i just decided, just this second, that i'm going to only write about love this month. it's february, right? isn't that what you whores do?! spend all month wearing red sweaters and plaiting red bows in your hair? waking up every morning to cut hearts out of red construction paper and glue them to white doilies and sprinkle them with glitter? fucking perfect! i see you, arranging vases of red long-stemmed roses and pink gerbera daisies and yellow tulips, reciting pablo neruda poetry, and humming "draw me a circle" under your breath. daydreaming while you wash the dishes, stars twinkling in your eyes. i know who you are, biting into poisonous apples and sliding into glass slippers before tiptoeing off with prince charming's name burning your lips.
i am such an asshole all of the fucking time. and i know, it's BORING. i know it, lovers, i really do. i can hear you muttering to yourselves out there in cyberspace:
"you should be on medication."
"don't you EVER have a good day, bitch?"
"does ANYTHING make you fucking happy?!"
and the answer, quite simply, is no. BUT. i am secretly a lovesick romantic, so you sluts are going to get a month of hot swoony navel-gazing. i'm irritated already, but i promise i'll try not to be so mean and nasty. as a matter of fact, there are a limitless number of things that REALLY DO make me squeal with delight and collapse in a fit of giggles. a few of which are:
the song "zebra" by beach house, kittens, christian bale, dirty text messages, fancy beer, bliss soapy sap, chicken soup from cozy, my houndstooth coat, new glasses, keith olbermann, boxes from amazon, hot sox, dudes who smell good, charmin extra strong toilet paper, amanda glasbrenner, gossiping about dumb shit, jokes, talking on the phone late at night, clean sheets, la roux, dlisted, silver bracelets, scarves, brunch, talking so much shit, political debates, hotels, having my toes sucked, nightclubs, tizi melloul, writing this filthy whore blog, daft punk, hardcore pornography, obscenely tall people, reminding you how smart i am, having the dopest shit in my ipod, paul mooney, aziz ansari, fantasizing about hot smart dudes, conquering said hot smart dudes, money in my bank account, modern art, shanghai coladas from ben pao, maya liparini, writing my new trollop shit
i can't stop listening to "zebra." seriously. like, 137 times this afternoon alone. i am officially obsessed, i think. at this point it is a veritable sickness. i also can't get enough of "static x" by andrew bird. and "map of your head" by muse. but you kids are probably too hip for that shit, what with your gucci mane and your little wayne. tsk tsk.
"this is why i hate crushes. first of all, i tend to be a one at a time type and it is so fucking annoying. and then everything else seems boring and like waste of time. if i was asexual i'd probably be some kind of world-renowned physicist or author or something by now."
i was talking to my gorgeous ginger amanda, author of the glorious quote above, the other day about how much royal fucking ass it totally sucks to be in your late twenties and still have unrequited motherfucking crushes. it's just so goddamned stupid. and exhausting. seriously! devoting what little chunks of brain matter i have left floating around this raggedy cranium to in-depth analysis of the teeniest, weeniest little scrap of bullshit some assface dude says or does. or DOESN'T DO. it just makes me so tired, all of this thought. all this painful thinking and consternation, calling in my team of experts (ie, other bitches who don't have a fucking clue) and making them scroll through my text messages and emails, trying to decipher whether or not some dickhole who probably has raging chlamydia or can't fucking read likes me or likes me likes me. it's draining! i could be a UN interpreter with all of this fucking practice. an interpreter with a very specific set of skills, mind you. i don't speak french, i don't read lips, and the only "negotiating" i'd be capable of doing with a terrorist is the horizontal kind, but i can look at a text that says "c u soon!" with one eye while in a coma butt naked on the top of mount kilimanjaro while being burned alive and determine whether or not the sender wants to mount me or just wants me to tap dance and tell him jokes while he runs off to fuck someone dumb and uncomplicated.
and here i lie, prostrate atop a testosterone tide, imagining all the fabulous places i could be going with all these dudes who have no interest in fucking me. on the precipice of thirty. BLAH. i'm like fucking angela chase. angela chase with seven goddamned jordan catalanos. which is traaaaaagic. now don't get me wrong, i loved that shit. but ANGELA was fifteen (and, uh, fictional) and SAMANTHA is twice that. and desperate and severe. AND REAL. it's awful. i mean, at this point i'd holler at brian krakow. shit, at least he was SMART. and he loved her. outright! he wasn't all cagey and weird like these newfangled dudes. fuckers.
so here's something horrifying. i was talking to this nice young man whose acquaintance i made recently, and he was talking about what is essentially his romantic modus operandi. which basically distills down to one sentence: "i don't sweat NOBODY." well that's heartening, isn't it?! i cannot even describe how i filled up with love and sweetness and happy feelings the moment he uttered those precious words. the fact that he wasn't even talking about me notwithstanding, i immediately started to glow with all of love's possibilities. because this is what it's LIKE now, am i wrong? dudes so worried that they might APPEAR TO ACTUALLY LIKE YOU that they inadvertantly behave like bloody assholes?! like i said, HORRIFYING.
so if the crushing weren't, well, crushing enough, you THEN have to deal with dudes who really do want to crack open your wishbone acting all shady and elusive! it spins the head and boggles the mind. fuckers. i spent the entirety of my teens mooning about, lost in thought over any number of handsome devils who occupied the seat next to me in chemistry or biology or latin american history. ha. unrequited every single last one of them, but that hasn't stopped me from having about a billion and a half more.
because i'm fucking stupid.
i have a stomach full of butterflies RIGHT NOW waiting on some goddamned dude (one whom i managed NOT to have a high school crush on and reconnected with a week ago) to re-confirm
some plans, and i hate it. because they aren't pretty little sunshine butterflies, they're dirty grey moths of impending doom. they're like "just wait until he disappoints you" gutterflies, sloshing through my stomach acid and corn chex (with soymilk, of course), making me want to vomit. that's really all this game ever ends up being, the race to fucking disappointment. i should keep a chart, recording how many days lapse between breathless inception and bitter demise.
i wish i could prevent it from happening, but i haven't yet located the switch in the brain that turns off the ability to swoon with reckless abandon. if i could i would. it would save me a shit ton of heartbreak. and i don't have a heroic amount of self-control. i'm sorry, SUE ME. i'm human, not a fucking vagina-less robot. these motherfuckers be getting all up in my estrogen and shit.
i mean, why dudes gotta be so cute? and why they gotta smell so good? and be all smart and sexy and hilarious? why they gotta have nice smiles? and hot outfits? why they gotta be so charming? why they gotta be so goddamned talented? and have such creamy voices? why they gotta look at me like that? and call me while i'm in bed? and say nice things to me? why they gotta like good music? why they gotta laugh at the shit i say? why they gotta get my number? why they gotta hang out with me in dimly-lit places? why they gotta have such nice hands? and such handsome faces? why they gotta touch me like that? why they gotta curl my toes?!
and why they gotta be so lame? and act all distant? why they gotta be so cavalier? why they gotta act so cool? why they gotta not call for a week? why they gotta not sweat me? why they gotta think i'm more funny than fuckable? why they gotta be so vague? why they gotta not make plans in advance? why they gotta no call no show? why they gotta give me the little sister treatment? why they gotta try and get written about? why they gotta disappear? then REappear just when i thought i was over them?! why they gotta put bass in their voice? and pick dumbass fights? why they gotta holler at my friends? why they gotta confide in me about bitches i ain't and NEVER have a chance of becoming? why they gotta text constantly when they're out with me? why can't they stay the whole night? or cook breakfast in the morning? why they gotta forget my birthday? or spill shit on my good bedspread? why they gotta think we're still "just friends" after they've put their weenie in me?!
this is bullshit. and i totally fucking hate it. but because i try to be optimistic and hold out hope that i, too, might experience the heretofore unobtainable joy that is REQUITED love i keep fighting the good fight and getting my face kicked in every. single. time. fuck, man. but i know how much you love reading about it, and i use that fact to console my withered old vagina.
i told you i was going to write about love. i just didn't guarantee that you would love it. or that it will ever love you back.