Friday, July 30, 2010

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.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

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.

Monday, July 26, 2010

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.”

Friday, July 23, 2010

"i'm polyamorous."

holy mother of god let us finally get back to the sexy shit. take off your panties, because I MET A HOT GODDAMNED DUDE. and, in the two conversations and multiple email correspondence i've shared with him, he doesn't seem to be too motherfucking stupid. i'll get the marching band and the float while you start up the parade.

and he's my absolute favorite kind, too: AN INCENSE-BURNING HERBAL TEA DUDE. oh, mancake. be still my heart. SO EFFING GREAT. when's the last time one of these sensitive lotharios occupied the space in the bed next to mine, wearing linen pants and gently strumming his guitar after sex and reciting original poetry while i brush my teeth in the morning? five years ago? that's too goddamned long. thank fucking horus, bitches. I CANNOT WAIT. back to searching for a dude's clove-scented testicles through a tangle of dreadlocked pubic hair! suffering a concussion after being struck in the back of the head by the giant ankh he wears around his neck and refuses to take off during the coitus! eating vegetarian meals! rolling my eyes while he meditates! a grown man wearing sandals! chai tea lattes! carrot juice smoothies! badu on the hi-fi! the words "mother africa!" comparing the curl patterns of our natural hair! unironic dashikis! black soap, shea butter, and egyptian musk oil! tarot cards! palm readings! spiritual advisors! headwraps! djembes and rainsticks! crocheted pants! rooftop gardens! nose rings! babies in slings! renewable resources! hip hop ciphers! marijuana by the pound! excessive consumption of mangoes and other tropical fruits! astrology! numerology! chakras! chlorophyll! dried sage! recycling! reusable sanitary napkins! record players! listening to nina simone on those old record players! spiritual healers! calming crystals! nappy beards! vibing to the roots! nag champa! turquoise necklaces! amber pendants! yoruba masks! maternity statues! zulu textiles! locs down to the ankle! earth shoes and tunics! honey! yoga! chanting! proverbs! paintings like the one on good times!

i lurve the circular way in which herbal tea dudes talk. just try to get a straight answer out of one of them. SERIOUSLY. a simple question like "what do you want to do for dinner?" could yield a three-hour dissertation on the african diaspora. that shit is FASCINATING. and exhausting. sometimes i just want to get boned for three hard, solid minutes in the back end, not have my sweet ambrosia sipped under the watchful eye of the somnolent moon. or whatever it is these dudes are constantly blathering on about. i don't like a whole lot of conversation when it's time to get a belt wrapped around my neck. don't bother pointing out the sanguine taste of my flesh, just GET YOUR DICK OUT. good lord. that fruity talk really shrinks my fucking boner. because here's the thing: herbal tea dudes are usually REALLY EXCELLENT IN BED. they're totally respectful and sensitive and considerate, downright feminist when it comes to the art of smacking butts. they take their time and listen to you and take pains to do it 100% goddamned right, and they always make sure to gaze deeply into the chocolate abyss that skims the surface deep within the windows into your soul (THAT IS A DIRECT FUCKING QUOTE), so that when you write a poem about it later you properly convey the smooth earthly essence of his carnal nature and desire.

or something like that.


what did you say? that doesn't make any sense?! well, lover, therein lies the point. every time i wrap up a conversation with an herbal tea i scratch my head and think, "WHAT did he just say?" i mean, i've spent entire conversations nodding like a child. a child with the comprehension level of your average labrador. because these dudes are speaking WORDS, and those words are in ENGLISH, but the way they string them all together doesn't make a lick of actual SENSE. it's like if you hear a sentence read backward. you know the words, and individually you understand what the fuck they mean, but "you fuck to want i" doesn't really MEAN anything. if you mull it over for five minutes it'll totally dawn on you in an "aha!" kind of way, but herbal teas never GIVE you five minutes to process and find the pieces of food in their verbal diarrhea. they're rambling right along into the next twisted, broken arm of the conversation.


and this way they can never REALLY be held accountable for anything. it's a neat fucking trick, right? crafty beavers. because if you are unclear about what i've said to you, i can always later convince you that you misheard the words or misinterpreted their intent. that shit is GENIUS. samantha walks it like i talks it, so if i say some shit to you or about you or in regard to your mother and you come back at me with it, i can't play dumb and giggle my way out of it. i'm forced to own it. but these dudes don't have to.

if he says, "i wasn't really digging the energy you put out when we were vibing as venus rose into the ninth house last week,"

and you confront him later (after thinking about that shit for SIX WHOLE DAYS trying to determine whether or not it was an insult) by saying, "peace, brother, but i don't like the way you criticized my energy the last time we spoke,"

he could turn right back around, cup your face in the palms of his infinite understanding, stare into the black beams of god's promise that are shining out of your eyes and say, "no, queen, you misunderstand me. i was just making a note of how the shift in the astral plane had darkened your sun in my sky. it's all love, beautiful. for real."
*blink*

"um. okay. i guess we're cool then? let's have some tantric sex."

i'm going to contradict myself a little bit and say that while ordinarily i absolutely refuse to listen to a whole lot of unsolicited talky-talky from anything equipped with a penis, i make a slight exception (a VERY slight exception), for herbal teas. they are my aural trainwreck, as i virtually CANNOT TURN AWAY when one is talking. especially if he is passionately defending something DUMB AS HELL. or explaining what he does for a living. because they rarely have real jobs. i've never met an herbal tea IN MY ENTIRE LIFE who was like, "oh yeah, sista, i analyze stocks at charles schwab" or whatever. they always have some bohemian street hustle, either working for some poorly-funded grassroots community organization you've never heard of out of a storefront that never appears to be open (and also supplies the community with red and green knit caps (with a rendering of THE CONTINENT woven into them, DUH) and tubs of fair trade shea butter and rollers of oil) or spending all day painting abstract portraits of fat black naked women and overcharging guilt-ridden white people for them.

speaking of the tangled conversational webs these cats weave, when "i consider myself polyamorous" came out of this little teapot's spout i almost choked trying not to goddamn laugh. amazing. and HILARIOUS. i want every part of this. it's totally obvious when a dude is used to dealing with a chick who's a fucking idiot. i'm not over here picking out picket fences and golden retrievers, my king, i just want to have a hot time, too. no need to lay the extensive noncommittal groundwork that goes with dumb girl territory. i'm brilliantly smart and easily bored. i wouldn't get married to helen, and i've lived with that bitch for almost two whole years. and i'm planning to murder her in her sleep the day before we become officially commonlaw so she can't do the same to me and run off with her new boyfriend toting half my fucking shit.

that's the kind of tricky thing you say to someone who can't use her brain cells to their full capacity so she still hears "i'm still a really great dude" when what he's really saying is "i want free reign to put my penis in vaginas that aren't yours." and i don't give a fuck about that shit. do what you want, just don't be fucking sloppy. or sloppy at fucking. can't we all just start saying what we want? here is my answer, VERBATIM, to the query, "what are you looking for in a dude?"


"i would like to hang out with some dudes who might possibly be smarter or more interesting than i am who have a healthy understanding of the words PERSONAL SPACE. and no mesh shirts."


was that really so hard? my entire dating philosophy distilled into two glorious sentences. be smart and leave me the fuck alone. no need to wrap it in a bow and surround it with a bunch of glittery, flowery nonsense. that dilutes the fucking message. and will force me later have to tell you AGAIN. i don't have time for that. and really, does he? the more time you waste explaining the how the lunar phases affect my subconscious while i nod once every five seconds and daydream about kittens frolicking through a garden, the more time that could be spent sewing his eco-friendly line of all natural hemp yoga pants.

you know i'm totally gross about politics and conspiracies, and there is nothing sweeter on earth than asking an herbal tea dude to talk to you about something you just saw on goddamned CNN. it's like brain candy, and feel free give yourself a thousand million points directly from my "you're awesome" account if you can get him to come to a point that doesn't involve either the freedom of some random political prisoner that you've never heard of or a well-placed quote from dead prez's first record.

and my new herbal tea dude is the REAL FUCKING DEAL, man. he's taken on a generically africarab-sounding name and everything. because you know you can't trust him if he still has his slave name, right? he doesn't have to go all the way back to africa, only halfway. confused? okay, i'll show you. david jones? SAD. david al-tayyib jones? HAPPY. sheikh david al-tayyib ala' al din? LOCK THIS DUDE IN YOUR HOUSE AND NEVER LET HIM LEAVE. because he is obviously perfect. i LOVE that shit, man. hanging out with a dude called "faraj ibrahim" whose mother refers to him as "terrell" is fucking priceless. cracks my shit up.

okay, THIS DUDE. he has about six names, and not a single one of them is christian. squee! no poetry (YET), but he did talk to me about a propositional story concept based around a fictional african queen after asking me what my novel is about. and my novel is not about africa. or a queen. but i do enjoy being propositioned. i think he's a shade more down to earth than a traditionally-brewed herbal tea, but he DID ask me to text him my birth date and time so that he could have a comprehensive astrological birth chart drawn up just for me. i called everybody in goddamned evanston to figure out the exact time i shot like a rocket out of my mom's ass, and i almost burned my fingers off sending him the info.

and half an hour later my inbox was full of delicious astrological goodness, and you know how much i fucking love a full inbox. yowza. there are charts and graphs and all this extraterrestrial fancy talk that is 100% confusing to me, but i died and went to heaven anyway. love it. and just a couple hours ago he sent me all of my NUMEROLOGY info, TOO.


check it, jerks:


Your Life Path Number is 6
Your Life Path Number represents the path you should take through life and the talents and skills you have to make your journey a rewarding one.

Your Path will lead you to build a warm home life and a stable, rewarding career. You live responsibly and learn to maintain a balance between what you give and what you receive. You are sympathetic, caring and able to give good counsel. These are qualities others will come to you for many times in your life. You see the beauty in the world and in those around you. Enjoy your vision.

Your Life Destiny Number is 5
Your Destiny Number sheds light on those things you must accomplish in your life to be fulfilled.

A 5 Destiny number indicates you will move through life on a stream of change. It is your destiny to explore the limits of your personal freedom and promote free will for all. You will encounter change throughout your life, and where many would see this as instability you will embrace it as the coming of new opportunities.

Your Soul Number is
3Your Soul Number describes your deepest desires and dreams and the person you truly want to be.

You desire to make people happy, laugh, and be all they can be. You want to create, have fun, and remain ever enthusiastic. You are a lover of life, and will do all you can to ensure those around you are aware of just how grand a gift life is.


now go kill yourselves, because this shit is totally awesome and true. i'm not a sardonic asshole piece of shit AT ALL. i am a lover of life. bam.

if i can stomach him in person for more than thirty-seven minutes, this is going to be BIG, HILARIOUS FUN. and even if it isn't who the fuck cares?! this dude talked both about chess and his encyclopedic knowledge of star trek: the next generation. WIN. i'm tired of writing about my stinky asshole and how much this fucking humidity is wearing out my ankles. thank god i got a pedicure and started shaving my legs again. so let's hope this rules.

on second thought, all this shaving might be wholly unnecessary. herbal tea dudes know how to appreciate god's natural gifts, including copious leg hair and a finely cultivated bush. i can burn my bras and throw out my deodorant, too. we have plans for early next week, and i will chronicle them here for your amusement. ie, to incite your seething envious rage.

let the tea bagging begin!

Thursday, July 22, 2010

potty mouth.

my sincerest apologies for having been away for so long, but i was TRYING NOT TO DIE. (i have a penchant for melodrama, especially when i am not feeling well. forgive me, i still have scrambled egg hospital brains.) HOLY FUCKING SHIT, crohn's. why you gotta do your girl like that? what have i ever done to YOU?!

the internet is going to teach the class today, because i'm goddamned tired. i spent five days on my back in the least sexy way imaginable, hooked up to monitors and machines with tubes going every which way, at the mercy of a huge group of very nice people who seemed to never really understand that forty-five minutes is not a very long time to let a bitch "sleep." now i pieced this together from a bunch of sites and edited out the boring parts so i wouldn't feel like a total jagoff, and you already know how i have to add my commentary to EVERYTHING. so maybe you will laugh. and understand a little bit. this business is BRUTAL.

here's what worked: i lost ten pounds in five days without setting foot on a treadmill, 24 hour maid and ice chip delivery service, intravenous narcotics (yummy), central air, free on demand movies, being wheeled around the hospital 1 in a BED and 2 with a HOT CHAUFFEUR, bags and bags of sodium chloride dripping into my arm and making my skin glow, all of my friends who called and visited, watching tyra's dumb ass show, seeing my hot doctor every day.

and what didn't: being seen by said hot doctor in progressively gross condition, "bathing" with "fecal dissolving foam," not having all of the fancy shit i need, getting woken up and stuck with needles every five minutes before i could even register what was happening, flashing the xray dude, TWICE, being disconnected from the universe, the $976,458,987,329 bill united healthcare is currently processing on my behalf, smelling weird, figuring out how to get helen taken care of, a diet consisting solely of vegetable broth and apple juice after three days of not even being allowed WATER, constantly inadvertently shutting off my IV, missing helen, talking for half and hour with a nutritionist about corn pasta, and DIAPERS.


Crohn's Disease is a form of inflammatory bowel disease (IBD). It usually affects the intestines, but may occur anywhere from the mouth to the end of the rectum (anus).

my crohn's is located in my duodenum and the upper part of the ileum. consult the chart!

Signs and symptoms of Crohn's disease can range from mild to severe and may develop gradually or come on suddenly, without warning. You may also have periods of time when you have no signs or symptoms (remission). When the disease is active, signs and symptoms may include:

Diarrhea. The inflammation that occurs in Crohn's disease causes cells in the affected areas of your intestine to secrete large amounts of water and salt. Because the colon can't completely absorb this excess fluid, you develop diarrhea. Intensified intestinal cramping also can contribute to loose stools. Diarrhea is the most common problem for people with Crohn's.

good lord. i throw a fucking PARTY if i can go to the bathroom and produce a stool thicker or more formed than an a bowl of instant oatmeal. it's not always a burning, churning, desperate affair, but imagine how much life sucks when you have unpredictable diarrhea ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME. let's just say that in general, i'm not very oh, i dunno...SPONTANEOUS. i have to plan my drugs and meals and shits around everything else i want to ever do, and i bet you can guess how much fun THAT is.

"if i take my pills at noon, eat some ground turkey and rice at one, i should be able to crap it out and make it to that party by ten." squee! sounds awesome, i know. especially since my guts don't often get the memo. so i'll skip the pill part or the food part and fuck everything up, then end up trying not to shit down the back of my party pants over a toilet covered in vomit in some silly disco. OR i flake out and sit miserably at home feeling like a loser because i have to stay in bed and babysit my intestines. bratty intestines that REFUSE to behave. or go to bed on time.


Abdominal pain and cramping.
Inflammation and ulceration may cause the walls of portions of your bowel to swell and eventually thicken with scar tissue. This affects the normal movement of contents through your digestive tract and may lead to pain and cramping. Mild Crohn's disease usually causes slight to moderate intestinal discomfort, but in more-serious cases, the pain may be severe and include nausea and vomiting.

"intestinal discomfort" might be a little bit of an understatement, professor internet. the diameter of the space that my food has to pass through is pretty much that of your average drinking straw. i will give you a second to imagine a cheeseburger shoving its way through, and another to imagine what that feels like. i eat slower than your fucking grandmother. just ask rachel, who MARVELS at the length of time it takes me to get through a meal. i am not kidding. that bitch will be onto her second post-meal drink by the time i'm halfway through. helen takes bigger bites than i do, shit. and that goes for everything. rice, crackers, cereal, whatever. i can feel it trying to force its way through, inch by inch, until the very last second, when it picks up speed and hurtles toward the finish line, coming out looking almost exactly the same as it did going in.

Blood in your stool. Food moving through your digestive tract may cause inflamed tissue to bleed, or your bowel may also bleed on its own. You might notice bright red blood in the toilet bowl or darker blood mixed with your stool. You can also have bleeding you don't see (occult blood).

Ulcers. Crohn's disease can cause small sores on the surface of the intestine that eventually become large ulcers that penetrate deep into — and sometimes through — the intestinal walls. You may also have ulcers in your mouth similar to canker sores.

thankfully, no fucking MOUTH SORES. barf.

Reduced appetite and weight loss. Abdominal pain and cramping and the inflammatory reaction in the wall of your bowel can affect both your appetite and your ability to digest and absorb food.

still waiting on this weight loss part. seriously.

Other signs and symptoms.
People with severe Crohn's disease may also experience:
constipation, eye inflammation, fistulas, joint pain, liver inflammation, mouth ulcers, rectal bleeding and bloody stools, skin rash, swollen gums, fever, fatigue.

that joint pain is nothing to play with. sometimes it takes a good fifteen seconds to go from sitting to walking, and if that doesn't sound like an excruciatingly embarassing length of time, please sit down, get up, and wait fifteen seconds before taking two steps. preferably while someone is watching you. or waiting for you. now shut up.

when my disease isn't active my joints are fine. no hobbling around or walking five steps behind whomever i happen to be with. that's one of the things that sucks the hardest about the crohn's, is that knowledge that if you could just convince this bitch to go the fuck into remission already you could live a relatively normal life. i wouldn't give a fuck about taking twenty pills a day (FOR SERIOUS) and measuring my food and abstaining from alcohol (sob!) if i could set my goddamned hand brace on fire. remission is like the pot of gold at the end of the shitbow; like oz, and all i have to do is follow the brown brick road to get there.


Causes.
While the exact cause of Crohn's disease is unknown, the condition is linked to a problem with the body's immune system response. Normally, the immune system helps protect the body, but with Crohn's disease the immune system can't tell the difference between normal body tissue and foreign substances. The result is an overactive immune response that leads to chronic inflammation. This is called an autoimmune disorder. People with Crohn's disease have ongoing (chronic) inflammation of the gastrointestinal tract. Crohn's disease may occur in any area of the digestive tract. There can be healthy patches of tissue between diseased areas. The ongoing inflammation causes the intestinal wall to become thick. The disease may occur at any age, but it usually occurs in people between ages 15 - 35. Risk factors include:

Family history of Crohn's disease.

no.

Jewish ancestry.


as much as i love a good, lean brisket...sadly, no.

Smoking.

now THIS is the shit they need to put on the side of a pack of cigarettes, my bloody asshole ripped in half and oozing pungent black death onto a hospital bed. i don't give a shit about people who smoke unless they're doing it around me, go ahead and die if you like, just do so quietly, but fuck all the idealistic young kids petitioning outside big tobacco in those truth commercials. you want to keep a bitch from smoking? let her accompany me to get my entrails pulled out and sorted through then shoved back into my body.

i don't give anyone unsolicited advice, because fuck y'all, but just know that i will laugh my balls off if you develop this hateful shit because you couldn't fucking give up newports. you think cigarettes are expensive? my drugs are in the triple digits, EVERY MONTH. i'm talking car note money. that's why my bitch ass is always on the goddamned dirty-ass train, because there's $400 swimming through my bloodstream instead of driving my ass to work. if anyone ever snatched my bag i'd cry a thousand tears, not for my stupid IDs and various overused cards, but one for every overpriced pill the thief got away with. you should see me when i clumsily drop a pill on the floor. i will contort my body in 20 different ways to rescue my medicine from whatever dark corner it rolled into. i dropped a pentasa on the kitchen floor this morning and damn near kicked helen's head off her neck to prevent her from absconding with it. that bitch ain't got no bank account.

Testing.
Blood tests. Your doctor may suggest blood tests to check for anemia — a condition in which there aren't enough red blood cells to carry adequate oxygen to your tissues — or to check for signs of infection. Two tests that look for the presence of certain antibodies can sometimes help diagnose which type of inflammatory bowel disease you have, but not everyone with Crohn's disease or ulcerative colitis has these antibodies. While your doctor may order these tests, a positive finding doesn't mean you have Crohn's disease and a negative finding doesn't mean that you're free of the disease.

five years ago, when this whole saga began, my blood tests didn't come back with anything conclusive. as a matter of fact, after years and years and a battery of tests and hospitalizations, i still only have what is referred to as an "indirect diagnosis." the disease is in such an awkward part of my belly (not reachable with a scope via either mouth OR anus, and believe me WE'VE TRIED) that my hot doctor inferred from the cumulative findings of all of those tests 1 that i have crohn's and 2 where it is located. the only way to really know would be to slice my guts open, and to hell with that shit. i'd never be able to convince a hot dude that it wasn't a c-section scar without extensively detailing my ailments, and you hoes know i only drop the "i shit wrong" bomb once i'm convinced a fella is in love with me and would murder his entire family at my passing suggestion.

Fecal occult blood test (FOBT). You may need to provide a stool sample so that your doctor can test for blood in your stool.

in the hospital a few years ago, the PCT came in to say good morning and take my vitals, then she put a "hat" in the toilet and said, "whenever you're ready..." and nodded toward the bathroom, leaving me blinking in dazed confusion after she'd gone. at that point i was on a semi-liquid diet, enough to produce stool, and enough colace to kill a small horse. so when the poop came knocking at my back door, i figured out that i was supposed to shit into this bowl contraption that hovered over the toilet water, then use the attached scoop and container to "provide a sample."

not only did i have to dip a little spoon into that warm shit pudding a million times to fill the container, i had to do so while naked from the waist down with mud butt and dingleberries, all while trying not to vomit because the SMELL OF ADULT HUMAN FECES ALL UP IN YOUR FACE IS FUCKING DISGUSTING. even when it's your own. then i was all embarrassed at the thought of some stranger cleaning out my shit pot that i got in the shower and washed it. that's right, i took a shower in my own diarrhea. jealous yet?


Colonoscopy. This test allows your doctor to view your entire colon using a thin, flexible, lighted tube with an attached camera. During the procedure, your doctor can also take small samples of tissue (biopsy) for laboratory analysis, which may help confirm a diagnosis. Some people have clusters of inflammatory cells called granulomas, which help confirm the diagnosis of Crohn's disease because granulomas don't occur with ulcerative colitis. In the majority of people with Crohn's, granulomas aren't present and diagnosis is made through biopsy and the location of the disease. Risks of colonoscopy include perforation of the colon wall and bleeding.

my favorite. OBVIOUSLY.

Flexible sigmoidoscopy. In this procedure, your doctor uses a slender, flexible, lighted tube to examine the sigmoid, the last section of your colon.

Barium enema. This diagnostic test allows your doctor to evaluate your large intestine with an X-ray. Before the test, your receive an enema with a contrast dye containing barium. Sometimes, air also is added. The barium dye coats the lining of the bowel, creating a silhouette of your rectum, colon and a portion of your small intestine that's visible on an X-ray.

(see below)

Small bowel imaging. This test looks at the part of the small bowel that can't be seen by colonoscopy. After you drink a solution containing barium, X-ray, CT or MRI images are taken of your small intestine. The test can help locate areas of narrowing or inflammation in the small bowel that are seen in Crohn's disease. The test can also help your doctor determine which type of inflammatory bowel disease you have.

these two were fucking HORRIFIC. that barium is like the ejaculate of satan, i swear to god. and they make you drink GALLONS of that shit. it takes like hot vomit and makes you gag and when it comes out of your butt it looks like white-out. and leaves chalk marks in your underpants. the worst.

Computerized tomography (CT). Sometimes you may have a CT scan, a special X-ray technique that provides more detail than a standard X-ray does. This test looks at the entire bowel as well as at tissues outside the bowel that can't be seen with other tests. Your doctor may order this scan to better understand the location and extent of your disease or to check for complications such as a partial blockages, abscesses or fistulas. Although not invasive, a CT scan exposes you to more radiation than a conventional X-ray does.

i have had SEVEN of these goddamned things. SEVEN. which means i have almost reached my lifetime limit for radiation exposure. and I AM THIRTY YEARS OLD. and the solution you have to drink beforehand tastes and smells like urine. cute.

Capsule endoscopy.
If you have signs and symptoms that suggest Crohn's disease but other diagnostic tests are negative, your doctor may perform capsule endoscopy. For this test you swallow a capsule that has a camera in it. The camera takes pictures, which are transmitted to a computer that you wear on your belt. The images are then downloaded, displayed on a monitor and checked for signs of Crohn's disease. Once it's made the trip through your digestive system, the camera exits your body painlessly in your stool. Capsule endoscopy is generally very safe, but if you have a partial blockage in the bowel, there's a slight chance the capsule may become lodged in your intestine.

now this one was big fun. the capsule was the size of my goddamned thumb, and i almost choked on that shit three times before i could get it down. and i'm a bitch with a helluva gag reflex. the belt weighed twenty fucking pounds and was awkward and unwieldy, and i couldn't find the camera when i was supposed to have. i spent two days poking at my stools looking for a rapidly blinking white light, convinced that it was stuck in my narrow intestine somewhere. finally the doctor called and said he'd seen the picture of it exiting my rear end (sexy!) and i moved on to worrying about something more pressing. like what i was going to watch on tv.

Treatments and Drugs.
Anti-inflammatory drugs.
Anti-inflammatory drugs are often the first step in the treatment of inflammatory bowel disease. They include:

Sulfasalazine (Azulfidine).
Although this drug isn't always effective for treating Crohn's disease, it may be of some help for treating disease involving the colon. It has a number of side effects, including nausea, vomiting, heartburn and headache. Don't take this medication if you're allergic to sulfa medications.

Mesalamine (Asacol, Rowasa).
This medication tends to have fewer side effects than sulfasalazine has, but may cause nausea, vomiting, heartburn, diarrhea and headache. You take it in tablet form or use it rectally in the form of an enema or suppository, depending on which part of your colon is affected. This medication is generally ineffective for disease involving the small intestine.

the maintenance drug i take four times a day is called pentasa, gigantic turquoise horse pills (if you know me in real life then you know what pills i'm talking about) that cost more than all of the shoes in your closet. they are filled with tiny little beads that make them sound like mini maracas, and they remain intact until they get to my colon, where they explode and shoot the little inner beads up through my intestines to accompany my dumps as they make their way to the toilet. they're like shit chaperones. the most expensive babysitters on the goddamned planet. don't i know any scientists who can make some shit at home for me? FUCK, MAN. i could own property with the money i spend on this garbage. PLUS they make my poops look like they're full of birdseed, and that's fucking gross.

Corticosteroids. Corticosteroids can help reduce inflammation anywhere in your body, but they have numerous side effects, including a puffy face, excessive facial hair, night sweats, insomnia and hyperactivity. More serious side effects include high blood pressure, type 2 diabetes, osteoporosis, bone fractures, cataracts and an increased susceptibility to infections. Long-term use of corticosteroids in children can lead to stunted growth.

right now i am on 40mg of prednisone a day. in the hospital i was on 80mg, and if you know anything about drugs in the least then you know that is A TERRIFYING AMOUNT OF STEROIDS TO BE TAKING. i am doing a weekly taper, which means in three weeks i will be off this brutal shit. steroids are cheap, and they really do make me feel SO FUCKING GODD, but they DESTROY the human body. i'm not even fucking kidding. DESTROY. they kill your immune system which, in addition to the immunosuppressive therapy i am currently undergoing (see below), means i have the defenses of a bitch with full-blown AIDS. now, I DO NOT HAVE AIDS, bitches, i just have ZERO IMMUNE SYSTEM at the moment.

Immune system suppressors.

These drugs also reduce inflammation, but they target your immune system rather than directly treating inflammation. By suppressing the immune response, inflammation is also reduced. Immunosuppressant drugs include:

Azathioprine (Imuran) and mercaptopurine (Purinethol).
These are the most widely used immunosuppressants for treatment of inflammatory bowel disease. Although it can take two to four months for these medications to begin to work, they help reduce signs and symptoms of IBD in general and can heal fistulas from Crohn's disease in particular. If you're taking either of these medications, you'll need to follow up closely with your doctor and have your blood checked regularly to look for side effects.

so i take two 50 mg azathioprine every morning. it used to make me vomit EVERY SINGLE MORNING, sexy, right?, but that seems to have passed. thank horus. nothing ruins a morning like vomiting. NOTHING. get up, take pills, shower, BARF. i seriously wouldn't even want to leave the house after that. how could your day possibly improve when it's started with hot, teary-eyed vomiting down the shower drain? fucking brutal.

remember when i got that bronchitis straight from the pit of hell after my birthday? i was taking this fucking shit. this shit turns "head cold" into "ebola virus." i can't fight a goddamned thing off. and make fun of my constant sanitizing and hand washing and non-public eating, but your sniffly nose is my two weeks in the hospital. so stop goddamned coughing near me, already. and don't drink off my fucking straw.


Infliximab (Remicade).
This drug is for adults and children with moderate to severe Crohn's disease who don't respond to or can't tolerate other treatments. It works by neutralizing a protein produced by your immune system known as tumor necrosis factor (TNF). Infliximab finds TNF in your bloodstream and removes it before it causes inflammation in your intestinal tract.

drip.

Adalimumab (Humira).
Adalimumab works similarly to infliximab by blocking TNF for people with moderate to severe Crohn's disease. It's prescribed for people who haven't been helped by infliximab or other treatments. Adalimumab is given as an injection under the skin every other week, which you may be able to administer yourself. Adalimumab may reduce the signs and symptoms of Crohn's disease and may cause remission.

However, adalimumab, like infliximab, carries a small risk of infections, including tuberculosis and serious fungal infections. Your doctor will administer a skin test for tuberculosis before you begin adalimumab treatment. The most common side effects of adalimumab are skin irritation and pain at the injection site, nausea, runny nose and upper respiratory infection.

drrrrrrrrip.

one thing i hope you notice is that, much like those insane commercials for cholesterol medication and viagra or whatever, the list of side effects of all this stuff are RIDICULOUS. but doing these things isn't really optional.


Lifestyle.
Diet.
There's no firm evidence that what you eat actually causes inflammatory bowel disease. let me just jump in here and say, hopefully for the last fucking time in my entire fucking life, that "what did you eat?" is NOT the appropriate response to "i was in the hospital." it is INFURIATING, and it makes me feel unneccessarily dumb and irresponsible. so don't ever ask me the fuck again what i ate that made me sick. i had one of my WORST flare-ups after having plain white toast and boiled noodles. i don't need any unnecessary food shame because you think i couldn't resist eating an entire bag of oreos. fuck you and die. But certain foods and beverages can aggravate your signs and symptoms, especially during a flare-up in your condition. If you think there are foods that make your condition worse, try keeping a food diary to keep track of what you're eating as well as how you feel. If you discover certain foods are causing your symptoms to flare, it's a good idea to try eliminating those foods. Here are some suggestions that may help:

Limit dairy products.
Like many people with inflammatory bowel disease, you may find that problems, such as diarrhea, abdominal pain and gas, improve when you limit or eliminate dairy products. You may be lactose intolerant — that is, your body can't digest the milk sugar (lactose) in dairy foods. If so, limiting dairy or using an enzyme product, such as Lactaid, will help break down lactose.

i haven't had a glass of milk, or milk in my coffee, or milk on my cereal, in over ten years. and if i'm dumb enough to eat ice cream, i usually do so while already on the toilet. that shit is like greased fucking lightning. holy hell. so consider my dairy "limited."

Try low-fat foods. If you have Crohn's disease of the small intestine, you may not be able to digest or absorb fat normally. Instead, fat passes through your intestine, making your diarrhea worse. Foods that may be especially troublesome include butter, margarine, cream sauces and fried foods.

um, yeah. so i'm doing this now. i am eating kitten-sized meals which, cumulatively, have less than 20 grams of fat. CUMULATIVELY. so get that fucking butter out of my goddamned face.

Experiment with fiber.
For most people, high-fiber foods, such as fresh fruits and vegetables and whole grains, are the foundation of a healthy diet. But if you have inflammatory bowel disease, fiber may make diarrhea, pain and gas worse. If raw fruits and vegetables bother you, try steaming, baking or stewing them. You may also find that you can tolerate some fruits and vegetables, but not others. In general, you may have more problems with foods in the cabbage family, such as broccoli and cauliflower, and nuts, seeds, corn and popcorn. Consult your doctor prior to starting a high-fiber diet.

sometimes "experimenting with fiber" yields a nicely formed, s-shaped poop that is so pretty and perfect that you want to take a picture of it. and other times you end up sweating with tears running down your face as you shit out an entire bowl of brown rice. WHOLE. so i'm taking my time.

Avoid problem foods.
Eliminate any other foods that seem to make your signs and symptoms worse. These may include "gassy" foods such as beans, cabbage and broccoli, raw fruit juices and fruits — especially citrus fruits, spicy food, popcorn, alcohol, and foods and drinks that contain caffeine, such as chocolate and soda.

NO. MORE. TACOS. *sob*

Eat small meals.
You may find you feel better eating five or six small meals a day rather than two or three larger ones.

i just started doing this, and it's working surprisingly well. it's not making me crap as much as i'd expected, at least. but it is SO HARD for a lazy sack of garbage like myself to go from not even being bothered to fix a bowl of cereal to being fully prepared, BEFOREHAND, for six indivual fucking meals. EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY.

Drink plenty of liquids.
Try to drink plenty of fluids daily. Water is best. Alcohol and beverages that contain caffeine stimulate your intestines and can make diarrhea worse, while carbonated drinks frequently produce gas.

NO. MORE. BEER. EITHER. seriously, i might hang myself.

Consider multivitamins.
Because Crohn's disease can interfere with your ability to absorb nutrients and because your diet may be limited, multivitamin and mineral supplements are often helpful. Check with your doctor before taking any vitamins or supplements.

i take two chewable centrum a day, less because i need the nutrients than because i sort of REALLY enjoy that sickly orange flavoring. does that count as one of my eight daily servings of fruit?

Stress
Although stress doesn't cause Crohn's disease, it can make your signs and symptoms much worse and may trigger flare-ups. Stressful events can range from minor annoyances to a move, job loss or the death of a loved one.

When you're stressed, your normal digestive process changes. Your stomach empties more slowly and secretes more acid. Stress can also speed or slow the passage of intestinal contents. It may also cause changes in intestinal tissue itself.

are you reading this, people who ride my ass all day? do you get this shit?! stop speeding up the passage of my intestinal contents, shitbags.

Although it's not always possible to avoid stress, you can learn ways to help manage it. Some of these include:

Exercise.
Even mild exercise can help reduce stress, relieve depression and normalize bowel function. Talk to your doctor about an exercise plan that's right for you.

to russia, with love!

so here's the exercise plan the hospitalist and nutritionist came up with: i have to "exercise" for fifteen minutes five days a week. and lift some weights as regularly as i feel like. and i've been in the gym TWO DAYS IN A ROW. if my trainer had said that shit i'd weigh 97 pounds by now. (no, i wouldn't.) fifteen minutes is a fucking peach, man. and i don't mind a little tricep curlage and deltoid stretchage. the steroids make the shit easy, too. i'm like the incredible hulk of my shitty neighborhood bally's. hide your women and children. rawr.


Biofeedback.
This stress-reduction technique may help you reduce muscle tension and slow your heart rate with the help of a feedback machine. You're then taught how to produce these changes without feedback from the machine. The goal is to help you enter a relaxed state so that you can cope more easily with stress. Biofeedback is usually taught in hospitals and medical centers.

this sounds like some scientology shit. once i asked dr. gorge if he recommended any holistic remedies and he looked at me like i'd said, "would you like to eat a pile of my vomit for dinner?" in other words, NO HE DOES NOT. he recommends drugs and IVs and expensive ass tests, but mention acupuncture or herbs and he'll spit in your face. and i'm cool with that. i'd sell my soul to a pharmaceutical company if i could find one that wanted it. big pharma is big business, and i'll take any discount i can get. and sooner or later somebody will let me get my hands on some legal heroin, and i want mine straight from the SOURCE.

Regular relaxation and breathing exercises.
One way to cope with stress is to regularly relax. You can take classes in yoga and meditation or use books, CDs or DVDs at home.

you bitches better stop stressing my ass out. dudes, too. i'm going to stop working so goddamned much. and if i don't write for a week, you hoes just have to deal with it.  if i don't call you back right away, don't jump down my throat. if i'm moving a little slowly, chalk it up to my newfound relaxed attitude. i can't settle down enough to meditate, and yoga makes my anxiety skyrocket from trying not to fart while twisting all this ass into impossible poses. so i'm going to sleep more and take long walks on the beach and listen to enya or whatever the fuck i have to do to keep my blood pressure at a reasonable level. uggg. fuck yoga.

boy, how i've missed you kittens. i'm so tired of this bullshit that i am usually disappointed when i don't die in the hospital and am forced to live to slog through another day, but then i thought about how the 17 people who read this shit regularly might be sad if they hadn't heard from my vagina hole in a while. did you know that "healthy," "young" people are not allowed to sign a DNR? and that they laughed in my face when i asked for the kevorkian suite? utter nonsense, i tell you. every time i sign the admit form and get a central line put in the side of my arm i hope, "maybe this will be the time they slip me a little too much dilaudid...?" but, no. i'm still fucking here. and still pissed about it.

come celebrate my non-demise this sunday night at the sex show's birthday extravaginaganza. i will be reading a delightfully hilarious tale from my vaginal crypt, and it will be the awesome. sunday july 25 at 7:30 pm at the burlington. let's revel in my newfound sobriety, shall we? you know you want to.

back to some dumb and healthy shit next week. xo