yesterday was my birthday. i really don't give a fuck about getting older, because the closer i get to the age where it's perfectly acceptable to wear elastic-waist pants in public in the middle of the day and eat lukewarm soup for every meal the brighter my outlook on my future. you know what i can't wait for? the day i get to sit in those single, luxurious handicapped seats in the front of the movie theater without any old people giving me the goddamned side eye. oh, what a treat! not those shitty seats right below the screen that give you whiplash by the end of the feature, mind you. i'm talking about those plush, recliner jams with enough space to park your wheelchair next to them. how relaxing!
to celebrate my special day i went to the gynecologist to get my vagina checked up, which is some full-circle shit, for real. i'm going off birth control, and the fact that my doctor didn't even flinch when i asked him about it made my cervix cry. EVEN THAT DUDE KNOWS I FAIL AT MEN. seriously, my self-esteem was waiting for him to express some concern that i might trip and fall over a dick and get knocked up, but he was just like, "well, bitch, at your age and level of sexual inactivity it ain't no fucking problem." he didn't really say that, he just made some notes and was like, "sounds good, no strokes." GODDAMN, if i could be eighteen again for five minutes. birth control pills were sexy and mysterious back then, not the reason the left side of my face is going to be hanging off my skull like wet laundry. i'm only 32, son. are my days of missed pills and breakthrough bleeding totally over?! *welp* nothing makes you want to hurl yourself off the nearest cliff on your fucking birthday like hearing that your old, rancid uterus has checked out of the goddamned game. seriously, that bitch is on the bench in her warm-ups talking strategy with the coach. my intestines didn't even come out of the locker room. my attitude is still at home sulking in bed. OH MAN, what a disaster.
white girls in ponytails. please tell me, because i'm an idiot and also an african-american (those two things are not connected, you racist), how many different ways one can gather all of her hair at the back of her head and secure an elastic around it? because if magazines are to be believed, the answer is NINE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO. well, maybe not that many. but it most certainly feels like it. "the year in celebrity ponytails" was a recent article spammed to my inbox, as was one entitled, "how to make your ponytail not boring anymore." is that a real thing you could possibly do? hold on, don't go getting all insulted, i'm just saying: isn't BORING sort of the point of wearing a goddamned ponytail? i mean, isn't your hair that way because you didn't want to do a whole lot of work and shit? so why is there ever more than one motherfucking tip on how to style your hair that way?! i love the photo spreads: bland, casually-dressed models weighed down with seven pounds of hair extensions that are somehow supposed to look like something other than a regular-ass goddamned ponytail. two inches higher than normal equals "fun and flirty ponytail," while casually swept to the left and loosely gathered equals "elegant pony chic." is there really a wrong way to wear a ponytail? how can you fuck it up? with all of the age spots that need disguising and grey hairs that need plucking you really don't have time to waste in front of the mirror for half an hour trying to emulate katie holmes's "date-night relaxed pony." let me help you out: your ponytails all look the same. put that brush down and let's go get some fucking tacos.
valentine's day survival guide. first of all, you really don't fucking need one. you have to know that. i'm lucky enough to work in an office full of salty lesbians and haggard young spinsters, and in my tenure there have only been a couple of adorable girls with bouncy, shiny hair and "infectious giggles" who've made the rest of us feel lonely and unloved on THE MOST ROMANTIC DAY OF THE YEAR. i say that in jest, of course, because everyone knows that valentine's day is NATIONAL TRADE A DOZEN ROSES FOR YOUR ANNUAL BLOWJOB DAY. and i want in. i mean, just one time. just one bouquet to put on my desk as a symbol of the prowess of my subjugating emasculation. i want some TANGIBLE PROOF that there is a man out there quivering in fear at the wrath i will deliver to his face if i don't get the most expensive out of season floral arrangement a dude with maxed out credit cards who is about to be evicted from his apartment can buy.
the key to getting through this long-ass teddy bear parade is simple: pretend you're motherfucking happy. i don't mean, "get on your soapbox and rail against the frivolity of this hallmark holiday," because that shit is so transparent and everyone hates you for being so awful. i mean, "TAKE YOUR ASS OFF YOUR GODDAMNED SHOULDERS AND PRETEND TO BE HAPPY FOR THAT RECENTLY-ENGAGED BITCH AND HER BOX OF GODIVA." for several reasons, 1 she'll probably share some with you and even let you look at the key so you don't get stuck with any of the gross flavors and 2 how many times do i have to write that all the real couples you're jealous of are totally fucking boring and unworthy of that seething envy? you've met the new girl in HR's boyfriend. you hated his shoes and were offended by his borderline racist jokes. so now all of a sudden YOU MAD because he sent that ho an edible arrangement? THAT'S DUMB. you don't want to bang that dude, you would never buy a condo in the neighborhood they picked, you hate pekingese and most certainly wouldn't own two of them, so why are you so salty those half-dead tulips are wilting on that bitch's desk?!
most married people hate their lives. and if they don't now, they will soon, so keep banging craigslist dudes and be happy you won't get your $2500 tax return snatched because you filed jointly with a motherfucker who never paid back his college loans. i mean, YOU STILL GET THE WHOLE BED, HO. rejoice and be glad in that. and i know, sometimes i get sad that there's no one who makes sure i come home every night. that's some sobering shit. if i'm off for three or four days, i could die on the first day and literally no one would come looking for me until i didn't show up at work three days later. if i think about that too hard it makes me feel goddamned terrible. it also makes me overfeed the cat so she'll be less tempted to SNACK ON MY DEAD FACE. but that also means there's NO ONE WHO MAKES SURE I COME HOME EVERY NIGHT, and that shit is motherfucking awesome. i got home at 130 this morning, and i didn't have to explain where i'd been to some pissed-off fucking dude who refused to let me go the fuck to sleep until i gave him a reasonable excuse. no one was demanding to smell my underwear or check my ATM receipts, no scrolling through my fucking email and text messages.
so sure, that girl who is skinnier and prettier than you and makes three more dollars an hour than you do got flowers and a bag of hershey kisses delivered to the office. be fucking nice about it, you bitter troll, and try to scam some of that delicious chocolate. but YOU can fuck a dude in a hotel bathroom and spend the next three days eating cheese and watching fatal attraction unbeknownst to anyone. NOT THAT I'D KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT. happy valentine's day, don't kill anyone in a jealous rage. and feel free to eat ALL THE CHOCOLATE.
shorts and shit, already?! so when, exactly, are you supposed to buy winter clothes? i'm not sure about the weather pattern around the rest of the country, but i was in target yesterday (BIRTHDAY RAGER) in heavy boots and a knee-length wool coat, and all i saw were racks and racks of revealing bathing suits and sleeveless dresses. i suppose it's possible that all of the rest of you bought every item of clothing you'll need to survive the tundra back in october, but doesn't february seem just a teensy bit early for crop tops and booty shorts? are you really sitting in your room in your slipper socks and house sweater flipping through page after page of smooth, summer-browned legs on fucking groundhog's day?! yes, you are. and it makes you feel bad because you still haven't started your new year's resolution to "take better care of yourself," and that extra twenty pounds of christmas ham you couldn't resist has congealed on your thighs and is now covered in dark, bristly winter hair.
bitch, i don't want to think about pedicuring these reindeer hooves or hot waxing my goddamned labia! IT'S FUCKING FREEZING OUTSIDE. february magazines should be filled with glossy pages of bitches with dry hands and cracked lips and turtlenecks layered over pajama tops that you're hoping no one in your office fucking notices. february is about wrapping yourself up as if you expect to be deep frozen and thawed for dinner in a couple months, with mismatched double pairs of socks and bulky sweaters draped over stylish long underwear with two sexy pieces of kleenex lodged in each runny nostril. my california girls are probably all "shut up, ho. it's warm here," but just once i'd die to see a fashion story about that lake effect chicago style: knit tights under jeans with knee-high slipper socks, all shoved into giant boots, bra + t-shirt + long-sleeve layering shirt + sweater + the sweater you keep tucked in your desk at work + inside scarf + fleece inner shell + shapeless puffy coat that makes you look like the michelin man even if you only weigh 97 goddamned pounds. my favorite thing about living in siberia is that it is the great equalizer: no one gives a shit about being sexy in the winter. my morning train commute is all contestants in the "who can look the most homeless?" pageant.
there is always that one bitch who tries to look sexy, despite the fact that there are two feet of snow on the ground. you've seen her, tiptoeing around in stiletto "boots" barelegged in a wool miniskirt. generally, when i'm outside dressed like an elementary school janitor and someone walks past me in a public negligee, my immediate inclination is to just turn around and go home and never leave my bed until they have to cut the roof off my building and airlift my dead body out. but, when it's cold out and all those feelings i ate as a misanthropic teenager are keeping me from blowing down the sidewalk in these gale force winds, and some grown woman in a onesie is standing with me at the bus stop with a bunch of exposed frostbitten skin, teeth chattering uncontrollably, i feel like the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world.
22 must-have shades of gross. i bought some taupe nail polish a while ago. it's basically the same color as the carpeting in my kindergarten classroom. or every faux leather waiting room chair you've ever sat in. i usually buy neon pinks and electric greens or dramatic dark colors. ooh, and lots of sparkly shit that i'm way too fucking old to get away with. glitter is for children, but i can't resist. IT'S JUST SO SHINY. this purchase wasn't by choice, mind you. i was browsing at sephora, trying my best to avoid all of the flaw-maximizing mirrors strategically placed around the store. i hate those mirrors. i was feeling pretty sexy and confident when i walked in, armed with my list of skincare and scalp needs, and the second i glanced into one of those harshly-lit LARGE PORE ILLUMINATORS i was like, "i look like fucking roadkill." sensing the fresh blood in the water, a woman with painted-on lip liner sidled up next to me purring about some new antioxidant microbead exfoliating skin regenerating dead cell turnover anti-aging ultrafirming miracle lotion. when i recoiled in horror at her mention of "regaining the elasticity i'd lost over the years," she switched tactics and asked to see the nail colors in my mesh basket. i have zero impulse control, so i pulled out all six of them and watched as the skin where her eyebrows should be raised in surprise. at her insistence i traded the canary-yellow metallics for a couple "grown-up" muted colors that would be better served with names like "rotting corpse" and "hospital break room."
it looks like someone pooped on my nails. or maybe like i've been throwing clay on a wheel for ten hours and was too lazy to wash my goddamned hands. is this what it means to be an adult? cheap motel linens on my fingertips?! i'm the peter pan of manicures, i guess, walking around with my childish sky blue nails. and how exactly do you determine which shade of pale baby pink to buy? should you go with "premature newborn?" what about "colicky infant?" i don't know how you bridal bitches can even handle it. how does one make a choice when faced with 60 different bottles of off-white nail enamel? what if you choose the wrong one?! YOUR ENTIRE MARRIAGE COULD BE RUINED if you don't pick the perfect shade of virginal white. might i instead suggest "intact hymen," a fragrant dark pink with a mucousy consistency?
how to know if you're fucking an asshole. the fact that you dug through your purse to find a pen to take even a goddamned quiz like this is probably the biggest indication of the fact that YOU ALREADY KNOW YOU ARE. it's like those inane lie detector episodes of maury; i found two pairs of panties that weren't mine in the glove compartment of his car, i haven't had sex with another dude in five years and alal of a sudden i have herpes, and i walked in on this dude BALLS-DEEP IN HIS EX-GIRLFRIEND: do you think he's cheating on me? every time i've been banging some shithead loser I FUCKING KNEW AT THE OUTSET. and it's cool, man. bitches get lonely and shit, okay? you don't even have to justify it. they can't all be winners, peach. as a matter of fact, 98% of the people you meet (men, women, children, whatevs) are total garbage. we'd all be virgins if we spent the entirety of our lives trying to ONLY have sex with people worthy of how awesome we are. so bang that wack motherfucker. not kidding, get a dozen UTIs because you can't get enough of that raggedy dick. then, when a cosmo quiz starts mocking you and making you feel like a jackass, move on and try to find somebody better. and if you can't? don't fucking feel bad. neither can i.
i don't give a shit about my cobwebbed ladyparts. if you've got a dick to suck today, AMAZING. handle that shit, and try not to nick him too badly with your teeth. the rest of us will be over here eating pasta while masturbating to squirt bukake porn. or maybe that's just me. love y'all.