Wednesday, July 25, 2012

my goddamned teeth broke.

i am never going out in public ever again. i hope you remember what i look like, friends, because you are never going to see my face again. and if we have yet to meet? well, i'm fucking sorry. that shit isn't going to happen. this past friday started out just like any other: i woke up in a panic, incredibly late for work; put on the same pair of black palazzo pants i'd worn the two days prior; spilled green broccoli-apple smoothie down the front of my light-colored shirt while trying to simultaneously drink that shit and shift cara's car into third gear; and dropped my bag precariously close to a pile of dog shit after tripping over some gravel in the parking lot. like i said: just like any other day.


except it wasn't. because friday was the day my big, important radio interview was going to AIR ON PUBLIC RADIO, omg. you know, PUBLIC RADIO. have you heard of that before? it's typically one of those fancy stations at the left end of your radio dial. that is, if you even own a fucking radio anymore. it's all the way down there nestled between the fuzzy all-gospel station and that one that plays mexican polka 24 hours a day. i fought through the crowds of slack-jawed suburbanites oozing fake nacho cheese from their pores at navy pier last wednesday to get to the calm, temperature-controlled offices of NPR, and once i got there i sat in a real live studio (next to the one where they record "wait wait, don't tell me" i think? that's impressive, right?) and my friend luis and i talked trash for two full hours as some important-looking broad sat in the studio next to ours reporting on failing third-world economies and shit. i tried as hard as i could not to swear or embarrass anyone i know in real life too badly. and i talked about diarrhea. A WHOLE LOT.


OKAY. so i knew i was going to be at work when the interview aired and i basically ruined everyone's day making sure we would all be able to hear my dulcet tones umm-ing and stifling nervous laughter as it played. speakers were tested, apps were downloaded, everybody i work with was irritated to within an inch of her life to make sure i wouldn't miss one lousy second of my whiny post-nasal drip between bursts of ear-splitting static. i sat in the darkened conference room to eat my lunch (sandwich) and work on the skeletal outline for this BOOK I AM WRITING (more on that later), and after ten minutes i felt a bunch of gritty shit on my tongue, like i had a mouth full of busted dinner plates.


i am no stranger to having weird-ass things in my mouth. urine, semen, cauliflower: name something gross or testicular, i've probably tasted it. and i'm usually pretty good about not recoiling in horror, but my fancy french sandwich from pret a manger was supposed to be made of only soft things. so either someone had smashed the good china and sprinkled it over my pulled pork or something was going dangerously wrong inside my fucking mouth. medical expert that i am, i stuck my finger in and was immediately stabbed by a shard of one of my broken-off upper teeth near the gum line. that shit was fucking dangerous, man. thirty seconds later i was spitting out blood whose source i couldn't determine: was that shit coming from my disintegrating teeth? or were the razor sharp, newly-formed stalactites hanging from my upper jaw razoring up the inside of my cheek?! 


i stood in the bathroom using a toothbrush to hold my upper lip out of the way as i inspected the damage: SPLINTERED TOOTH FRAGMENTS COVERED IN BLOOD RIGHT IN THE FRONT OF MY GODDAMNED SKULL. then i did what any normal person would do: i calmly rinsed my mouth and gathered my things and made an appointment to see that dentist i've been meaning to call for the last six years. um, NO I DID NOT. i did the exact fucking opposite of that: i spit blood everywhere and burst into panicky tears and immediately started worrying that no one would ever love me if i was MISSING MY GODDAMNED TEETH.


i hate flossing. seriously, it's so boring. and flicking food particles everywhere while trying to fit your entire fist in your mouth is disgusting. all i could think while i was climbing the long, steep flight of stairs to meet laura's dentist who had kindly fit me in at 3:30 on a fucking friday afternoon in the middle of the goddamned summer was, "i haven't flossed in, like, five years. this dude is going to hate my fucking guts."


here's what the xray looked like to my non-medical eye: a mouth full of teeth that had clearly been struck with an aluminum baseball bat after the owner of said teeth had obviously been thrown down nine flights of stairs. "anything else?" the doctor asked. i pointed to what looked like a couple dark grey storm clouds. "also, this person appears to have been snorting ink. now where is my xray?" but that was my goddamned xray! i sat in nervous silence as the dentist explained that the back alley root canals i'd undergone seven years ago had been botched and that the canals in my dead teeth hadn't been sealed properly, allowing the spaces between my tooth bone and my head bone to fill with bacteria. and those shadowy storm clouds covering my upper jaw and sinuses were places that bacteria had eaten away at those bones. TASTY.


this is not the first time i've had to sit patiently and smile as someone delivered terrible fucking news about this rotting corpse i inhabit, but it is the first time i've had to do so without all of my teeth. first thought: this credit card better have some goddamned room to maneuver on it. first thought and a half: who the fuck is going to love me when i'm missing half my face and teeth?! i already fucking feel like i have to start all of my first date sentences with, "despite my _________, you are TOTALLY GOING TO LIKE ME, i promise." holy christ, i cannot add "toothless partial skull missing" to the endless list of shit i already have to apologize for. diarrhea limp skin beard errant hair hillbilly slack jaw hooray.


wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute: WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING SHOW? in all of the fervor over my infected eye socket, i totally fucking forgot that i am a public radio celebrity. i watched the doctor oiling up the handsaw and sharpening the machete he was about to take to my face and got my phone out of my bag. he asked if i needed to call paw paw to tell him and granny to get the moonshine still and the trailer ready for my impending return. and while ordinarily i would sigh melodramatically about not having anyone to call, i instead said, "do you mind if i listen to my headphones during this? i'm about to be on this newfangled radio machine!"


"not flossing" is the least of my problems. turns out "growing up poor and raising myself like a savage" was way more detrimental than skipping out on my satin glide. i didn't know shit about picking a dentist eight years ago! i went to this broad who had a full set of teeth and gave me a discount for paying in cash. those were literally my only requirements. how was i supposed to know things hadn't gone according to plan? those of you responsible adults who are all "maybe you should've gone back for exams" can either 1 marry me so i can get on your dental plan or 2 go sit the fuck down somewhere. staring up into the blinding fluorescent lights i thought about all the money i have spent on fashion magazines and nail polish and cursed my tiny, stupid brain. is foresight a thing i can pay someone to have for me? is it too soon to blame this on my head full of bacteria?!


step one: dentist.
step two: endodontist. (google that shit, i had to.)
step three: oral surgeon. (wtf is a bone graft?!)
step four: dentist.
step five: GO INTO HIDING.


in two hours a very nice man in stylish navy scrubs is going to use some lawn shears and a dirty pickax to rearrange the bones in my motherfucking face. i have been on 3000mg of amoxicillin every day since friday so that the bacteria pooling in my head doesn't leak out and poison my blood, which has created the angriest vagina you've ever met. i've had several impressions of what is left in my mouth taken so that they can build some new shit to prevent me from looking like that dude in mask once everything heals and i can put solid things in my face hole again. OH MAH GAH WHAT IF AFTERWARD I LOOK LIKE THAT DUDE IN MASK?! and even if i don't, i will still look like a person with some dead dude's shin bone in my face and no fucking teeth.


um, who is going to want to look at me?
um, who is going to want to talk to me?
um, who is going to want to bang me?
how can i be a person who tells jokes if i'm totally about to stop laughing in front of anyone other than my computer screen? i took down all my dating profiles a couple weeks ago, but should i start another advertising blowies with 30% less teeth nicking? where can i buy one of those things to soak my falsies in for cleaning? is it gross if i take them out in public? if i ever have sex again, can i bite? because i'm really into that. jesus, why is stupid shit like this always happening to me?!


i work in a hospital setting so, if need be, i could just wear a surgeon's mask all day and give the death eyes to anyone who asks why i have it on outside of the surgery room. or i could just get one of those clear things basketball players wear so they don't have to sit on the bench with a broken nose during the playoffs. or maybe i can switch from "no discernible religious affiliation whatsoever" to "samantha believes in what now?" so that i can walk around with my face covered and it's some sort of social crime to ask me about that shit, you nosy bitch. seriously, though, i'm not about to be in public with my skin hanging off my skull like wet laundry. if you need me, i'll be shut-in at cara's, leaving periodically only to 1 earn money for soup and 2 buy soup. wish me luck or else i'll gum you to death. grrrr.


me+ leigh at veronica's wedding on saturday.
there's a bunch of fake plastic shit holding up my face.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

fuck it, i'm starting a wingman business.

wing·man/ˈwiNGˌmən/noun: a pilot whose aircraft is positioned behind and outside the leading aircraft in a formation.
2 a man who supports another in approaching a desirable woman, typically in a public place such as a bar.

no matter how acrid and dehydrated the barren stretch of desert i refer to as "my vagina" may happen to be, i have always been really fucking good at getting other bitches laid. seriously, i'm a really convincing salesman. i can transform even the most haggard and ghastly of my friends into a shimmering gazelle right before your very eyes. as much as i enjoy cockblocking the shit out of some dumb dude, it makes me that much happier to help a penis plane find my ladyfriend's landing strip. because when one of us is getting laid we all win, am i right?


my very first wingman completion was mostly a happy accident. i was at slick's with one of my friends, a friend who is the kind of slutty asshole who wears labia fold-exposing shorts with six inch heels to go to the goddamned grocery store. does everyone have those kind of friends? you know, the ones who show up to a 4pm dinner at chili's in a strapless fucking dress and hooker heels? listen ho, i was trying to have sweatpants dinner. and now you've shown up looking like a supermodel and i can't enjoy my southwestern eggrolls or whatever this shit is called because your clavicle is basically poking me in the face and all the old dudes eating dinner while it's still light out keep sending over tropical sunrise margaritas and interrupting our conversation with their watery-mouthed, rhuemy-eyed introductions.

anyway, i'm shouting my order into the bartender's ear when this DUDE IN A CHEAP-ASS SUIT slides up next to me at the bar with a folded wad of bills (all singles) between his fingertips. now everyone knows that the last dude at the club you should ever consider talking to is the ONE WHO WORE A SUIT TO A MOTHERFUCKING DISCO, so i inched away from his ass while counting out laundry quarters to pay for my drink. he put his hand on top of mine as i placed my loose change and a couple food stamps on the bar, and i had two thoughts: 1 is he really trying to steal seven goddamned dollars?! and 2 i'm pretty sure i saw that suit in a men's wearhouse commercial. he told me not to worry, he was just trying to buy my drink.

"WHY?" i demanded, suspicious. he motioned over to the table where i'd been sitting with nicole and said the drink was in exchange for an introduction to "that classy lady at [my] table." (he really said that. like, for real. "classy lady," omg.) shameless, i pocketed my money before he could change his mind and led him over to our booth before mumbling unintelligibly about some imaginary friend i'd made on the other side of the room and making myself scarce while he seals the deal. and further illustrates how i keep my pimp hand strong.

i learned early in the game that rolling into the party with a hot, beautiful woman has a shitload of potential perks. if your low self-esteem and latent daddy issues don't make it impossible for you to have a good fucking time while remaining untouched by the glare of the spotlight provided by the lusty gaze of EVERY SINGLE DUDE IN THE ROOM, you can spend the entire night drinking on some lonely dude's tab and, if it's a food party, you won't have to worry about competing with that bitch for the waiter's attention when the samosa tray goes around the next time. she'll be too busy swatting men off like flies while you can relax in the cut and GET YOUR CANAPE ON.

parties are always so goddamned boring. so if i choose to go to one instead of, say, sitting home with some rib tips and the most recent season of gossip girl like i very much would rather do, my payment for that selflessness (other than the obligatory seat at the almighty father's right hand) should be the opportunity to instigate awkward introductions and facilitate potentially dangerous sexual hookups. IT'S ONLY FAIR. besides, you know what else is totally fucking boring? when neither my friends nor i am banging a hot dude. or, at the very least, a marginally attractive one. listen, i can hold my own in an economics discussion or talk celebrity trash with goddamned best of them, but trust me: I DID NOT PUT MY NICE PANTIES ON TO GET DRUNK AND TALK ABOUT MITT ROMNEY. seriously, girl, i spent twenty dollars on a cab here to 1 gossip about our mutual friends and 2 talk about how much this asshole spit in my pussy two days ago. THAT IS NOT A JOKE. i met caitlin and fatima for tapas last week and the conversation was divided evenly between projectile vagina spit and comparing all of our various camera phone dick pics. ain't nobody discussing the middle east peace crisis on a tuesday night! a couple weeks ago this hostess tried to sit me and caitlin next to a table full of children and i was like, "come on, sister. i'm wearing sunglasses inside and this whore is walking bow-legged. you know it's about to be on." then she sat us in the back.

the only thing better than dissecting every millisecond of a relationship you've just ended has got to be combing through the minutiae of one that is just beginning, which is why the minute some dude gives me more than a passing glance i quickly assess whether or not i'd want to bone him (probably not) and if i won't which of my friends absolutely will. because there's no better way to drink through your 401k than to do so while talking about how that dude you met at that one thing has a penis the size of a cornichon. this is the buttery shit about being a grizzled old spinster, sitting around making fun of dudes who don't get half your tax refund. every single one of my interpersonal relationships is built on commiseration of some sort, and the more bad dates i can orchestrate for you = the better i feel about my own life and rapidly-dwindling romantic chances.

THE ART OF THE WINGMAN.


1 stop being such a fucking hater. this is probably the hardest part for most people, myself included. first thing i fucking think is something along the lines of, "this asshole wants to spit game at this bitch instead of me?! motherfucker, i have a book deal! i can kind of crochet a little bit!! these pants i'm wearing are really pajamas and you can't even tell!!!" then i fucking get over it and remember that virtual sex is almost as hot as the real thing and WAY LESS MESSY. she's going to tell me about his dick moves in intricate detail the minute he peels himself out of her sticky sheets anyway, so i can have all of the fun with none of the shame! why wouldn't i write her number down for him? THE THREE OF US ARE TOTALLY GOING TO HAVE IMAGINATION SEX LATER.

2 know what kind of vagina party that bitch is trying to throw. like, if she's meek and says grace over her food in restaurants and only has missionary sex in the dark with her shirt on you probably should wingman for her at bible study or church camp and get your sinning ass up out the disco. unless there's a club near you that plays kirk franklin and only serves cranberry juice cocktail (THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB) and holy water. this is why i only hang out with dirty fucking sluts, because it isn't that goddamned hard to convince a dude to go home with a girl who'd let him in the back door the first time he gets her alone in a darkened room.


3 get over that shy shit. have you talked to a child before? well then you should have no problem talking to a goddamned  dude. this principles are the same: small words, to the point, use visual aids as often as possible. ie, point to your friend across the club and say, "that ho wants to have sex with you. damn, look at them titties!" i mean, if you haven't already ascertained it, my "wingman style" is pretty much to say a whole bunch of sexy shit and point to my friend and say, "see that minx over there with her butt cheeks showing? if you play your cards right and don't say anything stupid, SHE WILL TOTALLY MAKE YOU CUM." and my ladies know how to return the wingman favor for me, although in my case it rarely turns out as successfully. "see that hunchback over there with the thick glasses and orthopedic shoes quoting 'jackie brown' while snorting and resting her shot glass on her belly? if you can read above a third-grade level and don't bore easily, SHE WILL TOTALLY MAKE YOU LAUGH."

4 always be closing. SELL, SELL, SELL. be fucking relentless and sell the shit out of that bitch. "that watch costs more than your car. i made $970,000 last year. how much you make? you see pal, that's who i am, and you're nothing. nice guy? i don't give a shit. good father? fuck you! go home and play with your kids. you wanna work here: CLOSE. you think this is abuse? you think this is abuse, you cocksucker? you can't take this, how can you take the abuse you get on a sit? you don't like it, leave." i take pretty much 100% of my life cues from alec baldwin's various television and movie personas. so far, it's worked.

4a talk to the ugly friend. self-explanatory. sometimes you gotta bang the cockeyed dude with the lisp. be a good friend. remember that time she let you copy her answers on the chemistry final and you got a B+ you totally didn't deserve? take one for the fucking team, you selfish jackass. suck that hideous dude's goddamned dick.


5 take your ass the fuck home.
keep cab money and a bus card in every single one of your party purses, sister. i have $22 in my ING savings account, yet littered throughout my apartment is easily $200 tucked into small bags and clutches of varying size and sparkliness. i fucking hate to be the one motherfucker too broke to get home, so i have to stand around waiting for the bitch i rode with to finish flirting her ass off while pretending not to be 1 seething in jealous anger and 2 holding in a poo because we split an order of onion rings at pre-game dinner because i hadn't anticipated being out for more than four goddamned hours. has that ever happened to you, being held hostage by some vagina that doesn't even belong to you? NEVER AGAIN, GIRL. once you coordinate the number exchange and have memorized that dude's face for accurate description to a police sketch artist should the need arise, if she wants to stay and coo at that fool you can fish your emergency twenty from out of that pocket where you also keep your one emergency condom (in case you decide to have sex in a bathroom stall or alley or whatever and walgreens isn't open)? PERFECTO. imma just have this bouncer hail my drunk ass a cab as soon as he finishes breaking up this fistfight, and i'll text you ass soon as he goes through the mcdonald's drive thru for me so i can spill lettuce all in the back of his shit. AND TOMORROW AFTER 3PM WE WILL HAVE VIRTUAL REENACTMENT SEX.



happy hunting, lovers. i'll just be over here loitering around the dessert buffet trying to convince your next boyfriend how much you enjoy anal. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

i got dumped via text message.

here is a paraphrased question recently submitted to savage love: i'm a 28-year-old guy who was broken up with via text by a girl i had been dating for two months. we spent a few nights a week together and agreed that we had something special. we had a chemistry that i haven’t experienced in my last few relationships. how much respect do you maintain or lose based on something like this? would you characterize this short-term-dating text-message dumping as spineless, flaky, a reasonable reaction to the issues she’s facing, or what? what are the standards of a classy exit in the digital age?

i use my cell phone for two activities of CRITICAL IMPORTANCE: playing angry birds and sexting hot pictures of my tits to your dad. and sometimes for facebook stalking and spotify. BUT THAT'S GODDAMNED IT. last week i went to a comedy open mic hosted by some of my homies and brian babylon walked past where i was STANDING IN THE BACK OF THE BAR PLAYING WORDS WITH FRIENDS and glanced down at my phone and was like, "nerd." and, well, yeah i guess. i try to never make a call unless i have to. phones are for making you happy during shit that is boring and sending pictures of your naked bits to people you hope to have sex with someday. i used 17 total talking minutes last month. and even that feels like a lot. they aren't really for conversations anymore, are they? especially not conversations consisting of 160 characters or less?

a few months ago i met this dude i thought was Pretty Fucking Amazing. so i've recently learned (the hard way) to STOP being generous to these dirtbags when it comes to my choice of the superfluous adjectives with which describe them to other people. back in the olden says (so, like, 2004 and shit) you could get a swoony, gushing "amazing!" just for having a checking account and more than one pair of dress shoes. nowadays, it takes a little bit more than that to make me break out my thesaurus. and this dude fucking earned it: handsome, not dumb, nicely-appointed, artsy, aware, polite, articulate, ALL THAT GOOD SHIT. and i'm too goddamned jaded to be smitten with anyone too easily, but i was totally fucking impressed. this motherfucker was a goddamned winner.

in total, this is my list of what i want from a man: 1 happypartyfuntime! 2 the occasional cocktail! 3 buttsex buttsex buttsex! should the kids go to montessori school: boring. marriage counseling: boring. arguing about taxes: boring. whose turn is it to wash the dishes: boring. get me some peanut butter from whole foods: boring. stop leaving beard stubble all over the sink: boring. did you get the brakes checked: boring. why don't you go down on me anymore: boring. take the cat to the vet: boring. we never have date night: boring. this house isn't nice enough: boring. please mow the lawn this weekend: boring. stop drinking so much: boring. sit with me during this doctor appointment: boring. we can't afford those new golf clubs you bought: boring. the electric bill is past due: boring.

OH FUCKING MAN, the soundtrack to my life does not include "listen to some dude bitching me out all the goddamned time" on repeat. because if i ever got hitched, to a normal person, a normal person who actually wanted to live in the same space with me, as soon as the ink was dry on the marriage certificate and that normal motherfucker realized that i spent half my rent money on moscow mules and fashion magazines HE WOULD FUCKING LEAVE ME. or kill me. without question. my lovely friend dominic is always ruefully lamenting to me how much he wants to trade in casual sex with a rotating cast of adorable grad students in favor of arguing over laundry sorting and dishwasher loading with a woman whose tampons have a regular spot on his grocery list, and while that really does sound comforting and sweet, eventually i'm going to get on some asshole's LAST GODDAMNED NERVE and he is going to throw my maternity pants and hippie kitty litter out on the lawn while i'm at work and change the goddamned locks.

and i'm not shitting on holy matrimony, i just don't want any part of that. at least not right now. right now i want you to live over there while i live over here, and maybe once a week we can eat a meal together and poke each other with sharp objects and do that thing kids do where we share earbuds and hold hands while listening to a love song. god, can't a bitch just get some motherfucking romance?! *welp*

this, in part, is dan savage's response: she’s a scumbag. dumping-by-text proves it. two quick things: getting dumped in person sucks, getting dumped over the phone sucks, getting dumped through snail mail sucks, getting dumped via text sucks. getting dumped sucks. it would’ve hurt just as much if she had dumped you via goodyear blimp or if she had shown up in person to tell you herself. and while dumping-via-text was viewed as a cold move 10 or 15 years ago when texting technology was new and texts were uniformly brief and inscrutable, these days, people do most of their communicating via text. so old notions about text-message dumpings—they’re not classy!—don’t apply these days. a longish, thoughtful, and well-written text message is now a legit way to dump someone. particularly someone you’ve been dating for only two months.

here's what i thought i had done right:

1 i didn't bang him too soon. seriously, ho. i waited, like, four weeks or some shit before i introduced him to the wonder that is my inability to hold my own ass cheeks open without ruining his pillowcase with drool. AMAZING.

2 i didn't nag the shit out of him. when i was a kid i used to take my dating and relationship cues from romantic comedies and nighttime soap operas. like, i'm supposed to call him every day and be really annoyed (yet easily pacified) when he doesn't return those calls. so i would make the call, sometimes every day, and leave one of those plaintive, embarrassing messages that made me look like a simp. but i mostly don't care anymore, because i also used to pick my nose on the street. and eventually we all learn to stop doing humiliating shit to ourselves in public.

3 i didn't write about him in this goddamned blog. every dude who ends up here usually winds up in my vagina graveyard within thirty-seven motherfucking seconds of the post going up. remember the unicorn?! the minute i was like, "hello, internets! i found a dude not made completely of garbage!" this dude fucked me with SOMEONE ELSE'S WEAVE DANGLING FROM HIS BEARD. i wish that was a fucking joke, i really do. i looked up at him pumping away and was like, "is that what i think it is?" AND IT TOTALLY FUCKING WAS. a clump of some girl's lacefront tangled in his motherfucking goatee.

4 i didn't trick myself into thinking he was my goddamned boyfriend. does anyone really do that anymore? bang it out two or three times and immediately start cutting up bridal magazines and visiting local florists? bitches is just trying to have a good time and eat a couple free dinners, son. ain't nobody trying to iron your shirt and make a sack lunch before you and barney rubble ride your dinosaur down to the quarry before a hard day's work! I AM AT MY SEXUAL PEAK, SIR. i need to date as many dudes as i can before my uterus drops right out of my butt!

i was at cara's house late a couple saturday nights ago, snuggled up in my pajamas on the couch with a warm blanket and a cold vodka listening to this slow jam booty mix homeboy had gifted me earlier in the day, when my fancy phone buzzed urgently at my side. then that little fucker buzzed nine more times. i generally discourage people from calling me, because i do not like to answer the telephone. i would much rather read what you have to say without fear that you will hear me pooping in the background. i had a handful of texts, and that is never a good sign.

the dump was worded so nicely that i almost didn't realize what the fuck was even happening. blah blah moving too fast blah get to know you better as a person blah blah let's just be friends blah. i read them all to cara while scratching my head, puzzled. "you just had sex with him this morning, right?" she asked, jumping up to make some more drinks. "you sucked his dick like ten hours ago or something, didn't you?" YES, I FUCKING HAD. what the hell happened? did i nick him with my teeth? was he grossed out by my random grey pubes? did he find my tiny nipples offensive? HOLY FUCKING SHIT, DID I ACCIDENTALLY FART ON THIS DUDE'S NUTS?!

more savage advice: the best course of action when you’ve been dumped by someone you really liked—someone you would still be dating if it were up to you—is to accept the bad news with as much grace as you can muster. the world is full of couples that got back together after a breakup, and your odds of being in one of those couples shrink if you act like an asshole about being dumped (which it doesn’t sound like you’re doing) or if you convince yourself your ex is an asshole for dumping you (which it sounds like you’re doing). good luck.

so i wasn't HORRIBLY OFFENDED, i was more, um, taken aback? like, "really? am i so fucking terrible at making the sex that this dude had to text me some friendship shit? i thought we were cooler than that!" how potentially embarrassing. but then i remembered that he'd finished, and i can't be that goddamned awful if you're doing the seizureface for a solid minute and a half. cara and i read those texts 726+ times, we typed that shit into google translate, we even enlisted the expertise of some semen-producing y-chromosomed friends of mine, and none of us could figure out the subtext of those goddamned messages.

"he's got a girlfriend," speculated one.

"he's an asshole," countered another.

"your vagina smells like potted meat?" offered jeff.

"THIS IS WHY I ONLY USE MY PHONE FOR SEXTING," i pouted in defeat. i didn't think he had a girlfriend, and he'd never really come across as an asshole, but MY VAGINA DOES SOMETIMES SMELL LIKE SPAM. that had to be it?! seriously though, wouldn't you rather get a blurry testicle shot than have a conversation that is best left for never? in person conversations are eleventy times worse than ones over the telephone, and i prefer to get my walking papers with a hot side of "never calling you again" and a tasty doggy bag full of "spend the next two months trying to figure out what you did wrong" anyway. gosh, i would so much rather figure out how to push my tits together in the bathroom mirror while also not smashing my phone into a million pieces than engage in some deep, emotional thumb-drama. turns out he panicked that i might be expecting more than a hot meal and the occasional deep dicking and his knee-jerk response was to be all, "BYE, BITCH." well, at least i didn't fart on his nuts.

here is what "grace" looks like: i am being his motherfucking friend. and not a pouty, begrudging friend, either. i'm being the good kind, the kind that tries not to remind you how cool i was about the whole you freaking out that i might slip a ball and chain around your ankle because i laughed a whole bunch and you made me pancakes ONE MEASLY TIME thing. i've had steak before, brother! don't go thelma and louise down the commitment-phobic rabbit hole just yet! at least not until you've butt-dialed me at an awkward moment. and sent me a love message intended for someone else. and forwarded me half a dozen dirty jokes. AND SENT ME A PICTURE OF YOUR DICK.