Monday, March 4, 2013

i want some goddamned romance.

bitch, you missed my birthday. one more year closer to really needing some goddamned face surgery. my neck is already like, "ahem...?" and it's only a matter of time before the congealed bacon grease i've been substituting for eye cream melts down my face and settles into the deep valleys on either side of my mouth. 33 years of incessant scowling looks like shit in real life, and you kids can't stop taking high definition photos of my saddlebags the second i relax to take a breath and forget to hold my fucking stomach in. i'm not 24, jerks: GIVE ME A SECOND TO POSE. your mom and i fucking hate this digital age. is it too much to ask that you fire a warning shot so i can organize my jibs before you're instagramming pictures of my sweet undercarriage and the bulgy places the spanx doesn't cover? i hope the first thing the chinese take from us when they make their final payment on america are these digital cameras everyone is always embarrassing me with. let's bring back a little mystery with our slavery, yes?

i got a pretty rad mohawk, which is hilarious since the left side of my head is going grey at a comical clip, and i threw a big birthday party i could hardly stay awake during. i literally FELL ASLEEP ON THE TOILET AT A NIGHTCLUB at 11:30pm even though the theme was "dance jams of the 2000s" and the 12-year-old dj was snickering ironically through all of the ludacris songs my old-ass friends were dancing to in earnest. i should have been screaming along with missy elliott, not texting the latecomers asking them to sneak me in some espresso. later i was leaning on my walker at the bar trying to order a sazerac (your dad and i like those) to wash down my centrum silver with when these little miniskirted assholes pushed passed me asking each other who nelly is. i should've have turned them over my knee and spanked them. anyway, i picked up a bag of 3am birthday tacos on the way home, but when i got there all i had the strength to do was fill the humidifier and rub icy hot on my ankles and knees. you read that right: it is important to me to fill the humidifier before i go to bed. next year, my party is going to be at olive garden. AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON.


this is my motherfucking jesus year, bro. and to celebrate i just read that time magazine article about how 70% of survey respondents over the age of 40 claimed they were not truly happy until they reached 33. what the what? GET UP IN MY LIFE, HAPPINESS. “the age of 33 is enough time to have shaken off childhood naiveté and the wild scheming of teenaged years without losing the energy and enthusiasm of youth,” psychologist donna dawson said in the survey’s findings. “by this age innocence has been lost, but our sense of reality is mixed with a strong sense of hope, a ‘can do’ spirit, and a healthy belief in our own talents and abilities.”


I AM GROWING UP WRONG. how is it possible that i still am wildly scheming but have absolutely zero energy and enthusiasm of youth?! i lost my innocence in a laundry room with a handsome stranger twenty years ago, but where is this hope? why is my spirit so full of can't (and won't) do? why did the word "healthy" make me skip reading the rest of that last goddamned sentence?! i am regressing. and i'm not quite sure how or why it's happening, but it is. in my bag right now is a book i got at urban outfitters called "fuck i'm in my 20s." and it's chilling next to a pair of cushy teal headphones that i picked up off a nearby display. what am i, a freshman in community college? DID I JUST USE "CHILLING" AS A VERB?! blerg. i watch the hills like it's a real show. i have a subscription to nylon magazine. my fingernails are a color not found in nature. if you catch me on a skateboard or trying to shoehorn myself into a pair of neon purple skinny jeans, please call the principal. imma need some detention. 


roses are red. valentine's day. so, how was yours? what did you do? how much cheap chocolate did you eat? i got a bunch of those sofia champagne cans and hung out with some single ladies and $67 dollars' worth of chinese takeout. it was the most relaxed, stress-free fun i've had in a long time, and it made me sad for people in relationships. wait, that is crazy talk. i refuse to feel bad for people who have a built-in person to drop off the dry cleaning or stop by walgreens for some gel insoles on the way home from work. i cannot take pity on someone who doesn't have to get up and get his own midnight drink of water.


but holy fucking shit, THE PRESSURE. one of my boo'd up friends was waxing rhapsodic about her valentine's day expectations, listing a dozen things she expected her man to do on or around that holiest of days, and i was like, "wait, what?" you get to give a dude vday homework? how come you bitches never told me?! i would've tried to get a february manfriend ages ago. shannon looked at me as one would a monkey who'd just strolled out of the jungle and asked for a gin and tonic. i snatched the paper from her to see what i've been missing: fill the house with flowers; serve me breakfast in bed; take me to next; diamond earrings; rotate the tires on my tru--WAIT, WHAT? if someone did even one of the things on that list for me i might be convinced to give a rigorous handjob under the table, but what kind of superhuman dude is this bitch fucking?! there were fourteen motherfucking things on that list. i don't know that i could successfully accomplish all that shit in a month. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET A TABLE AT NEXT, HO? if my lady handed me a list like that i wouldn't even know what to do. you mean this brownie bacon au gratin casserole is not going to be enough? can i throw in a back rub or some shit?! JUST BREAK UP WITH ME ALREADY. my stomach was hurting for that dude. i've known them for three years, and in all that time he has never struck me as the kind of person who could take the dog in for its vaccines during the same week he also made it to saks to buy her a bottle of creed. 


i couldn't do it, and i'm relatively high functioning. if you gave me a list of things to do i would pick the most fun three and blow the rest out of my asshole. i'd be shivering on her doorstep valentine's morning with some walgreens chocolates and a bottle of jean naté, clutching the unfinished list in my good hand. and i would be broken up with on the spot, BECAUSE LOVE. i saw shanny at simone's last week and asked her how many things her butler, i mean boyfriend, had accomplished on her list. her answer was "none." because he broke up with her two days before. life is the worst. she should just do what i do and ask for a diet coke and the newspaper. aim low, friends.

i took my okcupid down. oh, internet. always making me feel hella fucking dumb just when my self-esteem was getting back on track. i'm taking a break from the silent rejection of millions of available singles online and letting my dick rest for a minute. why you no send me messages, chicagoans?! and my profile is the motherfucking trifecta: brief, hilarious, and pictures of my real tits. what the fuck else could you ask for? i read that oktrends article that was basically like, "online dating is pointless if you have a black vagina" and yeah, bro: I GOT THE MESSAGE. except i wasn't really getting any messages. like, ever. like, even when i wrote my wittiest, most well-composed messages to bearded dudes who like the same bands i do ever. my inbox would just sit there, full of crickets, gathering dust. thanks for making me feel less awesome, nerds. and it's not like i'm looking for a husband, i just want to talk shit and cupcake with somebody who likes going to au cheval. but even the ladies treated internet sam like shit. these tomboys were like "meh." the nerve.


from the article: men don’t write black women back. or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. essentially every race—including other blacks—singles them out for the cold shoulder. well, shit. what are my sistas doing, posting up in bars? taking classes at the local community center? making small talk with every single person who walks into your starbucks in the morning?! the internet's favorite places to meet eligible singles are: 1 coffeeshops 2 libraries 3 farmer's markets 4 supermarkets 5 at a friend's get together 6 museum 7 thrift store 8 laundromat 9 dog park 10 charity event.


BIG SIGH. 1 i must be at work during "meet soulmate o'clock" at the coffeeshop near me. i can barely place my order and tip the barista before some uptight soccer mom is literally shoving me out of the way to get her venti seven-shot three-shot-decaf one-and-a-half-pump amaretto two percent seven nutrasweet no whip extra chocolate extra sprinkles java chip frappuccino light blended coffee 2 maybe if i was in college? 3 too busy stacking my organic bok choy, son! 4 i would die if someone tried to talk to me while i was pushing around a cart with seventeen lean cuisines and a box of cupcakes in it 5 my asshole friends never throw parties that anyone fuckable attends 6 all the hot dudes at museums are there on field trips and I AM NOT TRYING TO GO TO JAIL 7 i have enough old dishes, thanks 8 in-building laundry! but, even when i didn't, my only prospects were entire mexican families; i should move to a neighborhood with sexy laundromats 9 fuck, i have this stupid cat 10 i spent $175 to go to some black tie dog rescue event once and here is who hit on me: a black labrador named foster. i should've adopted that motherfucker. then i wouldn't need to troll for dates on the internet.

sports. tits. a new car. that one thing on imgur he wanted to show his buddies. tits. jerking off. facebook. ESPN. cars. bloody steak. gym shoes. new tech gadgets. fresh shirts. video games. getting a haircut. whiskey. axe commercials. getting laid. getting bottle service at the paris club. beer. tits. there. that is what he is thinking about. he's never going to say "your feelings." stop asking.

motherfuckers don't write sonnets anymore?! here is what i need: a poem about how great i am, written by someone who is desperately in love with me and doesn't care that sometimes i put food in the fridge uncovered. wait, that's too much. i mean i want it, but that's a lot to ask. 


seriously, though, some romance would be nice. just a little. this is going to be my new hope for 2013, that we finally get some MOTHERFUCKING ROMANCE in our miserable lives. can a bitch get some candlelight this year? SHIT. what about some goddamned courtship? i know a romantic getaway for two is out of the question, but what about a weekend at the champagne lodge? parenting.com (holy fuck, how old are we again?!) says that holding hands, flirty texts, lunch dates, and built-in cuddle time are easy ways to introduce romance back into our relationships. would it kill you to leave a surprise post-it with an anatomical vagina drawing on my computer, girl? is it so hard to add "i can't wait to tear that lining out later tonight" onto the grocery list, sir? just a little tenderness to let me know that the magic is still alive. send me a picture of your dick while you are taking a shit, please. i need to know you care. NOW GO ROTATE MY FUCKING TIRES.

Friday, March 1, 2013

what to do when being rejected makes you batshit crazy.

i keep having the weirdest goddamned dreams. i keep waking up with a headache, in a cold sweat, because i spent half the night tormented by the succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in my mind and prominently feature a gentleman who stopped fucking me almost six months ago. every single night, as i lay me down to sleep, the minute my eyes close my head fills with weird, confusing pictures and sounds. i wish they were sex dreams. sex dreams i could totally fucking handle, but these are another animal entirely. they're, like, relationship dreams? i don't even know how to classify them, but i wake up feeling uncomfortable and exhausted every goddamned morning. the most recent involved my most recent filling his bedroom with dozens and dozens and dozens of bottles of garnier fructis shampoo (i can't be sure of the brand, but the bottles were kelly green and my dreambrain thought the room smelled soapy and fresh) and presenting them to me as a gift. i walked into his real house and up his real stairs, excited at the promise of a "really amazing surprise," said hello to his real dog, and then he pushed his real door open and stood back smiling in anticipation of my reaction. but all i could think was, "has this dude really not ever noticed that i use aveda scalp benefits?!" and then i woke up with the sadz. AND AN ITCHY SCALP.

am i out of my motherfucking mind? in dreams past he has: helped me untie a tricky shoelace (wtf?), brought me breakfast in bed that was really just an adorable bowl of live kittens who crawled all over me, inexplicably moved a bunch of heavy furniture that i didn't ask for into the middle of my apartment, asked me to videotape him synchronized swimming (not a real thing he ever did), and then this glut of moderately-priced hair detergent. WHO IN THE FUCK DREAMS ABOUT BULK PURCHASING SHAMPOO? here's what the internet says about that: to see or use shampoo in your dream indicates that you need clear out your old attitudes and old ways of thinking. you may also need to take a different approach toward some situation or relationship. alternatively, shampoo represents self-growth and you desire to present a new image of yourself to others. i can live with that, i suppose. i have been eating more.

next i searched "dude who wouldn't let you call him your boyfriend and went on vacation with another broad while banging you clears sam's club stock of all available bottles of pert plus on your behalf" and was told: sorry, there are no matches for your request. what the shit?! after that, i typed "ex lover is suspiciously concerned about my scalp care" to which dreammoods.com replied: for best results, narrow your search request to one or two words. fine then. YOU WIN, INTERNET. "ex boyfriend" (not my words, ex-romantic partner!) yielded these beauties, among others:

-if your ex-boyfriend hurts or ignores you, then the dream is telling you to move on with your life and stop thinking about your ex. what if he gets me kittens and antique hutches? should i really move on from a queen anne armoire?!

-to dream that you are kidnapped by your ex-boyfriend suggests that your ex still has some sort of emotional hold on you. what if he's just holding my breakfast emotionally hostage?

-to dream that you are being massaged by your ex-boyfriend suggests that you need to let go of some of that defensiveness that you have been putting forth as a result of a past relationship. SCALP MASSAGE.

-if you dream that your ex-boyfriend is dressed in a suit at a hospital, then it suggests that you have come to terms with that relationship and have completed the healing process. does a swim suit at my local YMCA count?

my diagnosis: LADYCRAZY. this is just like the time webmd correctly informed me that i had testicular cancer! thanks, al gore!

i don’t believe in all that bullshit. all that letting you feel like you’re the only batshit crazy idiot bullshit. if you and i are going to claw our way out of the miserable death pit that is life on planet earth then we are going to have to be honest with each other about the fucked up shit we are going through and help each other the fuck out. we are going to have to  be honest about the dreams we can't stop having, like the one in which dude drove me to michigan on the handlebars of a bicycle. my life has no room for bitches who lie and pretend they have never eaten the entire contents of their freezers in an afternoon after getting text-dumped IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT. that’s right, kittens, this one time i woke up to less than 160 characters of relationship finality, and then i spent the next hour disgustingly snotcrying into a gin and tonic while defrosting a pound of kielbasa with a hair dryer because i am too lazy to go get a microwave. then i ate it while listening to lauryn hill's song "ex-factor" on repeat on the stereo. for three straight days. i don’t just neatly put myself back together and seamlessly move on to the next thing, i fucking panic that i have to find some new motherfucker to hesitantly show my weird moles to. i hyperventilate at the thought of re-opening my match dot fucking com. my palms sweat at the thought of declining your invitation to set me up with your cardigan-wearing uncle who makes those wet mouth sounds that make me want to vomit. i stress eat while wondering if anyone else anywhere ever is going to find me physically attractive ever again hideous beast OH MY GOSH.

but we need to figure out what the threshold for clinical insanity is. when does preoccupation become fixation become obsession? at what point is this no longer a thing we can discuss over drinks and should instead unload onto a goddamned therapist? like, how much crying is too much? when do you have to stop detailing the same two dates and fourteen texts over and over again to your friends? where is the line between a healthy amount of polish sausage and so much stuffed pork that an authority needs to be called?! WE NEED REAL LIFE GRIEF RULES, FRIENDS. i hung out with a friend last weekend who spent the entire time watching videos this broad he dated for approximately five minutes posted online. i mean, for hours. that shit ain't healthy, son.

and i don't fucking judge anybody else, because real examples of my brokenhearted crazy ready set go: one of my exes left a canister of foot powder in my bathroom, and i used to sniff that shit when i was sad; i once scrolled through the entire twitter feed of a dude who stopped talking to me and read all of his @tweets even though the shit made no fucking sense to me whatsoever; i have a mixtape a girl made me that i still listen to at least once a week; so many pictures buried in random dresser drawers, so many old birthday cards and shit, so much reading of them when i am bummed to make my tortureporn complete; facebook stalking, which seems normal but let's talk about hours wasted; much sullen ani difranco listening; sitting outside a dude's house in my car (two different people, years apart) waiting to see god knows what; sleeping with shirts that don't belong to me, holding on to those shirts (and, once, a pair of ratty boxers) for way too long. right this very second there is a bottle of soap on my kitchen counter that is the same brand and scent introduced to my life by someone whose number has long since been deleted from my phone. LADYCRAZY.

i don't know anything. i am not a professional trained to deal with psychological problems. but i am a raving fucking lunatic currently possessed by dreams of eating a sensible lunch with a handsome ex-whateverwewerecalling it. i'm not kidding. one of the dreams involved nine pounds of salad and steamed vegetables from the whole foods hot bar. something is wrong with me.


1 clean your shit up. that's when i first start thinking i might be circling the shame drain, when i look at the mountain of recycling piled in the corner that threatens to topple over and maim the cat every time she skitters past it. when there is laundry to do and mail to sort and dishes to wash? do that shit! organize your spice drawer! sharpen your cutlery! alphabetize your dvds! take the dry cleaning in! chop up all that fruit you wanted to make into smoothies! pretend to get your fucking shit together! use those salty tears to melt the soap scum on your shower wall, grrrrrrrl. PUT THAT RAGE TO USE.

2 find a goddamned anthem. "enough" by tweet is my current jam. no one knows that you're listening to the same goddamned song while you are shivering at the bus stop, hooker. find yourself a song with a positive ladymessage and or a negative lovemessage (pick your poison) and play it as much as you need to. i'ma make us a mix. keep thine eyes peeled.*

3 take down your okcupid, damageface. i know, you want to get over someone by getting under someone else. and that would be cool if it actually fucking worked. IT DON'T, THO. and then you feel worse and internet rejected and convinced that your only future prospects are men who look like your grandfather. give your vagina (and your brain, feelings, heart, and every other fucking thing) a goddamned break for a minute.

4 unfriend him/her. i learned this one the hard way. because i thought i was cool, bro. i thought my skin was thick enough to handle it. so what if i check in at fancy places solely good in the hopes that not only will he notice that check-in (he will not) he will also writhe in jealousy that he is not in my company (he doesn't care)? you know who cares that you changed your profile picture twelve times and the latest one features you wrapped seductively around your straightest-looking gay friend? everyone but that motherfucking dude. and they're hip to your game, son. he's not getting those subliminal messages you're putting in your statuses because he doesn't give a shit. and now all your imaginary internet friends know that you can't handle getting the boot without a public meltdown. stop sharing those dumb pictures with the motivational catchphrases on them and BLOCK THAT ASSHOLE ALREADY. 

5 work on yourself. read a book, get on the treadmill, wear red lipstick, eat a cheeseburger because you spent the last eight months pretending to be a vegetarian because your ex-girlfriend worked for peta, whatever the fuck you gotta do to full better. watch marathons of "girls" or "sex and the city" or "felicity" or whatever is appropriate for your age demographic. exorcize the demon of that ladycrazy out of your body. make all your friends tell you why you're awesome. write a list of everything about you that totally fucking rules. mantra it up. jog in place. bang your fists on your tits and scream like a maniac. read some self-help books and take a motherfucking yoga class. also, it helps to laugh.

it always helps to laugh. AND TO JAM.
*here is that playlist i promised earlier: http://open.spotify.com/user/122933388/playlist/4nD2rtvrdnV3Z8Pd87a4ia