Wednesday, October 26, 2011

bitch, you need prozac.

issue five. i want more sneering on my magazine covers, please. for reals, can't we make some shit called, "bitches with attitudes weekly?" it would just be page after page of menstruating jerkholes who just got cheated on and dumped by a dude with fourteen dollars in his checking account who lives with fourteen roommates in a one bedroom apartment. i get tired of looking at bitches smiling through the pain. sometimes you just have to snarl at motherfuckers.

bitch, you need prozac. my hair just fucking fell out. i started taking new drugs for this rancid cadaver i call a body, and a week later i was pulling clumps out by the handful every time i took a goddamned shower. the top was normal? but underneath my scalp looked like fucking afghanistan. so i called my sister and asked her to come over and cut my hair because she's a total fucking asshole and i knew she'd make fun of me and not let me get away with whining too much, and she most certainly DID NOT. she called me "frankenscalp" and gave me shit for not making the bed, and then i didn't feel so bad about having visible head skin. cara emailed me a bunch of links to speed dating events she wants to "uglyfriend" me to (this again?) and i didn't even click them. i just wrote back NO HAIR NOT ATTRACTIVE REFUSE TO LEAVE THE HOUSE, and resumed my etsy shopping for adorable skull caps. knit me some, plz. anyway, this bitch emailed back some hippie remedies and juice fasts and other shit i am totally not going to do that is supposed to make me happy the natural way, and i thought, "goddamn, i need some friends who get me."

once i was at the GI doctor, this was very early in my treatment of this dreaded IBD, when i still had a shred of hope, and i had a list of questions laura had written for me to ask him about causes and treatments and shit. i am incredibly lazy when it comes to that sort of thing. i mean, this was like two weeks after he had just removed some of my small intestines THROUGH MY MOUTH, and after some shit like that it's really hard to care about anyfuckingthing. okay, so one of the things she'd written was "do probiotics help? are there any natural remedies?" this dude smiled politely at me while listening to this, and i could tell from the smirk beginning to appear on his face the answer was a resounding "NO." he was like, "i believe in medicine. you can eat a bunch of yogurt if you like, and if your stomach can tolerate the dairy and your GERD doesn't cause you to vomit all over the place, but i'm going to need you to take all twenty-seven pills i prescribed for you. IDIOT." well, he didn't call me an idiot, but that's how i fucking FELT.

i know there are lots of bitches who can drink tea and do yoga to improve their moods, but i'm not one of them. meditating is boring, and all i can think about is 1 what i'm missing on television and 2 how stupid i must look trying to goddamned MEDITATE. i have the least peaceful brain of any non-schizophrenic you've ever met. i'm either thinking about jokes i should write or shit i hate or shit i don't want to do or nasty shit to say to someone who pissed me off, and all that shit is a full-time mental occupation. plus, if you're calm you don't get to be an asshole, and i am going to cling to this bitter hatred until i drop dead. dead with a prolapsed rectum and a gut full of billions of live acidophilis or whatever.

i'm not one of these happy people. that line of text on my chest says, "i want no one else to succeed," and I TOTALLY FUCKING DON'T. really, i don't. if you're happier or more successful than i am, please rest assured that i hate you. at least a little bit. even if we're friends. i don't know how you kids do it. maybe you're healthy and in love and eating balanced meals and that's why you're smiling so goddamned much, but even when i try it just reads false. so i usually just keep bitching and scowling, lest i make anyone nervous with my cheerfulness. i am having such a tough time emotionally these days, and i can't pinpoint exactly why. seriously, i cried 142 times this week. ONCE WHILE WATCHING THE KARDASHIAN WEDDING. like, real tears! i'm obviously about to have a nervous breakdown.

PLUS, THE COSMO HAPPINESS QUIZ I JUST TOOK IS TOTALLY WRONG. i don't know, some of my friendships are fucking weird and i'm finding all this misery less and less hilarious, but if i SAY THAT it terrifies people. bitches don't want to listen to my shit when i'm not making them laugh, and i get that, but i have, like, THREE PEOPLE to talk to. and insurance that doesn't cover a fucking shrink. being bummed out is fucking lame, friends. which is why magazines need to come with rx pads and a DEA number. wouldn't that be so great?!

inappropriate crushes! gay men and unavailable dudes are my fucking kryptonite. gay men are perfect; well-mannered, appreciative of a nicely-cut blazer, complimentary to excess: PERFECT. and i know so many, plus i just keep meeting more. they all know exactly what the fuck to say, exactly when not to point out that there is a stripe of mustard on the collar of your blouse, exactly when to freshen your drink, exactly why you need to cry to them on the phone at 3:30 in the goddamned morning. homos are the best of both worlds: gentlemen who look sharp and open doors and smell fantastic, and ladies who will gossip about project runway and sing the soundtrack to "a star is born" and tell you the TRUTH about that questionable dress you just bought. (it makes your ass look weird, girlfriend.) it's virtually impossible not to fall in love with every single one of them. although i stopped hoping a loooooong time ago that i might be able to convinve one to change his mind. did you know they're born gay and that they can't just choose who they want to love? dang, neither did i!

angie is my good friend keely's lesbiwife, and she is the most perfect dude that ever lived. every time i hang out with them i think, "if keely has an unfortunate accident that i don't know anything about, i would totally figure out how to use a dental dam on angie." SHE'S AMAZING. i hung out with her a couple weeks ago eating chicken wings and watching football, and she paid for everything and doesn't talk too much and looks like she plays a mean shortstop on the softball field, and i was like, "i'd go gay for her." but she's taken. i think the appeal of people who already have some asshole warming up the other side of their beds is that they've already been fixed up and cleaned up and taught how to be nice and not be an asshole in public, and then they parade all those years of someone else's hard work past you and it's like, "goddamn it! why am i always late to the party?!"

i have been trying in vain SINCE CHILDHOOD to figure out how to properly deal with swooning over someone who could get me killed, and here is the best formula i could come up with: 1 either never speak to him EVER or 2 kill everyone he knows and leave him no other choice than to devote himself to you
. AM I RIGHT?! i read some fruity glamour article wherein some asshole advised this poor woman to write down all of the qualities she admired in some married  coworker she wanted to bang and try to find a dude with those qualities, but that's moist. and an awful lot of goddamned work. it's way easier to deprive yourself and churn out some really powerful heartsick poetry or to start poisoning bitches. i'm in if you hoes are. keely better watch herself around me.

fuck rachael ray. i made ONE RECIPE by this whiny bitch. some "single girl pasta" that is supposed to make a dude want to put it in your butt, and the sauce turned out runny and gross and i ended up with a fuckton of shallots i bought specifically to make that garbage and couldn't use for any goddamned thing else. and i know it wasn't my fucking fault. BECAUSE I CAN FUCKING READ.

i don't believe in this "i can't cook" nonsense. i don't cook, because i hate myself too much to invest forty-five minutes in a meal that only i am going to eat, but if i can lure some naive soul into my lair in the hopes of getting his pants off sometimes i'll reward his journey with a meal that i made with my own two hands. that bullshit pasta didn't get me any action AT ALL, but i have a recipe that i make for every dude i've banged since i found it in 2006. and i'm going to share it with you because i care about your vaginas so much.

PURCHASE: a pound of boneless, skinless chicken thighs (i don't believe in having sex with vegetarians), a quart of cream, a can of chicken broth, five medium zuccini, a decent-sized yellow onion, a package of blanched almonds, a bunch of fresh basil.

SHIT YOU SHOULD ALREADY HAVE IN YOUR HOUSE, YOU DIRTBAG: olive oil, coarse salt, coarse pepper, ground cinnamon, curry powder, rice; a big melamine bowl and a deep, heavy-bottomed [insert joke here] cast iron pan. or a wok, but i hate them.

FOREPLAY: 1 bite-size cut the chicken (dark meat tastes better, believe that), put it in the bowl, completely cover all pieces with an equal mix of cinnamon and curry powder, set aside; 2 chop onion (i do big chunks because I AM LAZY), dump it in the pan. pour some oil over, low heat, let them sweat. 3 slice zucchini while the onion is cooking, throw it in the pan when you're done, pour a little more oil over. FUCK MEASURING. if you have eyes, you can see what's too goddamned much. you want a slick pan, not an exxon spill. 4 let the whole thing soften up, 5-8 minutes?, but you still want some crunch. 5 throw in the chicken bits, a little more oil to coat, cook for a few minutes, stirring. 6 when they're whitish and bouncy, ie COOKED A LITTLE FUCKING BIT, pour in all of the cream and, like, half the broth; unless you want it soupier, then you can add more salt and pepper to taste, turn the heat up, let it boil, TURN THAT SHIT DOWN, cook twenty minutes or so until it reduces a little and is thicker 8 make your rice or quinoa or couscous while it cooks 9 when you've decided it's finished, or dude won't stop fucking pestering you with "is it done yet?", add the almonds; i like a LOT of almonds in it, but feel free to be conservative 10 serve, over grain, with some ripped-up fresh basil on top 11 be awesome, look like a rock star.

dude is going to fuck you after this. I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING. he's going to suck your toes and do all the sensitive shit you like. he will stare into your eyes and compliment your new weave and admire that three pounds you lost, and he might even get up and wash the dishes after he's finished with you in bed. then he's going to tell you that even his MAMA DON'T COOK LIKE THAT, and for two or three weeks, max, he's going to be awesome to you because you fed him and it was delicious. then he'll realize you're a one-trick pony and probably break up with you in a text message. but whatever, YOU'RE WELCOME.

your thighs touch? i don't know what you assholes are expecting from "lifestyle changes," but these jerks never tell you that drinking water and working out more just means that you'll probably be considering plastic surgery you're too fucking broke to get. i was at zumba next to this woman who was really DOING WORK, and during our one-minute break she panted, "stick with it, it works. i lost two hundred pounds." and at first i was like, "DAMN, GURL," then i noticed she was bundled up in a fucking sweatshirt. when i asked why she was wearing that hot ass shit she said, "i have so much loose skin. it's awful." i went right out and bought a package of thick-cut hickory smoked bacon. fuck, health. i mean, seriously?! I GOTTA WORRY ABOUT MY EXTRA SKIN?! this is too much.

let's be for real, at this point it's deck chairs off the goddamned titanic, but if i keep avoiding stinky cheese and meat with the skin on one of these days i might find that one of my parts comes with its own carrying case. gross, man. can't i just eat ice cream and die at thirty-five?!

plushies! my friends are the best. this picture of me dressed as the meanest fucking zebra you've ever seen outside of an african safari is from a non-halloween party my friends threw where they asked everyone to dress up like animals. i'm lazy and unimaginative, so i dug through my closet until i found a zebra-print sweater and then ordered these stupid ears and a tail from amazon. then i just wore regular goddamned clothes. seriously, one day people are going to stop inviting my surly ass to shit.

i'm always salty that magazines suggest "outfits" as a way to spice up an otherwise lackluster sex life. really, seeing this dude who didn't pay the gas bill and hasn't yet cleaned the motherfucking garage like i asked him to in a superman costume is going to make me forget i hate him for long enough to give him a handjob and let him see me in something other than a ratty sweatshirt? yeah, right. and i hate shopping for REGULAR clothes, let alone spending an afternoon getting trussed up in a sexy maid costume or a sexy cop costume or a sexy kitten costume and paying two hundred bucks for some shit that is just going to make me FEEL DUMB and serves no purpose other than to COME OFF is ridiculous. wake me up when i can get a sexy sewer inspector costume or a sexy roadkill cleaner costume or a sexy pig farmer costume. what, you don't want to see me sprawled across your bed dressed as a sexy avian vomitologist? the idea of making sweet love to a sexy monkey caretaker doesn't give you a boner? how about i just wear my normal work clothes and unbutton a couple extra buttons? I'M TOO TIRED FOR ALL THIS BULLSHIT.

that said, i might still have those zebra ears tucked away somewhere. so, um, if you're interested in that sort of thing...HOLLER.




welcome to my nightmare.