so i obviously have to get my fucking shit together. corey's goddamned ass came into work this morning and peered at me over the top of my desk for a second before asking, "do you have plans tonight? are you going on a date? you look nice today." BITCH.
i just look regular today. jeans that happen to be clean, a grey shirt that tara's baby once vomited birthday cake on, and a soft grey wrap sweater thing that looks like it came from your grandmother's attic. but nicer. it's very tailored and grown up, which means it makes me look 137 fucking years old. and, you know, nice. i have some shit in my hair, and i might have a little makeup on, but that's because my hormonal old lady skin is fucking up on me lately. wearing the same bracelets i always wear, that the past few days i have been too lazy to take off both AT NIGHT and IN THE SHOWER. i just walk around my house like a fucking gypsy, draped in hoodies and scarves and silver bangles and scented oils.
actually, that's how i look 99.9% of the fucking time. think about the last time you saw me. i bet i can tell you what i was wearing, and it doesn't matter if it was last week, last month, or last year. wanna play? good! okay: a raggedy ass (probably) black tshirt, some sort of hoodie or baggy sweater-ish business, dirty ass jeans, 250 noisy bracelets, 8 scarves, and new balances. or these manly north face boots, which i am kind of in love with. for reals. i'm talking, i might wear these bitches in the summer LOVE. generally, i look like a fancy vagrant. or maybe just an average run-of-the-mill vagrant, since this normal middle aged white lady sweater and shirt has prompted such a stunned response from my peers.
gasp! maybe i really don't know just how shitty i'm dressed all the time. why hasn't anyone told me?! just like with my lesbian shoes, you bitches look at me all day every day and don't say SHIT. ugh! why is that? because you want to keep all the dudes to yourselves?! i know. leaving me to find that rare sub-species of human male who gets boners for chicks who look like they got dressed out of a rusty shopping cart. you don't even have to tell me. YOU get the all hot meat, while i have to wait around for the creep who would love nothing better than to run his fingers through matted pubes. eff y'all! (also, please keep in mind that i am WAXED now, so you sluts won't be able to hold me back for long! my bald eagle and i are clawing our way back from EXTINCTION.)
some other bitch might mow the lawn in what i have on today, yet three bitches i work with EVERY DAY have all INDEPENDENTLY ASKED ME what fancy thing i'm going to this evening. three people who know my punk ass better than anybody else are so used to my being dressed like cinderella before the magic apple (or however the fuck that damn story goes) that the appearance of some decent-ish shit they have all SEEN BEFORE prompts speculation about a freshly burgeoning social life. corey even thought i was being coy and subversive when i told her the truth! like I would ever pretend that i didn't have hot dinner plans. pshaw. my manscape is so fucking barren that i'd put that shit on a fucking billboard.
GUESS WHAT, WORLD? SOMEONE MIGHT WANT TO MAKE GRASS SANDWICHES WITH ME! HOORAY!
who am i kidding? i'd fucking sky-write that shit.
if you don't want me to describe in vivid detail precisely what you wore, what you ate, and what you said, you should probably never fucking take me out. i mean, you totally should, but just know that i'm going to be texting every vagina in a five-mile radius the second i get in the cab to go home. and i love it. i don't want to be around bitches who act all shy and weird and don't want to talk about who they fucked or where they went. for serious. i cut every snatch the fuck out of my life who plays the "i don't kiss and tell" game. man, FUCK YOU. honestly! stop reading this blog right goddamned now if you have a uterus and you are like this. i don't want you here. BEAT IT. i'm not saying you have to go on oprah and shit, but if i ask how your dinner with that hot walgreens cashier went, i want to know EVERYTHING. i want to know every fucking thing he got off the olive garden menu, including how many free salad and breadstick refills he asked for. i want to know how many times his CRX stalled out on the drive home. i want to know how dusty his timberlands were. when he kissed you, what did it taste like? were his teeth weird? did he stick his tongue so far down your throat he got stomach acid on it?
ooh, here's something gross! five years or so ago i was in the hospital for TWO WEEKS dealing with these raggedy intestines, and i had a tube fed up through my nostril, down the back of my throat (i was WIDE AWAKE when the nurse did that shit!), and into my stomach. the tube was connect to this machine that sucked the contents of my stomach out. let me say that again, for the dummies in the back of the classroom. THE CONTENTS of my STOMACH were SUCKED OUT through my NOSE. and there was this clear container at the other end of the tube that collected the thick, sloshy, bright-orange vomity sludge. total fucking balls.
bitchass visited me in the hospital and couldn't stop laughing, as they'd taped the tube to my fucking face with this thick white mummy wrap. i couldn't close my goddamned mouth because i couldn't breathe through my goddamned nose, and have you ever breathed with your mouth open for more than five seconds? oh, you haven't? because you're the fucking pictures of health?! well, good for you bitches. let me tell you what happens. your fucking TONGUE dries the FUCK OUT, that's what. it's like a fat dry horrible lizard tongue, and it gets so gross that you don't even want it to touch the roof of your mouth. GROSS. when sarah came in i was propped up in the bed crying after having been awake all night because it's hard to goddamn sleep with a TUBE down your THROAT.
and i know what you're saying, asshole. "if it had been a dick you wouldn't have cared." and fuck you for saying that. because when is the last time you read me talking about using a penis as a pacifier? NEVER. that's some cruel ass shit to think, and i hate you for it. anyway. so she comes in and outright laughs at me (you get what you give, i suppose) and looks on gleefully as i vainly attempted to let some ice cubes melt in my mouth. i did that shit for TWO WHOLE DAYS before the doctors decided they weren't going to cut my guts open and i could have the tube taken out. righteous, right?! WELL. have you ever pulled a strand of spaghetti or linguine out of your throat because it was too long and you felt like you were choking? i haven't, because my supreme mastery of the gag reflex renders that kind of thing unneccesary. i just swallow it. (see? this time i made the dick joke for you. you're welcome.)
so it felt kind of like that, but 1000% worse. i was sitting in the chair and the nurse was standing in front of me, pulling 12 feet of plastic tubing from my belly out through my goddamned nose. it hurt, it tickled, it burned, but mostly it was just weird, and i kept hiccuping and gagging as she yanked it out. as we neared the end (really, it just took soooo looooong) she lost her grip and spilled hot, concentrated STOMACH ACID all over my gown, face, and the INSIDE OF MY MOUTH. for cereal! she was like the r. kelly of the gastrointestinal ICU, spraying burning hot nasty shit on her unsuspecting victim. i was totally traumatized. now back to that other shit.
i just went to pee and looked at my reflection in the stupid mirror, and i look like i should be teaching the third graders how to tell time. or like i should be having bob and carol from down the block over for lunch. man, fuck this. i was obviously going through a j.jill phase or something and thought mom clothes were hot for a second. ugghh. the problem is that mom clothes appeal to me at my most basic level, that part of me that just wants to wear things that are soft and comfortable and totally unflattering. stringent waistbands and belt loops and stiff fabrics fucking bum me out, man! i want to wear shit that is soft enough to sleep in ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME. i have a rule against men in soft pants (ask me about it), but i live for them. and i like things layered. i mean it. layers and layers of plush, mushy, cozy, creamy, velvety fabrics. i want to wear clothes that require you to whisper while wearing them.
unfortunately, even if you weigh 14 pounds it's hard to pull off gentle clothes without looking like mama fucking cass, so i have to wear sturdy shit when i'm out with the public. i like a sharply appointed ladysuit as much as anyone, i'm just lazy and rife with sloth and perpetually somnolent. plus, i never get to go anyfuckingwhere. so why are we not hanging out? bitch, i need a reason to buy some real clothes!
okay okay okay, so isn't the point of whorefriends to dissect every single scrap of shit a dude gives you? i mean, for reals! i can't even think of the last time i went out with some fuckhole and half the bitches in my phone didn't either 1 text me constantly during or 2 get a "he sucks giant dog balls" text immediately following. when i went out with boat shoes i talked to lori's ass during that awful shit! so what's with you liars who clam up?! stop that! TELL IT. part of what i like most about my blog (shamlessly egotistical fucking bitch) is that i write about the most real, the most retarded, the most mundane fucking shit on the planet, because you dudes can RELATE to it. because, ultimately, THAT is the point.
i remember being in high school and feeling like the fattestugliestdumbestleastpopular bitch on earth, and because children (especially the girl kind) are so spiteful and hateful and full of shit, very few of them shared that they were going through the same exact thing. my life was too fucked up to even try to pretend to put on some sort of ridiculous happy facade, so i just moped around and cracked jokes and waited for graduation or death, whichever came first. lucky for you assholes i didn't die. seriously, though, all those kids pretending shit was cool when shit was not is a total fucking bummer.
and it sucks just as much now, when i'm all "and THEN this motherfucker fell asleep while he was eating me out and I had to pay for breakfast and he didn't call me for three goddamned days" and the bitch who's listening to me is like, "oh really? i never have problems with men." WHAT?! yeah fucking right! why do girls DO that shit to each other?! you know good and damned well your boyfriend's dick is three inches long and he spent your rent money on manga and only eats white foods or whatever. quit playing! we should TALK about it. we have to!
because i can't be sitting alone in my apartment talking to the cat every night (and even she sometimes is like, "bitch, i heard that story before!" rolling her eyes and shit; she thinks i don't see her ass but i fucking DO) mistakenly thinking that you dudes are all being taken out on fabulous dates and getting your brains fucked out when you're really home in bed eating cereal out of the box, scared to admit that your ass is a silly loser, too. why, lover? CALL ME. we'll talk about it!
and nothing will make you feel better about yourself and your stupid love life than listening to me talk about the time a dude had an asthma attack while inside of me. or i can regale you with the vagina-warming tale of my lovely date with a nice young gentleman who VOMITED IN MY FUCKING PURSE. there's the dude who cursed out a waitress (horrible), the one who left our dinner WITH ANOTHER FUCKING WOMAN (despicable), and the one who showed up at my apartment DRIVING HIS MOM'S MINIVAN. i'm a bitch, but not the worst one. i didn't care about that minivan shit! until he was like, "i have to do the grocery shopping and pick up her prescriptions. you know, 'cause i live with her." at thirtymotherfucking seven? bitch, please!
i've already said a billion times that i'm the most arrogant piece of shit on the bottom of god's shoe, and one thing i have no hesitation in climbing up on my high horse about is old ass dudes living with mommy. because fuck them, that's why. i have had my own place that i pay for since i was eighteen, and if i can do it, asshole, SO CAN YOU. step your fucking housing game up. GROSS. if you have a cell phone and an xbox and spinning rims (are dudes still into those?) and an ipod and an xsport membership and swanky threads and internet access and shiny jewels and you sip belvedere and you have to TIPTOE IN THE HOUSE AT FOUR A.M. SO YOU DON'T WAKE YOUR MOTHER UP please just kill yourself today. or, at the very least, stop fucking talking to me. shut up and sign a goddamned lease already.
i told you hoes i will always be honest, and for the entirety of the two years i spent hanging off zachary's balls he lived AT HOME with his MAMA. oh, i know. what a hypocrite, right? well, fuck you. because he was in MEDICAL SCHOOL at the time. most dudes who live at home are busy studying pornography 101 and intro to eatingeverythinginthegoddamnedhouse. jerks.
anyway, we don't just have to commiserate, lovers! i love hearing every filthy nasty awesome thing you girls are getting done to you. seriously. it makes me so happy. because if YOU are letting a dude punch you in the jaw and wearing an alf mask while he fucks you in le butthole, that makes MY kinky shit seem that much more normal. i like to know that somebody else is being humiliated and degraded, too. helps my self-esteem a little. ha. PLUS, you know i won't be shy when i have some hot shit to tell you. i'm an idiot, and the first asshole to tell you how big how long how old how dumb how smelly how ignorant how perverted how lame some damned dude is. just you wait until i get some shit on my front burner! make sure your cell phone bill is paid, because we GOTTA TALK.
i also might buy some new clothes. no, i probably won't. but maybe i'll start wearing the ones without rips and holes and puke more frequently.
at least until i turn back into a pumpkin.
i love you for reading this. you know that, right?