Friday, November 9, 2012

book writing is hard as a motherfucker.

this is the outline of my book. this is some glamorous ass classy fucking shit, right? styrofoam takeout containers? empty bottles of imported (maybe, i can't tell) beer? ICE CUBES IN WINE?! you ain't about that life. fabulousness aside, i'm about to have a goddamned nervous breakdown. i am stressed out and anxious and too bad all those cigarettes on the table don't belong to me, because maybe if i smoked i might actually calm down and get some shit done. i didn't think this was going to be so hard. not, like, brain surgery difficult; but, like, "writing thirty-four essays about my crippling fear of loose change and that one time i shit a dude's bed and had to fucking wake him up and explain what happened" difficult. is this shit funny? is it boring? is it relevant? will people ask for their money back? my hot GI doctor suggested i start meditation when i explained to him that the knot of tension he felt in my belly was made of what if my book sucks?! but meditating is harder than writing this dumb book, especially since you can't do it while on gchat.

how do you get your overactive childbrain to calm down? every time i sit on the floor in my darkened room all i can think about is every goddamned motherfucking thing that is not finding my goddamned zen center: what am i missing on television? is there peanut butter in the cabinet? my butt hurts. i should swiffer up in here. i wonder what's happening on facebook right now. my dumb neighbor is totally lifting weights and grunting. when does that quentin tarantino movie come out? it's too hot. does helen think i look dumb right now? jesus, i haven't had sex in forever. *indistinguishable song lyrics that i can't get out of my fucking head* is someone texting me right now? MY BUTT HURTS. you know, sunchokes are surprisingly delicious. shit, i need to clean the bathroom. what should i wear tomorrow? the kitchen smells weird. man, i hate that one dude so fucking much. is keely home? meditating would be so much more fun if i could listen to music. is queen latifah gay? am I gay? i think i'm getting a leg cramp. art is totally boring and i don't understand most of it. i need to go on youtube and learn how to properly do the harlem shake. GODDAMN I REALLY SHOULD BE WORKING ON MY FUCKING BOOK.

i got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one: #1 my crohns is out of remission and holy hell i almost fucking forgot what absolutely horrible business this is. i can't drink a glass of water without shitting my fucking pants. the other day i looked at a piece of cheese and threw up. #2 this goddamned election was giving me an ulcer. i watch too much msnbc, and that turned me into a paranoid asshole. i wrote a piece for the machete a couple weeks ago about the third debate and, after i stopped stabbing my eyes out from boredom over the whole thing, i wrote, "i don't even care who wins, just please let this end so my shows can come on at their regularly scheduled times. ps, LET THEM SLAP BOX IN THE STREET." #3 my building has been sold twice in as many months, and this song i just wrote called "sam and helen are homeless and it's winter" is playing on a continuous loop in my head. two sales simply cannot be a good sign, am i right? also, can i please come live with you? #4 this season of sons of anarchy is not that good and i cannot believe they fucking killed OPIE. what, tig can't take a bat to the head?! *welp* #5 my fantasy team SUCKS.

#6 thru 99 all i want to do is look at pictures of kittens on the internet. and detailed recipes for food i will never make or eat. i'm liking the shit out of your facebook status, hoss. and scrolling through your instagram. and retweeting all your hilarious tweets. i have half a response email written to you, but i can't finish it because once i do i have to write that essay about how i haven't had sex with a white dude yet. suddenly i really need to take a walk, an impulse that has never previously occurred to me in almost thirty-three years of life on this earth. i will do anything to avoid this writing! i organized my sock drawer and folded the kitchen towels, cleaned the air conditioner and sterilized the humidifier. i recycled three bags of magazines, dragged my pillows and comforter to the laundromat, cut all of my goddamned hair off, and wrote a whole bunch of shit that isn't going in the book. i'm watching all of the gay porn i possibly can on tumblr. i am listening to a lot of 90s r&b compilations. i went to GEB and ate pig face. i am mentally trying on SO MANY CLOTHES on the kiyonna website. i have been wearing red lipstick a lot. i'm working fifty hours a week and going to bed too late. i watched all of last season's "the good wife" on netflix dvds while eating soup straight from a can. basically, i have been doing lots of things that aren't finishing these goddamned essays.

the shit's due in december, bro. and i've written a lot of it, but not a lot lot of it. so i'm getting off the internet. and pretty much moving into chandra's house because my own is too distracting. also, i tend to work better when there is someone downstairs who will ask, "oh, are you eating again, sam...?" really judgmentally every time i get up for a snack.

"wow, sam, another nap?"
"are you seriously crying through another outline?"
"why have you been staring at the same paragraph for an hour?"
"no, you don't need to go get a taco."
"is that the television i hear?"
"stop going back and forth to the bathroom just to wash your hands."
"turn your fucking phone off."
"SAMANTHA IRBY, ARE YOU REALLY SLEEPING AGAIN?"

bitches gotta write. so i'm grounded from the information superhighway for a month. or two months. however long it takes to get this shit edited and finalized while sharting uncontrollably. i have some half-finished entries laying around that i might post, especially since i made so many of those cosmo covers and wasting that effort is goddamned criminal. keep the interwebs warm for me. email me some cat pictures. and half-naked celebrities. you know what i like. also, read the goddamned archives until i get back. SOME OF THAT OLD SHIT IS HILARIOUS. back in a flash, cuties.