Tuesday, April 20, 2010

i am made of flawless victory.

i started my old blog a couple years ago to, essentially, make my friends laugh and impress this hot dude i was scheming on at the time. i've always written fiction. i mean, since high school, when i first started to write. and i've always kept really fucking hilarious journals, to chronicle my ridiculous existence but mostly just to amuse and entertain myself. and to chart the movements of my fucking enemies. duh.
so my baby blog caught on BIG in a small way, and last summer i decided to make the move and start writing this shit for reals. at the time its purpose was (though it continues to be) to talk shit about dudes and make laura laugh. for cereal. i figured a handful of my friends might remember to check the shit every once in a while and maybe get a chuckle or two, but i had no idea that HUNDREDS OF FUCKING PEOPLE would regularly tune in to what i have to fucking say. and not because it's enlightening or illuminating on some grand scale; i am a real person with a real life that is real stupid and you bitches can relate to this shit. and even if you can't you can laugh with me. or at me. WHATEVER.

i write all of the fucking time that it is my goal to live as openly and honestly as i possibly can now that i'm kind of living in this very public way. because it would be really easy for me to lie my dick off and pretend my life is faaaaaabulous, that i'm rich and come from a good family and have perfect hair and spend all day fending off hot dudes. most of you would never know, because you don't know me for real. except you sort of DO, because i am honest and i write about how dudes don't fucking call me back or say nasty things to me on dates; i write about how fucked up i am because my fucking parents are dead and we never had any money and i couldn't finish school and still can't make it work; i write about my pants not fitting they way i'd like them to and that sometimes i just don't clean my house and i have spent more than one weekend in bed in my pajamas with a box of cookies.

i'm a person. if you know me, you know that. i'm not some bitchbot laughing at you mere mortals from behind a computer screen. i cry at every movie, even action and horror ones. i cry when things happen to animals that i cannot help. i cry when dudes shit on me, or my friends can't attend to my massive neediness, or sometimes when i walk by this picture of my mother on a bookshelf. books make me cry, commercials make me cry, other people fucking crying makes me cry. i'm goddamned sensitive, man.

i went to a grief group once, and the facilitator asked me if i felt that my writing was cathartic. and my answer now is the same as it was then, that i often feel a little bit like an open wound walking around that everyone gets to throw salt in and that what i do here, in my little corner of the interwebs, is my way of being someone who is NOT THAT PERSON. i will elaborate, lest i give the impression that anything i say here is anything but the absolute truth. i'm a multi-layered, multifaceted individual, as most people are. i choose to write this from my least sensitive places, for a number of reasons: 1 it's just not that funny to hear a bitch pissing and moaning all of the goddamned time 2 i'm mostly funny and sharp and good-humored, and those are the parts of my personality that i like to share the most and 3 it doesn't do anyone any good to listen to me wallowing in my own shit, you could go to the zoo if you're really into that.

i have my fucking moments, but for the most part i am the person that you read here 100% of the time. which is to say that if you ran into me on the street i would grab your dick or peek down your shirt at your boobs and swear a lot and hug you and tell you how much i love you. i'd ask you how you were feeling, because i fucking care about that shit. and i would try to make you laugh, especially if you were having a shitty day. because, really, the main reason i write this is because life on earth is FUCKING HORRIBLE for FUCKING EVERYBODY, and if i can make you smile in the middle of your bullshit workday with some dumb shit i'm doing then that tickles me to pieces.

when rachel and amanda and i had that body image conversation i SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED not writing about it. because while i will tell you anything you want to know and be incredibly honest about whatever it is i'm dealing with, some things i think should just belong to me. like, why give the universe all my self-hatred to laugh about and make fun of? why make myself feel THAT vulnerable? whom does it benefit? i have already shouted into the ether that my body is totally fucking broken, that i will be dead before most of you because of it, that i'm thirty years old and have never had a boyfriend, that i am lonely and sad more often than i feel is warranted, that i feel like i've been cheated since birth, and that not only was one dude in my life fattening me up like a goddamned christmas goose, but another spit my urine into my mouth. i put it all out there.

but then when i was throwing out my sugar and white rice and tortilla chips to prep for that cleanse i thought, "you have to fucking write about this, idiot. YOU HAVE TO." and there's no way to write about doing some drastic diet business without talking about WHY, and although it makes me cringe and squirm with discomfort, i fucking did it. because i refuse to lie here. because i could post faraway shots of slivers of my fucking face and tell you that i wore a bikini to the supermarket, but it's totally insane to be ashamed. but i'm not such an asshole that i'll pretend i never am. i mean, really, i felt motivated enough to STOP EATING DELICIOUS CHEESE but i'm going to pretend here that i'm not? that's not my style. no matter how flushed and embarrassed it might make me.

and why not, right? shouldn't it be more embarrassing to admit that a dude fell asleep with his face between my legs than it is to cop to having a bra size with an extra D? (okayokayokay, TWO extra Ds?) i really battled with the idea. i didn't agonize over it, but i'm not the type of person who'd say casually to a stranger "hey bitch, check out the cottage cheese on the inside of my thighs!" and this is sort of the internet version of that. and i don't want to overestimate the value of what i do here, but i got an email from this girl i don't know who reads my blog and she said that i made her feel better about herself and her life and her self-image and i thought, i'll write about this miserable shit for that bitch. if no one else appreciates it, she will.

i posted "weight watcher" yesterday, and it was about a million fucking things (all my blogs are that way, sorry if you hate it, but sometimes stream of consciousness is the only way i can write), but mostly it was about eating better and working out and trying to buy smaller jeans the next time my thigh teeth eat through another pair. it took me longer to write than most of these posts do. because i would start writing, then i'd start to feel all shy and weird, then i'd stop. but i kept going back to it, and i finished it and put it up. i got an extraordinary response, which made my cholesterol-laden heart smile. (actually, my cholesterol and my sugar and everything else is exceptionally fucking good, so fuck that.)

gorgeous kimmah liked the post so much that she reposted it so that all of her adorable friends could read it, and that made my charred black insides turn to goo. it really is very sweet when you kids tell your friends to read my shit. so keep doing it, i love it. because i'm not making any money from this, you do realize that, don't you? that's why you can sit with your hand in your pants and read this in peace, you know that, right? without having to contend with pop-ups and flashing signs and ads for dick extenders or whatever? because this shit is FREE, and i only write it because i LOVE YOU so fucking much. and you better not ever forget it.

some dumb whore she knows (but is NOT friends with, ahahaha i fucking love facebook) commented on the repost, loud and proud and all out in public, and i will let you read her unedited words for yourselves:

foie gras? Who in the hell eat foie gras??? Samantha you wrote: beer, tasty alcoholic beverages, beef, swine, duck, fish, pasta, biryani, fortune cookies, and cake. I read: diabetes, obesity, hypertension, arthritis, high blood pressure, clogged arteries, & moo moos. you're not a bitch--you're crazy. you betta think about what you want your future ... See Moreto hold (if you want one at all) and stop hurting poor defenseless animals to support your habbit. you can be bitch (hell i'm a bitch): BUT HATE ON EVERYBODY ELSE!--NOT YOURSELF...

Now I'ma be a bitch and say get your azz in class (xxxxxxx.com) and start bloggin about some damn sweat and how much you hate me and all the damn exercises I make you do and how I knocked that foie grass right out yo hand and wouldn't give you the number to a damn cosmetic hand surgeon...GO TO EVERY TRAINING SESSION AND EVERY PILATES CLASS. DO WHAT THAT RUSSIAN SKINNY BITCH SAYS. STOP PLAYING...THEN YOU CAN GET ALL THE DICK YOU WANT AND STOP HOPING YOU'LL FIND IT AT THE BOTTOM OF A FRIED CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE SKILLET.


my diplomatic response is this: i am open to criticism. i shouldn't say that i am open to it necessarily, because fuck what you think, but i allow for its existence and understand most times where it is coming from. and if it is constructive in nature then i am more than willing to take it into account. i am not perfect, nor do i know everything. i graduated high school and dropped out of everything else. i am neither certified nor degreed. just a regular sassy snatch with a lot on her chest. i am resentful of people who give unsolicited advice; i don't write about my life because i need you regular-ass people to weigh in on what i do and how i do it. because you bitches don't know shit. and neither do i, which is why when i read that you are a divorced piece of shit whore who dropped a hundred pounds when your husband left you who is now parading yourself around as some sort of resident physical fitness expert i bit my goddamned tongue rather than tell you to first shut your fucking legs and then shut your fucking mouth.


diplomacy over. FUCK YOU, you silly, shit-eating cunt. i was going to try to be nice, but fuck that noise. also? I'M NOT THAT FUCKING NICE. and, you already know this, but: fuck your mother, your father, your children, your friends, your mailman, your dog groomer, and anybody else who might fucking like you. fuck anybody who even looks like you. fuck your hair, fuck your face, and fuck that yogalates. or niggercise. or whatever the fuck it is you teach.

here's something: teach me how to keep a husband. can you do that? or do you just lead seminars on how to run one off?

ordinarily i would bemoan the continued slow death of the american family and talk shit about dudes leaving their families and black male responsibility, but in this case IT CAN EAT MY SHIT. my delicious shit that is full of fried chicken and cookie dough and hypertension or whatever the fuck you said. ahahahahahaha! what's hilarious is that 1 she quite obviously didn't read the entire post 2 she has no sense of humor or irony as i said that I ATE A PLATE OF BALD FUCKING EAGLE after that foie gras bit so that it was obvious that it was a joke and 3 she's got a helmet with extra padding, because have you ever seen worse grammar in your goddamned life? spell check before you talk shit. at least before you talk shit to me.

because i'm the kind of bitch who notices things like that, and then uses them to deflate your argument. i will never ever EVER let a dumb bitch tell me shit. for cereal. a stupid bitch couldn't even tell me what goddamned time it is. if i was walking around with my skirt tucked into my panties and some idiot piece of human waste tried to alert me to it, i would punch her in her stupid face and make her eat her teeth. here's hoping they aren't high in calories.

and wasn't one of the inherent arguments in my piece that "getting all the dick i want" shouldn't be a direct result of the ampleness of my side jibs? and let me clear this up, once and for all: I CAN GET FUCKED. right now. i have more numbers than are in your social security of dudes who'd come to my house and put their dicks in me. YOU quit playing. my motherfucking grandmother can get laid. what i'm trying to get is something fucking else, dummy. all of that other shit. which really only correlates to the size of the ASSHOLE in the dude, not the size of my ASS. but you were busy reading what you wanted to read and hearing what you wanted to hear, and that's cool.

which is why i didn't bother to ask what the last book you read was or what your favorite food is (let me guess...celery, right?). i heard that you were a HOE who got DUMPED, and rather than fact-check or ask you outright, i decided to make a snap judgment based on some out of context information and bitch you out across the internets. from behind a computer screen. where i am laughing at you.

this shit made me cry and hurt my fucking feelings. not because this slag means anything, because who the fuck cares what some miserable piece of shit dick knocking fuckhole thinks about what the fuck i eat and how many sit ups i do in a day?, but because i opened myself up and made myself vulnerable and this slapped me in the face in return. my knee-jerk internal reaction was "i am never writing anything again." but if i don't continue to flood the internet with swear words, seething vitriol, fatness, and ho shit THE TERRORISTS WIN. and i don't need that shit on my conscience.

fatality. finish him.

i love you if you love me. now go get me some chicken.

addendum! here is her "apology." in a series of fucking facebook comments. jesus christ.

Montsho Pettaway- LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love it all! Keep it coming...Sam I wasn't judging you. I thought the blog was funny. I was joking right back. It's cool...cut me to shreds...I'll go cry through my next two workouts...hate me but STILL WORKOUT. @Femi: read her blog she intertwines sex throughout...

Kimmah - Sho..putting your self down is funny..putting someone else down is not. Its not what you said, its how you said it. You don't know Sam..so you don't have that familiarity with her to even comment..I know you know better even if you wanna joke like you don't..it wasn't cool. It wasn't cute. And it wasn't funny.

Montsho Pettaway - Kimmah, I understand what you're saying...I did not intend to offend. It does irk me a little when ppl get offended by responses to a blog. It's a blog--that you directed us to check out. When you blog you open yourself up to the world's responses--whatever they may be. And you are correct--I don't know her, so how could my comments be so ... See Morebothersome. I spoke based on her words not her personality or spirit. She opens her blog saying she dosen't give a damn about what anybody else thinks of her anywho...Her writing style lead me to believe she was a "no bones about it" type of chick. And you know that's right up my alley. She was so candid, how was I to know it was an area of sensativity? Maybe that's the problem--I don't know her. I just read it like a regular ol person reading a blog and I responded. i responded to her "unattainable dick" comment: Feel good about you, get healthy, love you and your body--and you can get all the penis you want. But you won't find it in any food that exists--no matter how good it is...

I honestly don't believe Sam is losing any sleep over what I've said. BUT HERE IS A GIANT APOLOGY TO YOU BOTH.

this is me and my huge rack and and my crazy weird hands and my awkwardly growing-out hair and my non-flat belly and my tribal tattoos straight out of 1998, about to eat the SHIT out of some birthday cake a couple months ago. we maxed those baby quiche, too. i am totally fucking proud of who i am, and i refuse to change a thing for anyone. if you don't like me, you already know where to take that mess. i should work on my SENSATIVITY. and no, i didn't lose any sleep. i have too many unattainable dicks to dream about. let's sit down and talk about how skinny you are sometime. over tacos and heart disease. :-*