Tuesday, April 27, 2010

legalized prostitution.

lucky for you bitches, i have two dates this week. thank whatever fictional deity you believe in, lovers, because he/she/it just threw me a couple of bones. BONERS.

ugh, i was just about to resort to writing about what the stupid cat does all day. vagina hollering makes for much better bloggerating.

so you know i'm the coolest bitch you know, right? this is totally fucking ridiculous, but i got TWO emails last week from young bitches being like, "we want to be just like you." now i know that they were really forty-year-old men who live in their mother's basements, because anyone can get kittenpower426 or brittniluvsboys as a gmail address or whatever, but for now let's pretend that girls who can't do long division and haven't yet started to menstruate are sitting around listening to owl city and trying to figure out how to be a mean-ass drunken asshole with a smart mouth and a shit disease.

before i forget, let's talk for one second about how i just wrote my book pitch and am about to email that shit to an editor at a fancy publishing house. make no mistake that fame and fortune will change me, and that i will use whatever power, riches, and influence i happen to gain to DESTROY MY FUCKING ENEMIES. get in my bed while you still can, dudes. because once i'm famosa i'm not going to kick forest whitaker out for YOU. (god, i still love him so fucking much. for him, i would bear offspring. large-headed, ham-fisted, cock-eyed, oscar-winning little offspring filled with excrement and searing rage.)

i know it makes normal human beings uncomfortable when i talk about this, but i am DESPERATELY in love with forest whitaker. he is my angelina jolie, my dream celebrity who is so steaming hot that i'd fuck him in the middle of a daycare at two in the afternoon. he's so perfect; brooding, soft-spoken, contemplative, serious, sensitive, and MEATY. plus, he's handsome. and i KNOW you bitches don't see it, but he really fucking is.

i just want to snuggle him and listen to him talk about how his day was. and you know how i feel about listening to some stupid ass dude blathering on about some bullshit i don't care about. maybe that's how i will know i'm in love if it ever happens to me, when i don't get irritated out of my mind listening to some asshole talk about his silly shit all the time. but seriously, i was watching panic room the other day (again) and i was mooning around my place like an idiot, daydreaming about making him soup and washing the stains out of his shirt collars. (akilah is always calling him "blackneck" because she is a haterrrrr. he can't help it! he's got a lot of greasy neck meat.)


my short list of wants if i am allowed my fifteen minutes of fame. umm, marginal fame, as writery bitches never really BLOW UP:
-dinner at table 52.
-black quilted chanel tote.
-unlimited supply of kiehl's musk oil (uh oh my secret is out).
-new bed.
-someone to carry the cat litter upstairs because that shit is heavy.
-tacos and horchata.
-new immune system +/- new intestines.
-syringe full of ebola because i meant what i said about that enemy shit.
-wrigley field relocated to schaumburg.
-romantic weekend with forest whitaker.

a couple things: that kiehl's shit is REAL. i was on the train yesterday, and this dude who could have been a little hotter came up to me and said, "i just wanted to tell you that you smell amazing." and i smiled, because that shit is true. at work on saturday laurage said that i "always smell like exotic spices and oils." also true. even when i was in the hospital and the nurse was blowing EVERY SINGLE VEIN IN MY FUCKING ARM she was like, "can i ask what fragrance that is?" l'eau de prednisone, bitch. fix my shit and get me better.

i can't be nice, i just fucking can't. and i can't keep extending the benefit of the doubt to these halfwits. so i've decided that i'm going to lure my prey with my intoxicating mix of musk and spice (i'm not going to tell you what else is in my witches brew because i don't want you motherfuckers coming up with the antidote), then i'm going to molest and dispose of them and trap somebody else and do it all over again.

i'm counting on my concoction to woo forest. because really, i'm not that interesting. what am i going to say to fucking GHOST DOG?! seriously! he was on trapper john AND diff'rent strokes! is he really going to want to know what i ate for lunch or how i can't use a calendar and ended up bleeding all over my new underpants? HARDLY. on a related note, my period this month totally looked like barbecue sauce. for three whole days. weeeeird. anyway forest, since i know deep down in my burned-out, charred soul that you're reading this, let's lay around my apartment and watch phone booth and vantage point and drink punch until we die from loving each other too much. heart.

what i be doing. so these girls wanted to know, like, what i DO and shit. when i'm not working eighty hours a week and trying to fill up my nonexistent free time with shit to write about here. you know what i'm doing right now? blowing my goddamned eardrums out and drinking pamplemousse lacroix. through a straw. fun sam fact that you will probably interpret sexually: i prefer to drink beverages from a can, and i then prefer to drink through a straw. you can make whatever cocksucker joke makes your heart smile, but cans keep shit colder longer and straws prevent you from looking like some sloppy, wet-mouthed piglet. i buy fancy skinny straws, because that's the type of thing i do. BUT. i do not drink canned beer. i mean, COME ON. i told you already, i'm fancy.

i didn't work today, because fuck mondays, so here is my recipe for a sammy kind of day off:

get up at seven. feed cat, scoop shitbox. get laundry together. make some toast. take forty-seven pills. eat toast over sink. drink diet coke. through a straw. check overnight text messages from drunk idiots trying to get laid who haven't yet realized i am not booty call material. laugh hysterically at said messages. feel immediately let down by bleak romantic landscape. lie down with pillow over face to stave off mental collapse. sleep more.

try again at ten. take laundry downstairs. write blog. more diet cokes. download ghostland observatory album. reschedule doctor appointment. write $700 check to podiatrist that didn't really fix the foot. fuck around on facebook and dlisted. start book pitch. add to list of possible book titles. VAGINARRHEA is the early favorite. check bank balance. think about purchasing sweet new bed. read entire issue of marie claire on toilet. dishes. forget about laundry. post blog.

laundry finished by two. meet david for brunch aka drinks while still wearing jams. consider self SO SMART for only sleeping in all-black clothing, rendering real clothes unnecessary. smoothie, because don't forget i am dying. walk home. back in bed. sportscenter. judge mathis. remember handful of afternoon medicine and grudgingly get out of bed. fold two shirts before becoming irritated. bed. NAP.

bored yet? oh, no? awesome. when i got up i was in a crazy good mood, and i suddenly remembered that sunday night on the way to the sex show zoe and i were jamming our asses off to my new favorite jam of right now, "turn me away" by erykah badu. that shit is a JAM. i had a copy of her new album that the vampire had burned for me, and i took it along for the ride, during which we proceeded to listen to that song 800 times. or as many as we could fit from casa sam to the burlington. then we listened to it again on the way home. except the second time i was full of jack and coke and annoyed OUT OF MY MIND at dylan's drunk ass screaming in the back seat. zoe should have made that dude hitchhike.

the song is about a bitch who wants some money, pure and simple. "i want your money, gimme some," she purrs. or "can't lie to you honey, i just want your money." the track totally fucking jams, but it's also really mellow and pretty. you know how insane i get about music. i found that shit in my ipod and hooked it up to the stereo and listened to that shit on repeat for two hours. dancing around my apartment in bare feet and black pajamas. helen couldn't even be bothered with that shit. she went to sleep in the closet and avoid the crazy. it should go without saying, but go get that song. hurry up.

i keep telling you hoes that i'm over dudes, except for one i have a raging crush on at the moment, and i feel like my saturday date is about to get his feelings hurt. he's a dumb texter, and while maybe i shouldn't give any credence to that it sort of hurts my fucking eyeballs to read some misspelled, grammatically-incorrect, virtually indecipherable bullshit as it rapidly fills up my inbox. i've given up hope that someone awesome is going to darken my doorstep and make me laugh all day and not turn his nose up at whatever weird ass shit i'm listening to who likes my jokes and sends me flowers and wants to be more than my new best friend, and i have resigned to keep going out with dudes just because they ask me because every single post could devolve into bullet points of what the fuck i do every day and that would be TRAGIC. you will be clawing your eyes out by day four, wondering to yourselves "how many times can a bitch eat fucking lean cuisines?" A LOT, that's how many.

i used to watch gossip girl and wrestling on monday nights, but now i put some cute shit on and hightail it over to rachel's where she, amanda, and i talk shit about douchebags and drink vino. except i've been trying to curtail my drankin'. i'm old, man. and one of these days my drugs are going to contraindicate with my booze and i'm going to have a fucking stroke. and i wouldn't ordinarily care, but i know none of you pussies is going to have the onions to smother me with a pillow when i'm slack-jawed in a nursing home, droopy-eyed and unable to move my whole left side. and i refuse to live like that. (ps, i kind of miss HHH and john cena. shhh. don't tell.)

rachel was going through some dude shit, and to make her feel better (and myself feel worse) i read her the series of text messages my young suitor (jesus, he's YOUNG, and i swore i would never fucking do that again what the fuck is wrong with me this is so dumb and i don't even really want to be going out with him anyway) and i had exchanged. i will transcribe a few of them here, VERBATIM, even though they embarrass me to the point of being physically painful:

What u up 2....

What U doing....

DUDE. asking what i'm doing all the time is totally boring. i thought you were so hilarious?

Well y didnt u call me when I called u? :'(

waiting for a reason to call.

Ok. What reason.....

be interesting.

U are Very Funny aand Sexy....and I wanna know u...I like u and I wanna talk to U..... :p

i already know why i'm dope. what is interesting about YOU?

in response, i received two super-long, nearly-unintelligible messages that i refuse to re-type detailing his hard work and that he "has his own" and has "the most greatest mind setting you could ever want to know" and is "a great cat."

excellent. all this texting is wearing out my thumbs. let me know when you want to buy me a beer.

oh, eff you if you think i'm a bitch for posting this drivel.
THIS IS WHAT THE FUCK I'M TALKING ABOUT when i say there is a veritable wasteland of garbage out there that those of us with empty beds are trying to scavenge and pick through and bring home. reading this shit makes me fucking suicidal. THIS is what it's like to be sam, little girls. feel better about yourselves? i bet brittni's biology lab partner texts more coherent shit than this grown fucking man sent to me. i mean, is it too much to ask that a native speaker actually properly speak the language. god, i'm an asshole. blah.

pardon me for a second as i pull out my soapbox and climb aboard. you kids know me. you know how rad i am. and this dude is the kind of dude i constantly get trying to fill up my dance card on a saturday night. not some sparkling wit who knocks me dead with his jokes, but a motherfucker who probably lives on his mother's couch and is really excited by the prospect of hanging out with someone who buys her own fucking cereal. it's demoralizing and makes me wonder what the fuck is WRONG with me. blargh. i might start to cry.

i read this shit to gorge and ginge and ginge's immediate response was, "was he drunk?" i didn't think so, as the most offensive of the texts was sent at nine in the morning. gorge, who is internally tormented because she doesn't want to go on a second date with this boring dude who took her to deleece actually tried to make a case for this bullshit. she doesn't want a second date with a dude who wore a tucked-in shirt, but i'm supposed to holler at a troid who misuses ellipses and to whom i'll likely have to define any word with more than three syllables? mmmkay.

the commiserating was in full effect, as we bemoaned the fate of being sassy and smart and totally fucking awesome while fielding offers straight out of the bargain bin at the used man store. and i don't do vintage. i like my shit shiny and new. and smart. and hilarious. and articulate. fucking sigh, bitches. it is depressing in a way i'm not fully equipped to express. i was talking to dude #2 (nicknames once i decide in person how worthless they are) on the phone and he was sort of funny and sort of smart and sort of NOT PAYING ANY ATTENTION TO ME AT ALL. maybe he was working? or playing on the xbox? but if you're balls-deep in level nine of death con dragon destroyer (i don't know what those fucking games are called), why would you pick up the phone to make a terrrrrrible impression on some hot bitch you want to fuck? call me later, when you're less busy. like when you're taking a shit. grrr.

plus, he sort of sounded like a homo.

seriously, aren't i too awesome for this? and i have to go out with these dudes. right? i mean, i owe it to you guys or something, right? FUCK. 1 i'm boring. 2 no one worthwhile is asking me out. 3 if you want me to write about where to get a delicious gyro or the new shampoo i'm in love with as i'm trying to grow out my ridiculous hair or how much money i spend on fancy socks (really, it's a sickness), FINE. but i bet that's not all you want to hear about. so i have to go out and do some shit i guess.

and this includes wasting my time with dudes not worth an expertly lined eye or a kitten-heeled shoe. i get more dressed up to spend three hours curled up on rachel's couch than i plan on doing for this dinner. i did the laundry yesterday so that i could have the most possible "you should pay for my dinner" options, but i was too bored to even look through my fucking clothes and decided just to wear a black t-shirt and dark jeans like i always fucking wear. snooze.

but can i just say that i am SO NOT EXCITED? last night ray ray was talking about how let down she was after this dude turned out to be not as fabulous as she'd hoped, and i was jealous because i wish i could even muster up the energy to hope for anything. at this point i'm just like "tick tock when are you going to show me what a bag of ass you really are?" wasting all this awesome on a dude who doesn't read books (i asked) and has already said, "can i ask you something without you [sic] getting mad?" i said "everything makes me fucking mad," and he obviously got the hint, sparing me from some ridiculous line of questioning about getting fucked in the asshole at the sybaris or whatever it is lame dudes think is tittilating getting-to-know-you chit-chat.

i have a plan, though. i'm going to see how much free shit i can get out of these dudes without giving up any cookies. because I CAN'T EVER FUCK ANYONE DUMB EVER AGAIN. unless he pays for it. that's what i've decided. that i'm fucking finished giving up tasty treats to dudes who aren't even as interesting as an informercial for free. i'm not on some pretty woman ho shit, but no one gets to see the inside of my apartment for less than three hundred bucks. cumulative. dinners, drinks, movies, WHATEVER. i'll bring a notebook and a calculator on my dates to keep track. i'm not going to tell them, mind you, just keep a running tab in these squishy old mind grapes and the minute the slot machine chimes 3 BILLS! and three popped cherries pop up in the windows i'll introduce him to the limitless bounty that is my bag of tricks.

i'm hoping this means i won't have to have sex with any of these idiots, as dumb and broke are often cozy little bedfellows. i should also say that if i have to pay for anything EVER, i'm NEVER going to have sex with that dude. this should be interesting, to say the least. i told rachel to go out with that boring dude she hated a second time because he picked a delicious, fancy place AND PAID, and what's the harm in eating a couple of arctic chars across from a vapid short dude who is the human equivalent of drying paint? but she is principled, and doesn't want to waste her time. all i HAVE is time to waste, and how better to waste it than pounding shots of patron on some annoying dude's tab then going home to drunk text someone tastier?

and i don't ever worry about "owing" anyone anything, as if the price of a couple drinks and a cheeseburger really warrants entrance behind my meat curtain. pffft. upon hearing my plan, davey said, "i'd kick your goddamned ass if you made me spend more than fifty bucks on you and i didn't at least get to finger bang you in the car." oh, well. that's why i carry a KNIFE. let the games begin.