hey sluts. i've missed you! awwies.
i should probably start this shit off by telling you that i am now a reverend. you read that right. a motherfucking woman of the cloth! take heed.
it is a little-known fact that tucked between all of the other shwanky smartypants colleges and universities i applied to before god anally fucked me out of all of my dreams resides one moody bible institute, because in high school i really thought i'd be good at the ministry and was sort of dazzled by the idea of attending a religious institution.
i have never been particularly religiously convicted. i was baptized, went to sunday school, did buds of promise, sang in the choir, blah blah blah. i like church because you get to dress up and see your friends, because knowing people who've known you since before you could form a sentence or find your nose with your forefinger is fucking rad, because gospel music makes you shake your booty, and because listening to a handsome dude in a snazzy suit tell you about how some hot, powerful dude you've never met before cares about you and died for you is totally fucking romantic. this jesus dude sounds better than any stupid asshole i've ever bumped uglies with, and no one ever wrote a song about any of them. idiots.
i am utterly fascinated by religious people. i mean the real ones. not bitches like me, who are already cussin' and taking our church shoes off and lighting up cigarettes on the church steps mere seconds after the benediciton. i'm talking about the REAL ONES, bitches who don't swear and don't screw and turn the other cheek and shit. they get my utmost respect. hypocrites, on the other hand, should die in some sort of tenth circle fieriness. fuck them. phoney baloney proselytizing and condescending to the rest of us knowing their shit is just as stinky. because that's the thing, i like the message and the music and the getting hugged by old ladies whose boobs graze their waistline and are wearing half-cocked wigs and a gallon of l'air du temps and so much sticky pink lipstick and fashion fair that if you're wearing white (which i try to do as often as possible when in church) your shit looks like a melted bowl of neapolitan ice cream when they finally let you go. you know, because those church lady hugs last, like, FOREVER.
i like church because i have a fucking sense of humor. and a grasp of all things ironical. so it's amusing to me. PLUS, have you ever seen the amount of hot black meat in church? jesus wept! and it's all dressed up, good-smelling black meat. it really is too outrageous for words. let's talk for a second about how i am so gross, really just SO disgusting, yet i get the most hot in the pants for dudes who are nicely put together. a dude in a sharp suit with his hair cut and his smell good on really just takes me out at the knees. hairy is one of these hot metro dudes, ironing his socks and undies and coordinating his outfits. i fucking love that shit. really. because i will wear the same jeans (and possibly bra and maybe t-shirt) FOR THREE DAYS IN A ROW. i don't give a shit. the last time i picked out an outfit prior to thirty seconds before i needed to run out the door was in the seventh grade. i just don't give a shit.
BUT. i'm into people who do. i like fastidious matchers and primpers and ironers. men who actually separate colors before washing them. hair admitted to not only separating his lights and darks, but to also washing loads of clothes BY COLOR. craziness. and super hot. i'm talking red load, blue load, green load, etc. oh, lols abundant. my laundry pretty much sorts itself, as 95% of it is black. it tickles me to think of him making a pile of yellow clothes and staying up all night afterward ironing his little butt off. i treat my clothes like garbage. even the nice ones. i mean seriously, who can be bothered? i'll tell you what gets me revved up, though, kittens. the thought of removing all of that carefully-appointed accoutrement, that perfectly-styled habiliment, that specifically-designated tailleur. with my teeth. hair better brace himself. i like to rough a hot, fancy dude up: wrinkle his shirt and scuff his shoes and fuck the crease out of his jeans.
anyway, i have spent A LOT of time sitting in church thinking the unholiest of thoughts about the hot dudes sitting all around me. prostrate atop a testosterone tide, i tell ya. so i'm going to immediately contradict myself and tell you that while i loves me a religious person, dating an extremely religious dude is out of the fucking question. one of my best friends and loves of my life, my gorgeous cara, is a champion christian. i mean a real life soldier for christ. in the flesh. she was my roommate at northern (if you read this shit for realsies you already know that), and she walked it like she talked it, so i totally respected that. never swore. never said an unkind word. even after spending a year sleeping in a bed across from me. and she never told me to watch my mouth or quit talking shit or stop fornicating premaritally. and she still don't. that bitch just does her job as my friend, which is to tell me how fucking righteous i look and send me cute shit on my birthday.
religious dudes. total no-no in samantha land. first of all? most of them are total hypocrites. spanks was a guilty catholic who WOULD SIT ON THE SIDE OF THE BED AND PRAY FOR FORGIVENESS EVERY SINGLE TIME WE HAD SEX, which totally ruined the afterglow, if you know what i mean. he used to wear one of those cords around his neck with a piece of wood that symbolized the cross jesus was nailed to (so heavy so heavy SO HEAVY) and every single time we had sex it would smack me in the face or i'd come close to ripping it off or i'd look up at it bang-bang-banging against his chest as he bang-bang-banged against my cervix, and i would just roll my eyes and think, "what a fucking HYPOCRITE," and then i would go back to faking it. weirdo catholics wear me out, man. he would get totally upset and sketched out if i let a primal "OH GOD!" rip during the boot-knocking, and his guilt-ridden wang would shrivel up and run and hide behind his balls, i guess just in case god sent down a teeny lightning bolt with its name on it. please.
hair is catholic, but he talks way too much shit to really be religious. but i'm telling you, if he drops to his knees for any other reason than to get a closer look at his dinner (yum) i'm going to have an attitude. this whole ordination (you still can't believe it, can you?) thing means that in addition to weddings i can also perform baptisms, and i'm totally stoked to splash my holy water in his face and christen him my new hot meat.
(i'm sorry. okay? but i have to say these things. no filter. i'm fucking sorry!)
john was a jehovah's witness, and that is the reason we are no longer having "bible study," or whatever religious euphemism tickles your fancy. and, before you start thinking that I'M the raggedy judgmental bitch, he never called me again after finding out that i am pro-choice. now. you know that i don't believe in sharing my vagina with anyone who does not share my political ideologies. for cereal. if you are socially or economically or politically conservative, keep your elephant away from my donkey. i'm not having it. and i can respect other views, i just don't want to put my fingers in their butts. besides, they'd have to remove the sticks from said assholes for me to do so anyway. jerks!
anyway, john is pro-life. which is retarded. i'm sorry, people. it just is. especially when you think, as he does, that abortion should be illegal in cases of rape and incest, AND when the life of the mother is threatened. i can't even begin to get into how stupid that is. it makes my mind grapes too tired. i'm so liberal that i think the government should pay for it, so it's probably best for us not to get started. i mean, better 500 tax dollars now than 18 years of WIC, section eight, medicaid, and food stamps, no? am i wrong? maybe, because i am an asshole. but you know i'm not. wrong, that is. argh, let's just stop. so the point of this story, though, is that john has a CHILD. and he was not MARRIED when he SIRED that child. oh, i know, totally fucking shocking, right? especially since he's black. pshaw. so for a dude who smokes weed, fucks whores, fathers children, and curses nonstop to get on ye olde religious soapbox about an issue that will never concern HIS emotions, HIS heartache, or HIS body makes me want to jump off a fucking building.
i don't tell homos what to do because i'm not a homo. i don't tell children what to do because i am not a parent. and while my possession of a glorious, sugar-walled lady tunnel is certainly cause for celebration, said ownership doesn't entitle me to tell any other bitch what to do with hers. and that is my ultimate problem with these liars. all that telling other motherfuckers what to do. right after they lie on their neighbor, covet your ass, work on the sabbath, adulterize with fifteen cocktail waitresses, cuss their mamas out, put the god of reality tv before all others, murder a hooker, and blaspheme. bitches, please.
just shut up already.
so i am an ordained minister, and that is hilarious. and i bypassed all that bible school nonsense and went about it the new millenium way: i became a reverend on the internet. it took all of five minutes. i'm sure you whores are wondering why, and this is the reason: jenny, my homiest of homies, is getting fucking MARRIED. and she wants yours truly to officiate the proceedings.
when she called to tell me i almost threw up. i was just so surprised! although i guess we're at the age where every single one of our peers either has been or is finna be goddamned hitched. i have 142 weddings to go to next year, and that fills me with dread like you couldn't imagine. i am never happy for anyone when their circumstance could serve as a reflection on how (literally) retarded my own social/personal/professional mobility is. it's not that you ARE married, it's that i'm NOT. and we're the same age. fucking gross.
hair was all "but you said you don't even want all that!" when i told him i was jealous, but he's a dude. and dudes don't fucking understand that while i have no desire to shove my ass into a constrictive white dress and teeter down some raggedy aisle on shoes that hurt my fucking feet while a dude i probably don't like that much stands at the altar wishing i were someone fucking else, i don't like being reminded that no one has loved me enough to even ask. i'm sure he was also worried that i was expecting him to remedy my jealousy's situation, but of course i wasn't. sometimes you just want to bitch about how nothing good ever happens to you and how god hates you and everything sucks and everyone else's life is so much easier and better. you know, because it is.
so this should be the wedding of the century, because reverend samantha is a goddamned idiot. plus hilarious. and i will be having a glass of wine to kick the whole thing off. and by "wine" i mean "jesus juice." you know, because i'm a minister now.
ONE MORE THING.
i'm hoping that you apostles of authenticity...you sentinels of substantiality...you custodians of credibility...can help my stupid ass out: what in the fuck is "real," and how on earth does one go about keeping it that way?
apparently, i am an asshole. an asshole that does not, as a matter of fact, keep it very real.
if you live in the chicagoland area, or you used to, or you have friends that do, or you've ever watched a television program based in chicago, or have ever taken a geography course, or have ever watched a national weather forecast, you know that it gets cold as BALLS here. and not just regular old stubbled, gamey balls. i'm talking cryogenically frozen balls. it gets so cold here that your snot and your tears and your earwax and your snatch juice all freeze the second you step foot outside of your front door, and they don't thaw completely until early june. fuck this cold.
the one thing i love about chicago winters is how people don't give half a shit about how they look when trying to stay warm. you see bitches standing on the corner waiting for the bus in tights and leg warmers and sleeping bags and duvets and rugs and dish towels; anything to ward off that vicious hawk, baby! seriously. bitches be out here in six coats piled on top of long underwear and sweat suits and tuxedos and bathrobes with three pairs of socks with flip flops, bedroom slippers, and furry boots that come up to the middle of their fucking thighs. i would carry a personal space heater if i weren't terrified i'd set my already smokin' hot ass on literal fire in the middle of the goddamned street.
so this is what i was wearing a couple days ago: columbia jacket over columbia fleece; north face boots; north face hat; north face gloves; ll bean turtle fur gaiter; columbia gaiter; REI socks. and i ran into my homie dennis on the train while outfitted like a seventeen year old suburban white girl, and the first thing this dude sneers and says is, "way to keep it real, sammy."
since when does dressing for the elements equal not "keeping it real?" what, black people don't wear coats, motherfucker? if anything, aren't i MORE african because i don't want to freeze my chi chis off? i'm not one of these bitches in shorts and flip flops in sub zero weather! two days ago i saw a bitch in a skirt sans tights walking down michigan avenue. am i not keeping it realer than she is? or am i keeping it less real because i'm not letting icicles collect on my snatch hair?
you know i love nothing more than for a bitch to challenge my blackness. this isn't over. stay tuned.