Wednesday, December 23, 2009

jingle hell.

it's just a matter of days before i get my stocking stuffed. ho ho ho.

do you dudes remember when my hair was purple? purple with gorgeous red highlights?! man, i used to be SO MUCH more fucking awesome than i am now. dang. old age is a salty bitch, isn't it? that purple hair was the coolest. my hot friend dawn was working for aveda at the time, and she would always have the jammingest fucking hair on the planet and was always itching to get her hands in mine, and finally, after much begging and pleading, i succumbed and let her style me up. i looked like a motherfucking cartoon. it was a-ma-zing.

until i found out i had to do more than wake up and open my eyes to keep it up. i don't do SHIT, but still i don't have time to be fucking around with my hair. to hell with that noise. i used to be that bitch, getting out of bed at five a.m. to stand in my bathroom first flat-ironing, then curling-ironing my motherfucking hair. ridiculous. for broke motherfuckers we spent an AWFUL LOT on hair upkeep; you bitches know how expensive relaxers and blowouts and deep conditioning treatments and press-n-curls and haircuts are. shit, man. and i would walk around wearing my hair war wounds and follicle battle scars like badges of honor: the deep crimson chemical burns dotting my ears and hairline, big patches of skin peeling from my scalp, damaged, broken hair that would never lay exactly the way i wanted it to.

and to what end? to be house-bound and terrified due to impending rain? to live in fear of breaking a sweat? to stay fifty yards clear of any river, lake, watering hole, or swimming pool? and you black bitches better quit playing, acting like you don't know what i'm talking about. some of you haven't been submerged in water since your baptisms, and even then you were probably like, "what a minute, pastor, don't mess up my pcj!" all of this killing yourself (and your fucking hair and your skin and your self-image) to look "beautiful" wears a jaded asshole like myself all the way out. yuck. i refuse to do it.

the day before my senior year of high school i shaved my head. down to the wood. and i wish i could pretend to have some sort of omniscience or wisdom beyond my sixteen years at the time, but it was really apathy and a big dose of "i don't give a fuck" (not some heightened awareness) that led to that decision. no one was trying to put his dick in me in high school, and never did i ever think that i could really fit in with the skinnys or the prettys, so i didn't hesistate for a second. mary anne cut my hair in ten minutes in the middle of her kitchen, and i haven't looked back since. everyone thought i was sooooo cool (really, i'm not that fucking cool) and brave (again...not really), but all i wanted was to be able to do was listen to pearl jam too loud and roll out of bed twenty minutes before i had to leave for school.

and it was totally the best decision i've ever made, aside from that whole "be a whore to supply your art" thing. ha. i always think i want to grow it out, and on occasion i give in to that urge; my natural hair is curly and glorious, but even the work it takes to gel those bitches up in the morning is one i can't really handle with any regularity. so off it goes until the next time someone insane begs me to try to rapunzel that shit again. (i'm looking at YOU, lauraaaage.)

well. what a lazy sack of shit i am. i fucking knew that the minute i was required to do anything more to maintain my hot new beaver i'd be all "meh" about it. but then, if i let it get all crazy long and gnarly and unkempt again i'm going to miss this whistle-clean smoothness and get all pissed at the lengths (zing!) to which i'd be forced to go to tidy it back up. and that chaps my laziness balls even harder.

i was thinking about this last night as i was bleaching the dirty ass humidifier that should have been washed and changed a month ago and, embarrassing though it may be, i have come to the conclusion that i am a slovenly, sloppy mess, one who ONLY gets it together when she thinks someone is looking. i mean, my shit doesn't look like it should be featured on hoarders or anything, but i only really get it together when i'm going to have company or something. so you bitches obviously need to come over more so that i have an imperative to clean. my current cleaning and organizing frenzy was prompted by hair's impending visit, and i'm already panicking at the thought of how i'm going to keep casa sam looking right for an entire week.

there are some adult-type women who have this shit together. they wax regularly and keep their nails nice and and floss every time they brush, and i am not one of them. it takes a special event, an unprecented event to jog my maintenance memory, a concert or a show or a houseguest with a ding-a-ling. i can't do all that shit! i can barely set the alarm and remember to take my glasses off before i go to bed, let alone keep the refrigerator full and stay on top of swiffering all the tumbleweeds helen sheds and make sure my armpits are smooth. hats off to you bitches who can, it's an amazing accomplishment. i'm totally jelly.

speaking of jelliness, i really wish you hoes would stop sending me motherfucking christmas cards. seriously, X my name off your lists and send me a text or something christmas morning. because nothing makes you want to take a nosedive off a building more than a mailbox full of the smiling faces of bitches your age who you went to high school with and their picturesque little starter families in their picturesque matching sweaters in their picturesque living rooms. i mean, kill me please. if i sent out christmas cards they'd have a picture of me in tears trying to hold on to helen as she claws at my face trying to get away (she says the camera never gets her good side and refuses to be photographed) holding a bunch of cvs pharmacy bags with an empty box of condoms at my feet. my holiday newsletter would fit on an index card: still single, still broke, still stupid, still a raging fucking asshole. merry christmas.

i love that you whores are going to be featured on mantles and buffet tables and desks nationwide, but i have enough junk. i don't need you cluttering up my tiny apartment with all the reasons i want to drag a knife across my throat, all of your husbands and families and parents and children. no thankies! i don't want to see your baby or your new labrador; next year, send me a picture of your property tax statement or your sub-par score on the GRE, some shit a bitch can relate to. i'm going to have dr. makesmewet save the pictures from this colonoscopy i've got coming up and i'm going to fill your mailboxes with THAT little bit of holiday cheer. happy holidays from samantha and the red patches of irritation in her small bowel! happy new year, love sam, her failing intestines, and all the diarrhea they've co-produced! here's to more next year!

i'm so fucking grouchy. goddamned grinch. and you can save my invitation to your holiday party next year, too. especially when you are going to be the only bitch i know at the party. because the only thing worst than having your box stuffed with a bunch of faux holiday happiness is standing around at a goddamned party where you don't know anyone and are forced to walk around with your eyes on the ceiling to make sure you don't end up stranded under some inadvertantly-placed mistletoe. i don't know how to dress for that shit, and i don't know what to do once i'm there. i hate christmas carols, unless i'm sexing up the lyrics. i can't fuck with eggnog or cheese spread or the raw vegetable platter, and when is the last time you saw boiled, unseasoned chicken strips laid out amongst the canapes and tartlets? never, that's when. so i don't eat and i get drunk and i end up saying something that would make baby jesus cry to someone who doesn't think i'm that fucking funny.

this year i ended up at a party that guilt forced me to go to, and this asshole i didn't see coming caught me under the mistletoe and rammed his face so hard into my face that his teeth hit mine. that is an awful, AWFUL thing to have happen. it's happened with hot dudes before during brief moments of voracious making out (i told you, i have a seven minute limit for e-ver-y-thing), but at least then it was sorta anticipated. i had a mouthful of dry cracker at the time, and he bumped my beer so that it sloshed on my shoes. fuck. and he didn't even seem to register what a dick move that was, he just yelled, "i caught ya!" and spent the rest of the night bringing me drinks and trying to talk me into tugging on his tinsel. to jingle his bells. to suck on his candy cane. okay okay okay. sorry.

so, true to fucking form, i hate this. i hate buying shit for people, especially when i don't know them that well and it feels obligatory. i hate receiving gifts unexpectedly, especially decent ones, which forces me to go spend some money i hadn't previously intended to on a makeup gift for the giver, and i always spend too much because i feel guilty that they'd been so thoughtful and i'd been such a shithead. i hate lines. i hate the smell of christmas trees. i hate stupid cards. i hate sappy commercials (that kay jewelry deaf-girl-gets-a-watch one makes me die inside a little every time i see it--SO BAD). i hate hearing about "the hottest new toys." i hate people asking me whether or not i've been nice, when they know damn well that my only frequencies are "naughty" and "unbearable." i hate bitches calling me. i hate neon pink honeybaked hams. i hate tree-lighting ceremonies. i hate parades clogging up the teevee. i hate people who give shitty gifts. i hate people who give nicer gifts than i can afford to give back. i hate motherfuckers who don't give you a gift receipt. i hate reindeer. i hate charlie brown's christmas special. i hate the constant travel-weather mashup reports. i hate elves. i hate mrs. claus. i hate broken ornaments. i hate the fact that i've never lived in a place with a chimney so my mom had to make up a story about how santa had a spare key to our house which was really confusing because she wouldn't even let me have a key and i was plenty responsible and actually lived there and if she was worried about burglers wouldn't it be weird that this fat white man had a key to our shit and access to all of the people in the fucking world?

i hate fucking everything. except you.
fuck the holidays. i'll see you bitches in january.