attack of the killer ladybrain.

it's finally obvious to me that i need to go ahead and put a down payment on a goddamned lobotomy. is anyone still doing those? a shady-ass "neurosurgeon" in russia or some shit? because i spent five whole minutes yesterday morning (think about five minutes, think about how long that shit is in real time, especially when you've already wasted so many other minutes nicking your calves with a razor and digging through your disorganized drawers in a fruitless search for one of the two bras you own that is fit for another human's eyeballs and flossing your teeth because somehow that matters? you've already missed one train and are desperately close to missing the next two if you don't hurry the fuck up and get a coat and mittens on) trying to decide whether or not it is totally motherfucking presumptuous to put a pair of pajama pants in my overnight whore bag for a dude who later informed me that he'd double-booked an evening during which we'd scheduled both dinner and naked relations. OH, DUMMY. YOU LOSE AGAIN.

silly rabbit, sleepovers ain't for tricks! yet again i find myself in the utterly hilarious and 100% unenviable position of having been betrayed by this bitch that i for the life of me cannot seem to get the fuck out of my head, this massive idiot who has managed to lodge herself snugly between my parietal and occipital lobes, dictating every ridiculous thought, dangerous word, and potentially humiliating deed since, well, i'm not sure when ladybrain fully develops. the day you get your first menstrual period? yeah, let's say that. sounds accurate to me. stupid womanthoughts. so twice of late i have been stuck in dire need of an emergency eyeliner and purse-sized travel deodorant after having woken up in a bed that doesn't belong to me, and going to work in dirty underwear with dusty bedhead is fucking gross. but this time i'd planned ahead: i stood with one foot in the bathroom and the other in the closet trying to discern exactly how many beauty products i could get away with hauling around in my bag while still managing to look effortlessly cool and put together.

sometimes i fancy myself one of these low maintenance kind of women, and at first glance I TOTALLY AM. i don't shave my armpits and i have no problem using a night cream from the grocery store. come on, now. when compared to bitches with $300 dye jobs and shoes that cost more than my apartment? i'm downright manageable. but when taken at face value, what with all my face washes and hand creams and haircare junk and daily tweezing, my whole routine seems unequivocally, laboriously INVOLVED. it's not my fault that my face requires so many products! and that i have so many errant hairs! god, and that dumb shit took way longer than it should've. because 1 i need to look easy and carefree, right?! and i can't be having curling irons and full-sized bottles of exfoliator tumbling out of my bag on the goddamned bus and shit. plus, i don't want to dislocate my fucking shoulder dragging around nine outfit changes or whatever, and 2 i'm totally the kind of asshole who would pack an overnight bag full of nail polish and acne gel and forget to bring A FUCKING SHIRT.

santa's list-making ain't got shit on me, as i made a quick one of my essentials (always vagina wipes, some hippie deodorant that does absolutely nothing to protect against the scent of livestock that inhabits my armpits after a twelve-hour work day, "daytime underwear") then upon checking that bitch twice discovered some glaring omissions (why on earth do i always forget to bring my fucking stomach drugs?!) and had to take some things out (extra socks, really samantha?!) to make room. so in addition to all of the regular shit i needlessly drag all over the city of chicago, kindles and ipods and chargers oh my!, i had a bunch of things that, if anyone bothered to look, would be a dead giveaway that OMG I'M ABOUT TO GET LAID LATER.

try as i might, the giant, estrogen-leaking vagina that sits atop my shoulders actively lobbying to ensure that i spend the rest of my life walking around looking like a goddamned simpleton is TOTALLY FUCKING WINNING. i've outsmarted her a few times, won a couple battles in the hard-fought war that is MAINTAINING MY SANITY WHILE TRYING TO BANG COOL DUDES, but for the most part this bitch absolutely refuses to play fair and leads me to the emotional slaughter every single fucking time. i used to get salty at men, but now i know the real culprit is this ignoramus in my head who interprets "that one time we had a nice dinner" as "sure, go ahead, take an extra toothbrush to just leave over there." (i DID NOT DO THAT, i promise, but that's the kind of shit this spiteful bitch says to get my ass caught up.) and don't you dare side-eye me. OR LAUGH. because you girls are all equipped with them, too. ladybrain is that bitch in your head who prompts you to make cookies for a dude you fucked ONE TIME. ladybrain urges you have "state of the union" relationship talks with a dude you met three weeks ago. ladybrain is responsible for 99% of your internet stalking. ladybrain is the reason you never turn the ringer off on your phone. ladybrain says "i know he didn't answer the last seven, but why don't you text him one more time?" ladybrain makes you forward his emails to every single one of your friends. pretty much every ridiculous thing you've ever done to embarrass yourself in front of some dude you like is a direct result of your ladybrain meddling with your rational thoughts.

once upon a time in a land that's probably really close to where you are right now, i dated this dim-witted piece of shit bonehead who was probably too old to not have more than one plate in his barren cupboard. he was maybe the second dude i'd been out with as a bonafied adult, and at the time i was super-green and had no fucking idea that 99.9% of dudes are scumbag liars. i'd met him at a house party my friend's boyfriend had thrown, and it was the kind of humiliating event during which i sat next to the makeshift dj table flipping through records while all of the other people who were dancing and comfortable in their own skins mingled and chugged beers and drunk-shouted into each other's faces. now, having had plenty of practice at this sort of thing during the entire tenure of my junior high and high school careers, i don't really have a problem being the quiet, sad bitch at the party. i mean, really. who the fuck cares? most of the time you see some bitch whooping and screaming at a fiesta that shit is an act to convince everyone in attendance that she's the life of the goddamned party. alcohol is a depressant, bitch. GO SIT THE FUCK DOWN WITH THAT.

anyway, toward the end of the party the aphrodisiac that is my morose self-isolation drew the attention of this asshole wearing sunglasses INDOORS and AT NIGHT. moth to a goddamned flame, baby. seriously, awesome dudes totally fucking love me. barf. i don't even remember what he said, i was just so flummoxed that he thought the hoodie i was wearing in the motherfucking summertime was attractive enough to warrant a second viewing that i gave him my number immediately. he called the next day, which i interpreted as "interested" when what it really was was "predatory." we had a date, i guess you could call it that?, on his living room floor, eating takeout chinese food and drinking honey brown while watching STATE PROPERTY. i'll give you a second to absorb that shit. my life = so dumb.

anyway, i had sex with him because i'm totally fucking retarded. and i'm not even the type who goes in for the cuddle right after a dude finishes seizuring on top of me. i swear to god, i really fucking don't. i scoot over to get to the cool spot before he does and try to remember where i last saw my fucking underwear. but this dude was SO TERRIFIED that i might get the wrong idea that he actually liked me enough to have a conversation that didn't involve the proper way to lick his fucking balls that he could barely chuck the rubber in the trash before he was like, "do you need me to walk you to your car?" i'm not fucking kidding, i had barely wiped this motherfucker's sweat off my goddamned clavicle before he was giving me the ol' HEAVE-HO. i hate awkward situations more than anything else, and even if someone hurts my feelings i don't need to sit there and talk it out, i'm really good at hustling into my clothes and getting the fuck outta dodge. seriously, i had my shoes on before he even said "car." i found my shit, went to the bathroom, tried to wash my hands with the tiny sliver of yellow dial melted into his sink, and waved goodbye before walking right out the door.

on the steps in the hallway i almost started crying, because even if you are a total fucking asshole that is not the way for another person to treat you. especially a person you just let pull your hair and slap you. but i willed myself to get it together until i got to my car, because no one wants to be that girl crying on the street with her fucking shirt on backward. i listened to see if he was going to at least come to the door and maybe apologize for being so abrupt, or throw a handful of cash after me because he had just treated me like a goddamned prostitute, but there wasn't a single footfall. i got outside and started to walk of shame (STRIDE OF PRIDE, ahem) the three stupid blocks between his apartment and the 1988 ford escort manual transmission hatchback i was driving at the time.

and then i heard his voice shouting behind me, and ladybrain said, "see? he cares for real!" and i turned around to watch that dude jogging toward me. "you forgot something!" he shouted breathlessly, and i held my bag open under the streetlight to try and figure out what i could have left behind. when he finally reached where i was standing he handed me a half-empty beer and wad of kleenex i'd left in the kitchen. wait, seriously? he brought me an old, flat beer and some used tissue? he hated me so fucking much that he didn't even want my refuse sitting in his garbage can?! i took them, without saying anything, and went to pour the beer in the gutter so that i could throw the bottle in someone's recycling bin on the way to the car. ladybrain sighed and said, "okay, you can cry now," AND I TOTALLY FUCKING DID. all burning hot tears and strings of snot in the middle of the sidewalk. and when i was finished and could see straight, i threw that fucking bottle through the windshield of his fancy car.

then i went home and had diarrhea, because GOOD LORD DOES CHINESE FOOD GIVE ME DIARRHEA. i'm not even kidding, dudes. every single time i eat that shit. i must be allergic to cat meat. anyway, it was that early experience that shaped the beginning of my understanding of what sex with dudes who don't care about you is like. because that wasn't the last time i slept with that asshole. oh no, we carried on for eight months or so? i'm stubborn in my idiocy. but i learned so many helpful things from him. like, did you know that you should never expect a man to call you prior to 9pm? or, that even if you've gone to dinner with one you cannot claim to be "seeing him?" that fidelity can't be expected unless he specifically tires of every single other vagina in the universe?

OH MAN, IT WAS LIKE REAL-LIFE PENIS SCHOOL. i learned more about banging sketchy dudes in that handful of months than i ever have since. i never saw his place in the daytime and he never saw any part of my life other than the outside of my apartment building the one time my clutch blew and i had to put the escort (fail) in the shop, and if he wanted me to blow him he was going to have to provide pick-up and drop-off service. and of course he did that because men are totally fucking shameless and would fuck your withered corpse through a hole in the body bag if they could figure out a way to distract the coroner for five minutes. dude didn't want to know about my soppy feelings and shit, and i learned not only to appreciate the brevity of a lightning-fast sexual interaction with a dude who often told me to "leave the engine running," but i became amazingly adept at putting on pants, gym shoes with complicated laces, and a bra with four motherfucking hooks IN THE DARK while NOT WEARING MY FUCKING GLASSES. seriously, all my buttons would be buttoned and everything. LIKE A BOSS.

are there some new booty call rules? when did the newsletter go out? i know i've been out of the game for a while, but isn't a foul still a foul no matter how long you've been watching from the sidelines? listen, as anyone who has ever seen me talk shit at the sex show can attest to, i'm not one of these "my body is a temple" broads who's too fancy for a fuck and run. I USED TO LEAVE MY CAR RUNNING, people. bitch has absolutely problem getting up and going home, for reals. but if dudes want to eat dinner and make jokes with you, how am i supposed to know that i won't be needing that ziploc full of hair gel that's leaking into my ipod right now?! i'm not used to this newfangled shit you kids are up to these days. like, you really talk to a dude in real life if he's just banging you? you can sit next to a dude in a movie theater. go to his place, jack him off, and then just get on your bike and pedal home?!

how did you figure that shit out? i am not the type to construct a boyfriend out of a handful of sexts or whatever, but i also am not used to having any sort of meaningful conversation with someone who only sees my face in the dark. i'm curious, do you sync up your google calendars and let each other know when you can pencil them in? god, banging in the new millenium is so CONFUSING. and it turns me into a sensitive puddle of YUCK. i am neither smart nor emotionally progressive enough to traverse these choppy waters on my own. throw a bitch a lifejacket, omg.

when i realized that NO I WOULD MOST CERTAINLY NOT BE NEEDING THOSE PAJAMA PANTS, ladybrain was like, "damn, stupid. i'm in shock. i totally fucked this one up for us. i'm so sorry. he has 'shit to do.' AFTER THIS. i mean, for real? wow, huh. okay, we've done this before. this is just like that scene in 'the glass menagerie' when laura gives jim that broken unicorn. you got this, gurl. now try to maintain your dignity while blindly searching for your socks and whatnot. that's right, get your ass out of this bed and find your goddamned glasses, and don't you dare pout. nevermind that your cell phone charger is totally mocking you from the cavernous depths of the inside of your bag. it's not his fault you've overstepped your boundaries, blame me. he's not mean, he's not an asshole, you're the worst. now let's pull ourselves together. did you wear socks? where on earth did you leave them?! being quiet is a dead giveaway, jerk, SAY SOME SHIT. fine then, be quiet and weird and ratchet up the tension around here. you better hope you and the extra band-aids you packed for the occasion haven't scared this young man off. how hard is it to put on a belt? the longer you take, the dumber you look. good girl, that's it, gather up all of your belongings and smile like you mean it. NICE JOB, SAM. you survived. now let's go sit miserably at the bar for a few hours. hey, i was just wondering, if he ever invites us over again, do you think we can maybe leave a bottle of shower gel?"

ladybrain, king of the monsters.