Thursday, April 10, 2014

what i learned about romance from creepily hate-watching couples during brunch.

2:17 pm they get up really fucking early to beat the crowd they will inevitably become. and before you even get started don't worry, the overly judgmental host said it for you, "getting a late start eh, ladies?" he mused as em and i dragged ourselves and our big sunglasses to a cozy table in the back of the cafe. to which i say, IT'S NOT BRUNCH IF IT HAPPENS BEFORE NOON, YOU ASSHOLES. you're not eating brunch at 930 in the morning, boo. you are straight up having BREAKFAST. don't be cute, just because you're still drunk and there's eggs on the table that doesn't mean you're eating brunch. i know you want an excuse to put vodka in your oj before the sun is even all the way up, and that excuse is just going to have to be "alcoholism" unless you wait until at least eleven-fucking-thirty. i hate being sneered at rolling into the jam spot with no underwear on under my sleeping pants just because the barista has already made 942 pots of coffee for all of the jerks who are totally doing sunday wrong. what is it about having a manfriend that catapults you bitches out of bed before the rooster even has his first latte? last thing i ever want to do after i get laid is get up. FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS. usually because i dislocated a hip and felt my spine slip out of alignment a couple times, but who gives a fuck about that. besides, isn't that the buttery shit about being in a goddamned relationship? that homeboy could just unstick his dick from where it glued itself to your back in the middle of the night and roll out to doughnut vault for a couple of buttermilk old fashioneds and the sunday times while you just lie there thinking about chlamydia!? WHAT THE FUCK IS THE POINT OF LISTENING TO YOUR STUPID PROBLEMS ALL THE TIME IF I STILL HAVE TO GET UP HELLA EARLY AND PUT SHOES ON TO GET BREAKFAST, BRO.

2:23 pm sometimes they eat across from each other without saying a motherfucking word for, like, seventeen real minutes. i'm like a gremlin, man: no direct sunlight. and no loud voices either, because mommy was out late having fun with your new "uncle" and her head hurts so please play quietly in your room until the sun goes down and this bromo seltzer kicks in. em and i were shown to a cozy little table tucked in a corner behind the NO. NOT TUCKED. THEY SAT US RIGHT IN FRONT OF AN ENORMOUS PLATE GLASS WINDOW ON A BEAUTIFUL, SUN-DRENCHED DAY. i could feel my horns and scales start to melt beneath my eating hoodie the minute we sat down. a couple of those "put a bird on it" type of people were sitting next to us: you know, a couple of thirty-year-old graphic designers who just finished a kickball match with thrifted dad sweaters and "woodworking" scars. i try to never make eye contact with anyone lest they think i want to exchange pleasantries with them, but i inconspicuously glanced over to see if what they were eating looked like i needed to copy it. they were sitting there in silence, both looking at their plates, the only sounds coming from the faint clink and scrape of fork against plate. "IS THAT THE CASSEROLE?!" em squawked in their direction, which prompted them to look up briefly then immediately look back down at their food. i have been to funerals more lively. this is why i can't be jealous of your relationship, dog. because sure, i would like someone else to pay my phone bill and put his jacket over puddles i need to walk through (that's how that works, amirite?) but if he doesn't have shit to say to me after six months WHAT IS THE GODDAMN POINT. i'ma need you to tell me the consistency of the last poop you took, bro. have you read any books lately? get yourself a pair of new shoes? talk to me about basketball statistics, or about how you dressed up like captain america when you went to see the new movie last weekend. of course i love xbox! i am absolutely interested in that pop punk grindcore string quartet show you're going to! comfortable silence is only comfortable when nosy bitches ain't watching our every move. DON'T MAKE ME WRITE YOU A SCRIPT. (omg, doing that.)


2:42 pm deciding what to order, vs deciding what your boyfriend should order and allow you to pick off his plate, is a really stressful decision. i like to order one of everything. i mean shit, it's three in the afternoon and i'm dehydrated and full of unbuffered aspirin: BRING ME ALL OF THE FOODS. i decided that i needed a ginger beer, a giant water, a chai latte, and a neat vodka. em ordered coffee, and we asked for a plate of chocolate croissants because it's hard to know what you want to eat when you aren't already eating something. "i'm getting the casserole," i announced confidently, to no one, spitting tiny croissant flakes everywhere. "i'm going to get the griddle cakes," em replied, with an equal amount of certainty and assuredness. "THE CASSEROLE HAS TWO MEATS, BRO," i countered, and it was settled: we would both be ordering the breakfast casserole. i looked around for the waitress, convinced she'd be proud of our decisiveness so close to the end of her shift. and then i realized the couple on our left was having a fight. i love watching people in love argue about dumb shit, because listening to bitches yell at each other about dirty socks or whatever makes me feel way better about being a lonely, hateful spinster. you broads need to try it! next time you're feeling like the dogshit scraped off the bottom of your ex-boyfriend's timberland, take yourself on a date to red lobster and ask the hostess to seat you next to two people who have obviously been together for a while. then put that book you're pretending to read away and enjoy your cheddar biscuits, soothed by the lullaby of other people's misery.

first they were bitching about laundry (snoozapalooza) and then it was as if someone lit a fucking match. "WHY WOULD YOU GET THE CHILAQUILES IF I SAID YOU SHOULD GET THE OMELET SO I CAN SPLIT IT." the waitress stood by uncomfortably while i halted my selection of homely dudes on emily's tinder to devote my full attention to this woman's imminent meltdown. she shout-talked him down every single one of his substitute while he helplessly scoured the menu for something as delicious as those chilaquiles were going to be, a single bead of sweat rolling down his forehead as he withered under her gaze. homie tried to defend himself, to no avail; girlfriend even rebuffed his compromise offer of scrambled eggs and bacon. he wanted anything other than that goddamned omelet, which would surely arrive at the table tasting like fear and sprinkled with his dignity. finally he sighed and ordered it, hold the scallions, and slumped down in his chair sighing in defeat. "HE WANTS THE SCALLIONS ON THE SIDE," girlfriend yelled, and emily and i high-fived each other then went back to swiping left.


2:57 pm girls still do that thing where they fight to do something nice for a dude and even though he won't let her she keeps trying to do it anyway and when he eventually does it for himself we all are left feeling uncomfortable and dissatisfied. having grown bored with the tables on either side of us, i turned my attention to the happenings on the other side of the glass in sunny lincoln square. white people were lazily kicking soccer balls around barefoot (SON) and setting up picnic lunches in the melted piles of garbage masquerading as early spring grass. there was a young pair of lovebirds canoodling (ew) on a park bench directly across from us. carefully tucking hot sausage-wrapped bacon (word) and arugula and coddled eggs into my good cheek, i watched them spoon-feeding each other chocolate gelato and burned with envy. not because i would enjoy being awkwardly poked in the face with plastic cutlery, but BECAUSE GELATO. that shit is hella delicious. anyway, when they finished eating they decided to get on their tandem bike and head to the used vinyl store next to their favorite co-op, but NOT BEFORE THEY DISPOSED OF THOSE CUPS IN AN APPROPRIATE RECYCLING BIN. upon locating one, babygirl jumped at the chance to show old skinny jeans how into him she is by reaching out to collect his refuse, which he yanked just out of her reach. "my low self-esteem and inflated value of your worth in my life needs to show you that i care by carrying your empty cup approximately eighteen inches to your left!" she begged, although i am a terrible lipreader and might have missed a word or three. but he wouldn't make that tiniest of concessions, because everybody knows that once you let a woman recycle for you the next thing you know she's leaving tampons and bobby pins in your bathroom and taping cathy comics to your refrigerator. they wrestled back and forth over this little scrap of plastic for two real minutes before he dragged her, sobbing while clinging desperately to the hem of his slender trousers, over to the bin. "kobe!" he whispered to himself as he banked it in. (i think? like i said, i suck at reading lips.)


4:12 pm going back to bed alone and sleeping until it's time to go to the game of thrones party you were invited to is perfectly reasonable when all you've done all day is: sat around with your sunglasses on inside texting yourself snippets of other people's conversations, purchased two "smart person books" at the book cellar, and drank half a bottle of walgreens wine while eavesdropping on the dude across the hall making loud-ass plans with his LARP-ing friends. THE DREAM, I AM LIVING IT. boyfriends: what's the point.

buy my book, it's the motherfucking jam.