Wednesday, July 6, 2011

relax, white women.

issue two. i'm glad you kids loved this, because i would totally quit my fucking job if it meant i could fuck around doing this shit all goddamned day. i wonder what kind of health benefits come with designing fake magazines...? plus, none of my crushes likes me back and i took all my sexy internet shit down a month ago, so i don't have any slutty shit to write about. although, i am currently working on a love letter to a vagina, so i'll keep you posted on how that shit goes. i just have to run out and get a lowe's gift card to throw in there to seal the deal. oh, i'm kidding. but i have to figure out an approach other than telling dick jokes and cursing a lot. while that has a proven 50/50 success rate with mouth-breathing neanderthal dudes, women are more complicated. i guess. i mean, i could probably just write "hey girl, ice cream ice cream ice cream, FEELINGS" and be in the civil union line by the end of the work day. we'll see what i come up with. i can be pretty goddamned charming.

no, he doesn't love you. how come magazines are so afraid to say that shit? part of the reason i started posting "dear bitch" is because i found the advice doled out by these faceless panels of experts was always 100% CRAZY. like, they never tell women, never ever EVER, that maybe that dude just doesn't want to fucking bang us. they'll find a million fruity ways to say, "just suck it up and deal with his bad behavior," but they're never like, "bitch, throw in the goddamned towel. he's obviously going down on the nanny while you're at work." i think that's why the female universe went so fucking apeshit when "he's just not that into you" came out, because no one had ever told us that shit before. we're not goddamned idiots, we've just been conditioned by conventional media outlets to never even consider the possibility that no, this asshole really just doesn't give a shit about me. even though he smiled at me, even though he asked for my number, EVEN THOUGH HE SLEPT WITH ME.

because even when presented with glaringly obvious examples of NOT INTO YOU, magazines (and sometimes your delusional, lying-ass frenemies) will be all, "it doesn't matter that he put all your shit out on the curb in the middle of the night! he still really loves you, HE'S JUST SCARED!" and then you believe that shit and make an asshole out of yourself by continuing to cry into this motherfucker's voicemail at all hours of the night. how many "scared" people do you know for real? i know some assholes who either want to "cheat" or "not be tied down," but "fear of being in a relationship" is some shit that a liar made up so he could fuck two people at the same time. and we keep buying it, swooning over his made-up sensitivity and deep well of emotional pain. BLARF. not that i haven't ever hung on to the corpse of a relationship a month or twelve past its expiration date, but only when it isn't obvious that i'm being totally dumb. and i am a perfect example that sometimes you just need to hear someone else say what an idiot you are to really get it, and in this magazine i'd do just that. no promising that "he'll marry you as soon as he's sewn his oats" or "sometimes it just takes men longer to settle down." i'm going to tell you to dump him and eat more and hate fuck your old boyfriend who still calls once a month to see if you're over him yet. (you aren't.)

you know horoscopes are a joke, right? let's get something out of the way: i went to a psychic, and i believe that the personality assessments of sun signs are totally spot fucking on. don't you know a moody and emotional cancer? a self-centered, egomanical leo? isn't there a virgo in your life cleaning up every speck of dust and balancing her checkbook down to the penny? or a bossy taurus bossing your ass around all day?! WE ALL DO. that said, the monthly horoscope overviews need to give me a fucking break. they are generally so broad and generalized that they could apply to any human being on earth ("your ruling planet uranus will be retrograde (backward) from july 9th-december 9th, causing communication to go awry at times; also, you will breathe oxygen and blink several times and possibly scratch your butt"), or they're so specific that you can't possibly believe they aren't 100% FACT. "seriously? i'm going to meet the man of my dreams on july 27th at 5:37pm in the parking lot of the dominick's on broadway?! HOT DAMN." cut to every aquarian dummy in the chicago metro area circling the grocery store in her mid-sized honda like buzzards on fresh carrion. you can't set your watch by that shit. you just have to wait and see what happens like the rest of us, while avoiding all pisces because, seriously, they are THE WORST. just kidding.

cake+beer+cake. that picture is from my twenty-ninth birthday, taken at the party before the nightclub party that we had at my friend andy's house, because i am such a spoiled brat that i require the celebration of my birth to take an entire fucking day out of everyone's lives. and every year we eat a shit ton of cake washed down with many many bottles of beer, and there is usually heavy vomiting sometime later in the evening. it's a goddamned blast. you guys should come next year. anyway, i was reading this recipe in a magazine last week entitled "not fried chicken and guilt-free fries" or something like that, where they basically try to convince you that homemade cornflake shake n' bake is totally delicious and baked slices of sweet potato are the same thing as a basket of five guys cajun-style if you just close your eyes and hold your nose and WISH REALLY HARD while you eat it, but that made me wonder, "how come they never have recipes for bitches who JUST DON'T GIVE A FUCK ANYMORE?"

i still care, because bitches keep tagging pictures of my goddamned skin beard all the fucking time, but not always. sometimes i just want to eat a stick of butter dipped in salt or whatever. i know it's against god to advise you to have a smoke when you're under a looming deadline at the office or go home with a hooker when you're feeling terribly lonely, but would it be such a goddamned problem to toss a recipe for cookie dough brownie cheesy macaroni powdered doughnut pizza tacos into the mix every now and then?! i know everybody's DYYYYING to try out the latest seasoned water and blackened celery recipe the newest winner of top chef designed to help you feel less bloated, but what about the days you just want to lie around in yoga pants feeling like a carmelized side of ham? sorry, elle, but i don't get craving for roasted pine cones with brussels sprouts tagine. i need to know how to make candy corn stew and ice cream loaf. because really i don't give a shit anymore.

OMG wrinkles. white women are STRESSED THE FUCK OUT. most black people don't care if you eat a triple cheeseburger for breakfast or ask for an entire blueberry pie to accompany your afternoon diet coke, but that's because being out of shape is woven into our cultural fabric, much like talking loudly on a cellular phone while riding public transportation. you can have sex with one of us and still order the cheese fries; AND GET DESSERT. my heart breaks for white ladies every time i flip through the pages of glamour and shit: these popped collars want you waxed, tanned, six-packed, big-breasted, and 75 goddamned pounds. WHUT? your hair can't be too frizzy or too curly. or too straight. or too short. too long. too grey. too artificially colored. too overprocessed. too natural. holy fucking shit, WHAT ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO FUCKING LOOK LIKE?!

oh man, television and the rags perpetuate this shit NONSTOP, last weekend i was watching a real housewives marathon on bravo (oh, shut up) and watched the same neutrogena wrinkle commercial (you know which one) four goddamned times in one episode! it's like cosmetological terrorism, and the beauty industry has declared a jihad against white women's faces, complete with wrinkle drones and saggy neck IEDs. goddamn you broads have it tough. it's a good thing you've got manifest destiny on your side, because your thin lips and crow's feet don't stand a chance out here if magazines have anything to say about it. the insane thing is that i've never noticed the depth of the wrinkles on anyone fewer than eighty fucking years old; what i DO notice is that tight, shiny plastic surgery skin that looks all preternaturally robotic. also, all someone has to do is look from your twenty-two year old's face to your septuagenarian hands to really know what the fuck is up. why you getting so worked up, ho? just get old, already. thank horus that i'm black and that whatever emollient properties there are in bacon fat and chicken grease are keeping my skin supple and shit. watermelon juice has antioxidants, right?

i am thirty-one years old, and last week i purchased my very first skin care product "for mature skin." and i seriously only did it because the little queen who was hawkishly following me around sephora rolled his eyes and was like, "bitch, you don't EXFOLIATE?!" so fucking loud that i just put every jar i could carry into my goddamned basket while i flushed with shame and searched for my debit card. who gives a shit about wrinkles? you can't prevent them and they don't go the fuck away once they've crashed your youthful face party, so why worry about that shit? have a sugary juice drink (water is for jerks) and use a face scrub every few days and hope for the fucking best. i feel like lesbians are the only ones who need to be cognizant of this shit, because the only creatures who notice premature sun spots or whatever you girls are so lathered up about are WOMEN. goddamn it. on second thought, i'm glad i bought that expensive-ass cream.

textiquette. does anyone get this right? okay, so my dude strategy is to only respond to texts and never initiate them unless i'm guaranteed a response, because i don't like 1 feeling stupid or 2 getting whiplash from continually checking my phone. so here's what i've learned the hard way, so you no longer have to: "lol" means "leave me the fuck alone;"  ":)" means "stop bothering me, i'm playing call of duty;" and "sorry, i've been busy" means "hey bitch, i'm fucking your sister." i always get the clue way too fucking late, after i've already left half a dozen pointless voicemails and gotten carpal tunnel from the millions of text messages i've sent, so take it from this total fucking idiot that maybe you should put the phone down sometime just to see how much it rings on its own. i've spent the last two years doing that shit, and it is DEPRESSING. but at least my feelings aren't hurt, and now that i have a smart phone i can totally watch porn and play angry birds, so it doesn't fucking matter if no one i'm secretly in love with ever texts me back. i'm busy downloading the new CTA app to see if my train is on time. TAKE THAT, assholes.