Thursday, January 31, 2013

instagram > whiskered meat beard.

january is that fresh shit. on 1/2/13 i: bought a new calendar, copped a big bag of organic vegetables from the indoor farmers market, signed up for something called "chair yoga," and started responding to emails that i'd read and dismissed last june. and by 1/5/13 i was: back to ordering takeout falafels+kebabs and sleeping for fourteen hours at a stretch is my party clothes. HAPPY NEW YEAR.

it's the end of the month already, but you can't be salty because i am writing this goddamned book still and watching season four of sons of anarchy and taking half-naked pictures of myself with my new iphone. besides, i'm sure you were all too busy counting your calories and becoming better people to notice i hadn't made one of these in a grip. don't worry, one of my easy-to-complete 2013 resolutions was MAKE MORE FAKE COSMO COVERS. i'm already off to a jamming start.

resolved! i don't make resolutions because i don't enjoy being cruelly mocked by those bitches two weeks after i write them down.

ten new year's resolutions that fail year after year because americans are shiftless, lazy assholes.

1 eat healthier. i'm going to, i swear. here is what i'm having for lunch today: fancy pretzels, expensive-ass yogurt from whole foods, and pre-cubed watermelon chunks because blackness. what i really want is a hot dog, with chili on it. and, if i close my eyes and put some yogurt in my mouth then shove in as many pretzels as will fit and concentrate really fucking hard then it sort of feels like that's what i'm eating. sigh.

2 get in shape. AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT. seriously, when i unfasten my shackle at the end of an eleven hour workday the last thing i am thinking about is exposing my delicate meat and cheese to the thin layer of fungus blanketing my local muscle factory. bitches is tired. and they never schedule zumba at a realistic time for me to get to other than nine o'clock sunday mornings and when i do drag this ham carcass out of bed i immediately undo all that intense hip gyrating with some soppressata and a kardashian marathon.

3 spend more time with family and friends. okay, but i have the type of famfriends who like to eat shit and stay round so this might not be the best advice for keeping my resolutions.

4 be more organized. WHAT.

5 spend less money. this is a joke. if apple would stop making gadgets i desperately need and stephanie izard would stop coming up with new restaurants i would totally die without trying (SOB) then "saving money" might be a thing i could actually accomplish.

6 learn something new. just this morning i found out that there is such a fucking thing as FART PORN. mission accomplished.

7 travel to new places. does milwaukee count?

8 quit smoking. smoking looks cool. man, i really do put my big hairy dick in everyfuckingthing, but the one way i haven't yet destroyed my pre-corpse was to start smoking. i have done EVERYTHING ELSE, but could never get with smoking. because eating is so much more fun and you can do it inside. so i've already got this one in the bag. the potato chip bag, but a bag nonetheless.

9 volunteer. even i raise money for charity, every day of every month, and i'm the meanest dirtbag there ever was. the rest of you have no excuse.

10 get more sleep. now this i will happily do! as soon as i finish writing thi-- zzZzZzzzZz

have you ever finished an entire bottle of nail polish ever in your goddamned life?! i was sheepishly lurking in the feminine products aisle at the fancy wicker park walgreens last week, trying to inconspicuously shove a giant bonus pack of overnight kotex pads under the newest issue of lucky magazine (which i shouldn't even buy because that shit is, like, the least relevant to my life of all of the magazines) when i overheard two stylish fashionistas having a RUL SERIOUS conversation about nail polish in front of the wall of shampoo. it went something like this:

kimmi: "have you seriously never gotten a gel manicure?! omg, it is amaze?"

brittni: "i know, right? but i just don't wanna, you know, commit to a nail color for that long? three weeks is, like, a rilly long time to have dark purple nails?"

kimmi: "pale nails are totally on trend for spring 2013? so you could, like, seriously try one now with no regrets?"

i glanced down at my own hands, nails bitten down to stumps with jagged bits of sausage casing trapped beneath what little remained, flecks of two month old sky blue polish (on trend circa fall 2010) slowly disintegrating beneath my cuticles. and i wondered, "why don't i know what the hot looks are for spring nails? am i even worthy of this withered old vagina?!"

the real first-world problem with shit like this is that by the time i've bloodied my fingers trying to peel the plastic wrapper off the $12 bottle of OPI i just purchased at the nail shop yesterday it's ALREADY NEXT FUCKING SEASON and the shit is goddamned obsolete. can we just talk for a minute about how i have never in my entire life finished a bottle of nail polish? i'm not sure that i have ever even seen the bottle half full. because after i used that go on green two or three goddamned times all the fashionable bitches were throwing shade on my out of style nail wardrobe and politely hinting that the cool girls had moved on to pale vomit for fall. HOW IN THE FUCK CAN I STAY WITH THE TIMES, MAN. those bitches are amazing.

i'm ahead of the curve now, though. stepped up my mani game, and this season i'm going to set the fucking trends. "greasy salami residue." don't sleep. 


i'm on a diet, except i love getting drunk and eating food. the other night over a ricotta+bacon white pie and nineteen pints of beer angie turns to me and says, "how come i haven't seen you working out at cheetah?" BECAUSE I'M TOO BUSY EATING PIZZA AND GETTING SHITFACED WITH YOU, BITCH. thank goodness i'm amazing, because most of my friends are the kinds of people who wouldn't even blink if you served them a KFC double down with a side of piping hot krispy kremes. ain't nobody counting calories at olive garden; they make eating things fun.

BUT MY BIG ASS, THO. "making better choices" is a thing i pretend i'm doing right now, and it's kind of working. for instance, i chose to boil a bunch of okra and eat it with a can of salmon according to the tenets of this anti-inflammatory thing i'm trying, and then i chose to go to bed at four in the afternoon to keep myself from putting my pants on to walk down to the tamale cart posted up in my hood. i've figured my problem out: 1 i just can't buy things that are horrible and expect that i will have even a delicious cupcake crumb of self-control and 2 if i am in a restaurant, and i have money, and there is a bar, and no one judgmental is watching i will go apeshit. skinny model with a trust fund apeshit. yep, gimme that cassoulet and the duck pate and the escargot and the cheese plate and half a dozen gin smashes and imma worry about that silly "diet" and that pesky "phone bill" tomorrow. then tomorrow comes and i wonder why i got a disconnect notice from the electric company and realize that i consumed 76,239 fat grams in one evening and basically what i'm saying is that if you weren't inviting me out all the time i would TOTALLY BE A THIN MILLIONAIRE.

weight watchers. i'm doing it. shut up about it. i get it.


funny face. i have this weird, dumb asshole friend who is always texting me weird, dumb asshole shit like this: "another date with bald guy. took me to avec, totally paid. too bad he's hideous or i would bang him." remember that time you fucked that dude with the eye patch and the missing front tooth after he took you to a movie and rolled through the drive-thru after and he kept calling you stephanie even though your name is sam? yeah, neither do i, which is why shit like this is wholly infuriating.

because sometimes you have to fuck the funny people. or the people who helped with your car note last month. or the awkward people who bought you a cheeseburger. NOT EVERYBODY CAN BE GORGEOUS. don't the marginally-attractive deserve a good bone-down every once in a while, too?!?!! damn, lady! maybe i'm just bitching because i met dude and he was chivalrous and asked me real questions about my stupid cat and how poorly my fantasy team did this season and then he paid for everything and i thought for that alone that young man deserved a firm, moderately-paced handjob at the very least. i should've just given him one under the table before the dessert course. poor fella.


instagram is a miracle. "the problem with life is that we compare our behind-the-scenes footage with everyone else's highlight reel." REALEST SHIT I EVER READ. that's why my favorite thing from the terrifying future is instagram. my face through the magical x-pro filter, with its harsh edges softened and its imperfections blurred, is a gauzy dream made of mewling kittens. instead of my real face, which is a goddamned horrorshow made of deli meats and flop sweat. i could stand arm's length from a mirror for the rest of my life, gazing lovingly at my pastel reflection. i'm throwing out all my makeup. AND NEVER MEETING ANYONE IN PERSON EVER AGAIN.

Thursday, January 24, 2013

you need to stop fucking dickbags who are reckless with your heart.

happy new year, you dirty hookers. tomorrow i am joining weight watchers and alcoholics anonymous, but today? today i'm eating fried chicken in my pajamas and watching playoff football like a real man. a real man who doesn't worry about calorie counts and whether or not his socks match. today i'm letting my nuts hang. i didn't do shit over the holidays: wore a weird, inappropriately short dress to christmas dinner at cara's; read a bunch of memoirs and essays trying to pump myself up for my own but that shit just fucking backfired and made me feel like a dumb asshole who has no business writing a book; finally got netflix streaming and watched a bunch of shitty tv on my too small computer. ending the year with a bang, obviously, re-reading mindy kaling's book while watching EVERY SINGLE EPISODE OF THE HILLS THAT WAS EVER MADE. what the fuck is my fucking problem. you know i'm in my 30s, right?!

resolution time. listen, nerds. all i was trying to do was step my game up and stop dicking around with assholes who can't spell and don't have an ATM card. when i wrote that post a year ago all i was trying to do was raise my fucking standards an eighth of an inch and stop giving blowjobs to grown-ass men who still have a curfew and haven't read a full-length book since the eleventh goddamned grade. no offense to those of you who enjoy eating salads yet hate going down on your girlfriends, but on the precipice of 2012 i decided that i wasn't checking for you anymore and that it was time for this old vagina to bang a motherfucker with character who can put a fucking kitchen table together without bursting into frustrated tears. if that isn't you, then let's just agree to disagree like civil people. holy mother of cock, THE BACKLASH WAS SWIFT. and unrelenting! you would've thought that i'd said "don't fuck a broke motherfucker with bad shoes and a tiny dick" or something considering all the goddamned hatemail i received. you motherfuckers don't have more interesting shit to do than send me barely-intelligible emails? because if i fucking had that would easily eliminate ninety-five percent of the eligible heterosexual male public. you sons of bitches are that in love with facebook?! goddamn. SO MANY MOIST RESPONSES, and all i fucking said was that i want to have sex with a masculine man who goes to the doctor when he's sick and doesn't fucking wear skinny jeans. and will throw an electric toaster in my bath water when i get sassy.

on to the business at hand. TELL ME YOU READ THAT NEW YORK TIMES ARTICLE. (if you're not an illiterate, uncultured asshole) you know the one. the one about "the death of courtship." if you didn't, hurry up and google that shit so you can get depressed and immediately delete your okcupid profile. i know you hate reading so i did it for you: to summarize, the article details the trifling state of modern dating, a word that has devolved to the point of having virtually no meaning. you kids are just "hanging out" or "getting together," fucking it up for those of us who might actually want to sit in a dimly-lit room across from a relative stranger who is happy to pay for our gin in exchange for our sparkling conversation. and maybe a teabag at the end of the night.

my comedyfriend bill bullock has this to say about the fabled gentleman who doesn't just text you to show up at the bar to watch him and his friends play pool, therefore circumventing an actual date: 
I SWEAR WE STILL EXIST. it goes all of the ways. everyone has to expect more and not give up. don't tolerate dickbags who are reckless with your heart. and seriously stop fucking those guys, no matter how cute they are or how many guitars they can play at the same time or whatever. they will fucking figure it out and fall back in line. meanwhile, the overly-honest, confident, nice guys who actually like real courtship or whatever (or, at least, like actual casual dating that isn't just casual fucking) will rise to the top like cream.

your pussyhole just got wet, didn't it. THAT SHIT JUST RESTORED MY FAITH IN MANKIND. there are chest-thumping, novel-reading, mortgage-paying men who will take you out on a goddamned date! they will call you on the phone! they will email you something sweet in the middle of the day! now we just have to fucking find them and stop fellating their heartless, illiterate brethren. i had a couple good dates and abbreviated courtships last year, all with dudes who don't go by rap names or instagram their fucking dinner. let's hope this year is equally rad.

THE 2013 MAN REQUIREMENT LIST


1 be charming as a motherfucker. i'm really fucking charming. like, almost disgustingly so. the shit isn't hard, dummies. i want people to like me, so i am sweet and funny when i am around them and then they give me things. rocket science, this is not. so let last year be the last fucking year you broads introduce your friends to that brooding, monosyllabic piece of shit who won't look up from his phone long enough to order an appetizer let alone compliment your friend on her nice dress and engage the waiter in a bit of witty banter. he doesn't need to tap dance or whatever, but if dude can't be bothered to make a couple icebreaking jokes while smiling and actually learning the names of at least two of the people at the dinner table then fuck him.  just not literally. men don't need to know which is the service plate or to leave the napkin semi-folded at the left side of the place setting when he excuses himself to the bathroom, but they do need to know how to elicit a smile from even your most standoffish friend.

the worst feeling of all of the feelings is the one you get when EVERYONE YOU LOVE HATES YOUR DICK OF A BOYFRIEND. we're too old to say shit like, "he's really nice when you get to know him" while making the apology eyes to all of our insulted friends after he bails on the party halfway through to instead go sulk in the car while texting that other broad until we're ready to go home. even if it's fake, nothing gets me more revved up in the pants than watching a dude work a hostile room or flatter an angry waitress. charm does for grown folks what sullen pouting does for salty teenagers; it's the currency of adulthood.


2 make conversation. texting has ruined everything. in starbucks the other day this dude actually said "LOL!" in response to a casual conversation joke i made while pressed butts to nuts with the other 137 people smashed into the coffee waiting area because it never fails that bitches gotta order complicated breakfast sandwiches when all i want is a soy chai, and at first i thought he was making fun of me but then i realized that he'd really said, "LOL" in lieu of actual laughter. that shit was more shocking than paying $4.86 for five ounces of hot water with some soymilk in it. i couldn't even fucking respond. THAT IS A DUDE WHO DOES NOT DESERVE TO BE GETTING LAID.

3 can fix at least one fucking thing. i can sew on a button. now, you are never going to see my ass on project runway, but if my tits bust through my one clean dress shirt and i have to be somewhere fancy i can thread a needle and sew on one button just in time to make the next downtown train. will it look good? probably not, especially since my shirt is black and the thread is probably green. will it last? well hopefully, at least until i make it home. the point is that i can do that shit. dudes need to know how to hook up a carburetor or snake a clogged drain or reconfigure an iphone, SOMETHING.

have you ever had one just lounging around on your goddamned couch in his underwear eating chips and fondling the remote while watching the game on the flatscreen you couldn't figure out how to mount on the wall, and even though the screws and a drill are sitting right there next to it, i'm talking infuriatingly close, he can't be bothered to get off his ass at halftime and hang that shit for you?! yeah, me neither. that's why in 2013 if you walk in my shit and notice that the front of my dresser looks weird because i'm too dumb +/- lazy to put ikea furniture together using those wordless pictures and you don't unzip your pants and use your dick to adjust the alignment of the third drawer i am going to kick you the fuck out of my house. even in the winter. you don't have to be macgyver and fashion a nuclear weapon out of a ponytail holder and a can of sprite or whatever, but i'ma need you to make this toilet start flushing right after you install the backup on my computer please and thanks high five.

4 be a good dad and treat his babymama like a person. there is nothing cuter than a cute fucking dude with his adorable fucking kid. you need to get over the no kid thing, sister. at our rapidly advancing age a lot of men already have them, even white ones! if you are lucky enough to find a dude without one, pat yourself on the back and hold on to that unicorn motherfucker for dear life. the rest of us will be over here playing that "does she or doesn't she hate me?" game with the skeptical woman who doesn't want us hanging out with her kid on the weekends he's with daddy. have you never danced that glorious waltz? the one where you squirm uncomfortably in the passenger seat while homeboy takes too long fastening junior into his carseat and ol' girl turns you into a pillar of salt with her blistering side eye? YEAH, ME NEITHER.

every time i'm awkwardly standing in the corner at a three-year-old's birthday party sneaking some vodka from a flask into my cup of lukewarm hawaiian punch holding in a nervous poo because my overcompensatingly nice gift looks hella out of place amongst the sensible toys his family bought i think, "i can't wait to be old enough to fuck dudes with grown-ass kids." because at least then we could split a six-pack and watch vh1 away from the glare of her resentful mother. the only thing worse than an ex-wifewho hates you is an ex-wife your man treats like total shit. beware the dude who shittalks his former lover, because that bitch is TOTALLY GOING TO BE YOU someday. oh, not you? because you're going to be together forever? sorry, i forgot. but the rest of us need to listen close when homeboy starts ranting about "that crazy bitch who ruined his life."

5 not be afraid of a little curry goat. it's the new millenium, homie. bitches gotta eat some international cuisine. cheeseburgers and donuts are hella good, but sometimes i like to pretend i'm actually the type of person who watches informational programming on PBS. so we are trying that lebanese spot whether you like it or not. and don't embarrass me at the peruvian joint, pouting and demanding they make you a plain chicken sandwich. YOU WILL EAT THAT CHANA MASALA AND YOU WILL LOVE IT, BRO. 

6 will wait to bang you without whining like a fucking brat. i don't know how many days your rule has to be. thirty? sixty? you decide that shit. my personal waiting period is "whenever the connection feels right" which is just a fruity way of saying first date sex is okay if "he already knows i'm an orphan" and/or "i pooped while talking to him on the phone." i'm doing this new thing where i try to wait more than half an hour to bang a dude i'm into because i read all those articles about oxytocin and i'm terrified of becoming chemically bound to some asshole who just wants to fuck my hot friends. I AM NOT SMARTER THAN BIOLOGY. i don't think a handful of interactions is an unreasonable expectation before i subject my neurotransmitters to a bunch of powerful hormones that are going to make me weak-kneed and starry-eyed over a guy who is going to give me the just friends speech next week. and he should be cool with that, however long it takes.

but don't wait too long, though. i don't have "good enough to wait six months for" pussy. and you don't either, you frigid asshole. two steak dinners and that man should get a handjob at the very least. jesus.


7 BE FUCKING NICE. i don't mean "won't punch you in the face." that shit is a given. i'm talking basic consideration: doesn't play mind games, doesn't talk shit about your body, doesn't lie to you all the goddamned time. nice too often gets a bad fucking rap. you hear "nice," you think "weak," you go find someone dangerous and exciting which are really just euphemisms for MEAN. god, i just don't want to suck anymore thoughtless dicks, you know? look sir, i'm not saying you have to turn my apartment into a greenhouse or whatever, but if you could send some flowers a couple times a month as a thank you for that repulsive thing i allow you to do inside my delicate meathole it would make me feel like a goddamned champion. remembers my motherfucking birthday, offers to stop by with some broth when i am dying and choking up lungbutter, keeps a few cans of ginger ale for me in his fridge: THIS IS MY DATING FUTURE. and yours, too. i have never been the type to shun some dude just because he had the goddamned audacity to show up, on time, properly dressed, for that thing we planned ahead of time. the nerve of him!

you bitches have to get your goddamned shit together and stop writing a dude off just because he listens when you talk and doesn't play mind games or cheat on you constantly. i've cycled through so many pieces of garbage that it still catches me off guard when a nice man makes good on his promises. let's make more exceptions to the asshole rule. nothing feels better than not staring at the phone alone in your partyclothes because some jagoff forgot that tuesday is your night. a nice dude would've been on your porch ten minutes ago.


8 will suffer through some boring, pretentious art shit without becoming a total fucking asshole. last year i decided i needed to go to more museums, and i have NEVER BEEN MORE BORED IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. intellectually enlightened: yes. culturally enriched: for sure. stimulated and entertained: never. but i can't be up in the club all the goddamned time. it's too fucking loud and HERE IS SOMETHING GROSS: a couple weeks ago i took my walker to the disco because it was ladies night and there is nothing sexier than standing around a club full of salty bitches who are wondering where all the men at? i went to the bathroom to make sure my lip gloss hadn't melted down my face and there were children gathered around the sink fixing their false eyelashes and drunkcrying into the voicemails of their cheating boyfriends. one turned to me, shoulders heaving with sobs, face streaked with tears, and i hugged her. i cradled an adult human female in a motherfucking public bathroom. it's time for me to start eating dinner at four in the afternoon, obviously.

i have tickets to the lyric opera this season. and i'm pretty sure i could buy a white baby on the black market for less than what i paid to see motherfucking hansel + gretel live from the tenth row, but since i am being dragged kicking and screaming into my wine-appreciation years i figure that it's about goddamned time i start trying to enjoy seated activities that require an outfit with sequins and won't blow my goddamned eardrums out. and i can't waste another minute of time with a dude who can't walk around the art institute or sit crammed uncomfortably in a chair at the CSO for a couple of hours. I HATE IT TOO, BRO. but we're adults now! we need to know who montserrat is!!! and yes my legs are tired, but these ming dynasty artifacts are not going to learn about themselves.  sorry to break it to you, but weekly trivia is a thing our age group is into now. we need to know some shit. i'm a sore motherfucking loser.


9 can make a decent sandwich. every time you see someone making a slow-motion sandwich on television or in a movie that shit is always the most sensual thing you've ever fucking seen in your entire life. tender caresses of the bread, the soft kiss of tomato on mayonnaise: it's downright erotic. there is nothing sexier, in the history of every sexy thing, than watching a dude cook. a man made from-scratch pancakes in 2012 for your girl and i am NEVER GOING BACK. i'm not kidding. every dude i ever bang from now on has to boil a pot of rice or fry up a hot dog or else he's not getting a bite of my cookies.

JAM OUT WITH YOUR CLAMS OUT, LADIES. and if it's not a love letter made of bologna and crushed oreos, don't email me shit.