for those of you who weren't around last year, or you were but you don't fucking catalog every single thing i ever fucking do, every year my merry band of orphans, vagrants, miscreants, and otherwise misplaced persons gets together the week before thanksgiving to celebrate and pretend we're part of an actual family. without all of the fistfighting and cussing and putting arsenic in the mashed potatoes. for the last six or seven years we've all gathered at corey's house and gotten wasted before stuffing ourselves full of food then playing apples to apples until i get diarrhea and have to go the fuck home. and we call this little celebration FAKESGIVING. and fakesgiving is tomorrow night at seven. (you should come.) i fucking hate thanksgiving. surprising for a bitch who shits all the time, right? I KNOW. but for reals, i hate thanksgiving because i'm an intolerant asshole who will pout if you serve fresh cranberries or run out of crescent rolls. and turkey is fucking GROSS. i hate eating that shit. i like DELI turkey, because that's all delicious salt and nitrates. real turkey tastes like road kill you hung out in the boiling sun before deciding to throw it in the oven at the last minute. i have to mix my tiny portion in with the stuffing and a thick slice of CANNED CRANBERRY SAUCE (delicious!) just to choke it down. it's like trying to eat a goddamned sock. blarf.
i get a LOT of thanksgiving invitations, i imagine because bitches think it will land them on santa's good list to invite a salty orphan to dinner. i decline all of them, mostly because if i wanted to miss out on all the inside jokes and witness interpersonal family drama play out over the green bean casserole i'd drop in on one of the five people on earth i'm actually related to. please don't be offended. the real reason i never go to anyone's house during the holidays is because i don't want to have to shit there. and unless you can read me an ingredient list, i can't be sure there isn't something lethal to my crohn's lurking within your sweet potato casserole. and who wants to be the asshole with half an ounce of turkey and nineteen unbuttered dinner rolls on her fucking plate? NOT ME.
i hate god because go OBVIOUSLY hates me, but i do take time out once a year to thank horus for everything that has made my life a little less goddamned miserable in the prior eleven months. i'm thankful for a lot of stupid shit, because i REFUSE to give thanks for "waking up in the morning" or whatever you jesus people pretend to be happy about. samantha is thankful for things like not shitting her pants while talking to that hot dude over there and being able to stay awake long enough to watch tracy morgan's comedy special the other night. like you saps always say, it's the little things. so here is my annual list of people, places, things, and cats that have kept me from committing suicide this year. feel free to use it as handy holiday shopping guide as well. i mean, where applicable.
1 the pleasure chest. since my celibacy has essentially put up a virtual billboard, i thought i should give a few props to the sex shop that has suppliedjust about every orgasm i've had this year. at last count (yesterday), i have seventeen working vibrators. lest my vagina get bored, i have a bunch of different kinds that perform different, yet equally amazing, feats and functions. butt vibes, inside vibes, outside vibes, vibes that are both inside and outside AT THE SAME TIME, and most of them have been purchased at the pleasure chest on lincoln west of that fancy whole foods. right off the paulina brown line stop. (i'm too lazy to consult the google.) ginger and i took a sex toy class there a few months ago where we learned more about pleasuring oneself than i ever imagined was possible. and after which i stepped my self love game UP. for real, i have spent more on fancy vibrators this year than i have on shoes. no more sticky fingers, and no more cheap plastic tubes that stop working ten minutes after you buy them. you girls need a piece with some horsepower. and it's a sex-positive place with a knowledgeable staff where you don't have to feel dirty and ashamed. they have a huge condom and lube section, which is good for you ladies with sensitive taco meat.
2 cupid's treasures. now let's fucking be for real. I AM A PERVERT. and the pleasure chest has fruitybag ladyporn that dries my snatch up. so for all of my filthy, crazy, "if you tell anyone i like this i'll KILL YOU" needs, i go to cupid's. it's on halsted just south of irving park, and you should really go during the daytime because every time i'm in there at night i feel like i'm going to end up on some predator list or something. i don't fuck with internet porn. sorry, dudes, but i think jerking off to a computer is weird. i guess i'm old school in that way. but so are a lot of other people (who refuse to pay for internet access). CT has a gigantic selection of hardcore porn, and they also have all that deviant shit you freaks are into: urine, lactation, nuggets, senior citizens, feet, fat, vomit, EVERYTHING. i try not to judge what anyone else beats off to, but put your blinders on up in there if you're delicate. i learned the hard way not to ask any dude i'm sleeping with what kind of porn he watches. body builders and cream pies are my limit. anything more serious than that can be your little secret.
3 my new htc evo. i haven't yet had this phone for a full day, and i am already completely obsessed and totally in love with it. mostly because it is complicated and hard to figure out, which is exactly the way it works with most of the dudes i love, too. i can't help it, i just fall hard for those elusive silent types. you know, the ones that let me email while making a phone call or whatever. i'm too childish and impatient for gadgets, and by next week i will be bored with this thing and moving on to something else, but for right now i'm absolutely smitten. despite the fact that it takes me forty-seven minutes to send a goddamned text.
4 amazing hair products. it's a good fucking time to be a black bitch with natural hair, lovers. i shaved all of my long, chemically-relaxed hair off almost sixteen years ago, the day before i started my senior year of high school. at the time i didn't have any lofty or revolutionary intentions, i was just a lazy teenager who hated spending her fun money at the hair salon. not to mention i got tired of running from rain storms and swimming pools and scratching at the peeling chemical burns on my scalp. i'm not a self-righteous asshole, so i don't give a fuck whether or not you perm your hair. that's between you and hawaiian silky or whoever. here's the thing i hate about you yaki weave bitches, my simply TALKING about my own hair is NOT a recrimination or indictment of you and yours. my healthy, lustrous curls don't judge your dead split ends and rapidly balding, itchy ass hairline. i don't have a problem listening to a skinny bitch talk about how much she loves celery, so why the fuck are YOU bent all out of shape just because i mention how MOP's leave-in conditioner makes my hair so soft? cut that oppression off and maybe you wouldn't be so fucking sensitive. jerks. anyway, years ago the only options for natural black hair were nada and nothing. nowadays the internet (and even some real-life brick-and-mortar storefronts!) is chock full of fancy shit you can slather on your dusty slave hair. and i've tried just about every single one. take your asses to curlmart.com and have a fucking field day. my favorites are bumble and bumble, hair rules, devacurl, MOP leave in, and paul mitchell's the conditioner is my main jam. my hair is totally fucking long and gross and i hate it right now, but it looks nice and smells good and i think everyone in my life was getting tired of my looking like a dude. so it's a win.
5 the urban target. thank the fuck christ someone pulled his head out of his ass and decided to put the greatest store in the history of man in a spot where broke assholes who like to use pocket change to get where they need to go can get to it. in case you didn't know, there's a target on broadway at montrose now! i know what you're thinking, "isn't it still a little bit hood over there?!" and yes, it still is. but if you go during the daytime what fucking difference does it make? it's the only target in chicago that's close to the el. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. i know what you're thinking now. "ISN'T THAT RIGHT OFF THE WILSON STOP?!?!! I'M NOT GOING SHOPPING OVER THERE!" and my answer, again, is yes. but they're cleaning it up, i promise! remember that time a couple years ago when i was walking to class at truman a couple years ago and stopped to watch that tranny beat a dude half to death on the street with a chain?! well, it's a little bit nicer now. more white people (who don't know any better) are moving in. but so is a harold's chicken. um, so yeah. the target is banging. one of those multi-leveled, multi-storied affairs. with a grocery store. FANCY. that shit changed my fucking life. the only drawback, however, is that sometimes it's hard to remember that you have to drag that shit on the train with you. target is overwhelming, and i can't help but to put everything i can get my grubby hands on in my goddamned cart. but there's no way i can carry an air conditioner, four lawn chairs, and a dining set in my backpack. trust me, i learned that one the hard way.
6 stupid, wack, raggedy fucking ridiculous, horrible dudes. without them, what the fuck would i write about?! helen and tacos, that's what. and you kids would all be bored out of your gourds. maybe not, but that's not a risk i'm willing to take. don't get me wrong, having a romantic life that is made of horse shit and crushing disappointment makes me want to cut my own throat. but there are two reasons i don't. 1 i think my knives are from ikea and are so fucking dull that i can't cut a goddamned tomato without making crazy jagged edges. and 2 MAKING FUN OF COCKSUCKING SCUMBAGS WHO LIKE TO GET PEED ON AND JERK OFF TO BITCHES EATING CAKE AND ASK YOU TO SPANK THEM AND STICK PINS IN THEIR TESTICLES ON THE MOTHERFUCKING INTERNET IS THE GREATEST FEELING ON EARTH. better than a scarlet letter, goddamn it. in the old days i would just sit in my room alone in the dark listening to sad music and nursing my poor disconsolate broken heart. now i just get drunk and put that shit on the internet. and that's 1000% better.
7 al gore. thank god for that dude. without him i would have missed all the juicy bits of that tiger woods drama, there would be no bitches gotta eat, and i wouldn't have met that dude who tried to fuck me in the ass with the human equivalent of a half-empty water balloon. right now i'm listening to the new girl talk record which is JAMMING AS HELL, and that would not be possible without the interweb. i don't know how it works or why it works or where it really came from, but if you tried to take my access to it away i would tear your throat out and set your corpse on fire. for cereal. i throw my aluminum cans in with the regular trash because i hate the earth and recycling is for white people, but i LOVE me some goddamned internets!
8 YOU BITCHES.
9 loperamide, mesalamine, and azathioprine. without this shit i'd be dead. or laid up in traction at the very least. i could give a fuck about how corrupt and awful the pharmaceutical industry is. i really would be messed up if i didn't have a truckload of medication is my system at all times. i would be shitting in a plastic bag strapped to my ankle right now. and that would be gross. SERIOUSLY. could you imagine the first, "hang on, handsome. before you take my shirt off, let me explain why my foot sort of smells like shit..." conversation?! ew and no and gross. so thank horus for copious amounts of drugs.
10 "he's just not that into you." that's right, whores who haven't smoked away your short-term memory. TWO YEARS IN A ROW. maybe you think i'm dumb, and if you do why haven't you killed yourselves yet?, but that fucking book continues to be the one of the most important things i've ever read. especially considering that i don't fuck around with religious texts or newspapers. that weird ass dude with the douchebag mohawk was 100% correct about every stupid fucking thing dudes think, say, and do and the best course of action to keep from playing yourself. man, fuck dudes. and double fuck making yourself look and feel like a silly asshole just to try to get one to suck your toes for a minute or two. maybe i'll work on the african-american version, because i know most of you broads won't read shit unless it's marketed directly to your black ass. keep your eyes peeled for "that nigga ain't into you, gurl." coming this summer to a beauty shop or church bake sale near you.
keep your fingers crossed that i make it through the meal without having to resort to wearing a diaper. gobble gobble gobble, lovers!