Thursday, November 29, 2012

how do you know if you're on a date with a lesbian or if you're just two pretty girls hanging out?

what is the gayest fucking thing you could ever imagine? two rainbow-striped unicorns banging their glittery dicks together while shooting stars from their assholes? a ymca/it's raining men mash-up playing on a continuous loop in the skinny jeans section of forever 21? eating a meatless salad for dinner?! WRONG. this is the gayest of all the possible things: going to a meshell ndegeocello concert, with a goddamned lesbian, that is being held in a motherfucking FOLK MUSIC SCHOOL. game set match, friends. and i've been in a bath house before. i know from gay.

i'm into love from wherever i can get it. i have been known to wear a pair of carhartt work boots in the winter, my fingers remain dexterous despite some early-onset peripheral arthritis, and i also find women in neckties incredibly attractive. i also also like luxuriating in some comfortable-ass surroundings, which men can hardly be bothered to create. i like to look around a hot lady's nicely appointed digs, seething like a jealous child, admiring all of the hung tapestries and framed photographs and put-away clothes while mentally scolding myself for being such a lazy teenage boy. why don't i have any motherfucking art? how come everything in my freezer is useless and expired? do i have a first aid kit? are my threadcounts high enough? WHY DON'T I HAVE A DECORATIVE TOILET PAPER HOLDER?! and, truth be told, i don't know how to do any of that shit. or where to buy it. which is why i keep sexting your older sister so hard. here is a list of the domesticated home things i am marginally good at:


1 cooking. bitches gotta eat, son. and this bitch right here can braise lamb shanks. and make a perfect quiche. i can roll my own dough. i will slow roast you a brisket. i own a goddamned cuisinart. my souffles rise, my chickens cook beautifully, my cookies are crisp around the edges and soft in the middle. i worked in a bakery for three years, and i can make you a cheesecake in a water bath! i can make you petit fours dipped in fondant! paper thin steak carpaccio! salmon ceviche with oranges! whatever you like, i got you.

2 disinfecting the bathroom. this is my most favorite of all of the chores, because you don't have to be careful when splashing every hard surface liberally with bleach and standing back to watch all of the cholera and measels and whatever else you dragged in on the soles of your feet rinse clean down the drain. i can't do any of that tedious cleaning, all that delicate dusting of knick knacks and shit? never. that's why my apartment is decorated like prison. NO FUCKING DUSTING.

3 killing those disgusting centipede things. holy jesus, those fucking things are gross. but i will kill them and not even squeal while their tiny smashed legs are still moving for a two seconds on my palm. 

4 remembering which of the 8,719 directv channels is which. 501 is hbo. 282 is animal planet. 242 is usa. 356 is msnbc. 264 is bbc america. 331 is mtv. 202 is cnn. 237 is bravo. 525 is starz. 206 is espn. 231 is food network. 419 is cnn in espanol. 253 is lifetime movie network. 248 is fx. 559 is independent film channel. 245 is tnt. 265 is a&e. i do not know which one is the science channel. or the oprah one. history, either. i also refuse to watch any channel under 100, because i don't pay $120/month to watch free fucking tv.

but i am also somehow incapable of doing any of the other shit. i can't change a flat tire. i don't know how to fix grout. i'm not sanding a vintage fucking dresser from the salvation army. i can't hammer things! i don't have a fucking screwdriver! i sprained my wrist trying to clean the humidifier! i still have to ask my gay boyfriends to come over and put my ikea furniture together while they also offer unsolicited advice about resuscitating that one dying ass plant i can't bring myself to throw away and criticize my mismatched dishtowels. that kind of shit is ridiculous to me, purchasing power tools and masking tape with money that could be otherwise spent on a new lipstick i am always going to be too lazy to put on myself. right now there is a lightbulb that needs changing but i am too chickenshit to stand on a chair and do it so i'm just waiting for the day someone comes over and i can trick him into doing it. that's right, HOW MANY DUMB ASSHOLES DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE A LIGHTBULB.

so this whole sapphic thing started innocently enough. emails + texting + hangouts = BFFs. there was some flirting, but everyone i know is a goddamned flirt. also, when you write about your vagina on the internet all the time people just drop the fucking pretense with you. example: i was in the bathroom before the concert and this woman came up to me and shouted, "bitches gotta eat! i love the way you say pussyhole!" in a full intermission-packed ladies' room. while surreal, and a little unsettling, that shit happens to me all the goddamned time. sidenote: we ran into our mutual lesbian friend denise who is amazing and great outside the bathroom and i saw two other women i know and there was so much fucking estrogen and so many ladies who fist other ladies in that building that my ovaries tried to reproduce asexually. hot damn. anyway, people just say gross shit to me all the goddamned time. i try not to read too much into it, even when it accompanies a cameraphone picture of some hot titties. WAIT A MINUTE HOLD UP.

the most terrifying thing about being on a maybe-date with a woman: OKAY. sometimes when i'm on a date with a dude and he is boring or stupid i will excuse myself to the bathroom and call caitlin and be like, "grrrrrrrrrl, could you please describe to me what is happening on the episode of the good wife that i am missing right now?!" we'll talk shit for a minute and laugh at that dumb asshole and i'll pull my spanx back up to my nipples, then i go back to the table refreshed and suffer through another twenty-minute dissertation on the new bond movie and it's all good.

when we got to the show i had the kind of diarrhea that makes you stop believing in slightly undercooked bacon on white bread and i was like, "i'm just going to go to the bathroom (before i have to sit in a hard seat clenching my sphincter for an hour, omg) before we get our seats" and she said, "i have to pee, too" and i was like "peace out, sister" before i fucking remembered that SHE HAS THE SAME PRIVATE PARTS AND WE ARE GOING INTO THE SAME BATHROOM AHAHAHAHA I HAVE TO SHITSPLASH TOO AND SHE WILL HEAR THAT IT'S NOT JUST A REALLY LONG PEE AND THAT IS SO SEXY. i was like, "um, okay?" and we walked into the bathroom together and i tried to choose a far stall but every black lesbian in chicago was at that concert and IN THAT BATHROOM and can an evening really get more mortifying than audible liquid fire shits in public?

here is what i was wearing because i know you want to know: black jeggings, black low cut shirt, black draped cardigan (shut up, i borrowed it from your mom), and knee-high black boots. that's right, jerks: i wore a pair of sex shoes. and yes, i put an insole in them because my back was hurting, so what? and yes yes, the last time i went out with a man i did wear orthopedic crocs flip flops. but i was really trying this time! romantic or not, bitches be noticing every goddamned thing you ever fucking do. as a matter of fact, i'd had dinner with her on wednesday with green nails, and the first thing she noticed was that on friday those same nails were motherfucking purple. HOW AM I GOING TO SURVIVE BEING A LESBIAN?! i'm so lazy and messy! because:

the second most terrifying thing about possibly courting a lady: they notice everything. i mean, EVERYTHING. if a man notices your fresh manicure it means he is moist. if a woman notices that shit it means she has eyes. the minute she pointed it out i was like a deer in fucking headlights. does she see that this zipper is messed up? and that my coat is a little snug because i spent the entirety of the last four months eating ham? fuck my life, i am wearing that weird-fitting bra. my eyebrows aren't waxed. there's mustard on these fucking pants! women will appraise your whole motherfucking life in the time it takes you to glance at the drink menu. we met for drinks before the show, and since i got there first i took a second to hyperventilate in a corner while shoving napkins in my armpits, and while i was adjusting the tummy-smoothing waistband of my pants it dawned on me that she totally knows that there is a thick layer of elasticized spandex under my clothes holding all my meat and cheese in so why should i even bother? SHIT FUCK DAMN HELL.

when dating, i rely way too much on the inherent disinterest and thoughtlessness of the average male to provide an air of mystery and intrigue to my otherwise fat and sweaty life. dudes don't really know that you don't get your period twenty days a month, do they? because this one time i was dating this dimwit basketball player and didn't feel like shaving or wearing anything other than meat pants for three weeks straight so i told him i had my period and he settled for, like, fourteen handjobs or something instead. do they know that sweater dresses are basically sausage casings unless you wear support hose stretched from your toes to your chin? do they understand what serious work my bra is doing? do they realize these maternity pants are pulled up to my boobs? PROBABLY NOT. but she knows enough to recognize my stretch marks. and that pms isn't really "deadly." and there i was at scofflaw, my favorite place on earth, with my right tit being stabbed by an exposed underwire waiting for a person who would likely notice that fact within thirty seconds of removing her coat.

oh, right. do i help her take her coat off? if it rains later, should i put mine over a puddle? who opens the door? do i pull her chair out? should i walk on the outside of the sidewalk? i'm supposed to order for her, yes? is it bad that i didn't ask her father's permission after she invited me out? WHY AM I SO BAD AT LOVING PEOPLE THE RIGHT WAY?! welp.

sometimes it's hard to know when you're on a date with a dude, too. i mean, the progression of this ladydate blossomed so naturally that i almost didn't have time to have a nervous breakdown about it. i was cool as a cucumber, girl. um, except for the whole is-this-or-isn't-this-why-have-we-only-discussed-the-parameters-of-this-in-a-joking-way-because-that-is-confusing-sweating-through-my-clothes part. men are so shameless most of the time that's it's pretty easy to figure it out. if a dude says, "sam bro, wanna get some beers and eat an entire bison while watching the NCAA championships?" i know it's not a fucking date. and even when it's "hey sam, let's go to [enter name of moderately upscale restaurant] on [date night] while [pushing your tits up and wearing the one thing you own from bloomingdales] and sit in the [dimly lit romantic atmosphere] and feed each other [expensive finger food that can be eaten sexily] while we also [coo at each other]" i can usually tell when he starts showing me his text messages from random women that even though he is paying this is not a motherfucking date, either.

but there are those rare occasions when homeboy scrubbed his balls and sprayed good cologne on his chest and he sits counting the stars in my eyes in the nicest restaurant a CTA bus driver can afford and in my head i'm all, "wait a minute...should i not have worn rubber mom shoes to this?!" and if he hasn't referenced his penis or made declarations on its behalf by the end of the meal i know he's just trying to meet one of my hot friends. but women are subtle. and most of us aren't just going to serve up our vaginas with the soup course. (VAGINA SOUP, YUM.) so here's what i was working with:

-hot girl thinks i'm funny (DATE)
-meshell ndegeocello (date)
-her friend came to the pregame drinks part (not a date)
-like an asshole i asked if it was a date and got a response that was like "meh" (not a date)
-we spent an hour on the phone last week (date)
-i texted her from the bathroom at the bar while i was shitting and it didn't weird her out (not date-like, but that's my fucking fault because i'm gross)
-i didn't get drunk (date, because if it ain't i don't care about not looking like an alcoholic)
-she cried during the last song (date? also, if i am going to fuck women i have to buy way more kleenex)

i don't know, man. imma just roll with it. make her a big macaroni hostess cupcake pizza loaf and rinse her soccer cleats in the sink and see what happens. i'm so motherfucking tired. and i'm basically happy to be around anyone cool, whether i have to learn how to use a dental dam or not. just so we're clear, tho: 
this means we're in a relationship now, right? good, because i just broke my goddamned lease.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

first world problems.

issue sixteen. IT'S PIE SEASON, omg. my white friends always forget a bitch is black until i'm all, "where that sweet potato pie at?!" i'm not trying to holler at that gross pumpkin pie with the shiny pool of condensation grease oil-slicking the top, son! i need that stringy orange lumpy shit made by somebody's houseshoe-wearing big mama. and greens with a hamhock in them. except i don't want to, like, sit at your aunt's house or wherever to get it. which means most holidays i spend in my tiny apartment trying to make the bowel disease version of whatever it is normal people eat. and the menu typically looks like this: dry piece of reheated store turkey, boiled potato mush, box stuffing mix with canned cranberry wobble, football game, asleep by seven, work on friday. i need a new life.

call me maybe. i don't give a shit about christmas. and birthdays only serve as a reminder that i should probably get face surgery. easter is for children. halloween is for people who think slutty nurses are hilarious. basically, the only holiday i get hot for is your phone is eligible for an upgrade!!! day. i check that shit like a kid keeping her ear open for reindeer hooves on the roof, my little stockinged feet pitter pattering over to the glowing laptop as i refresh and re-refresh sprint's website with visions of a samsung galaxy ($0 with a 2-year contract extension) dancing in my head. man, this evo and i have been through a lot together. we've laughed, we've cried, we've sent 3,726 ill-advised pictures of my tits, but it is 9:23 on saturday morning and this asshole says it's 3:14 on sunday afternoon. she is refusing to properly sync my gmail. she fucked up six of my words with friends games. i made a phone call an hour ago and it sounded like i was calling from inside the belly of a whale. i have to set two alarms at night and use a (just in case) paper calendar! what is the point of this fancy phone, again? give me another month with this thing and i'll be be forced to use carrier pigeons and send smoke signals.

so i need to get a new phone, y'all. and until i have to decide whether to get the fluke or the baby octopus at mk, this is THE TOUGHEST DECISION I'VE EVER BEEN FORCED TO MAKE. seriously, i've been known to waffle over a brunch menu (see what i did there?) but this phone thing is stressing me out. oh i know i know, first world problems. and that's a fair criticism from those impoverished and malnourished among you who took precious time away from farming impenetrable soil while fighting insurgents for control of your developing country's government to read this frivolous-ass fucking blog. in other words: SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH THAT. the other day at work i turned to laura and said, "today is going to be a challenge." and this crotchety goat, to whom i was not speaking, replied, in a horrible attempt to shame my ass, "18,000 people at hostess lost their jobs today." well then i suppose it sucks to be a bitch who makes twinkies. 

i didn't snark, "man i hate work" or "having a paying job is totes the worst" or "gee those ding dong makers are really living the dream" like some spoiled fucking brat. but even if i had, so the fuck what? what is this incessant shaming people are doing all the goddamned time? if you have a private jet, it is well within YOUR rights to vocally complain that fueling that motherfucker is hella expensive. it is also MY right to hope you and your loud mouth and your millions of dollars die in a fiery crash. but what i won't do is hold up a picture of a helpless puppy somebody kicked while giving you some bullshit speech about being grateful. if you try to shame people, you are a total asshole. bitch, you don't know my life. now go get me a new iphone so i can tweet about my $300 highlights and instagram my dinner at alinea.

you can find me in da club, wit a bottle full of bub. recently i made the mistake of thinking i am still young enough to unironically be in a nightclub. as i stood in my closet trying to figure out which of my dressy mom-shirts revealed the most cleavage helen lounged on the bathroom rug eyeing me scornfully. "bitches who take prevacid have no business out at the disco." and yes, that cat is right. but some things you have to just see for yourself. a hard head makes a soft ass, i guess.

here's what i hate now that i'm old:
-music too loud.
-rapper i came to see three hours late. AND COUNTING.
-so many promo fliers!
-young girls too naked-looking, provoking my mothering instinct.
-not enough seats for my hurting ass legs.
-who the fuck is flo rida? and why does he have so many similar-sounding songs?
-paying the bathroom lady just because she happens to be blocking the paper towels.
-not doing coke anymore makes things way less fun than i remember.
-FIFTEEN DOLLARS FOR A DRINK, BRO?
-watching people text on the dancefloor.
-going to the one place i don't know the bouncer and being hijacked out of a cover.
-did i mention the music is deafening?
-and that motherfucking talib kweli is now three and a half hours late?!
-posting up at the bar to see if anyone notices me or the gravy stain on my shirt.
-sadness upon realization that no such noticing is happening.
-counting the hours until i have to get up.
-cab fare, with which i could have bought lunch for a week.
-judgment from the cat, who is visibly annoyed that i've stumbled in and woken her up.

i quit. meet me at red lobster at 4pm for dinner. shit.

lipstick on his collar. i am obsessed with wearing red lipstick lately. like, all the time. you can't tell in this shitty saturday night cats on the prowl bathroom picture that caitlin and i took, but i'm wearing it here, too. jessi and i got makeovers on monday done by my beautiful friend larae at water tower MAC. makeup is so dumb sometimes. i somehow managed to look both older and younger at the same goddamned time. teenager on my lips and grandmother around the eyes. and not because she didn't do an amazing job, it's just that these baby crow feet are like eyeshadow depositories, and the shit just SITS IN THOSE CREVICES MOCKING ME. larae taught me how to do a smokey eye with browns/bronzes instead of grey/black, and it was gorgeous for approximately thirty-two seconds, at which point my extra virgin face oil started to turn that shit into two brown smears and all that sparkle powder started settling into those gutters at the corners of my eyes.

i'm not getting up at five in the morning to put a face on that will have melted into my neck meat by lunchtime. it was nice to have a lovely woman half an inch from my blackheads and chin whiskers, though. i bought nearly everything she used on me, because i haven't yet given up all hope. so if you see me out with large shimmery brown raccoon eyes and sloppily applied liquid liner that looks like someone attacked my face with a broken ink pen you better pretend that shit looks amazing. i mean, come on. if i use a lip pencil, lipstick, and contrasting gloss for dimension, i want a motherfucking award. or a pity smile. it's the least you can do.

caped crusader. i don't like wearing shit that makes me feel like ursula from the little mermaid. there, i said it. my closet is full of long black drapey shit that i never wear because i'd rather just put on a fucking hoodie, but my solution (as well as evidence that i really am your goddamned grandma) is the cinched, belted cape. magazines have convinced me, friends. you fat broads better get with it. MAKE SURE YOU PUT ON A BELT, THO. skinny girls look cute in voluminous bedsheet outerwear. your ass needs a goddamned belt. to make a waist. because that shit looks hella sexy. now run out and get one before it starts snowing out here and we all turn into homeless-looking blanket people.

fakesgiving. every november i try to compile a list of reasons i have not to jump off a building yet. then in december, when everyone around me is brimming with holiday cheer, i write a list of everything i absolutely hate and it's usually three times as long. i'm tired and i have an inflamed joint in my back that is pinching my sciatic nerve and i really am not feeling thankful for shit, but here is a mini-list. because manners.

1 i am grateful that i live in a first-world country. what? it's in poor taste to say that or something? I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME. i can't complain about my ridiculously expensive internet phone but i also can't give thanks for living in a place where even toddlers get to have them? make up your minds, jerks. i like knowing what kim kardashian ate for breakfast. and the tawdry details of that elmo puppet sex scandal. no one blew up the bus i took to work, i can walk outside with my titties out while burning an american flag, and if i want to i can marry a lady provided that i do that shit above the mason dixon line. this country gets so many things wrong, but if the halted production of a $2 snack cake makes front page news for days at a time i think we're all probably going to be okay. at least until we can hitch a ride to sweden and live the fucking dream.

2 i am grateful for pharmaceutical companies. the only people who hate big pharma are people who aren't chronically ill with some shit that makes life not worth living. their price-gouging and patent bullshit? you bet your dick i hate that. i tried to get some nexium last week and that shit was two hundred and thirty motherfucking dollars, and i am lucky enough to have adequate health coverage! that's outrageous! the pharmacist and i clutched our midsections, incredulous laughter shaking through our bodies. after we wiped our tearing eyes and tried to recover from astrazeneca's hilarious practical joke i puked on her, because acid reflux is a dirty whore bitch. then i bought some prilosec and decided to double the dose and hope that worked itself out. natural remedies are cute until they start talking about cutting your guts out. bring on those big blue pills. and the purple ones. the  tasty yellow ones, too. ooh and those good orange ones...

3 i am grateful for cable television. you bitches who just have computers or whatever are going to really have to sell me on that shit. i want all of the channels. what on earth rules harder than twelve hours of back to back SVU? or watching entire seasons of the real housewives in their various cities? nothing, that's what. maybe sunshine, and fresh air, but i am allergic to those.

3.5 i am grateful for my friend and pal girl vs. whale. she is the cutest. and the smartest. and she is helping me turn these fucking essays into something readable. while also being a constant reminder that everything is stupid but it's okay, WE'LL LIVE.

4 i am grateful for my internet friends. especially YOU. be safe out there. happy thanksgiving. then, dp.

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.