Saturday, October 10, 2009

rest in pieces.

as i'm sure i've said before, i never try to unleash all of my crazy at once. just little bits at a time, strategically released so that you've forgotten about the last one by the time i drop the next truth bomb on you. because if you heard it all at once you'd cross the street if you saw me walking toward you or some shit. i have been on this insane baking kick for the last week, and at this point it might be bordering on a sickness. i need some psychotherapist type to let me know if wacked-out depression or rage or loneliness manifests itself in the production of copious amounts of baked goods. can you consult your medical journals and get back to me, pretty please? sunday i baked two madeira cakes. monday i made six dozen zucchini muffins. and two loaves. in the break between my classes. the break during which i should have written a reflection paper about religious pilgrimage. i baked four dozen sunshine muffins wednesday, and SIX 8" coconut cake layers thursday that are still sitting wrapped on my counter because i didn't have fresh lemons to make the icing and, upon discovering that, i almost started crying. my own real tears! why that hasn't happened since...? oh please. who am i kidding? i cry all the time. life is fucking hard, sluts. and everyone's always reminding you of how damn young you are. and really, all i hear when someone tells me to buck up and enjoy my relative youth is "the is so much more shit that has yet to happen to you." argh. so bleak.

omar sent me an email the other day that his friend had written about this frail old woman he'd seen struggling to navigate traffic and people and everything else while on her way to the doctor, and he took three selfless hours out of his day to help this stranger out: to walk her where she needed to be and make sure (to the extent that he could) that she was okay. omar asked me what i felt about it, and while i first noted the amazing compassion and patience of his friend, the most overwhelming feeling i had was one of intense, all-consuming panic. i was flooded with this terrible anxiety about being that old, childless, friendless lady hobbling around with a foot that won't heal and no one to make sure i get on the right train and shut me up when i try to tell rowdy teenagers to keep the noise down.

i pawned off most of the zucchinis on my classmates and coworkers, but there is still a bag of them taunting me from the top of my refigerator. and i was totally grossed out by everything the second it came out of the oven. i don't even know why. like, it was all cathartic and great to be working with my hands and baking again and heralding this crisp fall weather (even helen was bouncing around the kitchen with a spring in her furry step), but as soon as the work part was over looking at the glorious byproduct made me want to throw up.

i was talking shit to lori last week about wanting to "learn" anorexia (like it's a language or some shit), so maybe this is my subconscious finally getting the fucking message. i have also told it REPEATEDLY to stop pining for unattainable handsome devils and balance its checkbook more regularly, but it takes baby steps, i guess. i suppose it's interesting to be going through this phase right after owning up to that whole food episode, but i prefer to suppress my emotions and ignore coincidences so if the admission of THAT has anything to do with THIS i'll leave that for the therapist i have on retainer after my nervous breakdown in ten years to ferret out. they need to earn that $150/hour somehow. why not make it a game?

speaking of this crazy shit, have i told you dudes that i am SERIOUSLY considering hypnosis?! i told my sisters my brilliant plan and those dickbags totally shit all over it, and that probably should be reason enough not to ever tell anyone else, but i never keep anything to myself and, oh yeah, forget them. i really really really want to do it. and you totally want me to, don't you? you can come with me, if you like. as a matter of fact, i might really like that, too! i just have a couple of horrible habits i am powerless to break. and i am so lenient on myself it's almost embarassing, but i don't have the sticktoitness to hold myself accountable. so i figure the best way for samantha is to just take a little nap and wake up cured.

so i have a big place. big for a lady and her little stankin' ass bitch of a cat, but not quite big enough considering the massive amount of baked goods now lounging around where there's no real space to put them. and by "no real space" i mean there are trays of muffins piled lopsidedly on my bookshelves and there is a cake pan on the radiator. this morning i got up late as usual because i'm always fucking drunk and in the dark i was trying to mix helen's medicine in her gruel and i didn't have my glasses on and i knocked over an open bag of flour. when you are late for work, and wrecked, and dependent on public transportation, and are wearing a sock-cast contraption on your broken foot that you just dumped flour all over, and you still haven't taken a shower, and your apartment is cold, this kind of thing might ruin your morning. but, surprise surprise, my overly sensitive ass did not cry. my faced burned hot and i had to blink a couple times, but i did not cry. UNTIL. i saw that the flour had taken an open beer bottle down with it and had totally ruined my beloved dead list.

as you might have gleaned from my earlier bit of paranoid hysteria about that creaky old lady, i have a pretty healthy (not a "good" healthy, but a "too fucking much" healthy) preoccupation with death. specifically, my own.

my parents are dead. and lots of other people i know, or used to know, are dead, too. and one of my biggest fears is being found dead and alone in my apart, with helen feasting on my waxy dead face. but i have come to terms (sort of) with the fact that this is my inevitable end, so i have taken a few steps to make that transition easier. i am incredibly persnickety in life, and why should my death be any different? i like things done a certain goddamned way. stuck to my refrigerator are the following items: a magnet that says "i (heart) porn," a picture of nina and izzy on their wedding day, two pictures from my childhood, the new york times best 100 books from the last two years, a grocery checklist that i've been adding things to for six months but have yet to make a real, full-fledged trip to the grocery store, a greeting card a friend gave me that says "they say inside every fat woman is a thin one dying to get out; well all i can say is i ate that skinny bitch," and a recipe for posole that helen keller barfed on. PLUS, my dead list.

when i first moved into my own single and solitary roommate-free place, the very first thing i thought was, "i am going to be killed here." and it really did almost happen once. but it's not the eternal damnation aspect of death that terrifies me, i become crippled by fear when i think of some strange stranger rifling through all of my shit and judging me while my stupid carcass rots in the bathtub or wherever it is i slip and fall and crack my skull and die choking on a combination of my blood and pantene shampoo.

so i told sarah, because she has been the closest thing i've had to a husband in the last fifteen years, that if i die, at home or otherwise, she somehow has to get her ass to my place before the authorities do and "handle my business." she knows where the dead list is, as well as where i keep the backup copy, and she has to do everything on it BEFORE calling the police. i mean, if it's a police-calling type of circumstance. if i die in a hospital bed or whatever she just has to race the vultures i call family to my apartment before they pick apart all my shit. poor sarah. it sucks that she has to do it, but OH WELL. it's just what she has to do. the price you pay for my ridiculously awesome friendship.

first thing, if i die at home and my body looks horrible, she must fix me up. not "contaminate a crime scene" fix me up, but shave my legs if they aren't already and put a little lipgloss on me. is that too much to ask? i mean, who the fuck wants to die looking the way you look when you're just hanging around the house? if i am not already in a bra, she has to get one on me, because i don't want any hot medical examiners getting slapped in the face by something other than my dead fish hand. if she has time to paint my toes that might be a nice touch, too. and put some gel in my curls. i mean...come ON.

second, she has to throw away every single thing in my dirty sex drawer, because people read way too much into things they have no explanation for. and since i won't be around to tell you how i use that thing with the spikes, you don't get to stand around sniffing it and speculating about where it might go. or where it's been. she has to toss all of the porn, unless she might like a little massive wet asses to keep her chonies warm some dark and lonesome evening, all the various accoutrement and instruction manuals (YES), and even my pajamas, because sometimes i like to wear ugly old lady floral shit to bed. oh hush.
WHY is it that women pretend they go to sleep dressed like victoria's secret models? i mean, REALLY, bitch?! on a tuesday?!!?!?!! garters and shit?! yeah right. fuck you. really, though. if you saw a law and order episode where some old bitch in a raggedy nightgown with tiny daisies on it and a feral monster of a kitten attacking you from under the bed was found dead in her apartment with a drawer full of hardcore and seven vibrators hidden around the place like easter eggs (quiet you, i like surprises) you'd be all, "what's up, lonely?!"

she also has to empty the refrigerator and the cabinets, because i don't want anyone making any assumptions based on what i like to eat, either. i have twenty lean cuisines because they were on SALE, asshole, not because i cannot COOK. and so what if there's ice cream next to them on the shelf! what do you mean that's too much beer for one person? and what difference does it make that i have batteries in the fruit bin that has never once housed a piece of actual fruit?! i do NOT eat too much cheese!

you hear that? that is my voice coming from the grave to defend my old mother drunk hubbard cabinets from the officers investigating my rape and strangulation.

same thing for the shoebox i keep my million "medicines" in. i watch the teevee. people give WAY too much weight to things in prescription bottles and what they might mean. and fuck that. she can take anything good but the rest must be incinerated. along with my underwear. and that bag of bills i refuse to pay that i keep hidden under the sink. primetime police just love to talk about who you owe and guess the reasons why you haven't paid them. not me, homie. not me.

the garbage has to go out too, because have you ever seen on csi how they analyze every little piece of detritus the unsuspecting victim carelessly threw away before his head was sawed off in a parking lot?! they go through that shit with tweezers, man! how horrific. in my case they would mostly find bags of cat litter clumps and trashy magazines, but you never fucking know. and there's the usual stuff, too. phone numbers and social security number and bank accounts (with instructions to empty it and pretend i died broke) and passwords; i mean, a bitch needs someone to change my facebook status to: Samantha Irby is DEAD. isn't that how a person has to die in this information age? my death couldn't possibly be real if facebook doesn't know about it. i mean, come ON.

she knows i need to look hot, but not slutty, in the casket, and that my body should be cremated and as much of my acrid, incinerated corpse as she can possibly manage should be sprinkled into the meals of my enemies. she has to take them out for dinner, one by one, and when they go to the bathroom mix a heaping tablespoon of dead sam into their crab salads. or she can cook a big meal and invite everybody over for a little chicken a la sam. green eggs and sam. roast sam-on with potatoes. you get it. all in the hopes that i poison them. or, at the very least, give 'em a bitch of a time pushing me out.

she can do what she wants with the remainder (there should be plenty), but my request is to just be tossed in the trash in some hilarious place. like a brothel. or mcdonald's.

the moral of this story is obvious: it's very important to have a plan in case of your accidental demise. most people don't think about the housekeeping and paperwork that they should have in order just in case a ninja is hiding in the closet when they get home from work, but they fucking should. i know i do. and i sleep more soundly at night because of it.