Thursday, June 16, 2011

fuck it bitch, stay fat.

 cosmo is finally keeping shit real, hoes. much in the same way meteorologists are, women's magazines are FASCINATING to me. don't get me wrong, i am in love with them and everything, but it sort of feels like an abusive goddamned relationship in that they continue to make promises that i actually believe they are really going to keep this time. yet here i am, thirty-one years old and STILL having not quite figured out how to master a proper smoky eye. (for those of you who don't know, ie DUDES, there is a smoky eyeliner tutorial in literally every single issue of every single magazine every single month.) their continued publication is sort of predicated on the fact that nothing they tell you to do actually works, because they need you to buy next month's issue. and next month they'll teach you again how to do a smoky eye, but this time with METALLICS. seriously, they just sort of recycle the same handful of themes and repackage them in fresh glossy paper, which is why i spend easily fifty dollars a month at the newsstand, because i need to know if i can still wear the coral lip gloss i was instructed to buy a month ago. i like bright and shiny recycled information. just like weathermen who don't get fired when they predict a blizzard on what will eventually turn out to be a perfect 75-degree day, every month these bitches STILL gotta tell me the best way to strengthen and tone my earlobes and how many calories i'm saving by getting the char-broiled unicorn with dandelion greens instead of the smothered brontosaurus with macerated bacon while i'm out at dinner with my special guy. and that is information i desperately need. DUH.

on cosmo.com they let you create your own cover and headlines and shit, and i spent an ENTIRE afternoon uploading pictures of my head pasted on blake lively's body and coming up with headlines like "new ways to eat salad with just lemon!" and "sexy scintillating super sex games full of sex!" no, i didn't. i immediately found this terrible picture of myself getting drunk and looking like an asshole and thought, "what is the best way to fuck this shit UP?" and here you have it. if i wasn't so lazy i'd think about making a zine and getting sued for copyright infringement upon its release, but i am so now you get it here. come on, you weren't going to send me twelve dollars and a stamped return envelope AND YOU KNOW IT.

fuck it bitch, stay fat. i mean, isn't this what we really want to do anyway? because we already know how one loses weight: eat less and exercise more. or get gastric bypass. why are we still fucking around with the oreo cookie diet or the whole milk and unpasteurized cheese diet or the diet where you still get to eat a pound of pasta or whatever?! either you're ready to eat vegetables and get on a fucking treadmill or YOU AREN'T. i'm goddamned not. i just lost five pounds and here's how: i quit drinking and i quit eating dessert. omg fuck exercise in the butt; who has the time?! i just try to set reasonable goals, like: "don't order double proteins in one meal." dieting is crazy and turns most of you jerks into insufferable bitches: either 1 you're a crabby asshole on the verge of tears all day long because you want some goddamned cheetos or 2 you're on a high horse made of fewer than 1200 daily calories, glaring down your nose at me and pointing out how much saturated fat is in my unsweetened iced tea. gawd, don't you HATE a fat-skinny bitch more than ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH?! you know who i mean, the broad who used to eat mayonnaise straight from the jar who recently lost ten pounds doing weight watchers because she was going through a midlife crisis and is now suddenly an expert on health and nutrition, totally qualified to rip the corn dog out of your greasy little clutches. HOLY SHIT SHUT UP, gurl, BITCHES GOTTA EAT. whooooo the fuck cares?! can't we just decide that if you're over the age of twenty-eight you don't have to worry about being skinny anymore? thin is a young woman's game, and i'm perfectly happy to sit on the bench this quarter with a chili dog and some jelly beans. and if i happen to burn a few calories while texting, then GREAT.

now let's not be crazy, should you work out? of course. but you don't need some twenty-year-old magazine intern clucking at you from behind the computer screen. it doesn't even have to be hard, just go to bally's a few times a week and trade a couple meals a day for a lean cuisine or some special k. and drink water. seriously, every goddamned woman in america is probably an expert on health and exercise based solely upon her subscription to self magazine. so do you really need another article about how important it is to eat a big breakfast to curb afternoon snacking? NO YOU DO NOT. you need bitches to write about how comfortable maternity jeans are for women who aren't really pregnant. and sexy ways to remove a bra that has four hooks. i'm always amused when they encourage you to eat "instead" foods, like eating an apple when you really want to rub bacon cheeseburger all over your titties is a fair substitute. why not instead list which ice creams have the least calories, BY THE PINT? oh sure, you can tell a broad just to run five miles and take up crafting when she gets dumped by some asshole and her friends won't call her back because they're tired of listening to her bullshit, but she'd much prefer knowing that an entire pint of ciao bella has fewer calories than an entire pintof haagen dazs. that's an instead a real bitch could go for.

handjob 101. i'm uninterested in giving handjobs, but it would be nice if someone could tell me the best way to do it and how long it's supposed to fucking take, so i can decide beforehand if there's enough time between the last segment of rachel maddow and the new episode of teen wolf to embark on that journey. seriously, if i knew ahead of time that it was only going to cost five minutes of my life, i'd be like, "point that thing over here" during the commercial break so he could roll over and go the fuck to sleep before my shit came on, because dudes ruin all television shows they have no interest in. i'm not having sex right now so all of these articles are just hilarious to me, but i do wonder if women really are trying to employ the "463 tips to make him tingle" in the middle of their bedroom activity. it's worth repeating that i would need my glasses, a book of post-its, a highlighter, two pencils, and several bookmarks to remember how to do any of that shit once i got someone's pants off, and that's a bonerkiller, isn't it? i can't be all, "hold on, honey, let me just figure out what page the ball-sucking is on...is it near the back? fuck, a paper cut! hang tight, big guy, i think i found it..." i'd need a continuous loop of anal sex on the tv and a teenage fluffer just to keep him in the goddamned mood, only to confuse the directions and put my fingers in the wrong hole at the wrong angle at the wrong time. pfffft.

reading magazine articles about sex make me feel inadequate as a potential lover, because i also have no interest in keeping things spicy or fresh. which is why i also have zero problems with self-flagellation and pornography, because if i have to get up for work tomorrow there is NO WAY i'm trying that acrobatic shit you read about in marie claire while you were taking a shit in my bathroom earlier. i've never been with anyone long or consistently enough to have the "our sex has gotten boring" conversation, and i'm sure if i ever had to my response would be, "let me just get all of my pajamas out of the drawer you let me use for our occasional overnight booty calls here before you start cheating on me." and let me get my face wash and deodorant, too, while we're at it. i don't want the next bitch you fuck (you know, the one who does handstands while you bang her or whatever that magazine suggested) to use my goddamned proactiv. this is why i can't wait to be old(er), when all that's required of me is "staying awake" and "remembering to put his heart medicine next to the bed."

facebook stalking alert. well the cautionary tales are my absolute favorite. every month there's some bitch with a botched nose job or genital warts roasting her labia off warning the rest of us against the evils that can befall us right outside our doors. they've been date raped or child prostituted or initiated into a cult, and THANK GOD these magazines have found them so that they might enlighten the rest of us. i also really enjoy the hooker with a heart of gold who went to harvard (or homeless with a heart of gold who went to yale) occasional feel good story, too. but the SHOCKING EXPOSES and UNDERCOVER INVESTIGATIONS are my fucking favorite, because they're usually warning you against a some shit that isn't really that big of a threat or b some shit that isn't even happening anymore. i mean seriously, are you hoes still getting your identities stolen?! i didn't think so. i always read those articles and think "this only happens to dumb people," and usually i am 100% correct.

i want to learn real shit, like how to facebook stalk people you hate or the best way to get someone fired without his knowing it. i want to read about bitches who burned a cheating lover's house to the ground and got away with it. come on, vogue. i don't give a shit about a woman who swallowed tapeworms to lose weight, i want to know how to steal a booty call's american express while he's passed out without waking him up. GODDAMN I NEED SOME USEFUL ADVICE.

get drunk more! the motivational pieces are pretty hilarious, too! they're always so peppy and unrealistic. what do you mean "take control of your life!" or "have your best summer EVER!" i like positive reinforcement that i might actually be able to achieve. if sam published magazines (man, i totally should) i would inspire you girls with shit you actually want to do: fuck questionable dudes! skip your birth control! eat an entire pie! cancel your next therapy appointment! text that dude back even though he gave you herpes! get blackout drunk in public!

all that shit just reminds me of how miserable i am. i can't be sitting in my apartment making a list of what i want to watch on tv so i don't forget (i really do that) and then pick up a magazine with a giddy bitch laughing as she runs through a sprinkler with a headline that screams, "tips for summertime fun!" in 80-point type. i didn't even run through sprinklers when i was a CHILD. can we get a couple articles for misanthropic assholes who make bad decisions and hate to be outdoors, please? JUST ONCE i want to read, "how to mix adderall and diet coke so you can stay awake until the end of the party!" or "watching a CSI marathon on a sunny saturday afternoon with the blinds closed really doesn't make you a loser!" do you guys really try to incorporate those tips into your real life? promise me that you aren't outside eating popsicles and petting strange dogs and doing things like "frolicking." PLEASE.

mom jeans. as much as i appreciate that magazines sometimes have model-fat size eights posing in high fashion burlap sacks so they can advise the rest of us on how to appropriately dress our ample "curves," sometimes you just need to 1 see clothes on a real body (i mean a real body that eats pizza) or 2 be told that it REALLY IS OKAY to spend 95% of your time in giant underwear that comes all the way up to your bra. you're only supposed to wear tiny, uncomfortable underwear for an hour or two max and that's only if you know you're going to get BANGED, right? i know that there are lots of women fancier than i am, but why are you wearing a thong to WORK? really, tell me why. we've had a couple young tarts working at the hospital whose scrubs have sat low enough on their hips to reveal dental floss underwear, and that baffles me. everybody stinks and gets yeast infections, amirite? so why you gotta exacerbate that shit during a twelve hour work day? i hate when bitches pretend that i'm crazy, that it's totally fucking normal to be teetering around in skyscraper heels at 3pm on a tuesday. i'm not from mars, you jerks! i know what feels best on your feet! and i know what that thong smells like after a full day of ANIMALS. ew.

i like a full brief panty paired with a high-waisted pant and an orthopedic birkenstock sandal, and if that makes me your grandmother then oh well i guess i can live with that. i have another goddamned wedding to go to, and yesterday i was trolling the interwebs trying to find a fancy dress because the shit is OUTSIDE IN JULY and i don't really own clothes that work within those parameters, and i went to kiyonna because not only have they figured out how to master the casual wrap dress (you girls better learn), but they also have real people submit pictures of themselves wearing that shit. isn't that amazing?! i bought a blouse (omg) from talbots (OMG) once, and they make the same clothes in all sizes. so the petite and the apparel and the WOMAN all can buy a cowl neck poet blouse, but the bitch modeling it usually weighs around nineteen pounds. and good for her, but i need to know whether or not this shit is going to catch on a roll if i stand up too suddenly. and since we've decided to empower ourselves by staying fat and everything, imagine my pleasant surprise when i scrolled down the page featuring this adorable red dress i was considering paying $120 for only to see jackie from cleveland posing in her catwalk/driveway with the dress sort of wedged awkwardly in that back meat-booty shelf area. i've been jackie from cleveland, spending the whole party pulling the back of my dress out of the (control) top of my pantyhose, so let's just say i didn't purchase it.

i'm going to start a magazine called daytime pajamas while sexting some other bitch's boyfriend and eating cookie dough straight from the tube. i'll await your subscription request.