Tuesday, September 21, 2010

blarf.

i'm sick again. although "i'm still sick" is probably a more accurate statement. i never really recovered from having been in the hospital in july, and this shit is a DRAG. i think i might be depressed a little bit, too, but i don't know shit about mental health and am hesitant to self-diagnose. i'm sluggish and tired (more than my usual apathetic malaise) and i am 100% crabby 100% of the time. man, i feel like SHIT. and all i do is sleep. and go to work. which is why i haven't posted a goddamned thing. because i leave work and go home and immediately put my pajamas on and go to bed. while it is still light out. i also sleep almost the entire weekend. literally. from saturday afternoon to tuesday. i don't answer my phone, i don't listen to my voicemail, i don't check my email, i don't do anything. and i don't care. i really don't.

here's something tragic and hilarious: i had maybe 129 voicemails to listen to, so yesterday during the real housewives of atlanta (LOVE THAT SHOW) marathon on bravo i finally found my phone and attempted to listen to them. while also attempting to apply false eyelashes and tiptoe around my apartment mimicking dwight's fabulosu ass. most i just erase without bothering to figure out who the call is from or what they want, which is usually NOTHING. when is the last time you listened to someone's long ass rambling never gets to the fucking point message and thought to yourself, "GODDAMN i'm glad i dropped everything to listen to that shit!" probably never, unless you're a huge liar. anyway, erase erase erase interesting telemarketer erase erase wack dude erase erase erase erase MISTER MUSCLE. hold the fucking (literal) phone! now, i'm sure you're scratching your heads, searching deep within your mind grapes muttering, "wait a minute, i KNOW that name, it sounds so FAMILIAR..." to yourselves, so why don't i refresh your memories and make this easier on all of us: MISTER MUSCLE is that relatively decent-looking steroid brain slash criminal justice professor that i met SEVEN MONTHS AGO, who must have misplaced my number (probably slipped and landed under a barbell or a bottle of muscle milk) because after he no-showed for my birthday party i HAVE NOT HEARD FROM HIM SINCE.

now, my preferred method of being let go is the "i'm never going to call you ever again," because it spares me the humiliation of actually having been DUMPED. i don't want to hear what the fuck went wrong or who you'd rather put your penis in; i am PERFECTLY HAPPY to pretend that you went camping and were sodomized by a bear before he disemboweled you and spent twenty minutes picking through your viscera before feeding your internal organs to its child and letting vultures feast on your eyeballs. i am BAFFLED by these people who have break-up "talks." man, fuck that shit. just get the fuck out of my sight. i understand that sometimes you want an explanation, otherwise you run the risk of "but what did i DO?!" running through your mind on a continuous loop. but i would MUCH rather deal with that then to replay the lie some dude comes up with over and over again, thus driving myself batshit crazy.

it took three or four days before i realized dorito had broken up with me. i'm not an everyday caller kind of girlfriend. dudes are TOTALLY BORING, so you have to give them some time to build up new interesting things to say. i mean, how many times can you pretend to be interested in the new madden? they don't eat good food, they don't watch anything good on tv (at least not anything they can discuss intelligently), and they don't go ANYWHERE. so really, what's to say? anyway, three or four days had passed since i'd last spoken to him, and i thought, "well, i guess i better see what's new in the scintillating world of fried potatoes and powdered nacho cheese" and i called him. i didn't get an answer, but i didn't really care. a couple more days passed and i thought, "maybe he died?"

because that's the thing about me and my arrogant ass. i'm a million times smarter. cooler, and more handsome than any dude i've ever kicked it with, so it never occurs to me that i might be on the receiving end of the dump. at least not at FIRST. i always suspect sudden death before it even dawns on me to think a young man might not want to continue to enjoy my company. so i called again. NOTHING. hmmm.

we had a few mutual friends (thank you, internets!) so i reached out to them: "hey you, did xxxx die within the last week? did someone hijack his potato chip delivery truck? i've been watching the news, but i haven't seen any police footage of masked, gun-wielding thieves running down 95th toting armfuls of salsa con queso dip." long story short, that motherfucker wasn't dead. we were just over. i don't do much soul-searching in these kinds of situations, but on a trip down memory lane i discovered an argument during which i'd called him a fascist idiot because he's pro-life and figured maybe that had something to do with it. i never feel bad about that kind of shit, though. you know what i do? i IMMEDIATELY make a list of everything that sucks about a dude and read it into his voicemail, and that makes me feel better. okay okay, i only did that to ONE person, but thinking about it is just as good. i mean, for real, he was a JEHOVAH'S WITNESS who felt TOO GUILTY ABOUT SEX to allow himself to have an orgasm in my presence. and he wore purple skinny jeans. moist.

back to this retarded ass shit: so MISTER MUSCLE failed to put the icing on my birthday cake, but i was okay with that. who cares, right? just another example of a dude whose MOUTH is bigger than his DICK. so i moved on, because i don't chase anyone anymore. or pend too much time worrying about dudes who don't want to fuck me. so quel surprise when the computerized voice read off a number i didn't recognize into my ear, a number followed by THIS EXACT MESSAGE: "hey baby, it's MISTER MUSCLE, and i've come to claim what's rightfully mine. and what's mine is YOU. so baby you should call me back, because i'll be here [static] you. remember [static] ago? i'm sorry [car starting] but i didn't [wind noise] you. okay. please call me. i'll be in chicago for a few days this week. do you need [static] again? it's 608, blah blah blah, blah blah blah BARF."

first of all, maybe this motherfucker should invest in a new phone. second, what in fuck's fucking name is happening with you dudes?! I MEAN IT. how is a man's goddamned brain wired? seriously. is it that different from a woman's? not that i'm counting or anything, but it is closer to my NEXT birthday than it is to my LAST, and this dude thinks i'd be interested in getting into some out of town booty call action with him? seven months ago i was willing to run my fingers along the disgusting veins popping out of his arms, but if you can't be bothered to maintain the barest of minimal communication, you don't deserve the chance to maybe catch this yeast infection i'm dealing with right now.

too bad for him my self-esteem is so high (pffft), because in the olden days (ie, before i started this stupid blog that i feel the need to be mostly honest in) i would have TOTALLY called him back and mapquested the directions to my apartment. too many people are holding my vagina accountable to put up with something this fucking stupid. also, i am getting surlier and surlier in my old age, and unfortunately these garbage-ass pieces of dogshit are bearing the brunt of it. um...make that FORTUNATELY.

the "wack dude" message was from another loser trying to run game on a bitch too smart for him. i met this dude fred (blarf) months and months and months ago after i read at this show no one fucking came to (story of my fucking life). i gave him my email, because i really hate answering the fucking phone. especially when there's a gorilla on the other end posing as a sentient human being. i'm incredibly judgmental (SHOCKING, i know), so it also affords me the opportunity to see what a young man is working with mentally. if you cannot write in complete, punctuated sentences, you no longer get the chance to waste my fucking time. most dudes will tell you everything you need to know about them within the first ten minutes of making their acquaintance anyway; rarely have i been later surprised by the subtle nuances hidden in the depths of a man i'd previously written off as a worthless slab of bacon. typically it's the alternative, when i've extended the benefit of the doubt to someone who'd be better served locked in a crate twenty-two hours a day.

so fred emailed me. and he was only borderline retarded, so i emailed him in return. and so it continued until EXCHANGE OF PHONE NUMBER time. and he called me, we made plans, and he canceled those plans as i was walking out my front door to go meet him. nick of time, to say the least. i didn't write him off at first; blame it on my charitable disposition at the time, i suppose. but then when i didn't hear from him for another week or three, i figured he'd gotten a better offer (or was mauled by a swarm of killer bees) and kicked him out of my brain for good, never to be thought of AGAIN.

lo and behold, last week i'm skimming through all of my digital trash and what do i find? a "hey, how's it going?" email from a dude resilient enough to survive a million deadly stingers to the face. or whatever. i told you i've been crabby as shit and relatively despondent these days, so i rolled my eyes and deleted that shit. then forgot about him. AGAIN. until a few days later, when he emailed me AGAIN. still with the same casual "try to forget that i haven't been in touch in the time it takes a normal human female to gestate a fetus" tone. maybe my friends are weird, but if i don't call some of you bitches back in an HOUR i have to undergo the spanish inquisition about where i've been and with whom and for how long and blah blah blah i'm a grownup blah. let alone if i waited MONTHS. hoes would be kicking my door down with pitchforks and torches after three days! calling my job, camped out in front of my building, harrassing mis amigos at the taqueria...bitch, please. so it confounds me to no end that a dude thinks it's PERFECTLY OKAY to fall off the face of the earth for more than half a year with ZERO EXPLANATION.

here's the thing: it isn't okay. and even though fred's subsequent explanation (that i had to ASK for) was "my father was killed," my response was still "too little too late." and godspeed and RIP and all that. call me callous, but i have dead parents, too. a dead father doesn't render your fingers broken for MONTHS, asshole. when i want something i will scheme and lie and manipulate to get it. guaranteed that any dude i was hot for around the time my mom died got a "let's have sex as soon as i'm done grieving" message on his pager. (what? it was the 90s!) i most certainly did NOT dick around for a year before remembering to call them. and even if i had i wouldn't expect that they'd want to dick around with me. although on second thought they probably would, because men are indiscriminate about timetables and vaginas alike, so it would probably be totally cool. fuckers.

the moral of the story, in case it isn't clear, is that DUDES ARE STILL SHIT. and crohn's disease comes from the devil. speaking of, i know my posting has slowed down, and for that i apologize. but i don't feel very good. i'm going into the hospital in a little over a week to have a barium series (see above) and some other fine-tuning done. you know that feeling right before you vomit when acid rushes up from your stomach and floods your mouth? well, i have that feeling CONSTANTLY. acid acid acid all the time. it's damaging my throat and ruining my vocal cords and is likely being caused by the further narrowing of my small bowel. oh, i know: THAT'S GROSS. but it explains why i'm loathe to sit down and write this garbage, because my saliva could literally burn a hole through the keyboard. after i get out i'm going to relax in bed with helen and pray for death, but in case that doesn't work i just bought some plane tickets to california  for this experimental treatment i've heard of and never tried called A GODDAMNED VACATION.



long story short, only fear that i'm dead (or that i've been raped by gorillas with acid-tipped penises, whatever your imagination desires) if more than a couple weeks pass. i have a few things to put up in the meantime. and if you'd like to see me in the flesh one last time before the roto-rooter kills me (one can only hope), i'm reading at the sex show sunday. i'll try not to get any saliva on you. seriously. it'll make your skin bubble.