Thursday, April 28, 2011

booty call waiting.

a million years ago i was standing at the corner of 48th and drexel at two in the morning on a weeknight waiting for the bus or a cab or a serial killer looking for hitchhikers, whichever came first. it was a weeknight, in the summer. the street was totally dead save for the occasional car creeping along or stray cat skittering across the road. after forty minutes the bus finally pulled up, then after another twenty minutes it deposited me near the train that would then take me home. five minutes into the train ride an ominous-looking gentleman got on the empty car with me and sat in the seat across from mine. two stops later he said, "hello," and a stop after that he said, "i need you to give me everything in your handbag or i will cut your throat." i took a quick mental inventory of the contents of my purse: wallet, debit card, cell phone, house keys, studio keys, $97 cash, $200 worth of street pharmaceuticals, and a brand new bottle of helmut lang that i had just bought at nordstrom. unwilling to part with my money, my drugs, and MY FANCY COLOGNE, i decided to take my chances with this crazy fucking dude.

i tried to gauge the distance between myself and the button you push to talk to the train operator and decided that i could probably get to it and maybe only get sliced on the arm or whatever. but he looked pretty dirty, and i didn't want to risk him touching my cut and getting it infected. we were in the subway by that point, advancing on roosevelt, but i didn't think i could buy enough time to not get killed before we got to the stop. and then what? be trapped underground with some lunatic with a rusty blade?! YEAH RIGHT. so i stood up, acted like i was looking for my wallet, and then i maced him. once he was screaming and rolling on the floor i pushed the help button and the conductor stopped the train and the police came and blah blah blah. i finally left the police station around seven in the morning, and i called jeff to see if he wanted to get some pancakes. over those pancakes he asked if i was okay, and then he said, "what were you doing all the way down there at that time of night, asshole?" the answer, of course, is that i was trying to have sex with some stupid goddamned dude.

if you don't live in chicago, here's my stupid person explanation of how the city's grid works, because i don't know anything about maps and i'm not an urban planner: think of chicago as a football field. downtown and the loop are mid-field. i live at the back of the home team's end zone, way way back in the back, where the goal post is. my gentleman friend lived all the way at the other end of the field, just beyond the opposing team's goal post. in other words, a fuck of a long way to take public transportation just to get some dude to suck my toes. i mean, it's one thing if you can lie down on the back of one of those injury carts and be driven off the field, but coach told me i had to just suck it up and limp my ass to the locker room. blarf.

over those pancakes at the boystown ihop jeff and i made the booty call checklist that i keep folded up in my condom drawer to this day. i'm pretty lax when it comes to requirements for potential suitors, and heretofore had generally operated on a "no shirt, no shoes, no service" policy. listen, i don't have time to be running background checks on a dude or asking for a copy of his high school transcript. that shit is boring, and a dude who took honors biology could just as easily be a disappointing lay or steal my wallet during the night. but jeff, the same dude who got a blowie from a tranny in the bathroom at sinibar that one time, thought it might be smart for me to have some standards. awfully rich coming from him. anyway, the booty call rules look a little something like this:

1 no banging dudes who have mustaches only.
2 no banging dudes who live far away and don't drive.
3 no banging dumb dudes.
4 no banging dudes who say "convo" or "conversate."
5 no banging rappers.
6 no banging dudes with bad diction and improper pronunciation.
7 no banging dudes who don't work.
8 no banging herbal teas or philosophical cats.
9 no banging dudes with unironic braids.

what's hilarious to me about this stupid list is its apparent GLARING omissions. like it's okay to fuck a married dude with a personality disorder who only calls once every three weeks at two in the morning, but he better not have a mustache that is not connected to a goddamned beard. and yes, that is okay, in case you were wondering if you should call that one guy back. now you can. it's funny reading this in my 2005 handwriting on the back of a napkin, because every single one of these is still true today. have i had sex with a dumb dude with serious braids? YES. but i never claimed to be perfect, and sometimes a bitch has to pay off a debt or settle a bet and can't say, "ugh i know i owe you twenty dollars, man, but you just used conversate as a verb."

breakdown: first of all, mustaches are porny and gross when unaccompanied by some other form of facial hair. sorry sir, but you look like a newscaster from 1970 and i can't get hot for that. 2 is self-explanatory due to the safety hazards at risk on late-night public transport. i never used to require brainz, but dudes can never just shut the fuck up and GET OUT; they always want to hang around and try to get a glass of water or eat some cereal, and they can never manage to do so without engaging you in some stupid discourse about goddamned nothing. either that or they want to fucking CONVERSATE with you so you don't feel like a whore (i never mind that, just get out but whatever), and conversate isn't a word. it's converse, stupid, and all of that embarrassment could have been avoided if you would have just kept your shoes on like i told you and gotten the hell out.

omg RAPPERS. the absolute worst. they never know that they're wack, NEVER, and they're always sneaky trying to hide a burned cd of their "music" next to the toilet or on top of the refrigerator or in between your ass cheeks. you know, so you can "check my demo out later and request my shit on power 92. tell your friends, gurl. i'm finna blow UP." diction because i'm an elitist snob from the suburbs, of course. if a dude doesn't work he will eventually ask you for money, and my days of figuring out why you always have weed but need ten dollars for gas every time i fucking see you are OVER. herbal tea philosophers are never any fucking fun because they take themselves SO SERIOUSLY and will always try to "teach" you something. and that something will be boring. plus, they can never buy you anything, and that's lame. this is the type of bitch i am: when a dude is coming to my house i'll text him something like, "hey can you grab a bottle of advil, six cans of diet coke, a brita filter, and a box of swiffer wipes on your way?" because the sex will probably be weak, so i might as well get something out of it, right? and so should you. and he'll get whatever you want, because he hasn't banged you yet. ahahaha try to get a dude to run to walgreens after he pulls out. it will never happen. but rememeber, you have to make sure he's already in the car but NOT outside parking in front of your shit. especially if you live up by me. once they get a space, there's no "going back out." so have your grocery list at the ready the minute conan comes on and you get that, "hey what ru up 2 rite now?" text.

oh, and the braids. i don't mean dreadlocks, because dudes with dreads are typically much more forgiving about underarm hair, i mean grown ass men the same braids your little baby cousin has. the curlicued patterny braids or the modified adult male pigtail you sometimes see dudes sporting. essentially anything that makes you say, "now where could he work with THAT?" so feel free to substitute whatever makes that thought cross your pretty little mind, eg "where can he possibly work missing those front teeth?" or "what kind of reputable place would hire a man with a mullet?" the answer is "no place you'd ever cop to fucking a dude who worked there."

this all comes up because i was recently presented with the opportunity to hang out with (wink wink) this dude again. imagine that, a peach like this dude who couldn't even walk me to the bus stop is still single! who would have thought?! meh, i sort of feel like banging someone you used to bang is like eating a sandwich you've left out since last tuesday. you doubt that it has improved with time, and now it's likely to be crawling with bugs and germs and babymamas that are going to make you seriously sick. i have a hard time justifying it, even to myself, and i have excruciatingly low standards. i've hustled backward in the past, and every single time it turned out exactly the way it had the first. but to be fair to my vagina i entertained the offer and asked him to send me an updated resume. in six years he managed to fail at marriage, TWICE, and had double the number of children he'd had when we were last hooking up. and still no car.

i had drinks with jeff the other night so we could map out our summer concert lineup and talk shit about people, and i told him about booty call redux and his offer to start sticking his dick between my toes again. before i could even finish he was like, "mustache? braids? RAPPER?!" i pulled out my cell phone full of pictures dude had sent to try to sweeten the deal: blurry-ass shots of his nappy pubes and wilting boner, a  chest flex shot, and two "hey i'm smiling in the mirror" self-portraits.

"this is making you gay, isn't it?"

"possibly. so what are you thinking?"

"connected goatee, not (too) dumb, gainfully employed, and apparently he bought a house." for those of you keeping score, if his old place was at the opposite end zone, his new place is in the cheap seats BEHIND IT. those obstructed-view standing room only jams that are reserved for people who want to pay for the tickets with vouchers and food stamps. omg seriously SO FUCKING FAR. like a train and two buses far. too far to travel for some possibly terrible ass far. but i could always get a zip car? "what was our original deal? no one dude can break more than two of the rules? how lax can i be about that?!"

in the cab on the way home my fervent game of angry birds rio was interrupted three goddamned times by texts from this asshole, but as much as i was annoyed that my monkey killing was stalled it's nice to be on the receiving end of texts from a brutally hot dude. nothing major, just a whole lot of "damn it's been a long time" and "what have you been up to?" totally boring, but i sent very nice responses. you know "yes it has" and "nada," stuff like that, because i'm such a polite person (pffft) and didn't want to jump the gun and show my whole hand. i have to act bored and uninterested before i send ten texts in a row that shout COME OVER TO MY HOUSE RIGHT THIS MINUTE AND BANG ME. so pleasantries were exchanged from the loop to lake shore drive, and as soon as the cabbie rounded the curve past michigan my phone buzzed with this message: i'm rilly lookin forward to seeing you again, funny girl. i always loved talking to you. let's meet for dinner downtown next week, i just want to chill with you, kick some knowledge, and conversate.

:'(

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

you must be crazy.

my lawyer is getting married in a month. and here is why i'm excited: 1 it's faaaaancy, which means so many plates of delicious foods that won't be served church-picnic style with waiters and A TOP-SHELF OPEN BAR and 2 i feel like one of us should project the image of a stable, responsible person to the court, and everybody already knows that is NOT GOING TO BE ME. last time i had to go to court i was wearing a hoodie and orthopedic flip flops, and in hindsight the judge probably should have put my ass in jail, for that infraction ALONE.

contrary to all my hateratin', i loves me a nice wedding. nothing fills me more with glee than opening my mailbox to find a glossy nineteen-part wedding invitation. i love looking at them and touching the smooth heavy card stock. when lawyer's came i took it upstairs and summoned helen to sit next to me on the bed and watch as i ripped the envelope open like christmas wrapping paper and extracted all 1,863 pieces of tiny paper from inside. i swoon at all that shit: the foil, the font, that little sheer piece of paper that doesn't really do shit, their parents' names, the menu options (what the fuck does "vegetarian" mean?), the directions, the registry, the return envelope, the stamp on the return envelope, ALL OF IT. i have to admit i don't get as jazzed when my poor, bohemian friends get married; shoes-optional hippie potlucks aren't really my goddamned style, and i don't know where to find the compost unit or the 100% biodegradable bed linens you put on your fucking wishlist. don't you bitches need wine glasses?! DAMN. a few years ago jason and i went to a wedding that was so casual his friend suggested we bring A SIX-PACK OF BEER as a gift. i couldn't fucking get over it. i was all, "can't we at least buy them some expensive dishtowels? a tiffany cake server? a platinum gravy boat?!" it goes against every fiber of my being not to go to a wedding with a couple hundred dollars wrapped in a nice white box to give away to people who are mistakenly going to get two more of whatever it is i'm carrying. pffft.

anyway, lawyer called the other night to talk shit and listen to me drink an entire bottle of white wine, and he was telling me about his fiance and how he could care less about the wedding, he's just SO EXCITED to be this woman's husband. she's sweet and caring and smart and he just CANNOT WAIT to come home to her every night. dawww. all of the ice melted from around my cold, dead heart. that is such a nice fucking thing to say. and even though my knee-jerk reaction to everything romantic is to make childish retching noises and yell "MO-OIST!" i fucking DIDN'T. because i'm mature. see that is the shit you get jealous of: a rich, good-looking dude making $500 an hour to keep my punk ass legal swooning and frothing at the mouth about coming home to eat dry-ass pot roast with some regular broad. NOT KIDDING. i would seriously die to find someone who can't wait to rush home to a house i haven't cleaned to find me napping under the air conditioner with the cat before i got up to serve him plain corn tortillas and ketchup for dinner while we watch america's next top model. you're out there somewhere. COME FIND ME.

as soon as lawyer assured me that i can wear birkenstocks to the ceremony (oh shut up, MY FEET HURT), i hung up the phone and went to throw my wine bottle in the recycling and ran right into jeff who, despite the fact that there are cameras and security in my building, ALWAYS manages to get in without buzzing me first. sunday nights i like to watch celebrity apprentice and write stalker letters to basketball players i'm in love with, plus i had some of that new jimmy fallon ice cream and i wasn't trying to eat it with an audience. amazing treats are meant to be enjoyed alone and without interruption. come on now! that shit has potato chips in it! ben and jerry just don't taste as good when someone is watching you and talking to you and trying to wrestle the remote away from you. i'm sure there is a scientific study somewhere that backs up this assertion.

this dude was wearing a sharp suit and italian loafers, and i invited him to stand in the one corner of the room that isn't covered in cat hair and fetched him a glass of nothing from the kitchen. i haven't seen this stupid asshole since we went to that banging seminar and was all "why are you dressed so nicely? and where the fuck you been at?!" then his whole face lit up. "i'm seeing tracey again," he said, and i responded, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE."

tracey is crazy. not "let's do it with the lights on for a change" crazy, but "I WILL DESTROY YOUR CAR AND GET YOU FIRED FROM YOUR JOB AND DRIVE YOU TO COMMIT SUICIDE" crazy. when i first met jeff he and this bitch were on round one of their rollercoaster relationship, and he was like a beaten puppy: sad and cowering and shivering near her feet waiting for his next instructions. he didn't go anywhere or do anything without checking with her first, because if he didn't and she found out later she would burst into tears and sob and wail and accuse him of cheating and cut herself with razors and stop eating and take a handful of tylenol with a bottle of gin and leave psychotic voicemails and lengthy, detailed suicide notes: AMATEUR SHIT. but it fucking WORKED. every time they had a fight and broke up jeff would get ninety-five emails, each escalating in hysteria from the last, and with every i hate you or you're dead to me or i'm pregnant and going to abort the fetus that dude's resolve was whittled back down to nothing and he'd take her the fuck back.

i, of course, was incredulous. i'd watch this whole song and dance play out over and over from my front-row seat in the friend zone, scratching my head as to why a talented and successful dude was wasting his time with a bitch who lived in her parents' basement and was obviously OUT OF HER FUCKING MIND. she's got a nice ass and she wears super high heels, but in my estimation that doesn't make up for untreated bipolar disorder. this broad is a fucking basket case, and jeff couldn't keep his dick out of her. UNTIL. they'd already transitioned the relationship from serious dating to casually hooking up, which had surprised the shit out of me considering he couldn't have lunch with his goddamned grandmother without tracey freaking the fuck out, when jeff decided that maybe she should take a seat next to me in the platonic section of his life's arena. she wasn't performing as well as he'd hoped in her new role as "occasional booty call." she was calling every night and expecting him to have dinner with her parents once a week then pouting when he didn't show up and screaming when she called to ask why and looking for apartments near his and facebook stalking his friends; you know, girlfriend stuff.

he called her at the salon where she spent her days waxing vaginas and underarms (OF COURSE) the day after a major temper tantrum and told her their relationship was over. cold turkey. no more movie dates, no more phone calls, no more blow jobs in his car on his lunch break. THEY WERE DUNZO. he texted me to tell me the good news and my response was, "i hope you moved first." i knew that crazy bitch wasn't going to just pack up her cotton strips and alcohol swabs and go quietly. mister confident assured me that he'd been firm and put his foot down and that he was going to move on with his life. mm hmm. we'll see about that. tracey broke into his apartment two weeks later. her insane ass didn't take anything, i don't think, she just slept in his bed and left a photo album filled with cut-up pictures of the two of them and left a ten-page handwritten love letter on the kitchen counter next to a half-eaten cheeseburger. frightening. i would never know if someone did that to me, because my bed is rarely made and i REFUSE to take pictures with anyone i might be having sex with. also, i set booby traps around my apartment and helen is trained with a rifle. don't even try it.

goddamn it, i'm afraid to breathe too loud around a dude lest i get dumped and kicked out on my ass, LET ALONE cut up pictures and prank call his mother and show up unexpectedly at his workplace and expect him to keep hanging around. i've been broken up with for being pro-choice and for having these complicated intestines, for not owning enough "real hip hop" and for drooling in the middle of the night. so how is it that some of us are expected to tiptoe around trying not to audibly fart while others of us can burn a dude's house to the ground and be rewarded with a marriage proposal? are the rumors true? ARE CRAZY BITCHES REALLY BETTER IN BED?!

maybe it's because i'm lazy in the sack, but no naked good time would be worth even the tiniest bit of emotional exasperation heaped on me by some hot lady or stupid dude. the first time i got a phone call with a screaming, hysterical person on the other end i would cease communication with him entirely. not "call me after you've regrouped," but "if you ever call me again i will arrange for your execution." i guess i kinda sorta understand the appeal of chasing someone mysterious and elusive, but the idea that you'd want to keep running in circles around someone who rifles through your trash and sits outside your house with her engine running BAFFLES me. i know SO MANY DUDES who delight in regaling you with stories about the hoops some hot girl is forcing them to jump through for her enjoyment, and although i think an angel gets its wings every time a man has to subjugate himself to a woman, i can't help but think about how i can hardly get some asshole to help carry the groceries upstairs. IN THE ELEVATOR.

i might not be so irritated if men weren't such dirty liars. a couple months ago jeff ran to starbucks and left his laptop open in my apartment, and i took the liberty of helping myself to his okcupid profile. after snickering at his embellishments (helen was like, "6'2" MY BALLZ, pffft!"), i skimmed his about me section, which went something like this: "fun-loving athletic banker, love playing with my dogs and watching golf, want a girl who is super cute and drama free." then later, in looking for: "i hate drama and games, i need a sweet lady who is down to earth and loves quiet evenings at home." never before in the history of our friendship has this dude ever gone down on a girl who likes QUIET EVENINGS AT HOME. foaming at the mouth cokeheads filled with rage? YES. vapid models who've stolen his credit cards? ABSOLUTELY. suicide girls who crash his car? TOTALLY. sweet, grounded chicks who enjoy sitting on his couch watching sandra bullock movies and throwing around a kong? HELL FUCKING NO. what a little fibber.

i read through the craigslist personal ads everyday 1 because i have no life 2 because i have the vain hopes that i might find someone to pay me for telling jokes fully clothed (i can dream, can't i?) and 3 that's where you go on the internet to find true love, isn't it?!, and every day i read two dozen posts that include the phrase "i hate drama." all from dudes like jeff who want nothing more than a bitch who will pour gasoline on his breakfast cereal and make him compete with nineteen other dudes for her psychotic affection. why you gotta lie like that?! you don't want to eat dinner on the floor while watching arrested development dvds every night, you fools want action and excitement and cutlery flying through the air at your heads! so just ADMIT IT. regular bitches who call you once every few days are BORING. and women who aren't threatening to slash their wrists in your bathtub are a major YAWN. what's the point of trying to be lovely and normal when you're going to be passed up for the chick holding a printout of his text messages? so i'm throwing in the sane towel. time to let my cray cray out.

jeff tried to explain to me that he really thought things were going to work out this time and that tracey had totally changed in the two years they've been broken up, and whatever the fuck ever maybe he's right. maybe this time she won't shave his head while he sleeps or ship a box of fermented dog shit to his office with a valentine stuck to it. who the fuck even cares? i was too busy writing love letters in my own blood to send to people i have crushes on. CHECK YOUR INBOX.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

man, FUCK THAT DUDE.

this one is for my single ladies. and not the ones beyonce was singing to when she tried to disguise BEGGING FOR SOME DUDE TO NOTICE SHE'D MOVED ON FROM HIM as a female empowerment record, either. "you know where i went since you dumped me, asshole? i'm at the fucking club. i'm doing my own little thing, getting other brothers to notice me. too bad you didn't marry me so i wouldn't have to participate in this pointless, desperate charade. oh oh oh..." we're not dumb, gurrrrl. that song is a goddamned jam and everything, but a galvanizing anthem for the feminist movement it AIN'T.

listen. i've had relationships before. good ones, bad ones, short ones, long ones, chaste ones, kinky ones, right ones, wrong ones. i've dated tall dudes and short dudes; skinny dudes and fat dudes; old dudes and young dudes; smart dudes and dumb dudes; broke dudes and BALLERS. and never once have i ever, in the history of my vagina's history, rolled over in bed one morning to rest my unfocused eyes on the smelly, dirty, hairy hulk of human flesh lying next to me farting in my good sheets and digging his uncut toenails into my calf and drooling early-morning gingivitis onto my pillowcase and thought to myself, "you know what, you lucky thing? i bet [enter name of single friend] is TOTALLY FUCKING JEALOUS OF YOU."



GROSS. jealous is one of those nasty words idiots use to make themselves feel better about their otherwise mediocre situations, and i hate it. mostly because, whether or not it is true, JEALOUS is one of those accusations that, once hurled, it is very nearly impossible to disprove. seriously, it sticks. despite the fact that the allegation is almost ALWAYS untrue and that the unimaginative bitch spewing that lie is a filthy snatchbag of horribleness, it's hard to convince some bystanding third party that you aren't, in fact, JEALOUS AS HELL. it's like if i'm wearing a dress and you're wearing jeans and a t-shirt and i nudge my homie and say, "that bitch is jealous because i'm wearing this dress," and the first thing he thinks is "YEAH, SHE PROBABLY IS." nevermind that the dress i'm wearing doesn't fit and the girdle i have to wear beneath it cuts into my soft meat and that her jeans look totally normal and fine and great, now that i've planted the jealousy seed it's nearly impossible for the fucking thing not to take root and bloom.

so the tricky little grapevine snuck up on me and informed me a couple times in the past few days weeks months that what i suffer from is an acute case of the jealous. which is funny because i didn't even know that i was sick! it's just like chlamydia! don't you hate that? you're walking around all happy and oblivious, having not the faintest idea that some grody disease is festering beneath your skin until someone says, "hey girl, you probably should go to the fucking doctor." i mean, i felt a little scratchy in the throat, but i thought that was just some seasonal allergy nonsense. i had no fucking idea i'd been bitten by the jealousy bug. goddamn it, i don't wash my stupid hands enough. i should probably wear a hat when i go outside, and sanitize before rubbing my eyes after touching train rails and whatnot. is there a cure for this shit? any broad-spectrum antibiotics i can take?! how do the rest of you lonely, cock-blocking ass broads keep from coming down with the green flu? does haterade have antioxidants and shit?!

what's hilarious is that no one has ever accused me of something i might actually be jealous of, like how she can stay awake past eleven pm on a tuesday or her ability to expertly use chopsticks. jealous of your passport full of stamps? MAYBE. jealous of that dude you hate banging who never picks up his fucking dirty clothes? NEVER. being jealous because some bitch has a dude is like being jealous of a goddamned stomachache: i've had one before; and while what i did to get it might have been fun, once i'm actually stuck with it it kind of TOTALLY FUCKING SUCKS. if i knew one single woman who was marrying UP i might change my tune, but everyone i know is sucking the dick of a regular, broke-ass dude. show me a girl who relationshipped her way to some prime property, and i might show you my "damn, i'm jealous" face. the first time i heard "sam's just jealous because i have a man and she doesn't" i almost shit myself laughing. you have a boyfriend, i have a cat. we're even. helen keller does everything a dude does: eats my fucking food, does what the fuck she wants, leaves her shit everywhere, ruins all of my nice things, and never cleans up after her fucking self. she doesn't tell me what she's thinking, she rarely takes my feelings into account, she doesn't pay attention when i talk, and she only wants affection on her terms. SOUNDS LIKE I HAVE A GODDAMNED BOYFRIEND. or, at least, it sounds like i have your goddamned boyfriend.

i know a handful of motherfuckers throwing shade at MY ASS while scrolling through their boyfriends' text messages in the middle of the night trying to figure out whether or not those dudes are seeing someone else. i'm jealous of that, eh? IF YOU SAY SO. (and you totally have been saying so, to more than one of our mutual acquaintances.) you know what i don't have to do? wonder where my boyfriend is all day. wonder why my boyfriend didn't answer his cell phone. wonder why my boyfriend didn't answer his work phone. wonder why my boyfriend's facebook is private. wonder who my boyfriend is texting during dinner. which totally explains why i'm so jealous and bent out of shape all the time. all of this free time to read books and go to shows and cultivate personal interests can really get to a person.

is it really so impossible to believe that a single broad can be happy? is a relationship really the female holy grail?! would i like to be getting laid? maybe. like i've said before, i would much rather get the occasional email from some interested party who would like to fuck me, because actual sex is overrated and uninteresting. (which i bet you mean girls with boyfriends already know.) all my self-esteem is looking for is some validation. it makes me way happier to continue not waxing my asshole and wearing boring cotton underwear that go from my kneecaps to just below my chin. and, like i said, i've DONE THAT BEFORE. i've had someone who swore he loved me not answer my calls and fuck other girls the minute my back was turned and never pay me back the money he owed me and not keep his promises. i might own up to a little seething envy if i hadn't already done the honeymoon-stage thing. oh, wait, i get it. now that it's happening for YOU it's different. okay then.

and i LOVE love, so i hope that for everyone reading this shit it IS different. unless getting laid on the regular has somehow stricken you with vaginal amnesia and you start saying nasty things about your fucking ladyfriends just because you've got a dick in your box. a pox on you people; for YOU i want nothing more than wilting erections and maxed out libidos. i was told that someone said "it's always the jealous friend who messes everything up" in reference to ME, of all people, and on that i call BULLSHIT. even you happily coupled girls know a bitch or twelve who got a boyfriend or planned a wedding and all of a sudden started treating you like something she scraped off the bottom of her shoe. what is it about being boo'd up that makes some bitches act like they suddenly know some shit? last week you couldn't tie your shoes without help, bitch, but now that fear of dying alone forced you to settle for that dude who works at the gas station you think you can advise me on what i'm doing wrong in MY life? yeah fucking right. and i'm an easygoing person, mostly because if i had my druthers i'd never ever have to get out of bed EVER, but i don't hold anyone to strict friendship standards because i don't want them to do that to me, so i climb on in the backseat or slide myself over to the back burner and give her some space to enjoy her mancake. and it isn't hard, because the more time my lady loves spend with their men, the more goddamned interesting i seem in comparison whenever they finally come up for air.

i love when my homegirls get dudes or my lesbians pair up. everything in my goddamned apartment was put together 1 by someone else's man or 2 by a woman with both a vagina and a full beard. i'm not fucking kidding. i can't be changing light bulbs and putting ikea dressers together! which is why i need your man and his toolbelt to do that shit for me. i throw a goddamned party when my girlfriends get guyfriends, because hanging out with couples means they are probably going to PAY FOR MY DINNER. that $37 they're saving by living together can be used to comp my roast beef, and why the fuck would i ever get mad about THAT? i know that it's easy and comforting to think that i'm sitting alone spraying helen with axe and dressing her up in men's suits while drying my tears on a painting of your man i had commissioned, but really i'm thinking of a way to convince you to bring him over so i don't have to get on a ladder and try to change the fluorescent bulbs in my kitchen. ain't nobody making no voodoo dolls over here. i want you dudes together FOREVER. because i need someone to take my metal bed frame down to the dumpster.


you know why else i love your man? because you have to leave the club and go home to him. which means if i try to slide my number to that laz alonso lookalike drinking moscato (gross) at the bar, you can't do anything but go home and tell your MAN about it. mwahahahaha. and i would accuse you of being jealous of my sex and the city (pfffft) lifestyle, but then i'd think about how you could turn around and make fun of all the single-serving healthy choice meals gathering freezer burn next to the seven half-eaten pints of ben and jerry's in my icebox and i'd SHUT THE FUCK UP. and let's not act like i have restraint; those ice creams have all the chunks and gooey bits carved out of them. once all of the fudge pieces and peanut butter swirl is gone i have no use for them. don't act like it's just me.

1 why i'm not jealous of that dude you're banging: because he doesn't take you out. you've never seen him in the daytime. you don't TALK about anything. you don't know where he lives. you've never met any of his friends. you haven't seen the inside of his car. i like not having to take STD or pregnancy tests unless i feel like having a laugh. i like not having to figure out "if this is going anywhere." or pretending to be okay with "seeing other people." and i could get anonymously banged if i wanted, and so could any other broad reading this, so let's stop pretending like you're sitting on a magic vagina over there, ladies. okay? and i can supply my own orgasms, and i don't have to shove all my dirty laundry in the closet and hide ten bags of trash in the shower before i consult my vibrator. so get out of here with that noise about how good he is in bed.

also? I'M PROBABLY BANGING MY OWN DUMB DUDE. the difference, though, is that i understand which dudes you brag about and which ones you don't. which ones might want to be your boyfriend and which ones won't even commit to a restaurant, let alone a future. which ones meet your friends and which ones you forget about sometimes because they only call you sporadically. it's so embarrassing when some broad climbs up on that booty call high horse thinking it's a stallion. WE PEEPED THAT JACKASS, GURL. now go sit your ass down somewhere and stop thinking you're the only one who got her back blown out this morning.

2 why i'm not jealous of that dude you're dating: because everyone you know, and even people you don't know, wants to know "where your relationship is going." you can't have three dinners and a movie date with some dude before the postman, your yoga instructor, the checkout girl at walgreens, and the bitch who cut your hair that one time three years ago want to know exactly what stage you two have reached. do you like him? does he like you? are you exclusive? are you sure you're exclusive? has he taken down his okcupid profile? does his ex still call him? when are you moving in together? when are you getting a dog together? did he give you a set of keys to his car? are both names on the lease? is he the marrying type? has he bought a ring? is he THINKING about buying a ring? does he want kids? does he want kids with you?!

having a regular sex partner just leads everyone else on the planet to believe that they have a vested interest in your relationship, and i prefer to tell my business to the internet, thankyouverymuch. i can't think of anything worse than having to fill everyone in on the state of my union all the time. and bitches don't really care, they're just waiting for you to reveal something scandalous or terrible to make themselves feel better. MYSELF INCLUDED. i have not, ever, in the history of ever, repeated a nice story some girl told me about her boyfriend. because i don't care about surprise flowers at the office. i have, however, told everyone i could think of, including strangers on the street, about the dude who took a dump in your hair or the other one who got your sister pregnant. because i'm a big fan of cautionary tales. and the opposite of jealous.

3 why i'm not jealous of that dude you're marrying: because i know a lot of divorced bitches. and a lot of broke-ass couples. listen, i can be regular by myself. i would like to get married for better health insurance. or regular access to a decent car. i need someone i could roll over and borrow fifty dollars from who understands that when i say "borrow" i mean "i'm never giving this back to you." every time a bitch on a budget turns her nose up about my not having someone to file my taxes jointly with i just think, "well what did yours come with?" bad credit? a mountain of debt that you're now half responsible for? none for me, thanks. and i would rather be dead then tell some dude my ATM pin, let alone give him carte blanche with my money. i'm thrilled to pieces that you have to sit down at the kitchen table once a week with a shoebox of receipts and explain to a grown fucking man why having money to pay the electric bill is more important than upgrading his game console, but please wake me up when we get to that part that makes me feel bad about myself. maybe the noise from that bouncing check will be loud enough to do it.

i've never in my life said that i want to be married. which is why i was left scratching my noggin at the assertion i might not be anything but happy for someone who is. i have very specifically said that i'd like someone to count my pills and make sure i end up in the best nursing home, but that does NOT have to be a husband. as a matter of fact,  it's more likely that my care will actually be up to my standards if it isn't. i like my name. i like being able to tell a dude to kick rocks without having to take him to court to do so. "til death do us part" is a BIG COMMITMENT, man. and i'm not ready for that. am i impressed and happy that some of you are? YES. am i dying inside because i haven't yet had the opportunity to plan an overblown party i'm too broke to pay for? ABSOLUTELY NOT. i'm not ready to sign up for having some dude be my problem for THE REST OF MY LIFE. if i wanted someone to nag and yell at all the time i'd have a goddamned baby. and besides, most weddings are just a parade of everything you couldn't really afford to do, and i'd much rather stress myself out trying to save up the money to spend my summer on a boat in the bahamas instead of catered crab puffs and shrimp toast.

so for all you gorgeous girls braiding your armpit hair and leaving shit in the toilet for a day and masturbating while you stand at the kitchen sink, this is for you. keep enjoying your alone time and only having to look after your own socks. and make sure you put a nuvaring on it.