Wednesday, September 29, 2010

what is the opposite of a cocktease?

1 in case you missed it on the evening news, the crown princess of all that is holy and patron saint of this raggedy blog had a birthday a couple weeks ago. that's right, helen keller has been ruining my life for a whopping TWO YEARS. between the way i feel and the way she looks i thought maybe ten or fifteen years had passed, but no such luck. she's still young and i'm not dead yet. LAME. if you still don't really know that i'm crazy, here is concrete evidence: this bitch is on the gnarliest diet of all time, so for her big day i made her a little cake. a cake made of grilled red sockeye salmon. from whole foods. cray cray. look at how cute this little piece of crap used to be. who could resist that face? and those teeny paws?! now she's five times this size and spends all of her time stalking around my apartment muttering threats under her breath. when she's not demanding food at five in the morning or snoring and farting ALL OVER MY PILLOW. i hate her. this face is how people end up with 142 skinny, mewling feral cats overrunning their property. or an apartment with 17 litterboxes and a handful of fat, smelly cats. because teenie weenie kittentroids are to die for. every time i see one i think, "what's one more...?" and then the death knell that has silenced my sex life sounds again and i come to my senses. if nowhere else.

also, you've now officially seen my floor. and the laundry bag i use for bathroom linens. it's only a matter of time before i'm putting up the coordinates to my fucking apartment.

2 my boyfriend forest whitaker is coming to town to receive this prestigious award in a couple weeks, and tickets to the event are open to the fucking public. THIS IS MY CHANCE. sometimes the universe just aligns the stars for us, doesn't it? the lovely diane emailed me the flier last night and i literally almost dropped dead. how often do real humans (and not movie or tv celluloid humans) get to meet the object of their desire in the flesh?! i'm flush with joy. le swoon. saturday october ninth. here's the deal: there's a "tribute" event at 7:30 at the chase auditorium on dearborn during which he'll claim his prize and probably make a brilliant acceptance speech that will likely move me to tears, for which i'm going to dress tastefully and dab at my eyes with a kleenex and clap like a normal person, not the way black people act at graduations and talent shows and awards ceremonies. you know who you bitches are, bringing an air horn to a goddamned toddler's ballet recital. anyway, i'll stow a sexy change of clothes in a phone booth (read: behind a garbage can or in the handicapped stall of the nearest bathroom) and slip into it before going to the afterparty, which is going to be at 9:30 at the wit. le swank, right?! only the best for the love of my life. (rachel and ginger and i ate dinner there once and i had a bag full of candy from macy's shoved into my tote AND i was wearing pants with a stain in the crotch, so since they let me in that place might not be so fancy after all.) but for blog's sake let's pretend i was wearing a tuxedo that night. (i wasn't.)

i'm going to play it cool at first. hang near the bar, survey the crowd, try to drink a few vodka sodas without spilling them down my dress. once the initial fury dies down (i imagine there might be a stampede when his gorgeousness enters the room) i'll make my way over to his table and introduce myself, then slip my business card into his pocket. and by "pocket" i mean "underwear." i have already started crafting the love letter i am going to give him, and you bitches are crazy if you don't think i'm serious. my ticket is BOUGHT. i might suffer through the agony of another pedicure so i can wear decent shoes, and i'm going to wear that black ruffled dress i wore to amanda's birthday when i put the moves on him. and i know he has kids and shit, but COME ON. i don't even need to have sex with him, maybe just tug his balls a little and tell him how much i love ghost dog and how i'm totally devoted to him. and that movie where he and anthony edwards were cops. i really am going to cry. and probably get fucking arrested.

here's the thing: does any of you want to go with me? i can do my own wingman-ing, but that's an awfully long time to be sitting and standing around by myself trying to look occupied. and it might help if someone could cause a distraction while i sidle up next to forest and stick my tongue in his ear. or maybe not. he looks like the kind of dude who might have hair in his. but fuck it, i don't care. i love every part of him. i know you bitches aren't all busy next weekend. there is SOMEONE who wants to spend a few hours being fancy downtown. i'll even splurge and get us a driver! limos are moist for anyone over seventeen years old, but i'd drop a hundred bucks to roll around in a town car for a night. you must: 1 dress appropriately, but not so hot that forest notices you before he's had the chance to become smitten by me. 2 have a digital camera and some decent photography skillz, even when drunk. because the bar is fucking HOSTED, man. (i told you this shit is going to be klassy!) i need the meeting of my one true love to be immortalized by a bitch who doesn't get shaky booze hands. 3 have the proper amount of respect for mister whitaker. you're not hanging out busting MY goddamned balls all night, asshole. if you want to make fun of me, do so from your mom's basement or wherever it is you troll the internets from.

so this shit costs eighty-five bucks. now don't get your panties in a knot, this invitation is extended only to bitches who can afford it. duh. i'm just kidding. if you really would go to this with me i really would buy your ticket. but we're going out for drinks after and that shit is on YOU. or you have to go down on me or something. i mean, come on. keep your eyes peeled, lovers, because this is going to be monumental. and will be chronicled right here. just you WAIT. (also keep your eyes on the news and shit, just in case i get myself into some shit that's too hot to handle.)

3 i have this one friend who is always threatening to hit me with his disco stick, yet NEVER takes the opportunity to do so. and believe me i haven't limited his potential access. it's been so long and i've been so, ahem, available that now i'm starting to think this is part of some not-so-clever ruse. is this some "i want to make you feel special" ploy? what the fucking fuck? because if he wanted to get busy we would have, right? so what is the point? listen, sirs, you don't have to pretend you want to bang a chick if you're just going to giggle and act like a homo when you get the chance. it's baffling to me the number of dudes who can't just BE NICE to a woman. why not just say, "hey, how are you?" rather than, "hey sexy, i can't wait to get you alone." is that really necessary? because, ahem, i will KNOW if you don't mean it. and so will my vagina. maybe dudes are used to dealing with amnesia sufferers or something, broads who won't remember that the last time they saw you YOU SAID THE EXACT SAME THING. asshole. that shit is irritating. so stop it. blarf.


4 thank horus it's cold out. i love standing on the train platform at seven in the morning all clean and dry, not damp and sticky in the three minutes it takes me to get there from my house. my hair is too long, though. and leaving the house with it wet in the morning is about to start getting rough. and by "rough" i mean "putting a hat on this shit is absolutely out of the question." and i can't be the person with hair products in my desk drawer so i can touch it up throughout the day. first of all, where would i put all of my crackers and snacks and chron's medicine? and second, not my fucking style. whatever i do before i leave my place is whatever gets done for the rest of the day. i might be cajoled into brushing my teeth if i leave straight from work to go party, but other than that? pfffft. and i have a makeup bag that i carry aroound and everything, full of expensive-ass shit i'm too lazy to put on. what a waste. but at least if i do it won't melt down my fucking face.

5 we're going to see MIA at the vic tonight, and i am STOKED. i wore out her first two albums and even though the third one is kind of weak and, as laura sez "seizure-inducing," "meds and feds," "illygirl," and "it takes a muscle" are total hot shit and if she performs them i'll be chair-dancing my ass off. here's one way to know that you're fucking old: when you get REALLY EXCITED that a show is at the vic and you can climb all the way to the top and watch the show from those squashy benches. fuck yeah, man. i'm too old to be bouncing off ten-year-olds in the mosh pit. and the way white people dance is crazy, arms and legs all akimbo. they'll put your fucking eye out. or drop a goddamned beer on you, and mama doesn't play that AT ALL.

vic shows are also exciting because they take place two blocks away from where my fratboyfriend gorgeously wipes down that sweaty bar at DMK. maybe i'll sneak down there for a little drinky-poo, drool over some soft blonde arm hairs while trying to wolf down a delicious lamb burger. seriously, kids, it's the business. go get you some.

speaking of drool, i have a couple things to post and then i'm going to take a break to get my guts beaten into submission by some hot doctor-type people. don't cheat on me during my fucking hiatus, you jerks. I'LL KNOW. (seriously, i will. you sloppy bastards will leave pubic hairs in the sink and shit. fuckers.)

Thursday, September 23, 2010

you should bust your slump on those abs.

i know one of you raggedy sluts will be able to help me out: do any of you know the dude who bounces at five star on wednesday nights?! HOLY FUCKING SHIT, man. that dude is SAM'S TYPE. i should have done this a LONG time ago since i know you love me so much and are all out canvassing neighborhood after neighborhood to find me a hot dude to make fun of on my blog, i mean make sweet, tender love to all day long, but i assume that you're all capable of reading between the lines and shit. that's probably a bad assumption, though. for example: mister maps, whom i adore and who thinks i am funny and great and precious and brave, breathlessly told me a few months ago that he had met the PERFECT dude for me. smart, handsome, successful, all that. and i was like, "oh yeah? where did you meet him?" you know, all skeptical and shit. his reply? "he owns this cupcake shop i went into the other day. he's hilarious!!! you should go in there!!!"

le sigh. i cocked my good eyebrow. i hate to be the kind of asshole who doesn't get excited when someone is kind enough to funnel a hot sack of balls my way, but usually what I like gets lost in the shuffle with what THEY like. "and you say he owns a CUPCAKE shop? a shop that specializes in CUPCAKES? tiny little cakes with FROSTING and SPRINKLES on top? i'm sure we'll have a LOT to talk about. we cans style each other's hair and download dance remixes of lady gaga jams and argue about whether or not jeggings should be popular." maybe you can work all day in a cupcake shop and still come home and bend a hot bitch over a kitchen counter before beating her with your dough hook and pumping her full of pastry cream, but i'm not willing to find out. (also, YOU CAN'T. the first time a dude got fondant in my hair or some edible glitter fell out of his pockets it would be a WRAP.) you know whose penis i'd like to see? RICK ROSS. or ice cube. to clarify: POST jheri curl but PRE moist pg-rated family-friendly movies. (and who am i kidding? i TOTALLY would have ice cube circa amerikkka's most wanted's little soul glow drippy babies.)

i like big, angry-looking black dudes who you can tell have smelly balls just by looking at them. you know what i mean? gorillas with cell phones who grunt their responses to everything. i like dudes you could mistake for a brick wall or a cadillac escalade in the dark. ones who make their side of the bed sag and don't do anything but stare blankly at NBA games. i like to know there's a brain in their somewhere, but they only have to prove it to me once. dudes whose hands are the size of a frozen pizza and whose necks are as big as a teenage girl's waist. motherfuckers you can just hang shit on. i mean, for cereal, i could toss my winter coat over spanks's shoulder and HE WOULDN"T EVEN NOTICE. quiet, lumbering tree trunks: that's what really does it for me. they don't talk back because they don't really talk at all, and they're SCARY. once at sonotheque this dude was annoying me, and spanks noticed and just PICKED HIM UP and set him down on the other side of the room. priceless. he also broke the seat in my honda and fractured my nose during a blow job, but those were small prices to pay.

i miss spanks. every six months or so i think about that ridiculous piece of shit and think, "it's too bad that terrible relationship during which i was miserable and unhappy and mistreated 90% of the two years we spent ruining each other's lives didn't work out." no, i don't. i wax nostalgic over all of the sappy good things and then, while resisting the urge to call the number he STILL hasn't changed, i go out and hit on dudes built just like him. that's fucking gross, right? but at least i admit that shit. and i don't take it any further ("hey, would you mind wearing this stethoscope around your neck while you fuck me?"), so it's not as sad and depressing as it seems. (it totally is.) anyway, at five star last night we sat outside because i forgot my douchebag repellant at home (that place is FULL of assholes) and we got to be closer to the gigantic spankselganger who was working the door. so i could stare at him and try to think of excuses to call him over. listen, dudes, the alternative is calling up actual spanks. so let's consider this a win, okay? jeez.

i read at an open mic at red kiva last night, and most of you know how i feel about that. I HATE IT. not because there's anything wrong with ME, but because most poetry motherfuckers are such humorless, self-important dickholes. this natural hair usually gets me in the door, but as soon as the head headwrap (or dreadloc) senses that i'm not doing an interpretive dance intended to depict my vaginal exit while reciting a passage from the bluest eye (pffft) they're like, "oh no, bitch, we don't DO comedy here." and I don't do POETRY. at least not the pretentious kind. seriously, all of my poems are about dumb shit and testicles. and these dudes ain't trying to hear NONE of that. they would rather sit around gazing at their crocheted pants and trying to articulate the depth of the piece they're listening to. i would rather be dead.

i went because my girl nikki patin was a featured performer, and i try to get out and support my creative artist women as much as i possibly can. i met nikki because i used to fuck her boyfriend. fucking SCANDALOUS. i didn't know i was doing so at the time, mind you. i thought i was just having fun with this silly young weirdo, i had no idea i was wrecking a home. i've already told you i don't ask a whole lot of questions when dealing with a dude, mostly because i assume everything that comes out of one's mouth is a goddamned lie anyway. i also don't have much of a conscience, particularly when the entanglement is on the other person's end. "what the fuck do i care about your girlfriend? i'm trying to make sure my boyfriend doesn't find out. now pick your socks up off my floor!" i'm not really that callous, but if you tell me you have an open relationship with a person i'm not going to hire a PI or relationship counselor to get to the bottom of what's really going on. i'm going to get my TOES SUCKED and let you handle your own messy business.

i'm not going to write about this dude because he's an egotistical piece of shit who has been reading this hilarious prattling on for the last three years just dyyyying to see himself written about in my fancy blog, and FUCK THAT SHIT. let's just say that his version of "open" was different from her version. and that i was technically having sex with another bitch's man, which isn't my style. MY style is to have a bunch of relatively interesting penises at my disposal, not to go digging through someone else's trash. the whole thing blew up in SPECTACULAR fashion: voicemails and emails and IMs and screaming matches, it was GLORIOUS. and too much work for a sardonic lazypants such as myself. so i put that garbage on the curb and moved on.

three years later, a few months ago, jenny called me seventeen times at two in the morning. lucky for her i was out drinking (surprised?) and answered the eighteenth time. (seriously, i DO NOT answer the phone.) she'd been taking a yoga class for a while, and she'd just found out the her most favorite person in the class (a person bearing a STRIKING resemblance to yours truly), turned out to be THE WOMAN WHOSE BOYFRIEND I SLEPT WITH FOR A YEAR. sucio. long story short she and i became friends. because she's dope and i'm dope and dope people should get together and talk shit about the sociopath they used to fuck on.

so she's a singer. and a POET, but not the herbal tea kind, therefore 100% tolerable. jenny saved me from a psychotic crackhead downtown (WTF chicago stop?!) and we rolled over to randolph. is it just me, or does anyone else feel like no matter how many hip and cool restaurants and clubs and splashy condos they put up they're STILL going to be brutally raped and murdered if they walk around over there alone? holy fucking shit is it scary at night. too many dark alleys and abandoned buildings and ominous-looking service entrances. FUCK THAT. we used to party at this club over there on lake street when i was young and fresh (not chromium, the OTHER one), and every single time i thought i'd be knifed to death trying to get a cab home. terrifying.

anyway, asshole came and jenny was there and i read my tiny cell phone penis PIECE (ahahaha), and then nikki sang and read at the end and it was great. i'm trying to get out and read at more things (i'm not, really, such a lazy piece of shit), and the lovely ladies who host the event asked me to come back and read next month. so you jerks better mark your calendars. also, THE SEX SHOW IS SUNDAY NIGHT AT SEVEN O'CLOCK. my vagina will be sad if you disappoint her (and for SOME of you it won't be the first time you've let her down) and, for that matter, so will sam. i need someone to buy my drinks. plus i think this dude i've never met before who i might want to get in bed with might show up, and i want him to think i'm cool and awesome and have a ton of adoring fans. i like for dudes to be intimidated by me initially. at least before they get to know that i'm really a softy who can't wait to bake something for them. gay.

it was late at shit but we went to five star anyway, and while i ate my $.25 apiece sauceless wings (you sure you don't want crohns?!) and ogled my future husband (for real, could one of you broads please GET HIM FOR ME?) i got a motherfucking PICTUREMAIL from one of the disappearing act dudes, the one who clamied his father had been killed and that's why he took so long to get back to me. pfffft. i scrolled down waiting to be accosted by a shriveled, veiny weiner, but to my surprise he'd sent instead a picture of his headless torso. apparently he's one of those skinny string bean dudes who manages to have a chiseled six-pack and rippling musculature yet still only weigh ninety-eight pounds, and i rolled my eyes and passed the phone around the table. "this asshole needs to get a fucking CLUE."

jenny sucked some chicken out of her teeth the way only black people seem capable of and squinted at my phone. "i don't know, sammy. he's kind of all right. maybe you should bust your slump on those abs."

so i considered that she might be right. what's the harm in counting the veins in the neck of some waifish dude who made up a story about his dead father so i might let him fuck me? couldn't i afford to give him a few points for creativity at least? nikki was on jenny's side, too, and i succumbed to the pressure of being surrounded by two bitches shining with the glow of regular sexual intercourse. i want to be a member of that club! but all i could say was, "well, maybe" and pretend my coke actually had something good in it. then we made up a song about yeast infections to the tune of that paula cole song that played at the beginning of every episode of dawson's creek.

on the way home i texted back "i could handwash a pair of bloomers on that stomach" 1 because i'm an asshole and 2 because it was after midnight and i didn't want to send anything that could be construed as REMOTELY sexual during the BCH. and here is the bit of poetry i received in return: "ure funny. whatz ure name again?"

romance is officially dead, children. now go get me that fucking bouncer. do you think it would be weird if i asked him to wear a lab coat?

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

let's ruin some lives!

I want to wait for marriage to have sex, but my boyfriend doesn't. I'm not willing to give oral sex either. How can we solve this problem? I'm not going to marry him anytime soon, because we just started dating.


this is why i refuse to go to church. besides the whole "worshipping a fictional character based on a pagan sun god" thing, you also have to pretend you hate things like sucking dicks. and damn that all the way to HELL. what kind of puritan doesn't give ORAL? with this attitude, you need to have lived in during biblical times, sister. the solution to this problem is BREAK UP WITH HIM AND FIND SOMEONE IN YOUR BIBLE STUDY TO DRY HUMP. i'm sure there are dozens of closeted gay men with creepy '70s moustaches in modest eddie bauer polos and sensible shoes just dyyyying to take you to ice cream socials and hold hands with you at the zoo. doesn't that sound like good, clean fun? going to the movies to see disney matinees and eating all your meals at baker's square? oh, i know. i'm so giddy i can't contain it.

so either put a (nuva)ring on it or stop wasting this fucking dude's time.



Why is it that every single time a guy buys me a drink he expect me to go home with him, and then acts as if I have broken some sort of contract when I don't?


don't let a dude buy you a drink if you don't want to bang him. and let's not be cute here, pretending that you need to get to know a dude's personality before deciding whether or not you'd put your good panties on for him. that's bullshit. you know AT FIRST SIGHT whether or not you'd have sex with someone. personality might make an ugly dude cuter, but you bitches know before he even opens his mouth whether he's "please come over and install these track lights while i whine about my boyfriend" ugly or "if you don't say anything to vile and repugnant i might fuck you" ugly. stop playing.

let's be clear here: i fuck dudes who buy me drinks. plain and simple. you buy me something, i'll disappoint you with a lackluster bedroom performance. two minutes of "oh yeah, you're so HARD" in exchange for a watered-down vodka soda? EVEN TRADE. and i might even take off my shoes. you hoes better get with the program. no one forced you to accept that cold glass of awkward shame and humiliation. if the waitress taps you on the shoulder and points to fucking swamp thing at the other end of the bar, politely decline and continue waiting for the hot dude with the waxed eyebrows to come up off of ten dollars just for the opportunity of making your acquaintance. (it will never happen. hot dudes don't buy bitches drinks. you'll die of thirst.)

a few weeks ago maya and my sister and i were out having a few cocktails, and around midnight the waitress slides into our booth next to carmen and motions to a gnarled little troll of a dude WEARING A JACKET EMBOSSED WITH COLORED CRYSTALS and said, "that man over there would like to buy you a drink." i swung around to look at him (i think i saw some gold teeth!) and turned to the waitress and said, "DECLINED." unlike the rest of us, carmen is one of these "nice" people (where the fuck did that come from?) and she proceeded to order an EIGHT DOLLAR DRINK. i could tell from the crystals that my man hailed from THE CONTINENT, and since i'm fluent in african i understood immediately that EIGHT DOLLARS (nine with tip!) translates to FOURTH WIFE. i was busy flirting with this hot rastafari, but i kept glancing over my shoulder for homeskillet to pull his lion up alongside our table.

TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER he comes over, nods at the empty glass, then asks carmen if he could escort her to another table to "talk." generally i'm the worst kind of cockblocker (spearblocker!), but since she'd sucked down that expensive drink i was helpless to stop him from clubbing her over the head and dragging her off to be inspected by his fellow tribesmen. turns out this peach was a 44-year-old married father of three who STILL LIVES WITH HIS WIFE. if a dude tells you all that within five minutes of sitting down with him, imagine what the fuck this asshole is HIDING. garbage-ass idiot. she still should have had sex with him, though. shit, in this economy? nine dollars should get you anal.



Whenever you see an attractive person, do you find yourself thinking about being with them instead of who you're with now or do you simply think that they are attractive? In other words, is it a bad sign if I'm daydreaming of other guys instead of my boyfriend?


attractive people are too much fucking WORK. blarf. every time I see a hot dude i think, "holy fucking shit, that fine motherfucker is probably wearing some dumb bitch OUT." you always have to worry about a handsome dude waking up and realizing he's too hot for your goddamned ass and that the credit card debt you have accrued trying to keep him interested and happy is going to catch up with you sooner rather than later. and unless you chain him up in your basement, bitches on the street are always going to be flirting with him and trying to tempt him away from you. and who needs the anxiety? fuck that noise, jack.

that's why i look for homely gentlemen with low self-esteem. why let that hot piece of bacon boss my ass around (gross) when i can put this fat dude on a leash? ugly people are more interesting anyway, as the universe makes us work harder to prove our worth. good looking people don't have to cultivate any interests beyond personal grooming and shopping with someone else's credit card, and that's BORING. i'd rather let some godzilla-looking motherfucker talk to me about the last interesting book he read than watch a pretty dude stammer his way through the latest issue of men's health.

daydreaming is normal. the luster of real humans wears off relatively quickly, and a little healthy fantasizing never hurt nobody. is there anyone who really daydreams about a person you've fucked already? what's the fucking point? pfffft. i think that shit is called "remembering."



Can I ask my ex what went wrong in our relationship?
ew. why would you even want to? because EVEN IF he'd give you an honest answer (which he won't), you can't tell me the conversation wouldn't devolve into some desperate self-defense during which you try to rewrite history. or at least HIS version of your history. you'll argue and spit and scream and cry, all to a dude who broke up with you anyway. holy shit, for WHAT? anytime someone tells me something they don't like about me (which is almost never because i am perfect), i immediately make plans to cut him or her out of my life. because, let's be honest, i'm too old to change. so are you. so is everyone. that's why cheaters always cheat and liars always lie, because NO ONE CHANGES. ever.

i refuse to change myself (in fact, i might be incapable of it) and, if i can be bothered to do ANYTHING, i might try to change your mind about whatever it is i do that you hate. but you probably won't. and i probably won't care too much. also, you're not fooling me with this "what did i do?!" bullshit. you know what you did. so move the hell on and try not to do it to the next person.



Is it pointless to date someone who you know you won't marry, but you still enjoy their company, want to get to know them more, and are attracted to them? (Let's pretend for argument's sake that it is an absolute definite that you won't ever marry this person.)


i suppose that if "marriage" is the be all, end all for you in terms of a relationship's potential, maybe it is pointless. although i guess the REAL waste of time is if he is looking for marriage, too. if he's just dicking around hvaing a good time, what the fuck does he care if you don't want to get married?! do what you want until your husband falls in your lap. which you probably won't notice because you're too busy fucking around with this lame. dummy.


I'm "dating" a guy I met on the internet, but we've never met. We talk on the phone for hours but I'm nervous that when we meet I might not live up to what he thinks of me. How can I talk to him about this?


everyone knows draper is my internet boyfriend. and everyone ALSO knows i can never really meet him in real life with all this vomiting and hand braces and hobbling around like goddamned quasimodo. it would destroy the fantasy. as it stands, he worships the ground i limp on: i have the best music and all the coolest shit, i'm smart and hilarious, i leave him the best voicemails, i'm a rockstar blogger, and overall i'm probably the coolest internet girlfriend that ever existed. why should we ruin that with a little thing like "meeting in person?" so dude can see how gross i really am and how many pills i really take and how i sleep all the time and watch too much tv and wear the same jeans too many days in a row. not to mention that he could be awful in person, too. aren't most dudes? anyone can make you laugh and shit on the internets and over the phone, who's to know if he'll be as good in the flesh? we'll just have to spare each other the potential disgust and disappointment and keep our relationship digital. and if anyone gets on our cases we'll just say this love is "furturistic." isn't that the way romance is headed anyway? in ten years you won't even need to be in the same room to have sex with a person. we're ahead of the curve.


I want to know the rules and regulations with regards to dating your ex-boyfriend's friend? Is anything kosher here or should this sort of romantic rendezvous be avoided?

i know too many jews, obviously. because i got hung up on the "kosher" part and not the "I WANT TO FUCK MY EX-BOYFRIEND'S FRIEND" part. oy vey. what kind of mishegas is this? i suppose if you love drama and hate being able to do anything in public without having to look over your shoulder every thirty seconds for the ex-boyfriend (who GUARANTEED will be lurking in every bush and always three cars behind you), then shit yeah! GO FOR IT, gurl!

but if you're smart, and not too much of a skank whore, you'll steer clear of what is sure to be a HORRIFIC DECISION. this is as kosher as the dirtiest part of the pig. (what is it, the snout? i don't go to synagogue, either.)



Do most people find their first love in college? If so I'm screwed. I haven't found anyone. Not that I'm looking, but as a junior in college with no first love found yet, I'm beginning to feel lonely and, frankly, worried.


you and me BOTH, sister. what is one supposed to do about true love when one has dropped out of college not one but TWO motherfucking times?! um. i don't mean ME, i'm talking about some other bitch i know. anycollegeisforsuckers, i'm worried, too. really, the only reason i even went back to school in the first place was to see if i could find my prospective husband there, and all i found were nineteen-year-old child-men in pink skinny jeans and gentlemen old enough to be my dad always raising their hands first (while blurting out the answers) and stealing all the good beakers during biology experiments. i wish i could say that i had a new attitude when i enrolled in COMMUNITY COLLEGE after dropping out of regular college nine years prior, but the first day of college was like the last day of high school: i didn't feel like doing SHIT. and i got As and everything (what kind of loser goes back to school and gets shitty grades as an adult? an adult who's PAYING for it?!), but i hate homework and sitting in a classroom makes me drowsy. blarf.

although now that my anxiety is all a-flutter i'm thinking about signing up for a class next semester, just to see if any hot, single, eligible bachelors have finally decided to further their educations (and move one step closer to achieving their dreams!) by enrolling in a chicago city college located in the middle of a crackhead hooker stroll right across the street from a shady "men's hotel." i'll let you know what i come up with. pfffft.

What does it mean when your boyfriend says you have a beautiful face?

that you're fat.

How do we open up to a guy about our insecurities while it's a fact that men are turned off by insecure women? How do we know it's okay to be vulnerable about our insecurities?

it's never fucking okay. take it from a master liar and manipulator that most dudes are motherfucking PREDATORS. and sometimes that's hot, like when one has his face between your legs and is eating with the voracity of a fear factor contestant, but most of the time it's pure evil. and a lot of them think they're slick with it, but don't let that shit fool you.

have body issues? just wait until a fight about whose turn it is to do the laundry turns into a fight about how chubby you're starting to look lately. suspect you might be a little bit dumb? yeah, this could be a disagreement about where you two should go for dinner but wouldn't it be much more fun if he insinuated that only stupid people order thai food? for real. i've dated plenty of crafty liars and table-turners who cannot WAIT to throw something i've divulged to them in confidence right back in my face. nowadays i tell almost everything to the interwebs, so it doesn't really matter anyway. if a dude wants to know what i'm about i just direct them here. who has time to give some asshole a complete and exhaustive history?

so protect yourself and only tell a dude what he ABSOLUTELY needs to know: first name (or feel free to make up a better one), what you drink, and how you like to be banged. leave the rest for your ladyfriends. or maybe not, because bitches are raggedy-ass, scheming pieces of shit sometimes, too.

My boyfriend tells me I'm not fun in bed and that I need to work on improving our sex life. I don't know what to do to improve, how do I make him happy in bed?

this is a joke, right? because 99.8% of human males fuck 100% wrong, and if one ever pulled his slimy genitals out of mine after yet another lackluster, unsatisfactory performance and dared to fix his mouth to criticize MY technique i would rip his scrotum off. and i'm not kidding. i'd tear it out at the root. how about trying to make yourself happy in bed by getting someone who actually APPRECIATES you in it?

while you're looking for him, find me a unicorn, a leprechaun, an african-american father who is married to and lives in a house with his wife and children, and the loch ness monster, too. sorry. it's balls out here. heart.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

blarf.

i'm sick again. although "i'm still sick" is probably a more accurate statement. i never really recovered from having been in the hospital in july, and this shit is a DRAG. i think i might be depressed a little bit, too, but i don't know shit about mental health and am hesitant to self-diagnose. i'm sluggish and tired (more than my usual apathetic malaise) and i am 100% crabby 100% of the time. man, i feel like SHIT. and all i do is sleep. and go to work. which is why i haven't posted a goddamned thing. because i leave work and go home and immediately put my pajamas on and go to bed. while it is still light out. i also sleep almost the entire weekend. literally. from saturday afternoon to tuesday. i don't answer my phone, i don't listen to my voicemail, i don't check my email, i don't do anything. and i don't care. i really don't.

here's something tragic and hilarious: i had maybe 129 voicemails to listen to, so yesterday during the real housewives of atlanta (LOVE THAT SHOW) marathon on bravo i finally found my phone and attempted to listen to them. while also attempting to apply false eyelashes and tiptoe around my apartment mimicking dwight's fabulosu ass. most i just erase without bothering to figure out who the call is from or what they want, which is usually NOTHING. when is the last time you listened to someone's long ass rambling never gets to the fucking point message and thought to yourself, "GODDAMN i'm glad i dropped everything to listen to that shit!" probably never, unless you're a huge liar. anyway, erase erase erase interesting telemarketer erase erase wack dude erase erase erase erase MISTER MUSCLE. hold the fucking (literal) phone! now, i'm sure you're scratching your heads, searching deep within your mind grapes muttering, "wait a minute, i KNOW that name, it sounds so FAMILIAR..." to yourselves, so why don't i refresh your memories and make this easier on all of us: MISTER MUSCLE is that relatively decent-looking steroid brain slash criminal justice professor that i met SEVEN MONTHS AGO, who must have misplaced my number (probably slipped and landed under a barbell or a bottle of muscle milk) because after he no-showed for my birthday party i HAVE NOT HEARD FROM HIM SINCE.

now, my preferred method of being let go is the "i'm never going to call you ever again," because it spares me the humiliation of actually having been DUMPED. i don't want to hear what the fuck went wrong or who you'd rather put your penis in; i am PERFECTLY HAPPY to pretend that you went camping and were sodomized by a bear before he disemboweled you and spent twenty minutes picking through your viscera before feeding your internal organs to its child and letting vultures feast on your eyeballs. i am BAFFLED by these people who have break-up "talks." man, fuck that shit. just get the fuck out of my sight. i understand that sometimes you want an explanation, otherwise you run the risk of "but what did i DO?!" running through your mind on a continuous loop. but i would MUCH rather deal with that then to replay the lie some dude comes up with over and over again, thus driving myself batshit crazy.

it took three or four days before i realized dorito had broken up with me. i'm not an everyday caller kind of girlfriend. dudes are TOTALLY BORING, so you have to give them some time to build up new interesting things to say. i mean, how many times can you pretend to be interested in the new madden? they don't eat good food, they don't watch anything good on tv (at least not anything they can discuss intelligently), and they don't go ANYWHERE. so really, what's to say? anyway, three or four days had passed since i'd last spoken to him, and i thought, "well, i guess i better see what's new in the scintillating world of fried potatoes and powdered nacho cheese" and i called him. i didn't get an answer, but i didn't really care. a couple more days passed and i thought, "maybe he died?"

because that's the thing about me and my arrogant ass. i'm a million times smarter. cooler, and more handsome than any dude i've ever kicked it with, so it never occurs to me that i might be on the receiving end of the dump. at least not at FIRST. i always suspect sudden death before it even dawns on me to think a young man might not want to continue to enjoy my company. so i called again. NOTHING. hmmm.

we had a few mutual friends (thank you, internets!) so i reached out to them: "hey you, did xxxx die within the last week? did someone hijack his potato chip delivery truck? i've been watching the news, but i haven't seen any police footage of masked, gun-wielding thieves running down 95th toting armfuls of salsa con queso dip." long story short, that motherfucker wasn't dead. we were just over. i don't do much soul-searching in these kinds of situations, but on a trip down memory lane i discovered an argument during which i'd called him a fascist idiot because he's pro-life and figured maybe that had something to do with it. i never feel bad about that kind of shit, though. you know what i do? i IMMEDIATELY make a list of everything that sucks about a dude and read it into his voicemail, and that makes me feel better. okay okay, i only did that to ONE person, but thinking about it is just as good. i mean, for real, he was a JEHOVAH'S WITNESS who felt TOO GUILTY ABOUT SEX to allow himself to have an orgasm in my presence. and he wore purple skinny jeans. moist.

back to this retarded ass shit: so MISTER MUSCLE failed to put the icing on my birthday cake, but i was okay with that. who cares, right? just another example of a dude whose MOUTH is bigger than his DICK. so i moved on, because i don't chase anyone anymore. or pend too much time worrying about dudes who don't want to fuck me. so quel surprise when the computerized voice read off a number i didn't recognize into my ear, a number followed by THIS EXACT MESSAGE: "hey baby, it's MISTER MUSCLE, and i've come to claim what's rightfully mine. and what's mine is YOU. so baby you should call me back, because i'll be here [static] you. remember [static] ago? i'm sorry [car starting] but i didn't [wind noise] you. okay. please call me. i'll be in chicago for a few days this week. do you need [static] again? it's 608, blah blah blah, blah blah blah BARF."

first of all, maybe this motherfucker should invest in a new phone. second, what in fuck's fucking name is happening with you dudes?! I MEAN IT. how is a man's goddamned brain wired? seriously. is it that different from a woman's? not that i'm counting or anything, but it is closer to my NEXT birthday than it is to my LAST, and this dude thinks i'd be interested in getting into some out of town booty call action with him? seven months ago i was willing to run my fingers along the disgusting veins popping out of his arms, but if you can't be bothered to maintain the barest of minimal communication, you don't deserve the chance to maybe catch this yeast infection i'm dealing with right now.

too bad for him my self-esteem is so high (pffft), because in the olden days (ie, before i started this stupid blog that i feel the need to be mostly honest in) i would have TOTALLY called him back and mapquested the directions to my apartment. too many people are holding my vagina accountable to put up with something this fucking stupid. also, i am getting surlier and surlier in my old age, and unfortunately these garbage-ass pieces of dogshit are bearing the brunt of it. um...make that FORTUNATELY.

the "wack dude" message was from another loser trying to run game on a bitch too smart for him. i met this dude fred (blarf) months and months and months ago after i read at this show no one fucking came to (story of my fucking life). i gave him my email, because i really hate answering the fucking phone. especially when there's a gorilla on the other end posing as a sentient human being. i'm incredibly judgmental (SHOCKING, i know), so it also affords me the opportunity to see what a young man is working with mentally. if you cannot write in complete, punctuated sentences, you no longer get the chance to waste my fucking time. most dudes will tell you everything you need to know about them within the first ten minutes of making their acquaintance anyway; rarely have i been later surprised by the subtle nuances hidden in the depths of a man i'd previously written off as a worthless slab of bacon. typically it's the alternative, when i've extended the benefit of the doubt to someone who'd be better served locked in a crate twenty-two hours a day.

so fred emailed me. and he was only borderline retarded, so i emailed him in return. and so it continued until EXCHANGE OF PHONE NUMBER time. and he called me, we made plans, and he canceled those plans as i was walking out my front door to go meet him. nick of time, to say the least. i didn't write him off at first; blame it on my charitable disposition at the time, i suppose. but then when i didn't hear from him for another week or three, i figured he'd gotten a better offer (or was mauled by a swarm of killer bees) and kicked him out of my brain for good, never to be thought of AGAIN.

lo and behold, last week i'm skimming through all of my digital trash and what do i find? a "hey, how's it going?" email from a dude resilient enough to survive a million deadly stingers to the face. or whatever. i told you i've been crabby as shit and relatively despondent these days, so i rolled my eyes and deleted that shit. then forgot about him. AGAIN. until a few days later, when he emailed me AGAIN. still with the same casual "try to forget that i haven't been in touch in the time it takes a normal human female to gestate a fetus" tone. maybe my friends are weird, but if i don't call some of you bitches back in an HOUR i have to undergo the spanish inquisition about where i've been and with whom and for how long and blah blah blah i'm a grownup blah. let alone if i waited MONTHS. hoes would be kicking my door down with pitchforks and torches after three days! calling my job, camped out in front of my building, harrassing mis amigos at the taqueria...bitch, please. so it confounds me to no end that a dude thinks it's PERFECTLY OKAY to fall off the face of the earth for more than half a year with ZERO EXPLANATION.

here's the thing: it isn't okay. and even though fred's subsequent explanation (that i had to ASK for) was "my father was killed," my response was still "too little too late." and godspeed and RIP and all that. call me callous, but i have dead parents, too. a dead father doesn't render your fingers broken for MONTHS, asshole. when i want something i will scheme and lie and manipulate to get it. guaranteed that any dude i was hot for around the time my mom died got a "let's have sex as soon as i'm done grieving" message on his pager. (what? it was the 90s!) i most certainly did NOT dick around for a year before remembering to call them. and even if i had i wouldn't expect that they'd want to dick around with me. although on second thought they probably would, because men are indiscriminate about timetables and vaginas alike, so it would probably be totally cool. fuckers.

the moral of the story, in case it isn't clear, is that DUDES ARE STILL SHIT. and crohn's disease comes from the devil. speaking of, i know my posting has slowed down, and for that i apologize. but i don't feel very good. i'm going into the hospital in a little over a week to have a barium series (see above) and some other fine-tuning done. you know that feeling right before you vomit when acid rushes up from your stomach and floods your mouth? well, i have that feeling CONSTANTLY. acid acid acid all the time. it's damaging my throat and ruining my vocal cords and is likely being caused by the further narrowing of my small bowel. oh, i know: THAT'S GROSS. but it explains why i'm loathe to sit down and write this garbage, because my saliva could literally burn a hole through the keyboard. after i get out i'm going to relax in bed with helen and pray for death, but in case that doesn't work i just bought some plane tickets to california  for this experimental treatment i've heard of and never tried called A GODDAMNED VACATION.



long story short, only fear that i'm dead (or that i've been raped by gorillas with acid-tipped penises, whatever your imagination desires) if more than a couple weeks pass. i have a few things to put up in the meantime. and if you'd like to see me in the flesh one last time before the roto-rooter kills me (one can only hope), i'm reading at the sex show sunday. i'll try not to get any saliva on you. seriously. it'll make your skin bubble.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

how to be an ASSHOLE and never get laid again.

we're going on safari. pack your fucking lion repellant.

you know how i try as hard as i can to NEVER help a dude? and how i always talk SO MUCH shit about how much i hate them because they're always such garbage-ass pieces of dogshit? well, sometimes i feel bad about that. because those assholes obviously need some help from someone who isn't dumb, or male, and i could probably be of service. most men don't deserve any help, from me or anyone else. they're never grateful for a goddamned thing, and they often spit in the face of positive reinforcement. but i'm feeling generous. and my dudefriends are so cute and nice and keep leaving me moist voicemails whining about how i do a disservice to their worthless asses. oops.

at the end of last week's episode i was telling you how scar and the hyenas played a dirty trick on hapless little nala and snuck their cell number into her phone before she could call that little rat thing and that boar creature to help her out, right? excellent. let's pick it up there. so i was watching that broad beat the shit out of her boyfriend or whatever after the V DUBS show, and while i can't stomach a bloody-ass MMA match on the television, i apparently have no problem AT ALL watching a soft dude get pummeled on the street. in my defense, neither did anyone else, because lawrence and broadway is a busy-ass intersection and everyone else was spectating (is that a real verb?), too. ahahaha, bitches just don't give a FUCK. that's why i try to keep a knife on my person so i have at least a chance of not being killed, because humankind is walking, talking garbage and would only pause to pick through my bag and pockets (vultures!) when passing my rotting corpse in the street.

so i was standing on the train platform watching NO ONE AT ALL come to that raggedy dude's defense when i felt a chill (thank horus it's finally autumn!) and started going through my bag looking for a sweater. i have this raggedy piece of shit turtleneck that i got a million years ago when gap was still making pajamas that you could pretend were clothes because they weren't entirely fucking sheer, and i sleep in it and helen sleeps on it and it's so gross but i still wear it all the time and it's never clean and always covered in cat hair and food smears. of course THAT is the sweater i had with me. but who cares? no one fucking talks to me or hits on me ever, and i don't care what dirty communters think. i also had a book in my bag, and i pulled it out, too, and pretended to be reading when i was really just watching that dude get SERVED. so during all this awkward yanking of sweaters and posturing with books i locked eyes with this dude further down the platform, which i HATE. he smiled and i snarled, hoping that he wouldn't take the fact that i hadn't kept my eyes trained on the platform (zing) as an invitation.

i returned my attention to mini mike tyson below, and i few seconds later caught the looming shadow of a male figure hovering over me in my peripheral vision. i turned to look at him and memorize his face in case i needed to describe it to a police sketch artist later, and when i did he said, very enthusiastically, "HI!" seriously, it was an all-caps kind of greeting. i said, "oh gross hello barf," under my breath and continued counting jabs and uppercuts. then he said THE GREATEST PICKUP LINE IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND. now here's where you dudes can start taking some notes. i'll wait while you get a pencil and paper. everything you are currently saying is PLAYED. trust me. "you look cute" or "what's your sign?" or whatever it is you're hoping will get you in the door is bullshit. and it makes you look wack. so let me help you.

"hello, it's nice to meet you, is it okay if i introduce myself?" is the greatest possible way you could ever try to holler at a bitch's panties, and i'll tell you why: most men operate on the assumption that a woman should fall over herself and die from happiness at the fact that he deigned to speak to her, let alone his showing some interest in checking his penis into the meat hotel, and i'm 100% in favor of a man asking for my permission to bother the shit out of me with his weaksauce ridiculous bullshit instead of assuming i WANT IT. you already know that i'm a big fan of manners (don't let this ranting fool you, in public i am quite possibly the MOST POLITE PERSON YOU HAVE EVER MET), and someone asking if it's okay before he wastes my fucking time is pleasing to me. i want a dude to approach me like a salesman, nervous and talking fast and in desperate need for me to listen to his entire pitch before walking away and choosing the model his competitor is offering.

because that's all this really is, isn't it? some asshole trying to convince you to fuck him? well why on earth shouldn't he have to sell himself and his raggedy penis, infomercial style? i want to hear ten solid minutes of why you're worth my saturday night, testimonials from other satisfied customers, and a side by side demonstration of his product against the next best selling brand. and then when i decided to purchase it, i'd like him to throw in an extra one for the same low price! that's right, folks, TWO simple-minded shit-eating assholes for the price of one! we'll even ship the second one to you for FREE!

i always feel like i'm auditioning, selling my brain, selling my funny, selling my filth, while dudes just kick back and get to be totally fucking stupid while girls heave themselves at them. that's why a dude rarely works for it, because some stupid bitch is just GIVING IT AWAY simply because he walked in the room. BARF.

well i was obviously so thunderstruck by the line that i failed to notice the accent with which it was spoken, because by the time my mouth said "sure" my brain was screaming "hold up...AFRICAN!!!" you africans are smartening up, eh? well i've got to hand it to you, because you almost got me. dude wasn't wearing shockingly bright teal pants or woven sandals or two-thirds of a tuxedo in the middle of the day, nor was he driving a cab or hanging around a storefront church slash restaurant slash prepaid phone card shop.

he also didn't look like a broomstick with a lightbulb on top, and EXCUSE THE SHIT OUT OF ME, but i'm apparently fashionably late to the fat african party. i guess he wasn't big, just healthy. what a novelty! and he was TALL, which gets me every time. i like a man IMMEDIATELY if i have to look up to talk to him. also, he happened to be dressed like a normal black dude: jeans (not too tight), shirt (not too fitted), sweater (not too buttoned), and some sort of understated dress shoe (not too sneakery). which is to say that they weren't shiny or patent leathery, just those long, square-toed boot shoes that one can't comfortably play basketball in.

it was only after he started speaking that i noticed his accent, one of those smooth, polished africa by way of switzerland accents that means "i did a work study in europe for five years." to my advantage (or peril, you decide) these are the ones who seem to find me the most beguiling, the ULTRA-educated, "progressive" african men. progressive gets quotes because they never really ARE, they just pretend to be long enough to convince me to sleep with them (don't worry, africans taste just like black people! only more authentic!) before they pull out the "american women are too INDEPENDENT" speech and force me to delete them from my phone. as with most men, i could tolerate them if they didn't insist on TALKING SO FUCKING MUCH. i mean really, that's what ruins it. because jungle love is BIG FUN; it's like fucking a tiger! all those gnashing teeth and dirty words (AND CLICKS) you don't understand!

he continued his sales pitch on the train and was charming and funny enough that i thought, "maybe you should dust off your loin cloth, you stupid bitch," and let him give me his number. he got off the train before i did and i immediately decided i would never call him. because i'm never going to fuck another african. so let's blame what happened next on rachel and amanda, as the two of them fully supported my texting him monday evening. so i did. which prompted an immediate phone call. i'm no expert at dating, but i AM an expert at being a jerk, and if you respond to a text with a phone call, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. sorry, it's a rule of life and i didn't make it. i hate talking to new dudes on the phone. it's such a fucking time suck, and you can't read or watch television while doing it, so what is the fucking point? i hustled him off the phone after making tentative "drink" plans. no more paying for breakfast for this smartypants, eh? fucking GENIUS.

so we made plans to meet last night (via text, because i DEMAND that things go the way i want them to as much of the time as is humanly possible) at nine. until he called to change them to seven-thirty. another phone call to change it to eight-thirty. one more to go back to nine. another for eight. and, finally, ONE LAST CALL to change it to eight-thirty. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. everybody knows i don't answer my fucking phone, and helen was sitting on my desk with her jaw in her lap at the number of calls i was taking. just kidding, that fat bitch was ASLEEP on my desk, getting dingleberries on my bills and shit. anyway, i was in the most horrible mood ever, but i changed from my pajamas into pants with a zipper AND a button and put on a clean-ish sweater. then he called me THREE TIMES IN A ROW to see if there was a parking lot at the bar, which caught me off guard because i'd fully expected he would show up riding a zebra. he called again to see if i'd left the house, AGAIN to see how long it would take me (ps, I WASN'T FUCKING LATE), and AFUCKINGAIN to tell me he couldn't see me walking down the street (because i sneak through the alley so dudes won't know where i live). later i noticed that he'd texted me at 8:31 saying "i thought we agreed to meet at 8:30? you are obviously unreliable." and YOU obviously don't want to get your DICK SUCKED.

and that, in a shea nutshell, is why I DON'T FUCK WITH AFRICAN DUDES. they are controlling to the nth degree, arrogant in spades (zing), and still expect you to want to get your teeny tiger out after they say shit like, "YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY UNRELIABLE." let's pause here for a moment to talk about how one speaks to a person he might want to eventually come inside. especially before you get to know her. i'm a bitch a lot of the time, but dudes i'm sweet on will never know it, at least not until after i've won them over. if a dude i'm hot for is wearing moist pink homo shoes do you think i point and laugh? NEVER. well, at least not until he's made my booty clap. i don't tell sexy dudes i think they're dumb, i don't tell handsome dudes their grammar is wack, i don't tell delicious dudes that they have shitty taste in music. until i've had a little nibble.

i can't get into the intricacies of our discussion because i will probably cry and maybe even suffocate myself using my own socks or something, but here are a couple highlights:

1 he was wearing shiny white loafers. i should've known that american attire was just a ruse. they can never hide it for too long, can they?

2 he reminded me, more than once, that i'd "kept him waiting."

3 he goaded me into a debate about both the shortcomings of the american newsmedia and the iraq war, ON A FIRST GODDAMNED DATE. let's make something perfectly clear: DEBATES AREN'T SEXY. what the fuck is wrong with dudes?! is it your inherent need to prove your dominating intelligence? it would be one thing if these debates actually proved a man's mental capacity, but regurgitating a bunch of shit you heard on the BBC or read on huffington post doesn't make you a goddamned genius. i watch and read just as much news from a wide variety of sources (including those that aren't necessarily filtered and mainstream), and having a dude blather on authoritatively about things he can't possibly know anything about IS TOTALLY FUCKING BORING. unless you have high-level CIA clearance, NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT WHAT YOU THINK POLITICALLY. most regular people's political ideologies are murky, poorly researched, and underwritten by cultural bias, so presenting your OPINION as ABSOLUTE TRUTH is a dangerous, dangerous thing, particularly when you're talking to someone that isn't a fucking moron. what do these dudes DO when out with shrinking violets who don't know shit about presidential mandates? jesus christ, i'd barely answered the "what do you do?" question before he jumped down my throat with his assumptions about my political leanings. there's a reason i'm trying to get LAID and not in a POLITICAL SCIENCE CLASS, you butthole.

4 he sat with his arms crossed the entire time, and when the waitress asked if he wanted anything off the menu his reply was, "i cook my own food. who knows what kind of garbage is in yours?" um...FAIL. my oven hasn't been turned on since last winter, and i'll be DAMNED if i sit at home every night of the week eating puff puff and egusi soup. fuck that noise.

5 HE COULDN'T PAY. after two hours of shouting me down about "dumb americans" and "corporate slavery" (holy fucking shit) the bill came and his response was, "i only had a coke." if you're broke, so the fuck what. but if you're BROKE and you feel like you want to talk to a WOMAN, YOU ARE A FUCKING ASSHOLE. can we make a new life rule? okay, here it is: YOU DON'T GET TO GO OUT WITH PEOPLE IF YOU CAN'T PAY FOR IT. men and women alike. if you don't have any money, try to find bitches on craigslist to fuck your broke ass. WHAT THE FUCK. oberon was on special and i had twelve (not really), and i also had a twenty dollar bill. how on earth do you get to be broke and still fuck people? my job is better than a lot of other ones, and i'm funny AND brilliantly smart, and i don't get to fuck SHIT. where is the justice?

ps, no hate mail from africans, please. unless this post applies directly to you, then i will gladly pick up my elephant tusk and meet you in the nearest clearing for a duel.

nine months and counting, and unless i get RAPED IN THE STREET you can scratch "reading about hot sex sam is having" off your fucking to-do lists. if you're some bitter piece of shit who stole some of my hair and put a curse on me, kindly remove it. whatever i've done to deserve your ire can't possibly be this hilariously bad. unless that bitch i pushed down that flight of stairs at that shitty bar on randolph a few years ago knows voodoo. then i might deserve this heartless torture. :(

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

music for douchebags.

it's really a total fucking shame that the majority of mexican dudes i run into are shorter than a yardstick and more devoutly catholic than the pope, because GODDAMN do i love me some mexican food. i had approximately 6,947 tacos this weekend. and every single one of them was DELICIOSO. i also did a lot of other shit, too, and THANK FUCKING HORUS for that because this blogging is always a little easier and more interesting when i actually do shit worth writing about. like going to fancy places, seeing a couple shows, and giving my phone number to a dude whose first name HAS MORE THAN FOUR SYLLABLES. a review:

friday. it was cold as BALLS friday night and, while i got the memo, a good percentage of the ladies partying in and around chicago friday night most certainly did NOT. or they're at that age where you don't give a shit about warmth and comfort. remember those days? getting frost-bitten in all of those too-small pinchy skyscraper heels and corseted bustiers? bare toes and miniskirts in the dead of winter? well i don't, because i'm fucking sensible. and i party dressed like a bag lady. i met jenny and ginger at big star friday night because i can't help but love that place, even though it's filled with noisy cockbags and asymmetrical hipster haircuts and twangy country music gets on my goddamned nerves, but I LOVE IT. i'm sorry. i totally do. and i fucking SHOULDN'T, because it's so crowded full of jerks clad in t-shirts they bought yesterday that are meant to make you believe they're original circa 1974 with weekend mohawks and girls that are just trying so fucking hard that it's GROSS but i'm in love with it despite all of its pretentious flaws. i really would go there every single day if i could, but i don't own enough ironical cowboy boots and my male companions don't have enough pairs of magenta skinny jeans. pfffft.

by now you all should know that i'd murder a small child for a decent taco, and the tacos at big star are fucking INCREDIBLE. so good, in fact, that I ATE THEM OUTSIDE. you read that right. i don't believe in eating outside. it's messy and disgusting and i hate for regular-ass people to walk by leering over my goddamned plate. nothing more horrible than a goddamned wino drooling over a perfect platter of smoking hot tacos de lengua while pieces of his skin flake off into the guacamole. your cold shit melts in the summer, your hot shit freezes in the winter, outdoor chairs are always filthy and NEVER comfortable, and on top of everything else there are all sorts of bugs and wildlife trying to bite you and peck at you and lay eggs in your food or snatch crumbs off your napkin. ridiculous. but since it was twenty degrees outside and all the naked chicks were angling for the handful of tables inside, we got seated super fast on the patio. then we MAXED.

the weekend mohawk: when an ordinarily boring, preppy white dude fashions the hair on the top of his head into a mohawk on a friday or saturday night, but combs it either into stepford submission or that carefully styled bedhead on purpose thing they're all doing lately come monday morning, lest his fellow day traders think he's some sort of dangerous rock n' roll punk. in case that hot pink fitted oxford from express men wasn't screaming "moist and harmless" loudly enough. pffft.

here's a prerequisite for being my friend: you have to eat food. and not just eat food, but enjoy food. and shove a lot of it into your mouth at once while in the company of other hot bitches. every toothpick wobbling past us in peeptoe wedge booties (fuck you, i read glamour) looked like a taco might make her tip the fuck over, and while i don't give half a shit about what a bitch eats in general, i do care about her taking up space (limited space though it may be) that could be occupied by someone whose stomach is bigger than a hummingbird's. unless i can hang my coat on you, go stand and look pretty across the street at the violet hour and let us human beings get at them amazing al pastors.

saturday. we were supposed to go out drinking after big star but ohmigod guess what happened?! I'M OLD. so i took my old ass the fuck home. where i discovered that i'd left the book i'm reading (uh, not anymore) in the goddamned cab. THAT TOTALLY SUCKS. you know i read a lot of books, right? but i NEVER write about that shit because bitches totally don't care about fucking books. you just don't. and i've come to terms with it. (but email me if you want some recommendations, for real.) i was so pissed about that damn book (it's really good) that i decided to watch some episodes of gossip girl rather than start a new one (makes total sense) and was four deep when i realized that i had to get up and go to work in a few hours. dumb.

after work laura, mister maps, and i went to see "going the distance," that drew barrymore movie about relationships during which you're supposed to forget that she's fucking that mac dude and can't stop breaking up with him. i hate my brain. i couldn't stop thinking about their dating in real life throughout the entire movie, and that's retarded. i also was transfixed by drew's ladystache, which is just greenish-greyish visible enough to become a huge distraction to an asshole who focuses on the dumbest shit during movies. but charlie day and jason sudeikis were amazing and the shit was really funny. some seven-year-olds had obviously snuck into the theater, because there was all of this high-pitched squealing and "aww-ing" throughout the whole fucking thing, and i refuse to believe that an adult woman would really do that in real life. seriously. when they reunite at the end (oops, did i ruin that for you?) it was like someone had let a pack of mewling kittens loose in the theater. which i would have MUCH preferred.

it's probably a good time to admit that i've had my period for twelve days or some shit, and i'm grouchy and mean and covered in cystic acne. plus i'm having a salt thing like you wouldn't BELIEVE. holy shit. i never crave salt, but lately i'm like a crackhead fucking horse, licking salt off pretzels and rubbing the shit into my gums with my hooves. and since she's evaded me for so long, this bitch smells like DEATH. not to gross you out or anything (i really hope you vomit), but this blood smells like toxic waste. i'm nervous to sit close to anyone lest his eyes water from the stink lines emanating from the oozing, festering flesh wound that is my gangrenous vagina. even helen was like, "damn, bitch!" and that bitch smells like cat butts, so it's really saying something if I offended HER.

anyway, saturday also happened to be ginger's 30th birthday (old hag) and we went to duchamp for dinner to celebrate. i was totally excited. so much, in fact, that i put on an actual DRESS. a dress with RUFFLES. that's how you know i love your ass, when i put on a ruffled party dress to come out and drink overpriced cocktails in your honor. and drink those overpriced cocktails while seated on THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE CHAIRS OF ALL TIME. i swear to god those bitches were manufactured by satan himself. at first i thought, "maybe it's just me," because i am always willing to concede that my giant ass is the source of the issue in delicate matters such as these, but the skinny girl next sitting next to me was complaining, too, so my cellulite and i heaved a sigh of relief before deciding this was the worst restaurant EVER. not really, but sort of. how can one enjoy a meal with hard, molded acrylic cutting into her soft meat?! seriously, it left a MARK. good thing i was drunk.

sunday. i couldn't hang for the afterparty at the clipper because i'm still old, so i went home instead to continue the season three gossip girl marathon i'd begun saturday afternoon. goddamn, i love that show. it's sooooooo good, and i'm sooooooo still an adolescent. OMFG. i put a headband and knee socks on helen and we curl up in a bed covered in barneys shopping bags and watch 17 episodes in a row while eating handfuls of cookies that we purge before passing out drunk for nine hours. i got up in time to drag myself out with sarah, rachel, and lauraaage to the lovely and adorable southport grocery, and while i heart that place to death i would rather you not go there because waiting two hours for breakfast at one in the afternoon is cray cray and i don't want anything getting in between me and my heavenly steak and eggs served on tortilla chips with a bowl of salsa on the side and you shitheads already fucked up m. henry for me so keep standing in line outside ann sather (barf) for hours on end and let the rest of us holler at the good spots.

sunday night ginger and her underage brother and i went to see beach house and vampire weekend at the aragon, and it was RIDICULOUS good. i should clarify and say that the music was really good; everything else? not so fucking much. 1 it was an all-ages show, which in theory i have absolutely no problem with but in practice just means a lot of drunk teenagers whose older friends have snuck them plastic cups of beer falling all over each other and vomiting in the garbage can we were standing next to. MULTIPLE TIMES. also, listening to shit 12 year olds listen to makes me feel dumb, and i don't like that feeling.

2 the aragon is an amazing place to see a show if you are a sour misanthrope who hates to be near other people, because most assholes crowd into the big main area and leave the periphery (where you can totally see and hear EVERYTHING) virtually empty for the rest of us to remain untouched or sweated-on. it's the business. but that didn't really happen, so i was IRRITATED. really, it kills me when i go absolutely out of my way to avoid people and make it really easy for them to avoid me and they post up next to me anyway, stinky and sweaty and distracting me with their lightning-speed texting. blah.

3 since when did 95% of the vampire weekend fan base consist of giant fucking douchebags?! WHAT. THE. FUCK. i've never seen more college t-shirts and backwards ball caps in my entire LIFE. you know why? because i don't go to fucking cubs games. holy shitface, it looked like wrigley field and the entire undergrad student body at depaul mated and shit their abercrombies out into the theater. there were the requisite anorexic jeans and floppy skater shoes, but most of the crowd was made up of dudebros in running shoes punching each other in the face for fun and teeny little girls in impossibly high heels. now you know beach house was the big draw for me, but i can't front and pretend that i don't know every single word of "cape code kwassa kwassa." and "m79." "california english." diplomat's son." you get it, i know.

after beach house played i was standing in the beer line (OF COURSE), and i couldn't help but eavesdrop on the two lacrosse players (i'm just guessing) shout-talking behind me. "DUDE," hollered one, "I AM SO FUCKING GLAD I GOT MY NAP WHILE LISTENING TO THAT FAGGOTY BEACH HOUSE. NOW I'M READY TO RAGE AND PARTY TO SOME V DUBS." then i'm pretty sure he did a few fist pumps. really, sir? beach house is for faggots? oh, okay, i get it. because dancing around like a pre-teen girl to 97 pound ethnically-ambiguous harvard kids in BOAT SHOES is fucking the pinnacle of masculinity? yeah, you're totally right. and who in the fuck says V DUBS?! these grammar nerds ("oxford comma," anyone?) make art rock that sounds like paul simon circa 1988 outtakes, and this retarded gorilla was acting like he was at a pantera show. BARF. and so weird.

but there's always a silver lining:
1 i was standing outside of the bathroom texting some hot sausage while waiting for ginger to fight her way back to me through the throng of women trying not to wet their pants in line and some girl rushed over to me and said, "i love your blog!" that keeps happening to me, in bars and restaurants and other random places, and i can't guarantee that i won't develop a big head. i'm just saying. get my phone number before i'm too famous to consider taking your calls.

2 i was totally standing next to vw's drummer on the stairs and making fun of his clothes before the show started. i had no idea who he was (i mean, COME ON) until he ran out on stage, and i was like, "oh shit, there's that asshole in the bulls jersey i was talking shit about." this is my second celebrity encounter of the summer, the first one having occurred after ginger and i saw interpol at the vic and i helped her stalk the lead singer. yes.

3 i got to watch a couple fist fight in the street. i love watching fights, and this one was AMAZING. we left early to avoid the crowds (and because we are SO OLD), and i noticed this chick cussing this dude out as we walked out. i'm fucking shameless, so i stood in the street and watched her screaming and yelling in his face until it got boring, then i continued staring at them from the train platform. where i heard her reprimand him for TOUCHING A CHILD during the show. whaaaaaat?! then she punched him in the face! i was leaning so far forward i could've had my head slammed off if an actual train had gone by, but the CTA is such a late piece of shit that i somehow managed to take in the whole thing from beginning to end uninterrupted by my steel chariot.

4 while i was engrossed in the fight, i got tricked by an african. "tricked" might be a little strong, but i was otherwise engaged and my defenses were down and that allowed him to get the tip of his spear under a section of my armor. and this deserves its own post. until next time.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

i shaved my pubes for THAT?


i tried to get laid for you guys this weekend, i swear to horus i did. i'm just as tired of WRITING about the dickonomic downturn in my vaginal bear market as you are of READING about it, and i fucking lobbied congress hard for a decent-sized stimulus package. alas, i am still a born-again virgin, but not for lack of tryyyyying. and i didn't half-ass the effort, either. i put fresh batteries in my little cordless beard trimmer and found my vagina under all of the moss and algae that had grown over it during these months of abandonment and neglect and leveled all the overgrowth so he could find it; i even greased it up and used a razor to get to the bonus places, my ass crack among them. i deep conditioned this hair that is already so crazy long and driving me insane, and i NEVER do that. not for anyone. i cleaned my house, i put my foot in helen's little goddamned ass, i washed the dust off the clothes hanging in my closet that a bitch might get fucked in, and I GOT A MOTHERFUCKING PEDICURE.

pedicures give me diarrhea.
so it's a big fucking deal whenever i can be bothered enough to get one. every single time i drag my disgusting ass into a fancy nail salon to let some diminutive person squat at my feet to scrape the callous off my heels, i spend the entire time contorted into an unnatural shape with sweat running down my back willing her to hurry the fuck up so i can get to a bathroom. i know i talk a lot of shit, but i really do have decent-looking feet. gorgeously wide nail beds, no fungus, no gnarled-up toes, no bunions or corns. despite this fact, i usually spend the whole day prior to the pedicure racked with anxiety about having my cuticles dug out or whatever the fuck it is they're doing down there.

i worry because every time i have ever gotten my feet worked on i have either 1 almost fallen while getting in to the chair or 2 almost fallen while trying to get out of it. it's fucking slippery, man, and i'm worried my expensive jeans are going to unroll themselves down my calf and get soaked in whatever hot toxic chemicals are being shot out of those jets. and they lotion the shit out of your fucking feet, then expect you to maintain your poise and balance while trying not to fuck up the seven coats of sticky shit they've lacquered all over your nails AND not spill your starbucks or ruin that copy of us weekly you were really trying to read?! i am not that goddamned coordinated. i can't just jump in and out of vibrating spa chairs without fucking something completely up or falling to my goddamned death. except i don't set my chair on vibrate, because folding my intestines in thirds to put my knees in my goddamned throat so she can work on my soles has already made me nauseous, and that circular vibrating motion just makes my torso feel like it's roasting my insides until they're tender and juicy. rotisserrhea.

i don't get the parrafin treatment either, because it feels like my feet are encased in slick plastic bags of warm human waste. plus they never get that nastiness cleaned all the way off, and i can hardly be expected to go about the rest of my day leaving bits of wax everywhere i go. i don't need my enemies tracking me down hansel and gretel-style. and while we're on the subject, NO NAIL POLISH. now i like looking down at my neat and spotless feet and everything, but what girl doesn't want a little lincoln park after dark peeking out from under her flared dark jeans? nothing makes you look expensive and put together like perfectly applied almost-black nail polish. and while my dream is to look like i can really afford this lavish and extravagant life i'm living (my lunch today cost TWELVE WHOLE DOLLARS), i will forever look like a garbage-composting bitch on a commune, one with clear polish on her toes at least, since i am usually clawing at the sides of the chair after forty-five minutes of foot-swapping and "i'm not really an asshole" small talk.

god, the fucking GUILT. nothing reduces me to a blubbering pile of idiot like paying someone to be subservient to me. you would think that having grown up around all this money that i'd have learned that trick that makes cleaning ladies invisible or how to ignore the person wrestling with my foot while i shout into my cell phone, but i grew up BROKE. and, if it weren't for some cunning manipulation and careful strategery, i might have ended up the dead-tired beaten down bag of shit you're admonishing, in a tone best reserved for a fucking four-year-old, to use a TOOTHBRUSH and BLEACH on the bathroom grout, do you speak ENGLISH? i don't take anything for granted, and i'm not a fucking asshole to service people. because swap that emery board for a parvo puppy and now who is in service to WHOM? holy shit it makes me physically uncomfortable to be around people who are rude to service people. BARF.

laura's ass went to a wedding this past weekend, and FOR HER i agreed to have my viscera put through the meat grinder otherwise known as "the mani-pedi." even though on the outside she appears to be a normal, adult, human-type female, this bitch is almost thirty years old and has never subjected herself to the girly joys of overpriced pampering. and i'm with that shit 100%. i've only ever gotten them because my friends have forced me to accompany them, and once because i was going to be in nina's wedding in san diego and didn't want my feet looking like goddamned dragon claws. but they did anyway, because i got red polish and promptly SLAMMED MY FOOT IN THE DOOR OF HER TRUCK ten minutes after we left the shop, then felt too fucking dumb to go back in and ask them to fix it. listen, i'm not trying to have some bitch cuss me out (LOUDLY) in laotian while the girl at the next station pretends to watch chinese game shows on the staticky, grainy mounted television. plus, i was limping. FUCK THAT.

and since it was HER TREAT (my favorite words!) we went to this swanky place where they make you coffee and shit while you wait. AND we got manicures which, for me, meant a pale wash of something sparkly and unoffensive on my nails that i keep INFANT SHORT because i could hardly sit still long enough to wait for nineteen coats of base, ridge filler, dark color, top coat, quick dry, and oil spray to dry. seriously, it's POINTLESS for me to attend to myself in this way. bare toes and fingers that would look right at home on a toddler? for fifty bucks?! yeah fucking right. give me a sturdy swedish file and a bottle of hard as nails and i could recreate that shit for a fraction of the cost.

but all that pampering and frilly shit sort of makes you feel damned good, doesn't it? and it makes you feel like you're worthy of your vagina. the mere fact that you possess one is not alone a testament to your femininity; you have to DO some shit to PROVE it. and i don't think wearing grimy gym shoes and drinking fancy beer is it. sometimes a girl's gotta spend her rent money on a double-process dye job or a full body seaweed wrap to feel all pretty and special. not me, though. i can hardly be bothered to shave my fucking legs, let alone get hot stone massages or pay some homo three hundred bucks to dump chemicals in my hair. i have to put so much time, energy, and MONEY into counting pills and spacing out meals and keeping a shit diary that by them time i'm done with all that i can't be bothered to do maintenance of any other kind.


but men aren't trying to hear that shit, and i can't pull my pants down and be like, "hey kid, i know my pussy looks like the jungle book come to life, but i've had FOUR normal stools this week!" i especially can't pull that nonsense with someone i've just met, because i like to play the "i'm normal just like you!" game for as long as i can reasonably get away with. and that's where i find myself now, with a handful of dudes i maybe like and who i'm probably going to let put their dicks in my butt, for whom i have to conjure up some sort of nicely-preserved physical specimen. i wish i could just show a motherfucker an xray or a copy of one of my CTs and say, "look asshole, give me a fucking BREAK," but i'm not at the point yet where i'd like to shatter any illusions. i like to let that wait until i'm invited to dinner at his mom's house and am forced to remove my underwear and shit in the bathtub because i put too much charmin in the toilet and can't locate a plunger. does it go without saying that i wasn't invited back? i thought it might.

prior to one of my many a colonoscopies i spent a few lucid minutes before succumbing to the anesthesia apologizing for my hairy butthole. i spent the first few minutes of my pedicure apologizing for my leg hair. my armpits are hairy right now, too, but i haven't found anyone yet to whom i might apologize for their state of naturalness. man, THIS is why dating is hard. because the whole fucking premise is built on being your nicest, fakest, most accomodating self, and hoping a bitch hangs on once he finds out what a rotten piece of shit you are at the core. and keeping up that facade is hard work. EXHAUSTING. so of course now that i've got all this possible sex on my horizon, i can't help but think about why it might be so much more awesome to keep my vagina to myself. let's explore the reasons why:

waxing hurts. while i hardly mind the ten seconds it takes to have a few stray eyebrow hairs ripped out of my face, letting some eastern euroslavian torch her way through the acreage in my nether region is fucking HORRIBLE. i am never doing that EVER AGAIN.

shaving is worse. and depilatories STANK. hair removal is serious fucking business, man. it's dangerous and time-consuming and even when you think you've gotten every last extra hair plucked or trimmed or threaded or naired or razored off of your body, you're never completely clean. and that's frustrating. and even if you do manage to get yourself scalped enough to competitively swim a 100m butterfly, the shit starts growing back 30 goddamned seconds after you get out of the shower! it's a losing battle in this "don't you want to bang me?" war, one i'm often too lazy to pick my gillette up and fight.

exfoliating is gross. i hate fumbling around in the shower with a greasy jar of gritty exfoliant, attempting to smooth out my grody knees and elbows while at the same time trying not to fall and crack my skull open on the edge of the tub because that shit is always oil-based and makes everything slippery.

makeup is expensive. and requires too much effort to artfully apply it. plus, it doesn't make you look much better. which is why i've sort of stopped wearing any entirely. it makes me feel so obvious and conspicuous. BARF. besides, if you DO get all made up, then you have to worry about smearing the shit on a collar or pillowcase. and if you do, that makes you an ASSHOLE. a tranny asshole who wears too much makeup because she's ugly. duh.

clothing is difficult. i just made a promise to myself the other day that i am only going to buy and wear articles of clothing that are black, because never do i ever feel comfortable and not awkward in anything but. i got rid of 2/3 of my clothes a few days ago, because i really only wear the same five or six things all the time and i should really stop pretending otherwise.

dudes are stupid. and getting to know that about a new one can sometimes be a lengthy process. and who has all that time to waste? because, for the most part, they've all got that initial impression thing NAILED, so that after the first time you speak or meet you think to yourself, "well, he seems like a nice guy. i like him!" and you start thinking about him and developing fuzzy-ish feelings for him and writing about him in your diary. then you're all disappointed two dates later when he slips and lets his asshole out, and you feel angry and cheated. cheated out of the relationship you deserve and totally thought you could have with first date dude. only to find out that he's really more like third date dude, letting doors fall closed on you and demanding you pay for your own movie ticket and popcorn. *sigh*

dating is HARD. what do i wear? where should we go? what day of the week? what time of day? when do i give him my number? when can i tell him my last name?  should i use my dummy email? what if he wants to be facebook friends? will my friends think he's dumb? who picks up the check? can i kiss him on the first date? how many dates until i have sex with him without looking like a slut? at what point do i let him know where i live? what if i hate him? what if i like him more than he likes me? when should i call him? how many texts is too many? when can i take a dump at his house? is it too soon to tell him about my weirdo sexual fetishes? at what point do we have "the talk?" what if he keeps checking his phone while we hang out? should i tell him i'm seeing nine other dudes right now? what if he was better online than he is in person?

the problem is that at one time in my life this whole game was fun. and it'll be fun again as soon as i can hang out with someone consistently who doesn't chap my fucking balls off. these shitty dudes are DEPRESSING ME. goddamn. and i have no idea how you bitches who are out there looking for lifetime partners to have splashy weddings and conceive children and buy two-story houses with are doing it; i have the least possible requirements when it comes to what i expect from some asshole, and every penis i throw at the wall bounces right off. seriously. it doesn't stick to a fucking thing. i can't IMAGINE if i were looking for a fiscally responsible, commitment-ready babymaker who wanted to be my husband. i mean, come on. that's impossible, right?

"the wind went out of his sails" is maybe the nicest way i can describe how my vagina was foiled again this time. it's the first time that's ever happened in my presence. and i'm not saying that in an asshole, every dude is so hot for me they never lose their erections way; i'm just being honest. because i felt like an idiot for a minute and had no idea what to say. or do. for instance, i can't say "don't worry, it happens to everyone," because in my vast experience that just isn't true. and even if said nicely, the words "that has never happened to a dude i've been with" isn't really that fucking reassuring.

it felt like someone was pressing a slightly-warmed ham sandwich against the crack of my ass. a ham sandwich thick with mayonnaise and melting cheese that some careless asshole had left sitting out in the sun, wrapped in clingwrap. (you know, the condom.) moist, mushy testicles and a half-empty water balloon squishing repeatedly into my left ass cheek. it felt so yucky and shameful. two quick things: 1 from behind just FEELS BETTER. for me. it's just better. i like it more. my preferred method of coitus, so i suggest it immediately. but you have to be working with a certain amount of sausage. in general, but also because i have a big ass and a teeny little pecker isn't going to get in all the way. and what is the point of that? 2 it's a good way to hide the crushing disappointment or debilitating embarassment that goes along with being the victim of a TERRIBLE lay. when a dude is huffing and puffing and FAILING on top of you there's no way to hide your incessant eye-rolling and nonplussed facial expression. you're just trapped there beneath all that awful, with nowhere for your giggles to go. lame.

so i knelt on my smooth, hairless knees (i told you i put forth a valiant effort!), counting the threads in the withered old comforter his mom probably gave him (gross) while waiting for his boat to smoothly slice through my water. and it did, sort of. except the wind kept dying, and the boat kept capsizing. and i have a built-in wind machine, but he wouldn't let me use it. this might have been better as a bicycle or automobile metaphor, but let's just continue with what we've got. i don't know why (maybe one of you gentlemen can explain it to me?), but he scoffed at my proffered assistance, which isn't really that big of a deal to ME, as all my necessary parts are easily serviced and had already, ahem, risen to the challenge.

if a dude goes soft inside me i can't stop thinking that every second he's in there i'm catching AIDS. for someone so gross i surprisingly have quite a few OCD tendencies (lots of hand washing and sanitizing and refusing to touch loose change), including making dudes wash their hands before i let them put those hands on me. i know that everything and everyone is 100% covered in grime and bugs, but it makes me feel better. so when i feel that slow retraction as a dick shrinks back to its normal size and whatever piece of shit asshole i'm in bed with JUST LEAVES IT THERE, leaking semen and influenze and HIV into my birth canal, i sort of have a mini heart attack. and by "mini heart attack" i really mean "i use my kegels to force him the rest of the way out and push him off of me before escaping to the bathroom to douche with bleach."

but at first i didn't realize that's what had happened. at least not until he said "i need to suck your tits again" (what a fucking romantic, BARF) and latched onto my breast like a starving infant. the entire experience was like that, awkward and choppy with too much talking and too little finesse. every move was a herky-jerky surprise, like trying to fuck a rabbit or a thirteen year old. and there were a whole lot of things that just didn't make sense, like why did he keep his jeans on? why wouldn't he let me see (or, at the very least, touch) his penis? and what dude on earth ever refuses a BLOWJOB?

i try to use every weird and gross sexual encounter as a learning experience (pshaw), and this one was no different. so here is what i wrote on my take-home exam:

1 no more sexting before you've had actual sex. so we already have our golden phone rule (thou shalt never call a man), and now we're going to have to make an addendum to include this. because i wouldn't have been so salty about paddling my own life boat if i hadn't had three days' worth of "i'm going to fuck the shit out of you"s prior. SERIOUSLY. this sextuation wouldn't have been nearly as awkward if i hadn't been primed to expect a "rock hard dick." can we just talk about how awful dirty texting is? you know how hilarious i think phone sex is, but there's an actual person involved. a person breathing heavy and moaning sexily into my sweaty eardrum. from jump texting is worse than a phone call because there's a built-in delay, and i've given enough handjobs to know that if you

pause in the middle they

won't

enjoy it nearly

as much oh my god just keep doing that exactly like that please don't stop i'm almost finished.

so i'm fairly sure you kids aren't beating off to misspelled, truncated text-speak. give me a fucking break. and i might get a little flutter in my pants reading something like that, but then what am i supposed to fucking DO? get my vibrator out and try to make something happen while reading "i cant wait 2 fuk u?" ABSOLUTELY NOT. so i will just keep eating cold udon and watching top chef, too distracted by braised lamb to respond with anything other than "great."

2 kissing wrong is worse than fucking wrong. maybe i already knew this about myself, but i like to be kissed. not just kissed but KISSED. kissed like your tongue is an extension of your penis and you're trying to make a baby in my stomach. i don't like to be pecked half to death, and i imagine you kittens don't either. leave your mouth in one place for a few seconds, mmkay? it doesn't make me hot in the pants when you kiss me the way i imagine you kiss your grandma, like you'll catch alzheimer's or liver spots through your lips if you leave them on her face too long. that's the opposite of sexy. and i like sexy sex. not granny sex. ew.

3 if i ask a man to do something i like and he refuses, he should be dragged out and shot. or, at the very least, never given the chance to smell my ladyparts again. when i GENTLY mentioned how the rapid-fire pecking of his beak might be turning my vagina into the sahara, his response wasn't to slow it down and heat things up; instead, he said something akin to "you can't always get what you want" and continued stabbing be in the face with his mouth. unless you're a rapist, is it really ideal to PISS OFF THE WOMAN YOU'RE TRYING TO FUCK? especially when you're about to shame your entire family by pretending your moist, sticky scrotum is a penis as you weakly hump my backside.

4 i am now more vehemently opposed to dudes who dare to speak too much. debate isn't a turn-on. i don't know that i had much of an opinion on this before, but i am 100% CERTAIN NOW that sitting around hypothetically arguing with another human being is nothing i ever want to spend a whole lot of time doing. my friends get drunk and talk shit. we make fun of assholes, talk about music and television, and make plans to go to fancy restaurants. we generally share the same politics and have similar cultural tastes. it's not a homogenous group by any means; i think like-minded people tend to just find one another, cosmically.

i grew up in a politically progressive, racially diverse community, and my friends and acquaintances reflect that. we're a tolerant, respectful bunch of people. tolerant of everyone except fucking douchebags, at least. so there aren't very many opportunities for us to get into heated, passionate debates. what, i'm going to bite your head off because you don't like the national's new record? yeah fucking right. i'm going to do a shot, think "this bitch is an idiot," and keep it moving. it's even less appealing to argue with someone whose pants i want to peel off, because nothing proves how dumb you are quicker than when someone smart makes you defend a point you're ill-prepared to. myself included. i can think on my toes and everything, but i'd much rather think on YOUR toes. pointless arguments are boring, and if i am outwitted (that never happens, but let's pretend) i get PISSED OFF. and even if i haven't lost, by the time my sparring partner concedes i'm too angry to think about taking my fucking shirt off. please.

i'm trying not to be too deflated about this whole thing, but my tires are going flat. i need to go buy a pump. FAST.

psssssssst.