Tuesday, July 26, 2011

the asshole dating game.

it's illegal to be super excited about anything these days. everything is so goddamned boring, I KNOW. i'm bored, you're bored, and even mahmoud ahmadinejad is over here bored out of his fucking skull. AND FOR GOOD REASON. he'd probably rather be stalking his ex-girlfriend's photo albums on facebook or listening to some rap group too new and underground for you to have ever heard of in the sticks where you live or shopping for jeans the diameter of a tampon that cost $300 a pair. here's what i hate about life right now: everyone is too cool for every fucking thing, and that's a goddamned drag.

twice in the past week i have had nearly identical coversations with two of my gorgeous ladyfriends, both of whom are involved in exciting new romances with super hot specimens of beef. first i was like, "boo to that. jealous." but then came the play-by-play of every interaction heretofore, no matter how minute or seemingly insignificant, followed immediately by the gut-wrenching agonizing that accompanies wanting to call or text someone you'd like to see naked again (or see naked for the first time, whatevs) who is giving you lukewarm clues about whether or not he even thinks you're INTERESTING. and then i was like, "oh yeah. this is why i'm not jealous. i hate this shit." trying to fuck people would be fun if motherfuckers weren't so ambivalent and nonplussed by everything, if bitches could just be enthusiastic without fear of repercussion for said enthusiasm. and by "repercussion" i mean "staring into the bored and vacant eyes of a person too self-centered to admit he might want to see another movie with you." WHAT IS THIS? WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?!

thursday night i stayed out way past my 930 bedtime because my friend was spinning records at empire liquors at goddamned MIDNIGHT. seriously, dude? i heard that shit and my eyes welled up with anticipatory tired tears. at this point in my life even the thought of being awake when the evening news comes on stresses me out, holy shit. it was big fun, and the highlight of the evening was that i exchanged telephone numbers with not one but TWO decently-dressed, above average attractive gentlemen. now i know you're all, "psssh bitch, they probably looked like herman munster," and i'm totally with you on that, but we were still there at last call, when the harsh overhead lights of reality bask everyone beneath them in the blinding glow of i cannot fucking believe i was just about to go home with your raggedy ass.

when i was a kid i would always straggle out of the club twenty minutes after they scraped the last drunk bitch off the vomit-covered bathroom floor, drinking with thd bartenders and trying to rally some bitches (read: wake my drunk friends up) to go to the nearest 4am. now that i'm in my late seventies i get to the bar at 11 and am in the street hailing a cab home at 1145. bitches gotta sleep. so this was a rare and special occasion to be vertical and wide awake at two in the goddamned morning. okay, so here's how the romance went down: bachelor number one shout-talked at me almost the entire time ginger and i were posted up next to the dj booth, yelling in my ear about how awesome my tattoos are and how he'd just come from an art gallery opening, which is the kind of thing dudes say when they can tell you're from the suburbs. i don't know how he could tell just by looking at me that my high school had both an arts wing and a swimming pool, but he told me two separate times how much he likes "culture." sigh.

bachelor number two stopped me as i was leaving and inquired, "do you do comedy?" PAUSE. whenever someone on the street stops me and asks, "do you have a blog?" or "have i seen you read somewhere before?" i always hesitate before answering and try to infer from his clothing whether he might be a member of the clergy whom i've offended with all this cursing. or someone i've disappointed in bed before, then talked shit about on the goddamned internet. since i didn't recognize his face, in hindsight i should've asked him to drop his pants to check for familiar birthmarks and moles, i tentatively said, "um, i guess so?" WAY TO STAND BEHIND YOUR WORK, SAMANTHA. then he was all, "i sent you an okcupid message a while ago and you never responded." to which i laughed and laughed and laughed, because there's no way that i spent two weeks reading messages from a dude who barely cleared my kneecaps and ignored this football player looking motherfucker right here. "not possible," i said, getting my phone out. "i don't ignore hot dudes." then he said, "you're hilarious, and i really want to get to know you and trade some jokes. I'M AN ASPIRING COMEDIAN." *groan*

i hate dudes who think they're funny. you know why? because they usually are NOT. and even if they are they're fucking impossible to be around, because men can never just sit back and let a woman be the hilarious one. when i'm with a funny broad i know how to play the goddamned straight man. i don't have to be hitting all the punch lines all the time; i know how to shut the fuck up and DEFER. jokey dudes always try too fucking hard; they either have a stupid gimmick, like screaming "YOUR MOM" after anyone says anything, or they tell too many long, rambling stories, teasing out the punchline over 30 fucking minutes while your eyes glaze over with boredom. and you can always tell it's some shit they've rehearsed, because you can't interrupt or ask a question because it would throw his whole goddamned trajectory off and he'd have to start over from the beginning. i had a drink with a comedy dude last week, and he just barreled through anecdote after endless anecdote. it didn't even feel like a conversation. dude only stopped to sip his beer and wait expectantly for me to provide the laugh track. which i would've if he'd been funny. listen, i don't come to your football parties acting like i'm an expert on pass yardage, so why you gotta fuck up my laugh party with your stupid dick jokes?

so lucky for this asshole that i haven't had sex since obama took office (that might not be true), and my vagina is looking for some change it can believe in. now i just have to sit through some amateur stand up in his living room (holy mother of god i will probably DIE) and pretend that i can somehow help him further his comedy career at least until i have sex with him. oh, you thought i was better than that? well, i'm not. i mean, i'm not going to make any PROMISES, i'm just not going to say "look, dude, i've gotten where i am through deceit and cronyism. good luck finding a show, if you holler at any of my contacts i will KILL YOU," until after i've seen his balls a few times.

i am so hateful and suspicious that i didn't expect to hear anything from either of them, and contrary to my negative expectations, i was only half right. saturday morning i got a bunch of texts from #1, and just when i was about to thank my lucky stars for my unlimited text message plan now that i had someone other than ginger to respond to my texts, i read them all and my heart sank. MAYBE I'M A BITCH, but if you use "dat" and "wat" and "nite" and "R U" as real words i can't help but think that you might be slightly retarded. or a twelve year old girl. the first thing i thought was "GODDAMN IT, i should've said, 'hey wat's up? how old r u?' before i gave him my number," but being out that late robs me of my mental male checklist. ginger said not to be such an asshole and judge the texter by his text, so i took my ass off my shoulders and held my nose while responding to such gems as "wat r u up 2 dis wknd?" and "ur going to a play?! girl, i love da theater!" my fingers could barely formulate a response. i mean, SERIOUSLY. why even punctuate that goddamned sentence?! i didn't even know what to say back; would he understand real english words? or would i be forced to write shit like "i cant wait 2 c u l8r" and "ur da best, 2nite is gunna b fun" for the duration of our correspondence?!

#2 didn't text a goddamned thing. and then sunday i broke my fancy phone. IT NEVER FAILS, the minute i have something to do with my shit other than watch streaming internet porn and play angry birds rio i drop it in the toilet or throw it out of the window of a moving car. always some dumb shit. so i only had my little baby phone over the weekend, and despite the fact that this phone exists 1 for bill collectors and 2 for people i might be able to trick into getting into bed with me, that is NEVER the phone i have handy when i meet someone whose number belongs in it. and i can never remember the number, which doesn't matter anyway because dudes have gotten wise to our ploys and now stall you while they dial the number you've given them to make sure it lights up your phone. crafty bastards.

yesterday i got a text forward from #1, with whom i have not yet had a single conversation of substance, that read "i fainted from the heat. thank goodness this woman was there to perform cpr." and attached was a porn still of a greased-up white woman with water balloon boobs sitting on the face of what appeared to be a human ken doll. IS THIS WHERE WE'RE AT, GODDAMN IT?! three days in, no exchange of last names, no this is where i like to eat, no this is what i do for a living, no THIS IS HOW OLD I AM, but it's already PORN TIME? i suppose this is the real reason i don't get fucking excited about shit, because deep down i know the minute i get giddy about something it's going to prematurely porn spam my ass. listen, i'm no prude. but i don't like that shit when i've actually banged a dude, let alone when all i know about him is "lmao u r so funny."

no one wants a boyfriend who sends stupid text forwards. deflated, i wrote back "gross. don't forward this kind of shit to me. not funny," and in return received "i thought u mite c da humor in it." oh, i totally do. and if i'd seen him sending that to his homeboy in the hallway after eighth period chemistry i would've just rolled my eyes and chuckled or something. BUT WE'RE GROWN. and i don't introduce myself by making pussy jokes and cursing like a sailor; as far as he's concerned i'm a born again zealot who prefers my cell phone correspondence with a side of the holy spirit. needless to say, my replacement phone was fed exed to me today and i haven't heard a word. or even a pitifully mangled HALF of a word. and #2 still hasn't said a goddamned thing, and i don't care. i forget how depressing and exhausting and terrible this whole ridiculous process is.

it's either them doing something wrong or my saying something wrong or neither of us wanting to act like we care. this shit used to devastate me, but i'm so jaded these days i just throw up my hands and give the situation a big ol' SMH. honestly, though, i'm kind of relieved. i have the reassurance that someone somewhere finds me at least attractive enough to ask for my telephone number and send me a picture of some other bitch's titties. and let's be honest, the first thing i thought was, HOLY SHIT. NOW I HAVE TO GET A FUCKING PEDICURE. and shave regularly. clean up my fucking apartment. change the sheets more often. trim my fingernails. throw the five old dried ketchups sitting in the back of my refrigerator away. hide my hitachi magic wand. wash the dishes every time i use them. go to the gym more than once a week. learn how to share the remote again. pretend to laugh at someone else's jokes. explain that what i do on the internet is JUST JOKES. cater to an ego that isn't my own. interrupt my television-watching schedule. BLARF.

wat? is dat rude? not funny? i thought u wud c da humor in dat?!