Tuesday, February 21, 2012

i'm ugly.

for as long as i can remember, my thighs have touched. i was a super fat chunk of a baby, and i was the fattest fucking little kid. the "baby fat" I was supposed to have grown out of by the time i got to high school was stubbornly adhered to my chin and ass that first day of class, and i ate every single one of those fucking bummed out feelings that overtook the lonely and incredibly melodramatic teenage years of my life. usually stuffed between two slices ofbuttered bread. or dipped in delicious, delicious chocolate. that i washed down with a milkshake.

i was still a kid when i first figured out that i am ugly. this was in the1980s, back when there were still real-looking people on primetime television and magazines weren't saturated with women made of cocaine and photoshop who set an impossible standard of unobtainable beauty, so it wasn't glaringly obvious what a hideous little beast i was. i can't imagine being a female child in this new millenium in which half-naked celebrity ass is perfectly acceptable and readily available on the sides of buses and shit. i am a slave to sugar and cheese and totally in love with this new trend of putting bacon on every goddamned thing on the menu, and i have never been shy around a plate of food, but if i was seventeen years old and basically a walking open wound and i was being plagued by images that reinforce the idea that as i am i'm not good enough, i'd have a fucking eating disorder. bulimia probably, because anorexia requires the kind of restraint and self-control that, as is evidenced by the thunderous clap of these thighs, i am obviously lacking.

so i was five years old, and i could read really well. i'd been reading since the age of two, had tested into kindergarten early, and was five years old in a second grade classroom for advanced readers. i was pretty emotionally underdeveloped, and the differences between ages five and seven are substantial; i sucked my thumb in public, wet the bed every night at home, and cried at the slightest provocation. my hair was never combed, and i had a fat little belly and A LAZY FUCKING EYE. i was basically the kind of tragic piece of shit bullies wish for when they say their prayers before bed, and my cause most certainly wasn't helped by having a late in life mother who didn't believe that children needed to be fashionable and sent me to school in mismatched pants and shirts with stains and iron-on patches on my pants. because an education was more important than my having the inspector gadget t-shirt i wanted, apparently. teachers adored me because i spent recess on the floor next to their desks working on my punctuation because i was terrified of the playground equipment, and my classmates enjoyed stealing my little kid glasses and hiding them in the boys' bathroom, which i could not go into because boys are gross and it's against the rules to go into the wrong bathroom so i would spend the day squinting at the chalkboard until the janitor finally found them and brought them to me. which eventually resulted in my having to wear them strapped to my head at all times. totally fucking sexy.

we were really poor, and most of our food came from boxes and cans. i should specify, before your minds start to fill with television images of the barred windows and chain-link fences meant to contain overpopulated project housing developments teeming with children whose only option is potato chips for breakfast, that i grew up in a really nice suburb. we had art in school. and music. a swimming pool. fucking tennis courts. my mother had a college education. but she was severely disabled, and the two of us lived on less than eight hundred dollars a month in government aid. and when survival is your imperative, what you look like while doing so becomes of increasingly diminishing importance.

"samantha is ugly and smells like pee" was the reason some kid gave for not wanting to be spelling partners with me one afternoon. now i'm not so arrogant that i won't entertain an opinion contrary to my own, and between my threadbare corduroys and the flesh-colored eye patch i had to wear to fix this goddamned stupid eye (which was caucasian flesh-colored and totally fucking obvious) and, considering my salvation army, unwanted donated clothing, overall disheveled appearance, i conceded that the gentleman might have a point. i was ugly. i could never find pants that fit me at kids r us. and i probably did smell like pee. it was true, and it didn't bother me all that much. i mean, it sort of did, because we are reminded from birth that girls are supposed to be pretty and delicate, but i came to terms with my ugliness relatively quickly. i knew that if i was ever to be rescued from a goddamned tower prince charming better have done some motherfucking push-ups beforehand. and that was only if i didn't cause him to burst into flames with the thick glasses that covered my entire face first.

so i took my spelling workbook to a table in the back and sucked my thumb and finished it by myself. that day and every day that followed. i knew that boy couldn't spell the word "concentrate," and i totally fucking could, and i have never and will never worry about the insults spewing forth from a mouth connected to some subhuman shithead of inferior intelligence. i had no problem working alone rather than wait for that dead weight to sound out his vowels because i, of course, was a obviously genius. UGLY i could live with. STUPID was another story entirely. and my acceptance has nothing to do with self-esteem, either. i don't need anyone to rush to the aid of my precious feelings and reassure me that i'm adorable and gorgeous and just not looking in the mirror the right way. i don't need self-worth from a superficial place. so no knee-jerk female assuages, please. no "but look at those dimples!" or "what about your beautiful earlobes?" or "the second finger on your left hand is absolutely stunng." GAH.

being ugly affords you a unique sort of freedom, and as i progressed through school the more comfortable i became with how effortless some aspects of life are when you aren't considered physically attractive. eating whatever you want is fucking amazing. so is being able to shave your head at sixteen because you're goddamned sick of curling irons. you can be a jerky smartass without having to worry about offending someone who might otherwise want to stick his dick in you. i went to school with a lot of gorgeous girls, girls i was friends with who breathlessly recounted their first kisses and first blowjobs and first sexual experiences to me between classes. it stung, for sure, because the potential sexual interest of post-pubescent young men is the currency of female youth and to never have been kissed as a junior in high school is fucking devastating. but beauty is kind of this fixed thing. at least conventionally, and either your face and body are constructed in a way that fits those parameters or they don't. it's pretty clear whether you are or not, and the availability of your friday nights are an indicator that will clear up any confusion, and when you decidedly ARE NOT there isn't much you can do to change it. unless magic is a real thing. and don't get me wrong, i wasn't some soulless cyborg who was immune to the fact that i spent entire weekends in my room listening to mazzy star (HOLY SHIT) and reading. but once i'd drawn the conclusion that the face and body i was born with were the reason why i had so much extra study time, i tried to stop feeling so bad about it. and got a near-perfect score on the fucking ACT.

i was diagnosed with crohn's disease when i was 25 which, as autoimmune diseases go, is one of the least glamorous of the bunch. it has ruined my joints and causes me to have diarrhea all the fucking time, and i'm not sure if there is anything less beautiful than a woman with half a colon limping along ten feet behind you while shitting an adult diaper. but i'm not such an asshole that i don't at least try to gild the lily a little bit sometimes. even as hopeless as my physical situation might sometimes be, right now i have makeup on and a spanx stretched from my ass to right up under my goddamned bra. because it seems too sad to just not give a total shit. i'm not sure that there is a time that i really feel beautiful. i still have the same face, the same eye that is a dead giveaway when i'm tired, the same skin beard, the same weird dark spots and unexpected patches of hair. at 32 i still haven't matured enough to not enjoy the validation of someone wanting to get naked in my bed. if I somehow can club a decent-looking dude overthe head and drag him back to my apartment, i still don't feel particularly beautiful. proud of myself? yes. irritated that i still kind of feel like shit and that this dude who could've given me chlamydia hasn't solved a single one of my problems? absolutely. but i do always feel SMART, and FUNNY, and HONEST, and BRAVE. beautiful has never been in the top ten things i've ever aspired to be, and that has made survival while not being so infinitely easier.

no one has ever given this face anything other than a hard goddamned time. i've had to work my goddamned balls off, to rely on my brain and my talent, to manipulate and trick my way out of trouble, and to win people over with a well-timed punchline because what i look like has never done any of that dirty work for me. i've had to cultivate a personality, learn to be nice when i don't necessarily want to, pay attention to shit i don't care about, work well with people i would rather see dead by the side of the road with a grizzly bear actively disemboweling their carcasses. i am bright and strong and capable; and hopefully there, within those traits and skill sets, is where my real beauty lies.

*last night i spoke at the the university of illinois at chicago at a student-led project called ask big questions. the topic of our discussion was "when do you feel beautiful?" above is the answer i shared with them.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

valentine's day survival guide.

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.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

i'm done dating forever.

i know how to write about a horrible fucking date. seriously, i've got that shit down to a science: first i have to skewer whatever misguided friend of mine tried to be a decent human being and give a lonely bitch a reason to put pants that have a zipper on, or come up with a real-ish sounding cover story because "he responded to my craigslist ad" sounds SUPER SAD. poop. okay, next i have to mention that i was dressed wrong, and enumerate the ways i was sweaty or smelly or leaking diarrhea from my eye sockets. i am usually lost, or late, or both lost and late, dependent on shitty public transportation because i have to hang on to my cash just in case this dude isn't going to pay because they NEVER FUCKING PAY. so then i arrive at our chosen meeting place, definitely sweating by now if i hadn't been before, and dude is what, ambivalent? nonplussed? totally fucking disappointed?! yes, one of those. or maybe all of the above. some weird, suburban politeness dictates that i must sit for an hour or two with someone who obviously HATES TALKING TO ME (maybe he's even texting other people every time it's my turn to talk, or updating his facebook, probably scrolling through his twitter feed), and i drink too much or order an entire brontosaurus rib for dinner and turn him off even more. which i hadn't thought possible considering that i'd already had to correct him twice when he thought my name was "stephanie." talk talk yawn bore yawn talk JOKES THAT FALL FLAT over. finally, wait for the bus, in the rain OBVIOUSLY, because he really didn't pay for dinner and i spent all my cab money on a cheese plate. home to my shoebox, where i immediately wish i'd had the foresight to change the sheets because it would have been so much better to come home from a bad date to a fresh bed, yell at the cat, apologize profusely for taking my anger out on said cat, get in bed for the next three days. rinse and repeat.

i went on what i thought was a REALLY MOTHERFUCKING SUCCESSFUL date a few weeks ago, and i want to know, what does one call a good date that was super good and ended well but then maybe wasn't really as good as you thought it had been because even though he texted you for a couple weeks and asked you out again while you were still at dinner the first time and made plans that he broke with a reasonable-sounding excuse that included influenza and then a reschedule never materialized which is weird because i hadn't even sexted him a picture of my tits yet. i'm giving this up, friends. AGAIN. i'm fucking serious this time. nothing works, and even if i think i've got it kind of figured out for thirty seconds i haven't even scratched the surface of how totally wrong i am. it's confusing more than anything else. FOR INSTANCE, some match.com dude emailed me for two weeks and asked for my phone number and i gave it to him, then he no-showed for some plans we made. no problemo, on to the next thing. except he still texts me and shit. like, "how is your day?" or "did you make it home okay in the snow?" i'm sorry, sir, but what exactly is the point of that? are there really women for whom the occasional, "it's not too cold for ya, is it?" suffices as sexual pursuit and meaningful interaction? i never respond, because he's obviously marginally interested at best, yet he remains undeterred in the laziest courtship in the history of cellular telephones. maybe "it sure is dark this evening" will replace "great legs, what time do they open?" as the pick-up line of the future. holy fuck.

what happens when a total clown goes on a date with THE MOST SOMBER DUDE IN THE WORLD? here are some things that i do every single day in my real life: 1 imitate people using a high-pitched child's voice 2 have realistic two-sided conversations with both animals and inanimate objects 3 dance around my office and sing loudly in spanish along with tejano and cubano records 4 laugh hysterically while telling terrible jokes such as the following, Q "what do you call a nosy pepper?" A "jalapeƱo business!" 5 read celebrity gossip blogs with the intensity most people devote to tolstoy 6 purchase those cheese and cracker things from the corner store, you know, the ones in the plastic with the peel-off top that has four saltine crackers and that fake orange cheese and the little red thing that is neither scoopy enough or spready enough to really warrant inclusion in the package and 7 put that much fucking thought into silly shit like CHEESE AND CRACKERS PACKAGING. basically, when i'm not seething in a blinding rage or marinating in a pool self-induced hate vomit, i'm totally fucking stupid.

now let's be for real: i'm 100% salty, 99.9% of the time. everything is so boring and dumb and everyone is so selfish and terrible, and i think what i've discovered about myself is that i am, despite my efforts to prove to myself otherwise, just not a happy person. not in a sad way, though. I ENJOY SHIT. seriously, i love a lot of stuff: the kitten halftime during the puppy bowl on animal planet; reading a good book on the toilet; huitlacoche tacos; listening to someone smart tell a really amazing story. i might be mired in self-loathing every single one of my waking hours, but if some gilberto gil comes on the old pandora machine i am getting up and dancing, son. and then when i'm done enjoying whatever it is that has momentarily distracted me from the misery that is every day life, i crawl right back into the comfortable embrace of EVERYTHING FUCKING SUCKS. people who are cheerful all the time seem stupid to me.

if you ask me out, though, i'm all goddamned sunshine. no one in his right mind wants to bang some sour bitch, so if i have some brisket plans with a breathing adult male i get all my good jokes together and run through the "this is what i want this dude to think about me" modern-day dating resume. you know what the fuck i mean, the shit you tell a person that makes you look smart and awesome and fuckable. for instance, i pretend like i just sprung fully-grown from zeus's brow at age 26 and have spent the six years since being adorable and hilarious and not weird or mean or jerkfaced. don't act like it's just me, you bitches know you keep a list of your impressive accomplishments printed on the bathroom mirror so you can memorize that shit while putting on the eyeliner he is totally not going to notice. i see you, grrrrrl: "graduated law school, volunteered in guatemala, got a job at a fancy law firm, bought my condo," blah blah blah. over and over and over again until it rolls naturally off your tongue while he pretends not to be staring at your tits over his cocktail.

my abbreviated dating resume looks a little something like this: "animal job, hilarious comedy jokes, have you read [insert title of intelligent-sounding au courant piece of literature] yet?" then, when pressed for a more detailed history: "sorry, homie, but i didn't have a childhood. i was born an adult. weird, right? HAHAHA! and my writing totally isn't available anywhere at all ever at any time. so, should we split an appetizer or what?" i would love to be all, "DUDE, DID YOU SEE ME IN THAT MAGAZINE THAT ONE TIME?!" to prove that i'm worth this hour and a half he's giving me, but in my vain attempt to create the slightest illusion of mystery i have to hold all that in until he hasn't recoiled in horror at my rubber sheets. this is where having studied visual art would totally trump the clickety-clack of this keyboard, because i then could just pull a drawing out of my bag and be like, "let's have sex now." but now i have to be charming and shit then drop a five hundred page manuscript in front of him and say, "if you read the first couple chapters you will so not regret having come home with me." that's a lot of goddamned work, which is why i always lead with a dirty limerick and hope he's sort of dumb and easily impressed.

I WORE A BLAZER, if that fucking says anything. and girl shoes. i mean, i really put some thought into it. and the serious man and i had a good time. at least i thought we did. i even got him to crack a smile, which is the shit i live for. i like a comedy challenge, and i will say anything i have to to get a bitch to laugh. not even kidding. if you're a new reader, or just a lazy asshole who doesn't want to read through the archives, you should know that a couple years ago i decided i was never going to work harder to give my vagina away than a dude was working to get it. that's just silly. and i demanded that we all adopt this policy, but i know that sometimes it's hard because you're lonely. SO AM I, HO. but my black box is made out of the same shit they make airplane black boxes out of, and i turn that loneliness into unbridled hatred. the product of which you're reading currently.

i think that whole "the rules" shit is totally dumb, but i have adopted a modified "he's just not that into you" operating system when it comes to dealing with dudes. as soon as they stop acting interested, i let it the fuck go and move on. seriously, four or five days with no contact and i take the hint and delete him out of my phone and watch unfaithful a couple times and then i'm magically over it. you're never going to know why, so just assume he's not into you and never text him again. the shit works, no joke. listen, you're never going to know why, so don't torture yourself. that dude didn't just forget that he likes me, maybe he really did for a week or so, but right now he most definitely does NOT. and that's cool, man. i'm just not going to sit up all night listening to sad music worrying about it. but i also am not doing this shit anymore. it's BORING and i'm tired of wasting my arsenal of one-liners on dudes who text me about the republican primary candidates for two weeks before dropping off the face of the earth. and into some other lady's vagina, DUH. i'm retiring my dance card. and demanding my $34.99 back from match.com.