i know one of you raggedy sluts will be able to help me out: do any of you know the dude who bounces at five star on wednesday nights?! HOLY FUCKING SHIT, man. that dude is SAM'S TYPE. i should have done this a LONG time ago since i know you love me so much and are all out canvassing neighborhood after neighborhood to find me a hot dude to make fun of on my blog, i mean make sweet, tender love to all day long, but i assume that you're all capable of reading between the lines and shit. that's probably a bad assumption, though. for example: mister maps, whom i adore and who thinks i am funny and great and precious and brave, breathlessly told me a few months ago that he had met the PERFECT dude for me. smart, handsome, successful, all that. and i was like, "oh yeah? where did you meet him?" you know, all skeptical and shit. his reply? "he owns this cupcake shop i went into the other day. he's hilarious!!! you should go in there!!!"
le sigh. i cocked my good eyebrow. i hate to be the kind of asshole who doesn't get excited when someone is kind enough to funnel a hot sack of balls my way, but usually what I like gets lost in the shuffle with what THEY like. "and you say he owns a CUPCAKE shop? a shop that specializes in CUPCAKES? tiny little cakes with FROSTING and SPRINKLES on top? i'm sure we'll have a LOT to talk about. we cans style each other's hair and download dance remixes of lady gaga jams and argue about whether or not jeggings should be popular." maybe you can work all day in a cupcake shop and still come home and bend a hot bitch over a kitchen counter before beating her with your dough hook and pumping her full of pastry cream, but i'm not willing to find out. (also, YOU CAN'T. the first time a dude got fondant in my hair or some edible glitter fell out of his pockets it would be a WRAP.) you know whose penis i'd like to see? RICK ROSS. or ice cube. to clarify: POST jheri curl but PRE moist pg-rated family-friendly movies. (and who am i kidding? i TOTALLY would have ice cube circa amerikkka's most wanted's little soul glow drippy babies.)
i like big, angry-looking black dudes who you can tell have smelly balls just by looking at them. you know what i mean? gorillas with cell phones who grunt their responses to everything. i like dudes you could mistake for a brick wall or a cadillac escalade in the dark. ones who make their side of the bed sag and don't do anything but stare blankly at NBA games. i like to know there's a brain in their somewhere, but they only have to prove it to me once. dudes whose hands are the size of a frozen pizza and whose necks are as big as a teenage girl's waist. motherfuckers you can just hang shit on. i mean, for cereal, i could toss my winter coat over spanks's shoulder and HE WOULDN"T EVEN NOTICE. quiet, lumbering tree trunks: that's what really does it for me. they don't talk back because they don't really talk at all, and they're SCARY. once at sonotheque this dude was annoying me, and spanks noticed and just PICKED HIM UP and set him down on the other side of the room. priceless. he also broke the seat in my honda and fractured my nose during a blow job, but those were small prices to pay.
i miss spanks. every six months or so i think about that ridiculous piece of shit and think, "it's too bad that terrible relationship during which i was miserable and unhappy and mistreated 90% of the two years we spent ruining each other's lives didn't work out." no, i don't. i wax nostalgic over all of the sappy good things and then, while resisting the urge to call the number he STILL hasn't changed, i go out and hit on dudes built just like him. that's fucking gross, right? but at least i admit that shit. and i don't take it any further ("hey, would you mind wearing this stethoscope around your neck while you fuck me?"), so it's not as sad and depressing as it seems. (it totally is.) anyway, at five star last night we sat outside because i forgot my douchebag repellant at home (that place is FULL of assholes) and we got to be closer to the gigantic spankselganger who was working the door. so i could stare at him and try to think of excuses to call him over. listen, dudes, the alternative is calling up actual spanks. so let's consider this a win, okay? jeez.
i read at an open mic at red kiva last night, and most of you know how i feel about that. I HATE IT. not because there's anything wrong with ME, but because most poetry motherfuckers are such humorless, self-important dickholes. this natural hair usually gets me in the door, but as soon as the head headwrap (or dreadloc) senses that i'm not doing an interpretive dance intended to depict my vaginal exit while reciting a passage from the bluest eye (pffft) they're like, "oh no, bitch, we don't DO comedy here." and I don't do POETRY. at least not the pretentious kind. seriously, all of my poems are about dumb shit and testicles. and these dudes ain't trying to hear NONE of that. they would rather sit around gazing at their crocheted pants and trying to articulate the depth of the piece they're listening to. i would rather be dead.
i went because my girl nikki patin was a featured performer, and i try to get out and support my creative artist women as much as i possibly can. i met nikki because i used to fuck her boyfriend. fucking SCANDALOUS. i didn't know i was doing so at the time, mind you. i thought i was just having fun with this silly young weirdo, i had no idea i was wrecking a home. i've already told you i don't ask a whole lot of questions when dealing with a dude, mostly because i assume everything that comes out of one's mouth is a goddamned lie anyway. i also don't have much of a conscience, particularly when the entanglement is on the other person's end. "what the fuck do i care about your girlfriend? i'm trying to make sure my boyfriend doesn't find out. now pick your socks up off my floor!" i'm not really that callous, but if you tell me you have an open relationship with a person i'm not going to hire a PI or relationship counselor to get to the bottom of what's really going on. i'm going to get my TOES SUCKED and let you handle your own messy business.
i'm not going to write about this dude because he's an egotistical piece of shit who has been reading this hilarious prattling on for the last three years just dyyyying to see himself written about in my fancy blog, and FUCK THAT SHIT. let's just say that his version of "open" was different from her version. and that i was technically having sex with another bitch's man, which isn't my style. MY style is to have a bunch of relatively interesting penises at my disposal, not to go digging through someone else's trash. the whole thing blew up in SPECTACULAR fashion: voicemails and emails and IMs and screaming matches, it was GLORIOUS. and too much work for a sardonic lazypants such as myself. so i put that garbage on the curb and moved on.
three years later, a few months ago, jenny called me seventeen times at two in the morning. lucky for her i was out drinking (surprised?) and answered the eighteenth time. (seriously, i DO NOT answer the phone.) she'd been taking a yoga class for a while, and she'd just found out the her most favorite person in the class (a person bearing a STRIKING resemblance to yours truly), turned out to be THE WOMAN WHOSE BOYFRIEND I SLEPT WITH FOR A YEAR. sucio. long story short she and i became friends. because she's dope and i'm dope and dope people should get together and talk shit about the sociopath they used to fuck on.
so she's a singer. and a POET, but not the herbal tea kind, therefore 100% tolerable. jenny saved me from a psychotic crackhead downtown (WTF chicago stop?!) and we rolled over to randolph. is it just me, or does anyone else feel like no matter how many hip and cool restaurants and clubs and splashy condos they put up they're STILL going to be brutally raped and murdered if they walk around over there alone? holy fucking shit is it scary at night. too many dark alleys and abandoned buildings and ominous-looking service entrances. FUCK THAT. we used to party at this club over there on lake street when i was young and fresh (not chromium, the OTHER one), and every single time i thought i'd be knifed to death trying to get a cab home. terrifying.
anyway, asshole came and jenny was there and i read my tiny cell phone penis PIECE (ahahaha), and then nikki sang and read at the end and it was great. i'm trying to get out and read at more things (i'm not, really, such a lazy piece of shit), and the lovely ladies who host the event asked me to come back and read next month. so you jerks better mark your calendars. also, THE SEX SHOW IS SUNDAY NIGHT AT SEVEN O'CLOCK. my vagina will be sad if you disappoint her (and for SOME of you it won't be the first time you've let her down) and, for that matter, so will sam. i need someone to buy my drinks. plus i think this dude i've never met before who i might want to get in bed with might show up, and i want him to think i'm cool and awesome and have a ton of adoring fans. i like for dudes to be intimidated by me initially. at least before they get to know that i'm really a softy who can't wait to bake something for them. gay.
it was late at shit but we went to five star anyway, and while i ate my $.25 apiece sauceless wings (you sure you don't want crohns?!) and ogled my future husband (for real, could one of you broads please GET HIM FOR ME?) i got a motherfucking PICTUREMAIL from one of the disappearing act dudes, the one who clamied his father had been killed and that's why he took so long to get back to me. pfffft. i scrolled down waiting to be accosted by a shriveled, veiny weiner, but to my surprise he'd sent instead a picture of his headless torso. apparently he's one of those skinny string bean dudes who manages to have a chiseled six-pack and rippling musculature yet still only weigh ninety-eight pounds, and i rolled my eyes and passed the phone around the table. "this asshole needs to get a fucking CLUE."
jenny sucked some chicken out of her teeth the way only black people seem capable of and squinted at my phone. "i don't know, sammy. he's kind of all right. maybe you should bust your slump on those abs."
so i considered that she might be right. what's the harm in counting the veins in the neck of some waifish dude who made up a story about his dead father so i might let him fuck me? couldn't i afford to give him a few points for creativity at least? nikki was on jenny's side, too, and i succumbed to the pressure of being surrounded by two bitches shining with the glow of regular sexual intercourse. i want to be a member of that club! but all i could say was, "well, maybe" and pretend my coke actually had something good in it. then we made up a song about yeast infections to the tune of that paula cole song that played at the beginning of every episode of dawson's creek.
on the way home i texted back "i could handwash a pair of bloomers on that stomach" 1 because i'm an asshole and 2 because it was after midnight and i didn't want to send anything that could be construed as REMOTELY sexual during the BCH. and here is the bit of poetry i received in return: "ure funny. whatz ure name again?"
romance is officially dead, children. now go get me that fucking bouncer. do you think it would be weird if i asked him to wear a lab coat?