Friday, November 1, 2013

anatomy of a diss.

i'm never texting another dude for as long as i motherfucking live. never say never? I'M SAYING NEVER. you know i no longer give a fuck about dating, and this is 99.4% of the reason why: texting is weird, dudes are awful, and i have neither the time nor inclination to start fixing all of the shit that's wrong with me. i don’t even want a boyfriend, man. but then i keep seeing that one match.com commercial featuring that one girl with the adorable king charles spaniel dancing around her closet taking instant grams of potential first date outfits and i am fully invested like i know her, balanced precariously on the edge of my bed clutching my baby blanket to my heaving bosom, tears streaking a path through the (gluten free) el milagro dust clinging to my sticky cheeks, shouting "no girl, not the red jacket! the drape is all wrong!" desperately at my miniature-version-of-an-adult-tv 19" flatscreen. "what is that, sushi? god, i hate billiards. he couldn't have taken her on a nicer date? get out forever thanks." and that euphoric 30 seconds is enough to delude me into thinking that maybe i should be featured in one of these commercials. I AM TOTALLY ADORABLE. check it: the scene opens. camera pans up my narrow entryway, carefully avoiding the two big bags of garbage i am waiting for a reason to take down to the dumpster. i’m laughing with all my teeth showing, the way women always do in commercials, scrolling through the zero messages received on my smart phone's handy match.com app. "i’m so fucking happy being single!" my terrifying open-mouthed grin silently reveals as the nondescript adult contemporary soundtrack twinkles in the background. i pull several fashionable items (read: my one decent pair of jeans) from the closet (ie the designated “clean” pile on the floor) and hold them at arm’s length, admiring my effortless style and good taste, blissfully unaware that the viewer can see the lumpy outline of the poise pad i am wearing through the leggings i am legit trying to pass off as real pants. oh look! there is my pet cat! i am in no way creepy or undateable even though you can see that she totally has her own spot on my bed!

next, the photo montage: 1 me falling over as i desperately try to tug those nice jeans that i am surprised to find don't fit anymore up my legs. 2 me holding helen so tight that my fingers turn white as she struggles to escape my grasp. 3 helen, looking irritated. 4 me checking my phone to discover that the tentative plans i'd made with my match.com suitor are being cancelled while i'm still only halfway in those pants and my best bra. 5 helen again, surly and bored. 6 me one last time, eating nachos on the toilet while flipping through the latest issue of marie claire and watching hulu on my phone. I DON'T BELIEVE IN LOVE ANYMORE. scene.

2:53 pm today, email to xojane's emily mccombs. "i paused my elastic-waisted pants piece for a second to write a blog about this total rejecton i got from a dude i thought was into me. BECAUSE HE SEEMED INTO ME." 1 let's talk about how i am officially never wearing pants with either a zipper or buttons ever again. 2 i don't do the "test the waters to see if he likes me" thing, because that is a goddamned trap. one minute i'm just dipping a toe in to check if the water is warm and the next i am circling the drain of unretractable texts, choking on my optimism and dying. i'm not a fucking tiger. i don't enjoy stalking my prey and then lying in wait to see if i can catch it before tearing its limbs apart. i'm a buzzard, bro. lazily circling nearby waiting to pick what's left off the bloody carcass you jungle cats leave behind. that's me in the corner of the club, hollering at that vulnerable divorced dude who can't stop crying his first night back on the prowl. well maybe not but i guess what i'm really trying to say is i do not, under any circumstances, enjoy a challenge.

i am impressed by you ladies who do. i just can't, tho. i gotta know that a person is into me, at least a little fucking bit. i can't just be blindly putting myself out there. I AM NOT A GAMBLER. this is the only thing i will ever envy about a man: the way they bounce back from constant rejection. that is the only purpose the Y chromosome serves, correct? that and the ability to accurately remember basketball statistics season after goddamned season? HOW DO YOU LEARN THAT. if catcalling worked the other way around i would constantly be a blathering, teary mess. seriously, if i was standing in front of the coffee shop in my hood with a cigarette and half a latte chirping, "good morning, mister handsome! can a bitch get to know ya?" to every gentleman who passed by i wouldn't make it through two of them before the callous insults hurled my way would leave me a shaking, sniveling pile of sadz. isn't that how we do it? growl "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE" at the obnoxious street harrasser before putting our heads down and quickening our steps while hoping this simple motherfucker doesn't decide follow us to the train?! that said, i will leave it to the rest of you birds to be pleasantly surprised, but i'ma be out here waiting for a sure thing.

last october, lacuna artist loft. i went to a gallery show for a hot black artist in the vain attempt to meet the kind of superfly brothers i have been led to believe hang out in such posh and bourgeois environs. so i was standing by myself at this fruity art party sipping my free wine watching all the kids in their $300 gym shoes quote rap lyrics at each other or whatever when this handsome piece of beef jerky sidles up alongside me and starts making small talk. i am really fucking good at small talk. this is the only benefit of being funny, the ease with which i can engage weirdos and assholes in meaningless conversation. i don't enjoy it, because i would much rather just be chilling alone picking all of the cubes of pepper jack out of the variety pack the host bought at sam's club, but if i have to i will do it. and be charming as fuck in the process.

so homie was 100% sam's ideal dude to fuck: plaid shirt, clashing bow tie, crispy fade, stylish glasses, wool shawl collar cardigan, stylish glasses, jeans that fit and sit just below his natural waist. and i talked to that motherfucker for, like, an hour and a half. which is a really long time not to check a mirror when you're wearing red lipstick and also possibly wine teeth. he was so great! i was having so much fun! but he didn't ask for my number before i left so that was the end of that. thank goodness for pepper jack cheese, otherwise my night might have been a total bust.

last october + two or three days give or take. FORGOT ABOUT THAT DUDE ENTIRELY.

7ish, last wednesday. seriously, i don't fucking dwell. anyway, i threw a book party to celebrate my book "meaty" and that hot dude in the grandpa sweater was there in another outfit fresh from a new england fishery, all marled wool and adorable toggles and man i forgot how cute this fucking dude was. after i spent an hour reading about how shaving my labia majora is a total fucking drag and how i lied to a group of harmless strangers about having given birth to two sets of triplets (WHAT) he stopped by the table where i was signing books and made sure to 1 give me his number and 2 ask me to text him so we could "hang out." neither of which was solicited. and, since he didn't really mean the shit anyway?, i would much rather he'd dropped $15 on a book.

11:42 pm (or thereabouts) last wednesday, passenger seat of rob's car.
sam: yo. al gave me his number, my dude. WHAT SAY YOU?
rob: al's a good man, sam. reach out.
sam: wait a minute. are you sure he doesn't have a girlfriend? how can a single man possibly have such a wide assortment of really nice cardigans?
rob: he's not seeing anybody. just text him, stupid.
sam: what did his last girlfriend look like? was she pretty? is he into fat girls? do you know whether he's interested in something long-term or is just looking for a casual physical thing? how does he feel about children? oh snap, is that a 7-eleven?! let's see if they have twinkies!

12:27 pm last thursday, my gross office. OH SHIT, SON. iMESSAGE. WE COULD TOTALLY FACETIME ON THE TOILET ONCE WE GET TO THE COMFORTABLE STAGE OF THE RELATIONSHIP.

3:49 pm last thursday, on the toilet at work. "how does one casually convey little more than a passing interest in a gentleman breezily via sms message?"

6:21 pm, purple line run 704. i fucking hate digging my phone out of my bag during rush hour while standing butts-to-nuts with all of the other dirtbags doing the reverse commute. i always wind up inadvertently pinching a nipple or massaging a bootyhole or whatever. and that sucks. so usually i just lean against the door like a corpse with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, but i felt that telltale buzzing from inside my bag against my hip and as much as i wanted to resist i simply could not. so i knocked an elderly woman over with my giant bag and nearly punched a baby in the face trying to wrestle my phone from one of the hidden pockets within. only to find out that the next few weeks are "kinda shitty." WHICH IS NOT A REAL THING. just say you don't want to kick it with me, young man. you ain't gotta pretend you're being audited or whatever, bruh. i know when i've been charged to the game. why not just shout FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE in my face then put your head down, clutch your purse a little tighter, and keep that shit moving.



please buy my little meatbook here. no texting or hanging out required.