Tuesday, March 30, 2010

dream a little dream.

i hate every picture ever taken of me. except, like, the ones when i was little and precocious and adorable. there other day i got an email from some fucking weirdo who was like "i want to see pictures of the real you. i want to see the face behind the words. i know there's a gorgeous queen inside you. open up and let your inner beauty shine." that is a DIRECT QUOTE. sigh. i need to come on a little stronger, apparently. because he's obviously gotten the wrong impression about me. i thought i'd made it perfectly clear that shit like that makes me want to junk punch a bitch. i don't think dude wanted anything romantical, but even within regular everyday interactions i am best dealt with AGGRESSIVELY. i don't respond to shit like "shiny beauty lights" or whatever. if you have some shit to say to me, OUT WITH IT ALREADY. i can't deal with whiny, mealy-mouthed pussies. number one? it's CREEPY and GROSS, dude. don't say shit like that to women if you ever want to have sex with one. ick. number two? i don't HAVE any inner fucking beauty, so your asking to see some makes me feel BAD ABOUT MYSELF. are the jokes really not enough? i have to soft shoe and jump through a ring of fire and suck you off, too?! this is what i mean when i say fuck a goddamned dude in his goddamned asshole. with a crowbar. there are 70+ hilarious posts in this motherfucking blog. i don't skimp on length, quality, or humor. you are not required to participate. you don't even have to read it if you don't want to. you never have to wait for more than a few days, unless i am sick or hospitalized. and IT'S TOTALLY FUCKING FREE. and that is STILL not enough?! what else can i fucking give you? my ATM pin? a pint of blood? balls!

i am not ordianrily this hostile, but the rest of the email was so fruity and inappropriately demanding that now i have an attitude. quel surprise, i know.

so you can EAT MY SHIT david _________. eat my shit and never email me ever AGAIN. and, just to fuck with you, here is a blurry-ass fucked-up picture of me my gay husband chad took after we sat in his apartment for three hours in the middle of august drinking a handle of vodka mixed with red kool-aid. my ass was literally MELTING into that chair in the sweltering heat. it was a literal 90 degrees at ten o'clock at night. and that is my usual uniform, a black t-shirt and borderline surly expression. cute, eh? my skin is literally five different shades of brown and you can totally tell that i am DAMP. stupid summer. and those were my favorite glasses, but i passed out drunk on the floor in them once and they BROKE on my FACE. i have butch tattoos and my hair appears to be thinning on the side. i hope this picture confirms the dream samantha you've conjured up in your teeny brain. this is what i really look like. the inner beauty is enough to knock you on your ass, isn't it? damn, i'm beautiful. ahahahahasshole.

dreams totally weird me out. both definitions of the word.

first, i was watching "kell on earth" because i have this odd fascination with kelly cutrone and i simply cannot get enough of her. i really can't. i watch every single repeat of that damned show. and i read the blogs and shit. i am in love with her, i think. she just looks so fashionably scumbaggy and gross, and that is something to which i aspire. looking unbathed yet totally new york glamorous. and RICH. i don't like children interfering with my reality television programming, yet her little daughter is so great and adorable that i really do think twice before flipping to something else to get her off my screen. i still switch, but right before i do i always think, "that little bitch is SMART."

anyway, i saw this clip of the capable stefanie (the gap-toothed one) snatching about how she watched every episode of sex and the city when she was in college (jesus christ i am getting old, i was TOTALLY AN ADULT when that shit came out) and decided she wanted to direct fashion shows after watching the episode where carrie EATS IT on the runway in those stupid panties (forgive my editorializing, but carrie was just so fucking annoying in that episode) and every subsequent step in her life has been toward actualizing that goal. huh. imagine that.

and now she's working at this super famous fashion PR firm and barfing up my tv every week and she's totally going to get to live her dream. that's fucking amazing. blame it on my upbringing, but i never really dreamed about doing SHIT. and maybe that's why my biggest accomplishment to date is not dying while driving the jeep home from slick's in a blizzard after having (count them) NINE cosmopolitans while wearing stiletto ankle boots and screaming at chidi (assbag) on my cell phone. fucking idiot. that shit was a manual transmission, too! driving stick and talking on the phone is a feat under any circumstance, but add dddddddrunk and psychotic and blizzard to the mix and there is no good reason i am alive today. i fell asleep at every red light and had to get out of the car and throw up in the street at the corner of ridge and pratt, where i nearly got obliterated by a truck because i had neglected to pull over. i just GOT OUT, no hazards no nothing, and left the car in the intersection and puked in the gutter. by that point i'd taken the boots off and was stocking-footed in the snow. all 937 inches of it. if you remember my old place on damen you remember what a shitty area that was to try to park a car, so i parked essentially ON TOP OF a little honda or toyota or whatever and went to sleep right there.
i should mention that that was on a week night. damn you should have met me back when i was cool. now i'm all crotchety and boring and old.

once i was watching "gimme a break!" when i was a kid and there was an episode featuring a woman of the night, and the next day i announced in class that i wanted to be a prostitute when i grew up. i didn't know what it meant, obviously. it was just some shit to say. i suppose i got the filthy whore meaningless sex part right, but the nicest thing a dude's ever given me was

i've always written fiction and kept journals and shit, but i've never said "i want to be a writer." and i still don't. i want someone to pay me to write this bullshit blog and i'd like for my fiction to be published, but i don't know that i want this as my JOB. i like the idea that someone else pays the taxes and organizes the health insurance and is ultimately responsible when the ship sinks. if oprah put my book in her book club TODAY, i would still be scheduling your dog's dental procedure and your cat's annual vaccines TOMORROW. because my luck is balls. before i could even cash the checks oprah's crack detective squad would find out about my tax troubles and questionable ethics and shoddy dating history, not to mention the bodies hidden in my crawl space (zing! to you if you've made that a filthy sexual innuendo), and i'd be back on her couch crying and begging for forgiveness like that million little pieces asshole.

i like self-made people, but my "self" is lazy and unreliable, and i'd fuck some shit off or misfile something important or not get out of bed for two weeks and samanthacorp would go right down the shitter. my best bet is the lottery or a wealthy husband, and i believe you already know the odds of either of those events occuring. i don't know, i just tune out when optimistic people start prattling on about all of the things they want to accomplish. all i can think is how it probably isn't going to happen, and if it DOES it won't be the way that they planned it. i'm negative, because my life is garbage, and that shades my opinion. all i know is there are a lot of people walking around just waiting to shit in your cereal and alter your course.

"don't go to school. you're too dumb."
"don't change careers. you're too old."
"don't try to diet. you're too fat."
"don't have a baby. you're too irresponsible."
"don't get a boyfriend. you're too slutty."
"don't get sober. you're too weak."
"don't get divorced. you're too ugly."
and that's just the shit MY mean ass is saying to you. just wait until you talk to everybody ELSE.


night dreams creep me out, too. i always have REALLY VIVID ones, and they're horrifying. even when they aren't scary. and i always wake up terrified with my heart pounding, super disoriented and gross. it's the worst. and they're always too specific and insane to ever be properly analyzed. like, i don't have dreams about my teeth falling out or my hair being on fire. i never dream that i'm lost or trapped in a dark room. no chasing, no falling, no monsters, no dead people. just eerily specific slice of life dreams that are impossible not to read too much into.

for instance.

the other night i went to bed at 830. first of all, that bullshit probably warrants its own post. unless there are seven-year-olds reading this nonsense (if so, pussy pussy pussy whore GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW shit fuck damn bitch ass hell cunt), no one else in my audience is asleep before the news. the NINE O'CLOCK news. i can't even help it. sigh. it's pitiful.

i got home at seven, thought about going to the gym, immediately decided NOT to go to the gym, thought about doing the laundry, immediately decided NOT to do the laundry, got into my pajamas, made my dinner, ate it standing over the kitchen sink, then got in my bed and went to sleep. that can't possibly be normal. my job just isn't that hard. i'm not that stressed out. i'm not that worried about anything. why can't i keep my eyes open past nine pm?!

even the cat gives me the side eye, like "lazy bitch, EVEN I don't require that much sleep!"

let's blame it on these guts. because everywhere i go i keep hearing that "thirty is the new twenty," so it cannot be possible that i am tired due to my age. in my defense, i do work approximately 32 hours a day. i start yearning for the bed right after lunch. really, at two i start checking the clock every five minutes. i was making plans to hang with one of my hot musician friends on a weeknight, and he was like, "let's get together at 11. is that cool?" i just sat staring at the phone, blinking. ELEVEN? on a MONDAY NIGHT?! just the thought made my body hurt. i'm telling you, i used to be able to party all night and work TWO jobs on three hours' sleep, and now i have to plan my days around getting at least seven hours. the other night i had a

HANG ON ONE SECOND. if you read this blog regularly (and why don't you, if you don't?!) you know i make it a point to talk about this crohn's all the time. i just like grossing you bitches out. so there are two things i forgot to tell y'all: one, my pathology came back normal. so those of you who had your fingers crossed that i was going to die of cancer can fuck yourselves now. i'm going to live forever, just to FUCK YOUR SHIT UP. (no, i won't, because i'm throwing everything i can at this bitch to make her go into remission and she just WILL NOT and i am almost ready to throw in the towel. shit!)

and two, this dude who'd been reading my blog asked me, in all seriousness, if crohn's is "inflammation of the vagina." i'm sorry...WHAT?! i maybe write the word "diarrhea" 700 times a post. for instance, i have not had diarrhea in four days. (you should be clapping, by the way. that shit's amazing. especially since i had some tacos the other day.) and if that didn't clue you in, you are reading my shit on the INTERWEBS. a carrier pterodactyl didn't drop a rolled-up papyrus scroll in your cro-magnon lap, stupid. why not skip on over to google and do a little research? seriously, if you google "crohn's," one of the first images that pops up is a drawing of the digestive system. YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO READ! why embarrass yourself, your mother, and me by saying that? i couldn't get off the phone quick enough. ew.

this is a tangent that can't be helped: i don't understand, and have NEVER understood, bitches who make an unnecessary ass out of themselves. i never have to take anything back that i say. i may have to scramble and say some more shit so you don't slap me in the face, but i never stand there hearing whatever dumb ass shit i just said echoing in my head, bouncing off the walls of my brain, reminding me that i am a piece of shit idiot. save yourselves the heartache and TAKE THAT TWO SECONDS to think about what you're going to say. fuck, man. stupid people wear me out.

it's one thing if you're caught off guard and some pompous asshole at a cocktail party has you trapped in a corner and is quizzing you about some shit you forgot to pay attention to in high school, like how many amendments there are in the constitution. but why sound like an uneducated piece of dookie when you don't have to? have you ever had a conversation with an ignorant bitch who fronted like he could hold his own in a political discussion? well, i haven't. because i don't talk about politics with assholes.

ugh, since i'm giving them out, here's another tip: stop talking politics with a person whose political affiliation is unknown to you. i was waiting for the bus at the addison brown line last week, and these two strangers (i assume) started talking about current events and almost ended up in a fistfight because they were on opposite sides of the coin. i am a raaaaaaaging liberal, in case you couldn't tell. and i have a VISCERAL response to wingnut conservatives. my body tenses up listening to some racist, woman-hating moron running off at the chops about how we're all race-mixing and stealing from him. goddamn it. this health care shit is killing me, too.


and i'm not going to talk about it, because i don't know enough to sound like i really know what i'm talking about, but pappy got health insurance for all his little worker bees THREE MONTHS before this crohn's popped off five years ago, and if i hadn't been insured I WOULD BE DEAD. not joke dead, real dead. because they would not have cut my intestines up for free. that first hospital stay, when i was shackled to a bed for two weeks with a highway of tubes emerging from every orifice, cost EIGHTY-TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. "oh sure, hospital administrator, hang on a second while i get my checkbook..."

i don't thank god, i thank JIM. and those dirty rotten scoundrels at humana. because i had to come off of ten grand of my own money (siphoned from my account by a collection agency over a period of several years, let's be serious: i did NOT just write a check), but that's a drop in the bedpan compared to what all this shit has cost. and it is really necessary for me to reiterate that those of you who knew me then would have been at my funeral in august 2005 were it not for health insurance. my torqued intestines would have burst and i would have died. and you'd be reading some other shitty blog.

i was watching countdown the other night (i loves me some keith olbermann, BELIEVE THAT), and it made me physically ill to watch all these protests. cutting a dude's gas line over healthcare? for real, son? and of course those idiots targeted the wrong fucking guy. GENIUSES. what kills me the most about this business is that it's always poor, white, militia-starting motherfuckers, the people who live in CLAPBOARD HOUSES and eat MAYONNAISE SANDWICHES and cut their hair with FLOWBEES, in other words: THE BROKE-ASS WELFARE COLLECTING HILLBILLIES WHO WOULD BENEFIT THE ABSOLUTE MOST.

because you know THAT is who's on welfare, right? i know it's cute to think that black people are the ones draining the nation's resources, but let's be honest. there just aren't that many of us. and HALF of us are imprisoned. so check those bitches who still have curly perms and home-school their children. check your nebraska peeps, your delaware peeps, your idaho peeps, your montana peeps, your dakota peeps, your utah peeps. your seven-wives-forty-offspring-each-collecting-a-government-check mormon fundamentalist peeps. now i'll talk a mountain of shit about all the little kids eating little bags of cheetos for breakfast, but that pales in comparison to those appalachians who pour mountain dew in the baby's bottle and pack crystal meth in little kody's (or kaleb's or krystal's) lunchbox. i have said a million times before, but everything i ever say totally bears repeating, that white people who can't get it together are ridiculous to me. build a future on that skin of yours, you loser. totally grosses me out.



i like to use myself as an example whenever possible because if you like me, it brings the shit home. if you don't, continue praying for my demise. (and why are you reading this?) don't worry, if limbaughcoulterbeck have their way, it'll happen soon enough. if for whatever reason we lost our health insurance right this second, i'd be dead within a few years. my pills cost 200-250 bills a month, WITH the insurance. so i'm not paying for that shit at cost. scratch my hot specialist, and the regular doctor, too. skip the ER, because those astronomical bills would take me out at the knees. so eventually i'd have a disastrous flare, torque, and check out of life as i knew it. and you hoes would be so sad. shouldn't everyone else have the opportunity to take lots of pharmaceutical drugs and flood the internet with angry histrionics?

so thank obama. that halfrican knows what time it is. you can't just let poor people fucking DIE. because that is what happens. why aren't more people saying that? i hear a lot of screaming and yelling about raised taxes and public options and (imaginary) government subsidized abortions, but no one is banging the drum about how if you are not insured, when you get really sick, you will really die. my parents were sick people who were inadequately insured, and chronically underinsured, and my parents are both DEAD. it really is that simple. when the system has failed you, you are reduced to the cheapest option. and let's be honest. death is cheaper than EVERYTHING. for you, for the doctors, for your family, for everybody.


this disabled dude with parkinson's was sitting on the sidewalk holding a handwritten sign advocating obamacare, and these obnoxious middle-aged white men stood over him, shouting that he was stealing from them and throwing dollar bills in his face saying, "why don't you just take my money NOW? why wait for healthcare?!" i was distraught watching that shit. really, what fucking country is this? are we really degrading sick people in the middle of the goddamned street? leaving people to die with their preexisting conditions? because isn't death the inevitable alternative?
i'd never been insured prior to that, which is why i suffered from a crippling intestinal disease for TWENTY-FIVE YEARS before a near explosion forced me to take care of my goddamned self. i was about to pretend to be sarah's "domestic partner" when CPS started offering coverage for cohabitating lesbos. times are desperate, my loves; we got the paperwork and everything. i could dyke it up for a little PPO. who am i kidding? i would dyke it up for some HBO. or some OPP. oh, whatever. i'm stupid. anyway, in the nick of vagina james took his ass off his shoulders and ponied up some insurance for his indentured servants. i mean, i don't have a problem lying (to an incredibly prosperous insurance company ESPECIALLY), but what if it was like that INS green card shit? like, what if they dropped by our apartment (we were roommates at the time) unannounced and made us prove on the spot that we were lesbians? i don't know how to go down on a lady.

are there black people and animal hospitals in sweden? because i'm fucking moving, and i don't want to stand out too much. plus, my skill set is sort of limited. at this point puppies and kitten are all i know. i don't know what to say to humans anymore.

i apologize for all this, but i don't just sit around thinking about sticking my fingers in hot dudes' booty holes all day. (yes, i fucking do.) i think about other stuff sometimes, too. plus, i watch too much msnbc. and i spend too much goddamned time alone. thinking thinking THINKING and going crazy inside. and all that just builds up and i start ranting and then my fingers catch fire. and don't be intimidated by this blathering, because i just glanced down to discover that i have gravy on the bottom of my shirt. at nine-thirty in the morning. because i had a slab of leftover brisket for breakfast. i also spilled lime lacroix on my cardigan. so I might be brilliant, but YOU still win in the looks/fashion/coordination/breakfast department.

my point, 17 paragraphs ago, was that batting ideas around in mixed political company is dangerous territory. and i have some republican friends, if for no other reason than to prove how tolerant and progressive i am, and you know what we talk about? NOT POLITICS. or religion. or the global economic landscape. or popular culture. or books. or magazines. or television. or music. or anything. oh, i'm kidding. no, i'm not. leave them to their wal-mart guns and conspiracy theories and am radio.
and my other point was for idiots to put a lid on it. don't worry, i know when to shut the fuck up, too. even when i watch jeopardy by myself i don't shout out the answer if i'm not 100% sure it's right. same thing when a bunch of smarty smart people at an event are talking about some shit i don't know about. i can't converse knowledgeably about existentialist painters, so i politely excuse myself and get familiar with the punch bowl and hope somebody equally retarded shows up so we can talk about what happened on real housewives of new york last week.

tell 'em, abe: 'tis better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt. in other words, SHUT YOUR DUMB ASS UP.

now i'm too worked up to write about what i started writing about, which is how i had this crazy realistic dream and woke up all disoriented and out of my mind and called the police because i thought spanks was in my house trying to murder me. ten seconds after the dispatcher answered i realized what was happening and tried to joke my way around explaining it to her, but that bitch was NOT having any of it. i don't think about that dude that often, so it was hilarious to me that he showed up in my dreams wielding an ax or whatever.

as disconcerting as that was, and as insane as the post-911 call analysis turned out to be, i prefer murder to those weirdo sexual dreams i can never figure out. especially when they feature someone inappropriate, like the married mailman or whoever.

this is boring, and i am salty. so i'll see you later. take good care, and GOBAMA.