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.

Friday, December 18, 2009

bah, humbug.

thank you, most gorgeous and talented liz strause, for introducing me to my new favorite phrase of all time: "mortacci tua." that means, literally, "death to your relatives." and it's way cooler than saying fuck you all the time. i mean, aren't we over the F word already? seriously! it just sounds so lame now, and it's not even that big of an insult anymore. like, when's the last time someone said "fuck you" to you? and what did you do after he or she said it?! laugh hysterically? for sure! and "death to your relatives" is some badass shit to say to a bitch, ain't it?! it's fucking AMAZING. betty was chapping my dick off at work the other day, and i turned around and said "mortacci tua!" while making the "get fucked" motion under my chin. crushing. i loved it. i always call myself king shit of fuck mountain, and saying that shit to her made me totally feel like it. my penis grew, like, ten extra inches as soon as it rolled off my tongue. i should have punched a hole through the goddamned wall.

shit on the brain lately. sorry in advance.

the one thing i know better than anything else is poo. i am not at all shit-shy. with these guts, how could you be? so this morning i was on the phone going over my saic shit with ed while i was, in fact, in the middle of a shit. i was also brushing my teeth. i didn't think it was a big deal. i talk to snatch all the time while i'm on the crapper, especially since she is the person who gobbles up the most of my anytime minutes. i really could talk to that bitch all day every day. anyway, she never cares, so why should you?

and, if you've talked to me on the telephone for any amount of time in the last ten years, chances are at least one of those phone calls took place while i was having "brown pee." sorry to break it to you here. but totally awesome that you couldn't tell, right?! if you are in my place and i have to poo, i might leave the door open and talk to you if i can tell it's not going to be a messy one. anyway, i was mostly listening (ed talks a lot) and brusha-brusha-brushing (two minutes is an awfully long time to be jamming something long and hard in and out between one's teeth, wink!) when ed paused suddenly, catching me off guard. and, of course, i was making the nastiest shit gurgle-splutter-splatter noise at the exact moment he came up for air. i thought the brillo pad i use to clean my tongue might drown out the racket. alas, it did not.

"what was THAT?"
"what was what?"
"that noise just now."
"...what noise just now?" am absolutely terrible at playing dumb.
"wait a minute...are you SHITTING?"
"oh, absolutely." plop plop plop plop.
"on the PHONE?!"
"i'm multitasking! i have to go to WORK, and fucking with you is going to make me LATE." plop! splish splash!
pause. "you know this is why you don't have a man, don't you?"
"what? for cereal?! and all this time i thought it was my shoes!" lololol.
"you are the grossest person i have ever met. ugh." (click)

now that is probably true, i'm hella gross, but what a fucking baby. you dudes can't handle a little phonearrhea?! give me a break! if i stopped doing other things while on the toilet (homework, journaling, eating, my taxes...) i would never ever get a goddamned thing done! i read, on average, a book a week, and how do you bitches think i accomplish such a feat? because i read on the can. don't you dudes HATE going to a bitch's house who doesn't keep reading material in the john? what do you DO in there?! play with the little seashell soaps? count the tiles? i have a pile of books and magazines on the floor in the bathroom, on the floor outside the bathroom, and pretty much on every flat surface in my entire apartment. PLUS, the butt wipes (i need those) and extra tp and air freshener are all easy to find. which is essential.

what the fuck with people who don't set their places up in a way that makes goddamned sense? i mean, you go to someone's house and try to take a discreet little dookie or try to make something in the kitchen, and not a fucking thing you need is in a logical place. why do motherfuckers do that? WHY? if you are one of these people, please explain this to me. and, inevitably, the second you squeeze out a hot one you realize there is one square of toilet paper on the roll and can't find the extras. or the glade. or, if god really fucking hates you, you clog up the toilet and can't find a plunger to save your stupid life. again, why y'all be doing that?! it makes me NUTS. sneaking around with itchy dingleberries trying to find where this slick sonofabitch hides the cottonelle. arrrrrrgh. mortacci tua, you hidden toilet paper assholes! put shit where a bitch can fucking find it. my plunger is right next to the toilet. butt wipes, toilet paper, and three different types of air fresheners are where? you guessed it! in the cabinet NEXT TO THE TOILET, you handsome genius.

i hate being in someone's house looking for some shit. it makes you feel guilty even if it's something you're supposed to be looking for! digging through a bitch's drawers trying to find scissors or matches or fucking batteries makes me homicidal. and why in the FUCK can't i find a pen? anywhere?! i'm not looking for your mother's heirloom jewelry, whore, i just need a fucking band-aid! or some immodium! where in the fuck do you keep the q-tips?! why is it such a big secret?

who wants to go on a treasure hunt when all you need is a fucking measuring spoon? or a phone book? the television remote?! i understand burying your porn in a lockbox under the floor (i would never do that), but why put the safety pins or the lint roller in witness protection? everyone is just so stupid. leave shit where people can find it, okay? goddamn.

maybe all this irritation is because i'm a messy little pig who likes rolling in her own slop, and i secretly despise neat people. but fuck that. that's not tidyness. that's a big "fuck you" (or maybe a mortacci tua?) to anyone who ever steps foot inside your front (or back, hiyo!) door. here's what i don't get: if i'm freaking out and opening seventeen closets and twenty-four cabinets and forty-six drawers trying to figure out where you keep the goddamned vaseline, don't YOU have just as hard a time finding that shit when you need it? i mean, please. if you keep the toilet paper in the dining room, isn't it just as much of a hassle when you have to drip through three different rooms to go get the next roll? why would you do that to yourself? please. someone break this down for me. i'm obviously dumb.

where were we? oh yeah, "why i don't have a man." i mean, if we're really being honest, it's because most dudes are constructed primarily of lies and bullshit. it really is that simple. also, the bulk of them are mentally retarded. so when i find one who isn't a jagoff and has a brain in his head and wants to be my stunt dick on the permanent, i will have one. until then, blow me. and what is with all this "insight" and advice anyway? you know, ever since my dirty snatch and i started chronicling our failed romantical lives and semi-psychotic ramblings in this public forum, people who couldn't give me reliable directions to the nearest bathroom are all of a sudden facebooking and emailing and phonecalling me with all sorts of advice about my vagina. and her inhabitants.

and while i appreciate the gestures, MOTHERFUCK Y'ALL. (mortacci tua!) i'm old as dirt. and you read this shit because i let you. i write about this shit because i am damned talented and ridiculously hilarious, and your lives are better for having read it. what would you even do if i found myself in a long-term, stable relationship and started writing about darning some hot dude's socks and picking up his dry cleaning? you'd die, that's what. so don't consider these posts some heartfelt appeal to your infinite wisdom. you bitches are dumb as hell. i got an email the other day, from a "friend," an email whose subject line read "i read your blog and i know why you don't have a man." for serious, bitch?! (you know who you are, you stupid motherfucker.) i didn't even open that shit, i just immediately composed a response email entitled, "i know why you have two children with different fathers that you can't afford to feed." dumb bitch. shut the fuck up. and stop telling me what to do.

roommates don't fight over the light bill or whatever mid-poop? husbands and wives and stuff really politely wait until the end of the dump before carrying out their daily business? if so, i rilly and truly will never be able to cohabitate with another human. we'd never finish a goddamned thing. no shopping lists, no netflix queueueueueues, no nada. who has the time?

every year i write a christmas list, probably because of my stunted childhood. for cereal. *sigh* i understood that michael jackson shit in the realest way. if i could get my hands on the beatles' catalog, i would sell it and buy myself a new adolescence. immediately. i'd have surgery and shop at forever 21 and enroll in the seventh grade. it would be sexy slumber parties and cupcakes and taylor swift singalongs all fucking day long. bitch, please!

for a lazy motherfucker i write an awful lot of lists. i think i just like the way they look, you know? all neat and presentable and organized. my scribbles really are beautiful, even if they are sometimes hard to read, and i just like the way lists look on paper. like you have your fucking life together. and i totally don't, so you can understand why my crazy and i like to make pretend that we do. it makes us look normal. you know. because my crazy is really concerned about outward appearances.

i have made no fewer than ten lists in the last week, because hair is going to be here soon and i want to make it look like i have my shit in order, at least a little bit. you know i don't grocery shop, but i made a list. of shit that (in my mind) dudes like to eat. cereal and potato chips and hot pockets. i'm not going to the store, but it makes me feel good to know that if i ever did, i could quickly gather all of the things i wanted to buy. for serious, hair is going to have to learn to live on pretzels and nutella, or maybe i should just leave all the nearby delivery menus on the counter and prop my phone next to them. sheesh.

i made a list of household items i need to buy (still haven't) and ways in which i should organize my closet (will never). i made a list of things for us to do while he's here (i'm sure we'll do not a single one) and restaurants i'd like to take him to (that, actually, has a chance of happening). in spite of the fact that these lists should serve as reminders of how i never actually really complete a damn thing i set out to, i'm feeling pretty good. i'm ready. because while i haven't bought a vacuum nor have i had the duvet laundered, i CAN cross "put up a new shower curtain liner," "replace the crusty dish drain," and "clean up stinky ladyparts" off my lists. and really, that's the most i could ever be expected to do. and just wait until he sees the lists i made for him.

rawr. and slutty sexmas.

ps, i am also working on a little bit about how i hate holiday parties (BARF) and all these nouveau fancy shmancy sex shops. keep your vaginas peeled!

pps, save january 16th on your fucking calendars. akilah and i are doing our show, and it's going to knock your balls all the way off. 6 pm. cj's eatery. ten bucks. live nude sex acts. WRITE IT DOWN, assholes. and show up!

ppps, i'm taking a little breaky-poo from posting soon. i have two more, then i'm on hiatus. just a couple weeks. a teenie weenie little fuckcation. don't worry, though, i will have gotten laid 453 times by the time i come back, and that will do wonders for my, ahem, creativity. and i'll be fresh off a colonoscopy, too. gorgeous!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

home improvement.

okay, loves. i've been doing some remodeling around ye olde irby manor, and here are the renovations i have made thus far:
1 i reshingled my roof.
i cut all my goddamned hair off. and i'm sorry, but i am just so fucking lazy. and inept at hair care. and i can't have a palmful of gel in my hair and stand around waiting for trains and buses and shit with no hat on to avoid fucking my curls up. it grows quickly and i look jamming with a shorn head, but even if i didn't i wouldn't give too much of a shit. fuck it.

2 i downsized the extra space.
i'm back in my small jeans. (and yes, it's a relative "small" you assholes.) and you can thank the crohn's for that. a bitch has been stressed out and sick as hell. i don't eat a goddamned thing most of the time these days. i mean, actual meals. i take a lot of drugs and eat a lot of tums, and occasionally i'll have a sandwich. lame. the silver lining? hot jeans again.
nothing is better than a fresh pair of jeans for my thigh teeth to start ripping into, and i have two pairs of dark denim primed to catch fire in the crotch if i'm ever forced to run a distance over ten feet.

3 i gutted the bathroom.
i saw doctor gorgeous yesterday, and he really is just so handsome. i swooned when he walked in the room, and then he took my hand in his and purred, "how's my favorite patient?" oh dear lord. i almost fainted right there. anyway, my poor bum! it's been more than four years since my last colonoscopy (my, how time flies) and we scheduled one for a couple weeks from now. i don't mind the procedure so much, you get the most killer drugs and they grease up your asshole and you can look at the inside of your butt on the monitor next to the bed. that is, if you can keep your eyes open. those drugs are the greatest! they call it "twilight anesthesia," where you are sedated and relaxed enough to be probed anally without much resistance, and it's a super sweet high. i just sort of snore and murmur when he points out all of the gross inflamed red patches and all the other bullshit, totally zoinked out in la la land.

the worst part of a colonoscopy is the prep. you dudes don't even know. you have to make dietary changes the entire week prior, the day before you're limited to clear liquids only, then the night before you can't eat a damn thing, you have to take two super laxatives, pills to keep you from throwing up (more on that in a second), and drink a gallon of this vile liquid that has the consistency of saliva and tastes like someone else's bile. for cereal. for my last one i didn't set up the trilightly early enough in the day, stupid bitch, and it was lukewarm and spittier than usual by the time i started drinking. i gag with every sip, NO MATTER WHAT. i have to sit on the toilet and hold my nose and gulp down as much as i can at a time. it tastes sort of like salty gatorade, and it really is just like someone cleared his throat and spit it into your mouth. repugnant. remember that this is a GALLON. i mean, who could drink a gallon of anything? even something delicious?! this shit is like chinese water torture. so last time i was halfway through the gallon, sitting on the toilet just shitting out clear yellow liquid, when i started to vomit. i called the "help line" and asked the on-call doctor what to do, and he was like, "well, you have to make sure your colon is 100% clean, otherwise they won't do the procedure. they will cancel. and you will have to do this ALL OVER AGAIN."

i started crying as soon as he said it, and the crying made me barf again. he said, "i'm sorry to tell you this, samantha, but you know what you should do? since you haven't eaten in a couple days, why don't you vomit into a clean receptacle and DRINK THAT? that way you won't waste any of the trilightly!" and he sounded so pleased with himself, so happy that he had solved my problem for me. so i got a big pyrex measuring cup and sat back on the toilet, and i resumed squirting out that clearrhea. i took a couple more gulps and, as i'd expected, immediately threw it up. into the measuring cup. and then i drank my vomit. i imagine there are worse things, like genital mutilation or starving on the side of a mountain after a plane crash, but since those things have not happened to me THIS IS THE WORST FUCKING THING IN THE WORLD. crying and puking and drinking that teary puke, all in the hopes that your colon gets clean enough for the most smokin' ass doctor on the planet to stick a tube up your butt while you are asleep yet awake enough to hear yourself snoring. usually i let him ply around the old anus with no problemo, even when i'm fully awake, but during my last scope beautiful mcgorgeous had to tell me three times to loosen my ass grip on the scope so he could maneuver it around. and i was anesthetized! and even half in the bag i'm a fucking pig, because my response was, "i though you dudes liked it tight?" ha ha. total shitbag. the worst.

i'm having the worst peripheral arthritis in the universe, though, and because of that i have to start some new drugs. and some new wave-sounding "infusion therapy." and stop taking steroids. most of you know that i lurves me some steroids, but dr. hot scared the shit out of me listing all of the scary side effects. terrifying. but they make me feel so good! i went through a bottle of 100 pred in less than a year, and when i asked for a new rx he was like, "bitch, please." i got cut off! like a fucking crackhead!!! a predhead, maybe?

peripheral arthritis is total fucking balls. essentially, for some inexplicable reason, bitches with stomach issues get achy, painful joints as a consolation prize. and you don't get to pick and choose the joints, either. for instance, the place where i have it the worst is in my left shoulder, elbow, and hand. like, pain so bad that i can't pick shit up with my left hand. or if i bend my arm sometimes it won't straighten out. and my fingers fall asleep. the plus sides are these: unlike regular arthritis, it doesn't make the joints all swollen and weird. and thank jehovah for THAT. i'm too fucking young to be walking around with crab apples instead of knuckles. you've seen those old, knobbly-fingered ladies. not me. so no permanent damage. ALSO, if i can get my stomach in line (come on, remission!) the arthritis goes the fuck away.

so to make that remission a reality, january 3rd i'm going to cry salty tears and drink salty vomitspit (doom!) and clean my raggedy guts out, then january 4th i'm going to lay on my side in a hospital bed, drugged and delirious with tubes coming out of my arms and face, while a tall drink of water inserts a cold tube into my poopshoot, then i'm going to start these scary drugs and infusions and suppress my immune system and get bloodworked every two weeks to make sure my liver doesn't fail from this potent shit. so cross your damn fingers or something.

4 i swapped the carpet for hardwood floors in my basement.
that's right, bitches. my vagina is c-c-c-cold!
so i have a bone to pick with you ladies. a sexy bone, but a bone nonetheless: how come you bitches never told me that i need to clean up my, um, foliage? i only ask because every single woman i have talked to about the decision to chop down the ladytrees cluttering my forest is always like, "what? you don't do ANYTHING?!" well what the fuck made you hoes so smart? my mother never sat me down and had the shave vs. wax discussion. and all the dirty, grimy dudes i'm used to banging never seemed to have a problem, so i never gave it a thought. i mean, maybe i did, but only at the doctor and shit. like, i was always acutely aware of how much hair surrounded my butthole every time his handsomeness was digging around back there, but i never really cared enough to do anything about it.

okay, so you hoes are obviously smarter than i am, or have more caring parents than i did. OR, as i really suspect, some goddamned dude embarrassed the shit out of you by asking you to once a long time ago and you've been doing it ever since and now you want to pretend like you're enlightened or some bullshit. mm hmm. everybody and her fucking grandma got on their clean snatch high horses when i asked them about it, acting like god bent down and whispered "you know, my child, you really should whack those crotch weeds" to them in a dream or something, and my dumb ass was the only one who didn't get the message.

and a few of you girls peered down your judgmental noses at me when i said i was doing it for a fella, and to you i say a hearty "fuck you, bitch." it wasn't gross or weird or humiliating. in fact, it was quite hilarious. i believe the exact phrase used was, "i don't like to cut my way through the jungle." hysterical. and i can live with that. what's all this fuss about doing something to yourself to make a hot dude happy? and, before i am on the receiving end of any feminist tirades, i should specify that 1 i am a staunch feminist and 2 i'm talking about things within reason. let's be serious. "please shave your vagina" is way less of an imposition than "can i move in and sleep on your couch for a couple weeks?" plus, i expect hm to be flat on his belly for hours at a time with his penis knife and finger forks, singing for his supper, if you're picking up what i'm putting down. wink. and i don't want any excuses. you know, like "i can't see what i'm doing." dorito kept his glasses on when he went down there to work but i, in my daft arrogance, attributed it more to his crippling blindness than my pubic overgrowth. but really, if that is the most this dude asks of me he will continue to be absolutely perfect. PLUS i now have a leverage tool! i'm going to get "but i waxed my vagina for you" printed on a tshirt, and every time he chaps my ass that's exactly what i'm going to say.

oh look, i found some crazy: the minute that eastern european broad finished tearing searing hot wax affixed to huge strips of fabric from my delicate girl meat and i laid there panting and counting the tiles on the ceiling whilst my skin popped and sizzled like hot bacon grease all i could think was, "he better tell me he fucking loves me. like, 100 times a day. more than that. every minute of every hour of every day. even if he doesn't mean it. he better act like it, and he better say it. convincingly. even if it kills him. as a matter of fact, you know what he really should do? fucking marry me. right this minute. as i lay here naked from the waist down feeling like someone held a flaming torch to my ass. he should be on one knee asking for my hand the minute he lays eyes on this. yes, that would make this better."

you hoes know i'm not shy. especially about butts and bajingos. so i had no problem stripping my nether regions down to the wood and lying on the table in front of a stranger with bottle blonde hair and those tiny russian teeth. you know what kind of teeth i mean. what i hadn't bargained on is having to help (have you ever spread yourself open for someone to rip your hair out?! goodness!) or the amount of pain involved. she kept telling me that it hurt less than childbirth (sorry, bitch, but i wouldn't know) like that would make me feel better. pshaw. and the closer she got to all of those nerves that make whoring around feel so good, the more i prayed for sudden death. trust me. the worstest.
"ohhhhh, kelly clarkson!"

so i survived. and my new kitten is so weird! it feels like gelatin or silicone or something, all soft and buttery and smooth. it's like a little baby bird! i just went to the potty and when i was in there i couldn't help but cup it tenderly and sing it a lullaby and stuff. she's naked. like, naked naked. like my whole butt and lips and inner thighs naked. insanity. i mean, what i had before was twenty years (give or take a couple) of copious chia crotch, and i'd never ever even seen the skin beneath! it looks totally strange, like something foreign that someone attached to me while i was sleeping or something. but it's awesome. like having a new toy to play with. and speaking of, those cosmo bitches were 150% right. take your tiger to brazil and then use your vibrator on her. what?! bitches, please! it took approximately 13 seconds to finish, and i'm pretty sure my eyes crossed and i spoke in tongues for a few minutes afterward. i almost quit my job so i could stay home and burn all my batteries out! hot damn! hair requested that i insert that little nugget of information, lest he look like a self-serving asshole. (which he is not.) see? he really suggested it for ME, so I could better enjoy MY sexual experience. what benevolence. waxing is a treat the whole family can enjoy! thanks, hair model!

bonus mini post:
i should have a baby!

from a very young age i have had an incredibly realistic view of male-female interpersonal relationships. i mean, barbie would often put ken out of the house and make him sleep on the couch and shit, usually because he fucked skipper or looked the wrong way at that redheaded whore midge. grounded in reality. from my inception.

when i got to an age where thinking about having children became plausible (so, twelve) i knew immediately that i would want a boy. or two. or several. and really, for no other reason than that on the inevitable day their father flexed his y-chromosome and turned into a raging asshole, i would have a motherfucker on my side to whip his ass. plus, i wouldn't have to fight with some dumb little slut about her skirts being too short or teach her how to deal with her period.

mother nature zapped my name off the prospective parent list ages ago, and that's just fine by me. i'm such a piece of regular shit that being a piece of pregnant shit might tilt the earth off its axis. can you even imagine? i would need nine months of bedrest, plus a driver, a butler, and a personal slave. and a fucking robot.

i like dating dudes with kids for two very specific reasons: they aren't going to ask me to have any (thank god) and, provided that he is a responsible father (and i would never date the other kind), he's not going to be sucking up all my free time with his bullshit. i like a lot of space, and doting daddies give a girl a lot of space. by default. they can't even help it. because if they're arranging play dates and packing lunches and going to disney movies at two in the afternoon, that's all time that i have to my damn self.

AND, there's usually some salty-ass mean mommy bitchin' and snatchin' about not wanting him to bring the kid around the new bitch, and that's fine by me, too. because kids are cool when they're quiet and respectful and well-behaved, but when they aren't, and you can't SAY SHIT (you know, because you're not its fucking mother and she doesn't want you around that little asshole in the first fucking place) it's a fucking nightmare. so eff that. i get to be the hot and childless guest star, and that's how i like it.

but i babysat a week ago, and it went swimmingly. and for a second, as i was changing diapers full of what looked like spinach pudding and giving baths and having mini dance parties and coloring contests, i thought about trading my beer bottle for a baby bottle. trust me, i won't. i just wanted you jerks to know that i can be domestic, too. now come drop your kids off. i've got some vicarious living to do!

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

OMG.

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."

um.
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.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

i'm so smart.

i haven't had sex in eight months. so that makes me totally qualified. let's do this.

my boyfriend won't go down on me if he knows i've urinated recently. like in the past three hours! how can i convince him that pee is clean?

hand that idiot a fucking biology book.
doesn't it always baffle you when real-live adults don't know basic things about the human body? i feel like every five minutes i'm listening to some dumb asshole who doesn't know shit about where babies come from or how doody is made. when did we first learn about pee, the fourth goddamned grade? dude, what is it that you think your kidneys do? and you know how many rules i have. the minute this dummy opened his mouth to ask about the last time i tinkled i would kick him the fuck OUT. i mean, it's not like you're wearing a diaper or something, like he runs the risk of getting old, sat-in pee on his nards. and even if you were, so what?
i used to pee on this hot dude before we had sex, and the first time he asked me i didn't think twice. didn't hesitate for a second, bitches! i love that nasty shit. i would drink a gallon of water when i knew he was coming over. seriously. and i'd stand around doing the pee-pee dance while he got out of his clothes and into the bathtub, then i'd straddle him and piss on his face while he beat off. and i could care less what sort of horror befell him during his childhood to make him request (and by "request" i mean "beg for") such degradation, but he found just the right snatch to do it. especially when i'd been drinking.
you puritans kill me with all of your aversions to filthy porn and poo. so here's what you do, kitten: pee in his dinner and don't tell him for three days. and when you do bring it up, say "see? you lived! now eff me on a urinal."

my boyfriend would like me to be on top, but i'm not sure how to do it. what's so great about this position, and how can i master it?

omg. this is my worst nightmare. i'm never ever ever serious, but believe me when i say this serious shit: "on top" is TERRIFYING to me.
i'm going to bust my slump (with a vengeance!) with the hair model pretty soon, and he has already said that this is his preferred method of coitus. first of all, is it weird that we've already discussed all of the possible ways that we're going to have sex? not that i'd trust any of you perverts to be the guardians of morality, i'm just sayin'. we talk about it all the time. i mean, horrifying specifics. charts. diagrams. maps. layouts. outlines. i'm going to break my vagina. for serious.
i broke out in a cold sweat when he said it. because i hate it. ugh. i have the coordination of a baby giraffe or some shit, all awkward limbs and jerky movements. on the dancefloor i can pull it together well enough, especially since the libations free up all these inhibitions and i can just let it all hang. but. you see. it's the letting it hang that's the problem! i get all anxious about my fat ass, and then i can't figure out how to move it. PLUS, i keep trying to tell you, i'm laaaaaaazy. i get tirrrrrrrrred. and i don't like looking down at my jibs flopping around. jesus.
i think the great thing for dudes is 1 they don't have to do any work (and FUCK THAT) and 2 they get to look up at your boobs. so i'll tell you what i'm going to do when i try not to suffocate hm. i am going to make sure my hair looks fucked up and wear a bra and a dirty hoodie. have fun looking up at that! i'm sure i'll never be asked to do it again. :)

i know this sounds like an unusual complaint, but my boyfriend takes ages to come! this was something that suited me for a while, since it gave me plenty of time to climax. but there are limits to how many orgasms you can have before you start to get sore. he just thrusts away like his life depends on it. how can i deal with this without lessening his enjoyment?

i hate this bullshit so much. and you hoes know how much i care about "his enjoyment." (not the least bit.) this is the worst sexual dysfunction in history. at least if he can't inflate the balloon animal he still has operable fingers and a mouth. this incessant plugging away is exhausting. and i'm quick. i get mine within five minutes and immediately want to go to sleep. you can never tell who is going to be the energizer bed bunny until he's actually in there, banging away on your drum, but as soon as we pass the seven-minute mark i start checking my watch and bitching about chafing. why do i have to walk around with sore meat the rest of the fucking day? so you can prove a point?! pshaw. get in and get the fuck out. hurry up, already.
oh. and GOODNIGHT. sheesh.

i want my boyfriend to masturbate in front of me, but what should i do while he's at it?

your taxes. fucking dummy.

my boyfriend recently asked me to pay more attention to his balls when i'm going down on him. i do play with them, but i think he wants me to suck them, too. i've never heard of this. do you have any advice?

absolutely. SUCK THEM.
where do these bitches live that they've "never heard of this?" is this place on earth, or did you just get here from the planet iamreallystillavirgin? more important than that, i wonder what constitutes "playing with them." what does one play? battleship? spades? what?! because even the smartest balls i ever sucked were terrible scrabble players. where are you meeting these genius balls? because i want to go to there. i've been meaning to step up my badminton game, and i could use a partner. partners.

my boyfriend and i have a long-distance relationship. to tide us over between visits, he really wants to have phone sex. i have no idea what to say, and i always feel foolish. any advice?

now this i truly am an expert in! take notes. if you read this shit on the regular you know that there is a glossy-maned stallion whose balls i've been sweating off for a couple months now, and you also know that he lives so fucking far away that it's retarded. really. SO FAR. we had phone sex for the first time a couple weeks ago (i don't remember the exact date, but he's the kind of dirty whore that writes shit like that down, i'm sure, so ask him next time you see him), and it was a-ma-zing. because, let's just say it, masturbating is better. better than everything else. put together. because, if you are a champion self-abuser like myself, you know exactly how you like it. and you don't have to waste a single second trying to explain to some sub-human moron where to put his fingers and how fast. every time some idiot is digging around in my basement, fumbling with my extra tools and old moving boxes and shit, i just sit there rolling my eyes, waiting for a good time to step in and relieve him of the burden.
so, phone sex is like masturbation extra. you get to handle your own business while someone moans sexy, disgusting shit in your ear. it's not sweaty. it's not smelly. it's not gross. it's not late. it doesn't take too long to finish. (see above.) it doesn't talk about dumb shit you could care less about. it doesn't roll out of bed and go eat all of your cold leftovers. it's perfect.
and never feel foolish. with anything you do. ESPECIALLY when that anything is with a motherfucking dude. they're embeciles.

my guy likes to be on top when we do 69, but i feel like i'm being choked. how can i make it more comfortable?

this is something real people should never try. i am absolutely against it. especially since it makes me think of all the stupid dudes who try to convince you to do some shit they saw once in a raggedy porno. the ONE TIME i tried it i had a panic attack because i thought i was suffocating and going to die, and i started hyperventilating and crying because he couldn't hear me telling him i didn't like it and i was unsuccessful in my attempt to throw him off me. and nothing ruins the sex like crying, lover. nothing. just stay away.

my fiance and i want to try anal sex, but we aren't sure how to go about it. are there any tips you can give us to make it more comfortable?

grease. and lots of it. i would put crisco in my butthole if i could, but it's white and i don't want nobody to think i'm harboring no disease in there. contrary to what you might think, considering the state of my intestines, your girl takes it up the bum. all the time. except with super big junk, because i don't even like those the christian way. ew.
what's more disturbing about this question is that she is engaged to marry a dude and still has questions about how to have sex with him. you better believe that i would never in the history of ever let a dude put a ring on any finger of mine that had never been in his mouth or up his ass. i respect virgins and everything but, in case you were thinking of asking my father for my (filthy)hand, please note that you have to rim me before i'd even consider accepting the offer. plus you have to offer me some goats and land and shit. you know. to sweeten the pot.

here is how that dirty ass hair model answered this question:
if it's the first time do it side saddle. before putting the car on the hershey highway, wiggle your fingers and toes to distract the brain and take your mind off the initial pain. and use eros lube...it doesn't have that sticky gross feeling.


a user's manual. of course. what a babylonian whore.
wait, he's not done:
and, of course, lest we forget, you have to figure out the stroke that works best for you. poopsex requires that short slow thrust...the kind that says "you're fucking dirty for doing this but i totally appreciate and love you." you can't be the energizer bunny, you have to consider yourself the energizer turtle...slow and steady wins this race.
plus, the nerve endings to the clitoris are shaped like a figure 8, so anal has some rewarding benefits. and if you really are that scared try a finger, then beads, followed by the butt plug. then open the road for the mother of all toys: real life human cockzilla.
apparently he wrote his thesis on butt-fucking.

my boyfriend always gets soft when he tries to put on a condom. how can i help him?


staple a photograph of a baby to the back of your fucking head. he'll get the picture. strap it up, homie!

i love when my fiancé goes down on me, but when he's done he wants to kiss me. i've been reluctant to give it a try. is this something other couples do?

puritans puritans puritans! again, the fact that this is a question at all puzzles me. you broads don't automatically do this? that's worse than the pee dude! it's your own juice! manna from your own personal heaven! lap that shit up, kitten-style. "i've been reluctant to give it a try." the worst. idiot.

my guy wants to have sex while i have my period. i want to try it, but i'm worried about the mess. how should we go about it?

OH MY GOD ANOTHER ONE. period sex is totally the best. i don't know if it's all those hormones surging through you or all the churning that your insides are doing, but it feels 1000 times better than dry boning. as for the mess, this is what "old towels" were invented for.
and, in case you couldn't guess, refusing to swim the red sea is grounds for immediate dismissal.

i was wondering what the deal is with guys ejaculating on different parts of a girl's body? why do they get off on that?

because men are like children. "hey look what I made! look what I can do!"
so just let them. and then say, "yeah, honey! that's beautiful! what a big boy you are!" and pat him on the head.

my guy has accused me of cheating on him because he thinks that i've gotten looser "down there." can women really become saggy from a lot of sex?

let's dispel this myth RIGHT NOW. you know the only way to know whether or not someone is cheating on your ass is to smell their privates!
isn't having a baby the only thing that stretches you out? and even then they sew the shit back up so your pussy doesn't whistle when a strong wind blows. your dude is a dumb shitbag. DUMP HIM. like yesterday.

my boyfriend is very caring and attentive in bed, but sometimes i wish he'd be more aggressive and wild. how can i get him to loosen up without hurting his feelings?

do what i do. punch him in the face, then immediately jump up and yell, "now do me!" while jutting out your chin. works like a charm.

my guy likes it when i touch his anal opening. should i go deeper and, if so, how do i go about it?

i go 2nd knuckle deep. and if a motherfucker tells you he doesn't like it HE IS LYING. the gays aren't idiots. and they're not just doing that shit because it's cute. it feels good.
ps, the only thing that "makes you gay" is layering on two different types of lip balm at the same time. a little finger in the bumski never hurt nobody. so shut up.

speaking of gay, that lip balm comment was a shot at my personal weaveologist, who might be the closest thing to a girl i've ever smacked chonies with. he gets manicures and takes care of his feet and does extensive manscaping and buys fancy sweaters and name-brand grooming products, all of which collectively terrify me. not because he does it (if you are REALLY a reader of my blog you already know that i really wish all men could be homos), but because i am just so fucking GROSS. i do not partake in any of that, nor will i. at least not on a regular basis. i mean, he's super super super hot and i totally appreciate that, but i can't compete. i could lie and say i don't have time, but the truth is that i don't fucking care. i'll let you know if he vomits. AND if he's wearing lacey pink panties.

sometimes my guy blows air into my vagina when he's giving me oral sex. i've heard this can be dangerous. is it?

i've heard about this. and it's dangerous for cereal! something about air bubbles getting into your bloodstream or something? why do guys DO this? to cool it off?! i just figured their lazy asses were trying to sneak in a break without being too obvious. anyway, if a dude does this to you, you could TOTALLY DIE. and i've never had any head that good. EVER.

i want to use my vibrator with my man. how can i introduce it without intimidating him?

i set it up like a playdate. hair model, this is your competition, silver bullet. silver bullet, this is the jerk whose going to try to wrest my affections away from you. (don't worry.) my vibrators are an integral part of my life, and i will forsake them for no man. and if he don't like them, LATER FOR HIM.

my guy wants me to shave down there. is it safe, and what's the best way to do it?

well. how apropos of my current circumstance. i am going to go home and attempt this very thing. today! the answer the cosmo bitches gave was all gung ho, and they must've said 137 times how much more amazing the sex is afterward. so i'm amped to do it. i got a beard trimmer at walgreens (and was buying maxi pads at the same time, hysterical), and since i just finished bleeding like a stuck pig i am going to go home and give it a shot. or a shave, as it were. i am afraid that i am going to butcher my vagina or my butt in some way, so get on your knees and say a prayer for me. or something.
"dear god, please protect samantha's gorgeous labia..."
i love you dudes the most.

Monday, December 7, 2009

is it my shoes?

i knew it the first fucking day of school, the first fucking minute of class. i knew it the second i walked into the lab and took a seat at the table furthest from the professor, because i am one of those old people who sits in the back of the room.

as opposed to the old people who sit right up front, raising their hands every thirty motherfucking seconds to show you just how smart they are, just how much otherwise useless information they have acquired over the last thirty (or forty or FIFTY) goddamned years. you can always tell the asshole that is just so goddamned excited to have his old ass back in school, the jerk who doesn't realize that this is fucking COMMUNITY COLLEGE, that he is in class with deadbeats and losers and idiots, people who don't give a shit that he went to northwestern twenty years ago. because you know where you are now, mister? a school made out of string and hair and scraps of notebook paper. a school that still has a cafeteria. a school where $79 will buy you a credit hour and $10 will get you an eight ball from a twelve-year-old in low slung jeans posted right across from the bike racks.

i hate them, sitting there all superior in their dockers and sensible shoes and ill-fitting polo shirts, fact-checking the lecture on their laptops as the professor is fucking speaking. dicks. they usually find each other (and me) immediately, based on the fact that we aren't wearing neon pink skinny jeans and oversized plastic fashion frames with no lenses. or maybe it's because we aren't so busy texting that we trip over our extra-long scarves (in the summer) and floppy vans. or maybe they know i'm old because i don't have a skateboard tucked under my arm or because i look like i made more than thirty dollars last fiscal year.

then there are the other kind, the "returning students" who don't know how to operate a computer, let alone what the fuck the internet is. "how do i get there?!" they cry, desperately clutching your arm and looking at your flash drive like it came back with you from your last excursion to mars, expecting you to hold their hands as they walk down the interweb highway, searching the faces of each and every house for its "web address." what street is google on again?

my math class was crippled by two such dinosaurs. we couldn't get through a single equation without having to stop. and go back. to step one. again. to step one. AGAIN. and i'm not such a fucking bitch that i don't care about people who need a little extra help, i just think those people should go to office hours. or sign up for tutoring. which is free. you know, because we are in COMMUNITY COLLEGE. i didn't pay five hundred fucking dollars (plus activity fees, don't forget about those!) to listen to somebody's grandmother stumble through matrices. i apologize. i am a bitch and a whore and a jerk. but i'm an honest one, at least. shut the fuck up and go take some centrum silver.

as part of my penance for being almost thirty years old and rotting away in community college, i am tutoring. i should say that differently. because i am ridiculously smart, as well as devastatingly handsome, i have decided to impart my expansive wealth of knowledge on the next generation. and free of charge, no less! it's my sneaky way of trying to get into heaven, despite the fact that i cuss too much and drink too much and hate too much and bitch too much and help too little. real charity work doesn't go with my outfit, so god will just have to make do with this pseudo dangerous minds thing i've got going on. i hope he lets me in. i hate the heat.

i hate school.
there. i said it. i rilly do. and what's funny is that people assume that because you're smart that means you love school. not so, honeys. totally not the case. i hate it.

i made it through high school with a 3.7 gpa because some wonderful fool allowed me to fill half my schedule with goddamned "independent studies," for which i designed the rules and the parameters for my success. morons! so all i had to do was show up most days and write. i took gym and spanish and math and english and history and biology, sort of, always for honors credit, and always managing to scrape by in the A-/B+ range. and that's probably because i test really well, because i absolutely hate doing homework, so i typically refuse to do it. even now, as i pay for this education directly from my grown up bank account, i'm the bitch on the train with an algebra book teetering on my knees, trying to solve those last three equations i couldn't be bothered to do while i was busy staring at the wall doing nothing at home.

i spent so much time in the counselor's and social worker's offices that i think i must have gotten class credit for it. no one ever asked me what the fuck i was doing. ever! i sang in the choir for four years and got honors As for it. i had a million free periods. all that empty time in which to do my "independent study."and my first semester senior year i had two gyms. in both of which i did absolutely nothing. what, you mean you can't tell?

the trick was then and is now that i am SMART, and sometimes people let your smart ass get away with acting dumb. i take to languages very well (you already know i can write, plus i'm fluent in spanish, puta!) and my bullshit game is proper. sophomore year i wrote a five page paper on jane eyre that got an A and i'd only read two chapters, and i wrote it two class periods before it was due. this is terrible behavior, i know, and i'd hoped that going back to school at this advanced age would instill in me some sort of reverence for studying and learning and trying hard. alas, it simply has not.

holly says i am an asshole, and i suppose she is right, because i am arrogant and don't put any effort into my schoolwork. specifically, she said that i'm an asshole because i will sit down to write something a heartbeat before it is due, and i am obnoxious if it gets anything less than an A. not "stay after class and whine at the teacher" obnoxious, but "that stupid bitch wouldn't know a quality essay if it bit her in the snatch" obnoxious. although i rarely get less than an A on something i've written. sorry, bitches. i'm an asshole! and if you like reading this garbage, you should read something i've written FOR REAL. something without swear words that had to be researched and typed on actual fucking paper. i absolutely do not suck.

i just really hate school so much. and maybe if i wasn't getting a "power point project" or "students teach the class day" thrown at me every thirty seconds it might be a smidge better, but probably not. i leave all of my assignments until the last possible second. the ones i remember to do, that is. because try as i might, i've bought three (count them, THREE) assignment notebooks since i started school in january and i haven't written a single thing in any of them. just like in high school, and my first failed attempt at higher education, i write my assignments on my hand, on bits of scraps in my wallet, or on the inside covers of books that have nothing to do with the class i'm in at the time. which means i do them at the very last second, when it finally dawns on me that "watching 30 rock dvds" totally wasn't my homework for the evening.

my major is math, and i enjoy my math classes (when some old milkshake isn't fucking them up) because they are all about formulas and problems and assignments and exams, not fruity poster boards and shit i cooked at home for the class to sample. i mean, seriously. aren't we old? do i really need to sit through one of my classmate's poorly prepared powerpoint about how to bake a motherfucking cake? the thought that i still have SO MUCH MORE LEFT TO GO stresses me out and totally makes me tired. this semester kicked my fucking balls in. and maybe the foot and the belly and the everything else didn't fucking help, but i am 100% dead in the brains and really don't ever want to go back.

i'm a quitter. no one ever says that, right? but i totally am. i will give up right in the middle of some shit. it doesn't matter what the fuck it is. i will turn off a retarded movie halfway through, i will throw away a book in which i cannot get past the second chapter. i will leave half my dinner uneaten if it's gross. i'll quit a job i hate, quit a project i start, quit talking to people who wear me out. I QUIT. i know it's all noble and shit to be the kind of person that sticks things out, but i don't believe in that. if i hate some shit, i just stop doing it. i stop going there. and it doesn't matter. i dropped my most expensive class this semester because i hated it, because the thought of sitting in that room with those people made me want to die. it didn't matter that i'd already paid and wouldn't get a cent of my money back.
happy sam trumps all that other bullshit.

i also have champagne tastes, and taking the extra day off work these past couple of semesters has been chapping my shopping balls. and my restaurant balls. and my bill balls! com ed doesn't give a fuck that i took my ass back to school. neither does sprint. they want their fucking money. and while i could give them more than a little of it, i can't live without fancy fucking soap. sorry, babies, but i simply cannot. i wouldn't even be the same person if i was washing my ass with ivory every morning. and you can act appalled, but not a single one of you wants me any other way than the way i am.

don't you fucking worry. i'm going back. if for no other reason than i'm about to be thirty. not just thirty, but THIRTY. and i'm barely hanging on to my youth as it is. if i keep putting this shit off i WILL BE one of those arthritic old crows who can't understand how an ipod works or how to properly source a research paper. i've already signed up for a class next semester, and i might register for another. because eventually i might want to stop answering questions about cat vomit and dog shit, and apparently i need one of these little things called a "degree" to do that. pshaw.

i would be a prostitute if it weren't so fucking dangerous. i am lazy and indulgent and getting out of bed in the morning requires a lot more energy than i can muster sometimes. but dudes are so stupid and gross and my rates would be so astronomical (the soap, remember?) that motherfuckers would balk before i could even get my pants off. and then there's the risk i'd run of dudes falling in love with me after getting a little bite of my cupcake, and that would be bad for business. plus, i would never go to anyone else's apartment (i don't know where the knives are) and would be terrified to have someone in mine (what if they kill helen?!). oh, and then there's all the hiv and shit. i don't want some asshole to curdle my icing.

it's a swell thought, though. and think of all the calories i'd be burning! (speaking of helen, and calorie-burning, i took that little bitch to work for a check up last week, and found out that she is FOUR to FIVE pounds overweight! fuck me. oh my god! that's like fifty human pounds! she just loves her food so much, and i hate to deny her. you should see her eat! she lays down on the floor, i am not fucking kidding, and hugs the bowl with her head draped over the edge. so stinking cute. and the epitome of lazy fatness. she gets so mad when i restrict her food! it's like when i want a hershey bar. i'm grouchy and irritated when i can't have one, then pleasant and happy the second i do. sigh. our diet started last friday, and we've been trying not to claw each other's eyes out since.)

back to that first day of school. i don't know if it's my face or my hair or my ass or WHAT, but people always want to talk to me, and i can ALWAYS tell. even from across the room. and when the chick with the beard and the sweatpants sat a few tables away, i knew it was only a matter of time before (s)he came over to strike up a conversation. class started in august and she finally talked to me (i mean, talked talked to me) TODAY. patience of a saint, i tell you.

for our purposes here, we'll call her charles, because really, she looks like her balls are bigger than yours, mine, and every dude you've ever met in your life's put together. you know those dudes who walk around like they have a bushel of plums and an aluminum bat in their pants? quit playing like you sluts don't know. dudes whose walk is all deliberate left-to-right shifting and leaning, like their dicks weigh as much as a toddler. anyway, she walks like that! and her voice is deeper than my fucking dad's.

after class she caught me in the hall (and really, she had to RUN, i don't play when it comes to leaving), and adjusted her lady scrotum (why?) before asking me if i wanted to walk to starbucks with her. you know, because she noticed that i go to starbucks after school. now i told you before that stalking = flattery in the samantha handbook, and right before i said yes (visions of caramel macchiatos danced in my head) i thought aloud:
"what, like a DATE?"
and you know i said that shit more shitty than i'd intended.

"it can be if you want it to be."
i have to stop here and tell you that the way she said that made me think about having sex with her. where do these ladies learn to do that THING that black dudes do to you? that sexy, fuck you with my eyeballs thing? who taught her that?! spanks did it to me the night i met him and i almost melted in a puddle on the floor. and, needless to say, had sex with him as soon as the whore date stamped on our budding relationship expired.

"but i'm not a lesbian."
mincing words has never been my style. and while i wasn't yet offended (hang on for that part) i didn't want to lead shim on.

"get the fuck out of here! you're not?!"
NOW i'm offended. what a cunt. or maybe a dick?
"oh, i'm sorry, shorty, i've just been watching you all this time and i thought for sure..."
she looked pointedly down at my gorgeous japanese new balances.

"is it my shoes?!" i yelped a little too loudly. "my shoes make me look like a lesbian?!"
and all this time i was worried about my goddamned hair. my shoes are the reason i don't have a goddamned manfriend?! FUCK.

charles shrugged. "how did you do on the final?"

i just stood there, gaping. man, fuck that final! (i got an A, bitch, but that's hardly the point.) all day every day i've been walking around in lesbian shoes, and nobody effing told me! how could you? doesn't the lip gloss and the blush do anything to counterbalance the shoes? what about all of the days i take my tits out on parade? and all these tight ass jeans i can't eat dinner in? i mean, come ON. i don't smell like old spice and diesel fuel! i don't even know how to play softball!

"i can buy straight girls coffee," she said finally.
"you want one of those caramel things you always get?" sneaky stalker!

i DID want one of those fucking caramel things, but i was worried she'd then expect a sip of my caramel thing in return. and while that might not be so bad (fucking lazy ass opportunist) i don't know that i could reliably return the favor. i mean, i HATE these dudes with a fucking passion, but i don't think i'm quite there.

YET.

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.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

the groundwork.

you know what part of a new relationship i hate the absolute fucking most? the whole "new relationship" part.

i don't know that many people do, but i TOTALLY FUCKING HATE being uncertain and looking like a goddamned idiot. it's why i don't do karaoke. or ice skate. or talk really loud on my cell phone on the train. i just can't fucking do it. so these newborn relationships are so fucking sticky and tricky, veritable mine fields peppered with little "hurt feelings" or "inappropriate comment" bombs. and that's murder on a bitch whose foot takes up permanent residence in her goddamned mouth.

i always seem to sleepwalk through the breathless, heady, flush with desire part and go straight to the awkward i-know-you-but-i-don't-really-know-you-so-can-i-get-away-with-saying-this part. the "i thought i could make that joke and you wouldn't cry" part. the "yes i mean it, but do you really mean it?!" part. ugh, and i'm such a motherfucking asshole. but i'm sensitive, too. it's all just SO confusing. i don't like it. as a matter of fact, i might hate it.

navigating my bitch boat through these choppy new dude waters is just so stinking hard! every time i think i'm rolling smoothly along the tide, a fucking manglacier pops up from out of nowhere and i crash right into it. or i capsize trying to avoid it. here are my problems:

1 i am selfish, and i don't give a fuck about anyone anymore.
sigh. while this isn't really true-true, it's true enough when it comes to dudes. i've been dicked around (and not in the hot way) by enough assholes that by this point my tolerance level is next to nothing. i want what i want when i want it, and if your ass doesn't want to give it to me i will replace you. i refuse to eat even one more spoonful of shit off some goddamned dude. sorry bitches, but you should have met me when i was nineteen and optimistic. because i've waited. and i've been patient. and i've understood. and what the fuck did it get me? cheated on and lied to by some cocksucker who wasn't worth a damn. i am serious as a heart attack. if you aren't fucking nice to me and giving me what i fucking need, you have to GO. out with you.

2 at the moment, i am uninterested in any traditional type of situation.
sorry fellas, but i don't want to give birth to your children. i want to roll them up and toss them in the trash. or wipe them off my ass cheeks. or swallow them. anything but suffer through nine long hot fat months of sweating and vomiting and back pain and eating hot dogs with cream cheese and chocolate sauce or whatever you pigs fill your troughs with when tiny footsteps are on the way. and motherfuck THAT.
my heart doesn't flutter at the thought of a joint checking account, nor do i want to stand in the middle of dominick's for an hour trying to remember which frozen pizza dude likes and whether he's only allergic to shrimp or if ALL seafood is off the list. i will do it if i have to, but it doesn't fulfill my life's purpose to separate some asshole's whites from his colors or rinse the scratchy little beard hairs down the drain because he was in a hurry this morning.
i have said before and i'll say again that the idea of cohabitation is totally boring to me. yawn. i'm not one of those girls who is mentally trying to fit you in between my dresser and the bookcase by the third date. i don't give a shit where you sleep, just as long as it's not my place for more than three nights in a row. yucky poo. out with you!

3 i just wish we could fast forward to our first anniversary alfuckingready.
i hate all this tricky, sticky, nitpicky learning someone new and all his quirks business. i wish we could just eat a couple sandwiches, lie down for a big nap, and wake up in love and totally used to each other's bullshit. i can handle most anything, really, but the figuring out what it is i have to learn to handle is goddamned exhausting.
and it's not just his shit. i am ten types of ridiculous, and i hate having to let teeny little bits of the crazy sneak out at a time so i don't scare some poor gentleman off. it's like trying to fart in church or something. trying to squeeze out silent puffs of odorless gas when all you really want to do is take a huge shit. it makes me tired! plus, i'm terrible at it.

you want to know what new relationship stuff i'm good at? phone sex. and dirty texting all the diusgusting shit i want to do to you. or have done to ME. i'm good at picking the restaurant and fucking you too early in the courtship. i'm good at doing shit in bed you've never done before, and reminding you where you parked immediately after your orgasm and telling you to have a good rest of the night. i'm good at making a dude laugh until he pees, which i might let him do on me if the mood is right.

if you ask me seriously, i will tell you that i've never been in love for real. i thought i was, for sure. and i guess if you expand the definition to include that desperate, pathetic, all-consuming feeling that occurs in your youth when you can't think or breathe or properly function because some bag of shit is being wretched to you and you JUST want him to LIKE you so BADLY, then yes, i have absofuckinglutely been in love. whether or not it was the kind of love worth being in is altogether another story.

i love a lot of people. like real and true love. and it's an emotion that comes readily to me, despite the fact that i'm often a soulless jerk. it really takes very few positive interactions with a person before i'm knee-deep in the warm fuzzies of love. and i'm talking friend-style. and occasionally fuck-style. you know, not romantic, star-gazing, sonnet-penning a-m-o-r-e, but that sweet, endearing lovey friend thing. i fall in love ten times a day with hot dudes on the train and crotchety old ladies ahead of me in the grocery line and teenagers on skateboards in skinny pink jeans. as much as i totally hate people, i sometimes really love them, too.

romantic love has been a little more elusive to me. i have had really intense connections to a handful of dudes, but never on that next-level WE ARE IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER shit. at the time i was dating him, i would have said that i was "in love" with spanks, but hindsight has taught me that "love" doesn't really apply to a dude who spends two years lying to you and not ever calling you back. what i was IN was idiotland, after spending some time in delusionalville. fucking dummy. and he would say it all the time! totally casually and comfortably without an aforethought. i grew up on tv shows in which surly male leads never vocally professed their affections, and this burly, brooding, 6'5", 350 lb. monster bandied the words around without hesitation. which, to a young woman, was exhilarating. quel surprise! and he damn-near demanded that i say it in return. i had no problem doing so since he'd said it first, mind you. on and on the lovebirds chirped, until his actions started proving that no matter what he said, love was the furthest thing from what he felt.

so after him i just stopped fucking saying it. it just felt hollow. and easy. it was like the tables had turned. gone were the days of uptight dudes who could only grunt their appreciation for you. these newfangled, next millenium motherfuckers have no trouble with it AT ALL. the trouble is whether or not they really mean it.

i am willing to concede that in the past i have tolerated some less-than-stellar treatment from some WAY less-than-stellar homeboys. but hair model calls me every fucking morning, and i'm sorry if you flower and candy bitches don't think that's awesome, but it totally is. and he says the best things any dude has ever said in the history of ever to me. priceless things. super sweet things. things i want to listen to on a continuous loop throughout my raggedy day. writing this is almost too saccharine for me to bear; all this lovey-dovey makes my fucking teeth hurt.

yuck. anyway. remember how i threatened to get a fancy new phone? well guess what the fuck I did?! i got a fancy new phone! and sprint gave it to me for free in exchange for adding thirty-seven years to my contract, one of my kidneys, and my first born. (suckers!) i can't figure the thing out to save my stupid life, so give me a few days before you start expecting promptly returned phone calls and dirty text messages.

especially if those text messages are asking if i'm taking so long to write back because i'm too busy talking to SOME DUDE. pshaw!