Wednesday, December 1, 2010

bitch, this is why you're single.

this is my kitchen. more on that later.

i hope you had a nice thanksgiving. no, i really don't. i was sidelined with a head cold and diarrhea and was in bed in my pajamas all day, so it would suit me just fine if you jerks had to eat dry turkey and lumpy potatoes and burnt pumpkin pie while fighting off the wandering hands of your creepy uncle. tis the fucking season. i spent the morning flipping between a star trek: the next generation marathon and a marathon of the first 48, which are two of my MAIN JAMS. nothing is better than television, and i'd fight you in the street if you say otherwise. then i made the mistake of turning on that saints cowboys game in the third quarter; it was exciting enough, but i had fifty dollars riding on them boys and i was salty that they lost. boo hoo. for real, though, when buehler missed that field goal at the end i screamed so loud helen pulled her face out of her asshole and was like, "use your inside voice, bitch. before i put your ass outside." my thanksgiving dinner consisted of fish sticks, chili sauce, some watermelon that might have been a little spoiled, and frozen peas i definitely didn't cook long enough. jealous? i thought so.

jeff is another sad and lonely piece of shit with dead parents and crippling social anxiety disorder who spends every holiday crying in his bathtub (that might be more me than him) and when he called to see if i wanted to split a bottle of wild turkey with him as an homage to his pilgrim ancestors raping this nubile nation my answer was a loud, resounding "YES." well, my first answer was, "barf, do i have to put a fucking bra on?" and when he said no i said "YES." this is a crying fucking shame, but whether or not i have to put a bra on is a huge decision point (zing) when determining whether or not i'm going to do something. that's why you have to catch me right after work if you want to kick it during the week. because if i get home and i'm sitting around bored for more than a fraction of a second, that bad girl is coming off and i'm getting my ass in the bed. and not getting out. and public bralessness is not a goddamned option, lest my nipples get caught in my fucking belt in the middle of a bar or wherever you want me to get out of bed to go with you. so i changed from my daytime pajamas into my nighttime pajamas and threw all of my errant socks and underwear in the laundry basket and lit some frankincense candles because i really think that at this point that i'm 100% desensitized to the smell of cat pee and didn't want my homeboy to be grossed out.

jeff isn't the kind of dude you can fuck on, but he is marginally entertaining and has a LOT of credit cards so i hang out with him as much as i can stand it. i don't ever want you to forget how much of a piece of shit i am, so i should probably tell you how i'll keep hanging out with someone who sort of sucks huge ass if he does things like ply me with alcohol and pay for my cab ride home. anyway, helen keller likes that dude so while i was "straightening up" (throwing everything on the floor into the bathtub and hiding it behind the shower curtain) she busied herself with the task of getting her taint clean. cat lady side note: helen had to get what we in the industry call a "sanitary shave" a couple weeks ago, and i have spent every day since throwing shit across the room for her to fetch (she does that) just so i can watch that little bald booty running away from me. fucking hilarious! so jeff just got dumped by this pretty little ice queen i found thoroughly unimpressive upon our introduction (HATER), and the minute he walked through my door he started blubbering and crying about being alone during the holidays and no one loves me blah blah blah. he was obviously already drunk, so i snatched the bottle he'd brought with him and went to pour some shots to catch up. because i have to be drunk to engage in these kind of self-pitying conversations.

here's a thought, emotional people: SHUT THE FUCK UP. or find someone who advertises himself as "a good listener" to talk to. last night i was on the phone with the hippie (swoon!) and before we could get to the phone sex (yes, please) i found myself starting to talk about one of my friendships that is totally fucking falling apart before my eyes, and just before my vagina parted her lips to lay down the backstory and draw the timeline and map out the conflicts and sort through all of the "she said, i saids," and build to the cinematic dissolution i caught myself and said, "holy balls. sorry, amigo. let's talk about your balls leaving a burn mark on my chin. men don't want to hear about this kind of stupid shit."

and they totally fucking DON'T. neither do i unless the shit is juicy and scandalous and gossipy
, in which case i bring a tape recorder and take fucking NOTES. and you know what he said? "that's okay. tell me about it. i'm a good listener." come again?! now i'm not stupid. this dude hasn't fucked me yet, so this could easily be a ploy to convince me he's sensitive and awesome enough to deserve to put the meat in my taco. as a matter of fact, i'm sure he was jerking off with one hand and playing tekken with the other while i was explaining to him why i need to kick a bitch out of my life, but he kept that shit quiet and said, "mm hmm," "word?," and "yeah, you're totally right" (my FAVORITE) every time i paused to breathe. i don't even remember what he said when i finally finished, but i did think to myself "for listening to that story, i'm going to let thise dude put it in my butt."

i don't want to bang jeff, though, so unless he was going to leave some money or something on my dresser i could see little value in listening to him navel gaze and mourn the loss of a bitch who wears a bleached blond weave. BLARF. but i'm a good friend, so i did shots and nodded sympathetically every time he looked up from his bowl of teary-os for some moral support. in the end i couldn't think of anything to say other than "good fucking riddance, that dumb bitch had to ask me to help her with the menu THREE TIMES when we were at dinner. let's turn the computer on and make you a match.com profile." it took us an hour and a half to come up with something suitable, he kept arguing with me about wanting to include the phrase "giant horse penis" in his descriptive essay, and then he said he wanted to talk to me about a business proposition.

i'm too fucking lazy to get involved in anything more complicated than a pinkie swear, so i immediately said, "NOT DOING THAT" and turned on HBO. "hey look, avatar is on!" this asshole told me that he wants to start a website or service to help chronically single women figure out what it is they're doing wrong that continually drives men away. you did not misread that. the minute i got the gist of what he was saying i was like, "hold up, didn't you just get DUMPED?!" he's going to put advertisements in the reader and new city and craigslist, offering his consulting services to "lonely gals who want to break the cycle of ruining relationships." i want you to know that i listened to his pitch while sitting on the toilet with the door open, and i was rolling my eyes so much i almost had a fucking seizure. even helen poked her head in and was like, "this ninja has lost his damn mind" before pinching her nose closed and saying, "damn, bitch! COURTESY FLUSH!"
so his plan is to go into women's homes, look through their shit, take pictures of their clothing and living spaces, interview them, and basically hang out with them to figure out exactly what it is they are doing to make men run screaming from them. he's going to take them to movies, bars, clubs, starbucks, and all that other date-type shit for two weeks, at the end of which he'll write up a report card listing what she does right when it comes to relationships. and what she does WRONG. i listened to him blathering on for a good half an hour and the only qualification i could discern is that he has a penis and enough time on his hands to engage in this nonsense. this motherfucker is a BANKER. and he's not very good at THAT, because i asked him to take a look at my 401k and invest some money for me and he fucked it all up and i ended up having to send one of my goons over to his house to get my goddamned money back. (don't worry, that was a long time ago. we're over it now. pfffft.) his deal is that he'll write a comprehensive analysis of each woman's potential as a girlfriend, tell her what needs to be amended, then send her out into the dating world armed with his advice to conquer the single men of chicago. total fucking bullshit.

i asked him what he would need me for, and he immediately lied and said he wanted me to be a co-consultant or some shit; hang out with the ladies and point out the ones who are wearing cheap shoes and have bad lace fronts and make terrible jokes. well i don't know shit about that. i wear velcro gym shoes and my hair is a disgusting tangle of weeds 99.9% of the time, what the fuck do i know about girlfriend possibility?! "nice try, but i don't have a fucking man. i'm an expert at being drunk and watching television. want to start a website for that?" i put on my best "bitch, please" face and asked again for the real reason he wanted me involved. he almost lied to me again (i could see it on his face!) before looking down at his shoes and whispering, "i was hoping you'd be my first client." I FUCKING KNEW IT. i'm "chronically single," i have spent a fair amount of time trolling craigslist, and i'm almost desperate enough to entrust my dating fate to an unproven jackass who puts a free ad on the internet.

instead of wasting my time pretending to be insulted (i really wasn't, i'm kind of the perfect candidate for this shit) i just asked if my testimonial (provided that he could "fix" whatever my fucking problem is) would even be valid considering that he'd obviously be biased in my favor. i mean, come on. this asshole has known me for years! i could write his report in my sleep: and the verdict is, this bitch is single because she is TOO MUCH AWESOME. case closed. i obviously have to be cool with dying alone. jeff gave me his own bitch please look and informed me that there are quite a few things that would land me on the boyfriend kryptonite list, the most important being my "childish kitchen." oh, for real?!


too many bright colors (who the fuck lives here, rainbow brite?), too many containers of cat food (seriously, there are FOUR), too many swiffer-related products (inherent laziness), my miniature oven (men like baked goods), so many pill bottles (dudes like healthy broads), too much cereal (lazy), cluttered countertops (dirty), metal shelving (industrial and manly), dust on the cuisinart (lazy, again!), obama bumper sticker (silly idealist), i heart porn magnet (whore), picture of cate blanchett taped to the cabinet (that bitch is ugly), too many "all natural" cleaning products (smelly hippie), cat pictures (lesbian), magnet from when sarah and i saw wicked (lesbian), and the kitchen smelled like fish sticks and lemons (LESBIAN).

well okay then. when you put it that way, i guess i see what the issue is. i'm a smelly immature little girl who doesn't cook enough, has too many food options for one cat, and stinks like breaded cod fillets. PROBLEM SOLVED. the hippie is coming over this weekend to "watch movies" and "eat dinner," blarf he is a goddamned vegetarian so i'm not even sure what the fuck that is going to mean, but i'll be sure to give him the guided tour and gauge his assessment of my kitchen. i'm sure he'll love it. and then i'm going to let him put it in my butt.