Thursday, February 11, 2010

gimme gimme gimme.

hi, honeys. let's kick this shit off in style, shall we? i am wearing this low cut leopard print sweater business at work today, and these bitches are going CRAZY. for serious! it's too bad they all have vaginas. balls!

my birthday is in TWO goddamned days. that's exciting shit. i dry-cleaned my special occasion thong and everything. so thirty is a big fucking deal, and everyone keeps asking what they can get me. and i keep saying "nothing but your pretty face" and they keep staring blankly back at me. so i was taking a shower last night (i'll give you a minute to masturbate while envisioning that delicious image), trying as hard as i could to wash the bitch off and rinse it down the drain. to no avail. still a salty bitch and a half.

so i was toweling off (sexy), getting into my dirty pissy pajamas (sexier), and looked through the medicine cabinet for my cancer pills and tums (sexiest), and a brilliant idea washed over me. i like practical fucking gifts just as much as the next poor unfortunate soul, and i HATE for people to try and guess what i might "like" (here's a tip: ASK ME), so i decided to post my general shopping list as a reference for those of you who insist on showering me with glorious gifts.

at least shower me with some shit i can USE. it's neither comely nor glamorous, but what were you going to get in the alternative that actually IS? before i start i really want to reiterate that presents are wholly unnecessary, but if you wanna get 'em i wanna receive 'em.

i fucking love making lists. it makes my sloppy, messy ass feel like an organized bitch who has her shit together when the TOTAL OPPOSITE is true. i like to see those slanty black lines covering whatever takeout menu or stray receipt or unpaid bill i can find at the time i feel like being all put-together and stuff. it makes me feel like an adult. so there are lists in varying stages of completion littering my apartment and day bag, and my wallet is stuffed full of post-it reminder lists that i invariably find one week after i was supposed to have done whatever i wrote down.

that's why my eharmony is still active, because i forgot to notice the post-it stuck to my checkbook reminding me of the date i needed to inactivate that shit before they auto-renewed my subscription and hijacked my card. fucking wankers. they robbed me blind AND failed to find me my goddamned soulmate. is there no justice? it's probably for the better. because after honestly answering all 2,437,895 multiple-choice analytical mind fuck questions; submitting to a cat scan, physical, and blood work-up; and signing over my firstborn to dr. warren for a lifetime of indentured servitude. every asshole they sent to me was 37, from schaumburg, ready to settle down and have a bushel of younguns, and whose perfect woman would describe herself as "athletic" and "dedicated to the lord."

uh huh. um. yeah.

i described myself as "part lesbian" and "really into anal," and that's all i get? toothy, gel-head doucheknockers who aren't really into black chicks anyfuckingway? fat dudes in polo shirts posing with labradors? negroes who uploaded blurry cell phone photos so shitty that you can't even tell whether he's light-skinned or not? there are so few fucking black dudes up in that bitch that i was terrified i might be somehow related to every single one who contacted me. and our family is not that fucking big. seriously. it was like sweden or something.

THAT is what my $1800 paid for?! (not really, but considering i could have met almost every single one of these fuckholes at level on a saturday night, anything over two dollars feels like highway fucking robbery. shit.) i could probably have better luck on craigslist. because i'm not worried AT ALL about getting chopped up and shoved in a mattress or whatever. and it least then i could be specific about what i look like and what kind of junk i like to rub up on. because if you're a fetishy kind of motherfucker eharmonizing is NOT FOR YOU. you can specify what race or religion you'd be interested in, and i remember thinking "am i a racist?" when i unchecked almost every available box. "what will dr. warren think if i say i'm not into indian dudes? is the aclu monitoring this shit?!"

i mean, my vagina has valid reasons for her innate racism. for instance, i don't know any giant-ass asian dudes. sorry, i just don't. if you know one, bring him to meet me so i can adjust my prejudices accordingly. until then, i don't feel comfortable snuggling up in bed next to a dude who might disappear into one of my belly folds or get swallowed whole while trying to fuck me in the rear. okay? call me vain, but i don't want to feel like an elephant in bed with my peanut. eff that. that's the same reason why, for the most part, short dudes get the same treatment. i don't like walking around with a dude who looks like he could be my goddamned son. but i will make an exception if he's got some meat on him or a full beard. kids don't fucking have beer bellies.

and the whole "about me" section is ridiculous. how do you whittle down all this awesome into a bunch of misleading bullet points? especially one who happens to be a fickle hypocrite who changes her mind every thirty seconds? so then everything i wrote just sounded fucking stupid, like "i make good mixtapes" and "i like to eat casserole." damn dummy. i mean, would you date that idiot? my "five things you can't live without" were: oral, oral, oral, oral, and fisting. who is trying to marry that bitch?

ahahahahahaha couldn't you just see us on the commercial?!
"samantha and ja'qu'arshion were matched on august 19, 2009 and bonded over a mutual love of bacon-wrapped fried chicken dipped in mayonnaise chocolate sauce and hardcore cartoon porn. they both love gospel stage plays, bragging on the size of their dicks, and having "whose blood pressure is higher?" competitions every saturday afternoon at walgreens. samantha is a relatively unknown writer (read: secretary) that you've probably never heard of, but you may recogonize j'aquar'shion from his mulitple appearances on maury's spectacular paternitypalooza! or whatever the fuck that step n' fetchit shit is called. (STOP FUCKING EMBARASSING THE REST OF US, YOU HOODRATS.) they are third cousins on her mother's side, but since they have never been previously introduced and there will never be a family reunion we just said fuck it! match, bitches!"

one second, please: that maury coonery fucking KILLS a bitch like me. you know, a bitch from the suburbs who tries to pretend there aren't people like that in her family. and i know there are, asshole, but STILL. stop it. put a condom on. take some birth control. put a nuvaring on it. or write down which dude you fucked on which day, like i do. because THAT is the shit rush limbaugh and glenn beck are using as a barometer for our race and, like or not, they have a bigger platform than you do. i hate them too, but more people listen to THEM than they do my proper dicition and purposeful enunciation, which is all the more reason we ned to work on our "act right." (or "ack right," depending on the caliber of african-american to whom you're speaking.) and i know that there is white trash aplenty running and screaming and throwing themselves on the floor backstage, but we make up 12% of the ENTIRE POPULATION, yet are 95% of the trifling-ass paternity pool on this goddamned shitshow. now don't get me wrong, i like to laugh at a bitch named conjunctivitus and her fatherless twins pinot and grigio just as much as the next evil jerk from hell, but COME ON. stoooooooop it! please? is this really what martin luther king died for, so you could humiliate yourselves on syndicated afternoon television programming? NO, HE DID NOT. he died so that oprah could humiliate middle-aged gated-community housewives on syndicated afternoon television, and you sambos are FUCKING EVERYTHING UP.

omar is the only reason i didn't firebomb the eharmony headquarters ten minutes after my payment cleared. we went out and it didn't work but we're still goddamned friends. because that dude is HYSTERICAL, and i hate to be an arrogant pig (no i don't!), but no dudes ever really crack my shit up. at least not consistently. so thank god for that asshole. his jokes are the best. but not better than mine. i mean...PLEASE.

okay. back to those of you tearing out your lace-fronts over what to get me for the blessed event that was my emergence from my mother's hairy ass. i have snagged every wayward list posted on my fridge and floating under my bed and stashed next to the toilet and am going to compile them for you to choose from. you know, because i'm generous like that.

there are three tiers from which to choose, depending on the status of your funds and/or how much you want to bone me with the lights on. get your pens out. (gross! the one you WRITE with, dummy! ew!)

handshake:
a 12 pack of charmin ultra strong, liquid tide (clean breeze scent), johnson's lavender baby oil, lemon chicken lean cuisines, gingersnaps, peach iced tea crystal light, a package of black sharpies, clorox 2, dry swiffer cloths, two boxes of swheat scoop cat litter, a case of savory salmon fancy feast, always pantiliners, 3 boxes of imodium, secret deodorant (fresh water orchid scent), bobbi brown extreme party mascara, a pack of oral-b toothbrushes, a large bottle of kiehls creme de corps, lush sultana of soap, a bottle of caldrea delicate detergent, cantaloupe jelly bellies, pilot g2 black pens, the new hot chip cd.
(i wasn't kidding. this is my real "if i ever get to target/grocery store/macys" list. holler.)

handjob:
nip/tuck seasons 4 and 5 on dvd, a large bottle of jo malone french lime blossom, a fancy spa massage, hoodies, medium black emergency bags, and deep v neck shirts from american apparel, a laptop PC, payment on my com ed bill, new balance 574s from japan, a blackberry, new glasses from SEE, plates from cb2, a new desk, mac studiofix in c6 and spring bean lustreglass, a new coach wallet (my current one is gnarly), a night in a swanky hotel, a new bed/mattress/boxspring, pay off my podiatrist bill.

anal:
a flatscreen teevee, multiple pairs of chanel 1/2 black sunglasses, platinum anything from tiffany, a giant macbook pro, a condo on michigan avenue, a brand new car. i mean, i know a few ballers. get out that black amex, player.

happy birthday to me. thirty never looked so dirty.
seriously.
i'm not playing.
i don't wash behind my ears and shit.