Friday, April 2, 2010

your ass looks great.

this warm weather is messing a bitch up.

after my original plans got scrapped, my alternate plan for a couple nights ago was to sit in my apartment with the windows closed and: make a grilled (soy) cheese, have a RAGING mini dance party with helen keller to "jump up" by major lazer (that shit is my jammmmm), watch 300 on dvd WITH MY PANTS OFF, then take a fucking sedative. these last couple weeks have been killing my ass. i don't know what it is, seasonal affected disorder or whatever? even if that's it, what kind of asshole is upset by sunshine and booty shorts? the samantha kind, i guess. and i have already written about you fat bitches in teeny shorts. don't make me do it again.

i bought this gorgeous vagina sweat* dress online, tried to figure out how to turn my radiator off, and washed half the dishes before i got too irritated to finish. it often puzzles me that a person who: CAN cook but doesn't, who never entertains because dudes are stupid and stand her up all the time, who refuses to grocery shop even a little bit, even has dirty dishes to wash! i mean, until boobs gave me her old set i only had ONE PLATE. it is this lovely plate that she got for me from france by way of gethsemane, and it has a drawing of a black cat showing you his asshole on it. it really is perfect. and i don't have a dining room table anyway, so if you're eating at my house, you are doing so on your LAP table.

plus, let's be for rilla, penises don't notice that your dishtowels match and that your bed has perfect hospital corners. haaaaaaa you spent all that time on wikihow and all this asshole wants to do is eat everything not nailed down and fondle your cable remote. i had a phone date with my cailtin a couple nights ago, and we were talking about what amazingly handsome, virile smartypants we are because we both have subscriptions to the new yorker, and it made me think about this time this cocksnot assbag i was out with asked me why i had a copy in my bag, as i do not LIVE IN NEW YORK. a dude like that should kill himself. just saying. we never went out again. fuckwit.

seriously ladyfriends, let's stop working so hard. they don't effing care. they don't care that you fucking read. they don't care about anything. a few years ago i was working with my boy blackbird on some collages he was doing for SAIC, and i had this HUGE apartment but no furniture or money. rilly. IT ECHOED IN THERE. so i had a ton of space in which to hang these massive collages. anyaddicts, we were tweaked out on some vaporized hashish and i fell asleep cutting pictures out of magazines, scissors in hand. i could have cut my own fucking throat. ps, i don't do drugs anymore. it's fucking dangerous!

point of that little story: this stinkydrunk alcoholic named maurice that it took me too long to figure out was a stinkydrunk alcoholic was over trying to get his rope tugged. he always had whiskey dick and was all, "it's not me, it's you" EVERY GODDAMNED TIME his little meal worm sat in flaccid defeat atop his little jelly bean testicles. like i was lying in the same bed wrong or something. because that's the thing about erectile dysfunction: THERE'S NOTHING FOR ME TO FUCK UP. can't crash the party if the host falls asleep before it starts, partner.

i feel bad for my little mancakes out there who can't get their soldiers to show up for the battle of pussysburg. (or the battle of antittytam. whichever you like. the civil war was RIFE with sexual innuendo.) there is just so much presssssssure. i would never laugh or be mean. as a matter of fact, i'd be like "want to taste what i had for dinner?" and push his head up my birth canal. you know, so he could still feel like a MAN. because even if i'm not into it, i can just squirt a little lube or bacon grease or motor oil up there and dude would be none the wiser. BECAUSE THEY DON'T CARE. they'd even bone you dry. but what does one do with his external clitoris bouncing around all useless and shit, strap one on? YEAH RIGHT. i've met maybe seven dudes whose egos weren't as big as the earth itself; you think some arrogant homeboy is going to strap on an emasculating dildo just to pleasure YOU? i don't either. they aren't that considerate.

but as i said, i could care less. more fingers and toes for me. but if dude has the nerve to have an attitude or is rude about it, i might have to point out that it is SO GROSS touching a squishy little wang when it is
totally not responding to my touch. it's like licking a vienna sausage, soft and porky and covered with slime and salt. and also? NOT ERECT. the last time i almost asked maurice if he was quadriplegic, but then i saw his fucking toes wiggling and was like, "fuck this shit" and SECEDED FROM THAT UNION.

right. THE POINT. that dudes rilly rilly RILLY don't give a shit about anything. your dirty sheets, your fucked-up unevenly growing out hair, your nasty attitude, your vastly superior record collection, your sharper wit, your more hilarious jokes, your skill and cunning, NOTHING. they don't even stop trying to mount you from behind when they've got a pair of fabric shears poked into the side of their beer bellies. serrrrriously, i had to say "i think you're bleeding" before he finally put his shrunken meat away and got up to get a band-aid. IDIOT.


so i was just about to put fresh batteries in my vibrator when the phone rang. it was greg's stupid fucking ass, and i ALMOST didn't answer that shit because sometimes that dude TOTALLY EFFING SUCKS. here's the thing: i went out with this asshole, like, TEN years ago. we were babies. but even then i was fucking awesome. i've always had cool music and tattoos and a smart mouth. i met him at an all-ages show at the metro (weak!) and he was all black and punk and interesting. back then it was my goal to find other black kids on the fringe, especially since people of my own race shunned me for wearing chuck taylors and listening to violent femmes on my walkman or whatever. listen, black people, can we just call it a truce? stop being mad at me because when i say "pitcher" i mean a vessel for liquids. okay then.

so i hung out with that dude and rilly liked him and thought he rilly liked me and then bam! i was punted into the friend zone without even getting a vote. i didn't even get to watch the instant fucking replay. i have written before about you ambiguous dudes and i want you to STOP IT. right now. because women interpret your lack of move-making as "manners," when you're really just a fucking asshole who's trying to figure out how to put his penis in your white friend. um, yeah, that's never happened to me AT ALL. i found out i was in the friend zone the hard way. we went to see carl cox spin a set at smartbar and halfway through the show i saw that dude making out with some slut next to the bar. SAD.

my defense mechanism is to say something shitty every time i feel vulnerable or threatened or whatever, and when i did in the car on the way home he was like, "are you jealous? you shouldn't be. YOU AND I ARE JUST FRIENDS. so shut up." awesome! just like in cinderella.

no stranger to such rejection, i bounced right back (outwardly, at least) and said, "let's go get 2 am pancakes."

i remember that he laughed and rubbed the back of my head as we walked to our too-cozy ihop booth, which was clean-shaven at the time. "i love you, sam. no homo."

"but i'm not a dude," i thought, forlorn. that might have been the exact moment i realized that no real person was going to ever love me ever. and that maybe i should stop cutting my hair so short.

so gregory and i are friends. whatever the fuck that ever means. we get drunk together once a month or so, talk shit about all the lame chicks he dates, and take separate cabs home. perfect. he's all grown up now and stuff. no more safety pin earrings and mohawk. this bitch wears suits and does fancy shit at a bank all day. i keep trying to talk him into robbing that shit set if off-style, and he might be warming to that idea. i'll be queen latifah, he'll be that whiny chick whose baby drank windex or fabuloso (what was that shit?!), akilah can be stony, and jenny will be vivica. don't get mad when you see us rolling in benzos.

so i was already salty and decided to pick up the phone and take that shit out on greg. because fuck him, that's why. i could hear that he was in a bar and it made me laugh picturing him sticking his finger in his ear to drown out the outside noise. people always look so dumb when they do that. why not just go outside, assholes? why do you kids do that? especially when it's not 40 below? you know your drunk ass wants to go out and have a cigarette anyway, why not take your iberry or your blackphone with you? (you fancy phone hoes wear me OUT. but only because i'm jelly.)

he asked if i would meet him at this swanky bar downtown, and after confirming that i didn't have to be wearing 14 inch miu miu stilettos and a rodarte minidress to get in i left my house. that shit makes me NERVOUS. bull in china shop nervous. the hostess sluts are always so snotty and can't be bothered to ever really facilitate anything for your ass, the cocktails are 37 dollars apiece, and the chairs are always inordinately small. and there's an unspoken dress code. i can't be fashionable. i can be covered, but i can't be fashionable. i can be clean, but i can't be fashionable. i have cute clothes and shit, but they are probably from someplace your mom shops.

anyway, for those of you who have never looked at a map before, chicago is incredibly loooooooong. and if you imagine chicago as a penis, as i am often wont to do, i live on the head. at the very tip, that part that has a little crease. if you look hard enough into the semen hole, you can see me waving. see? over there. with the glasses.

hi! so glad you found me! come in and let me fix you a drink. and, lest you get the wrong idea, we drink campari and soda in this house. every day after work: ice, two fingers of campari, topped with soda. with an orange or a lemon squeezed into it when i'm feeling decadent.

it goes without saying that i was ALREADY DRUNK, and that's probably why i took a cab. because drinking makes me make bad decisions. so i rode in this bitch all the way from the dickhead PAST the middle of the shaft before i realized that the eighty bucks i had in cash was crumpled in the pocket of my work jeans. because my out in public at night jeans are too tight to even breathe in, let alone stuff with essentials like money and train passes and house keys. so i asked the dude to turn around.

here's the thing about cab drivers. "trust" is usually not really high on the list of feelings and emotions they have toward their patrons. and i totally fucking understand, because the FIRST time some drunk bitch jumped my cab after vomiting in the back of it i would hunt that whore down and murder her in cold blood. he gave me the stankiest stank eye that ever stanked, and he grudgingly exited lakeshore drive at fullerton and drove all the way back to my apartment. where i had to inform him that i was BROKE, but that there was money UPSTAIRS. hmm.

maybe it's my nice face. or the customer service voice i used on him. but he let me go without first severing a limb and waited for me to come back down. with the meter running. i thought about leaving something as collateral, but who the fuck can trust some shady ass cab driver? (add hypocrite to the list of things you hate about me.) he sat downstairs, meter running, as i dug through all of my dirty clothes looking for that god forsaken pile of twenties. as pissed off and irritated as i was when i finally found it, i was secretly a little relieved because i'm the type who would unknowingly run a paycheck through a bleach cycle in the wash. and that precious beer money could have suffered the same fate.

needless to say, when we FINALLY got to the bar i had barely enough money to pay him. and that bummed me out because, and i don't know where this comes from, blame evanston, but i have such crazy yuppie guilt about services and tipping and shit. and i'm not wealthy. never ever was. for example: PIZZA HUT was a sit-down restaurant as far as my childhood was concerned. even when being ripped off by starbucks i still drop a dollar into that tip jar. every time. i can't get out of that goddamned place without spending $42. i overtip everywhere i ever go. because some bitch is making less-than-i-spent-on-that-mocha an hour to shake my cocktails or deliver my dragon roll, and that makes me feel bad. i can't stand it. pedicures nearly put me in the grave. sitting there watching some bitch who came to america stowed in a suitcase scrub the dead skin off my feet? EXCRUCIATING. i tip ten bucks.

but i can't be bothered to care for my own feet, so let's move on from this.

this is something you should know before we hang out: i like to go to the bar first. i don't find my friends or hang up my "summer jacket" (i HATE this pseudo-warm but kind of cool weather that can NEVER be appropriately dressed for), i post up at the bar and get a shot and a beer. then i'll come find you. so i got my supplies and went looking for my homeboy. didn't take long. greg likes bars where big black bald dudes stand out. blerg. bars where dumb frat boys who now wear business suits but wish they were still doing keg stands hang out. you know what i'm talking about. places where that chumbawumba get knocked down song comes on and these dudes FREAK because that's their SHIT.

they fucking ignore me, man. i may as well be the bar back. and that's how i like it. because they will inevitably say something ridic that makes me want to burn the bar down. greg was sitting in a chair across from an empty one, and as i got closer i saw that there was a pink pashmina thing draped across the chair opposite. i didn't even say hello.

"if you invited me out while you are on a fucking date i am deleting you from my phone." at that moment i noticed a little purse action on the table in front of the chair. i tossed back the shot. "seriously, you dick knocker. we're DUNZO."

he didn't say anything, just looked up at me all weird. "she went to the bathroom."

I HATE DUDES. selfish, cock-knocking, useless bastards. "i spent a hundred bucks on a cab. and now i need one home. you owe me." i drained my beer in ten seconds and waited for him to tell me to piss off because he wasn't paying for a damn thing. (one more thing before you hang with me: if you have a penis and i tell you i spent fifty bucks on something you have to pay me back for, i spent thirty. but i want fifty back.)

he got out his wallet and my eyes went wide. i am very bossy. VERY BOSSY. but most of the time no one listens to me or does what the fuck i say. especially at work, where it is my job to boss some people the fuck around. if i tell laura to do some shit she'll give me THE LOOK and be like, "YOU do it. BITCH." and i'll talk a lot of shit first, but i usually do it. so quel surprise when he started peeling twenties off a roll. what the fuck am i doing with my life? if you ever see me just chilling with hundreds of cash dollars call the fucking police because i probably stole that shit. or make room on your couch because i haven't paid my rent and i'm going to need someplace to stay soon.

"two hours ago," he said as he handed me the money. it took me a second to put everything together, as i was hot and tipsy and tired. "she went to the bathroom two hours ago," my befuddled brain repeated. "SHE WENT TO THE BATHROOM TWO HOURS AGO."

i almost said, "do you think she's okay?" and LET'S JUST CLARIFY that i didn't think that because i'm slow, i thought that because i spent the most crucial half-hour section of shutter island vomiting into the little bag in the bathroom stall intended for your maxi pads while green water shot out of my anus. so i cut bitches a little slack when it comes to the bathroom, okay? sometimes letting your work hoes talk you into a delicious lunch when you really SHOULD JUST EAT CRACKERS FOR EVERY MEAL comes back to bite you in the backside. luckily i was just out with sarah (still no dates; hard to believe with the diarrhea and all, i know) who proceeded to explain what happened while i was trying not to prolapse my rectum TOTALLY INCORRECTLY. so i sat there not understanding a damn thing until the end, when i realized she'd ruined the whole thing for me.

but the look on his face told me this wasn't an acute case of datearrhea. this girl DITCHED HIM. i got us four more bottles of bass, this dude next to me was ordering a BUD LIGHT LIME, and stood at the bar trying to come up with every hilarious story i hadn't already told him. back at the table, he explained what had happened like this. while trying not to cry. (ew.)

"i met her on okcupid a couple weeks ago. she was TOTALLY FUCKING HOT. blonde, you know, tight little body and shit?"

i was going to try not to interject but editorializing is my middle name. this dude had sad crybaby snot bubbles nearly bursting out of his nose, yet spent seven literal sentences telling me how hot this bitch was. this bitch. that. BAILED. in the middle. of a date.

we're skipping those.

"we talked on the phone, vibed pretty hard, had pretty good chemistry. i could tell she wanted to fuck...

really? you could tell? what does "want to fuck" sound like? i need to know so i can start burning up some anytime minutes. do you breathe heavy or pant or something? rub the mouthpiece on your vagina? worthless effing dude. alls i'm sayin'.

"...and just based on her pictures i was down for it, too. but i thought i should be a gentleman and at least take her out first."

awwww, see?! i told you chivalry wasn't dead! you fucking cynics.

"i thought maybe she was disappointed when we met, because she was really quiet. sometimes you girls are quiet and shy, you know? we got some drinks, sat down, started talking. she kept looking at her phone. like every five seconds. then she said she had to pee."

i started laughing. like, LAUGHING laughing. not because i think this shit is hilarious (well...sort of?), but because i was relieved. many a hot dude has made me want to cut my own throat, but never because they abandoned my ass in a bar mid-date. i laughed for every silly bitch like me who's been shit on by some unfeeling sexual automaton who just wanted to fuck his way through the female population. i laughed for all those casualties littering the relationship highway, engines blown, tail lights smashed, bumpers ripped off, transmissions obliterated. i laughed on behalf of that twenty-year-old girl who got her heart broken in the passenger seat of a crumbling buick lesabre.

eventually greg started laughing, too. realizing the ridiculousness of the whole thing, i suppose. we went through that bitch's purse (unfortunately it was a party purse; all we found was ten bucks and a couple cheap lipsticks) and i farted on her scarf. that'll teach HER. then we kept drinking until i almost fell asleep and had to pour myself into a cab home.

*a vagina sweat dress is exactly what it fucking sounds like: a summer dress that your stinky lady meat can air out in when it's hot. back in the old blog, laura and i riffed on this article about vaginal health in which some woman asked if vaginas could sweat. (ahahahaha firefox spell check DOES NOT like vagina in the plural) i don't remember the real answer, but i remember debating "vagina sweat" versus "vaginal discharge" and thinking vagina sweat sounded hotter. or at least less clinical. i have a lot of these dresses. as a matter of fact, my boobs are hanging out of one RIGHT NOW. it's HOT. i can't handle it.


on the train platform this evening, a gentleman covered in chimney soot and pond scum (homeless people sometimes just look SO DIRTY) shuffled over to where i was standing and motioned for me to remove my headphones. irritated out of my skull, i pulled one out. "can i help you with something?" i asked as politely as i could manage.


"i just wanted to tell you that your ass looks great in that dress. thank god for this nice weather."


ordinarily i would push a fresh-mouthed homeless dude in front of the train, but i was self-conscious about this stupid dress and he made me feel better. so i gave him one of greg's twenties. just when i was convinced that romance was dead for men AND women, there came this little gremlin to restore my faith in good, decent people. maybe there's hope for me after all.

he tipped an imaginary cap (LOVE THAT) and started to shuffle back from whence he'd come, then paused. "them titties look good, too," he said hopefully, palm outstretched.

argh. fucking romance. it took everything in my power not to spit in his hand.


anyway babies, i love you. NO HOMO.