Thursday, October 18, 2012

the best possible way to run into your ex! (other than with a truck!)

i love super fancy art shit. there is nothing better than pushing my tits up and slapping on some lipstick to stand around pretending i understand symbolism and chiaroscuro or whatever while checking out urban art patrons. ie, hip hop dudes in plaid shirts and grandpa cardigans with bowties and their "going out" gym shoes. my visual artistic ability is limited to stick figure drawings and collages pieced together from magazine clippings, and i really am TOTALLY IN AWE of people who can draw real humans and paint actual landscapes. i took a painting class a couple summers ago and basically resorted to making turkeys out of my handprint because i was so goddamned terrible at it. when i asked for a box of macaroni and some pipe cleaners to make necklaces the teacher kicked me right the fuck out.

caitlin and i went to a gallery opening friday night for hebru brantley, this super talented chicago artist who also happens to be FINE AS A MOTHERFUCKER. (i will wait here while you google him and touch yourself.) and the place was teeming with the kind of people i like to look at, all asymmetrical curly afros and large plastic glasses and ironical tattoos. (sound familiar?) it was one of those parties full of the hip and upwardly mobile, fendi bags and louboutins and indoor sunglasses at night swaying in time to wiz khalifa and lil wayne. my friend eric was there, so cait and i walked coolly (lulz) over to where he stood loitering near the bar while i secretly hoped someone hot and available would holler "bitches gotta eat!" as i walked past. alas, no one did, but i was approached by this beautiful black filmmaker who recognized me and came over for some artsy black on black womanlove and that is worth all of the things.

man, i hate wine. and idling in front of a sculpture i don't understand, getting purple teeth while listening to dumb people flirt is one of my least favorite social activities, especially when i'm wearing some shit that stains easily and am secretly irritated that no one is flirting with me. events like this are usually hella boring, because nobody knows shit about art and we're all just standing around holding our dicks while waiting for something exciting to happen. or for someone extra fabulous to walk in. lupe fiasco was there, but all i wanted to do was ask if he had read the big ghostfase review of his new record and whether or not it made him totally salty when the dj played that chief keef record. rob, my adorably suited and bespectacled manager pictured above, is also hebru's manager, and at the end of the night he handed me two tickets to see mos def do a fela tribute at the shrine. WUT. after the party is the after party and after the party is the hotel lobby and yes i know i'm old shut up.

so my last romantical thing ended a little over a month ago. and my heart was TOTALLY FUCKING BROKEN, DUDE. let's start here: one of these days i am going to learn to stop becoming involved with people who read the shit i write. (but i can't yet because literally NO OTHER PEOPLE are ever trying to holler at this ass.) also, i should probably have never agreed to an "open" relationship. not because i don't know how to relax and enjoy the company of whomever i please whenever i want with no repercussions, but because 1 we live in the facebook age and bitches is so goddamned messy with all of their picture-tagging and status-updating and 2 that shit only works to my advantage if i'm not the one home on a thursday night pouting into my lonesome beer while homeboy is out getting his dick sucked. additionally, unless it's at my suggestion that shit is totally fucking insulting. because "let's keep it open" is just a sort of polite way of saying, "i don't think you're good enough to commit to." isn't it, though? cuz: "i mean, you're awesome and everything and golly gee you're really smart but i just don't want to own you, you know? of course i'm not just using you to pass the time while i shop around for someone better! i'm just on that bohemian type shit, ya dig?" is just a flowery way of saying i already know i want to stick my penis in someone else in faux-sensitive testosteronese.

oh, i know. your open relationship is different, but this is how all of mine seem to go. i should've let the whole fucking thing go the minute i got that ambiguous dump in a text message. but i'm a dumb asshole, so when he was like, "that's not what i really meant, tho" i, with a hefty dose of side eye, said, "well. okay. i guess i'm not that busy. you can make me dinner again." i know it really means that he's tired of that other broad and/or totally forgot i was alive for three weeks and that's fine. i mean, i really wasn't that goddamned busy.

for half a second after caitlin parked i was like, "shit, i wish i had some vicodin" to counteract the tiny knot of anxiousness forming in the pit of my stomach because i just knew i was going to run into that dude and awkward public encounters are my least favorite of the awkward encounter kind. Every Fucking Time there's some artsy black hip hop shit in chicago guaranteed i run onto approximately 937 dudes who've seen my tiny nipples and that shit is getting old. OR, conversely, i was going to have some fiery diarrhea and my belly was just firing a few warning shots. dude i used to bang who said i wasn't good enough to bear his offspring or cream jeans; one or the other, i could just feel it. anyway, i took a celebrex instead BECAUSE I AM THAT WEIRD AUNT YOU NEVER CALL ANYMORE, YOUNG MAN *sniffle* and we skipped the line (rockstar) and went inside to meet rob and a handful of d-list celebrities in VIP (crazy amazing rockstar).

the play by play, finally:
we walked in and i groaned immediately because i somehow have a homing device for taints i've already licked and my eyes made a beeline for the back of this dude's head. i couldn't have avoided him if i'd wanted to, stupid visual accuracy. all the people and weed smoke in that goddamned club and still i nearly got whiplash from my neck snapping around so hard when my inner bloodhound caught a whiff of those pheromones. i elbowed caitlin and she was like, "bitch, i have a switchblade in my purse" and that is how we fucking party. after i slipped it into my bra for safekeeping just in case, i pulled out my scorecard.

1 i looked pretty fucking great. i clean up nice. a little powder and drugstore lipstick hastily applied while crammed into the passenger seat of a volkswagen golf goes a long way, baby. plus i picked all the cat hair off my fancy coat and everything. and he was wearing what appeared to be a blazer one's grandfather would wear to church. sam 1, that dude 0.

2 i didn't cry like some sappy teenage girl.
five or six years ago i broke up with this dude i thought i might be able to tolerate for the rest of my life. i didn't want to, but he was just the worst fucking boyfriend ever. it had gotten to the point that i was embarrassed to even talk about him like he was a real person. you know, when you know your man is THE GODDAMNED WORST and all your friends know that your man is just THE GODDAMNED WORST yet you still casually talk about how this motherfucker didn't text you back yesterday like it's some normal thing and they are looking at you like, "BITCH YOUR MAN IS TOTALLY THE WORST" and then you have to end that shit because, although he didn't slap you or anything, this dude is just fucking terrible. the first time i saw him afterward, in the middle of july at this street fair looking all happy and moved-on, i sat on a curb crying and made julia take me home. and that shit didn't happen, because this dude didn't want to be my boyfriend because i cannot have babies and stopped calling me with no explanation and people like that are unworthy of real human emotion. sam 2, not sam 0.

3 dude tried to hug me and got denied.
here are a couple highlights from this courtship that are bound to make you question whether or not you and i should still be friends: one remember this summer when my teeth broke? and i had to get my head cracked open and part of my missing jaw replaced? well homie and i were still hanging back then, um kind of?, except i hadn't heard from him in a couple weeks. that isn't strange, because bitches is busy, and i just assumed that he was done with me again and that the text hadn't gone through this time. or that he was in a coma. whatevs. lo and behold, i'm sitting in the recliner at cara's holding a tub of pineapple sherbet to my swollen, bruised face and scrolling through my facebook on the ipad when quel surprise! pictures of this dude in the bahamas or wherever with a girl who, when i squinted really hard with my face pressed to the screen, appeared to have semen in the corner of her mouth popped up in my newsfeed. and when he came back, and she cut him loose, i answered that call. UGH.

two labor day weekend was a jam. like, we had a lot of fun despite the whole "you can't have my babies" talk from the week before. and then i was in his kitchen, washing the dishes from the weekend because i am a really nice person despite whatever slanderous evidence you have to the contrary, and he came in and insisted on playing me a voicemail from some other broad. a breathy, sex-voiced message from some woman who wasn't stacking pots and pans on napkins because dudes have apparently never heard of dish drains. and two things dawned on me: 1 i am his bro, even though he ate me out one time and 2 he obviously hates my goddamned guts. because no one would do that to you if they actually cared about you, AMIRITE? i'm no feelings expert, but my surefire strategy to make a dude feel secure in my swoony feelings for him is to present a slideshow of all the random dicks in my phone. it's cool, man! because our relationship is open, right? i mean, LOOK AT THE AMAZING VEINS ON THAT OTHER MAN'S ERECTION!!!

what a fucking asshole. that's emotional warfare, homie; i should've junk punched him and dropped a soup pot on his head as he writhed on the floor in pain. anyway, when i walked past him at the club he actually STOPPED ME FOR A HUG, and the look i gave those open arms could've melted steel. because there's "yeah, we're just casual let's see other people," and then there's "i don't give a fuck about you, comedy robot. hey do you think this hot broad moaning into my voicemail sounds fertile?" oh, fuck you. sam 3, those open arms are kind of looking like a sad little zero 0.

4 i didn't let any tragic singledom escape from my mouth.
i have never been the kind of person who plays the "what could i have done differently?" game with some asshole who doesn't want to fuck me anymore. what, are we going to have a philosophical discussion about why my vagina bores you now? NO WE ARE NOT. i'm going to move on to someone with more reasonable standards who actually reads books with more words than pictures while that new broad cringes at your limited vocabulary. we ain't gotta rehash who said or who did or what had happened, let's just be dead to one another (ie, block each other on facebook) and agree that i get custody of all the hot parties in town.

what i usually like to say, depending on the length of time between running into a dude and the last time, ahem, THAT DUDE RAN UP INTO ME (ew), is "hope you've been to the clinic, son. i came down with that [insert graphic description of some raging strain of virulent std]." and then i walk away and leave him wondering if that's why his balls itch so much. but once i pulled that shit and no one at the bar wanted to sit too close to old fake vagina flu and i ended up cockblocking myself and that's lame. so even though i really wanted to shout "HERPES!" in his face and dip out i didn't. because i'm mature and stuff. actually, what i really wanted to say was, "did i leave this adorable black pintuck blouse with 3/4 length sleeve at your crib?!" i miss it. so fucking cute. sam 3, dude 1. because that shirt cost me $60 without a coupon. dang!

5 popping flaming vodka bottles in a roped-off section thisclose to mos yasiin def bey or whatever that motherfucker is calling himself these days. sam 4, pressed butts-to-nuts with all the regular people who paid fifty bucks to get in and couldn't see shit 0.

i'm taking that 1 back because a bitch can buy another goddamned shirt. i mean, I HAVE A BOOK COMING OUT, FAM. game/set/match.