I AM A HATER. i know it's not polite to admit to that in public, or in mixed company even, but i refuse to keep living a lie. i'm a motherfucking hater, goddamn it, and unapologetic about it. i don't want to hear any news unless it's bad news, especially if i know you and like you and your mere presence in my life will serve as a reminder of all the good things that are happening to you. fuck you. i want you down here slogging through the misery with me, and the more times you graduate from school and get married and give birth to healthy children, the more i hate your fucking guts. call me when you get cancer, bitch. blarf.
i live in the kind of neighborhood that doesn't frown upon bedclothes worn out in public, and last week i went to the bodega around the corner from my apartment wearing: a nightgown, my long grey inside pants, a grey sweater, a grey coat, my giant man boots, seven scarves, woollen mittens, a headwrap, sunglasses, vaseline lips, and my weekend bra. i hadn't bathed, but in my mind since all of my clothes smell like luxurious musky oils no one will notice if i am a little stinky. pfffft. homeless chic at its absolute finest. so i'm standing in the cookie aisle with a basket over my arm (contents: almond dish soap, one loose peach rolling around, two persimmons, a loaf of black rye, and a package of roast beef from the deli), minding my own business. and just staring. as a rule i don't buy things like cookies. potato chips, either. because i would really just eat them all in a day and spend the rest of that day beating myself up. i have to buy shit that comes in a single fucking serving. ONE SLICE of cake. ONE PIECE of chocolate. boo hoo.
anyway, wearing sunglasses inside makes me feel inconspicuous and i listen to my ipod SO FUCKING LOUD to drown, so i didn't notice this gorgeous bitch i went to school with waving at me from the cracker end of the aisle until she walked over and waved her hand in front of my face. "samanthairby! is that really you?! it's so good to see you!" (that's how she talks, all pick and shit. she TALKS PINK.) then she tried to hug me but my cat-like reflexes quickly shifted my basket to an awkward angle, making coat-to-coat contact nearly impossible. ugggghhhh GROSS. why is shit like this always happening to me when i haven't brushed my teeth, my pajamas smell like pee, and i am visibly drooling over a box of petite ecolier?! "it's me," i groaned. then i mentally reprimanded myself for being such a fucking jackass and tried to sweeten my tone. "how have you been?" but the truth is, i didn't want to know. i never run into girls who are like, "holy fuck, my life TOTALLY WENT TO SHIT since the last time you saw me." no, i somehow happen upon all of the wealthy smug marrieds who spent the last ten years modeling before deciding to settle down in hawaii with some hot NFL cornerback. this is the kind of bitch i hate on principle, just for happening to exist: gorgeous, smart, nice, hip, and not the least bit belittling in any fucking way, and when she said, "i just got engaged and finished my phd. i can't believe i ran into you!" my mean ass died a little inside and i turned into happybot for the rest of the conversation. "that is nice. i work with animals. i live in an apartment the size of your bathroom. i have the meanest piece of shit cat on the face of the earth. i don't have a boyfriend. i haven't gotten laid in almost one calendar year. i have crohn's disease. this brace on my wrist isn't a prop. i routinely pray for death." excited gasp. "you work with ANIMALS?! that's awesome! you must love it!" BIG SIGH.
i'm not even sure how i got out of that conversation. if she'd been an asshole i would have just been like, "fuck you, bitch. you were mean to me in biology" and pushed her cart over, but she was nice. excruciatingly so. so i just stood there nodding in my big sunglasses and wondering if she could smell that i was on my period. but if she did she didn't show it, just kept grinning at me and suggesting we "hang out sometime." how come people always say that? is it too uncomfortable to just say, "i'm glad we both made it through this uncomfortable encounter intact. i hope i never run into you again?" FUCK, DUDE. that's the one thing that is balls about living where you grew up, running into bitches you never intend to see again. in TWELVE YEARS you never looked me up, honey. why we gotta fake like we're about to be homies? just say "good to see you!" with a fake smile and remember to never come to this grocery store ever again at this time of day while not wearing a disguise. let's go back to pretending the other doesn't exist, shall we? why you gotta make shit so AWKWARD?! to dodge the phone number exchange bullet i said, "look me up on facebook" and set my basket on the floor and walked out, guaranteeing that bitch will 1 think i'm a huge weirdo and 2 NEVER EVER LOOK ME UP. then i waited five minutes in the liquor store down the street and went back and bought my shit. i am obviously imbalanced.
last week i went out for tacos with my sweet, beautiful princess omg unicornz. ordinarily i try not to surround myself with beautiful people. no one makes good looking people be smart or interesting, so most of them just twirl their hair and giggle on cue and find seductive ways to toy with a cocktail straw. but sometimes they're fun and interesting, and those ones make me NERVOUS. and instead of trying to catch myself up (would it kill me to use a little blush, for god's sake?!) i just devolve into a disgusting sloth ("why wear clean pants? she's just going to look prettier than i do anyway") and make zero effort to look nice whatsoever. cute bitches are the WORST, man. always inadvertantly catching the eye of EVERY DUDE IN THE GODDAMNED ROOM and making me look like shit in the process. i may as well be fucking wallpaper when i'm out with these broads. two seconds after one leaves to go to the can and vomit up her dinner our table is flanked by assholes who are too moist to talk to her directly yet have no problemo interrupting ME to ask if she's single or if she dates black dudes or if those are her real tits. step your game up, gentlemen. don't you see i'm deep in conversation with this vodka soda? leave me alone!
because dudes have no imagination and all assume that i'm there to cockblock and play bodyguard (or worse, CYRANO), they try to get in good with me so i can be the catalyst through which their penises enter her vagina. that's fucking boring. this hot bitch and i are FRIENDS, goddamn it. i'm not her tutor, and she's not doing charity work as part of her probation. we're fucking TALKING. scram!
good looking dudes are usually gigantic steaming bags of shit. and even if you think you know one who isn't, just give him a few minutes. he'll let that cat out of the bag eventually. seriously, every smoking hot dude i know is a SELF-CENTERED ASSHOLE. and he's usually smart and funny and shit (otherwise i would not waste a millisecond of my time with him), but asshole is generally his dominant frequency. because good looking people don't have to be nice. if history has taught us not a goddamned thing else, it's proven through millions of years of reinforcement that pretty people can just do whatever the fuck they want. because SOMEONE is going to think that shit is cute and put up with it.
i have a hot friend who is fucking MURDER on a dude. for cereal. and she's always giggling on the phone telling me all the shit she puts him through, and up until a year ago i would think to myself "why does he put up with this shit?" and then one day it hit me. HER FACE. and her tiny ass. this bitch could be like, "walk to the target in this blizzard with no shoes on and bring me back a patio set" and that fool would do it. JUST TO KEEP DROPPING A LOAD IN THAT ASS. i'd be afraid to ask a dude if i could give him a piggyback ride on a ninety-degree day to the taco stand and pay for his carne asadas then fan him while he ate them, lest i inconvenience him or interfere with what he already had planned that day. pffft.
long story short, i'm mean to attractive people. because they deserve it and FUCK THEM. life is easy enough for you bastards. the entire universe is already your slave, fuck if i'm going to bend over backwards to do something nice for you. get your own drink, hang up your own coat. or ask that dude over there with the erection to do it. except that sometimes pretty girls are really nice. and funny. and surprisingly tolerant of a grizzled old asshole hissing and spitting venom at anyone who comes within a five-foot radius.
after waving for a cab for TEN GODDAMN MINUTES at north and clybourn (what the FUCK is up with the traffic over there?!??!!), i arrived at big star. omg unicornz had texted me that she had gotten seats at the bar, and the minute i walked in and looked over i saw 1 her gorgeous face and 2 some dude in a sweater gazing longingly at it from the bar stool next to her. with my attitude meter set to SALTY i walked over and crashed their party. after discerning that this dude didn't know my girl i introduced myself and figured the evening was going to go one of two ways: he would either fuck off and do his own thing or he was going to bother the shit out of us all fucking night. i bet you can guess which one happened.
one thing i resolutely am NOT is a motherfucking cockblocker. i know how hard it is to get laid out here (two more weeks until i hit a year, kittens), and while i hate the shit out of dudes, i would never stop one from fucking one of my friends. as a matter of fact, i will do everything i can to help facilitate that shit. especially if it means that once you get her number you will LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE because i have a lot of shit to talk about and dumping all my troubles on the adorable j. crew model that wants to stick his dick in my friend was not on my agenda this evening. so i did a couple whiskey shots and wingmanned my dick off. shy giggling ensued. numbers were exchanged. tacos de panza were ordered. and consumed. yet dude kept sitting next to us. and talking. WHILE HE ATE A SALAD FOR DINNER.
you already know how i fucking feel about that shit. 100% fruity. dinner salads are for GIRLS. not this girl, because i need lots of protein to maintain all the hair on my chest, but anorexic bitches need something to eat in a restaurant, too. and because "i'll just have a water" makes a bitch look bad, dinner salads have a reason to exist. and i might not have cared about this dude and his panties (seriously? a fucking salad?!??!! even his friends were talking shit about him!), but he was infringing upon my date. which might have been cool if he was willing to let me sit next to the bed while he was trying to bone her, but i didn't think he'd be open to returning that particular favor.
i don't ever want to hear anyone say that i am not a good friend, because although it would have been well within my friend rights to poke out my bottom lip and pout while this dude tried to impress the unicorn with his vast knowledge of beer pong and sweater vests (or whatever the fuck white dudes talk about), i pulled out MY GLORIOUS EVO and texted bitches for an hour. oh, and i got more and more drunk. but what i DIDN'T do was detract from my lovely lady's mack-a-thon. like a hater. despite the fact that she's drop-dead beautiful. thank horus for this fancy fucking phone. i alwayyyyys have a book or twelve and a magazine in my giant bag, but facebooking on a novel-sized phone makes you look way less like a losery asshole. i've been the bitch reading at the bar before, and i hate it. so if i lose my phone, or you steal it, i will die. take note.
between bouts of his fawning all over her, omg unicornz and i talked shit about that dude and every other dude we could come up with. she told me about some asshole she'd recently been seeing who, after both borrowing money from her AND introducing her to his parents, disappeared off the face of the earth. and i don't mean an alien abducted him, i mean HE JUST STOPPED CALLING. i was fucking SHOCKED. "wait a minute," i said, puzzled. "that kind of shit happens to YOU? but you're so pretty!" and it had indeed happened. to her. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
i don't like when the earth conspires to shit on my well-founded philosophies. and one of my longest-held beliefs is that hot people have it easier. THEREFORE, my hatred of them is totally justified. never did i imagine some dude would play the "i accidentally on purpose forgot your number" game with someone adorable! HOLY FUCKING SHIT. this turns everything i thought i knew upside down! i thought that I was the only lovesick idiot buying ipods and playstations and helping out with rent! EUREKA.
seriously, WHAT IS THE POINT OF BEING HOT if you end up doing what the rest of us regular people do? if a dude asked me for money i'd say "FUCK NO," then think to myself, "god, bitch, you need to lose fifty pounds," and then sigh and say, "well...how much are we talking about exactly?" while digging through my pocketbook. "are large bills okay?"
so now i have to be nice to you ladies because i've realized that the majority of us are ALL eating shit off stupid dudes. and while the real solution might be that we need to thelma and louise it over the edge of a cliff, until chevy makes a car that can fit NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF THE EARTH'S FEMALE POPULATION, we're stuck here. never again will i scowl at some long-haired gazelle who jumps the bar line ahead of me, nor will i trip her half-naked friend as she makes her way to the bathroom. (ordinarily i TOTALLY WOULD.) because those bitches aren't staring at their phones all night because handsome dudes are texting the shit out of them. they're staring at their phones all night because handsome dudes AREN'T texting the shit out of them! and despite the old adage that a watched pot never boils, we all know that a stared-at phone is bound to ring. sooner or later. these chicks and i have SO MUCH in common. i stare at MY phone, TOO! so instead of wishing death or some scurrilous plague to befall them, i'm going to usher them under my massive wing and pet them and sing them lullabies.
oh who am i kidding. i'm miserable and made of dog poo. so i'm still going to be awful to you hot broads. not those of you who have already clawed your way into my shriveled dead heart (OMG), just the rest of you. so after i knock that drink out of your hand and push you face first into a puddle of vomit at the club, i'm going to say, "NOW your life is hard. welcome to the shit with the rest of us."
postscript: that fucking dude texted omg unicornz to see if she'd made it home okay (i left the bar early to give them some time "alone" in a bar full of fucking people, pffft), then HE NEVER FUCKING CALLED HER. what the fuck, dudes? WHAT THE FUCK?!