Saturday, December 5, 2009

dunzo!

you motherfucking bitches must have thought i was joking.

i don't know how many times i have to fucking say it, but i will say it as often as i need to, as often as it takes for this shit to really sink in. i will shout it from rooftops and post it on billboards and read it on the ten o'clock news. i will print it on the cover of the sunday paper. i will eblast and mass text it. i will tell yo mama. and her mama. i have told you before, and i am telling you again, that this new samantha incarnation is not eating a single drop of shit off of a goddamned dude. not an ounce. not an atom.

you dudes will be pink-slipped.

"if it's not fun, it has to be done" would be printed on my fucking headstone if i were the type of bitch to suffer the indignity of burial rather than the glory that is being set aflame before being funneled into a tightly-sealed old coffee can and tossed into a lake somewhere. that has been my motto ever since i got rid of the nerd, and i'm fucking sticking to it. because really, what the fuck is the point if it sucks?!

maybe it's because i am a product of divorce, but i absolutely DO NOT understand sticking out some goddamned tired-ass raggedy bullshit that sucks and completely chaps your balls off. don't get it. just don't.
okay. i am willing to concede that i can kinda sorta see why people with joint bank accounts (ew), joint property (ewwier), and joint children (EWWIEST) stay trapped in their miserable circumstances, clinging to whatever semblance of security and misleading patina of normalcy goes with that lame ass territory. i get it, bitches. divorces are expensive. and time-consuming. and a big ol' drag. but isn't living with some assbag you hate even more of an expensive, time-consuming pain in the fucking vagina? and i don't know about you sluts, but when i hate a bitch i CANNOT get hot for him.

i don't believe in hate sex. or revenge sex. or make-up sex. and i really don't believe in fighting. EVER. who has the time? or the energy?! i have a two fight maximum in my relationships, and once we've had them the shit is fucking OVER. and even if it isn't over physically, i'm dead in the brains when it comes to that dude. for example, way before our disastrous time together trickled to a close, the nerd left his email open and me alone in his apartment while he went to a class. he told me i could go on itunes and buy a bunch of music (i really do spend giant chunks of my take-home pay on mp3s, it's a sickness) and when i did i saw that his gmail and myspace were minimized at the bottom of the screen. typically i am totally uninterested in this sort of thing, as i am pretty sure everything i've ever met with a twig and berries has lied/will lie/wants to lie/will lie again to me and i would rather float along in ignorant bliss rather than have those suspicions confirmed before i'm ready to give up all that good late-night snuggling and movie theater hand-holding. because THAT is the shit that's hard to give up, kittens, believe you me.

so i looked. i looked because earlier that morning, while i was sleeping off the drunks, he was up type-type-typing away on his computer, right across from the bed. you know, the bed where i was half-sleeping. the bed where he left bite marks down my arms and back in the throes of, ahem, passion. and my glasses were on the floor or in the kitchen somewhere, and i couldn't really see what he was writing or to whom (a bitch is BLIND), but i figured it must be pretty important to warrant leaving a sexy sam in a sweaty bed. this was when myspace was still dope, and when i clicked the bar at the bottom of the screen the letter he'd been writing to some other bitch popped up. the letter. that he. had been writing. on myspace! while i was in the bed. ten feet away.

and it was a sad, sloppy piece of shit letter, whiny and begging and pleading and total weaksauce. i was almost embarrassed for him, but then i remembered how disrefuckingspectful that bullshit was and read the entirety of his myspace messages and gmails. and ooh, lordy. so many girls! so much begging and pleading! ordinarily i would expect to feel garden-variety upset, but a rage like nothing i'd ever felt surged through me at the time, and i think it was because this betrayal felt a little bit nastier than the others, mostly because 1 i had done SO MUCH to help him and 2 i have a pretty relaxed attitude toward fucking other people.

let me clarify. i am an aquarius. an aloof, dismissive weirdo. an artist. a genius. a philanderer. when i was young i had the attention span of a flea; i'd settle in one place for thirty seconds before spotting something more delicious on the other side of the room and buzzing over to check it out. unfortunately that meant i ended up perched on my fair share of giant piles of acrid, smelly shit or biting my way into the ass of some filthy junk yard dog, and i learned quite a few lessons the hard way. the first time i had a dude i wanted to be with who didn't want to only be with me i was DEVASTATED, and i vowed from that minute forward to never be a dirty cheater. i also started telling my paramours that i didn't mind whatsoever if they wanted to be with other ladies. i understand carnal male urges, i understand women who lock men in their sights and won't let go no matter what, i understand that porn and maxim and axe commercials make men feel like they should just be able to go out and stick their dicks into any holes that'll have 'em. i get it! it's cool! you totally can!

just let me know first so we can end this dumb shit.

therein lies the rub. because i truly don't give a fuck if you want to bang sluts and hookers and librarians and meter maids and dogwalkers and mail ladies and cleaning ladies and hairdressers and ticket takers and checkout girls and bartenders and dishwashers. you just can't do it while fucking me at the same time. and it's cool, man, it's totally fucking cool. i don't bust windows and sit outside workplaces and call your mother and leave crazy voicemails. i won't get you fired. i won't call someone to take your kids away. i won't piss in your shoes and burn your suits in a dumpster. i'll just take my amazing ass on and find somebody else. somebody not you. somebody better than you with a dick bigger than yours who is smarter than you are who makes more fucking money than you do. somebody who pays his cell phone bill on time and can buy me dinner and even pick me up beforehand, someone who doesn't have to call me after his wife goes to sleep or his kids leave the room. someone who knows how to put his mouth on a vagina and suck a big toe.
SOMEONE. FUCKING. ELSE.

i read what i read and it hurt my feelings and then i was done. and i figured i deserved what i got because he had been in some murky entangled "open" relationship when we'd met, and i'd suspended disbelief and started fucking him anyway. and there was some crying and yelling and destruction and explanation and pleading first, but i was officially done in the brains right at that moment, even as i was saying, "it's okay. i forgive you." because it is never the same after that, now is it? one unanswered phone call and the first thing you think is, "he's with that BITCH." and every time you fuck him you think, "i bet this is how he fucks that BITCH." and when he takes you to dinner you think, "i bet he came here with that BITCH." and when his call waiting beeps you think, "that BITCH." and when he's smiling to himself and texting you think, "that BITCH." and when he's late you think, "that BITCH." and when he's early you think, "that BITCH." and when he's on time? that's right, sister, "that BITCH."

i don't believe in "working it out." what i believe is that when you are thinking about saying or doing some fucked-up shit to me you better fucking mean it. i LOVE being called ugly, vile, disgusting names! so long as you mean them. when you call me a "silly cunt" as the nerd did in our final gchat after the dust-up, you better mean that shit with every fiber of your being. you better mean it, because when you come back an entire calendar year later facebook friend-ing me and trying to reinsert yourself into my life, i will remember it. and i will use it to bend you over and fuck you in the asshole.

i have never, in my whole life, called someone something i've had to take back. because when i call someone a piece of cock shithead bitch, i mean that shit! i think about it, assess whether i want said piece of cock shithead bitch in my life anymore, and then based on that decision i either call him that (peace, asshole) or don't (please stay in my life but stop pissing me off so much so i don't have to think these awful thoughts about you without the payoff of saying it to your stupid fucking face).

you better mean it when you tell me to go fuck myself or say something rude about the way i look or my parents or my friends. you better mean that shit when you say something venomous and cruel, because there are no take-backs in real life. you don't get a fucking do-over after you shoot your mouth off or press "send." so mean it. or don't fucking say it. because apologizing totally sucks. especially when i don't believe you.

because, despite my veritable buffet of flaws, one of the things i am totally awesome at is never going back. no phone call. no email. no text. once you're out you're dead. at least until you come crawling back, which is inevitably what they all end up doing. and i like that because it's funny to me, all that snivelling. then the balls are in MY court, and i can dribble them and slam dunk them and pass them to my teammates right before i free throw shoot them into the garbage for GOOD.

so maybe you dudes should think about watching your fucking mouths. or at least brace yourselves to have them washed out with dish soap and bleach and acid. because shouldn't this shit be fun? shouldn't this shit be a BLAST? i thought fucking around with someone else's boyfriend meant that he was someone else's problem, that i'd get all the bubbles and fun shit and leave her to deal with the dregs at the bottom of the cup. get it right, brothers, or the kitchen is CLOSED.