way to bro me, dude.

a couple weeks ago i got shoulder-clapped. by a hot dude i kind of wanted to see without his pants on. my heart sank immediately. why, you wonder? well, according to merriam-webster, one of the definitions of the word clap is "to strike with the flat of the hand in a friendly way ." in other words, when a gentleman you might have intentions on banging does this to you, when he STRIKES YOU WITH THE FLAT OF HIS HAND IN A FRIENDLY WAY, it is instantly made clear that you are never ever ever in your life going to get that man spread out naked on your my little pony bedsheets. even if you push your boobs right up under your chin and tiptoe past him a hundred times in your trashiest slutbag hookersuit, homeboy is probably not going to tap that. well, he might. but his heart won't be in it. because you guys are officially buddies.

it's one thing when the girl gets to decide "we're just friends." i mean, DUH. some well-meaning dude with food in his beard and a tucked-in t-shirt wants to drive you to wal-mart and carry your groceries upstairs? why the hell not? this other homeboy with a bowl cut who smells like old soup doesn't mind picking up your bar tab and fronting the money for tickets to that concert you want to go to? WHY STOP HIM?! but it's different when some talking gorilla turns those fucking tables on YOU. dudes are supposed to want to have sex with everything, ALL THE TIME, so when one gives you the old "we're best pals, you can wear your eating pants in front of me" speech it's a major slap in the face. OR CLAP ON THE MOTHERFUCKING SHOULDER.

every woman, even the stinky gross ones with chin acne, wants to be seen by dudes as a sensual creature of mystery. except ladydudes, who want nothing more than to be seen as equals on the basketball court or the fastpitch softball diamond. the rest of us want a man to think we're made of magic and potpourri, and when it becomes clear that he thinks you're just another hairy pile of NORMAL it's such a fucking bummer. it's like, "why did i wear uncomfortable shoes for you?!" a broad at least will string a dude along for a little bit, letting him down easy, crushing his soul gently with each passing day of non-romantic air-conditioner installing and flat tire changing and makeup-free pizza gorging in your inside pants. until finally she breaks down and says something like, "we should probably get separate hotel rooms for that wedding i'm dragging you to in ohio," and it slowly dawns on him that THIS BITCH who ate up half his rent money last month and caused him to dislocate his left goddamned shoulder helping move her shit from one four story walk-up to another has NO INTENTION OF BANGING HIM, even though he SANDED and REFINISHED that antique dresser she made him PICK UP FROM THE HOUSE OF SOME SKETCHY CRAIGSLIST ASSHOLE who lives two hours away. and he can't be mad at anyone but himself for putting a down payment on a pipe dream.

i'm always late to the bro party, but i blame that shit on INSENSITIVE-ASS DUDES for being sneaky and manipulative liars. because bitches might let you caulk their bathtubs and replace the coolant in their carburators (is that how that works? giggle giggle I'M SUCH A GIRL giggle snort), but a DUDE will take you to a nice dinner and slow dance with you and massage the tension out of your neck while knowing full goddamned well he is never going to bend you over the back of the couch. NOT FAIR. they have no problem doing all sorts of intimate shit while working up the courage to ask if your BFF is seeing anybody at the moment. every good date i've ever had was with some jerkballs who said, "love hanging with you! next time we gotta find you a boyfriend!" while depositing my stunned ass standing onto the curb in front of my apartment. WHAT THE WHAT? i thought YOU were about to be my boyfriend! why on earth would i have shaved my legs for dinner with a FRIEND?!

tricky fucking bastards. my most memorable BRO FAIL was with this dude who is so good looking that one of my male friends recently remarked, "i would go gay for him" upon viewing his picture. now, that shit is 100% moist, but i understood what the fuck he meant. HE IS SO HOT. he found me on the facebooks a year ago after having read my blog, and i am not creeped out enough by shit like that because i read his email and was like, "yes, want. dangerous, don't care. killer, handsome. rape and disfigure, still don't care." we talked on the phone a couple times and then he asked me out to dinner, and i know it shouldn't matter, but life is just better when someone handsome wants to eat across the table from you. SORRY, FEMINISM, but that shit is true. he picked me up and took me to a fancy sushi place and knew all about sake (who the fuck knows about SAKE?!), and i said to myself, "self, you don't deserve this. you still pee in the shower, and you haven't done a sit-up since 1996. please don't fuck it up."

and i didn't! i kept all of my food in my mouth and i didn't let any of my dragon roll slip out of the chopsticks! i choked down those sake bombs without falling off my chair! i landed all of my fucking punch lines! i was killing it, as far as being amazing on a first date goes. PLUS I GOT TO STARE AT A HOT DUDE ALL NIGHT. so i was feeling really good, even though sushi sort of makes me want to swallow my own tongue, and then he wanted to get drinks after. omg, did i just die and go to heaven?! yes, yes i did. hold up, here's how awesome this shit REALLY was: he was playing little dragon in the car. dudes with good taste in music seriously could walk me on a fucking LEASH. nothing is better than someone who either 1 let's you pick everything on the radio or 2 already has everything awesome that you listen to. GIANT MUSCIAL BONER. no one with my history can believe in any sort of god who isn't a raging, vengeful, multi-tentacled alien full of hate, but that night i came pretty close.

it took two weeks for him to mention his "girlfriend." right when i was sucked all the way in. another difference between men and the ladies: if a girl has a boyfriend she can barely fucking introduce herself to you without name-dropping his dumb ass. "hi my name is amy nice to meet you i've heard a lot about you the weather sure is nice today my boyfriend loves this restaurant did you know i have a boyfriend his name is peter boyfriend." ALL IN ONE GODDAMNED BREATH. you practically have to pry it out of a dude. i'm not playing. he could be literally clearing the pantyhose and bobby pins and half-used lipsticks off the car seat when he comes to pick you up, and you'd still have to say, "are you dating someone, OR WHAT?"

and it was totally random. like, in some random conversation he was all, "my girlfriend blah blah blah. want to go out for cheeseburgers?" and i was FLOORED, because i never see shit like that coming. i'd never even considered it. how had he been spending so much time with me? is he dating the most doormatiest doormat in the history of cheap accent rugs?! or did he just show her my picture and say, "see? NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT." what a shitbag. i wasn't heartbroken, because i knew that if a dude like that was interested in me for real he was probably a cuckold or stricken with herpes or whatever, but i was surprised nonetheless. and that's the shitty thing about being bro'd: most of the time you never see it coming. and then you totally feel like a fucking asshole, especially if you tried to kiss him or casually rest your hand near his groin in a dark movie theater. and sometimes you don't even know when you've fucking been bro'd. alas, a little cheat sheet.

if a dude regularly asks you to hang out with him and a bunch of his male friends, bitch you just got bro'd. i know it's easy to think that maybe he's showing you off to his pals, but dudes who want to fuck you know that SO WILL EVERYONE ELSE. and no lion is going to drop a zebra carcass smack in the middle of a circle of hyenas. he's going to tear its heart out and then drag it to his hiding place. so if that guy is always inviting you to tailgate with his fraternity brothers, i'm sorry. THAT IS NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND.

if a dude has spent a lot of time with you despite the fact that he has a ladyfriend sulking at home, bitch you just got bro'd. he's not leaving, GURL. whatever you provide that that ho doesn't is good enough for him, and why rock the boat when he can have his cake and eat it, too? no matter how many late-night talks you have or candle lit meals you share, he's still going to go home and bang the shit out of that other broad. and then call you afterward to complain to you about how she's such a bitch and yelled at him about the electric bill. THAT IS SOMEONE ELSE'S BOYFRIEND.

if a dude is doing all the boyfriend stuff except putting it in your butt, bitch you just got bro'd. oh, i know. he's opening doors and pulling out chairs and helping you into your coat. believe me, I KNOW. romantic gestures up the butt: flowers on your birthday, bottles of jo malone at christmas, expensive dinners just because, all of which are followed by absolutely zero physical contact. if you're a month in and he's still not trying to get his dick sucked in the back of a cab, you might just need to put your match.com profile back up. maybe he isn't gay, and if not then either you are a hideous, fire-breathing monster or he was chemically castrated in prison. seriously, though, THAT DUDE PROBABLY HAS A BOYFRIEND.

this is by no means an exhaustive list. BUT it'll give you some shit to think about the next time you're about to wax your legs and deep condition your hair to go "hang out and watch tv" with some dude at his suggestion. stop it, no need to shake my hand for helping you poor little kittens out. JUST CLAP ME ON THE GODDAMNED SHOULDER.

bitch, you need prozac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOREPLAY: 1 bite-size cut the chicken (dark meat tastes better, believe that), put it in the bowl, completely cover all pieces with an equal mix of cinnamon and curry powder, set aside; 2 chop onion (i do big chunks because I AM LAZY), dump it in the pan. pour some oil over, low heat, let them sweat. 3 slice zucchini while the onion is cooking, throw it in the pan when you're done, pour a little more oil over. FUCK MEASURING. if you have eyes, you can see what's too goddamned much. you want a slick pan, not an exxon spill. 4 let the whole thing soften up, 5-8 minutes?, but you still want some crunch. 5 throw in the chicken bits, a little more oil to coat, cook for a few minutes, stirring. 6 when they're whitish and bouncy, ie COOKED A LITTLE FUCKING BIT, pour in all of the cream and, like, half the broth; unless you want it soupier, then you can add more 7  salt and pepper to taste, turn the heat up, let it boil, TURN THAT SHIT DOWN, cook twenty minutes or so until it reduces a little and is thicker 8 make your rice or quinoa or couscous while it cooks 9 when you've decided it's finished, or dude won't stop fucking pestering you with "is it done yet?", add the almonds; i like a LOT of almonds in it, but feel free to be conservative 10 serve, over grain, with some ripped-up fresh basil on top 11 be awesome, look like a rock star.

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

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

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

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

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

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

welcome to my nightmare.

let's bang chicks at weight watchers.

i could be a goddamned hostage negotiator. every sunday when i am doing my shopping for the week at 7-eleven, i don't have any motherfucking children so SHUT UP ASSHOLE, and i make my way around the store, i always set my basket (contents: sunday new york times and chicago tribune, several cans of diet coke, a package of charmin extra strong, rice, two cans of green beans, and maybe an apple from the refrigerated sandwich section if they don't look too busted; same shit, every fucking week) in front of the ice cream case and have some semblance of the following debate between the lazy pig side and the indulgent asshole sides of my brain: piggy "no, bitch, you can't even look at that shit. if you buy that peanut butter cup ice cream you are going to have to do five zumbas, two kickboxing classes, and lift weights four times this week." asshole "what if i just get it and don't eat it?" piggy "is that even possible?! you know you don't have that kind of willpower." asshole "okay, i'll buy it, eat three-quarters of it, then do three zumbas and a kickboxing." piggy "wrong. eat one serving size and do four zumbas and pilates." asshole "half the pint, three zumbas, and an aqua aerobics?!" piggy "DEAL." then i take it home, feel guilty about having zero resistance for creamy frozen treats, and hide it behind the lean cuisines in my freezer until i remember it's there and finish the entire thing standing over the kitchen sink.

today i am wearing pants that are six sizes smaller than the ones i was wearing six fucking weeks ago. so if you made fun of me for doing zumba you can get skull-fucked by a motherfucking grizzly bear, because that shit fucking WORKS. and i've already had bacon twice today, so rest assured that i am not starving myself. anorexia is for people who have never been poor, and i've stood in too many free hot lunch lines to ever pass up a goddamned sandwich. and i hate cocaine, so don't even think i'm doing it the chemical way. plus, that shit is expensive. i really do drag my ass to the ymca five or six times a week and try to follow your mom's feet because she really does have the choreography to "hey senora" totally memorized and i still can't get that hip swivel. every time i get paid i have to go get new pants, because wearing pants that are too big makes you look like a trash collector. this is what i'm learning from the internet when i'm not filling it with blog vomit: 1 everything you wear should be tight and have spandex and 2 push-up bras every day of the week. NO MATTER WHAT THE FUCK YOU LOOK LIKE. let's just be gross and sexy all the fucking time. tight jeans, dirty hippie feet, tits up on your clavicle. life's too goddamned short.

so me and my small pants were hanging at home a couple saturdays ago, and i was standing in my tiny bathroom waiting for the stanky veet i had dripped all over the place to eat through the hair on my legs (seriously, that shit is magical and i'm going to convert you girls from the razor, just NOT TODAY) when my phone rang. i only noticed because i was using it as a timer so that toxic shit wouldn't burn through the top two layers of my fucking skin and start incinerating vital organs and, because i was in a charitable mood, i answered. it was just dumb jeff, and he immediately launched into a long, convoluted story about a whole bunch of shit i don't give a shit about. i love, like, four dudes. i mean, love them enough to be interested in anything they are talking to me about. but even then, if it goes on a second too long, i start to get fucking irritated. "i have to remove my leg hair," i interrupted. "this is why i never answer the goddamned phone." and just as i was about to hang up on him, he asked, "would you come to my weight watchers meeting today?"

i paused, despite the fact that i could feel the thioglicolic acid starting to cook the tender meat on the back of my calf. "weight watchers is for girls," i said. at that moment, smelling my seared leg flesh, helen keller slipped into the bathroom with her knife and fork. "no, i am not going to anything like that. you don't even need to lose weight, you asshole." he fed me some bullshit story about trying to get a handle on his (nonexistent) overeating problem, pretending he had "trouble spots" on his body that could be trimmed a few inches. finally it dawned on me. "YOU ASSHOLE, YOU GO TO WEIGHT WATCHERS TO FUCK SAD FAT CHICKS."

let's start here. know a lot of zaftig broads who kick ass and fuck hella dudes and aren't sad at all. but these are also women who'd be able to spot some asshole with six pack abs trolling a room full of women with a cheesecake problem for the bottom-feeding scumbag he really is. i need to say this shit for the slow girls in the back of the class: if a dude doesn't want to have to use both hands to grab your goddamned ass that's totally cool; it's his fucking choice. but that doesn't make you a piece of shit. you hoist up your fucking saddlebags and go find some dude who thinks you're rad and doesn't mind wiping the sweat off your stomach flab when you switch sex positions, babydoll. don't be all down in the dumps and let opportunists and perverts take advantage of some low self-esteem you're too awesome to have. who is keeping the month count on my celibacy? where are we at now, eighteen months? and I DON'T GIVE A SHIT, because i vowed to stop fucking around with dudes who hate me and don't laugh at my goddamned jokes. let's all promise to only suck dicks who return our emails and think we're the most amazing people ever, okay?

that said, when jeff proposed i tag along to watch him dangle his grade-A beef in the middle of a pack of starving wolverines, all i could say was, "give me twenty minutes to get some pants on."

the meeting was held in this nondescript storefront in a strip mall whose other occupants were a dollar store, a "psychic," and a fried chicken joint. too perfect. jeff looked like he'd just stepped out of the pages of an express men catalog, and i was all, "you really get laid at these fucking things? YOU LOOK SO GAY." so we walked in and i laid eyes on a dude in a goddamned sweater vest and immediately regretted my decision to join him. before i could tell jeff i was going to bail to get my palm read and would meet up with him for some hot wings after the meeting, a stick-thin, incredibly pale woman accosted us at the door with a BIG FAKE SMILE pasted on her face. i hate that, when people smile at you with all of their teeth showing. it's unnerving. she said hello to jeff then turned to me and said, "you're new! what brings you in today?!"

i am one of THE MOST defensive people you will ever meet. i'm sensitive, i'm easily-provoked, i hate absolutely everything, and i scowl a lot. so of course i assumed this bitch was fucking with me. THIS DUDE RIGHT HERE is built like a goddamned adonis, yet i could easily be mistaken for early second trimester and you want to know what brings ME in?! jeff elbowed me in the kidney and i buckled at the knees before i could say something fucked up and rude. she was still standing there expectantly when i recovered, so i said, with a straight face, "well, i'm here because i've got dumps like a truck truck truck. and thighs like what what what. baby move your butt butt butt..." the light of recognition didn't turn on behind her vacant eyes, so i just looked into her blinding white teeth and said, "oh, i'm just here for the food. is it served buffet-style? i brought a bib."

we sat at the back of the room so that i would be less tempted to make a spectacle of myself and could scorn all of these people in relative private. i drank my DIET COKE and silently judged all of the terrible fashion choices in the room. the leader was one of these forty-something dudes who is chubby and soft in a feminine way, and that is a huge turnoff to me, so i couldn't focus on anything he was saying. i get hot for the middle-aged, but i couldn't stop thinking "i bet his mom bought those pants for him at kohl's" and kept getting confused about the new points system he was outlining because i he was wearing athletic socks with dress shoes. when he asked if there were questions my hand shot in the air. "how many points are in an entire pizza?" i asked.

all 1,286 chins in the room turned to glare at me. "you know, what happens if you just can't stop and you eat the whole thing? do i just add up twelve pizza slice points and not eat for three weeks?" THAT IS A REAL QUESTION. if you have one piece of pizza and can happily close the top of the box and put it in your refrigerator until the next day then maybe this is not the blog for you. BITCHES GOTTA EAT.

to his credit, he flipped through some of the papers on his lectern, ostensibly searching for an answer while i pretended to make notes on all of the introductory materials ol' wooden teeth had thrust upon me at the door. jeff moved his chair away from mine, apologizing with his eyes to all of the ladies holding their collective breath beneath their spanx. finally he gave up and told me to "email someone in corporate," which is a polite way of saying, "fuck you, bitch. do you think i gave up doughnuts to stand here sweating in front of these people while you ask questions that are beyond my scope of knowledge and blatantly goddamned ridiculous?!"

i don't know how other weight watchers meetings go, but at this one they do this thing that can only be described as FULLY-CLOTHED FOOD PORN. this woman up front in an awkwardly-fitting purple sweater dress (why do i remember these stupid details?) stood up and made a tearful confession of having eaten an entire cheesecake over the course of a day. okay, gurl. i get that. and i can't say shit, because 1 i understand how sometimes "just a sliver" and "another little tiny piece" often turn into "holy shit i ate the whole fucking thing and it's not even two o'clock" and 2 I HAVE TAKEN FOOD OUT OF THE GARBAGE BEFORE. and eaten it. everyone has a bottom. but i didn't cry about that shit, and especially not in front of a room full of people who don't fucking know me. i threw it up, tried to find my dignity at the bottome of whatever trough i'd left it in, and NEVER DID THAT SHIT AGAIN. i glanced around the room and saw other people tearing up. even the dudes. gross, man.

sweater vest, who bore a striking resemblance to carlton from "the fresh prince," told a story about demolishing a chocolate cake that was so sexual and erotic that i broke out in a nervous, titillated sweat. there were stories of food channel marathons, food hidden in glove compartments, strange binges, unhealthy obsessions with calorie counting, and one woman whose husband left after an argument about a SANDWICH. i didn't know whether to hug these people or run screaming for fear that close proximity to my succulent flesh might encourage one to take a bite out of my soft meat. man, i was uncomfortable. and i can adapt like a motherfucker, but still. these people were next fucking level. i could feel the stress diarrhea rumbling through my large intestine.

carlton made a beeline for me as soon as the meeting ended. "i know it can be difficult when you're new to the program," he said. "if you'd like to get together sometime i can help you figure out the point calculations? i'm an accountant, so i'm pretty good with numbers." maybe if i had a 1099 that needed filing that would be interesting to me, but aren't we talking about the made-up point value of soft-serve yogurt or whatever?

unless this dude thinks i'm retarded and CANNOT COUNT TO TWENTY-MOTHERFUCKING-SEVEN, he's obviously trying to schedule some sort of date. i couldn't get the image of him sticking his dick in a three-layer devil's food cake out of my fucking skull. "i hate healthy eating," i said, picturing him naked with chocolate frosting smeared on his little manboobs, flaccid penis bobbling around with moist cake crumbs clinging to it.

across the room jeff was obviously telling sandwich lady something HILARIOUS, because she was throwing her head back in that fake way people do that really means, "i would let you porn-star come on my face if you wanted to." god, i hate witnessing that stupid game bitches play when they're going to fuck each other. all that arm-touching and pretending someone stupid is interesting, BLARF. and i know you're thinking, "this hating-ass bitch is probably jealous." YOU ARE CORRECT. but not because i want to throw a bone jeff's way (i know all of that dude's dirty secrets, and i've seen him CRY BEFORE, and once you've crossed that bridge it's pretty much over, kittens), mostly because whenever there is fawning to be done, I WANT IT TO BE DONE OVER ME. i'm so great! i need some attention! just not by cakedudes who jerk off to old issues of saveur. carlton put his business card in my face, distracting me from the jeff and sandwich lady seduction dance. he glanced down at the picture of a healthy serving of green grapes that i'd turned into a dozen sets of cocks and balls and said, "call me if you ever need help figuring out a serving of pasta!" my life: SO DUMB.

when i've had enough i've had E-GODDAMNED-NOUGH, and i busted up that circle jerk of women surrounding jeff and told him to go get the fucking car. he handed me his phone, which was so hot from all of the frantic contact storage that i fucking JUMPED at its touch, and turned to hug the four women who didn't even care that he was going to bang and NEVER FUCKING CALL every single one of them. this asshole.

as i was waiting by the door for him to run across the parking lot purple dress came up to me and introduced herself. "i was so surprised to find out that you and that handsome man aren't a couple!" she lied. "seriously, girl, how could you let a fine ass piece of delicious chocolate like that slip through your fingers?!"

chocolate fine ass (pffft) pulled his car up and leaned on the horn like the giant cocksucker he is. i could see him drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. i could play nice and be a sweet little wingman but COME ON. fuck him! "that dude has herpes," i said solemnly. "you're better off fucking that cheesecake."

pubic hair is gross, apparently.

if you are unfortunate enough to have been born with a vagina, and you would like to attract the positive attention of a man, here is a list of what you absolutely must do in order to be considered desireable. some of them EVERY SINGLE DAY. hair must be dyed, cut, straightened, relaxed, colored, gently curled, flat ironed, softly waved, lightly tousled yet totally unfussy, cleaned, conditioned, deep conditioned, highlighted, lowlighted, and de-flaked. the whites of your eyes need to be as pure as the driven snow; eyebrows waxed and plucked and threaded, not so thick as to appear manly, yet not so fine that you could use them to slice deli meats;  creams and serums for the crows feet, laugh lines, dark circles, and bags; them skinny lashes need prescription eyelash grower, not to mention that scary-looking curler, lash glue with which to affix giant doll-like falsies, and nineteen coats of mascara; contact lenses, because glasses are for homely broads; besides, how else are we going to see your liquid-pencil liner, lash-to-brow base shadow, the lash-to-crease eyeliner shadow, and the brow arch highlighter shadow with those stupid specs on, poindexter?!

your skin is gross, so wash it. BUT NOT WITH SOAP, stupid! you need a gentle cleanser in the morning; a toner, a serum, an oil-free moisturizer, an eye cream, and a broad-spectrum UVA-UVB sunscreen during the day; an exfoliator, a toner, a serum, a free radical fighting moisturizer, undereye gel, a wrinkle cream, some antioxidant shit, something with peptides, and another thing to regenerate cell turnover while you sleep. when you get up you need to do a tightening mask, then a moisturizing masque, then a deep pore-cleansing MASK, then a detoxifying MASQUE. oh shit, you need to use zit cream, and acne wash, and blemish gel, and pimple solution. we gotta get you a primer. and a liquid foundation. and a loose powder. and some pressed powder. and how about some blot powder? a pore corrector? a line refiner? dang, gurl, your shitty face is a PROBLEM. and, goddamn it, we're going to SOLVE IT. but first you need a facelift. and a chemical peel. and some microdermabrasion. and while you're under maybe they could lift your jowls up a taste? seriously, just a smidge. mustache? wax it, or consider laser hair removal, you hirsute troll. your cheeks need to be permanently set to "rosy," and imma need you to maintain a sun-kissed glow, even in the middle of january. so get on that.

don't even think about touching me with those hands until they've been manicured, shaved, and dipped in parrafin for an hour. you also should get rid of those gnarly age spots. (i have a cream that will bleach those paws right up, don't worry.) your mouth needs some work, too. straight, white teeth (stop smoking and drinking wine, why don't you?) that have been brushed at least nine times today lest you offend anyone with that breath. mix some coarse salt with almond oil (or is it superfine sugar with mineral oil?!) to make an exfoliator for your lips, which need to be moisturized and painted a subtle shade of tramp. unless i want to bang you, which means they should be blood red. but if you're trying to get hired then they should be nude. and lined in a pencil that matches so you don't look like a chola. unless you're going for that; i hear nars was putting bitches on the runway with, like, grape liner and a semi-nude sheer beige stain. you need that, OBVIOUSLY. your crepe-y neck vagina is totally grossing me out, so you should enlist the help of  a surgeon. or that new la prairie $975 neck cream. it's made from the virgin mary's placenta, with some cavier and crushed diamonds mixed in. it is amazing, omg. YOU NEED THAT.

your tits need to sit up higher. and sag less. and be less like normal human tits. have you ever seen a fully-inflated beach ball? THAT'S what they should look like. and, really, they need to be pinned right up under your chin, which hopefully you remembered to pluck before you left the house this morning. can't you do something to make them more symmetrical? think more "titty balls" and less "titty sacks." and your areolas need to look like perfect slices of pepperoni. man, your whole body is horrifying. lose some weight, and tone up them thighs. because you need to be skinny. but you also need to have a gigantic rock-hard plastic booty. like...juicy, but not too juicy. make sure your anus is bleached and that all of the errant hair has been ripped out of your labia and butthole. ps, GET THESE: tiny waist, thin (BUT NOT MUSCULAR) arms, slender hairless calves, tiny ankles, and little itsy bitsy doll feet.

there is a piece in the new allure magazine (salma hayek and her boobs are on the cover) about new procedures women are undergoing to fix their fucked up, terrible, horrible, irreparable, dirty rotten stinking EYELASHES. who knew that something so tiny could cause your face so many problems?! gasp, THE HORROR. anyway, there's one called lashdip during which a bitch uses a little brush to paint a basecoat, semipermanent mascara, and shiny topcoat on each lash individually before drying them with a fan. at the cost of an hour and a half of your time, and TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS of your money. at home you're required to paint on a topcoat every three days, and at three weeks you have to go into the salon for a touch-up.

tell me i'm not the only one that shocked the shit out of. PLEASE. for real, imma need you all to reassure me that you read that and were all, "that shit is CRAY," not "what salon do they do that shit at?!" because i can get down for the justification of most beauty things, but come on. don't we lose nine hundred goddamned eyelashes a week? it's not enough that a tube of diorshow costs almost thirty bucks?! i gotta spend TWO HUNDRED on toxic eyelash paint?! gross. i don't give a fuck what anyone does with her body. SERIOUSLY, I DON'T. especially not if it's by choice (and not suggestion). and i try not to judge too harshly considering that i have thousands of dollars' worth of fancy cosmetics that i never fucking use littering my tiny apartment. now, despite my vehement support of your choices, would i rather you girls limit yourselves to the things i'm willing to do so i don't look like such a slovenly asshole? well, yes. yes, i would.

between readers at the sunday night sex show robyn and i answer anonymous questions submitted by our adorable audience about love, sex, and the gross dripping parts of the human anatomy. we get all kinds of shit: how can i introduce bdsm into my current relationship? i'm polyamorous but my partner isn't interested, can i change her mind? do you have any tips for how to make a woman ejaculate during orgasm? why is my boyfriend always asking for a threesome?! every single month, some furry little beaver in the audience submits some derivative of the "why should i have to shave my pubic hair if he gets to keep his gnarly hipster beard?"relationship query, and every single month my answer is the goddamned same, "FUCK HIM. YOU DON'T." revolutionary advice this is not. as with any optional feature not included on the cheap model, if you want power windows and door locks: YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THEM SHITS.

i have the best gynecologist ever. seriously. he's a mellow, straightforward, no bullshit type of dude who laughs at my jokes and doesn't talk about a whole lot of shit i don't want to hear about. he explained to me in vivid detail (WITH A STRAIGHT FACE) how to properly use a dental dam when i asked, "how do i protect myself from throatarrhea if i want to put my tongue on some hot dude's butthole?" he also told me that if i ever "experiment" with a lady (i'm too old to call it that, yes?) that i'd have to wear latex gloves to keep her period from seeping into my cuticles just in case she was carrying around the old hiv. he's fucking smart, man. and he's not a judgmental fucking asshole. i went in for a nasty bite wound on a place one ordinarily would not be brutally bit, and when i tried to be all, "um, yeah, this dog at work got loose and attacked me. my vagina smells like sirloin, i guess." he was like, "i don't care about your sex life. let's get you some antibiotic cream." WHAT A PEACH. plus, he brings his dogs to our hospital and it isn't even weird. as a matter of fact, it's quite refreshing to have a conversation with him when he isn't elbow deep in my vagina.

a couple years ago i had some cancer on my cervix. seriously, i am some kind of goddamned mutant between my ribcage and my pelvis, HOLY FUCKING SHIT. between this charred wasteland of intestinal tissue and my uterus that does not function in any way whatsoever, i really got the short end of the biological stick. anyway, while he was down there scraping and cutting it out (yum) i asked, "hey listen, while you're down there, can i ask you a sensitive question? do you think my bush is too much? should i take a lesbian to home depot and get some sort of garden utensil to handle that action?" this dude never misses a beat. "well, [scrape scrape scrape] your vagina is similar to a self-cleaning oven. or a cat. it takes care of itself, [cut cut scrape] and that hair serves a very important function. [scrape scrape] the length of your pubic hair should be whatever you're comfortable with. [scrapity scrape scrape] there is no right or wrong amount." he brushed it away from my knees and wiped his sweaty brow with it before tying it in a bow. "all done! and so absorbent!" (he might not have said that. especially not with that level of enthusiasm.) then i went home to "research" cervical cancer on in the cosmo health section (i am neither 1 smart enough or 2 patient enough to wade through a bunch of medical mumbo jumbo; I JUST NEED TO KNOW IF I'M GOING TO DIE, plz) and wait for my test results, excited at the prospect of losing SO MUCH WEIGHT from chemotherapy.

so i didn't die. which is too fucking bad. life is so long and so hard and do you know that i have to wear a goddamned diaper sometimes? get back to me when you figure out what to live for after you've shit yourself publicly in front of a hot dude. and listen, i have a MOTHERFUCKER of an "i have three months to live" to-do list. a lot of people better hope i die unexpedtedly in my sleep, because if i get any warning at all i'm going thelma and louise on some bitches. and you can tell by the damp patch of moss in my pants that i really took that pubic hair business to heart. "this sabre-toothed tiger takes care of HERSELF," i haughtily announce when unfastening my diaper prior to sexual activity. "so if you don't like a little nature's floss in your teeth, you can beat it up out of here."

my problem with maintenance demands, in general, is that they are often incredibly one-sided. and OBNOXIOUSLY SPECIFIC. i'm not talking your basic cleanliness and lily-gilding; should you brush your teeth and clip your fingernails before trying to convince someone to get into a reverse cowgirl situation with you? ABSOLUTELY. i mean all of the extra, expensive, time-consuming, painful shit: the plucking and waxing and scraping and filing and bleaching and lasering and pinching and pushing and pulling and ironing and chemically altering. that shit is like a part-time fucking job, and for what? a dude with crusty eye boogers who made you split a thirty dollar check?! yeah fucking right.

i got a brazilian wax ONE TIME. one excruciatingly painful time, at the request of a dude whom i sort of wanted to impress. a dude with manicured hands, no less. i lay on a table holding my skin taut while a tiny eastern european woman stood sweating over me spreading burning hot wax on my taint before using both hands to apply a strip of cloth and rip it from my goddamned skin. FOR AN HOUR. i walked around for three days feeling like my most sensitive parts had been dipped in a vat of boiling oil. i didn't feel more attractive, i didn't feel more womanly, i didn't feel sexier. i mostly just felt SALTY that i had spent all this money to end up with a pincushion vagina for a random booty call that never turned into anything more serious.

which brings us around to my other gripe: making a shit ton of arduous ladychanges with no guarantee of a return on that investment. like, i'll rip all of the hair out of my armpits if i know you can fuck good and won't try to sneak it in the back door. or i'll learn to walk in platform heels if you can promise me you won't bore me half to death while talking my ear off. can we trade a pedicure for a chest hair trim? an anal bleach for a nasal and eyebrow wax? throw in an ear hair trim and i might even consider snipping my butt hairs. and look, i understand that there are women for whom these tasks are absolutely no problem whatsoever. somehow you manage to poke and prod and truss yourselves up like a christmas ham and not become a festering boil of prettified resentment, and to you i say, GOOD JOB, SISTER. but, unless your name is halle berry and you get paid millions of dollars to walk around with your shit peeling and on fire, you're probably a little bit crispy that you've put in all this work for a dude with lint in his beard and balls of deodorant stuck in his nappy armpits.

that dude could've banged me with a titanium light sabre platinum-plated penis and it still wouldn't have made the shit worth it. to me, your regular penis for my war-torn, overheated, scalded, torched, burnt-up vertical smile is not a goddamned equal exchange. imma need you to holler at a penis extension, some hair plugs, six pack abs, a tight fucking ass, and toenails that aren't as thick as cardboard. plus some other shit i haven't thought of, yet. give me a minute, i'll figure something out.

here's what i propose we do. you girls should get together all of your magazines and bring them to my house. helen will make snacks, and we can all sit in my bed with notebooks and crayons and make a two-sided list. on one side: beauty shit you are willing to do. and on the other: rewards you get for doing them. because that really is the heart of the fucking problem. if i have to stand in a dry tub going at my bush with a beard trimmer for fifteen fucking minutes for a person who can hardly be bothered to notice, then i'm going to give MYSELF a special unsexy treat. like a new pair of crocs, that i get to wear with slipper socks. OUTSIDE. see? that makes me feel better already. let's try another one. if i [horrible beauty ritual], then i get to [disgusting, unsexy thing that makes you feel really fucking good].

so. if i wax my eyebrows and upper lip, then i get to eat bologna and cheese sandwiches in my underwear while watching gossip girl. or, if i get a pedicure and laser my chin hair, then i get to sit in the bathtub and cry while listening to fiona apple. AND SO ON. it's like giving a kindergartner a gold star. or a good dog a treat. plus, you ain't gotta resent nobody. i might have just solved female depression. FOR REAL. now pass me that at-home wax kit while i treat myself to some tori amos and a bowl of brownie batter.

ps, go give my other blog some love. xx