Wednesday, July 27, 2011

dealbreakers!

issue three. the war on women continues, friends. undaunted by our counterattack, the enemy has added two new pieces of heavy-duty artillery to its arsenal: a deodorant whose primary function is to make your armpits more attractive (wtf?) and individual vaginal cleansing wipes that you are supposed to carry around in your purse, just in case you need to freshen up before your mid-commute cervical exam. please tell me you've seen these new scolding, ethnically-diverse vagina commercials some genius (read: heterosexual male) came up with to shame women into believing that we aren't taking proper care of our vaginas. "hail to the v!" this human hand masquerading as a talking vagina proclaims, masking this self-hatred propaganda as female empowerment, right after she insinuates that you and the flies circling your smelly ladyparts are TOTALLY GROSSING HER OUT. i've always thought this was the silliest fucking thing a bitch could ever be worried about, because it's the one thing you have the absolute least control over. there's nothing you can eat, no futuristic panties you can wear, no not a goddamned thing that can change the way your "vertical smile" (another gem from the commercial) smells after a long day of chasing after babies and sitting through board meetings and slamming three cocktails during happy hour. are there any of you who've been thrown out of bed for smelling too much like a real human being with sweat glands and vaginal bacteria? yeah, neither have i.

the pretty armpit thing is another head-scratcher. seriously, who among you has ever been brought to tears by what your ARMPITS look like?! so they don't come right out and call your armpits ugly, but everyone knows that's the subtext. i thought skin grafts and laser hair removal were the only real hope for the five inch circle of scorched earth i go to great lengths to keep concealed under my arms, but you mean to tell me that after only five days of using dove go sleeveless that tough elephant bacon hidden beneath my cardigan is going to be softer, smoother, and ready to reveal?! hot damn. HELLO, SUMMER.

dealbreakers. magazines always know why you just got dumped, and if you'd only listened to them you'd probably be married by now, you fucking dummy. if only you hadn't cut your long hair, or voiced your opinion, or embellished your sex skills, or asked him not to wear shorts to your sister's wedding, or gotten wasted at his office party, YOU WOULD BE IN A SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP. or at least something closely resembling one. i don't even know what they're talking about sometimes, shit like "how to flirt with him without being too obviously flirtatious because men hate that but they do like a forward, flirty girl." WHAT?! someone please tell me what that means; i can't decipher it. so i'm supposed to act like i want to have sex with this dude, but i'm not supposed to act like i really want to have sex with this dude or else he'll get mad and not want to have sex with ME? it's so confusing, and i'm too dumb to figure it out. dealbreakers i understand: hitting, kicking, punching, karate chopping, non-sexy biting, non-sexy choking, lying, cheating, stealing, leaving the toilet seat up more than once, bad grammar, not liking tacos, smoking indoors, TEXT PORN, and eating the last pint of chubby hubby when he KNOWS i was saving that shit to eat during the law and order marathon on sunday. dealbreakers i do not understand: pretty much anything else. and i don't mean, "i have no idea why you wouldn't want to sleep with that heavyset girl," i mean, "i don't know how it is at all possible to prepare for someone else's idiosyncrasies." and it's misleading to pretend you can. i think we all need to just write a list titled "shit i would dump you for," and as soon as you're feeling serious about someone you should go to a nice dinner and trade lists. no more than ten things, so shit don't get crazy, and if i think i can adhere to yours, and you to mine, then BAM. relationshipped. um, or not.

are your eyelashes too fat?! HOORAY FOR HEALTH SCARES. i thought i was feeling pretty good until i walked into the goddamned newsstand. could your constant texting be causing finger cancer?! could your pantiliners lead to vaginal tentanus?! how dangerous are the carcinogens in your breakfast cereal?! is that terrifying birthmark on your lower back a sign of the plague?!?!!?! HELP ME. every summer i get whipped into hysteria, convinced that the bazillion moles covering my body, most of which i was born with, are all infected, cancerous barnacles just waiting to leech their way into my vital organs and rob me of my boring life. i sit in the bathroom with a copy of glamour (or self, or cosmo, whatevs) and a magnifying mirror, trying to determine whether the spots, most of them the size of a pin prick, have grown in size or changed in diameter. and in the fall i'm laid out on the bed, one arm wrapped around the back of my head, the other trying to feel my breasts for lumps as i strain to read the tiny magazine print detailing eactly how one must conduct this in-depth gynecological exam. and, of course, by the end of it all i'm hyperventilating because all of my moles are obviously festering boils full of disease. and my boobs are ONE GIANT LUMP of imminent death. not that i ever do anything about it, of course. i self-diagnose my cancer, along with my depression and bacterial vaginosis and latent anorexia, then i forget about it all until next month, when i realize i'm not just tired from working all day, THE MALIGNANT TUMOR IN MY HEAD IS OBVIOUSLY EATING MY BRAIN.

celebrity beards. i write this blog for women and gay men. and lesbians, my favorite, who are like an amazingly wonderful and intoxicating combination of a gay man and a straight woman. anyway, i've gotten a couple salty-ass emails and comments from hetero dudes (i assume) who've obviously taken offense at my outing their idiocy on the internets, and to them i say: WOMEN AND GAY MEN, okay?! oh come on, sirs, i don't really mean that. but i do really mean that i love the homos the most, which is why i'd devote every centerfold to a man in sparkly booty shorts or a bearded lady riding a tractor. seriously though, all of the beauty and fashion columns would be courtesy of snippy gay men. i have two dozen gay boyfriends, and while they all remind how "FA-BU-LOUS, gurl" i am all the goddamned time, they're the first ones to be like, "no, boo, that dress doesn't work on someone with your hips. get the wrap dress like i told you." and somewhere in my crew of lesbians is a bitch who can write some DIY home renovation shit. and of course we'd dish about all of the obvious queens dancing on tiptoe through hollywood while married to fat broads they met in high school. i'm looking at you, hugh brosnan. and pierce jackman. ooh, SNAP.

photoshop lotion. if i could make a list of dream beauty products, photoshop lotion would be number one on that goddamned list. i stole the idea from my friend lena, because it is BRILLIANT, and 100% necessary. it would clear up all of your flaws and dark patches while imparting a healthy, sun-lit glow, plus there would be a built-in face crop tool to edit out all of your extra chins. i would also like a couple pairs of plastic surgery pants. these, of course, would slenderize all of your meaty bits and tighten them up, without the agony and duress of getting into, and keeping on, a spanx. and they'd come with a prescription for vicodin because, well, YOU KNOW. somehow somewhere we've got to get some real-life product reviews, and if that means i just have to buy every new thing and test it out for you then i guess that's what i'll have to do. i simply cannot read another lie about some $500 miracle neck cream and how it's worth not paying my rent to purchase. i want to know what really fucking works on a painful and oozing ingrown hair that makes it nearly impossible to walk across a room without falling. i need to know what conditioner is all hype, or smells like it's for a nine-year-old. i need to know whether or not i'm going to smell like a goat at the end of a work day, soap manufacturers! can you please tell me THAT?! you know what, i'm going to go get some of those cleansing wipes i was snatching about earlier and tell you whether or not my chemically-scented vagina understands just how much i care about her well-being. STAY TUNED.

cat ladies. listen. isn't it about time we abandoned this cruel and outdated stereotype? when will people who love adorable little kittens get the librarian treatment?! i mean, SERIOUSLY. prim know-it-alls with too-tight buns and cat-eyed glasses are sexy, but not a woman who is routinely startled by tumbleweeds of cat hair rolling across the floor in the middle of the night is NOT?! pffft. the stigma is really quite awful, and those of us who share our homes with a feline companion don't deserve to be maligned in this way. i understand that not everyone likes to pick cat hair out of his teeth (and off of his shirt, and pants, and shoes, and hair), but does that mean we all have to get a bad rap? i'm tired of pictures of happy couples smiling their toothpaste smiles as they walk dogs together at dusk! i don't want to see anymore images of men and women flirting (BUT NOT TOO MUCH) and exchanging numbers at the dog park! is there no place feline friends can gather and extol the virtures of our tiny hirsute children? their wily whiskers! their clicking claws! sigh. i know, i know. not sexy at all. but at least i'll have someone to eat my skin when i die alone in my apartment. so take that, dog jerks. CATS ARE SO SMART.

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?!

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

summer beauty tips for the gross and lazy.

this is my real sink. and i want you to know that because i'm so well-mannered and considerate i wiped down all of the toothpaste spots and lipstick marks with comet and picked off the dried splatters of hair gel before i stood in the bathtub and took this crystal clear cell phone picture, because YES MY BATHROOM IS SO SMALL THAT I HAVE TO STAND IN THE TUB TO TAKE A SINK PICTURE. any straight dudes can just go ahead and check out of this post, because there will be no talk of anal sex or derek jeter's stats or whatever it is you want to talk about. this is for the vaginas.

do you hoes read beauty blogs? i usually don't, because the internet is filled with so much porn and celebrity gossip that reading what some asshole has to say about coral lipstick this season is that last thing on my browser's mind, but last weekend i was sitting in the bed that i pushed right up next to the window unit so that it might blow frigid air directly onto my sweaty summer skin, scrolling through a million fashion and beauty blogs written by "real" women instead of venturing outside to have my face fried off by the sun's laser rays, and i was getting super stoked because there were so many that were like "summer beauty essentials!" and "hot weather makeup solutions!" because i need to know what regular kind of deodorant regular bitches sweat through the least and what pantiliners really keep a damp girl bone dry on a hot day. so imagine my surprise at the first blog i checked, whose NUMBER ONE tip for looking good in the heat was to carry one of those evian brumisateur EIGHTEEN DOLLAR CANS OF GODDAMNED WATER around all day and mist yourself to "keep your complexion looking fresh." wut. can you imagine my face?! first of all, what would you do if you were on a packed bus whose windows were dripping with condensation crammed next to a bitch who was gently spritzing herself with water? punch her in the face? hit her over the head with that goddamned can?!

all of the posts i read were similar in their frivolity, and it made me feel like a gross asshole. like everyone else on the internets is all, "thank god she told me about that eyebrow highlighting kit!" with their perfect skin that's as cool as a popsicle, while my foundation is a shade too light and congealed in my face creases like bacon fat where it's not migrating down the side of my neck. and google was no fucking help, either, as my search for "beauty tips for sweaty bitches who glisten like roasted pigs in the middle of august" yielded zero results. SERIOUSLY. by the time i get to the train every morning i already look like i spent the night on a goddamned rotisserie. where are the helpful tips for THAT?!

then, of course, after my fruitless search for alternatives to stuffing dish towels in my bra when the humidity is above 80%, i decided instead to just write my own shit and share it with everyone else who is totally lazy and dirty and would be trying to spray that evian face water on their tongues. most of these broads lined their products up all nicely, surrounded by cute towels and shit for them to professionally photograph, but i don't have anything cute. fuck cute, no one comes over to my place anyway. plus i took this picture with my phone. i mean, come on. also, i didn't even realize the clorox wipes and candle were still on the sink until it was too late. HOLY SHIT, i couldn't move the goddamned air freshener?! what an asshole. and after my artful product installation tipped the fuck over THREE STUPID TIMES i just threw it all in the fucking sink. i tried, though. i really did.

your stinky ass. no one ever writes about how your meat and cheese get all rotten and disgusting in this nasty weather. WELL LET ME BE THE FIRST. this is probably too honest for the internet, but poo and pee comes out of there, plus it's all dank and swampy and warm. let's be for real, your vagina smells. so i like having a lot of soap options because it makes me feel like royalty even though i don't waste time washing any of my extremities, and i like kiehls coriander liquid soap because it smells good and i like to have a reason to go into barneys because i can neither fit nor afford the clothing. plus there's one near this jamaican restaurant i'm into in lincoln park and "i'm out of soap" is as good an excuse to get curry goat as any. there's also some kiss my face shower gel there, but i really only bought that shit because being in whole foods makes me feel like i want to live better and get my life together and use earth-friendly products, but then i get home and remember that I REALLY DON'T. so i shave with that shit because it cost twelve dollars and i can't bear to throw it out. and i like the smell of itchy eyes and hayfever, so i always keep a bottle of lush grass handy. but my real jam is l'occitane verbena bar soap, which makes your vag smell good and clean even when you have your period, i'm not kidding. so go buy some of that. TRUST.

your disgusting armpits. first, a confession: i finally shaved under my arms. crazy, right?! and i'm not too proud to say that i did 3/4 of the work with a beard trimmer because my razor was all, "bitch, please." i've spent months cultivating that armpit foliage! i think hairy pits are earthy and sexy, and if you don't i guess i understand. no, i really don't. here's the thing, the alternative is nicked-up gross skin that is perpetually black-ish green with stubble. that's attractive?! NO, IT IS NOT. i write all the time about how much i love to put my face in an armpit and inhale a person's homegrown musk (hippies LOVE THAT SHIT), so it was with great sadness that i used a miniature lawn mower to cut down my overgrown hedges. but i had to, because i was sweating like some sort of barnyard animal every day and it occured to me that maybe my secret lemongrass mineral anti-perspirant might not be effective through my armfro. two days with pits like a bald fucking eagle and i am still the sweatiest bastard EVER, so there goes that theory. and i will never buy that clinical strength deodorant because 1 i don't want to admit that my odor-causing bacteria is next level disgusting and 2 NINE DOLLARS FOR ONE STICK OF DEODORANT IS CRAY. so you dudes can taste test deodorants and email me if there's anything that works without burning the armpits out of your goddamned shirt.

your horrifying thighs, legs, and feet. my biggest pet peeve, of course, was the refusal of these lovely ladies to acknowledge that bitches need to attack their grody hooves with power sanders right before they liberally sprinkle themselves from bra to calf with gold bond powder. they obviously get some sort of sick joy out of pretending that they don't produce enough chub rub friction to power a generator and they never get crusty white heels. and that's cool, jerks. my beat-the-heat tactic is to never wear pants, and my beat-the-incredibly-painful-raw-skin-plus-ingrown-hair-thigh-chafe tactic is in that little blue tube behind the candle, monistat fat girl cellulite gel. oh, that's not really what it's called, but let's pretend. FOR FUN. you buy it in the yeast infection aisle, which i am no longer embarrassed to be caught loitering in, and it's this clear jelly that dries to a powdery finish and keeps your touching thighs from smelling like cooked bacon when you wear a dress. GO GET YOU SOME.

professional pedicures cause me to develop stress diarrhea, so i try to limit myself to getting one only if i think i might be having sex. which i haven't been, so it isn't an issue. instead i use that big purple mr. pumice bar on the right to whittle my feet into being acceptable for public consumption. i'm not sure why those OPI bottles are there, because as much as i enjoy purchasing nail polish i hardly ever paint my nails. here's a trick for filthy, lethargic people who hate bending at the waist unless it's absolutely necessary: keep your toenails short and don't paint them. seriously, nothing looks gnarlier than chipped polish, so unless you're going to buy topcoat and apply three base layers and use fancy drying oil (essie to dry for pictured here) omg holy shit, I'M ALREADY TIRED. just the thought of crunching my guts to try not to slather "vodka and caviar" all over the side of my little piggies makes me want to die, let alone trying to keep it looking nice. that's for fancy people with flat stomachs or whatever.

here's something i love, though: EXFOLIATING. in addition to removing every possible layer of foot callous with that pumice bar, i keep, like, five jars of h20+ sea pure under my sink. it's greasy, and you'll definitely fall and nearly crack your skull open trying to use that oily, salty shit, but cheating death is TOTALLY WORTH IT. i love sloughing all my dead skin cells down the drain, and scrubs are the new fountain of youth for poor bitches who can't afford botox and chemical peels. lotion is lotion so who cares, but i like kiehls coriander because it smells like someone you'd want to snuggle up to, and i'm trying to use every tool at my disposal. it's desperate out here.

your flat, stringy hair and dried-out man hands. when i was sixteen i shaved off all my hair, and ever since then my natural curly hair has been in various stages of growing out and getting cut. so if you kinky-haired black girls want to know what i use i'll email you, but i have no universal tips other than i clarify my shit once a week with aveda shampure, and you probably should, too. the rest of the week i alternate between terax and nizoral, which is for bitches with yucky scalp drama. my hands are the worst, and i take terrible care of them, but i do keep a bar of lush sandstone in the soap dish to scrub all the nastiness off of them. it's also good on scaly knees and elbows which, if you're like me, you know way too much about.

your greasy face. i have the best real person skin you've ever seen in your life, and here are my tricks: tacos, carbonated beverages, lady gaga's "heavy metal lover" on blast at all times, occasionally sleeping with a face full of blush, and philosophy the microdelivery exfoliating wash. it's incredible. it's like slime mixed with sand, and you wash with it once a day (i use purity made simple for the second wash if i remember to before i go to bed) and use hope in a jar afterward, then your skin glows like a baby angel's ass and is as soft as a baby duck. AMAZING. and i'm not gonna front, i have to use clinique clarifying lotion (numbers 3 and 4) to soak up the exxon spill that is my t-zone, and for the rare occasion that i anticipate being in the sun for longer than 30 seconds, i have a bottle of kiehls facial moisturizer spf 15. that shit is fifty bucks, though, and for that amount of money it should be giving me orgasms or something, and it DON'T.

my most favorite face things, though, are smashbox primer (worth the money) and mac blush. i like big red doll cheeks, and i have a pallette full of mac blushes. devil, dolly mix, azalea, EVERYTHING. they are the brightest, and they won't sweat down your fucking face. i don't use eye makeup because it's impossible to make it look nice in this wretched heat, and if you want to know about false eyelashes and tweezers lip pencils imma have to refer you to one of my tranny pals. BUT i will say that i know you girls love lipglass and juicy tubes, but the best lip gloss on the market HANDS DOWN is dior addict. the shade here is called pink flash or something (i really don't know), and the shit is PERFECT. no gloppy semen mouth, no chunks of glitter crusted in the bow of your lip, no sticky super glue impossible to eat a sandwich effect. i hate talking to a bitch with lip gloss herpes all over her mouth. BLARF.

in cuntclusion, it's nearly impossible to be even marginally attractive when the weather feels like the inside of someone's mouth. you're sweating and radiating heat, you smell bad, your clothes are sticking awkwardly in your crevices, and you're probably breathing with your mouth open and wiping condensation from your upper lip every thirty seconds. i know everyone is obsessed with the idea of a hot and steamy summer romance, but do you really want to be having sex with a brand new person during the grossest season of the year? NO YOU DO NOT. so stop trying to be sexy, just do the bare minimum and strive for "presentable." and even then you'll fail, as we all do, but at least your vagina will smell like lemons. it's the little things.

speaking of hot summer beauty, read this sexy article about me:
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ourtown/2010/07/chicago_crush_samantha_irby.html

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.