe obviously owes me dinner. AND A BOYFRIEND.


i got an email last sunday afternoon from an address i didn't recognize. it was from a gentleman i've never met who'd apprently been informed by my friend katie that i am "a bright, dynamic individual [he'd] benefit from getting to know." i hated him immediately. because i don't like pretentious gasbags, and no real person describes someone else as BRIGHT and DYNAMIC unless he's making fun of you. or they are reading a television script. but that shit was written coherently and spelled correctly, so i kept reading. his name was stephen (NOT STEVE; remember that shit, it'll be on the quiz) and he described himself as "charismatic and dark," which is exhausting just to think about. who words shit that way?! if i wanted to fuck you and i was going to send you an email before we met, i'd say, "i tell a lot of jokes and i'm a total fucking party. i'll swallow without gagging." or something like that. the point is, i wouldn't call myself "ebullient and convivial."

i wrote him back while waiting for the addison bus in the freezing cold. a handful of sentences: witty and playful, excruciatingly polite. at his suggestion we made plans to go to the hopleaf, because everyone and their grandmother cannot fucking get enough of that stupid goddamned place. WHAT THE FUCK, CHICAGO? listen, i love brisket as much as the next carnivore, and that duck is a goddamned jam, but standing butts-to-nuts with a bunch of bearded indie beer snobs is not my idea of a good fucking time. you can't even breathe in there on a friday night, the air is so heavy with pretension and hipster poseurs. in an effort to make a good impression i agreed to meet him there, but i want you to know i was TOTALLY ROLLING MY EYES as i wrote back, "see you there at eight!"

below please find the transcript of our date, including the reasons why i'm never going out with your brother's childhood best friend's chemistry tutor ever again in my entire fucking life.

1 this goddamned ass. it's a masterpiece, that's true. but some people prefer a smaller one, and we have to learn that personal preference isn't illegal. is it a crime against his penis? absolutely, because i'm killer in bed and everyone knows that skinny girls bruise easily and never want to do anything exciting. you can bodyslam a zaftig broad and CONTINUE TO FUCK HER. seriously, you could blast my ass with a taser and i wouldn't make you pull out. real talk.

i took the bus to our date, which is thoroughly demoralizing and not smart in the least. i'm the kind of asshole who will take a cab two blocks on a perfectly sunny day, but when faced with the daunting task of trying to charm the dude who used to deliver your mail i'm a total fucking idiot and choose instead to try to expertly disguise my skin flaws with makeup while riding in a moving vehicle with fistfighting teenagers and screaming toddlers launching themselves into my eyeliner hand every thirty-five seconds.

i got to the bar early, which was a relief because i was sweating. in the middle of winter. OMG THIS FUCKING HIPPIE DEODORANT. i showed the door man my ID and shoved through the nineteen assholes blocking the doorway with their proust discussion and found a place at the bar where i could drop my bag and stick some napkins in my armpits. i ordered a fancy beer (more on that later) and pulled out my kindle. half an hour later i checked my phone. there was a text from him. "are you here?" i texted back, "at the bar, reading like a nerd." i spotted a handsome black dude in a nicely appointed suit making his way through the crowd while staring at his phone. i extended my hand as he approached and said, "stephen? i'm samantha." his response: "doesn't katie know? i usually date dancers."

2 satanic devil tattoos. all my shit is mean and aggressive-looking and right where you can see them, skulls and skeletons and a screaming grim reaper brandishing a smoking pistol. they look totally fucking cool, man. all black and gray, so menacing and full of death. i love that shit. but did you know that some people would rather a lady have kitten-faced butterflies tattooed at the small of her back? and that's not what i have.

OKAY. just so we're all on the same page, i interpreted that as "the women i date are the circumference of your forearm." i mean, right? no hello, no how are you, NO NOTHING, just straight to the hate. and speaking of my forearm, he took my right one in his hand and said, "this ink is, um, interesting. are you depressed?" i wish you could've heard this dude's tone of voice, like i'd fucking slapped him with that arm and he was deciding whether or not to chop it off. "my tattoos are righteous, dude. should we get a table?"

realizing that he might have started things off on the wrong ballet slipper, stephen apologized and tried to explain what he'd meant by the whole dancer thing. here's one of my favorite things to do: when someone says something crazy or stupid to me, i stand there and let him try to clean up his mess for my amusement. most people hate uncomfortable situations, preferring instead to say, "oh, that's okay" to relieve you both of that awkward discomfort. NOT MY ASS. if you need to tell me how sorry you are, i will stop everything i'm doing to sit and watch you shit yourself and turn red in the face while trying to explain how bad you feel. it pleases me greatly. so he stumbled through some nonsensical bullshit for three minutes, pleading with his eyes for me to let him off the hook until finally i interrupted him to say, "skinny girls. i get it. let's eat."

3 i'm "earthy." this shit is rarely a compliment when a black dude with obviously manicured hands says it to you. i shaved my head when i was sixteen. prior to that i had shoulder-length chemically straightened hair that took forever to deal with and was incredibly expensive. i also had a scalp full of chemical burns and gross patches that flaked and peeled. i had to get up early before school to flat iron the roots before curling the ends, after i'd spent the entire night trying to stay perfectly still so the silk scarf i wrapped around my head would stay put. only to wake up with impeccable hair that had to be shielded at all times from wind, dust, open flame, and, most importantly, WATER.

"is your hair curly naturally?" he asked after ordering A CRANBERRY JUICE NO VODKA from the bartender. i snickered into my beer and told him that yes, these curls don't come from a bottle. "i've never gone out with a woman as earthy as you are." first i panicked and thought my woodland spice natural deodorant had somehow evaporated in the twenty minutes between my apartment and the bar and my natural musk was starting to soak through my shirt. but then i realized he meant that he'd never been out with a nappy-headed black bitch, and the only kind of asshole who mentions that is the kind of asshole that prefers you'd walk around with your scalp fucked up with a sewn-in yaki weave. i explained to him that my choice to go natural saves me a ton of money and stress and is good for both my health and the environment.

"yeah, but you'd be so much prettier." SIGH.

4 jeggings and gray t-shirts. okay, so i don't have little black date night pants and heels. and i'm lazy and uninterested in fancy clothing. never have i ever been rewarded for struggling into some painful clothing. seriously, not once has my tiptoeing awkwardly all night ever resulted in any tangible gains. i hate peeling off some control-top shit at the end of the night to get in bed by my goddamned self. and for what? so that sweater dress i shouldn't have spent $150 dollars on would get caught in the top of them anyway, giving the entire restaurant a view of my hamhocks?! man, fuck that. so i don't buy nice shit anymore. jeggings, t-shirts, and new balance are the most you can ever hope to get. sometimes i'll wear those flats that make me look like i have dainty chinese feet, but only if i really like you.

i spilled brisket on my shirt, twice. much to stephen's visible horror. but look, i can't help it if the bread is so stuffed with delicious meat that it's hard for me to hold it. plus, we had to wait for over a fucking hour, and that much small talk with a dude who kept asking what it was like to be "internet famous" made me drink. a lot. he ordered the mussels and, after having referred to himself in the third person as a "connoisseur of seafood," he couldn't figure out how to get them open and eat them. after dropping two in his lap and dumping another down the front of his crisp white shirt he told me that next time he was going to take a page out of my book and "dress for dinner like [he] was going to a monster truck rally." it was the first time i laughed all night. WHAT A FUCKING ASSHOLE.

5 dudes like pocket pals. seriously, every man i know wants the human equivalent of a baby chihuahua. tiny people with underdeveloped internal organs who fit nicely into your gym bag. i'm tall. 5'9" with no shoes on tall. and you wouldn't think that would be such a big deal with all these milk hormones and shit producing gigantic young men, but even nba forwards want to walk around with lollipop kids dangling from their jockstraps.

he paid the bill and winked at our waitress, who was the size of my left calf. she glanced at me and i waved it off, "no worries, girl. he's my brother." at this point in my life absolutely nothing comes as a shock or surprise, especially not the disgusting behavior of some silly dude. "bye, steve," i said, gathering my bag and shit. "it was nice meeting you. i'm just going to leave you here to flirt with homegirl and avoid all of that awkward fake hugging and shit people usually do after these sorts of things. get home safe, good luck with everything." i hadn't really listened to anything he'd said during dinner as it sounded like just a bunch of pompous windbaggery and self-importance. you know what i'm talking about. "oh my big fancy job and my big expensive house and my big fast car." BORING.

"i prefer stephen!" he called after me, and i laughed and flipped him off over my shoulder. my favorite feel better song is "off he goes" by pearl jam, and i found it in my ipod and turned the volume all the way up in case stephen decided to chase me down to offer up another criticism. i sent katie a shitty email FROM THE BACK OF A CAB.

the next morning i was on my way to work and got a text from katie, who obviously waits until she gets to work to check her email, unlike those of us who rabidly refresh that shit on our phones in desperate anticipation of some fresh and exciting news. i mean, um, it's not like i do that or anything. i meant the rest of you guys. anyway, it was a forward. "i had a lovely time with your friend last night, k. she was friendly and fun. incredibly bright and dynamic." dudes are amazing.

"40DD?" i asked ron in the car last weekend. "that's all i get?" caitlin blanched, incredulous that ron would be telling a dude my measurements instead of listing the last nine books i've read and my thoughts on the arab spring. nonplussed and completely not offended, i caught his eye in the rearview mirror and said, "you missed a D."
he winked and smiled. "that's cool, babygirl. he'll just find that other one after he meets you." now that is how you set a bitch up. JUST SAYING, omg.

christmas is not for pussies.

the hellidays are the motherfucking worst. no bigger reminder of what an unloved orphan you are than the most wonderful time of the goddamned year. seriously, from november through fucking march i walk around like a raw wound trying to deflect the salt of happiness being tossed at me from every direction. seriously, it's fucking impossible to brood and mourn when everyone is constantly reminding you why you should go get your jingle bells on, and those are often the very same reasons you sometimes can't get out of bed in the fucking morning. i write a lot of jokes and shit, and i understand how that can be pretty deceptive. generally it's my policy to try to squeeze whatever bit of humor i can from being perpetually alone and getting shit on and eviscerated by dudes and watching my peers skyrocket past me in their adulthood and battling this vicious crohns disease every single day of my stupid life, especially since i get a handful of emails and internet notes every week from people who relate and don't take the chronicling of this struggle for granted. and you jerks know i be spilling all my guts and tragedy all over these keys so we can learn from it and laugh at it together. sometimes, though, bitches treat me like a goddamned comedy robot. like i'm standing under the AVALANCHE OF BAD SHIT laughing my dick off before the first snow even touches me. here's how that shit really works: avalanche begins, of which i am unaware; figure out avalanche has begun once i'm up to my ankles in it, and freezing half to death; until finally i can laugh at that shit a month later once the snow plow has rolled through and i'm safe and warm in some clean fucking socks. then you get the jokes. anyway, my life sucks. here's why:

1 every day of my life since i was thirteen: i've had no parents. and no family of which to speak. and trust me, i don't care how many episodes of party of five you've seen, unless this has happened to you, you have no idea what that shit is like. my sisters and i exist in this sort of fragmented place where we are aware of the existence of each other, but we don't connect. we don't love each other. last week there was a pretty spectacular fight between the four of us which ended basically on some, "see you at your funeral" kind of shit. which is really awesome this time of year. now let's be for real, i thoroughly enjoy not having to buy any gifts or feed my dad cut-up christmas ham, but all of these nuclear families opening their christmas lexuses makes me a little sad.

2 those godforsaken jewelry commercials are meant to destroy you, right? are that many motherfuckers getting engaged on christmas day? really, i gotta sit through seventeen different romantical advertisements during one motherfucking show?! okay, so maybe you aren't crying yourself to sleep every night, but all this happy couple imagery is inescapable come christmastime. and makes you feel worthless. i don't know, man. maybe we are unworthy of human affection? because all this "you're so great" starts to feel like lies without some real validation. because what does it mean when someone who fucks someone else tells you that? or when your BFF extols your virtue? that bitch isn't buying you a fucking house. awesomeness is not the currency of meaningful human relationships, obviously. so i'm going to stop kidding myself. there is obviously something here that no one wants. that theory has been tested and proven, and i reserve the right to skip your holiday party as a result.

3 and this is an email i just had to write and send, like a loser: angry isn't a word i'd use. i'm fucking heartbroken. i'm sad that someone i like doesn't like me back. i'm sad for what that says about my dating future. i'm sad that i was in a competition i had no idea existed and that I FUCKING LOST. because you win either way. i fucking lost, and i had no goddamned idea i even had a dog in the fight. turn the tables. if there was some phantom other that i was choosing instead of you, despite the fact that i've assured you how awesome and amazing and talented you are, imagine for a minute what that feels like. in your heart. that you're awesome and great but not awesome enough to be with. you are the architect of this sadness. and i'll live, i'll get over it.

um, yeah. so that happened. like, an hour ago. and if you're smart you can use your context clues to fill in the who and the how and the what i found in my inbox this morning. sad avalanche.

this time of year is motherfucking brutal and i want to die. so i'm going to take some time off to process this piece of rotting sewer shit that is samantha irby's disastrous existence. and here's my plan of attack, ie the shit i always do when i'm bummed the fuck out, OMG:

-bang it out with a SHITLOAD OF CRAIGSLIST DUDES.
-whiskey shots x1,000,000,000.
-read a fuckton of books.
-hella carbohydrates. seriously, i'm going to eat SO MUCH BREAD.
-impromptu dance parties.
-distract myself with 12 hour workdays.
-swim at the Y with your sexy granddad.
-write my blog with ian (click here, laugh robustly).
-blow money on fancy drugs.
-try to remember that, despite all this, i'm mostly awesome. and amazing. and worthy of good things in my life, despite the fact that they appear to keep passing me over in favor of those who seem less deserving. eventually someone else will recognize that. or i'll get hit by a bus. one or the other.

imma see you kids in 2012 if i don't get hit by an asteroid in the meantime. happy holidays, prosperous new year, and don't thelma and louise it off a cliff unless you take me with you.

attack of the killer ladybrain.

it's finally obvious to me that i need to go ahead and put a down payment on a goddamned lobotomy. is anyone still doing those? a shady-ass "neurosurgeon" in russia or some shit? because i spent five whole minutes yesterday morning (think about five minutes, think about how long that shit is in real time, especially when you've already wasted so many other minutes nicking your calves with a razor and digging through your disorganized drawers in a fruitless search for one of the two bras you own that is fit for another human's eyeballs and flossing your teeth because somehow that matters? you've already missed one train and are desperately close to missing the next two if you don't hurry the fuck up and get a coat and mittens on) trying to decide whether or not it is totally motherfucking presumptuous to put a pair of pajama pants in my overnight whore bag for a dude who later informed me that he'd double-booked an evening during which we'd scheduled both dinner and naked relations. OH, DUMMY. YOU LOSE AGAIN.

silly rabbit, sleepovers ain't for tricks! yet again i find myself in the utterly hilarious and 100% unenviable position of having been betrayed by this bitch that i for the life of me cannot seem to get the fuck out of my head, this massive idiot who has managed to lodge herself snugly between my parietal and occipital lobes, dictating every ridiculous thought, dangerous word, and potentially humiliating deed since, well, i'm not sure when ladybrain fully develops. the day you get your first menstrual period? yeah, let's say that. sounds accurate to me. stupid womanthoughts. so twice of late i have been stuck in dire need of an emergency eyeliner and purse-sized travel deodorant after having woken up in a bed that doesn't belong to me, and going to work in dirty underwear with dusty bedhead is fucking gross. but this time i'd planned ahead: i stood with one foot in the bathroom and the other in the closet trying to discern exactly how many beauty products i could get away with hauling around in my bag while still managing to look effortlessly cool and put together.

sometimes i fancy myself one of these low maintenance kind of women, and at first glance I TOTALLY AM. i don't shave my armpits and i have no problem using a night cream from the grocery store. come on, now. when compared to bitches with $300 dye jobs and shoes that cost more than my apartment? i'm downright manageable. but when taken at face value, what with all my face washes and hand creams and haircare junk and daily tweezing, my whole routine seems unequivocally, laboriously INVOLVED. it's not my fault that my face requires so many products! and that i have so many errant hairs! god, and that dumb shit took way longer than it should've. because 1 i need to look easy and carefree, right?! and i can't be having curling irons and full-sized bottles of exfoliator tumbling out of my bag on the goddamned bus and shit. plus, i don't want to dislocate my fucking shoulder dragging around nine outfit changes or whatever, and 2 i'm totally the kind of asshole who would pack an overnight bag full of nail polish and acne gel and forget to bring A FUCKING SHIRT.

santa's list-making ain't got shit on me, as i made a quick one of my essentials (always vagina wipes, some hippie deodorant that does absolutely nothing to protect against the scent of livestock that inhabits my armpits after a twelve-hour work day, "daytime underwear") then upon checking that bitch twice discovered some glaring omissions (why on earth do i always forget to bring my fucking stomach drugs?!) and had to take some things out (extra socks, really samantha?!) to make room. so in addition to all of the regular shit i needlessly drag all over the city of chicago, kindles and ipods and chargers oh my!, i had a bunch of things that, if anyone bothered to look, would be a dead giveaway that OMG I'M ABOUT TO GET LAID LATER.

try as i might, the giant, estrogen-leaking vagina that sits atop my shoulders actively lobbying to ensure that i spend the rest of my life walking around looking like a goddamned simpleton is TOTALLY FUCKING WINNING. i've outsmarted her a few times, won a couple battles in the hard-fought war that is MAINTAINING MY SANITY WHILE TRYING TO BANG COOL DUDES, but for the most part this bitch absolutely refuses to play fair and leads me to the emotional slaughter every single fucking time. i used to get salty at men, but now i know the real culprit is this ignoramus in my head who interprets "that one time we had a nice dinner" as "sure, go ahead, take an extra toothbrush to just leave over there." (i DID NOT DO THAT, i promise, but that's the kind of shit this spiteful bitch says to get my ass caught up.) and don't you dare side-eye me. OR LAUGH. because you girls are all equipped with them, too. ladybrain is that bitch in your head who prompts you to make cookies for a dude you fucked ONE TIME. ladybrain urges you have "state of the union" relationship talks with a dude you met three weeks ago. ladybrain is responsible for 99% of your internet stalking. ladybrain is the reason you never turn the ringer off on your phone. ladybrain says "i know he didn't answer the last seven, but why don't you text him one more time?" ladybrain makes you forward his emails to every single one of your friends. pretty much every ridiculous thing you've ever done to embarrass yourself in front of some dude you like is a direct result of your ladybrain meddling with your rational thoughts.

once upon a time in a land that's probably really close to where you are right now, i dated this dim-witted piece of shit bonehead who was probably too old to not have more than one plate in his barren cupboard. he was maybe the second dude i'd been out with as a bonafied adult, and at the time i was super-green and had no fucking idea that 99.9% of dudes are scumbag liars. i'd met him at a house party my friend's boyfriend had thrown, and it was the kind of humiliating event during which i sat next to the makeshift dj table flipping through records while all of the other people who were dancing and comfortable in their own skins mingled and chugged beers and drunk-shouted into each other's faces. now, having had plenty of practice at this sort of thing during the entire tenure of my junior high and high school careers, i don't really have a problem being the quiet, sad bitch at the party. i mean, really. who the fuck cares? most of the time you see some bitch whooping and screaming at a fiesta that shit is an act to convince everyone in attendance that she's the life of the goddamned party. alcohol is a depressant, bitch. GO SIT THE FUCK DOWN WITH THAT.

anyway, toward the end of the party the aphrodisiac that is my morose self-isolation drew the attention of this asshole wearing sunglasses INDOORS and AT NIGHT. moth to a goddamned flame, baby. seriously, awesome dudes totally fucking love me. barf. i don't even remember what he said, i was just so flummoxed that he thought the hoodie i was wearing in the motherfucking summertime was attractive enough to warrant a second viewing that i gave him my number immediately. he called the next day, which i interpreted as "interested" when what it really was was "predatory." we had a date, i guess you could call it that?, on his living room floor, eating takeout chinese food and drinking honey brown while watching STATE PROPERTY. i'll give you a second to absorb that shit. my life = so dumb.

anyway, i had sex with him because i'm totally fucking retarded. and i'm not even the type who goes in for the cuddle right after a dude finishes seizuring on top of me. i swear to god, i really fucking don't. i scoot over to get to the cool spot before he does and try to remember where i last saw my fucking underwear. but this dude was SO TERRIFIED that i might get the wrong idea that he actually liked me enough to have a conversation that didn't involve the proper way to lick his fucking balls that he could barely chuck the rubber in the trash before he was like, "do you need me to walk you to your car?" i'm not fucking kidding, i had barely wiped this motherfucker's sweat off my goddamned clavicle before he was giving me the ol' HEAVE-HO. i hate awkward situations more than anything else, and even if someone hurts my feelings i don't need to sit there and talk it out, i'm really good at hustling into my clothes and getting the fuck outta dodge. seriously, i had my shoes on before he even said "car." i found my shit, went to the bathroom, tried to wash my hands with the tiny sliver of yellow dial melted into his sink, and waved goodbye before walking right out the door.

on the steps in the hallway i almost started crying, because even if you are a total fucking asshole that is not the way for another person to treat you. especially a person you just let pull your hair and slap you. but i willed myself to get it together until i got to my car, because no one wants to be that girl crying on the street with her fucking shirt on backward. i listened to see if he was going to at least come to the door and maybe apologize for being so abrupt, or throw a handful of cash after me because he had just treated me like a goddamned prostitute, but there wasn't a single footfall. i got outside and started to walk of shame (STRIDE OF PRIDE, ahem) the three stupid blocks between his apartment and the 1988 ford escort manual transmission hatchback i was driving at the time.

and then i heard his voice shouting behind me, and ladybrain said, "see? he cares for real!" and i turned around to watch that dude jogging toward me. "you forgot something!" he shouted breathlessly, and i held my bag open under the streetlight to try and figure out what i could have left behind. when he finally reached where i was standing he handed me a half-empty beer and wad of kleenex i'd left in the kitchen. wait, seriously? he brought me an old, flat beer and some used tissue? he hated me so fucking much that he didn't even want my refuse sitting in his garbage can?! i took them, without saying anything, and went to pour the beer in the gutter so that i could throw the bottle in someone's recycling bin on the way to the car. ladybrain sighed and said, "okay, you can cry now," AND I TOTALLY FUCKING DID. all burning hot tears and strings of snot in the middle of the sidewalk. and when i was finished and could see straight, i threw that fucking bottle through the windshield of his fancy car.

then i went home and had diarrhea, because GOOD LORD DOES CHINESE FOOD GIVE ME DIARRHEA. i'm not even kidding, dudes. every single time i eat that shit. i must be allergic to cat meat. anyway, it was that early experience that shaped the beginning of my understanding of what sex with dudes who don't care about you is like. because that wasn't the last time i slept with that asshole. oh no, we carried on for eight months or so? i'm stubborn in my idiocy. but i learned so many helpful things from him. like, did you know that you should never expect a man to call you prior to 9pm? or, that even if you've gone to dinner with one you cannot claim to be "seeing him?" that fidelity can't be expected unless he specifically tires of every single other vagina in the universe?

OH MAN, IT WAS LIKE REAL-LIFE PENIS SCHOOL. i learned more about banging sketchy dudes in that handful of months than i ever have since. i never saw his place in the daytime and he never saw any part of my life other than the outside of my apartment building the one time my clutch blew and i had to put the escort (fail) in the shop, and if he wanted me to blow him he was going to have to provide pick-up and drop-off service. and of course he did that because men are totally fucking shameless and would fuck your withered corpse through a hole in the body bag if they could figure out a way to distract the coroner for five minutes. dude didn't want to know about my soppy feelings and shit, and i learned not only to appreciate the brevity of a lightning-fast sexual interaction with a dude who often told me to "leave the engine running," but i became amazingly adept at putting on pants, gym shoes with complicated laces, and a bra with four motherfucking hooks IN THE DARK while NOT WEARING MY FUCKING GLASSES. seriously, all my buttons would be buttoned and everything. LIKE A BOSS.

are there some new booty call rules? when did the newsletter go out? i know i've been out of the game for a while, but isn't a foul still a foul no matter how long you've been watching from the sidelines? listen, as anyone who has ever seen me talk shit at the sex show can attest to, i'm not one of these "my body is a temple" broads who's too fancy for a fuck and run. I USED TO LEAVE MY CAR RUNNING, people. bitch has absolutely problem getting up and going home, for reals. but if dudes want to eat dinner and make jokes with you, how am i supposed to know that i won't be needing that ziploc full of hair gel that's leaking into my ipod right now?! i'm not used to this newfangled shit you kids are up to these days. like, you really talk to a dude in real life if he's just banging you? you can sit next to a dude in a movie theater. go to his place, jack him off, and then just get on your bike and pedal home?!

how did you figure that shit out? i am not the type to construct a boyfriend out of a handful of sexts or whatever, but i also am not used to having any sort of meaningful conversation with someone who only sees my face in the dark. i'm curious, do you sync up your google calendars and let each other know when you can pencil them in? god, banging in the new millenium is so CONFUSING. and it turns me into a sensitive puddle of YUCK. i am neither smart nor emotionally progressive enough to traverse these choppy waters on my own. throw a bitch a lifejacket, omg.

when i realized that NO I WOULD MOST CERTAINLY NOT BE NEEDING THOSE PAJAMA PANTS, ladybrain was like, "damn, stupid. i'm in shock. i totally fucked this one up for us. i'm so sorry. he has 'shit to do.' AFTER THIS. i mean, for real? wow, huh. okay, we've done this before. this is just like that scene in 'the glass menagerie' when laura gives jim that broken unicorn. you got this, gurl. now try to maintain your dignity while blindly searching for your socks and whatnot. that's right, get your ass out of this bed and find your goddamned glasses, and don't you dare pout. nevermind that your cell phone charger is totally mocking you from the cavernous depths of the inside of your bag. it's not his fault you've overstepped your boundaries, blame me. he's not mean, he's not an asshole, you're the worst. now let's pull ourselves together. did you wear socks? where on earth did you leave them?! being quiet is a dead giveaway, jerk, SAY SOME SHIT. fine then, be quiet and weird and ratchet up the tension around here. you better hope you and the extra band-aids you packed for the occasion haven't scared this young man off. how hard is it to put on a belt? the longer you take, the dumber you look. good girl, that's it, gather up all of your belongings and smile like you mean it. NICE JOB, SAM. you survived. now let's go sit miserably at the bar for a few hours. hey, i was just wondering, if he ever invites us over again, do you think we can maybe leave a bottle of shower gel?"

ladybrain, king of the monsters.

scrawny dudes with no chest hair.

issue six. i need a motherfucking break. oh, i know i know, "FROM WHAT, ASSHOLE?" and you're probably right, why do i deserve a goddamned vacation? the truth is, i'm not even tired. and i probably don't work that hard. let's be for real, i'm not in a factory putting chevrolets together, i have a motherfucking desk. that said, i work fifty hours a week, and spend another ten hours standing in the dark, frigid cold waiting for buses and trains and shit during my wretched commute. and then i have to find time for things like "having fun" and "maintaining my friendships." writing this goddamned blog. scouring craigslist ads. posting hot dudes on my facebooks. keeping track of your baby's first steps. figuring out who is on top in the republican primary this week. listening to the best music. knowing all the hot internet memes. omg, FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS. seriously, though, it's hard goddamned work to fucking know shit and be cool. don't believe me? how many unfunny, boring assholes do you know?! that's what i fucking thought.

does your broke ass need a vacation? does any of you want to go on an apple vacation with me? i'm not kidding. five hundred bucks can equal you + me + jamaica. i'm fucking serious. it doesn't have to be a whole big thing, let's just go and spend a weekend drinking pina coladas and digging sand out of our buttholes! what's the matter, you hate bob marley? FINE THEN. i have a passport, i'll go wherever. i just need a weekend away from the cat and my desk and the internet and my job. taking into account my penchant for melodrama and hyperbole, my life is trying to kill me. real magazines are always saying you should get away to keep the romance alive, and i would like to spend four fucking days eating delicious buffet and sucking down rum punch so that i can come back home rejuvenated, refreshed, and ready to start putting it in my life's butt again. i still love my life, it's just that the magic has died. my life used to excite me; it used to be so fun and unpredictable. remember the beginning, when my life would offer me something fresh and new every single day to show me how much it cared? well, it doesn't do that shit anymore. it's mostly just boring, sitting in its underwear eating chips while i try to coax it off the couch. if i could just get away from it, for even a weekend, i would come back and appreciate this lazy bitch so much more.

it's cool, i can take a hint, YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAMAICA WITH ME. so i'll just do what other assholes in my position do: call all of my friends who live in other places and invite myself to visit them. see how happy i look in that picture? standing on that california cliff, the pacific ocean behind me, enveloped in salty air?! i should look like that all the fucking time. that's not a bitch who has a nagging-ass boss or a $300 cell phone bill. no, that is a bitch on motherfucking vacation. that's a bitch who woke up in nina's guest room and emerged to a full breakfast i didn't have to make and clean laundry i didn't have to wash after having spent the night before at a party being thrown in my honor. i'm going to seattle and new york and california in the next few months to get away from my life for a minute and TOTALLY IMPOSE ON MY GODDAMNED FRIENDS. i feel better alfuckingready. and between those trips i'm going to spend as many weekends as i can holed up downtown in a fancy hotel pretending i'm madeline. or maybe kanye west. that'll show YOU, stupid life. i'm fucking fancy.

touchdown! i'm not into this whole "women don't watch sports" nonsense. i mean, i TOTALLY GIVE THE SIDE-EYE to those over-exuberant girls who try to get all into sports as a means to fuck dudes, but i'm calling fucking bullshit on all of this batting your lashes while pretending not to understand what a fucking touchdown is. children play that shit. so sit the fuck down with that. i watch sports because i had what one might call an inside childhood, which means that while the other kids in my neighborhood were racing bikes and climbing trees and jumping out of tire swings i was in our apartment with the blinds closed reading books and creating elaborate story lines for my massive barbie collection. my sister made me learn to ride a bike so that, at the very least, my muscles wouldn't atrophy, but for the most part i spent my summers INSIDE WITH MY MOTHER. i was one of those weirdo fucking kids who could carry on a grownup conversation because the only people i talked to all day were motherfucking adults. adults fucking love that kid; other children FUCKING HATE THAT KID. i remember saying the word "consternation" in the FOURTH GODDAMNED GRADE, and this bitch named allyson dumped my lunch tray on the floor in response. which resulted in my running to tell the teacher (whom i could call by her first name since we spent so much time making crafts after school), but only after i'd told her that "her visceral and aggressive response to my towering command of vocabulary simply wasn't warranted."

you totally would've beat me up. anyway, when you sit inside on saturday and sunday afternoons the only thing there is to watch on television (or, as i like to call him, "my brother"), is sports. baseball in the summer, football and basketball in the winter, and whatever obscure sports get national television coverage in the spring and fall. channel 9 used to have cubs games on EVERY SINGLE AFTERNOON, and they would often serve as the backdrop to barbie and ken's ferocious lovemaking. i would just absorb all that shit; i was like a walking sports section. i could rattle off the statistics of the entire cubs lineup. which, again, is a thing that only impresses adults who think a precocious eight-year-old who knows what "base on balls percentage" means is totally fucking adorable. that isn't a whole lot of people, just in case you wanted to know.

it's insulting to me when lady rags are all "put on a cropped jersey and give him a lapdance during the commercial breaks!" ugh, WHY?! why would you ever want to do that?!  commercials are for peeing, and there's a lot of really important shit to be heard during the halftime break. how else will i stay on top of how the assholes on my fantasy squad are doing this week?! well, i mostly mean YOU JERKS, because this nerd has a motherfucking satellite dish. BOOM. listen, i'm typing this with manicured nails, so i know good and well that there's other shit you bitches can be out doing rather than asking your manfriend what a goddamned touchback is. don't you like brunch? isn't there a jennifer aniston movie playing somegoddamnedwhere?! why on earth do you have to prance around in a bears cheerleader outfit blocking the motherfucking screen while we're trying to focus on the GAME? it's like if a dude came to your hair appointment and quizzed you about coloring your gray or whatever. if he was fucking juggling shampoo bottles and butting into the boyfriend drama gossip between you and julio, the queen who talked you out of that stupid shag haircut you almost got.

these are the same idiots who will sit and watch a dude play video games and ask him who he's shooting and how many points he got and which character is this and HOLY FUCKING SHIT ISN'T THERE AN SVU MARATHON YOU CAN GO WATCH IN THE OTHER ROOM?! hey gurl, sporting events and video games and boxing matches competetive beer drinking are the cheap plastic prize in the cracker jack box that is your relationship with a human male, and you need to start thinking of them as such. ie, he's occupied, he's not occupied in someone else's vagina, and you can rest reasonably assured that he isn't going to fuck anything up while you're out. so you can feel free to go to the botanical gardens and shop for eyeliner and eat salad or whatever else it is you like doing that he ABSOLUTELY HATES. and when you get home there will probably be leftover chips.

ask a guy. you know i don't believe in asking a man a goddamned thing. but i most certainly am not in favor of the way these magazines do it. seriously, bitch? you're going to ask a shirtless, waxed chested college sophomore whether or not i should shave my fucking pubic hair?! you need to be asking that motherfucker about cocaine and xbox, not whether or not having a baby at my advanced age is a wise decision. mouth agape, every single month, i scour these vapid man on the street interviews in total bewilderment. first of all, where did you find these fucking dudes? and why do so many of them have their motherfucking shirts off?! what, you couldn't find someone other than a dude playing ultimate frisbee to quiz about perfumes? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. let's ask some grown men a few goddamned questions. and not about my stupid ladyparts.

why don't you have any toilet paper in your apartment?
do you really need so many pairs of the same gym shoe?
sports jerseys as real clothes, eh?
why a chinstrap beard of all the possible ones you could choose from?
do all of these cords actually belong to anything?
ramen again?
can i just lie back and be serviced for a change?
did you fart in here?
who are you emailing during dinner?
why can't you text in complete sentences?
you didn't honestlythink i wanted a AAA membership for my birthday, did you?
those jeans again?
how can one person eat so much cereal?
do you know how to separate your laundry?
cartoon network, REALLY?!

inquiring goddamned minds, jerks.

glossy shiny pretty hair, omg. women should support each other. we need to listen to one another and build each other up, even when some of us say dumb shit all the time and let a man get away with the kind of bullshit that ruins him for every subsequent woman who will ever cross his path. seriously, we need to love each other. that said, it is perfectly normal and 100% acceptable to be frothing at the mouth in a jealous rage if a woman has:

shinier hair than yours.
a smarter, nicer, more successful boyfriend than yours.
health insurance that's better than yours.
a car that seats more people than yours.

bitches fucking need leg room, okay? we can't all be cramming ourselves into the back of your kia, bitch. you're thirty-nine, GET A GODDAMNED SEDAN. anyway, the other day my boss asked me, "what do you think motivates men?" and i, of course, replied, "sex, DUH." i mean, really, isn't that the only reason dudes brush their teeth and shit, so they can maybe get laid? no man would have a car or an apartment or matching socks if he could get laid by a hot broad without them. women, on the other hand, are most often motivated by JEALOUSY. don't act like it's just me; the only reason you joined the gym is because the bitch in the cubicle across from yours lost five pounds going to jazzercise. and that's okay! healthy, even. i never want to do anything cool until i see someone else doing it first and, in a jealous rage, decide that i want to do that shit, too. AND DOMINATE HER AT IT.

you think i would have this blog if some other bitch hadn't had one that filled me with seething envy first? YEAH, RIGHT. i would be sitting at home double-fisting tacos and working my way through a fucking keg every night. fuck the internet, dude, i'd be in pajamas all day testing out my jokes on the goddamned cat. i have absolutely zero motivation to trailblaze. but the minute someone else is like, "look how amazing i am at this new thing i tried!" i think, "OH MAN, I SHOULD TOTALLY BE DOING THAT. BUT BETTER." i would never try to bang dudes if someone i know wasn't already doing it. not kidding, if i didn't have to hear about how awesome and wonderful your boyfriend is i would never even consider trying to come up with one of my own. god, so much work! i'd be content to masturbate to phone porn and eat indian takeout for the rest of my miserable life.

so let's start celebrating jealousy. don't tuck it away like something to be ashamed of, let's embrace that hateful shit. i'll start: i love your shoes. and the circumference of your tiny waist makes me want to stop eating all food groups that don't begin with "vegetables." your grownup apartment makes me want to kill myself. if i could beat you to death, eat your internal organs, and assume your identity while wearing your skin as a coat i totally would. it is because of you that i'm going to work out for six minutes on the elliptical as soon as i finish smashing this mcrib. thanks, girl.

prince charming is total fucking bullshit. after a certain age these magazines need to start keeping it goddamned real with a bitch. how old are we, 137? everyone i know is still holding out for some cartoon character version of an adult male, and we need to stop that. smart, breathing, jokes. seriously, that's kind of all you need. generous and compassionate if you can get them, but if you can't? don't kill yourselves: NEITHER CAN ANYONE ELSE. i have some friends who have the craziest fucking prerequisites for banging a dude you have ever heard in your motherfucking life. and i just want to be like, "seriously?! bitch, you have saddlebags!" maybe the nineteen-year-olds for whom these magazines are intended have a chance at finding true love with a dude who loves dogs and cooks four-course meals on a tuesday, but the rest of us are going to have to work with a motherfucker. by the time we turn thirty we're all banged up and fucked over a totally goddamned damaged, and that's just what you have to deal with to have an interpersonal relationship with another human being. PERFECT PEOPLE DON'T EXIST, and magazines need to tell you that. and reinforce it. and remind you again two pages later.

one of my friends didn't make a second date with a dude because he tucked in his goddamned shirt, and i was like, "what planet do you live on?! eligiblemania? THERE ARE, LIKE, FIVE AWESOME DUDES OUT HERE TO DATE. you better work with that asshole!" for serious, doesn't he get a point for at least wearing a shirt? remember the time i went out with that vegetarian who couldn't even be bothered to put on real clothes? (click here if you don't.) yeah, that was fucking terrible. and even that dude got a polite phone call explaining that i would be joining a monastery and regrettably could no longer enjoy his exquisite company. i'm not saying that you should nest with some shit-sucking scumbag who can't read and won't go down on you, but maaaaaaaaaybe holding out for that jon hamm lookalike with a fifteen inch dick is something you need to get the fuck over already. aren't you regular? then why are you too good for a regular dude?! seriously, girls, aim realistically. it's less heartbreaking. and that is coming from a bitch with a UNICORN LIST. which, upon careful consideration, you'll realize is just a long list of regular shit losers can't be bothered to do. there's no real magic involved in "being nice" and "reading books."

now get back out there and give that skinny wino panhandling outside your local starbucks a second look. i hear that dude is single. rawr.