Wednesday, September 29, 2010

what is the opposite of a cocktease?

1 in case you missed it on the evening news, the crown princess of all that is holy and patron saint of this raggedy blog had a birthday a couple weeks ago. that's right, helen keller has been ruining my life for a whopping TWO YEARS. between the way i feel and the way she looks i thought maybe ten or fifteen years had passed, but no such luck. she's still young and i'm not dead yet. LAME. if you still don't really know that i'm crazy, here is concrete evidence: this bitch is on the gnarliest diet of all time, so for her big day i made her a little cake. a cake made of grilled red sockeye salmon. from whole foods. cray cray. look at how cute this little piece of crap used to be. who could resist that face? and those teeny paws?! now she's five times this size and spends all of her time stalking around my apartment muttering threats under her breath. when she's not demanding food at five in the morning or snoring and farting ALL OVER MY PILLOW. i hate her. this face is how people end up with 142 skinny, mewling feral cats overrunning their property. or an apartment with 17 litterboxes and a handful of fat, smelly cats. because teenie weenie kittentroids are to die for. every time i see one i think, "what's one more...?" and then the death knell that has silenced my sex life sounds again and i come to my senses. if nowhere else.

also, you've now officially seen my floor. and the laundry bag i use for bathroom linens. it's only a matter of time before i'm putting up the coordinates to my fucking apartment.

2 my boyfriend forest whitaker is coming to town to receive this prestigious award in a couple weeks, and tickets to the event are open to the fucking public. THIS IS MY CHANCE. sometimes the universe just aligns the stars for us, doesn't it? the lovely diane emailed me the flier last night and i literally almost dropped dead. how often do real humans (and not movie or tv celluloid humans) get to meet the object of their desire in the flesh?! i'm flush with joy. le swoon. saturday october ninth. here's the deal: there's a "tribute" event at 7:30 at the chase auditorium on dearborn during which he'll claim his prize and probably make a brilliant acceptance speech that will likely move me to tears, for which i'm going to dress tastefully and dab at my eyes with a kleenex and clap like a normal person, not the way black people act at graduations and talent shows and awards ceremonies. you know who you bitches are, bringing an air horn to a goddamned toddler's ballet recital. anyway, i'll stow a sexy change of clothes in a phone booth (read: behind a garbage can or in the handicapped stall of the nearest bathroom) and slip into it before going to the afterparty, which is going to be at 9:30 at the wit. le swank, right?! only the best for the love of my life. (rachel and ginger and i ate dinner there once and i had a bag full of candy from macy's shoved into my tote AND i was wearing pants with a stain in the crotch, so since they let me in that place might not be so fancy after all.) but for blog's sake let's pretend i was wearing a tuxedo that night. (i wasn't.)

i'm going to play it cool at first. hang near the bar, survey the crowd, try to drink a few vodka sodas without spilling them down my dress. once the initial fury dies down (i imagine there might be a stampede when his gorgeousness enters the room) i'll make my way over to his table and introduce myself, then slip my business card into his pocket. and by "pocket" i mean "underwear." i have already started crafting the love letter i am going to give him, and you bitches are crazy if you don't think i'm serious. my ticket is BOUGHT. i might suffer through the agony of another pedicure so i can wear decent shoes, and i'm going to wear that black ruffled dress i wore to amanda's birthday when i put the moves on him. and i know he has kids and shit, but COME ON. i don't even need to have sex with him, maybe just tug his balls a little and tell him how much i love ghost dog and how i'm totally devoted to him. and that movie where he and anthony edwards were cops. i really am going to cry. and probably get fucking arrested.

here's the thing: does any of you want to go with me? i can do my own wingman-ing, but that's an awfully long time to be sitting and standing around by myself trying to look occupied. and it might help if someone could cause a distraction while i sidle up next to forest and stick my tongue in his ear. or maybe not. he looks like the kind of dude who might have hair in his. but fuck it, i don't care. i love every part of him. i know you bitches aren't all busy next weekend. there is SOMEONE who wants to spend a few hours being fancy downtown. i'll even splurge and get us a driver! limos are moist for anyone over seventeen years old, but i'd drop a hundred bucks to roll around in a town car for a night. you must: 1 dress appropriately, but not so hot that forest notices you before he's had the chance to become smitten by me. 2 have a digital camera and some decent photography skillz, even when drunk. because the bar is fucking HOSTED, man. (i told you this shit is going to be klassy!) i need the meeting of my one true love to be immortalized by a bitch who doesn't get shaky booze hands. 3 have the proper amount of respect for mister whitaker. you're not hanging out busting MY goddamned balls all night, asshole. if you want to make fun of me, do so from your mom's basement or wherever it is you troll the internets from.

so this shit costs eighty-five bucks. now don't get your panties in a knot, this invitation is extended only to bitches who can afford it. duh. i'm just kidding. if you really would go to this with me i really would buy your ticket. but we're going out for drinks after and that shit is on YOU. or you have to go down on me or something. i mean, come on. keep your eyes peeled, lovers, because this is going to be monumental. and will be chronicled right here. just you WAIT. (also keep your eyes on the news and shit, just in case i get myself into some shit that's too hot to handle.)

3 i have this one friend who is always threatening to hit me with his disco stick, yet NEVER takes the opportunity to do so. and believe me i haven't limited his potential access. it's been so long and i've been so, ahem, available that now i'm starting to think this is part of some not-so-clever ruse. is this some "i want to make you feel special" ploy? what the fucking fuck? because if he wanted to get busy we would have, right? so what is the point? listen, sirs, you don't have to pretend you want to bang a chick if you're just going to giggle and act like a homo when you get the chance. it's baffling to me the number of dudes who can't just BE NICE to a woman. why not just say, "hey, how are you?" rather than, "hey sexy, i can't wait to get you alone." is that really necessary? because, ahem, i will KNOW if you don't mean it. and so will my vagina. maybe dudes are used to dealing with amnesia sufferers or something, broads who won't remember that the last time they saw you YOU SAID THE EXACT SAME THING. asshole. that shit is irritating. so stop it. blarf.


4 thank horus it's cold out. i love standing on the train platform at seven in the morning all clean and dry, not damp and sticky in the three minutes it takes me to get there from my house. my hair is too long, though. and leaving the house with it wet in the morning is about to start getting rough. and by "rough" i mean "putting a hat on this shit is absolutely out of the question." and i can't be the person with hair products in my desk drawer so i can touch it up throughout the day. first of all, where would i put all of my crackers and snacks and chron's medicine? and second, not my fucking style. whatever i do before i leave my place is whatever gets done for the rest of the day. i might be cajoled into brushing my teeth if i leave straight from work to go party, but other than that? pfffft. and i have a makeup bag that i carry aroound and everything, full of expensive-ass shit i'm too lazy to put on. what a waste. but at least if i do it won't melt down my fucking face.

5 we're going to see MIA at the vic tonight, and i am STOKED. i wore out her first two albums and even though the third one is kind of weak and, as laura sez "seizure-inducing," "meds and feds," "illygirl," and "it takes a muscle" are total hot shit and if she performs them i'll be chair-dancing my ass off. here's one way to know that you're fucking old: when you get REALLY EXCITED that a show is at the vic and you can climb all the way to the top and watch the show from those squashy benches. fuck yeah, man. i'm too old to be bouncing off ten-year-olds in the mosh pit. and the way white people dance is crazy, arms and legs all akimbo. they'll put your fucking eye out. or drop a goddamned beer on you, and mama doesn't play that AT ALL.

vic shows are also exciting because they take place two blocks away from where my fratboyfriend gorgeously wipes down that sweaty bar at DMK. maybe i'll sneak down there for a little drinky-poo, drool over some soft blonde arm hairs while trying to wolf down a delicious lamb burger. seriously, kids, it's the business. go get you some.

speaking of drool, i have a couple things to post and then i'm going to take a break to get my guts beaten into submission by some hot doctor-type people. don't cheat on me during my fucking hiatus, you jerks. I'LL KNOW. (seriously, i will. you sloppy bastards will leave pubic hairs in the sink and shit. fuckers.)