Friday, February 5, 2010

the rules.

a dude i am into fucked one of my goddamned friends, and that is the subject of today's episode of "why samantha hates everyfuckingthing and everyfuckingone."

i have 637 fucking things to say about this, all of them fucked up and bitter and stupid as hell, so pardon me if this post is a little disjointed and scattered and all over the place and crazy. plus, my neck is broken. just in case you might find a thing like that interesting. really, i should just kill myself. how can one person have so many fucking things wrong with her?!

remember when i got written about in that gut study? in that fancy medical journal? because i shit in a cup for two weeks and let nineteen goddamned people stick their fingers and scopes and probes in my asshole and drank liters of barium and vomited into plastic bags and swallowed capsule cameras and had 5 ct scans and dozens of xrays and had tubes fed down my throat and up my ass? WELL. i read that fucking article, and the list of all of my crazy body shit was fourteen (not really) pages long. but for real, sometimes when i'm taking handfuls of pills every day and getting injected with toxic, hazardous, poisonous chemicals i think to myself, "is that all there is?" because i'm over it, in the realest way. sick and tired of being literally sick and tired, i am. who the fuck else do you know that has to write "meat" on a fucking calendar because she can only have it once a week?! just reading that sentence should make YOU want to die, TOO.

and i didn't break my neck in some sexy way, contrary to popular belief. oh how i wish i gave a blowjob so good that it rendered both my neck and his penis fractured, but i broke it the conventional way, by smacking my head twice in as many days. HARD. first i hit it on a control box on the train on my way to school, then i hit it the next day on a pipe that runs along the ceiling in the basement at work. HARD. that second time i really did almost faint. goddamn. betty heard it and shouted down the stairs asking if i needed her to help me. i banged the shit out of it, and fractured a vertebrae in the process. i suppose it's good news considering that i thought i was having a heart attack yesterday morning. lori and i were in the break room and i bent down and my chest/arm/back exploded in pain.
my left arm went dead (apparently there is a pinched nerve within) and the first thing i thought was, "i am going to die on a dirty carpet covered in dog hair."
the second thing? "i never finished my fuck you list, and now those dudes will never know. and therein lies the real tragedy."

because it really isn't that sad if i die. i'm sure my insurance company would heave a huge sigh of relief (it is just NOT POSSIBLE that i will ever not be a tremendous liability), bill collectors could stop running up astronomical long distance bills trying to hunt me down for the thousands of dollars i am indebted to them, women across the nation can unshackle their husbands and boyfriends and let them see the light of day again. the sad part would be that i haven't yet had the chance to projectile vomit in a whole lot of people's stupid faces (that is repugnant imagery and for that i apologize, though i resoundingly refuse to apologize for the urge to commit said repugnant act). because a staggering number of people i hate don't fucking know it, and before i die i'd like to tell them just how much i do.

if i am ever unfortunate enough to have that pathetic conversation during which some poor shmuck doctor has to sit me down and tell me just how many minutes are left ticking away on my life's clock, i'm not going to cry. i promise you. crying is for pussies and i'm all dried up. i am going to look that asshole in right the eye and ask him EXACTLY how long i will have enough strength left in this raggedy vessel to commit multiple homicides (and i'm talking strenuous ones, like mutilations and decapitations and torture and shit), have sex with forest whitaker (shut up and fuck you), and make a few phone calls. and by "make a few phone calls" i mean "steal a car and show up on some bitches' doorsteps." ARMED.

for realsies. you know how bitches find out they have a brain tumor and do a complete 180, forsaking ho shit and hood rat stuff to spend the rest of their truncated lives making societal reparations? FUCK THAT. i'm going to spend my last days BLOWING SHIT THE FUCK UP. because i won't have to give a shit about jail. i'm going to ruin the lives of everyone who contributed to the ruin of mine, and right before i keel over i'm going to accept christ as my savior just in case this heaven business is real.
i look really good in white.

"yes i know i'm going to hell in a purple basket,
at least i'll be in another world while you're pissing on my casket."

so i was talking to a very good friend of mine who happens to be the proud owner of a working penis, and he admitted that he treats me just the tiniest bit differently because of the threadbare state of my health. this is a "friend" with whom i have shared cooties, if you will, and he was like, "eh...i was thinking about your intestines when we had sex and it sort of grossed me out." well, then. shitballs. i suppose this means i will have to lie to every future dude i ever meet, so he's not wondering whether or not he's perforated my small bowel with his hasty rabbit fucking.
broken guts, broken foot, broken neck, broken heart.

i have decided that my life is too hard. and that is wholly depressing. thoroughly irritating. because when you decide your life is too hard there isn't much else left to do. say, for instance, that you decide your life is too AWESOME. (i'm having a hard time imagining such a totally ridiculous thing, but work with me here.) so all you have to do to fix that shit is stop going to all those fabulous parties, stop fucking all those smoking hot dudes, and stop being so goddamned attractive. give away that fortune you amassed for doing absolutely fucking nothing, give back all of those designer clothes (you can actually fit them!) that just fell out of the sky and into your closet, and give your million-dollar penthouse to some homeless bitches. trade in your luxury car, skip the weekly trips to the spa/salon/masseuse/escort service, cut up all of your black and platinum cards. stop wiping your sexy ass with hundred dollar bills and flushing diamonds down the toilet.

and then guess what, kitten?! POOF. your life is not fucking awesome anymore! and you can die happy, you stupid bitch. but when you decide your life is too hard, there's nothing you can give away that might make it better. nothing you can stop doing that makes it easier. as a matter of fact, if i had to give something away right now it might even make life worse. unless i could give away this debt and these extra fucking pounds. that would be glorious. but because today's program has been brought to you courtesy of the tenth circle of hell, my dumb ass would probably be forced to give up some shit i fucking love and could never imagine living without. like nutella.

i'm pissed, man! and bummed! and exhausted. bad things keep happening to this good person and, despite what i may write, i'm not yet 100% jaded. 100% salty, yes indeed, but NOT 100% jaded. YET. but i am careening toward that end at breakneck speed (i'm never too mad for a motherfucking pun, baby!) and my hatemobile's got recalled toyota brakes on it. because i worry now that being such a miserable bag of barf will continue to push people further away from having any contact (physical or otherwise) whatsoever with me, and how much worse will it be once i'm past the jaded point of no return? the line between silly and savage is a thin one, and the flimsy veneer shrouding these "jokes" is sometimes a little more transparent than i'd like it to be.

well, whatever the fuck ever. i've never been too preoccupied with being nice before, so why start now? i'm always so damned angry and rife with discontent. i am mean, vile, disconsolate, indigent, crestfallen, selfish, crass, hostile, churlish, irascible, splenetic, vexed, acrimonious, sarcastic, petulant, indignant, belligerent, caustic, awful, and grotesque. (my vocabulary is fucking preposterous.)

also, i am drunk.

i must become the lion-hearted girl, ready for a fight.
first of all, i just want it noted how totally NOT FAIR a situation like this is for the bitch in my predicament. no, wait. first first of all i would like the record to show that i'm going to be thirty in eight fucking days and my life yet remains an absolutely appalling after school special. chock full of crushes and heartbreak and bad skin, doubt and shame and crippling insecurity. it's a real-live episode of degrassi fucking high, without the stupid canadian accents.

thank god for music, otherwise you might have left your house this morning to find me attached to your exhaust pipe. and no, not THAT ONE, you fucking perverts. just like in high school, when the smashing pumpkins "siamese dream" and juliana hatfield's "become who you are" were the soundtrack to my misery, i have turned to the cd player's warm embrace for solace during this laughable point in my history. this is what i am listening to on incessant repeat, and you should consider this a directive to download these albums posthaste, in their entirety. none of that 99 cent single download bullshit: "contra" vampire weekend, "team dream" beach house, "lungs" florence and the machine, and "phrazes for the young" julian casablancas. you have forty bucks lying around, i know it. or most of you bastards find the shit for free and download it that way. so no excuses. just go get them. immediately.


i had a really good dinner last night, and that makes things better, doesn't it? my weekly meat allowance cozied up next to a mound of potatoes, with some asian slaw and broccolini. at bandera, my new favorite place i'd like to go to more often than i can conceivably afford. then vodka chased by bottles of wine. that really makes shit a whole lot fucking better. because who the fuck cares when you're drunk?! i really could give two shits about anything when i'm wasted. maybe the solution is that i need to be wasted more goddamned often.

anyway, my place in line sucks total dogshit asshole because 1 he isn't my boyfriend 2 he isn't my boyfriend 3 he isn't my boyfriend 4 he isn't my boyfriend 5 he isn't my boyfriend 6 he isn't my boyfriend 7 he isn't my boyfriend 8 he isn't my boyfriend 9 unrequited paramours aren't legally off limits. i consulted the friend rules, and on page "you're an idiot" it specifically states that your friends can fuck a dude you like who would rather be lobotomized fully awake than take you on a date. so i don't even get to be, like, MAD. i get to be hurt. or sad. or depressed. but MAD is off fucking limits. it's off the table. i can stare longingly at MAD across the room and wish like hell i could get all up in it, but alas i cannot. i'm stuck over here snuggled up with miffed, and that is total weaksauce.

but here's what's weird: i've talked to this bitch 137 times this week, and she failed to mention it. and it. happened earlier. this. fucking week. not a word! not even a little hint of a peep. which just makes everything feel all dishonest and sneaky and WACK. because if you aren't doing anything shameful, you don't have to keep it a secret. i'm the QUEEN of doing shame-filled shady shit, and i put that shit up on the INTERNETS. because i don't give a fuck. so when people who are candid to a fault clam up and tell lies of omission, that makes me want to punch someone. right in her dirty mouth.

this is not the first time some shit like this has happened. as a matter of fact, it wouldn't be going out on toomuch of a limb to say that this is happening CONSTANTLY to me. because i have a lot of dumb ass friends. and a lot of cute friends. i do NOT have a whole lot of funny friends. and i have said before and will say again that when you are funny and you don't take yourself too fucking seriously and you talk about filthy vagina scum in public, bitches want to be your friend. oh my goodness do they want to be your friend! what they DON'T want to be is your boyfriend.

now sometimes they want to bang you just to see if all that shit you said was true (IT IS), but that's boring. i've been banged. yawn. i want a motherfucker to make ME laugh and be smart and interesting sometimes. sport fucking has its place, for sure, but i am old (and don't forget DISGUSTINGLY SICK) and relatively terrified of communicable disease. and while i'm not quite ready to retire my birth canal, sometimes i just want to riff on some bullshit on the teevee and go eat pancakes and stuff with a hot dude who has low-hanging balls. i mean, seriously. can't we tell jokes and talk shit and take a gander at at each other's privates? how old does one have to be before one can begin searching for a "companion" rather than a "boyfriend?" can i just fast forward to whatever age that fucking is?! i'm tired! and these youngsters keep hurting my fucking feeeeeeelings all the time!

"the rich or the poor, muslims or jews
when roles are reversed, opinions are too."

i think i was a touch too young to know what was up when that rules book (written by those two bitches who look like fucking scarecrows, EGADS) first came out, but i do remember all of the hullabaloo surrounding that bad girl. rules women don't date a man for more than two years. rules women never call a man first. rules women go to parties even when they don't feel like it. blah. all that shit is excruciatingly painful. and who the FUCK can remember all of it?! do i call him after 7 days or after 17 days?! should he pinch my nipples first or do i pinch his?! HELP!!!!

i would like to make one simple rule that everyone, men and women ALIKE, should abide by. could you assholes please be perfectly clear, even to the point of brutal honesty, about your intent as far as your relationship with me is concerned? thank you kindly. i would really appreciate it. i mean, you should probably be clear with each other as well. if you're having trouble conceptualizing what i'm talking about, let me help you envision it. as always, i will use myself as an example.

BECAUSE I AM FUCKING AWESOME.

so here goes nothing:
a hot, virile dude with a massive uncircumsized penis is in attendance at a show in which i am reading. i "blaze the stage" as they kids say, regaling the rapt, wide-eyed audience perched at the edges of their seats with lewd and disgusting tales of my past sexual debauchery. he's sitting in the front row, getting spit on and loving it, drinking in every word. he thinks i'm so funny! and he thinks i'm so smart! and hilarious! and witty! (it's amusing how many different ways bitches try to tell me they think i'm "funny." but you know motherfuckers ain't got no damn vocabulary. just say i made you laugh so hard that a little poo squeezed out, or something new and entertainting just like that.) after the show, he stands around shifting from foot to foot, nervously waiting for me to finish the seven beers i like to have after i read, hovering at the end of the bar. finally he picks up his skirt, grabs his balls, and decides to come holler at my sweaty ass. he stutters and stammers his way through an introduction, then tells me how totally righteous i am. and i love it. and we exchange numbers and chat it up and are feeling all warm and groovy until it really is too fucking late to be awake for a second longer. in my head i'm thinking, "maybe this could be something...?" getting all full of gorgeous butterfiles and excitement.


when he suddenly clasps my hands between his and looks deeply into my eyes and says, "listen sam, i am totally uninterested in dating you. do you hear me? i mean it. SERIOUSLY. i think you're funny and i want to talk to you every single day for the rest of my retarded life. i will sit front row at all your shit, make everyone i know read your blog, and reference you CONSTANTLY in my every day conversation. i will take you to dinner and buy your drinks in bars, i will call you and talk in my bedroom voice late at night, but i am never going to sleep with you. don't bother picturing me naked, or playing the fantasy future game in your head. don't talk to your friends about me. don't make me a mix cd. you never have to dress up when you know you're going to see me. you don't have to shave or clean your apartment or comb your hair or brush your teeth or shower. i want to copy all your music and go to bears games and heckle stand-up comedians, but you will NEVER SEE MY DICK. you can dream about it, because i will say vague and suggestive things that supply you with an endless amount of false hope, but dreaming is all it will ever be. i will seek your counsel about every single encounter i have with a woman, i will tell you about that stripper i fucked when i was supposed to be at your party, i will introduce you to the vacuous sub-human piece of garbage to whom i have proposed and plan to wed, and i will expect you to smile through all of it. i promise to remind you how superior to her you are in every way, EXCEPT for whatever reason it is i have chosen her in your stead. she's impossibly dumb, and she's a fucking asshole, but it's her short straw i've chosen. you can cry on my shoulder if you want, because i understand what a total letdown this is. but you'll get over it. you're a good egg. and i love you like a sister. a tiny little infant sister that i would never in a million years have romantical feelings for. i mean it. I LOVE YOU. but don't get your hopes up or anything. so what do you think about this dress? do you think my girlfriend will like it?!"

because that is shitty, but it is honest. and i'll take honest and lame over vague and uncertain any day of the goddamned week. and twice on sunday. so let's all make a pact, can we? if you meet someone, and you will never want to fuck him/her, you have a duty to say so. within the first three interactions, so that no one gets any funny ideas. and if you don't hove the cojones to come right out and say it, keep alluding to a mystery girlfriend or something. just let a bitch down easy, okay? i've burned the skin off my fucking fingertips checking my goddamned phone every thirty seconds the past few months, waiting for word from one "friend" or another whom i'd really like to be a "FRIEND," if you know what i mean.

you don't wanna fuck me? fine. JUST TELL ME. i'll live. and then maybe i'll stop looking at you like a fucking corned beef sandwich. fucking simpletons.

"all that i can do is sing a song of faded glory
all you got to do is sit there, look great, and make them horny.
together we'll sing songs and tell exaggerated stories,

about the way we feel today, in the night, and in the morning."