Wednesday, December 14, 2011

christmas is not for pussies.

the hellidays are the motherfucking worst. no bigger reminder of what an unloved orphan you are than the most wonderful time of the goddamned year. seriously, from november through fucking march i walk around like a raw wound trying to deflect the salt of happiness being tossed at me from every direction. seriously, it's fucking impossible to brood and mourn when everyone is constantly reminding you why you should go get your jingle bells on, and those are often the very same reasons you sometimes can't get out of bed in the fucking morning. i write a lot of jokes and shit, and i understand how that can be pretty deceptive. generally it's my policy to try to squeeze whatever bit of humor i can from being perpetually alone and getting shit on and eviscerated by dudes and watching my peers skyrocket past me in their adulthood and battling this vicious crohns disease every single day of my stupid life, especially since i get a handful of emails and internet notes every week from people who relate and don't take the chronicling of this struggle for granted. and you jerks know i be spilling all my guts and tragedy all over these keys so we can learn from it and laugh at it together. sometimes, though, bitches treat me like a goddamned comedy robot. like i'm standing under the AVALANCHE OF BAD SHIT laughing my dick off before the first snow even touches me. here's how that shit really works: avalanche begins, of which i am unaware; figure out avalanche has begun once i'm up to my ankles in it, and freezing half to death; until finally i can laugh at that shit a month later once the snow plow has rolled through and i'm safe and warm in some clean fucking socks. then you get the jokes. anyway, my life sucks. here's why:

1 every day of my life since i was thirteen: i've had no parents. and no family of which to speak. and trust me, i don't care how many episodes of party of five you've seen, unless this has happened to you, you have no idea what that shit is like. my sisters and i exist in this sort of fragmented place where we are aware of the existence of each other, but we don't connect. we don't love each other. last week there was a pretty spectacular fight between the four of us which ended basically on some, "see you at your funeral" kind of shit. which is really awesome this time of year. now let's be for real, i thoroughly enjoy not having to buy any gifts or feed my dad cut-up christmas ham, but all of these nuclear families opening their christmas lexuses makes me a little sad.

2 those godforsaken jewelry commercials are meant to destroy you, right? are that many motherfuckers getting engaged on christmas day? really, i gotta sit through seventeen different romantical advertisements during one motherfucking show?! okay, so maybe you aren't crying yourself to sleep every night, but all this happy couple imagery is inescapable come christmastime. and makes you feel worthless. i don't know, man. maybe we are unworthy of human affection? because all this "you're so great" starts to feel like lies without some real validation. because what does it mean when someone who fucks someone else tells you that? or when your BFF extols your virtue? that bitch isn't buying you a fucking house. awesomeness is not the currency of meaningful human relationships, obviously. so i'm going to stop kidding myself. there is obviously something here that no one wants. that theory has been tested and proven, and i reserve the right to skip your holiday party as a result.

3 and this is an email i just had to write and send, like a loser: angry isn't a word i'd use. i'm fucking heartbroken. i'm sad that someone i like doesn't like me back. i'm sad for what that says about my dating future. i'm sad that i was in a competition i had no idea existed and that I FUCKING LOST. because you win either way. i fucking lost, and i had no goddamned idea i even had a dog in the fight. turn the tables. if there was some phantom other that i was choosing instead of you, despite the fact that i've assured you how awesome and amazing and talented you are, imagine for a minute what that feels like. in your heart. that you're awesome and great but not awesome enough to be with. you are the architect of this sadness. and i'll live, i'll get over it.

um, yeah. so that happened. like, an hour ago. and if you're smart you can use your context clues to fill in the who and the how and the what i found in my inbox this morning. sad avalanche.


this time of year is motherfucking brutal and i want to die. so i'm going to take some time off to process this piece of rotting sewer shit that is samantha irby's disastrous existence. and here's my plan of attack, ie the shit i always do when i'm bummed the fuck out, OMG:

-bang it out with a SHITLOAD OF CRAIGSLIST DUDES.
-whiskey shots x1,000,000,000.
-read a fuckton of books.
-hella carbohydrates. seriously, i'm going to eat SO MUCH BREAD.
-impromptu dance parties.
-distract myself with 12 hour workdays.
-swim at the Y with your sexy granddad.
-write my blog with ian (click here, laugh robustly).
-blow money on fancy drugs.
-try to remember that, despite all this, i'm mostly awesome. and amazing. and worthy of good things in my life, despite the fact that they appear to keep passing me over in favor of those who seem less deserving. eventually someone else will recognize that. or i'll get hit by a bus. one or the other.

imma see you kids in 2012 if i don't get hit by an asteroid in the meantime. happy holidays, prosperous new year, and don't thelma and louise it off a cliff unless you take me with you.

Friday, December 2, 2011

scrawny dudes with no chest hair.

issue six. i need a motherfucking break. oh, i know i know, "FROM WHAT, ASSHOLE?" and you're probably right, why do i deserve a goddamned vacation? the truth is, i'm not even tired. and i probably don't work that hard. let's be for real, i'm not in a factory putting chevrolets together, i have a motherfucking desk. that said, i work fifty hours a week, and spend another ten hours standing in the dark, frigid cold waiting for buses and trains and shit during my wretched commute. and then i have to find time for things like "having fun" and "maintaining my friendships." writing this goddamned blog. scouring craigslist ads. posting hot dudes on my facebooks. keeping track of your baby's first steps. figuring out who is on top in the republican primary this week. listening to the best music. knowing all the hot internet memes. omg, FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS. seriously, though, it's hard goddamned work to fucking know shit and be cool. don't believe me? how many unfunny, boring assholes do you know?! that's what i fucking thought.

does your broke ass need a vacation? does any of you want to go on an apple vacation with me? i'm not kidding. five hundred bucks can equal you + me + jamaica. i'm fucking serious. it doesn't have to be a whole big thing, let's just go and spend a weekend drinking pina coladas and digging sand out of our buttholes! what's the matter, you hate bob marley? FINE THEN. i have a passport, i'll go wherever. i just need a weekend away from the cat and my desk and the internet and my job. taking into account my penchant for melodrama and hyperbole, my life is trying to kill me. real magazines are always saying you should get away to keep the romance alive, and i would like to spend four fucking days eating delicious buffet and sucking down rum punch so that i can come back home rejuvenated, refreshed, and ready to start putting it in my life's butt again. i still love my life, it's just that the magic has died. my life used to excite me; it used to be so fun and unpredictable. remember the beginning, when my life would offer me something fresh and new every single day to show me how much it cared? well, it doesn't do that shit anymore. it's mostly just boring, sitting in its underwear eating chips while i try to coax it off the couch. if i could just get away from it, for even a weekend, i would come back and appreciate this lazy bitch so much more.

it's cool, i can take a hint, YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAMAICA WITH ME. so i'll just do what other assholes in my position do: call all of my friends who live in other places and invite myself to visit them. see how happy i look in that picture? standing on that california cliff, the pacific ocean behind me, enveloped in salty air?! i should look like that all the fucking time. that's not a bitch who has a nagging-ass boss or a $300 cell phone bill. no, that is a bitch on motherfucking vacation. that's a bitch who woke up in nina's guest room and emerged to a full breakfast i didn't have to make and clean laundry i didn't have to wash after having spent the night before at a party being thrown in my honor. i'm going to seattle and new york and california in the next few months to get away from my life for a minute and TOTALLY IMPOSE ON MY GODDAMNED FRIENDS. i feel better alfuckingready. and between those trips i'm going to spend as many weekends as i can holed up downtown in a fancy hotel pretending i'm madeline. or maybe kanye west. that'll show YOU, stupid life. i'm fucking fancy.

touchdown! i'm not into this whole "women don't watch sports" nonsense. i mean, i TOTALLY GIVE THE SIDE-EYE to those over-exuberant girls who try to get all into sports as a means to fuck dudes, but i'm calling fucking bullshit on all of this batting your lashes while pretending not to understand what a fucking touchdown is. children play that shit. so sit the fuck down with that. i watch sports because i had what one might call an inside childhood, which means that while the other kids in my neighborhood were racing bikes and climbing trees and jumping out of tire swings i was in our apartment with the blinds closed reading books and creating elaborate story lines for my massive barbie collection. my sister made me learn to ride a bike so that, at the very least, my muscles wouldn't atrophy, but for the most part i spent my summers INSIDE WITH MY MOTHER. i was one of those weirdo fucking kids who could carry on a grownup conversation because the only people i talked to all day were motherfucking adults. adults fucking love that kid; other children FUCKING HATE THAT KID. i remember saying the word "consternation" in the FOURTH GODDAMNED GRADE, and this bitch named allyson dumped my lunch tray on the floor in response. which resulted in my running to tell the teacher (whom i could call by her first name since we spent so much time making crafts after school), but only after i'd told her that "her visceral and aggressive response to my towering command of vocabulary simply wasn't warranted."

you totally would've beat me up. anyway, when you sit inside on saturday and sunday afternoons the only thing there is to watch on television (or, as i like to call him, "my brother"), is sports. baseball in the summer, football and basketball in the winter, and whatever obscure sports get national television coverage in the spring and fall. channel 9 used to have cubs games on EVERY SINGLE AFTERNOON, and they would often serve as the backdrop to barbie and ken's ferocious lovemaking. i would just absorb all that shit; i was like a walking sports section. i could rattle off the statistics of the entire cubs lineup. which, again, is a thing that only impresses adults who think a precocious eight-year-old who knows what "base on balls percentage" means is totally fucking adorable. that isn't a whole lot of people, just in case you wanted to know.

it's insulting to me when lady rags are all "put on a cropped jersey and give him a lapdance during the commercial breaks!" ugh, WHY?! why would you ever want to do that?!  commercials are for peeing, and there's a lot of really important shit to be heard during the halftime break. how else will i stay on top of how the assholes on my fantasy squad are doing this week?! well, i mostly mean YOU JERKS, because this nerd has a motherfucking satellite dish. BOOM. listen, i'm typing this with manicured nails, so i know good and well that there's other shit you bitches can be out doing rather than asking your manfriend what a goddamned touchback is. don't you like brunch? isn't there a jennifer aniston movie playing somegoddamnedwhere?! why on earth do you have to prance around in a bears cheerleader outfit blocking the motherfucking screen while we're trying to focus on the GAME? it's like if a dude came to your hair appointment and quizzed you about coloring your gray or whatever. if he was fucking juggling shampoo bottles and butting into the boyfriend drama
gossip between you and julio, the queen who talked you out of that stupid shag haircut you almost got.

these are the same idiots who will sit and watch a dude play video games and ask him who he's shooting and how many points he got and which character is this and HOLY FUCKING SHIT ISN'T THERE AN SVU MARATHON YOU CAN GO WATCH IN THE OTHER ROOM?! hey gurl, sporting events and video games and boxing matches competetive beer drinking are the cheap plastic prize in the cracker jack box that is your relationship with a human male, and you need to start thinking of them as such. ie, he's occupied, he's not occupied in someone else's vagina, and you can rest reasonably assured that he isn't going to fuck anything up while you're out. so you can feel free to go to the botanical gardens and shop for eyeliner and eat salad or whatever else it is you like doing that he ABSOLUTELY HATES. and when you get home there will probably be leftover chips.

ask a guy. you know i don't believe in asking a man a goddamned thing. but i most certainly am not in favor of the way these magazines do it. seriously, bitch? you're going to ask a shirtless, waxed chested college sophomore whether or not i should shave my fucking pubic hair?! you need to be asking that motherfucker about cocaine and xbox, not whether or not having a baby at my advanced age is a wise decision. mouth agape, every single month, i scour these vapid man on the street interviews in total bewilderment. first of all, where did you find these fucking dudes? and why do so many of them have their motherfucking shirts off?! what, you couldn't find someone other than a dude playing ultimate frisbee to quiz about perfumes? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. let's ask some grown men a few goddamned questions. and not about my stupid ladyparts.

why don't you have any toilet paper in your apartment?
do you really need so many pairs of the same gym shoe?
sports jerseys as real clothes, eh?
why a chinstrap beard of all the possible ones you could choose from?
do all of these cords actually belong to anything?
ramen again?
can i just lie back and be serviced for a change?
did you fart in here?
who are you emailing during dinner?
why can't you text in complete sentences?
you didn't honestlythink i wanted a AAA membership for my birthday, did you?
those jeans again?
how can one person eat so much cereal?
do you know how to separate your laundry?
cartoon network, REALLY?!

inquiring goddamned minds, jerks.

glossy shiny pretty hair, omg. women should support each other. we need to listen to one another and build each other up, even when some of us say dumb shit all the time and let a man get away with the kind of bullshit that ruins him for every subsequent woman who will ever cross his path. seriously, we need to love each other. that said, it is perfectly normal and 100% acceptable to be frothing at the mouth in a jealous rage if a woman has:

shinier hair than yours.
a smarter, nicer, more successful boyfriend than yours.
health insurance that's better than yours.
a car that seats more people than yours.


bitches fucking need leg room, okay? we can't all be cramming ourselves into the back of your kia, bitch. you're thirty-nine, GET A GODDAMNED SEDAN. anyway, the other day my boss asked me, "what do you think motivates men?" and i, of course, replied, "sex, DUH." i mean, really, isn't that the only reason dudes brush their teeth and shit, so they can maybe get laid? no man would have a car or an apartment or matching socks if he could get laid by a hot broad without them. women, on the other hand, are most often motivated by JEALOUSY. don't act like it's just me; the only reason you joined the gym is because the bitch in the cubicle across from yours lost five pounds going to jazzercise. and that's okay! healthy, even. i never want to do anything cool until i see someone else doing it first and, in a jealous rage, decide that i want to do that shit, too. AND DOMINATE HER AT IT.

you think i would have this blog if some other bitch hadn't had one that filled me with seething envy first? YEAH, RIGHT. i would be sitting at home double-fisting tacos and working my way through a fucking keg every night. fuck the internet, dude, i'd be in pajamas all day testing out my jokes on the goddamned cat. i have absolutely zero motivation to trailblaze. but the minute someone else is like, "look how amazing i am at this new thing i tried!" i think, "OH MAN, I SHOULD TOTALLY BE DOING THAT. BUT BETTER." i would never try to bang dudes if someone i know wasn't already doing it. not kidding, if i didn't have to hear about how awesome and wonderful your boyfriend is i would never even consider trying to come up with one of my own. god, so much work! i'd be content to masturbate to phone porn and eat indian takeout for the rest of my miserable life.

so let's start celebrating jealousy. don't tuck it away like something to be ashamed of, let's embrace that hateful shit. i'll start: i love your shoes. and the circumference of your tiny waist makes me want to stop eating all food groups that don't begin with "vegetables." your grownup apartment makes me want to kill myself. if i could beat you to death, eat your internal organs, and assume your identity while wearing your skin as a coat i totally would. it is because of you that i'm going to work out for six minutes on the elliptical as soon as i finish smashing this mcrib. thanks, girl.

prince charming is total fucking bullshit. after a certain age these magazines need to start keeping it goddamned real with a bitch. how old are we, 137? everyone i know is still holding out for some cartoon character version of an adult male, and we need to stop that. smart, breathing, jokes. seriously, that's kind of all you need. generous and compassionate if you can get them, but if you can't? don't kill yourselves: NEITHER CAN ANYONE ELSE. i have some friends who have the craziest fucking prerequisites for banging a dude you have ever heard in your motherfucking life. and i just want to be like, "seriously?! bitch, you have saddlebags!" maybe the nineteen-year-olds for whom these magazines are intended have a chance at finding true love with a dude who loves dogs and cooks four-course meals on a tuesday, but the rest of us are going to have to work with a motherfucker. by the time we turn thirty we're all banged up and fucked over a totally goddamned damaged, and that's just what you have to deal with to have an interpersonal relationship with another human being. PERFECT PEOPLE DON'T EXIST, and magazines need to tell you that. and reinforce it. and remind you again two pages later.

one of my friends didn't make a second date with a dude because he tucked in his goddamned shirt, and i was like, "what planet do you live on?! eligiblemania? THERE ARE, LIKE, FIVE AWESOME DUDES OUT HERE TO DATE. you better work with that asshole!" for serious, doesn't he get a point for at least wearing a shirt? remember the time i went out with that vegetarian who couldn't even be bothered to put on real clothes? (click here if you don't.) yeah, that was fucking terrible. and even that dude got a polite phone call explaining that i would be joining a monastery and regrettably could no longer enjoy his exquisite company. i'm not saying that you should nest with some shit-sucking scumbag who can't read and won't go down on you, but maaaaaaaaaybe holding out for that jon hamm lookalike with a fifteen inch dick is something you need to get the fuck over already. aren't you regular? then why are you too good for a regular dude?! seriously, girls, aim realistically. it's less heartbreaking. and that is coming from a bitch with a UNICORN LIST. which, upon careful consideration, you'll realize is just a long list of regular shit losers can't be bothered to do. there's no real magic involved in "being nice" and "reading books."

now get back out there and give that skinny wino panhandling outside your local starbucks a second look. i hear that dude is single. rawr.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

my vagina's name is "rap beefs."

if she wants me to, i will totally write your mom's match.com profile. moms fucking love me. i'm not even really sure what it is that i do, but menopausal women fucking swoon over me. maybe it's my intoxicating mix of irresistible charm and borderline inappropriate dirtbaggery? who the hell knows, but mature bitches love my orphan ass. i'm that annoying asshole friend who's sitting in the kitchen wolfing down snackwell's and taster's choice with equal packets like, "omg lois, i would die to hear about the new scrapbook you're working on!" while you stomp around rolling your eyes, mad because she won't put fifty bucks on your cell phone bill or whatever. joyce and i are TIGHT, dude. just last week we went to zumba before having lunch at the walnut room and shit. you mad?! i can't help it if sylvia prefers my company when she goes to see a movie at eleven in the goddamned morning. that bitch likes my jokes. why you salty at ME?! a few weeks ago i got this text from jeff: "my mother asked for your phone number. if you two are planning some sort of intervention i will set your hair on fire." what a melodramatic little pussy that dude is. gross. anyway, jackie called me later that night.

sam: "hey, sexy."
jackie: giggle.
sam: "i can't believe a hot piece like you isn't out on a date this evening."
jackie: "stop, samantha! you're making me blush!" more giggling.
sam: "well, it's not often a beautiful lady calls me after ten on a weekday."
jackie: "is it too late? i justgot in from the office!"
sam: "it's never too late for you, GURL."

and that's basically an example of why i'm the worst motherfucking friend ever, because i will shamelessly flirt with your mother and say suggestive shit to her and make her blush, and then sooner or later she'll be calling me to go to dinner or grab a drink at happy hour or enjoy a leisurely brunch with her lonely ass. she knows you won't; you're too fucking busy banging craigslist dudes and chasing your dealer around town. so then she calls me, and i'm like a smarter, funnier, more grateful version of you who never screamed "i hate you!" during a fight or crashed her brand new car into a light pole. i'm you without the constant bitching and siphon on her bank account. which makes you look like a total fucking asshole. and you know what else? i don't act all weird when there's a hot grandpa at the bar in a smoking jacket making eyes at her over his corncob pipe and monocle. i just get up and wingman for her ass. unlike you, who tries to pretend that the only time she ever had sex in her life was the one drunk night she conceived you. wrong, bitch. YOUR MOM HAS SEX NEEDS.

jackie invited me to have dinner at her fancy grownup apartment the next night, and the second i walked through the door she pounced on me and shouted, "i want you to write my dating profile!" OH MAN. i was tempted to remind jackie that my own attempt at internet solicitation not only had failed to result in any tangible human penis but had also been heartily laughed at by one of my goddamned friends. (i rewrote it, and it's fucking hilarious now, but that is beside the motherfucking point.) but then i remembered that jackie is the type of mom who buys buffalo trace and keeps seven different types of cheese in her spotless refrigerator, so i dropped my bag in the entryway and sighed, "okay, let me have a look."

i have no idea what moms should be asking for when it comes to dudes. what does an old broad want in a gentleman caller? someone to go to church with? someone to walk the mall with every morning? someone who likes eating soup?! every time i try to imagine what she might want my head fills with dudes in tophats and tails on some fred astaire shit. jackie is a pretty fancy motherfucker what with her designer suits and granite countertops and law degrees, and it baffled me that this bitch 1 couldn't find a decent man just milling around the financial district and 2 was willing to take a chance on THE GODDAMNED INTERNET. "aren't there matchmakers and shit for women like you?" i asked. we were sitting at her dining room table, me in my "inside pants" and my "house glasses" and my "weekend underwear," jackie wearing the same $900 pajamas oprah probably wears. she told me that she'd recently joined a book group with other older successful women, many of whom were either widowed or divorced, and several of them had suggested that she try her hand at dating again and that match.com had seemed like the easiest way to transition her way off the bench and back out onto the playing field. noticing for the first time that she'd checked the casual sex box on her profile i looked up in mild surprise. "you know that means they don't have to buy you dinner, right?" we changed it immediately.

1 your vagina deserves a name. jackie emailed me a week ago to report that she'd been on two successful dates with men who did nice things like open her car door and pay for dinner at phil stefani's. i immediately started frothing at the mouth, boiling in a jealous rage. but then i remembered that i'm young enough not to need vaginal suppositories and congratulated her on kicking internet sex's bony goddamned ass. her response was a forward entitled "how to wake your sleeping vagina." inside i found an invitation to join her book group for a discussion on how to start fucking dudes after a lengthy hiatus caused by death or divorce. at the end she'd added, "i read your blog, darling. you could obviously use the help. i'll send a car for you. PLEASE wear pants with a zipper. and maybe some sophisticated lipstick? love, jackie." and this is why i murdered my own fucking mother.

in honor of the occasion i wore tasteful zippered slacks from talbots and a j.jill cardigan set your grandmother lent me, and i put my grownup makeup on, which i get at bobbi brown. i think i saw your aunt getting her winter palette done the last time i was at bloomingdale's picking out a muted shade of barf. jackie sent a car for me (RICH OLD BROADS ARE THE BEST, omg) and i tried to joke with the driver but i think he thought i was hitting on him and he totally stiff-armed my ass. he dropped me at this nice building on state parkway, and all of the other women were already there, EATING CUCUMBER SANDWICHES I'M NOT KIDDING I WISH I WAS MAKING THIS UP. they were all artificially friendly and talked to me in that bored, distracted way you'd talk to a toddler who is trying to show you the macaroni necklace he made when you're trying desperately to check your philandering husband's email before he returns home from his squash game. "comedy? animals? oh, lovely. that's nice, dear. now return to your cartoons."

the "book" was really a pamphlet, and its "author" was a woman named alice who dressed sort of like a gypsy and smelled like incense. i mean, this goddamned blog is longer than that shit. listen, i like free advice as much as the next person, but could this bitch at least pretend to be credible? photocopied pieces of paper that you folded and heat-sealed? QUIT PLAYING WITH ME, GURL. i skimmed the booklet while trying not to smear sophisticated lipstick all over jackie's homegirl's expensive wineglass, rolling my fucking eyes at every other sentence.

alice told us that to properly reintroduce our vaginas to the world of sex that we needed to christen them with new names. "den of iniquity!" i yelled out. that hippie gently reminded me that i wasn't competing on a game show and should write my possible names on the notepad she'd provided. now this is the kind of shit i can get into. weirdo sex rituals are my fucking favorite. she said that vaginas deserve names that are happy or powerful, and that calling your pussy "sally" doesn't really give her the authoritative moniker she deserves. she told us to make a list of four possible vagina names that sounded mighty and strong and/or involved something that brought joy to our lives. i already call my shit "the fist of fury," which sounds pretty fucking powerful to me, but i figured a name change might do her some good. i glanced over at the enraged look on jackie's face and literally drooled with excitement. i elbowed her and she hesitantly picked up her pen.

my vagina name list:
tiger woods before the hooker scandal when he was still dominating motherfuckers.
adorable kitten videos on youtube.
18/8 stainless steel.
rap beefs.

i've seen 8 mile 247 goddamned times. rap beefs was the obvious goddamned choice. alice said that now that we'd chosen names we had to address our bald eagles like they were separate entities and listen to them, ask them what they want, and treat them with the same respect we would our partners. so when i meet a dude i'm supposed to say, "hey rap beefs, would you like to let this gentleman explore you sexually?" and then i need to tune in and LISTEN TO WHAT THIS BITCH HAS TO SAY. i fucking love it. the other women in the room were blushing and whispering in hushed voices. i decided to go get more wine and asked jackie if i could refill her glass. "no thanks, darling," she whispered. "i can't drink too much around this crowd."

"what about 'sunshine after the rain?'" i loud-talked. "would SHE like another glass of wine?!"

2 you must prepare your temple for worship. i found the snack table and asked rap beefs how many braised beef empanadas she would like for dinner. we decided on four, together. isn't that sweet? WE ARE GETTING ALONG BETTER ALREADY. back in the living room alice was talking about the things a mature woman has to do to get her body ready for sex. thank god i'm young, because these broads were talking about shit i've never fucking thought of. like, did you know your vagina dries out?! like, for real for real. she just stops basting in her own juices, even when you are sexually excited. my jaw hit the fucking floor. i basically spend 80% of my waking hours feeling like i'm sitting in a half-empty children's swimming pool, and it never occurred to me that one day this shit just GOES AWAY. one lady started talking about banging her ex-husband and realizing halfway through that it felt like a "salami wrapped in sandpaper," and it's two motherfucking days later and i still am not over the mental image of that shit.

eventually they turned to me wondering what pains i take when faced with the prospect of having some new sex. after all the stress tests and vagina moisturizer i felt like an asshole saying, "i have to shave, i guess?" but let's talk about it for real for a minute. the morning after i booted the last dude i was banging on a semi-regular basis i nearly wept tears of joy that i would no longer have to set the alarm ten minutes early to balance on one foot with the other in the goddamned sink trying to shave my goddamned legs. GONE were the weekly battles with the beard trimmer, teetering awkwardly on the edge of the tub while trying not to castrate myself with those spinning fucking blades. i could eat sandwiches again! and skip those expensive monthly pedicures! no more sexy and impractical undergarments! life was good again!

monday i went to zumba then came home and greased up the old wahl to attend to the overgrowth in my enchanted forest. i even trimmed my ass hair, which will make my GI doctor's life easier, i suppose. and i stood with my fucking foot in the sink to shave my goddamned legs. i found all of my fancy ruffled, sheer, high-cut panties and those plunge bras that are only meant to be worn for 1/2 an hour at most if you have even a teaspoon more than an A cup. i cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, INCLUDING THE DISGUSTING CEILING FAN, and donated two bags of books. i brushed helen so she'd look presentable to potential stepfathers. i made an appointment to get my eyebrows waxed. i opened the mail. i took the garbage out. i threw out expired bags of frozen peas. i thought about buying food to make my house more appealing to a dude who might like a woman who feeds him, but instead reorganized all of my takeout menus because seriously the grocery store is the fucking WORST.

because dating and banging is never just about the sex. i mean, come on. it's about whether or not dude has handsoap in his bathroom. or if you have a clean glass for him to drink his post-sex water out of. you have to fake like you don't wear holey underwear the color of a dirty band-aid to work sometimes. you have to not buy so many magazines so that you actually have money to meet some dude for drinks. i always joke about being totally goddamned lazy, and trust me i am, but maybe it really isn't laziness. doing all this shit is TOTALLY FUCKING HARD. i have to work fifty hours a week, try to exercise at least six hours during that week, feed the cat, keep my living space clean, pay my important bills, stay updated on current sociopolitical issues, maintain my friendships, stay current on music news and celebrity gossip, make sure i'm wearing what i'm supposed to, read good books, eat at the best new places, support and participate in the arts, be totally hilarious and interesting, and MAKE SURE MY LABIA AREN'T STUBBLED?! not fucking dudes was easy because that meant there were, like, a hundred fewer things i had to goddamned worry about. i went to get an STD screen to make sure i hadn't caught anything off a public toilet seat, and while i was sitting there the nurse was like, "do you need condoms and some dental dams?" HOLY SHIT I HAVE TO DO THAT, TOO?! back in the game for one quarter and already sacked nineteen times. jesus christ.

3 face your fears. i am NOT EQUIPPED for this 21st century dating shit. and i'm basically a teenager when you consider my lack of savings and tendency toward melodramatic hyperbole. the internet is a crazymaker. and you hoes know i'm right. facebook and tweeting and foursquare and tumblr will drive even the most rational bitch OUT OF HER GODDAMNED MIND. dating makes me so sensitive and nervous. i devolve into motherfucking harriet the spy, an insecure chatterbox trying to find the hidden meaning within 160 characters of text. AND IT AIN'T JUST ME. i have an inbox full of "read his status and tell me what you think that means" to fucking prove it. omg if you motherfuckers could read my gchats! 98% of them are me and some other broad trying to translate the poorly-written messages sent by some neanderthal dude. HOLY HELL and when i used to chat with dudes i had to send that shit to amanda to have her make sense of the conversation. i just can't with this shit. and neither can any of the rest of you.

DECIPHERING TEXT MESSAGES IS THE DEVIL. and internet stalking is the devil's handmaiden. i want to go back to the olden days when you didn't have to sit up half the night trying to piece together the relationships of people whose toes you want to suck and their internet friends that you've never met and have no business asking them about. are men doing this? seriously, are you wringing yourselves out trying to discern whether or not we used to fuck that dude who heart emoticons every single status we post? i'm sure you don't even care, but you girls know what i'm talking about. "who the fuck is this asshole who 'likes' everything he says? god, desperate bitch, he's not even funny like that. she's obviously a loser since she comments on EVERYTHING. damn, get a hobby. stupid idiot. i wonder if he thinks she's prettier than me?" and there's no cure, because none of us is going to go cold turkey off our social media addiction. eventually there are going to be asylums all over america filled with strung-out, ashen women scrolling through smartphones while muttering, "is he fucking her? what about her? is my status funny enough? is that his ex-girlfriend?!" under our collective breath. terrifying.

4 put yourself out there. not only is my vagina awake, now this bitch is CRAZY. old women are worried about performance anxiety and breaking a hip during rough play, meanwhile my ass is all, "OMG WHAT AM I MISSING ON FACEBOOK RIGHT NOW?!" i had three glasses of wine during that fear exercise, and i was just on the verge of the mortifying drunk cry. you know the kind, when tears stream down your face at the slightest provocation because you drank two bottles of cheap chianti in a sitting? yeah, that's the one. i don't know, but all of that talk about insecurity and body shame and relationship wounds past was really starting to fuck with my drunk ass. i had to keep blinking like a crazy person to stop myself from bursting out crying. one of the women disclosed her fears about moving on after her husband died because she'd never have sex with anyone else in HER ENTIRE LIFE, and when she tearfully admitted that she'd never had an orgasm a loud, audible sob escaped my mouth and jackie hissed "go to the bathroom and get yourself together" and glared at me. then some other woman cried because she kept getting rejected by her eharmony matches and i came completely undone.

i'm one of those pent-up mean people who are so bitter and angry at life that we can hardly be bothered to compliment someone or share a kind word, and as punishment for being that way when i cry, I CRY. i also take a lot of hormones to keep rap beefs in check, and sometimes they turn me into a blubbering mess. surging and estrogen mixed with all that fucking wine destroyed any ounce of composure i'd had up to that point. jackie was already calling the car service while i sat there sobbing about how that old eharmony dude is such a liar he only matches you with people who suck who don't want to marry you and DID YOU KNOW THEY WON'T MATCH GAY COUPLES?! boo hoo it'll get better, sister. boo fucking hoo. jackie got up to leave with me before alice could tell us about internet dating and joining co-ed sports teams and attending singles mixers. i kept my swollen eyes closed and we locked arms in the elevator.

before we'd left alice suggested that we write letters to our newly baptized vaginas when we got home to prepare them for their journey out into the brave new world. a world full of syphillis exposure and craigslist dudes who want to put their dickheads in your ear. here's mine:

dearest rap beefs,

i'm really sorry that i've introduced you to so many idiots. i know it may appear that i might've done so out of spite but, i'm not sure whether or not you know this, i'm vaguely mentally retarded. and too liberal with the benefit of the doubt. i'm sorry about that time i let a dude stick a roll of pepperoni in you, and i really do feel bad about that moron who kept chewing on you with his teeth. in the future i promise to be better about screening applicants. seriously, no more dudes who are not smart and don't laugh at my jokes.

since we're talking, why do you smell so weird sometimes? is it because i've been eating too much meat? and how come you get inexplicably itchy? is this your way of demanding my attention? are you trying to alert me to my neglect? i swear i'm going to get better about this sort of thing. have you been enjoying the new feminine wash that i occasionally use? those disposable wipes i've been carrying around have made you quite lovely and chemically fresh.

you look good with your new haircut, by the way. i mean, i love it long, but short and sassy REALLY works for you. hope you're having a fantastic day, and please try not to queef next time some hot asshole is banging me sideways. that shit is embarrassing.

love, sam!

ps, jerks: I'M FAMOUS NOW. click here, omg

Thursday, November 10, 2011

how to survive a break-up.

last night i let one of my ladyfriends look at my okcupid profile. and i know what a huge mistake that is, letting someone who knows me see what a motherfucking jackass i am when it comes to advertising my vagina on the old computer machine. but rachel just had her heart ripped out of her chest and stomped on, and i felt like it was my sisterly duty to let that sad-ass bitch make fun of the way i solicit internet penis. curled up in her pajamas and settled on her couch underneath a pile of sadblankets, macbook warming her lap, half-empty diet coke can at her side, i told that jerk my screen name and sat back to enjoy the steak jibaritos we'd just ordered from borinquen. ten seconds later that asshole BURST OUT LAUGHING. not just an appreciative chuckle, mind you, a full-on belly laugh that made me flush with shame. there were brief periods of silence punctuated by ACTUAL LOLing, and as i cringed and prayed for instant death, rachel kept saying "it's only funny because i know you," as if that were some sort of motherfucking reassurance. pffft. it wasn't "you're so charming and adorable and witty!" laughter, because my dating profile really is some of my least hilarious goddamned work, it was like, "YOU DUMB BITCH, THIS IS WHY YOUR INBOX IS EMPTY." both of them, zing. omfg, i was immediately filled with self-loathing at my "braggy" and unintentionally funny profile. i'm just going to change that shit to "millionaire, sex on the first date, titties." i'll let you know how it goes.

i have only had two real break-ups in my life, and only one of them was crazy hard to get over. i mean hard, like, if i ran into him on the street tomorrow it might make my stomach hurt. hard because he had a shaving kit at my place and we had a joint costco membership and i left my favorite pair of new balances in his car hard. and that shit ended back when myspace was still popular. ie, FOREVER AGO FACEBOOK OMG LOL, yet sometimes it still nags at me. but anyway, i've had a shit-ton of the kinds of relationships that do the most immediate crushing damage: that two days/two weeks/two months shit when you CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE that this thing that seemed so promising a week ago is fucking over already. because it's one thing when a person has grown tired of you after a few years, or you realize that your long-term goals don't intersect; that shit is fucking manageable. what's inexplicable is when some dude you hit it off with who SEEMS TOTALLY AWESOME and wants to HANG OUT WITH YOU ALL THE TIME and really seems to like HAVING SEX WITH YOU and insists upon MEETING YOUR FRIENDS and texts you FIVE TIMES A DAY, which in girltexts is like 99 times a day, all of a sudden drops off the face of the motherfucking earth. or he doesn't want to hang out at normal times anymore, he just wants to "drop by" after that rock show you heard about that he didn't even ask if you wanted to go to. or he acts irritated if you text him "hey, how are you?" ONE TIME in THREE DAYS. which, if he really knew you, he would know is your showing admirable restraint.

until, inevitably, it winds down and peters out. like an old candle or something. and the end of these relationships can go one of two ways: you are either like me (most of the time) and can smell this shitstorm coming a mile away so you just pack up the little emotional investment you've made and file it away in your brain's asshole library before you leave a toothbrush at his place; or you are like rachel (and like me too, sometimes) and try to save this sinking ship despite the fact that everything he's doing is making you feel SO FUCKING BAD and he's blowing you off and lying to you and is too much of a pussy to say "stop calling me," so he lets you hang yourself and feel like garbage until someone new comes along which might not happen for a really long time and then you're stuck in this shitty place for longer than you deserve to be. and that sucks the biggest suck that ever sucked.

so i've come up with what is basically a foolproof method to get myself over some piece of shit asshole who tricked me into thinking he liked me (and maybe he did for five minutes but WHATEVER) and really did seem like someone i might want to let see me in my meat shirt and my inside pants. this list is written down, IN PEN, and magnetized to my refrigerator. it's splattered with salsa, of course, because i'm a slob and i wrote it in goddamned 2004, but it's posted up there and i'm going to share it because bitches need to fucking help each other. IT'S SO HARD OUT HERE. so imma help you deal with being dumped LIKE A BOSS. you can copy and paste this shit and put it wherever you'll see it the most. for me, it's the place i keep my ice cream and beer.

1 you get one day to fucking hate yourself. but THAT'S IT, bitch. ONE MOTHERFUCKING DAY. what the fuck is it about being dumped that makes us deify the lame-o dude who basically spread his ass cheeks open and spewed diarrhea all over our future with him? every single time some asshole is like, "thank you but NO," i get sad that someone that smart (or nice or handsome or interesting, whatevs) no longer wants to be involved with me. forget that he wore pink dress shirts to dinner and couldn't pronounce the name of that fancy vodka he ordered, he was SO GREAT and i am OBVIOUSLY NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO BE WITH HIM. i forget every flaw, every weird hang-up, every single thing he did that made me think, "holy fucking shit, i should've never agreed to be exclusive with this idiot," and start beating myself up about how awful and horrible and terrible and unloveable i am. and i know, you girls are all the worst person in the world, too.

you don't get anything right, you're not pretty enough, you could be smarter, you should know more about foreign policy, and you should have at least two favorite shows on NPR. why are you so fat? and why do you watch so many terrible television shows? why do you have a subscription to glamour magazine?! YOU'RE THIRTY-SEVEN. why don't you have more than one set of sheets? why are your mattress and box spring on the floor? how come you only have cereal and peanut butter in your cupboard? what do you even put on the cereal, tap water?! i live in an apartment the size of a normal person's bathroom. jesus, i am SO BROKE. no one likes me. even my friends are just faking it. i totally fail at everything. i'm not funny. i'm not sexy. i ruin everything. i can't make pancakes. i always chip my manicure five minutes after it dries. my feet are ugly. i can't play tennis. i snore. i'm the WORST PERSON ON EARTH blah blah blah sad blah.

we all do it, we all rake ourselves over the mental coals trying to find an explanation for why some talking gorilla with the IQ of a houseplant doesn't want to stick his dick in us anymore. and it's totally cool. but you only get one day to be mean to yourself. i'm not kidding. you can be as sad as you want for as long as you need to, but the self-hate stops after one goddamned day. 24 hours to be the fattest stinkiest dumbest girl in the world, then it's on to remembering how that motherfucker chewed with his mouth open and didn't know that the "s" in illinois is silent. what a moron.

2 cut off all communication. i've been fortunate not to have been shit on too badly after the advent of the facebooks and the twitter machine, because if the agony that is stalking my online crushes is any goddamned indication, breaking up in the modern era is ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE. while i've been blatantly stood up at least three or four times in my life, i've never been stood up and had the pleasure of dragging myself home from whatever bar in which he'd abandoned me to cry in my beer to see that while i'd been texting him: "are you nearby?" "how many minutes?" "you remember where the bar is?" "do you need cab fare?" "are you hurt?" "did you get out of work late?" "should i meet you at your place?" "you know we had plans tonight, right?" "just tell me if you're not coming." "seriously, i've been here for an hour." "why are you doing this to me?" "DO YOU EVEN LIKE ME ANYMORE?!" in rapid succession for forty-five minutes while burning with shame because everyone in the restaurant can tell i'm being stood up, OBVIOUSLY. only to find out from my newsfeed that THIS MOTHERFUCKER HAS BEEN UPDATING HIS STATUS AND POSTING PICTURES OF HIS DINNER ALL GODDAMNED NIGHT. how humiliating. i would throw my fucking computer through a wall if that ever happens to me. how can you get dumped with facebook in your life?! holy mother of god all of the picture deleting and relationship status changing! that shit is devastating.

that's why you have to delete that dude. don't torment yourself trying to figure out who these adorable commenting ass bitches are. is he fucking them? probably. now UNFRIEND HIS ASS. and unfollow his fucking twitter, too. all he does is post twitpics of his shitty tattoos and literary quotes from books he's never read, and are you really going to glean any useful  information from that? besides, it's going to take SO LONG to click on all this asshole's @messages and try to figure out whether or not those women are his girlfriend. or if he's referring to you in some cryptic way. painful confession that i am willing to share in the hopes that you'll learn a valuable lesson from it: this musician dude i had a crush on last year was like, "facebook is old news, girl. I TWEET," and even though i didn't even understand how twitter worked at the time (i still don't; WHAT THE FUCK IS "TRENDING?!" welp) i followed him and he followed me and i spent two weeks reading all of his totally fucking stupid tweets (he's one of those jerkbags who tweets from the toilet, OMG) and trying to decipher the veiled sexual innuendo in them to several of his female followers. i was like a goddamned crazy person, trying to translate 160 characters of code words and inside jokes written by a dude that i 1 didn't know, to women he was 2 probably fucking. that shit's insane. needless to say, my twatter no longer follows his tweets.

the hardest, i know, is THAT GODDAMNED TELEPHONE. but you have to do it. i erase a dude's number as soon as three days lapse with no word from him. that's the beauty of cell phones: no one memorizes a goddamned thing anymore. because even though you can recollect with crystal clarity your childhood digits, you have no idea what the fuck that dude you've been banging's number is. and that's amazing! so delete that shit! and get the fuck out of here with that, "I'M SAVING IT JUST IN CASE HE CALLS SO I KNOW WHO IT IS AND I WON'T ANSWER IT." listen whore, your bill collector-dodging ass doesn't answer any numbers it doesn't know, and chances are you can figure out either from the context of his text or the voice on your voicemail who the fuck just called you. don't play with me, DELETE IT. here's what i told rachel, and i'm telling it to you because i love you: from the minute i give some dude my number i start thinking of his phone as a "sadcatcher." it's like a dreamcatcher, but instead of dreams that blackberry of his is storing all of your sad, miserable, pleading, embarrassing messages. all of the tear-soaked voicemails you left, all of the drunk texts you sent, all of the nineteen calls you placed in one night and, i hate to break it to you, HE IS SHOWING THOSE TO PEOPLE. nothing is a secret, and there's no break-up code that says he has to dutifully delete any of your incriminating evidence out of respect for what you lovebirds had that never was. that sadcatcher is an archive of all the ways you embarrassed yourself when he stopped calling you, you fucking jackass. my ego is too massive to let some random dude walk around knowing how sad he made me and how fucked up i was over him, so i make it a habit to only text directions and meetup times. fuck if he gets to dump me AND laugh at my, "is this really how you want to end this?!" harbingers of relationship doom. i have the heart of a goddamned lion. that sappy shit is for jerks.

3 throw his goddamned shit out. you will NEVER GET OVER IT if you keep sleeping with that dirty t-shirt he mistakenly left in your bathroom. just get it out of your apartment. TODAY. you don't need it and he is NEVER COMING BACK FOR IT. again, i know the reason you're really hanging on to that shit. "it's so comfortable" and you "love sleeping in it?" bitch, that's the reason you still cry yourself to sleep every night. TOSS THAT MOTHERFUCKER OUT SO YOU CAN MOVE ON. and i know, you really want those pajamas and the reading glasses you "accidentally" left at his place. sorry again, babydoll, those things are now casualties of war. we all know why you did it, it's the same reason we all do it. 1 so he'll be reminded of his awesome new girlfriend 2 so any girls he has over will be intimidated by the presence of those supercute pajamas and hip glasses his awesome new girlfriend wears (omg she has such good taste why are you cheating on her?!) and 3 so you have ONE MORE GODDAMNED REASON to try to get into his apartment once he falls off the face of the earth. besides, we all know you would never leave your GOOD shit in some dude's rank, dirty house. so stop that. and burn his boxers in the dumpster behind your building.

4 distract yourself. you aren't ready to date anyone yet, because you're damaged and fucked up. and you probably should get an STD screen. but there are books you can read. seriously, SO MANY BOOKS came out while you were in relationshangri-la. also, your dvr is full and there are nine netflix envelopes in that stack of mail you haven't tended to since you met him. i bet you haven't seen your fucking friends in a while, SO CALL THEM. catch up on celebrity gossip, re-join that yoga class you paid for but never use, organize your cutlery, change all your furniture around, go see a play, eat at all the restaurants he wouldn't go to because he's gluten-free or whatever. i make a concerted effort to schedule something every day. even if it's a little something, like "go get magazines." go out and do something, ANYTHING. i promise you, if you leave your house and go to work then don't go home until it's time to collapse in bed you will feel better. or you'll at least be too fucking tired to feel bad.

5 enlist the help of your friends. this one is self-explanatory: it is my job, AS YOUR FRIEND, to feed you and hang out with you and listen to you and keep you sane as you deal with that terrible flood of horrible feelings that tsunamis your soul after someone rejects you, so MAKE ME DO MY FUCKING JOB. i'm not just here to hold your hair back when you vomit and tell you how amazing you look in those pants, i'm also available to listen to you tell the same story four hundred times and to try to figure out the meaning of his last email. because last night i wanted to snuggle up in my bed amid the drone of my humidifiers and scare myself shitless watching "american horror story," but instead i traveled eight stops past where i live before braving the indignity of the bus in the freezing cold in FINGERLESS GLOVES (i'm so fucking stupid) to go to rachel's house and talk shit about the pathological liar who wouldn't return the belongings she'd left at his place and was wearing a fruity INSIDE SCARF the one time i'd met him. I GOT HOME AT FUCKING MIDNIGHT, PEOPLE. ON A GODDAMNED WORK NIGHT. if that isn't love, i don't know what is. and i'd do it again, because that bitch is my motherfucking friend. it's in the contract.

6 FLIP THE SCRIPT. i'm not a silver lining kind of broad. in general, i'm totally fucking negative. unless there's a kitten around. that said, the thing i am the best at out of all of these things is making lemonade out of a relationship lemon. well, i always remain thoroughly convinced that i am going to die alone in my apartment with a regenerated hymen, but i'm really fucking good at remembering all the things that suck about a dude and using them as consolation prizes when he BLINDSIDES ME WITH THE DUMP. for every endearing little drop of charm there is a giant glaring fault just waiting for me to embellish it before regaling all of my friends with its glory. repeat those flaws on a continuous loop, lovers. seriously, when i'm feeling like a gross little man-repelling troll all i have to think is ILLINOIZE and i dissolve into a fit of giggles. men are fucking stupid. and often repulsive. guaranteed that dude you're so goddamned sad about bleaches his hair or cuts the crusts off his sandwiches or WEARS A MOTHERFUCKING SCARF IN A BAR. i don't need my ex-asshole and you don't need your ex-asshole, either. and if you feel like you do just call me and i'll come sit on your couch and eat jibaritos while you cry laughing at me for telling the internet that "i have the best goddamned jokes."

that bitch hurt my motherfucking feelings. oh well, rachel dated a dude who wears an inside scarf. so we're even. see, i told you i'm good at the lemonade.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

new sex rules for 2012.

omg omg omg, holy omfg, it's already 11/11? WHAT IN THE FUCKING HELL HAVE I BEEN DOING?! making peanut butter sandwiches in lieu of cooking a real dinner, making pretty decent progress sounding out the big words in "infinite jest" because i have diarrhea all the time, and listening to department of eagles records. that's what. holy crap, the year is fucking over already. yes, OVER. the mindless blur of murdered indians and overstuffed turkeys that is november bleeds right into the plus-sized red velvet pajamas and dystopian loneliness that ho ho hos its way to the glittery new year. a new year, of course, that brings with it little promise of fresh starts and bright beginnings. every january i buy a new calendar (to replace the back-to-school one i purchased in august with the wide-eyed hope of all the possibilty that accompanies those empty lined pages: the one i spilled a latte on, rendering the tan, wrinkled pages unappealing to me; the one i tried to keep a food log in, but stopped because there were too many days filled with lies like "1/2 a cookie" and "large serving of kale;" the one filled with potential plans that i had to scratch out because bitches be bailing on my ass ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME), with the hopes that the dawning of another year when i will most certainly get older (and inch ever closer to wiser) fills me with promise.

the promise of what remains to be seen. i don't make resolutions because fuck that. i'm already enough of a goddamned loser, i don't need a fucking piece of paper mocking me from where i've taped it on the refrigerator (where i hope it also might discourage me from pulling out that pint of ben and jerry's i've been "just having a spoonful of" for the last hour and a fucking half). what is it that makes us this way? because i know i'm not the only one. i would rather pretend i'm not eating it and get out of bed thirty-seven motherfucking times to walk into the kitchen and scrape the spoon i've left on the counter FOR THIS EXPRESS PURPOSE around the melty edge of the carton until something resembling a mountain (seriously, like, the K2 of late night snack) is built atop, eat it over the sink, put the carton away, delude myself into thinking of myself as health-conscious, go back to sobbing through the kardashian wedding, then repeat the same cycle ten minutes later.

okay, four minutes later.

why not just loosen the elastic on my inside pants and drag the whole thing into bed? why not just soften the entire pint, drop it into a bag of tortilla chips, sprinkle some lime juice in, pour some salsa over, add a dollop of brownie batter, and shake it up with some crumbled gorgonzola and a pound of semi-raw bacon? because i haven't given up on life yet. which is the same goddamned reason i am compelled to purchase a bright, shiny slice of hope in the form of a child's assignment notebook every august, and the same goddamned reason i throw that one in the trash and purchase one meant for adults (or burnouts who are giving school another shot the spring semester) every january. even though i should abandon all hope of a happy life full of realized dreams and actualized purpose, i'm still over here placing all my bets on the next calendar year. come on, 2012!

i had dinner with some of my black friends* a couple weeks ago. akilah and i went in on some prix fixe living social deal at branch 27, and i was irritated before i even got to the fucking restaurant. my life refuses to understand the words "on time," so i missed the good express train and was forced to take the one full of creeps. then, no cabs. not a single one. by the time i got to dinner i was a sweaty mess, and eating dinner feels SO GOOD when you're damp and can smell your deodorant working harder than you want it to. awesome.


so akilah had invited some dude to dinner, unbeknownst to me, and when i rounded the corner to join her at our table my stomach fell right out of my butt. 1 i had no idea whether or not it was a set-up, and she's sneaky that way and 2 most dudes are boring and i didn't want some asshole ruining my dinner. also, if i'd known a man was joining us i wouldn't have worn my meat-eating pants. i know, WHO CARES WHAT A DUDE THINKS ABOUT YOUR PANTS? the answer is: everyone. it doesn't even matter if you're sexually interested in him or not, no one wants to wear her pie shirt and her meat pants out with a dude who might be convinced to pay for the meal they're eating. no one is going to pull his amex out for my greasy cat hair pants. i mean, i wouldn't even expect him to. add to that my rushing latesweat and you have a recipe for easily the most uncomfortable meal i've sat through in a while.


i kept trying to gauge from akilah's face whether she was trying to fuck him or if i was supposed to, but that bitch is a fucking pro. equal parts friendly and flirtatious, ie IMPOSSIBLE TO GODDAMNED READ. and your worst fucking nightmare. akilah is one of my best friends, but she is also one of these insanely (unfairly!) pretty women with a nice ass and huge rack who can get away with talking to every dude like she wants to bang him even if she hates his guts. and he won't even be salty at her! if i'm not interested in a gentleman chances are that he is so not interested in me that my even considering that possibility is laughable, but if he happens to be nice to me i usually scowl and make snide jokes that insinuate he's fucking stupid. endearing, i know. anyway, i couldn't tell what was happening, and that makes me uncomfortable. i like to pretend to be in control of social situations that could possibly end up leaving me melting into a pool of shame.



but then dude described his drink as having been "infused with the smoky essence of black pepper and a hint of sweetness," and i was like "I'M JUST GOING TO UNBUTTON MY PANTS AND HANDLE THESE PORK EMPANADAS." come on, son. "smoky essence?!" YOU'RE MAKING MY PENIS SOFT. i can't bang a dude who talks like that about his dinner. unless we're filming an episode of top chef, "this is delicious" will goddamned suffice.

after a while the conversation turned, as it often does between a group of veritable strangers, to hardcore sex acts. i'm not even sure how we ended up there, but my pants were already undone and i'd probably farted at least a dozen times, so i can't front like a little sex talk makes me blush. akilah is recently single and was talking about all of these dudes who've come out of the woodwork (that means facebook creepers) to ask her out. oh to be fucking gorgeous. have you ever listened to a hot broad talk about casually discarding dudes due to flaws the ordinary among us would "just learn to live with." this whore. you know how many times i've said, "it's okay, maybe you're just stressed out?" to some sniveling asshole connected to a flag just barely at half-mast? TEN FUCKING THOUSAND. she regaled us with the story of some soft serve dude she fired after his first day on the job, and i like "i hate this jerk."

because i'm the kind of nerd who always has a notebook on her person, i got mine out and found a pen so that we could make a list of the new sex rules for 2012. because i can't resolve to "eat better" or "be nicer to people," but i most certainly can decide exactly what kind of dicks we should be putting in our mouths.


rule 1: maybe we don't have to have sex. god, i met some stupid dude on saturday. i was downtown, getting ready to blow half my paycheck at akira, and i was coming up the escalator at monroe when this dude literally ran to jump on it behind me. first thing i thought: HE IS GOING TO ROB ME. second: I AM WEARING PUBLIC PAJAMAS. when we got to the top he asked if i was listening to my ipod loudly, and i said, "yes, because i don't like the sound of anyone else's voice." what a fucking bitch. undeterred, he told me that he worked security (he was wearing a uniform, which i heretofore hadn't noticed because i'm an asshole who wears sunglasses all the time) and was warning women not to turn their music all the way up because flash mobs of kids were sneaking up on them to steal their holiday packages. i was not carrying a holiday package. long story short, he gave me his number. and i took it, even though he'd asked me, "what do you like to do for fun?" have you ever heard an answer to that question, particularly when posed on the spot, that was either interesting or exciting to you? i know i know, i deserve to die alone. seriously, if even one of you can tell me SOMETHING TRUE that you do for fun that is anything different than ANYONE ELSE ON EARTH i will buy you dinner. blarf. so today is wednesday and i texted him at the advice of the young people in my life who think calling is stupid, and i've heard nothing in response. and you know how i feel? GODDAMNED RELIEVED. because my third thought was: oh man, sex is so gross and i'm really fucking tired. do i really have to call him? and no, i obviously did not.

rule 2: no quiet dudes.
A CAVEAT: you know how i feel about dudes who talk too much. i hate them, and they should die. so i don't mean dudes who are shitty conversationalists, because the last thing i'm interested in is michael vick's stats from last sunday. this rule refers to the bedroom, because banging a dude who thinks he's too fucking cool to tell you how good it feels is totally fucking lame. maybe this is a black thing, because i haven't yet held a peach-colored set of testicles gently in the palm pf my hand, but white dudes in porn are always grunting and letting out tarzan screams all over the place. black men, EVEN WHEN THEY ARE INSIDE YOU, always give you that look that says, "yeah, gurl, i'm tearing this ass UP." no, homie, you ain't. that's actually the inner fold of my labia that you're blindly stabbing while making faces at yourself in the mirror pretending to be wesley pipes. it's never "hey! i like this! having sex with you is exciting for me! thank you so much for your effort!" nope, all you're going to get is, "YOU LOVE THIS, DON'T YOU. SAY YOU LOVE IT." i never do. i always stop them at that part and ask if he might be a doll and get my silver vibrator out of the drawer so we might hurry this along a bit. that right there is an ego destroyer, plus it'll make you laugh and laugh to watch his stupid boner wobbling around as he slips and slides in his socks (WHAT IS WITH THE SOCKS, DUDES?) while digging through your lingerie and shit.


rule 3: no arrogant dudes and no argumentative dudes.
this one sells itself. if you are bossy and smart, as i imagine all of my internet girlfriends are in spades, then you have undoubtedly come across a dude who COULD NOT FUCKING DEAL WITH IT. no matter how progressive, how understanding, how in love with you he claimed to be, at some point in your life or another you have had a dude with an ego problem get all up in your face because you outsmarted him or wouldn't let him have all of the power. i'm a fan of being bossed around, but only by a dude who gets that i haven't relinquished control to him just because i let him order me around while he isn't wearing any pants. it's such a thin line with most of these assholes. give an inch by asking a dude to tell you what to do in a hot way, then he takes a goddamn mile's worth of "get me this" and "get me that" when the two of you have your clothes on in the middle of the electronics aisle at costco. um, no thank you. and i know there are SO MANY PEOPLE who get turned on by a heated argument, but i'm not one of them. especially because i don't get into sexy arguments like "why did you leave your beard stubble all over the sink?" or "no, it's YOUR turn to take the recycling out." pfffft. mostly dudes want to argue with me about one of two things 1 who's smarter or 2 who's funnier. the answer to both of these questions is usually me, but if it isn't i am quick to concede the victory. (seriously, though, it's always me.) and all that fuss makes me fucking tired, man. and after a certain age is it too much to ask to just kick our feet up and agree with each other about everything? jesus christ.

rule 4: no spitting. this repulses me, so i'm not going to dwell on it, but the dude akilah brought to dinner referenced "spitting in a woman's vagina" as a sexy thing to do, and i nearly vomited at the table. I JUST CAN'T with this one. not ever. decide amongst yourselves whether or not you think it's hot to CLEAR ALL OF THE PHLEGM OUT OF YOUR THROAT AND EXPECTORATE ALL OVER SOME GENTLEMAN'S ERECTION, but imma be over here squeezing my eyes shut and rocking in the corner to soothe myself until this spitstorm passes. holy mother of god, let some dickbag assault me in this filthy way. i will lose my shit completely. i'm not dry, and there's lube in the nightstand, buddy, so if i look down and see your cheeks moving to work up a bunch of spit in your mouth that you are planning to discharge into my vagina i am going to kick your jaw right off your fucking skull. omg. i don't even want to talk about this anymore. i'm dying inside.

rule 5: no ATM. i didn't even know this was a thing. my original "no atm" rule just meant "never give a dude money ever even if he's starving to death in front of you and that five dollars might save his life," but our dinner companion informed me that this acronym means "anal to mouth." ANAL TO MOUTH. for the slow kids, this means your sex partner PULLS SOMETHING OUT OF YOUR BUTT before INSERTING IT INTO YOUR MOUTH. boy, shit is on everybody's mind lately, eh? hot damn. i don't know who does this, or if it's intentional, but this might be the worst thing i've ever heard. worse than the fucking spitting, because you can get e.coli from your own butt and that would be tragic. that's one thing i learned from IBD, that you have to be careful where the shit that is always leaking from every one of your orifices ends up. because it's full of toxic disgustingness that could ruin some unsuspecting person's day. once when i'd been in the hospital for ten days basically marinating in my own excrement (it wasn't that bad, but i am PROVING A POINT) i got an infection in my LADYBUSINESS because she had come into contact with so much smelly poop. being a human is fucking awful. so, if he's pounding you in the dirt star, you might want to tell him he can't stick it in your vagina without a thorough bleaching either. nothing turns up the sex heat like a clinical talk about intestinal bacteria. YUM.

so i'm probably just going to stay celibate for another year because i hate entertaining new people and there's chlamydia and whatnot just lurking behind the crevices of everyone's testicles just waiting to jump onto my vagina lips and eat its way through my tender flesh and destroy my brain, but you girls have fun. just write all this on the back of your hand so you don't forget.

*only my BLACK FRIENDS make a big fucking deal when i hang out with them, because it doesn't happen often, which is the only reason i make note of it. to shut them the fuck up. my phone is like a goddamned benetton ad, man. all shades and colors! it's just that all my black bitches act like coming up my way equals a trip to siberia. assholes. white people live near me, and they always tip 20%. JUST SAYING.

**reader submissions welcome for any rules i've missed. wordscience@gmail.com, kittens. HOLLER.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

way to bro me, dude.

a couple weeks ago i got shoulder-clapped. by a hot dude i kind of wanted to see without his pants on. my heart sank immediately. why, you wonder? well, according to merriam-webster, one of the definitions of the word clap is "to strike with the flat of the hand in a friendly way ." in other words, when a gentleman you might have intentions on banging does this to you, when he STRIKES YOU WITH THE FLAT OF HIS HAND IN A FRIENDLY WAY, it is instantly made clear that you are never ever ever in your life going to get that man spread out naked on your my little pony bedsheets. even if you push your boobs right up under your chin and tiptoe past him a hundred times in your trashiest slutbag hookersuit, homeboy is probably not going to tap that. well, he might. but his heart won't be in it. because you guys are officially buddies.

it's one thing when the girl gets to decide "we're just friends." i mean, DUH. some well-meaning dude with food in his beard and a tucked-in t-shirt wants to drive you to wal-mart and carry your groceries upstairs? why the hell not? this other homeboy with a bowl cut who smells like old soup doesn't mind picking up your bar tab and fronting the money for tickets to that concert you want to go to? WHY STOP HIM?! but it's different when some talking gorilla turns those fucking tables on YOU. dudes are supposed to want to have sex with everything, ALL THE TIME, so when one gives you the old "we're best pals, you can wear your eating pants in front of me" speech it's a major slap in the face. OR CLAP ON THE MOTHERFUCKING SHOULDER.

every woman, even the stinky gross ones with chin acne, wants to be seen by dudes as a sensual creature of mystery. except ladydudes, who want nothing more than to be seen as equals on the basketball court or the fastpitch softball diamond. the rest of us want a man to think we're made of magic and potpourri, and when it becomes clear that he thinks you're just another hairy pile of NORMAL it's such a fucking bummer. it's like, "why did i wear uncomfortable shoes for you?!" a broad at least will string a dude along for a little bit, letting him down easy, crushing his soul gently with each passing day of non-romantic air-conditioner installing and flat tire changing and makeup-free pizza gorging in your inside pants. until finally she breaks down and says something like, "we should probably get separate hotel rooms for that wedding i'm dragging you to in ohio," and it slowly dawns on him that THIS BITCH who ate up half his rent money last month and caused him to dislocate his left goddamned shoulder helping move her shit from one four story walk-up to another has NO INTENTION OF BANGING HIM, even though he SANDED and REFINISHED that antique dresser she made him PICK UP FROM THE HOUSE OF SOME SKETCHY CRAIGSLIST ASSHOLE who lives two hours away. and he can't be mad at anyone but himself for putting a down payment on a pipe dream.

i'm always late to the bro party, but i blame that shit on INSENSITIVE-ASS DUDES for being sneaky and manipulative liars. because bitches might let you caulk their bathtubs and replace the coolant in their carburators (is that how that works? giggle giggle I'M SUCH A GIRL giggle snort), but a DUDE will take you to a nice dinner and slow dance with you and massage the tension out of your neck while knowing full goddamned well he is never going to bend you over the back of the couch. NOT FAIR. they have no problem doing all sorts of intimate shit while working up the courage to ask if your BFF is seeing anybody at the moment. every good date i've ever had was with some jerkballs who said, "love hanging with you! next time we gotta find you a boyfriend!" while depositing my stunned ass standing onto the curb in front of my apartment. WHAT THE WHAT? i thought YOU were about to be my boyfriend! why on earth would i have shaved my legs for dinner with a FRIEND?!

tricky fucking bastards. my most memorable BRO FAIL was with this dude who is so good looking that one of my male friends recently remarked, "i would go gay for him" upon viewing his picture. now, that shit is 100% moist, but i understood what the fuck he meant. HE IS SO HOT. he found me on the facebooks a year ago after having read my blog, and i am not creeped out enough by shit like that because i read his email and was like, "yes, want. dangerous, don't care. killer, handsome. rape and disfigure, still don't care." we talked on the phone a couple times and then he asked me out to dinner, and i know it shouldn't matter, but life is just better when someone handsome wants to eat across the table from you. SORRY, FEMINISM, but that shit is true. he picked me up and took me to a fancy sushi place and knew all about sake (who the fuck knows about SAKE?!), and i said to myself, "self, you don't deserve this. you still pee in the shower, and you haven't done a sit-up since 1996. please don't fuck it up."

and i didn't! i kept all of my food in my mouth and i didn't let any of my dragon roll slip out of the chopsticks! i choked down those sake bombs without falling off my chair! i landed all of my fucking punch lines! i was killing it, as far as being amazing on a first date goes. PLUS I GOT TO STARE AT A HOT DUDE ALL NIGHT. so i was feeling really good, even though sushi sort of makes me want to swallow my own tongue, and then he wanted to get drinks after. omg, did i just die and go to heaven?! yes, yes i did. hold up, here's how awesome this shit REALLY was: he was playing little dragon in the car. dudes with good taste in music seriously could walk me on a fucking LEASH. nothing is better than someone who either 1 let's you pick everything on the radio or 2 already has everything awesome that you listen to. GIANT MUSCIAL BONER. no one with my history can believe in any sort of god who isn't a raging, vengeful, multi-tentacled alien full of hate, but that night i came pretty close.

it took two weeks for him to mention his "girlfriend." right when i was sucked all the way in. another difference between men and the ladies: if a girl has a boyfriend she can barely fucking introduce herself to you without name-dropping his dumb ass. "hi my name is amy nice to meet you i've heard a lot about you the weather sure is nice today my boyfriend loves this restaurant did you know i have a boyfriend his name is peter boyfriend." ALL IN ONE GODDAMNED BREATH. you practically have to pry it out of a dude. i'm not playing. he could be literally clearing the pantyhose and bobby pins and half-used lipsticks off the car seat when he comes to pick you up, and you'd still have to say, "are you dating someone, OR WHAT?"

and it was totally random. like, in some random conversation he was all, "my girlfriend blah blah blah. want to go out for cheeseburgers?" and i was FLOORED, because i never see shit like that coming. i'd never even considered it. how had he been spending so much time with me? is he dating the most doormatiest doormat in the history of cheap accent rugs?! or did he just show her my picture and say, "see? NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT." what a shitbag. i wasn't heartbroken, because i knew that if a dude like that was interested in me for real he was probably a cuckold or stricken with herpes or whatever, but i was surprised nonetheless. and that's the shitty thing about being bro'd: most of the time you never see it coming. and then you totally feel like a fucking asshole, especially if you tried to kiss him or casually rest your hand near his groin in a dark movie theater. and sometimes you don't even know when you've fucking been bro'd. alas, a little cheat sheet.

if a dude regularly asks you to hang out with him and a bunch of his male friends, bitch you just got bro'd. i know it's easy to think that maybe he's showing you off to his pals, but dudes who want to fuck you know that SO WILL EVERYONE ELSE. and no lion is going to drop a zebra carcass smack in the middle of a circle of hyenas. he's going to tear its heart out and then drag it to his hiding place. so if that guy is always inviting you to tailgate with his fraternity brothers, i'm sorry. THAT IS NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND.

if a dude has spent a lot of time with you despite the fact that he has a ladyfriend sulking at home, bitch you just got bro'd. he's not leaving, GURL. whatever you provide that that ho doesn't is good enough for him, and why rock the boat when he can have his cake and eat it, too? no matter how many late-night talks you have or candle lit meals you share, he's still going to go home and bang the shit out of that other broad. and then call you afterward to complain to you about how she's such a bitch and yelled at him about the electric bill. THAT IS SOMEONE ELSE'S BOYFRIEND.

if a dude is doing all the boyfriend stuff except putting it in your butt, bitch you just got bro'd. oh, i know. he's opening doors and pulling out chairs and helping you into your coat. believe me, I KNOW. romantic gestures up the butt: flowers on your birthday, bottles of jo malone at christmas, expensive dinners just because, all of which are followed by absolutely zero physical contact. if you're a month in and he's still not trying to get his dick sucked in the back of a cab, you might just need to put your match.com profile back up. maybe he isn't gay, and if not then either you are a hideous, fire-breathing monster or he was chemically castrated in prison. seriously, though, THAT DUDE PROBABLY HAS A BOYFRIEND.

this is by no means an exhaustive list. BUT it'll give you some shit to think about the next time you're about to wax your legs and deep condition your hair to go "hang out and watch tv" with some dude at his suggestion. stop it, no need to shake my hand for helping you poor little kittens out. JUST CLAP ME ON THE GODDAMNED SHOULDER.