this past year can suck my asshole. as much as i love a year-end montage, imagining my own for this garbage-ass year makes me sick to my stomach. i make at least a few resolutions every year, if for no other reason than to give myself a hearty laugh come june, when i realize i have been doing (or NOT doing) every single thing on the goddamned list. i like the look of a list; it makes me feel put together and capable and organized. plus i like the way all of those lines look on the page. it fills my tiny heart and brain with the promise of fresh possibility, that the dawning of a new year might bring with it a newfound sense of purpose and hope. and by january 2 i'm right back to being drunk and mean and making inappropriate jokes. which is why a few years ago i stopped making resolutions that are impossible to maintain. people who try to lose a hundred pounds or start a new career are just fooling themselves. if you could've done that shit you would've a long time ago. i know i'm not going to change my body in a month, which is precisely how long i have the patience to commit to drastic diet and exercise plans. so rather than setting an impossibly high bar, i instead make micro goals that are actually attainable. BECAUSE I LIKE FEELING LIKE A GODDAMNED WINNER.
i usually tape my resolutions to the bathroom mirror and leave them there until they get all water-stained and warped from steam, just so i have a constant reminder. because i spend a fair amount of time in the bathroom. last year's list of microscopic goals included a bunch of shit i actually accomplished, like not buying potato chips and using the dust buster more. what, you thought i was kidding when i said i need my shit to be manageable? only an asshole would burden himself with a laundry list of shit he could never achieve. i don't need another reason to feel bad about myself. plus i am lazy and i work sixty hours a week, and i can't pretend that i am going to re-invent the wheel in my fucking downtime. last year another of my resolutions was figure out a pubic hair maintenance plan, and i totally fucking did that shit, too. because a year ago i didn't know i needed one. then i went to the gulag and paid that tiny soviet bitch to tear all of the hair out of my butt. and i kept it up, because it was on the back of the apart pizza menu i wrote my goals on last december.
no more phone sex. i decided this a little over a week ago, and when i told laura she almost fell off her fucking chair and IMMEDIATELY drafted the above contract and made me and a bunch of my work minions sign it. here's the thing, i fucking LOVE phone sex. it's easy and hilarious, and you can totally paint your nails or mop your kitchen while doing it. BUT. lately i have been putting the phone sex cart before the dating horse, and that shit is fucking WEAK. a couple years ago i vowed to not fuck or suck or HJ a dude who couldn't be bothered to meet me out for dinner or a drink. and i was pretty good about upholding that. but lately i've been fucking slipping, talking dirty to dudes who want to spend three hours panting into my ear over the phone every night but to whom it never occurs to ask if i might like to go out for a latte. and FUCK THAT DUMB SHIT. i refuse to get to know some dude within the confines of my apartment. EVER AGAIN. maybe if i were seventeen we could sit in my room listening to records and making out while trying not to get caught, but i have a fucking bank account now. "dinner at home" is for bitches who know each other, man. i want to go OUT. also, it sort of totally sucks when a dude is moaning hot shit into your ear and in person all that big talk results in little action. and it's my own fault; i engaged in premature aural sex due to no one's fault of my own, but i thought since we're all grownups now that eventually things would fall into place. and by "things" i mean "cloth restaurant napkins." how much is a taco, gentlemen? THREE DOLLARS?! lame. it just goes to prove the point that i've made here so fucking often, that dudes will always be as shitty as you let them get away with being. so i'm stupid. but not anymore, because mean mommy has this contract in the drawer of her desk, and i already told you: I LIKE WINNING.
invest in the entire led zeppelin catalog. self-fucking-explanatory. duh.
take a class or something. i feel like i haven't done SHIT with myself these last twelve months. nothing exciting, at least. creatively i've been on a fucking roll; i've been reading everywhere and making you bitches laugh, but i feel like my brain is beginning to atrophy a little bit. i had brunch with anna and her fine-ass canadian yesterday, and anna is the number one champion of my upward mobility. so when i was bitching about having thrown my education in the garbage for yet another school year she gave me those crinkly mom eyes and said, "sameeeeantha. you should take a class. please?" community college is a fucking bummer, dude, and i might have been more excited to go if there were hot dudes there or fewer nine-year-olds trying to correct the algorithm solution i just put on the chalkboard (man, fuck that girl!), but there weren't. just a bunch of tired single parents and disaffected thirtysomethings (ahem) glaring at the young people because we ruined our youths. SERIOUSLY. last semester there was a nineteen year old dude in my lab group; i could BARELY UNDERSTAND ANYTHING THAT MOTHERFUCKER SAID. sorry, friend, but i don't speak CHILD. i have no idea what these fucking kids are talking about. or listening to. or WEARING. but the old people just depress me and make me terrified that i'm going to die bitter and alone while trying to read the odyssey for the first time in literature 102 at community fucking college. the old people never hear anything the professor says, and the can NEVER figure out the computers in the foreign language lab. i spent all last summer watching this grandpa squinting over his magnifying glasses at the computer screen, struggling to conjugate spanish verbs and match nouns like "chair" and "shoe" using this flash card game intended for TODDLERS, but he couldn't click the mouse fast enough and kept getting disqualified. CHINGADA. i don't want to go back there! but internet college is a joke and real school is for tenacious go-getters. so i'll be back at truman in january. i died a little inside just writing that. sigh.
buy more lean cuisines. this is my version of "eat right and exercise more." i'm a good cook but let's face it, I ONLY COOK WHEN THERE IS A HOT DUDE AROUND TO COOK FOR. cooking for myself is sad and boring. when it's just me and helen i eat cold soup straight from the can or a bag of marcona almonds sprinkled with rosemary for dinner, standing over the kitchen sink in my pajamas. nothing on earth is more depressing than slaving for an hour over a hot stove, dripping sweat from the tip of your nose onto a fancy cookbook, hurting your knees and lower back and stirring shoulder, then finally deciding you are too tired to remain upright and totally uninterested in whatever it is you just finished making. and leftovers are gross. and for poor people. so i rely on pre-packaged meals from whole foods, frozen meals from trader joe's, and tacos. so say what you will because i don't give a fuck anyway, but letting stouffer's watch my calories and provide my fiber is good enough for me. they taste like upscale hospital food, they cook in less than five minutes, and only two or three varieties give me raging dietarrhea. no better way to pretend that i care about my health. AND they make them with less sodium now, which means you natural foods people who are about to chap my balls of can STFU and STFD. bring on the skinny, 2011.
break up forest whitaker's marriage. okay okay okay. every resolution list needs at least ONE unattainable goal, and if your delusional ass gets to write "steal my ex-boyfriend away from that bitch he cheated on me with," i can have this. stop shitting on my dreams.
stop drinking beer. sacrilege, i know. but that shit turns into sugar which turns into BELLY, and what is the point of eating frozen vegetables in bland sauce with gummy pasta if i fuck it all up with a six-pack of trois pistoles? i reserve the right to drink it when i'm broke, but i have to switch to vodka sodas and whiskey shots, or whatever it is the bitches on the hills used to drink. last week at big star i had a sasparilla, which is whiskey and root beer, and i almost cried because that shit was so amazing. and beer gets me too drunk too fucking fast and makes me feel like a fucking frat boy, and i always end up nearly pissing myself in some dirty bar bathroom because i can't get my pants down fast enough. i am attempting to grow up a little bit here. beer is for kids.
get a reservation at the girl and the goat. my birthday is coming up. and i'm tired of throwing my own birthday parties, only to have three-quarters of my friends sit the shit out. this could just be my salty talking, but i'm thinking about skipping it this year. all that hard work just to stand at the bar tallying the bitches who lied and said they'd show up but somehow failed to on a cocktail napkin before trying, in vain, to find someone with whom i might stumble home and have birthday sex like the dude in that song. the same seven people who show up to see me read are the same seven people who come to my birthday, give or take a few, and there's always too much cake left over. cake that sits in my refrigerator taunting and mocking me for days until i finally throw it away. and by "throw it away" i mean "eat the entire thing while weeping." i get drunk, eat cake, and plot revenge on all the people who didn't come and think texting me "sorry, girl. hope you had fun!" is an acceptable explanation. man, fuck you. and it doesn't help that my birthday is the day before valentine's day, also known as "no one loves you enjoy purchasing your own fucking chocolate day." so i'm going to have to settle for veal ravioli and roasted pig face. now i just need someone to go with me.
pay someone to deal with my stupid fucking hair. i'm still growing it out, especially since not looking like a lesbian is a vital piece of my trying to reverse the sorry state of my withered vagina, but i need someone to do something with it before i go crazy. please african americans, direct me to a bitch who knows how to style and cut curly slave hair. i'm at the point where money is of no object, i just need to stop looking crazy. this unruly bird's nest atop my head is driving me fucking APESHIT and i hate it, no matter how beautiful people think it is. and for the first time in the history of ever my bathtub drain is running slow, and i know it's because it's full of hair i'm too terrified to dig out. BLARF. i should just shave this shit off. boo fucking hoo. help, please.
quit hollering at ginger's little brother. he is cute and smart and hilarious and everything, but he is TWENTY. and i need to quit before i catch a case. but this little dude dirty texts like nobody's business. SERIOUSLY. that shit makes me blush, and i'm not a prude by any means. he's all hot and young and his hair is too long and he plays video games all day but holy fucking shit that boy makes me clutch my pearls. but i'm going to stop. for real. i mean it. i'm cutting this off. i swear i am.
floss. i hate it, but i should do it, right? and i need to get some cavities filled. (other than the one between my legs, you jerks.) i also need to make an appointment to see the gynecologist, even though it's pointless because he was the last person down there anyway. but he brings his dogs to our hospital, and he was in today dropping one off to get a cysto and the second i saw him i was like, "oh shit. um...HI." and he gave me the disappointed doctor eyes and reminded me that the last time he'd brought the dog in he'd had to remind me that i was way overdue for a pap smear. all in front of clients and shit. this is why my life is ridiculous, because my goddamned gynecologist brings his goddamned dog to my goddamned job and reminds me that since my last pap was abnormal he wanted to check another one six months ago and why haven't i made an appointment yet? i don't even get embarrassed anymore, i just stand there with my head hung and promise to call his nurse in the morning. then i spend the rest of the day thinking about how that dude has looked in my vagina 700 times and i'm expected to just sit there and act like he hasn't while he's paying for dog food. BLARF.
play the piano more. i am a classically trained pianist (heh), i've been playing since i was four years old, and no one knows it. that needs to change. and fast.
have sex with a smart, masculine dude. easier said than done, bitches. not for lack of trying, lovers, but 2010 was the year of no sex. i should amend that to say "almost sex" because there were a handful of failed attempts, but thinking about having attempted getting banged is somehow more tragic than the fact that it didn't happen. so let's just say i didn't have any. my consolation, of course, is that this was also the year that i raised my motherfucking standards. and was punished for it. if this continues i'm going to have to resort to fucking stupid, uninteresting dudes with no talent, and i'm too goddamned old for that shit. so we'll see how that goes. either that or this might be the year i finally turn lesbian and find some bitch with facial hair to boss my ass around. where are the masculine dudes at? i am 100% OVER these sensitive mama's boys who want me to listen to their navel-gazing. FUCK THAT. i want a man with a square jaw and a cleft chin to punch me in the face, kick me in the stomach, and take this ass from me before i can even get my panties off, then smoke a cigar on my fire escape while drinking a bourbon before jumping onto the hood of a car in the parking lot below. barefoot. in the winter. this man should have a beard, and he should smell like sweat and manual labor. i want him to kill a deer with his bare hands and carry that motherfucker up to my apartment on his back, butcher it, then grill it on my radiator before eating his piece bloody. he should be able to change the lightbulbs in my place, chop me down a tree, mine me a diamond, and drive a stick shift without burning out the fucking clutch. his penis should be made of titanium, and he should never speak more than four words at a time. and there should be chest hair. happy fucking new year.
feel free to cheat off my paper if you need some motivation. fuck joining a gym.