sleepyhead.

i am going to attempt to document my insanity. so this is an experiment of sorts. and i'm not comfortable doing it, but it's hilarious and weird so i have to. i haven't been gone to sleep in over a week. so i have fallen asleep, but not really SLEPT. does that make sense? maybe an hour or two a night, punctuated by an insane amount of snapping wide awake and bolting from the bed. because in addition to making me sensitive and irritable and crazy, these steroids make it IMPOSSIBLE to get any goddamned rest. i have a pad and pencil next to my bed at all times (in case i have to make an impromptu police sketch after bringing some shady manfriend home, of course) and lately i've been using it to keep a tally of the number of times i get up during the night. to pee or to get a drink or to stand in the middle of my kitchen staring into space or to quickly run the garbage out or fold the load of laundry i left by the door or to paint my toes or send scathing emails to sean hannity or read the instructions for my new dust buster three times in a row. the thoughts just keep coming, stream of consciousness-style. i wonder if this is what it feels like right before ordinary people have a psychotic break. it certainly feels like it. how i can't stop blathering about the same thing i've been talking about to everyone all day. i talked at asshole four separate times today about that herbal tea dude. FOUR TIMES. and i rambled at matt for an hour and a half about nothing at all, a cornucopia of crazy ranging from why dudes suck so hard and how much i hate watching the view and did he want to go to mexico with me in september for heather's birthday? i'm TIRED, and i'm making everyone else tired, too. since i came home last saturday, i have gotten approximately thirteen total hours of sleep. and gotten out of my bed 119 times. ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN little hatch marks in my notebook. and that's probably not even all of them, because i'm sure i forgot in the rush to get up and do something important, like wash my face for the 37th time. the cat doesn't even know what to do with herself when i start pacing and muttering and taking four showers in one evening because this shit makes me sweat so fucking badly, so she has taken to sleeping under the bed or tucked in the back of the closet to stay out of my warpath. i'm not an anxious person generally, but i am anxious NOW. at night the swelling starts and i feel itchy and twitchy and nervous and then my brain cycles out of control and i work myself to near-hysteria. it's exhausting. but not enough that i might actually go to SLEEP.

but on the flip side corticosteroids make it possible for you to get through the next day with the energy of an eight-year-old. it's the craziest feeling ever. at night, they make me TWEAK. which is why i haven't been calling bitches and hanging out or doing anything at night. because i turn into a crazy vampire crackhead, jittery and twitching and twittering around my goddamned house looking for some shit to get into. but during the day you'd never know that i haven't slept in a week OR that i devolve into a blathering idiot shortly after night falls. i can fend it off if i'm out doing something, but if i come home it's all over for my sanity. i still have another three weeks to taper off this shit, and i can't even imagine what that is going to be like. it's the longest time i've ever been on this nasty business. terrifying. i'm like a crazy person. it usually hits me around ten or eleven o'clock? when i can't sit still and start shaking out of control. and i do crazy person things like make lists and lists and lists and think about crazy things and write SO MANY THINGS DOWN. i made a conscious decision not to write my blog during these psychotic episodes, but then i just sat here and wrote rachel and amanda three page-long crazy rambling emails and made six lists of SHIT and i thought it would be interesting to write some shit here for you dudes to read. my brain is full of STUFF. stuff it can't process. and steroids make it impossible to shut that shit off.

i wish i wasn't sick anymore. i mean, really. people think the diarrhea is the worst of it, or not having milk and beer or whatever. fuck all that. i spend huge sections of my life tweaking the fuck out on drugs that would knock a grown man on his ass, tiptoeing around my house at two in the morning for fear of waking up all the invisible people asleep in my building. what has it been? ten days or something? sitting awake flushed and sweating (SIDE EFFECT) on the edge of the bed, directly in the path of the air conditioner, staring like a zombie at the television, watching the same three shows on msnbc over and over so many times that i have them memorized. eventually i have to lie on the floor, 1 because they make me so HOT and 2 to elevate my feet over my head so that all of the water this shit makes me retain can drain out of my feet and into my head or wherever it goes. it is time for my period in a few minutes, too, so that makes me triple insane. and i'm not sleeping.

these are the side effects, according to our old friend doctor internet:
because oral corticosteroids affect your entire body instead of just a particular area, this form is the most likely to cause significant side effects. side effects depend on the dose of medication you receive. (sam is on what some people might refer to as an "astronomically high dose.") within days or weeks of starting oral therapy, you may have an increased risk of:

difficulty sleeping, feeling of a whirling motion, increased appetite, uncontrollable sweating, indigestion (oh, FOR REALS?!), nervousness, restlessness, elevated pressure in the eyes (glaucoma); fluid retention, causing swelling in your lower legs; increased blood pressure; mood swings; weight gain, with fat deposits in your abdomen, face and the back of your neck (SEXY); cataracts; high blood sugar, which can trigger or worsen diabetes; increased risk of infections; loss of calcium from bones, which can lead to osteoporosis and fractures; menstrual irregularities; suppressed adrenal gland hormone production; thin skin, easy bruising and slower wound healing.

and if you don't taper off the shit, if you just decide to go cold turkey and stop taking them, you will be FUCKED UP. once i just stopped taking them because, in addition to every other fucking thing, they give me a constant SPLITTING headache (which totally exacerbates the crazy). and you can't take ibuprofen or naproxen while on prednisone without fear of blowing out your fucking liver, and tylenol doesn't goddamned work. i'm on some next level suffering over here. tylenol is like a fucking sugar pill to a bitch like me.so i stopped the pred so i could start taking advil, and it is like HEROIN WITHDRAWAL. joint pain, muscle pain, nausea, fainting, vomiting, headache. makes you want to jump off a goddamned building.

i was up until three o'clock this morning making a list of all of the songs i could think of that began with the letter A, pages and pages and pages of SHIT. IN MARKER. you know that i'm convinced that one day i'm going to die in here, alone, and if i am surrounded by these legal pads full of scribbles you dudes are going to talk so much shit at my memorial service and i can't even handle it. i have a list of all of my mortal enemies, real and imagined; a list of dudes i've slept with; an even longer list of dudes i wish i could sleep with; a list of names i think are stupid; a list of people i wish would die; a list of people i wish i could kill with my bare hands; a special list of people i wish would get hit by a bus and live; a list of all the books on my bookshelves; every artist, every album, and every song on one of my ipods (the nano, at least); all of the things i would buy with my imaginary money; detailed accounts of everything i have eaten in the last week; recipes i copied off the internet; pablo neruda poems.

being awake when the rest of the universe is asleep is disconcerting. i want to go to bed, but i can't. and i can't call anyone. because i am crazy and they are not awake. i'm having a fucked-up week, too. i mean some real sucker shit has gone down and i don't need this bullshit on top of this other bullshit. it's getting harder and harder for me to shake off raggedy shit in my old age. i might not be saying that right. this is better: i take everything so personally nowadays. and maybe i always have. but it really fucked me up, that whole paying to listen to some self-important windbag blather at me for forty-five minutes. i know i didn't DO anything, but i keep rolling and rolling and rolling it over and over in my brain and it's making me so angry. because the universe is unfair. there is a sheet of paper over my bed that says "i just need a break" that jeff drew for me, and sometimes i lie on my back with my ass against the wall and my feet in the air (trying to draaaaaaaaain) and stare at that shit and it makes me cry.

it's like my internal engine is just idling idling idling high and i can't turn it off. i tried to exercise myself tired, but instead i feel oddly exhilarated, which isn't really a samantha kind of emotion if you know me even in the least bit. benedryl doesn't work, and because of all of the contraindications of everything i'm taking right now (i swear to god if i cut myself right now i'd bleed ground-up white powder and half-digested gel capsules) i can't take anything stronger. so i'm wide awake at two in the morning writing this drivel and trying to gauge how much plaque is collecting on my teeth.

pred makes you hungry and insatiably thirsty, then it gives you indigestion and the uncontrollable urge to urinate. but i've severed my relationship with food, as you well know, and drinking a lot means peeing a lot and a couple nights ago i had a glass of water before i fell asleep at my desk and i woke up in a wet diaper. because i have to wear a diaper at night. TO DEAL WITH ALL OF THIS PEEING. i really showed that fez-wearing numerologist, didn't i? who's exciting NOW?! you might be representing yourself in federal court in a lawsuit against the government to regain control of your money within the federal reserve, but I peed in a POISE PAD. i'm obviously the winner.

the asshole called me a "special breed of asshole" earlier, and this is probably the biggest indication of why i've earned that distinction. right now i am sitting in a diaper made for an incontinent septuagenarian, asshole lubricated with desitin, talking shit about some dude's funny hat and grandiose world takeover plots. i don't lack perspective, and i have an amazing sense of humor and irony, but it really is a testament to my supreme arrogance that i can sit here and make a case for why fez trumps diaper in the grand interpersonal relationship failure scheme. i mean i'm a lunatic, obviously.

sometimes music makes the crazy worse. the mood swings are like nothing you've ever seen, and anyone who has been around me when i'm having one can attest to that. i have a pretty dark streak that i keep relatively well buried, and sometimes it feels like the prednisone burrows in deep just to coax it out of hiding. sometimes it's rage, sometimes it's tears (at night especially), and then sometimes it's sort of a reserved mania. like, i'll wash and rewash the dishes several times before forcing myself to walk away. anyway, i was listening to the "chet baker sings" because it's a really good one to try to settle myself down to. it's very quiet and pretty and soothing, and he has the most lovely, gentle voice. so i was lying in the dark, headphones on, and "i've never been in love before" came on. now, i am a weepy person. at inexplicable and sometimes socially awkward times. i think it's because i'm so used to shutting people out and being sharp and nasty when dealing with actual humans because i've been so hurt that instead all of that sorrow manifests itself in other ways, like during sappy television commercials and maudlin love songs. i listened to that song for over an hour, on constant repeat. then "time after time." holy fuck. i forgot i had mascara on and ruined the goddamned pillowcase.

that's another thing i do, too. sit in the bathroom and put makeup on out of sheer boredom and lacking the wherewithall to do anything more constructive. i can do a perfect smoky eye, both with shadow AND with kohl. and my liquid cat eye is looking downright presentable. after another week or two of not needing more than seven minutes of shut-eye i should be a regular dick page or pat mcgrath. for someone who chooses to wear grease and chapstick every day in lieu of actually putting her face together in any sort of pseudo-elegant way, i have every expensive and unnecessary cosmetic product under the sun. and i only use them when i'm not going to leave the house. i'm not even kidding when i say that it gets tragic in here sometimes. just me and this cat and my brain that will not fucking TURN OFF no matter how hard i try. it's so frustrating. shit, "white turns to gray" just came on the shuffle. now i'm a goner.

i invent a lot of things in the wee small hours of these mornings, too. all sorts of gadgets and doodads and corporations i want to start. i really am so heated about paying for that grilled cheese. my dad was a tough piece of shit kind of dad, and he used to talk to me ALL THE TIME about finding a man that IS A MAN. he was in the military and fought in korea before coming home crazy as cat shit, but he was fucking adamant about men and how they should behave. he's the reason i have all of those wacko rules about things like shortened pants and not carrying a bag when there's a dick around i can hang it on. and i can't stop thinking about how one iron duke would crush that dude's skull in his bare hands the second he heard him say, "so this is on you, right? maybe next time it'll be on me" or whatever weak tea dribbled out of his mouth. i'm such a snot and a princess and a baby, and i would have gotten up to leave if it wouldn't have caused a scene. you know how i feel about scenes. i don't DO public embarrassment. so i paid and tried to hustle him out of the restaurant and right out of my life.

my most exciting new idea is to create a dating service for which you are required to submit a few paystubs and a copy of your monthly expenditures before you can communicate with another person. stop looking at me like that. no one else would see it, i promise. you just have to prove to the powers that be (ie, webmaster sam) that you can indeed AFFORD to make the acquaintance of a nice young man or woman. or old man or woman, shit, i don't give a fuck. if it looks to me like your money is tight, your rent checks always go out on the tenth, your cell phone is riddled with late fees, your car payments are behind, you don't get to go out with anyone. as a matter of fact, you have to get your ass the fuck off my site. your broke ass needs to be somewhere saving up for a rainy day, not wasting the time of some pretty little thing who's trying to go to schwa. this shit is genius and you know it. don't steal my idea just because i'm vulnerable right now.

if i can get a couple hours of sleep my brain rights itself, resets itself, makes it possible for me to function for at least another day. until the monster grabs hold of me again. i've tried twice already this evening (it's three now), to no avail. i'm going to give it another shot.

i let herbal tea down via email today. i was going to be a dick and never call him again, but he both called AND emailed me today (once you buy them something they belong to you FOREVER). and he said i'd made a fantastic impression on him, which is interesting considering i said fewer than twenty words, and most of them were to the waitress. you know, when i got the CHECK. barf. if he were any kind of gentleman at all he would have suggested starbucks and then pretended not to want anything. who in this day and age, what ADULT, leaves the house with a pocket full of loose change? he should be ashamed of himself. and he said that he felt amazing chemistry when he hugged me. oh yeah? those are called breasts.

i tried to be polite and diplomatic in my response, but i don't really do polite very well. and i'm TOTALLY FUCKING SALTY. i said he was "interesting" (kiss of fucking death) and that i didn't feel the same magic, and then i hammered this nail into his coffin: "and i got the impression that you aren't really financially able to date? i'm at a place in my life where i'd like to be out exploring the city and having a good time. take care of yourself." wear a real fucking shirt next time. and moisturize your fucking elbows!

i swore to myself that no matter how long and psychotic and humiliating this turned out that i was going to publish it anyway and let you jerks make fun of my rapid descent into the depths of hell. i pale at the thought of three more weeks of this. three more weeks of being awake all of the goddamned time and BATSHIT CRAZY for half those waking hours. my fingers and feet are swollen like sausages right now, so i am going to take some pills and try to sleep with my feet over my head. it's 3:17 in the morning and i have to be up in three hours to fight my way through another 11-hour workday. first i'm going to make a list of my favorite forest whitaker movies. and wash my hands again. goodnight. good morning.

love among the ruins.

season four of mad men just started, and NO ONE is more excited than i am to start putting some hamm back in my sunday diet. hallelujah. and thank your lucky panties. there's more draper here, too.

My boyfriend's best friend keeps joking that I should be a porn star and makes other sex jokes about me. Does this mean anything, and how can I stop his friend from saying things like that to me?

I feel like I need to know more about what’s going on here. Do you dress like a slut? Is he saying it because you’re a freak and you talk about sex a lot?

It could mean that he “likes” you. By throwing these little rocks at you on the playground, he’s indicating that he thinks you’re cute. If this is the case, he’s also acting like a fucking six year old and you should treat him like one. Take him aside and tell him that it makes you uncomfortable. It could just be that he’s a dick. Tell him to grow up and/or fuck off.  Or, bite him back. “Kevin (or whatever his name is), just because you’re insecure about girls asking you if ‘it’s in yet’ doesn’t mean you need to act all bitter about my being hot.”

the real problem here, quel fucking surprise, is YOUR BITCHASS MAN. sorry to break it to you, honeypants, but your boyfriend is a piece of shit. i cannot even begin to imagine a circumstance under which your man would tolerate the disrespect of his girlfriend by one of his friends. SERIOUSLY. if this happened to me i wouldn't waste any time wondering if he could see my areolas through my slutty shirt or whatever blame the victim shit draper is on, i would IMMEDIATELY look right at my man and expect to see him using the heel of his boot to remove the lower jaw from his homeboy's face. if that didn't happen, although i really can't imagine it would not, our relationship would end right fucking there. no discussion. you like your friend so much? you think it's okay for him to be out of line with me? then put your dick in HIS ass. jerk.


My husband gets me the worst gifts. He tries - but they are just terrible! How can I be stealth about giving him a few good ideas? Or is there a way I can tell him without hurting his feelings?

What kind of gifts is he giving you? Do they SEEM to be thoughtful? If so, this’ll be a tricky situation, since he’s actually putting thought into making you happy. If they’re generic gifts like heart-shaped necklaces and shit designed by Jane Seymour, it’s far easier. Get in touch with his best guy friend and get that guy on your side. That’s who guys talk to about things like gifts, you know. Me. The single friend. Just write him an email and explain the situation.  “Paul, Scott buys me the worst gifts, can you maybe straighten him out? He bought me a tackle box for my birthday last year…”If Paul’s an idiot too, you might be fucked. Anyway, shouldn’t you know how to do this by now? Marriage is all about manipulating and tricking your significant other. Try harder.

i don't believe in "stealth." stealth is the reason you girls are still faking orgasms, because you're too mousy and weak to demand that a dude do what you WANT instead of what he thinks is a good idea. men get everything fucking wrong, and most of them know it and are happy to be relieved of the burden of thinking for themselves, particularly when it comes to buying you something awesome. i have very specific, impossibly fancy tastes, and i dread any event that involves someone giving me something unsolicited that i have to smile and pretend that i like. i am an ingrate, and i've told you this a hundred million times, so stop acting like you're surprised already.

i don't understand people who want handmade, thoughtful gifts. you know those bitches. the ones who want you to make a scrapbook of your first year together full of movie ticket stubs and dried flowers and printed-out screenshots of your facebook "in a relationship with" status. that, to me, is garbage. and it takes so much unnecessary WORK. plus, when everything ends in a flaming ball of regret, burning it in effigy on his front lawn could get you in some serious trouble with the fire department. i am SO not sentimental, and real love can be proven in so many more tangible ways. get me some gift cards and keep it moving. so make sure he knows what stores you like and tell him to slap some money on a gift card for you. or do what i do and go buy your own shit and hand him the receipt. i'm not kidding. that shit worked. BRILLIANT.

and be careful talking to the friend. maybe i've watched the hand that rocks the cradle too many times, but striking up a friendship with your husband's friend could be a slippery fucking slope. and NOT the sexy kind.

My boss is a huge geek and has every new tech item you can think of. So what do I get him for his birthday?

I’m supposed to buy a gift for my boss?  Why are you worried about this anyway? You’re screwing him, aren’t you? Well, I say, skip the tech entirely and sit on his face. If he doesn’t accept that as a present, go for an iTunes card. He can buy music, apps for his iPhone/iPad, movies, whatever. (And apparently, I’m a fucking bad employee—I’ve never bought my boss a present for his or her birthday.)


you know what i get my boss for his birthday? indentured fucking servitude. bitch, PLEASE. james and i are cool and everything, but 1 he is a MAN and 2 he is RICH and 3 I work for HIM. every time i fend off one of his rabid clientele or answer the same goddamned question asked thirty different ways he better act like it's christmas. just the thought of this is making me so mad. this whole thing is supposed to be about what you can scam out of your employer, NOT how to put the money he just gave you back into his pocket. that's certifiable. i make jim buy me shit all the time, and even when i'm not manipulating him to within an inch of his life he does shit for me on his own. for instance, a couple weeks ago he made me a MIX. you read that right. now it was full of middle-aged white man music, but i appreciated the effort. and didn't make him anything in return. so the answer is nothing. EVER. stupid.


My online guy asked me if I floss my teeth, said he can't stand bad breath and began to rant about a hot doctor who had it. Then I explained that some do have medical conditions that cause it. He said he didn't know about it. Is he too shallow?

That depends. Is he too shallow? You’re really the only one that can answer this. Personally, I appreciate a bit of opinionated foot-stomping in a girl. It’s important to have very strong feelings about generally insignificant things. Not to the point of being a true pain in the ass, but everyone’s got their thing.

I won’t continue date someone if she spells “a lot” “alot.” Seriously. Right out. Does that make me shallow or a snob or something? Probably, but accepting my grammar-snobdom (or even better, complimenting it), is part of dating me. If you don’t like it, I’m not the right one for you.

That said, bad breath freaks me the fuck out. I brush my teeth whenever I’m home, rock the Listerine (isn’t that an STP song, anyway? Wait, no, that’s Vaseline…), and floss whenever I eat. Also, I chew a lot of gum. While there are medical conditions that cause it, there are also medications that fix it. I dated someone a while back, totally hot girl, who had the WORST breath. It actually made my tongue taste funny. Total turnoff.

what a weird ass question. or maybe it's not that weird and i'm just hyper sensitive because i HATE brushing my fucking teeth. don't get me wrong, i do it three times a day (most days), but it's boring and i hate it. and flossing REALLY wears me out. holy shit. who has times for all of that? really? do any of you? have time to brush AND floss multiple times a day? well i just fucking DON'T. and i don't care.


i had a root canal a couple of years ago for one of those between the teeth "if you flossed more maybe this wouldn't have happened to you" cavities, and then i started flossing a couple more times a week (not really) and gargling with straight bleach (again, i exaggerate) to get at all of the errant food tucked under my gums and hiding between my teeth. i just can't be fucking bothered to do a thorough job every single fucking time. i'd have to get up half an hour earlier every day, and i like sleeping. plus, flossing is SO AWKWARD and it's impossible to feel like you're doing it 100% right, especially when you get back to the molars. i still have my wisdom teeth, because there is so much room for them in this big old mouth and head, and getting the floss all the way back there would require the tiny hands and incredible skill of a chinese child factory worker. and it's probably illegal for me to hide one in my apartment.


so if my internet dude asked me that, i'd probably bail and tell him that we're probably not meant to be together. not because my mouth stinks, but a dude who gets that up in arms about something that small AND totally natural (albeit unfortunate) is CERTAINLY not going to want to hang around for all the shit i've got going on. so decide how gross and offensive you are and how much you want to be around a dude who's going to be pointing it out all the time.


some dudes are SO FUCKING STRANGE. oh, well. there are alot of other fish in the sea.


I'm pregnant and, although it wasn't planned, I couldn't be happier. My husband is still in shock and says he doesn't want to come to the baby shower...but it would mean a lot to me if he came. How do I make that clear?

Have you tried saying, “Husband, it’s very important to me that you come to the shower. I’m not trying to guilt trip you here, but this is going to be our little kiddo and I’d love it if you came?”

i imagine that his love of coming is the reason you ended up in this sticky predicament. it's obvious that your only viable solution is to abort that cluster of cells immediately or, if it's too late for that, find it some adoptive parents who will actually love and care for it and not be so caught up in their petty selfishness that they can't be bothered to either plan for or properly celebrate its impending arrival. you fucking idiots. what the fuck kind of raggedy bullshit is this? "in shock?" sooner rather than later your ass is going to be "in court," chasing this motherfucker down for child support back payments and shit. BARF. this behavior screams "i am not going to do SHIT for this child." it rarely works out when two people are on board and totally excited about the prospect of a child, but when one of the parental parties ISN'T? dna testing and divorce proceedings. ew, this has shitty childhood trenchcoat mafia pregnant at thirteen written all over it. give that kid to somebody better who has less of a chance of fucking it all up.

Why do guys put the good girls in the "friend zone?" Why do they sleep with the hot to trot girls, yet want to do everything else with the good girl? Will the good girl ever win? I'm the good girl that he talks to hours every day, we eat together, he cooks for me, everything, yet he doesn't see me in that way.

Guys don’t have a friend zone. We have a waiting room. If you’re sequestered to this room, it’s likely not because you’re the ‘good girl’ it’s because you’re not found attractive enough to be fuckable. Or you’re backup. Or he’s gay. It sucks, but I’ve been used in this way. People like the IDEA of you, but they just can’t see themselves having sex with you. Still, I’d ask him straight out what’s going on. Or be direct, tell him how you feel about him. “I don’t think of you that way” is a nice way of saying “I can’t see us having sex.”
this is some cold ass shit, draper. goddamn. good thing i like my meat tough. holy shit.
anyway, this mean motherfucker is 100% correct. dudes don't know shit about subtlety, and if he's not humping the side of your leg a minute and a half after making your acquaintance he probably doesn't want to touch his private parts against yours. i'm going to play good cop since draper was such an asshole and say that being the friend he doesn't want to fuck has LIMITLESS benefit, especially if he happens to be a relatively decent dude. no more moving your own furniture or changing your own lightbulbs, that's what "friends" are for. i don't carry anything at anytime ever, because why strain myself when i can just call some dude to do it? especially one who feels sorta guilty for vaguely leading me on?

that's the tricky part about being friends with some dude you like who doesn't want to see you naked, though. you have to accept that he's just not that into you, and you can't go reading between the lines when he says something nice trying to find a little nugget of sexual intent. and don't cave and let him fuck you when he's lonely with no prospects, either. that shit is degrading. you know what, bitch? i changed my fucking mind. FUCK THIS DUDE. no more friendship. fuck it. that's it. DUNZO. he's cockblocking the shit out of your ass, talking up all your anytime minutes and being all up in your kitchen cooking bullshit dinners and then doesn't want to stick his pinky in your ass? he's an asshole. end this today.

If I don't remember having sex with someone, do I have to count it? If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

One. Ah, ah, ahhh. Twoo. Ah, ah, ahhh. Counting is for kindergartners. While it’s generally good to be accountable for letting people fuck you in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant while rolling on E, I don’t care about the “number” of people my partner’s been with.

From a statistical perspective however, if you don’t count it, you’re fucking up your results. Think of the graphs. THE GRAPHS!

holy hell, this is some whore shit. people lie about their fuck number more than they lie about their goddamned age, and no person you would ever really want to be with would have any interest in it anyway. that said, i was doing a little mental tallying the other day to see where in line herbal tea would fall (that is 100% not happening, even if the sun is in the eighth house of virgo or whatever), and i counted three times and came up with three different numbers. and even then i couldn't decide whether i was really finished counting. who can keep goddamned track? especially of all of the terrible and non-noteworthy ones? please. i don't have time for that. i push them right out of my mind. besides, i already told you that my trick for any stupid asshole who asks is to say 256. or 392. or 471. and no one has ever put his dick away and run screaming from me.

and i don't know shit about trees, but that whistling noise your pussy is making is DEAFENING. slutbag.

How do I find a man who hasn't slept with a lot of women? The thought of my future husband being with other ladies skeezes me out.

Well, you could try and seduce a gay guy. Or…start trolling high schools. Or stop caring. While it’s not exactly a super duper thought for me to think about who’s been banging my girlfriend before me, it’s not something I really think about. My only real concern was whether or not they’d been with some guy who blew me away in terms of skill or acrobatics or something.

Is this something you can get around by suggesting the guy gets tested for STDs? If he passes with flying colors, those numbers don’t matter, you know? The fluids produced during sex are easily removed with soap and water. Try to rationalize your crazy. I mean, do you really want to sleep with a guy who hasn’t been with any girls and doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing? Of course not.

The other thing I can suggest is go hunting for geeks. Not like, guys still living in their parents’ basement playing World of Warcraft twenty hours a day, but rather, maybe guys that were a little timid in high school. Sure, they had a few awkward sexual experiences in college, but they’ve hardly fucked entire sororities. Often, these geeks will sprout into attractive, smart dudes who are easily manipulated (low self esteem) and they’ll do whatever the hell you want them to in the bedroom. They’re also generally open to criticism.

why would you ever want that? WHY?! i want a dude who knows what the fuck he's DOING. while i'm more than happy to teach, the sex is way less awesome when i have to give an anatomy lesson and explain the human vagina for twenty minutes before we can get started. i can't be drawing diagrams and making powerpoint presentations and building dioramas to teach some inexperienced dude how to get me off. and 99% of the dudes who've had sex on the regular still don't know how to fucking do it right. yep, even YOU.

i'm with that high school shit, though. i was at an all-ages show a couple weeks ago for this shitty little emo-punk band, and this dude came up to talk to me. at first i thought it was because i was the only other black person in the place and he wanted to formulate an escape plan in case the white kids went crazy, but it dawned on me after a few minutes that he was actually trying to KICK GAME. i thought he was thirteen, so i made him get out his drivers license and prove to me that he was over eighteen. because fuck jail. anyway, the shit this twenty-year-old kid was talking about was SO STUPID but he was trying really hard, and even though i told him that he could be my son he insisted on talking to me about the struggles of being in college and fetching my club sodas from the bar. (they are never too young to buy you shit, REMEMBER THAT.)

he stayed glued to my side the whole night, and when the show was over he offered me a ride home on the back of his g.i. joe big wheel. he asked if he could call me and i almost said yes until he said, "my mom restricted my cell phone usage but i should be getting it back soon" and my vagina packed up her shit and moved the fuck out of my body. i gave him my email, though, and told him that if he ever needed help on a math problem he could email it to me. WHAT THE FUCK. my life is so fucking dumb. blargh.

My boyfriend is very well off. We've been dating for a year and he's never let me pay for anything...ever. I insist, but he won't let it go. How can I show him I'm not broke!

You’re not trying hard enough. You can intercept the waiter while walking back from the washroom, handing him your credit card. Or just talk to your boyfriend about it. Or, forget about buying stuff while in his company and just buy him presents. If he has a hobby, just get him supporting accoutrement.

I wish I had this fucking problem. Girls are expensive.

i just threw up a little. okay, A LOT. you know the best way to show him you're not broke? KEEP LETTING HIM PAY FOR EVERYTHING. a girl who never pays is a girl whose net worth just keeps growing and growing. the more money HE spends, the less money YOU spend, which is the way this shit should goddamned work. you fucking bitches are always looking a gift horse in the fucking mouth. send this dude to me, a bitch who knows what to do with him. i'm being totally serious. why are you girls always running to give your fucking money away? just to "prove" something? to a DUDE?!

i need to run seminars or something. you need to be about stacking that paper. and this isn't on some silly ass gold digger shit. my goal is to EMPOWER WOMEN, and the easiest way to empower yourself is to MAKE SOME GODDAMNED MONEY. that's where men get it right. they'd never ass themselves out financially for some broad. never. please stop kidding yourselves if you think a man has anything other than his bottom line at the forefront of his mind. and that's cool. we all should. i've dated enough lying, scheming users to know that not a single one of them was ever worried about what HE might cost ME. neither financially nor emotionally. so invest all that extra money you're dying to waste on him in a 401k or some shit. and put your fucking wallet away. disgusting.

My boyfriend keeps bringing up the fact that he wants us to get married. I've dated lots, but he hasn't. I'm the second girl he's ever slept with. Is he ready to get married?

Now children, lie down on those gym mats and close your eyes. It’s story time! When I was in college, I fell in love with a girl named M. She was everything I ever thought I wanted. I don’t think I was picturing wedding bells, but I was pretty fucking happy. Seeing me head over heels, my father passed along some very important, fucked-up advice. “Jeremy, don’t get too serious. You should really be sleeping around more. There’s so much out there to experience, you’re really limiting yourself.”

“Really?” I’d never really pondered the situation before. Maybe, being in love was not something I had any business doing. Maybe I WAS limiting myself. My guy friends were jumping from relationship to relationship. Maybe they knew something I didn’t? This advice didn’t kill my relationship with M, but it sat there in the back of my head.

Relationships came and went. And never, despite pleas from my girlfriends, did I ever think about marriage. It wasn’t that I wasn’t in love, but I just couldn’t see myself being married at all. I decided that serious relationships were stifling (after seven years of them) and that I needed perspective.

I went on a dating bender I dated a what-if? crush from high school; a relgious, right-wing chick; a few girls with kids; a stalker; a berserk vegan (boy, was that a fucking mistake); a (hot) red-headed lunatic; ; a vulgar tomboy mechanic chick; an 18-year old (I was 26); yadda yadda; blah blah blah—convinced that I should date every possible type of woman. Apparently, I was missing out on something. All of my friends were married at this point. I was determined to “find my type.”

You know what I’ve come to the conclusion of? There is no fucking “winning type” and experience, aside from some handy sexual experimentation, means absolutely shit. Dating and relationships are a game of odds. Period. If you’re not happy, get out of the relationship you’re in and move on, but if you’re both happy, all in love and shit, mature, and it feels right, dive in.

Unless you’re both 21. Then ignore everything I’ve said.

you already know that the answer is 100% NO. and maybe you just need to hear it from me, especially since draper's answer was sort of vague. if he's young, it won't work. if he's old, it's just sad. EITHER WAY, eventually it will dawn on him that he has only in his entire experience the sweet caress of TWO vaginas, and he will start to feel deprived. and resentful. of you. then here comes the infidelity.

the older i get the more and more convinced i am that no one should be allowed to get married before the age of thirty-five, and even then there needs to be a senate hearing or some shit beforehand. marriage doesn't work, and the younger and more inexperienced you are before deciding to take the plunge, the higher the likelihood that your shit isn't going to work EITHER. i'm not even being a jerk, that's just the way shit is these days. i was talking to my gorgeous jessica a few weeks ago, and we've both decided that we want to be some hot dudes' SECOND wives. the one that comes along after he's already learned what he likes and doesn't and is secure enough in himself and his manhood to be a good husband.

stepmom is the shit. not because i want to deal with someone else's raggedy bastards (trust me, i DON'T), but because i can handle just about anything in weekend-sized doses. especially if i don't have to give birth to that anything. second wife does everything better than first wife, just by NOT BEING FIRST WIFE. everything she did, i do better. by default. there's nothing easier than that, being the winner just because you're not someone else. and divorced dudes are so grateful for the slightest bit of whatever you want to give them.

If they had to pick one, would guys rather go for a girl with a drop dead gorgeous body or a drop dead gorgeous face?

For me, it’s the latter. I think it’s pretty obvious, you look at the person’s face when you talk, kiss her, have sex, tell a joke, whatever. Whether her ass is bangin’ is less important.

i'm not a dude, so you're going to have to trust this one. overly attractive men are hard to hang onto, so i avoid dealing with them entirely. it fucks with my head and my self-esteem when other people on earth think the dude i'm into is hot, and i have enough trouble in my goddamned life. i'd much rather holler at the one who's sort of gross or sort of weird or sort of gay then walk around with a fucking stallion i can never relax around. and gorgeous people never feel like they have to really cultivate a dynamite personality, and they are often opportunistic liars who've had so many people falling at their fucking feet that they can't interact with you on a real, human level. which shallow dudes who go for women out of their leagues will eventually come to find out.

as much of a vain effort as it totally is, i try to find men who don't have shitty personalities while also trying to stay engaging and interesting myself. you can't change your face, and even if you pay someone to do so you'll just look like the fucking joker or whatever. so get out of the mirror and into a library. or on the internet. read some magazines, listen to some cool music. (ask me what. i'll email you a mix.) i mean, seriously. you never know when you're going to be mauled by somebody's pet chimp. you need something to fall back on.

In what way exactly should I hug a guy in order to turn him on?

Around the waist with his penis in your mouth. I can’t speak for all of us here, but kisses are a turn on, hugs are not. Though, if you insist, try draping your arms around his neck and stare into his eyes in a way that says, “Wanna try anal tonight?"

sneaky bastard. stole my fucking answer.

What do men notice in a girl first (physically), and what makes them hooked for good?

Oh, it depends on the guy, of course. Some guys could care less what a girl’s face looks like, they just want some exaggerated body. Me? Well, I look at a face first, specifically the eyes. The smile, too. Is she missing teeth? Then curves. I’m big on the hourglass, though that doesn’t necessarily mean huge anything, just a nice shape.

What makes them hooked for good? I’d say that’s more personality, but if we’re being totally shallow here, I’d say maintaining the figure he fell for. Take care of yourself. And this is a responsibility of BOTH people, not just women. Guys, don’t forget that keeping up on your hedges is important, whether or not you’re dating anyone. And mind the beer intake, righto?

your fat ass. DUH. and that's what keeps them coming BACK.

Is it normal to not have much to talk about after three months of dating? I'm getting a little tired of the awkward silences my boyfriend and I keep falling into.

Ugh. I had a four year relationship like this. Are there other problems? Are you happy in the relationship? Really? It’s okay to be quiet from time to time, but you should have a general interest in each other enough to have a conversation. Do you actually have anything in common? Sometimes people quickly fall in love but aren’t necessarily destined for long distance running. Maybe there’s an elephant in the room and you don’t know it. Maybe you’ve fallen into a friendship and you’re not actually in love anymore.

let's say it together: SAM IS ALWAYS RIGHT. not to bang the drum too loudly, but how often am i droning on and on AND ON about how totally boring dudes and relationships totally fucking are? yes, it's fucking normal. i mean, how many things are there to say to one person? one person to whom you speak ALL OF THE TIME?! dudes aren't interesting, bitches aren't interesting, no one is interesting. not if you talk to them every single day of your life.

i'm the most interesting man in the world, but if you called me every day in a week, GUARANTEED that at least two or three of those days are going to induce yawning on your part. and my life is exciting! imagine listening to an ordinary, boring person. fucking torture. my advice is to start seeing some additional dudes. by the time you get bored to death with one, the others will seem all shiny and interesting again. just keep cycling through a group of hot men and you'll never cease to be entertained. then tell me how it works out. in detail. S L O W L Y.

My fiance is dead-set on getting a tattoo when we get married. He says he's doing it for me, but I don't like tattoos. Is it possible to talk him out of it, or do I need to let him do what he wants?

Is it your name or something? Isn’t that a little cliché? Nothing says I love you for eternity like a Prince Albert anyway. You can probably talk him out of it, but if it means a lot to him, be careful. You don’t want to hurt his feelings. What if you go put your feet into wet concrete or chisel your name into a tree or something?

have we ever talked about my cover-up tattoo? i keep trying to tell you kittens that I AM DUMB, and there is a blacked-out tribal sun on the inside of my left forearm that serves as unequivocal proof. shitty body art makes me laugh, so i don't really fucking care, but that Z and the accompanying star kept mocking my retarded ass in the days weeks months after that shitstain dropped me off a cliff, so kate and i drove out to the way outs and i got that nonsense covered. and never say never but i am NEVER doing that again. because i spend too much money on these terrible drawings to then drop some more having them altered. and eff that.

if you hate tattoos, then why not tell him that you won't be sexually attracted to him if he gets one? everything a man does is connected to his penis, and the prospect of a life married to a bitch who won't fuck him is sure to scare him away from the needle. what the fuck is wrong with you, though? tattoos are the goddamned hottest.

Is it okay to say "I love you" first?

Sure. In fact, it’s preferable. You can learn a lot from a guy’s response to this statement. If he looks panicked, that’s a bad sign. If he smiles hugely without hesitation, kiss you, and pull you closer, they’re a keeper. If he says “I love you, too!” Be cautious. They shouldn’t feel compelled to say it just because you have. “I love you” has become a fucking greeting. That pisses me off. I say it when I mean it, not as a conclusion to the evening. It’s not every time we go out or see each other, it might just be once a week. But I fucking mean it. Once you get into the habit of saying “I love you” for everything “Hey, pizza’s here, I love you,” it’s all over. Use it carefully.

"in fact, it's preferable" is the reason why you DON'T. i have let every dude i've ever dated say it first. EVERY SINGLE ONE. and i don't gush and swoon and say it in return. if i love him, i'll say so. if i don't, which is more than likely the case, i'll say "i'm not sure that i'm there yet" or something soul-crushing like that. dudes hold things like "i love you" against you, and i hate giving away the upper hand. "i thought you loved me?" has been used as a weapon against me WAY too many times, whether it be to try to trick me out of some money (yeah fucking right) or get me to do something degrading in bed (negotiable). so keep that shit tucked in your back pocket. until YOU want something from HIM.

My boyfriend and I sometimes role-play when we have sex. I'm all for it, but lately, I've been bothered because he always wants to pretend that I'm younger than I am (nothing demented, but a legal teenager). Does this mean he has a thing for younger women and will eventually think I'm too old?

Nah. Also, it’s very likely NOT about the age itself. The whole “into young chicks” thing is about defiling innocence. Control. Hell, I know high school girls that are a lot more slutty than I am. It’s about the perception of them being inexperienced and naïve. This is VERY common and very easy to role play. You’d be surprised how much of a difference just pigtails will make. Or maybe you know? If he was actually interested in younger girls, you’d see some creepy shit going on. He wouldn’t be attracted to you, he’d be running off and hiding some underage smut collection. This is all about you playing the innocent girl who is forsaking her virtue for a dirty lay.

There’s a flip scenario to this. Girls who want their man to play the stern professor, the worldly teacher’s assistant, or male librarian in v-neck tartan sweater, tie and clever glasses. I rock that look. I’m just saying.

i'll do anything except dress-up. ANYTHING. and watch out for this dude around any jungle gyms or swing sets. you can infer SO MUCH about a person from his or her perversions, and anything involving "young" or "child" (because teenagers are, in fact, NOT ADULTS) is a red fucking flag and you should bail immediately before you see this motherfucker on dateline or are subpeonaed to testify in court on this degenerate's behalf. and i am sexually open and willing to get into all sorts of kinky trouble, but sometimes i have to pull out my judgment stick and beat a dude over the head with it. thankfully, i've never encountered a dude so into tender young flesh that he'd ask me to put on a schoolgirl uniform. but maybe that's because half my fucking hair is gray. blerg.

I've made it clear that I'm into this guy at my job. He seems interested but hasn't asked me to do something outside work. He's shy, so I'm afraid he'll never make a move. Should I make it instead?

Absofuckinglutely. It’s terrifying, literally, to confront shyness. Sometimes, the idea of talking to a woman might be so frightening that it’ll cause panic attacks. It’s likely due to lack of experience, but that just makes him moldable. See my comments in the “how do I find a guy who hasn’t slept with everyone” post. He’ll be worth the effort, I promise.

he's not interested. sorry, baby. but dudes who want to fuck you, even the shy ones, will find a way to get their dicks into your hand and your mouth and your butthole no matter WHAT. draper just set your ass up for a major fail. if you've MADE IT CLEAR, and he HASN'T MADE A MOVE, that means he DOESN'T WANT TO FUCK YOU. dudes like their egos massaged, and your admitting to him that you are interested when he hasn't said anything to you does nothing other than bolster his ego. and i am totally over making a dude feel unnecessarily good about himself.

If a guy gave you his number, how often should you call him?

I’d say, a few times a week, unless he’s calling you more often and you’re reciprocating. Everyone likes a bit of a chase (see “long distance grass” above), but not too much of one. Two sounds about right.

never fucking ever. you know my rules about this. if he wants you, he'll call. when he doesn't, MOVE ON. i told you hoes MONTHS ago that i was going to stop calling these wack ass dudes, and i fucking did. and my self-esteem is fucking thrilled. because there is no agony like that of the unreturned phone call. or the kind where you know he pressed "ignore" when he saw it was you calling. motherfuck all that. i want us to feel good about ourselves, and chasing some unrequited bullshit is just not the way to do it. i'm the most progressive bitch alive, so you should already know that this doesn't come from some coquettish, demure place. pursuing a dude who isn't interested in you is TORTURE, and i want us to STOP IT. please? for me? because i love you girls so much?!

so it feels lonely when your fucking phone doesn't ring. I KNOW. i'm with that shit 100%. i go through it every single day of my life. a thousand vaginas a day blowing up my shit, and one penis. and usually that penis belongs to the asshole, and he just wants to talk to me about the bitches he dates or some dumb nerd shit i don't give a fuck about anyway. but you just have to get over it. because it doesn't feel less lonely when you're sitting around dialing every random dude in your phone just to get a nibble. and trust me, when a dude is interested he will call you. and if he doesn't, you shouldn't fucking care. we're over the days of wanting dudes who don't want us, am i right? and if we aren't, WE SHOULD BE.

give the dude YOUR number. and don't come at me with some pseudo-feminist posturing about being empowered and taking your sex life into your own hands. unless you are TRULY just using him for sex. which most of you ain't. you're just giving men an excuse to be shiftless, lazy assholes. you deserve to be courted, at least for a little while, and how can he do that if you're doing all the work? in this cell phone age, if a dude is giving you his number and you're interested, just tell him to get out his phone and give him yours. i mean, really, why even bother to waste the energy programming his shit in?

after the benefit last night my hot date and i shared a cab, and after we dropped her off the driver spent the entire drive between her apartment and mine trying to convince me to go out with him. now i'll be polite (especially when trapped in a moving vehicle with a veritable stranger charged with my safety), and there's always a chance he'll turn off the meter, so i nodded and smiled and "mm hmm'd" while checking my email on my phone, and when he pulled up at my building he turned off the meter (SCORE) and handed me his card and said, "call me." and i handed it back to him and said, "sorry, i don't do that."

and i would have given him mine, but he was african. and i really don't do THAT.

Is it ever okay to sleep with a guy on the first date? We have been building a flirty friendship for a couple of weeks and are finally going out. I am really hot for this guy. We are both in our late 30s, so it's not like we're young and inexperienced, but I don't know if sleeping with him now is too soon.

Just like the “when should I call” questions, there’s no right answer here. If it feels right and he seems to be really into you, go for it. That first-date-crazed-sex shit you go through at the beginning of seeing someone is unique to the universe. Jump on it.

That being said, there’s something even more explosive about putting a few-date-no-sex rule on the situation. If things continue to build, the potential for your first sexual encounter grow exponentially. Also, with any luck, you will have talked about sex a few times, giving you more opportunity to find out what he likes. You’ll know that he’s into rough blowjobs and he’ll know that you like to be called by your sister’s name while riding him. Anticipation never hurt anyone, unless a broken penis is involved in the resulting sex explosion.

man, this is difficult. on the whole, i am not opposed to first date sex. i will make the concession that sometimes you meet someone and shit just clicks and the chemistry is ridiculous and you're hot for each other and you can't wait to tear his clothes off and the shit just works. but dudes are notorious for FALLING THE FUCK OFF the minute they get even the tiniest spoonful of your sugar, and you know my main objective is making a dude prove that he's worth the time i have to remain awake to deal with him, so if i fuck him and he's lame then there's very little chance that he will EVER improve. i mean, what's his motivation? he fucked me already!

take my recent dalliance with herbal tea. i just decided this morning that i could never hate myself (and my poor eardrums) enough to fuck him, especially since a bad precedent has already been set. i wasn't expecting to pay for his lunch, but since i refuse to endure even a drop of public embarrassment i did. now that i've paid for something, EVEN THOUGH i only did it to get myself out of a jam, he has grounds to ask me to pay for something again. and i don't operate like that. i always say that if you agree to something you don't like, you have to be prepared to do it ALL THE TIME or else you should charge that motherfucker to the game and move on. there are no take-backs. so i try not to sleep with a dude even if i'm super hot for him until he's proven his worth, because i know that it's only downfuckinghill after that. so you should try to get him to the highest level he can achieve (dinners, flowers, whatever you're into, you can decide) before you drop that thang on him.

it's different for every woman. my standards aren't that high. you have to take me out while properly dressed a few times, make a few phone calls, laugh at my jokes, and then i'll let you impress helen with your small bag of tricks. (she likes to watch.) i have other friends who require fancy dinners at a certain caliber of dining establishment, shopping sprees, car payments, all that kind of stuff. but i'm a realist and fully understand that i probably don't fuck that good, so i keep my demands low. figure out what your limit is, and what kind of sucker you're working with. but if you're really hot for him and you don't mind eating hot pockets in your pajamas with him on your couch for the rest of your relationship, by all means let him scratch off your instant lottery ticket. HOT.

Whenever my boyfriend and I argue, he lets his temper get the best of him and curses me out, calls me a bitch, says fuck you, etc. This hurts me but he says I'm just too sensitive and wants him to talk "like a girl." Am I wrong to be upset?

I think you should drug him and epoxy him to the radiator in your apartment and beat him with a saucier. No, you’re not wrong to be upset. He sounds like a real winner. More importantly, why do you continue to stay with this guy? By doing so, you’re continuing to perpetuate a pattern of being verbally abused. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. And do not stay with this fucking cocknozzle. You deserve better.

There is nothing about this question that isn’t alarming. What the FUCK are you doing?

i would DESTROY a dude who dared to speak to me that way. you hear me? completely mentally, physically, and emotionally dismantle him, leaving in my wake a crying, sniveling little stump of a man. i don't want to be talked to like a girl, i want you to talk to me like a ten week old fucking kitten. i've been caught off guard by dudes with fresh mouths (and one with fresh fists) and it was none too pleasant for any of those gentlemen afterward. you must leave him, and you must do so today. BITCH.

Can you give me the play by play of a booty call or one night stand? Like how a guy expects it to happen.

I’m probably a bit more demanding in my one-night stands than most, but I’ll continue nonetheless.

You’re out with some friends on a Friday night after a rough week at the office and in an effort to improve your mood, you’re drinking martinis like they’re free. You’re not really participating in your friends’ conversations because you really don’t care, you just don’t want to be sitting at home.

At somewhat of a distance, you see a girl, also out with her friends and coincidentally, seems to be in a similar funk. And she’s looking at you. She’s smiling, sort of wickedly, her eyes clearly suggesting that she’d rather be standing next to you being moody than next to her friends. She excuses herself from her friends and walks over to where you’re leaning against the bar, next to your loud, irritating group of friends. She introduces herself and you easily strike up a discussion. This isn’t some pick-up line laden conversational Velveeta here, no, you’re bitching about your lame friends and their weak attempts to cheer you up. You have similar views of loud bars, that they serve a purpose, but are generally annoying. The two of you connect on some interesting key points, like favorite music and some quirky sexual preference in people you fuck. Things continue to turn dirty as you begin making out in a corner. You run your hand up the inside of her thigh and under her dress, already feeling that she’s a little bit wet from your conversation. She grabs your cock through your jeans, which in reciprocity, is getting hard as well. She bites your neck and you pull her hair. You suggest that you grab a cab, and you do, quickly walking outside. This is the first you’ve seen her face clearly lit, the streetlamps shining down on the curb. Her dark lipstick is slightly smeared, her pale cheeks rosy in the chilly autumn evening. You’re staring at each other for a few seconds before the cab shows up, the look on her face says that she’s going to tear you in half.

You both climb into the back seat, and you begin to say your address when She interrupts you, giving hers instead. She trusts you, or she just wants to control you, but you don’t care. She takes your left hand and slides it up her dress. Using your fingers, she teases herself, but it’s far more punishing for you. Your cock aches as you think of the hundred ways that she’s going to use it and you. You arrive at her apartment and you fumble a bit of cash over to the cabbie.

You walk upstairs, following her, and you can see how wet she is, as it shines on the insides of her thighs. You’re barely able to contain yourself at this point, as you grab her and fall through the doorway. You close the front door with your foot as you both slam into a nearby wall. You turn her around, lifting her arms above her head and holding them to the wall with your left hand as you slide her panties down with your right. Sliding down her back, you lift her dress up and run your tongue up the back of her left leg. She presses her ass out against you as you push your tongue against and inside of her. Her noises make you more and more crazed as the wetness running down your sharp chin jaggedly curves and glides down your neck.

She draws you back up with her hands, reaching behind, and as you’re biting her neck, she undoes your jeans, letting them fall to the floor. You feel her nails slide into your now-too-tight boxer briefs, her fingers firmly closing around your hard cock. She slides her hand between her legs, slicking it, and glides it over you. Strongly, without question or negotiation, she pulls you up against her and inside her pussy.

You ravenously bite the back of her neck as she fucks you. Yes, fucks you from her position, pinned against the wall. You might be holding her there, but she’s in total control of you. Her ass rocks against you as you push harder and harder against the wall. The volume of both your cries increases, you run your right hand around her and between her legs. Your left arm, you run across her chest, pulling her opposite shoulder down against you. Her legs begin to shake as you roughly rub her clit. As she begins to come, it pushes you over the edge—you bury your face in her back as your whole body releases the sexual tension of the last two hours.

You catch your breath, you can taste the sweat on your lips.

She looks at you with a tired smile and says “Thanks. I had a great time and I really needed that. Have a good night.” Leaving you standing there in the hallway as she walks off towards her bedroom.

You leave your number on a piece of paper on the kitchen counter and walk outside, back into the rain.

At least, that’s how one night stands always play out for me.

Other times it might just be the following. Jenny calls John. Says, “Hey, John, want to come over and watch a movie, I have the place to myself?” “Sure.” They get about 5 minutes into said movie when Jenny jumps him, they fuck, and pass out. John likely lets himself out in the middle of the night when he realizes that he doesn’t have his teddy bear.

Other example. Two people meet at a bar, get sloppy drunk, have unsatisfying, clumsy, retarded sex and pass out. One of them will likely throw up in the others’ hair.

um. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. i would say something, but i'm at a total loss. until next time, dirtbags. off to wash the vomit out of my hair.

the tea party.

i have.

this is why i hate sam's club: when standing at the helm of a cart the size of a small honda, facing pallets and pallets of shiny, glistening produce, it's hard not to be swept up in all of the life-changing possibility of those gorgeous fruits and vegetables. seriously. that shit is overwhelming. i can't even handle it. it's too much and i am too dumb to process that amount of food and folding chairs and small electronics.

when i got out of the hospital, armed with a handful of prescriptions and detailed plans and hastily scrawled lists of the myriad ways my tormentors wanted me to start getting my shit together, i was drained and weak and smelled like a wild animal, but i was really excited about the prospect of and wholly committed to this new food and drug administration. BUT. my refrigerator is typically stocked crackhead-style: two eggs, a bunch of old scallions, expired bottles of salad dressing, a box of baking soda, and three open cans of cat food. the freezer is a little better, but not much, fucking lean cuisines, ice cubes, batteries, and vodka.

so i was telling carol about all this shit i have to do and she suggested a trip to sam's club and i IMMEDIATELY said yes. even though it's not practical in any way considering my lifestyle. and, in my case, lifestyle means "i live by myself and cooking every night is annoying and leftovers make me want to die." that did not stop me, however, from purchasing 2 pounds of haricots verts, bags of frozen shrimp, two large containers of blueberries, half a dozen bell peppers, two cases of la croix, eight boxes of cheerios, bags of bananas, bushels of strawberries, a sony dvd player, and six fucking pounds of cherries. then i went to target (the grocery kind), and bought soups and almond milk and whole grain crackers and nuts and orange juice with no added sugar. my kitchen looks like an actual person might live here. it's unbelievable.

i've been cooking EVERY SINGLE DAY since i got out of the hospital, and someone really should be standing up and cheering. if you know me in real life, especially. i come home every evening, EVEN IN THIS GODFORSAKEN HEAT, and i make meals that include fresh vegetables and lean meats and no dairy. while i sweat. SOBER.

so everything is working out pretty well, i guess. i get up and blend some orange juice with frozen strawberries and bananas and blueberries, take some pills, shower, take a few other pills, then eat corn chex with almond milk. i take the lunch that i packed the night before and some healthy snacks to work, then i come home and start the process all over again.

this, to me, is worse than death. don't get me wrong, I'M DOING IT and IT'S FINE, but i fucking HATE it. this rote domesticity is the reason i can't say shit like "i want a family," because i had to literally walk away from the counter after the first hour of washing and slicing strawberries so that i could freeze them in individual snack bags for my smoothies in the morning. seriously, i was like "bitch, just slice your wrist open" as i looked down at my blue- and purple-stained fingers. this shit is MADDENING. no wonder middle-aged housewives are drowning their kids and shit. after the twelfth sliced banana baggie i almost snatched helen keller and dropped her in the toilet. it's just too much.

i can't. i just CAN'T. senam is convinced that mister wonderful is going to fall out of the sky and i'm going to have his babies (wrong) and be a wonderful parent (double wrong), but doing all of this shit for just one person is already pushing me over the edge. if i had some bastard children taking all of my shopping and chopping and preparedness for granted i would go on a killing spree. i'm serious. all of you would be DEAD the minute some ingrate husband of mine neglected to fully appreciate the time i'd spent slaving over some stupid dinner. it's killing me even now. the other night i cut and snipped and grated and made a nice salad and zucchini fritters and a stir fry to box up for lunch this week (kill me, please) and when i was done i looked around and no one was clapping or telling me what a good job i'd done and that made me mad. hmph. and seriously, if my pants weren't falling off more and more by the day i'd be seriously contemplating a little drano cocktail right now.

this morning i decided to tackle the chopping and freezing of those six pounds of cherries, because did you know that fruit can still start to go soft and bad even when you put it in the fridge? golly gee, i learn something new every day. who woulda thought? this heat gives me an attitude and i knew instantly that it was a mistake to begin such a task, but i did it. and my fingers look like they've been soaked in blood, plus i cut one clean open because i was trying to text without getting cherry juice and perspiration all over my phone and didn't watch where i was putting my free hand. FAIL.

as i was cursing my ass off and using one of my fancy dishtowels to put pressure on my gushing wound, i remembered that last night herbal tea and i decided to have a first date in the middle of the day today, because i don't meet weird dudes at night anymore. so i've had enough conversations with him at this point to no that he's a little bit of a self-important windbag (i'm trying to be polite) who, in addition to mapping his life out according to the plants and moons and stars, is really anti-government and aspires to live his life off the conventional grid. dear lord.

i'm uninterested in dudes with that approach to life for the simplest reason: BEING SELF-RIGHTEOUS IS EXHAUSTING. and listening to it makes me tired. plus, it often doesn't really mean anything. for instance, he was explaining to me how he is currently suing the government in federal court to GET HIS IDENTITY BACK (i can't) and the twisted logic and laws he was sourcing were, dare i say it?, INSANE. i can hang for a little astrology discussion, but once you start talking about dismantling your social security so that you can be a corporation unto yourself and maintain control of your own money withing the federal reserve and you don't believe in drivers licenses or registering your vehicle based on a treaty that the moors made a hundred years ago and zzZzZzzzz.

oh. i'm sorry. i think i fell asleep. what were you saying about the matrix again?

FUCK, DUDES. i just got home from the most boring lunch ever. here's some arrogant shit about me you probably could have guessed already: since i'm all smart and hilarious and shit, it is INCREDIBLY AGGRAVATING to me when someone else dominates a conversation. i'm funny, man, i SPARKLE. so sitting in a fancy restaurant across from a dude wearing a fez (you read that right) and watching his lips move as he just DIDN'T STOP TALKING about the MOST BORING SHIT EVER really almost made me cry.

first thing i noticed? SHORTS. epic failure, only made tolerable by the fact that we agreed to meet at noon on a wednesday in july. and fuck you if you think i'm a bitch, SHORTS ARE INAPPROPRIATE. i had a good mind to shake his hand and leave, but i was raised right. or something like that. so i accepted my fate and settled in for my punishment.

second? CUT-OFF SHIRT. now this i can't get over. before you start envisioning a grown man in a crop top i should amend this to say that the sleeves were cut off of his shirt. gentlemen! this is a NO! this is ABOMINABLE. i can't eat a pancake across from your armpit hair. sorry, but i just can't.

actually, i might have noticed the fez first. when you're 6'4" (hey now), the first thing people do is look up. and when i did i almost choked. you know what's lame? i always get a touch self-conscious when meeting a new dude for the first time, not so much that it ever keeps me from going out, but i do think "HOLY SHIT, i look ugly today" sometimes, but then i remember how they totally don't give a fuck and will come out to meet a hot lady in all sorts of ridiculous garbage and i get over myself. i'm an asshole, so i jokingly said, "where's your little car? have i already missed the parade? where's your organ grinder?!"

listen to me, kittens. you CANNOT wear a fez, in public, on a date, with THIS BITCH, and not expect a little playful ribbing. (and a ridiculous amount of shit-talking later on my blog.) and he smiled, but it was sort of a "fuck you, bitch" smile. (a "fuck you, queen" smile?) and whatever little bit of wind that had been left in my sails died down immediately. and we walked into the restaurant in stilted silence to begin the longest short lunch ever eaten.

here are the highlights: he found something suitably vegetarian on the menu, he touched my bare foot with his bare hand and then CONTINUED EATING HIS SANDWICH, he tried to rub the purple stains off my hands (i see what you did there!), he had a nice smile, he's tall, he has a brain. albeit a singularly focused one. sigh.

i know i talk a lot of shit, but i would almost rather have a dude try to take my panties off with his teeth when i first meet him than to endure an hour-long dissertation on his political and religious ideologies. i mean, he was talking so much i wondered if he could even BREATHE. from one tangent to the next, like a human fucking bagpipe never coming up once for air. then he had the nerve to ask why i wasn't saying anything. seriously, sir? even when he took a break to let me counterpoint (ie, COMPLETELY FUCKING DESTROY) every single one of his arguments, he kept cutting me off to try to re-prove the point i'd already heard him make. it was an exercise in futility for me to even try. so i sat there. like a boring, unfunny bitch. getting TALKED AT. by a moor. while i ate one blueberry pancake and a potato. please kill me now FUCK my digestive system wah wah boo hoo.

a moor who expected me to pay, by the way, because somehow in the tricky way this date had been set up it became MY suggestion. i don't believe in that AT ALL, and you hoes know it. and you know what? it's cool. my favorite fucking thing ever is to not be beholden to anyone, and if paying for your grilled cheese absolves me from feeling like i have to sit through ANOTHER hour on the phone explaining why there is a pyramid on the dollar bill then it is ALL GOOD. also? HE TOUCHED MY HAIR. and you know how i feel about that.

i don't know where this leaves us, lovers. on one hand, i haven't had sex since december and my vagina is bored. and incense dudes usually know how to lay it down. to his credit, his hug was nice AND he called me a tattooed aphrodite, and that kind of thing, while making me giggle for sure, makes me feel sort of sexy. i just have to figure out how to convince him to wear the ball gag. or let me shove a rag in his mouth. maybe i can call it a venus rag and tell him i got it from a shaman? HOLY HELL, MY LIFE IS DUMB.

i am going to a fancy benefit this evening with one of my hot bitches. a fancy benefit for which i have to wear a fancy dress. hopefully there will be someone there who will want to have sex with me. that will not be the case. why didn't i die in the hospital again?

ps, he drank lemonade. shit.

hot pants.

this is what i read at the sex show last night. if you missed it, you should consider suicide. good god, i'm so effing tired. i'm officially too old to be rolling in late then getting up at seven to do the laundry. which is still sitting in the dryer. three hours later. eff it, i'm going back to bed now. total fail.


sometimes, when i feel like i am at the height of my considerable desirability and attractiveness and at a stunningly high level of cocksure self-esteem, i like to put my fancy clothes on and go out to bars to find hot dudes to have sex with.


now, to keep up appearances and pretend not to be too much of a filthy, dirty, scandalous whore, i might dress it up and call it “going dancing” or “grabbing a drink after work” but if at the end of a workday i am shoved into structured pants that have an actual button and zipper in lieu of a gaping elastic waistband and raggedy hem, you better believe i’m trying to find somebody sexy to take those bitches off. i’m such a lazy dirtbag that i usually have my belt unbuckled in the elevator on the way up to my apartment, and the minute i walk through the door i disrobe completely and get my pajamas on. i don’t even stop to look through the mail. if i have shoes and a bra on for more than five minutes after 7 pm on a tuesday i consider it a complete and utter failure.


but i have absolutely no problem being bound and trussed like a pig on its way to a fashionable roast if it means i might get to stick my finger up to the knuckle in a handsome man’s asshole at the end of the night. i don’t mind putting decent shoes on to earn some money, but i’d much rather put them on to get some different digits. the kind i can use for drunk dialing. incessant text messaging at odd times of the night. calling and hanging up. thirteen times in a row. sending grainy, blurry, too-dark pictures of my shadowy private parts taken while hovering off-balance over the toilet in the bathroom at work. using the reverse lookup to figure out where he lives. and with whom. before showing up on his lawn at sunset. with flowers. while wearing pants.


i really love these newfangled “upscale” black nightclubs that are popping up everywhere lately so that assholes like me don’t have to get drunk while listening to sorority girls’ incessant giggling and spewing amaretto sour vomit onto her platform shoes in the bathroom stall next to mine. or watch dudes with popped collars dance awkwardly to snoop dogg songs that were popular eight fucking years ago. although in my experience it seems the only prerequisite for the upscale billing is the caveat that one must have appropriate footwear to gain entry. so all i have to do to class my shit up is not wear a shoe that has laces? AWESOME. so let’s say my hair is a tangled mess of dirt and bugs and twigs, my skin is dry and ashy and sloughs off at the slightest indication of a breeze, i smell like the asshole of satan, and i’m wearing a garbage bag soaked in dog shit, BUT i happen to have on a patent leather shoe with a four inch heel? you mean i could still gain entry and live out my low-budget rap video fantasies of getting overpriced bottle service in the vip and making it rain loose change (sorry, i’m not a baller) on hoodrat strippers with terrible weaves? EXCELLENT. sign me right up.


the dudes at these places are still your average run of the mill shitheads, but they, at the very least, tend to be fresh out of the barber’s chair, all cleaned up and smelling good and wearing shiny black size 15 kenneth cole oxfords with his business casual club attire. and it sort of makes the random hooking up feel a little less gross when your nightcap is served in a fancy glass, doesn’t it? nothing better than a dude who needs to drape his neatly tailored blazer over the back of your couch rather than balling up his dirty sweatpants and t-shirt in the corner of your bathroom next to the toilet. it’s like fucking christmas undoing all of that ostentatious gift wrap. and i don’t gently peel of the tape so as not to wrinkle or damage the paper, either. i tear that shit off with my goddamned teeth. i want to get to the candy cane santa left under my hannukah bush. and who the fuck cares? if he ever sees me again, and he’s really so worried about a couple of harmless little bite marks on the lapel of his notch jacket, he can feel free to send me the dry cleaning bill.


there is a club in downtown chicago called ontourage. ontourage spelled with an O. a capital O. because it’s on ontario. or maybe because it’s O-mazing? sigh. or maybe whomever named the club had a really hard time learning how to spell when he was younger and no one had the heart to tell him that phonetically spelling the name of a nightclub might not be the brainiest of ideas. especially when he expects patrons to pay a twenty dollar cover. AND WEAR NICE SHOES.


my big O moment happened a few years ago when, after several glasses of wine consumed in the non strobe-lit confines of my own home, i decided to slap my fancy pants on and hit the town in search of debonair, impeccably-groomed lothario who wasn’t allowed to wear a ball cap or clothes with logos on them into whatever fine establishment i could convince to let me in. because, for me, “proper attire” means “flip flops i’ve only worn a handful of times.” and sometimes those bouncers are fucking hardasses.


you already know that all types of fuckery is about to ensue when you’re just leaving your house at midnight, and i stood on the corner of my block hailing invisible cabs for twenty minutes and drunk dialing almost every single bitch in my phone to see if anyone wanted to go on the prowl with me. most of my girlfriends are sensible fucking people who’d either A gone to bed HOURS BEFORE or B were already out somewhere fabulous drunk as shit and getting ready to be date-raped by a dude in a pink dress shirt and stiff hair gel. by the time i’d secured a chariot (stupid fucking cabs) i was down to the “i sort of hate this stupid slut but she’d probably bring her camel toe out to the club to wingman for me” section of my contacts list, and even then the only whore who answered her phone was one i reserved for my most desperate circumstances.


and i feel like an asshole saying that. especially when i’ve fielded enough lazy 3 am last call, end of the line, dregs of the coffee cup booty call propositions to know how fucking awful that really fucking feels. there’s nothing worse than knowing you are the LAST BITCH ON EARTH some dude wanted to fuck, but he’s such a miserable piece of shit scumbag that he PICKED UP THE PHONE TO CALL YOU ANYWAY. it’s usually at the point that he doesn’t even give enough of a shit to try to make it sound good. no pretending that you were just “running through his mind” or “hey, i haven’t heard from you in a while and i miss you!” it is the telephone equivalent of motioning to his groin and grunting “put mouth here.” how romantic.


anyway, this dumb bitch answered. for the purposes of our story we’ll call her sarah, because that’s her goddamned name and fuck that bitch because we aren’t friends anymore. and, as i’d suspected, she was perfectly willing to crawl out from under the dude she was about to get busy with and “meet me for just one drink.” ha.


once we slipped past the goon at the door in our questionably high end attire (i believe the words i used to get us in were “shabby chic”), we were enveloped by flashing lights, pulsing beats, and more cool water cologne than you could ever imagine. it was glorious. at the time i was a big fan of bombay and tonics, because i thought it sounded like i knew what i was talking about when i ordered one, so i immediately hit the bar and ordered two. because getting as much alcohol into your body as humanly possible as quickly as possible is of the utmost importance when you walk into a place an hour before last fucking call. i always think i’m so smart waiting until the last second to go out, when they’ve already run out of the beer i drink and the super hot dudes have already all been clubbed over the head and dragged off to some other bitch’s house. so all i’m left with is heineken light and the dude with razor bumps and a patchy beard.

i must have had “talk to me, i’m easy” stamped on my forehead, because before i could even turn away from the bar a dude i hazily remember to be halfway decent-looking sidled up next to me and offered to pay for my drinks. now let’s pause right here and say that, especially in this economy, i have no problem at all shamelessly whoring my ass out for some booze. especially in a place like that, where a splash of top shelf liquor will set you back nine goddamned dollars. i am 100% indiscriminate when it comes to letting someone put down his hard-fought money in support of my good time. so i put my fucking wallet away and marveled in awe as he uttered my most favorite words in the entire history of the universe, “LET ME OPEN UP A TAB.”


i’m sort of like a child in that way, instantly devoted to anyone who does anything for me. or buys me something special. maybe it’s because i’m a product of divorce, and totally loved more whichever of my parents let me put ice cream in my frosted flakes on any given day. i’m easily swayed. give me something shiny and i’ll let you do whatever the hell you want. until somebody comes along with something shinier.


anyway, he obviously thought it would be worth the investment and continued to ply me with weak drink after weak drink while rubbing his boner into the side of my thigh on the dance floor. now ordinarily i would junk punch a dude who couldn’t keep his erection to himself, but by that point i think i’d had sixty dollars’ worth of cocktails and decided to be generous and give him a break. it was the least i could do, right?


drinking dancing sweating dancing shouting drinking sweating screaming dancing drinking grinding drinking dancing and then i took my PANTS OFF. in the middle of a fucking DISCO. so, the details are a little fuzzy, because they are clouded by GIN, but my recollection is serving me in any kind of way, this is sort of how that went. i was doing my patented hip swivel move, which allows me to dance while drunk but not appearing to be so because i hold my upper body relatively still and keep my feet in one place while i move my ass and torso as close to on the beat as possible. he said something to the effect of “i like that ass” (or maybe it was “i wanna see that ass?”) and in my liquor-soaked brain i interpreted that as “bitch, you should totally take your fucking pants off.” so i did.


now here’s where it gets a little tricky. despite the fact that i often use one for transportation, i’m no fucking broomstick. and i was sweating my labia half to death. which turned my “pants” into “sausage casings.” since i imagine you are picturing this in your mind, erase that image of me gracefully stepping out of my pants in one smooth motion and replace it with the actual one: me YANKING and TUGGING and STRUGGLING to get my fucking pants down. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCE FLOOR. i was huffing and puffing like a marathon runner, sweating like a whore in church, all while trying to do something totally illegal in front of hundreds of fucking people. but i am nothing if not determined and i got those girls down around my ankles in approximately three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.


i was so proud of myself, too. i remember when that triumphant “look at me, mommy, look at what i did!” feeling washed over me. my wingwoman, who had snatched my house keys (to prevent me from making a terrible mistake, of course) and vanished to the other end of the club to work her own magic, was nowhere in sight, and that somehow, the lack of someone who knew me and might have a scrap of common sense getting in my face and saying, “what do you think you’re doing?” seemed like a confirmation that i was, in fact, doing the right thing. so i kept the fucking party going.


the ripple of shock making its way through the crowd reached me dead fucking last, as i was completely oblivious to person after person turning to stare at me and my full-bottomed black briefs working it out to the music. sarah appeared from out of the ether and got to me a split second before security did, digging her nails into my ass and hissing “PUT YOUR FUCKING PANTS ON” at me through clenched teeth. my benefactor appeared to be blissfully ignorant as well, or maybe every bitch he pulls out his amex card for immediately undresses the minute the charge clears. i don’t know, some people have it like that.


but i’m stubborn as a mule, and even as a giant dude was fast approaching ready to drag me out of that place by my tampon string, i turned to sarah and said, “not until you give me my keys.” and i stood there, like an asshole, with NO PANTS ON, and held out my hand and waited for her to give them to me. when she didn’t move fast enough i stomped my foot and demanded again. “KEYS.” and she refused, again, to give them to me, leaving me with no other course of action than to spit at her and throw what was left of my eighth drink in her face. oh yes. it got UGLY.


what happened after that is mostly a blur, although i do know that after a lot of shouting and commotion and hullabaloo i ended up outside on the sidewalk with pants halfway on waiting for old moneybags to get his lexus from the valet. that cockblocking bitch still hadn’t given me my keys, but i had a roommate at the time so FUCK HER. what the hell does she know? it is PERFECTLY LOGICAL to go home with a man you’ve known for an hour and a half who did nothing the entire time but pump you full of poison and encourage you to engage in public nudity. it was nearly dawn by the time we found a parking space near my building, and crackheads and hookers laughed and pointed at me as i stumbled up to my door and almost collapsing before i could even get it open. it didn’t matter anyway, as my roommate at the time was a hard-partying gay man for whom “home by a reasonable hour” had absolutely no meaning.


so daddy warbucks and i sat on the dirty carpet outside of my door and waited for him to come home. now THIS is the point that it finally registered that this dude might not be what one would call an "upstanding citizen." the fact that he was so intent on cashing in his chips with a woman who could barely keep her eyes open or her head upright after having recently disrobed in a disco that he was willing to sit cross-legged in my dirty hallway kind of cemented his status as biggest creep in the history of ever. when joseph came home i was nearly comatose, snoring and drooling into cheap motel-style carpeting full of ground in dirt and feces, but they woke me up and i crawled inside (seriously, on all fours) to my room while i tried not to vomit.


i left him sitting on the edge of my bed and went to the bathroom to begin the always-futile face splashing sober up routine and take my fucking pants off. AGAIN. when i dragged myself  back in he was lying on his back with his dick standing on end, just as i’d always imagined my prince charming would in my cinderella fantasies as a child. and all that was missing was a glass slipper for me to vomit into, as five seconds after i’d opened my mouth to insert his penis in it i felt that hot acid that rolls off your tongue and over the inside of your cheeks that let’s you know that the entire contents of your stomach are about to be unleashed via your mouth. the head had gotten just past my front teeth when i felt that sickening lurch, and i was totally helpless and spewed hot vomit all over his dick. and his balls. his legs. and i think i might have even gotten a little on his fancy shoes.


he did exactly what you think he did, jumped up in a panicky rage, hopping from one bare foot to the other trying to avoid the puddles on the carpet. “i never should have bought you all those drinks,” he said as he found a kleenex to wipe the bile off his genitals. “you sloppy bitch.”


“well,” i said, pawing at the strings of vomitspit clinging to my mouth and chin, “consider this a refund.”