Thursday, March 13, 2014

stupid shit that terrifies me.

1 the hot food bar at whole foods. i know what you're thinking: "there's a sneeze guard for a reason, asshole." but that's not it. okay, some jerk's gross, influenza-splattered hands are kind of it. but what it mostly is are the prying eyes of everyone else hovering timidly over the blackened fish swimming in coconut curry silently judging how much overpriced food i am placing in my bowl. i am a firm believer in the restorative power of the hot bar at whole foods which, in times of gross desperation, has served as a suitable replacement for my absent mother's unconditional love. i eat dinner at whole foods at least once a week, because it's pretty much my only chance to have a balanced, nutrient-rich meal after a stress-filled hellday spent being harangued and derided while sobbing incoherently and shoving fistfuls of potato chips into my face. and i like eating there. it's fucking peaceful, okay? enjoying my nine pounds of organic salad surrounded by the soothing drone of the first world problems being lobbied around by the 1%,"god, are these really the only brands of agave nectar you carry!?", and enya. but before i can get to my bliss i gotta survive the one or two pinched old ladies who select each fajita vegetable one green pepper at a time pausing only to glare at how many scoops of wild rice i'm putting next to my honey wings. no need to roll your eyes at me: THEY WILL BRING OUT MORE, GLADYS. but i sheepishly put that second spoonful back anyway, withering under her watery gaze, and then add another helping of kale.

2 comment sections on the internet. I NEVER READ THEM. never fucking ever. and i refuse to fucking host one. you want to get a bunch of mouth-breathing trolls together to talk about how much i fucking suck? COOL, MAN. but you're not about to do that shit on my fucking shit. you better take your ass to gawker with that. jesus fucking christ, people are goddamned terrible. i am a marginally hilarious human who tries to write funny, self-deprecating things about myself on the internet for the sole purpose of bringing some giggles to others, and the number of times fools straight COME FOR MY SCALP is motherfucking staggering. a couple months ago i wrote some hilarious shit about hiding your leftover chicken wings from the dude who just banged you over the back of your couch for xojane; jezebel republished it and bitches were either trying to snatch my weave or taking pity on how sad and lonely i must be. because commenting for free on some internet jokemaking is somehow superior to getting paid to make those jokes!? oh yeah nawl. FUCK YOU, BITCH.

3 pedicures. after work one temperate day last summer laura and i decided to go get manicures and pedicures as a reward for spending the entire day lounging in comfortable chairs while eating delicious snacks and letting all of the calls go to voicemail. LIFE IS SO HARD. anyway, we went to this place that i can only describe as a, like, sweatshop of nails. rows of neatly lined up tables and chairs each with a masked person dressed in all white seated in front of it. stadium rows of pedicure chairs, two deep, lined up behind them on either side of the room. bright fluorescent lights illuminated the gleaming white floors below; no gross fake flowers gathering dust in the corner of the room, no disgusting vats of lukewarm wax congealing on chin-hair stubbled surfaces, no dried-out separated bottles of old-ass nail polish. this was the kind of spot where they remembered that while you loved having your toes painted pompeii purple but would choke a bitch out if she dared approach you with a bottle of miami beet. THIS IS THE APPEAL OF THE SUBURBS, leaving your car in a strip mall parking lot you don't have to pay for while waddling from starbucks to the beauty supply to panda express and fanning your nails dry.

it's the vibrating chair that got me. that and the fact that i'd opted to have my nails done first and then totally fucked them up trying to roll up my jeans so they wouldn't get soaked. homegirl looked at me like "YOU DUMB COW" and it wasn't even worth arguing with her that i was really the inconvenienced one who was going to have to spend an afternoon picking red nail polish out of denim. so i was already flushed and embarrassed and conspicuous and then that stupid vibrating chair made my pants slide halfway down my ass and all i was trying to do was scoot them up a little, all i was trying to do was not shit my pants as she forced my knee up into my chin over and over again, all i was trying to do was not further destroy the nails she'd already had to fix twice. i kicked half a gallon of water into that poor woman's unsuspecting face. and then we sat there as time froze, me praying for death while she just sat there with her hair dripping onto her shirt scowling at me. she dried herself off and finished while i felt more white guilt than any person of color ever should. then i tipped her twenty bucks. i have not been back since.

4 what my neighbors hear when they are waiting for the elevator outside my apartment. the other night my flimsy paper bag from trader joes fucking disintegrated right in front of my neighbor's apartment door. 1 i have bought approximately 6,328 of those $1.99 reusable shopping bags, yet i never fucking ever have one on my person when i find myself in a grocery store. why is that? why don't i ever know when leaving the house that i might mind up buying three boxes of fish sticks before the day is over? and 2 why they gotta look at you like a motherfucking child pornographer when you ask for a double bag for your six containers of hummus, two packages of those mini pot pies from the frozen section, and a bottle of that cheap-ass wine!? DUDE, I AM TAKING THE BUS. would i much rather be tossing this 1-ply bag of shit in the back of my prius? of course. but since i'm about to karate chop my way through the other snarling poor people crammed onto the 201 just trying to get home in a snowstorm after a grueling sixteen-hour workday, i need to make sure my gluten-free jalapeno puffs survive the trip home intact.

so i'm crouched on the floor picking up my apples and i hear this couple on the other side of the door start to have an argument. it wasn't loud, and it might not have even been an argument, but the end of the woman's sentences kept turning aggressively up, like questions that are questions but they're not really questions they are more like inferences, and i did what any courteous person would do: stopped what i was doing and paid acute attention to every single thing they were saying. from what i could tell dude was getting in trouble for responding to a text from his ex-girlfriend, and that was calling their entire relationship into question. because men who are happy don't waste time talking to sluts. LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY, MY DUDE. it went on like that for at least five more minutes, at which point i got a leg cramp and had to crawl to my apartment like an asshole. "hi helen," i whispered to the cat. "go get me some rubbing alcohol and a towel."

5 being reprimanded for sitting in a coffee shop all day using their internet. is that shit illegal? or just frowned upon? i bought three coffees and a donut, shit! LET ME TYPE.

6 taking a shit in a toilet with a weak flush. I COULD BE A FUCKING PLUMBER. i did a reading once that was held in this tiny, sweltering cafe that specialized in vegan baked goods and running out of everything else, and three readers in i knew i was going to have to take a shit. and not a normal one. no, this was the kind that feels like boiling oil sliding through your belly at breakneck speed. and i know the rules: you gotta walk in the stall and test-flush immediately, especially if the toilet has one of those little home handles. you know, the ones that look like a horizontal comma. usually i don't even fuck around with a bathroom like that, i go look for a starbucks or whatever because i already know the heartbreak that lies in wait at the end of that delicate flush. but it couldn't wait. and as i stood there sweating with the lid off pouring water into the tank so that i could activate the siphon and manually work the flush valve i promised myself that i would 1 never eat solid food before a show ever again and 2 call the number for that trade school that always advertises during maury because goddamn i am hella good at this.

7 making small talk with a cab driver. this might actually be the biggest fear i have in life for real. bigger than butt cancer, bigger than runny eggs when i asked for hard scrambled, bigger than realizing the SVU marathon i woke up special on a sunday to watch will feature only pre-ice t episodes. NOTHING ON EARTH IS WORSE THAN TALKING TO A CABBIE, and i was once in the back of a cab that stopped to solicit a prostitute on the way to my crib. i'm sorry, but i can't make conversation at two o'clock in the morning. I'M DRUNK, DUDE. or i just ate a huge dinner. or i'm sleepy. and it's taking every last bit of energy i can muster to send this five word text message, so please stop asking me which road i want you to take. and turn down that euro house mix playing on B96, but not so you can ask me "where the party is happening at." i'm just trying to watch these porn vines with my headphones on, my dude. i don't want to keep pulling the left one out so you can ask me how long i'm finna be where i'm at so you can come pick me up. SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME DIE BACK HERE.

8 being out in public without my headphones. there is no greater punishment for being too poor to afford a car than having to ride public transit without protection from the banal chatter of regular humans provided by a pair of decent fucking headphones.

9 HANDING YOU MY FUCKING PHONE. omg we need to come up with a name for the stomach falling out of our butts feeling that you get the minute someone reaches for your pocket-sized dirtbag sinning machine. holy god, i had lunch with eve the other day, and halfway through the meal she asked if she could use my phone to make a call. hers had died on the way to the restaurant and we weren't seated near any outlets which didn't matter because she doesn't carry a charger with her anyway, WHAT.
my first thought: who the fuck lets her phone die in public?
my second thought: WHO THE FUCK STILL MAKES PHONE CALLS!? and if you do, whose number do you have memorized? if my phone died right now i could call work, empire carpet company (588-2300), and the police. totally fucked. my hands went clammy as i reluctantly handed that idiot my phone and watched her fumble around trying to figure out how to make a call, my stomach threatening to fall right out of my butt the entire time as her clumsy fingers grazed dangerously close to the camera and text message icons. i stared at her for the entire two minutes she chattered at her dumb boyfriend, a cold sweat forming at the base of my spine, my cheeks pink. when she finally finished i reached for the phone and she pulled away saying, "let me just look at it for a minute." and then my brain exploded.

-don't read my fucking texts. i sext a lot of people, b. and you don't deserve to read that. except that really isn't true. the real gag is that i don't want you to read how much nasty, hateful shit my people and i talk. screenshots of your stupid facebook posts, forwards of that dumb-ass email you sent. NOT NICE.
-don't check my goddamned email. 4,637 unread messages, all causing me shame as they glare up at me from that teeny illuminated screen, most from directv reminding me that my shit is totally about to get disconnected next week. i have so many drafts, so many half-started emails that i have every intention of finishing if i could just stop sleeping through my lunch break. unless you're a secretary, don't look at that shit.
-don't try to browse through my motherfucking pictures. unless you like big titties. AND PICTURES OF YOUR FATHER'S DICK. 
-don't look at my goddamned voicemails. omg i have a bunch of voicemails that if anyone knew i had them shits saved and occasionally listened to them when i am bored or sad i would fall over immediately and die. also there are 37 that i refuse to check and that makes me look like a terrible person i'm totally sure.
-don't click on my internet. here are the windows i have minimized at 3:47pm on 3/13/14, hand on a stack of bibles realness:
1 CTA train tracker.
2 julep nail polish virtual store.
3 stephhoff.com.
4 blackgirlsareeasy.com.
5 that xojane fat black lady in yoga article.
6 chicagoist 18 best brunches in chicago.
7 that weird lil jon/lazytown remix.
8 a kid mero article from complex magazine.
9 xvideo mature lesbian pajama party.
10 xvideo kinky MILF fantasy.
11 xvideo bbw loves big dick.
12 youtube dmx sings rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.
13 palimas.com at home booty.
14 palimas.com but i have a wife!

so bring a charger, bitch.
buy an extra battery, bitch.
here are some quarters for a payphone, bitch.
SEND THAT DUDE A SMOKE SIGNAL, BITCH JUST BACK UP OFF MY MOTHERFUCKING PHONE.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

young dicks, rotten teeth, and free fried chicken.

before i retire my vagina completely i gotta fuck a young dude for real. just one time, maybe two. i'm nursing a couple of unrequited crushes on humans my own age that i don't foresee panning out, which is killing what is left of my heart one minute at a time. love hurts. but before i abandon them entirely to instead lie about my age to try to fuck your uncle on ourtime.com, i'ma get a couple steroid shots and get my hip brace reinforced and then i'ma jump the shit out of some undergraduate bones, son. AND THEN I WILL DROP DEAD. seriously, my heart would probably explode in my chest. so my girl julia is a professor at columbia college and, because she obviously hates her students, she forced them to read a salty book about diarrhea and being bad at sex for class credit. then she invited me to talk to them about it. BECAUSE I WROTE IT.

i'm not even going to front, knowing that my stupid butthole book is being taught in real human classrooms makes me want to send one of those holiday update letters to everyone i hate with the words HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW in 72-point bold font printed on neon green eyeball-melting construction paper. or print that shit on a t-shirt: "right now there is a grad student writing an essay about my pubic hair so fuck what you think about my choices." i was nervous to go talk to them because, let's be honest, young people are fucking terrifying. i don't understand all of their piercings and cellphone apps and i don't care to. but that fear was 100% forgotten when some dumb asshole tried to fistfight the driver of the cab i was getting into downtown because she was sure i had "stolen" it from her. first of all bitch, this isn't iowa. seventeen empty cabs blew by in the time she spent shrieking and trying to SNATCH MY GODDAMNED BAG while i kicked at her in my snow boots. the cabbie (a nigerian astrophysicist, no doubt) got out to pull her off my shit and she immediately turned to sucker punch him which was so shocking and hilarious that i almost forgot to keep trying to claw her fucking eyes out before i kicked her in the back and slammed the door. the best part? my favorite: dude was clearly a fresh little baby american, and listening to people swear who know the words yet don't quite have a grasp on how to use them is an absolute fucking joy.

"FUCK SHIT, YOU GET OUT OF THIS SHITTING CAB."
"BITCH ASSHOLE! YOUR FUCKING COCK SHIT NEEDS TO GO."
"I CALL POLICE, YOU FUCK FUCKER. OUT OF THIS BITCHING CAB."
so i was late. and i hurt my ankle.
but at least i had a good story for those little fuck fuckers.


so how can i trick a dude between the ages of 21-26 into rubbing aspercreme on my shoulder a couple nights a week? all of that swooning adulation was goddamned INTOXICATING, and that is a feeling i should be feeling all the motherfucking time. what i gotta do to make this happen!? the biggest difference between me and a college kid, besides the amount of cartilage in our respective knees, is that 1 i have a regular paycheck. my refrigerator is full of fourteen different types of artisanal cheese from whole foods and at least a dozen bags of vegetables in varying degrees of decomposition. I CAN BUY ALL OF THE CHIPOTLE. and guess whose new mommy has a costco membership? COME MAX THIS ECONOMY SIZED BOX OF POP TARTS, MY GUY. i could totally chip the ice off of the gross lean cuisine flavors i’m saving for the apocalypse to make room for some totinos pizza rolls and chicken nuggets or whatever the fuck young people eat. not trying to holler at that mushroom risotto i just meticulously prepared? I UNDERSTAND, BRO. who needs to throw out her elbow sweating her mascara off over a beautiful 5 quart le creuset braiser trying to make an impressive dinner when she could just run to walgreens and buy some gatorade and cereal!? NOT FUCKING ME. and 2 i can go to bed at whatever time i want. and i don't share my bathroom with nineteen other people. the one year i lived in a dorm my roommate and i lived next to the RA, which means if we were watching the episodes of young and the restless i had recorded while we were at biology lecture too loud after midnight on a tuesday we could expect an irritated knock on the door from our acne-ridden, trumpet-playing neighbor telling us to turn the tv down and get some rest for class. which was weird because the only reason i even went to college was so that i could stay up late watching mtv and falling asleep in my jeans. then get up and wear those same jeans to breakfast. i didn't borrow $16,000 from the state to have a dude my own age with a howard stern tattoo tell me when i had to take my ass to bed. so i dropped out to "join the workforce," ie, "eat tuna salad footlongs at 3am while doing the laundry."

two tiny examples of at least a dozen things i must learn to use to my advantage when selling these used goods to unsuspecting grad students. in addition to their lack of basic skills knowledge (i know how to write checks!) and incredibly low standards when it comes to snack foods, give one a wifi password and a pair of headphones and it can keep itself entertained for hours at a time. EASIER THAN A PLANT. but they are poor. and unreliable. ugh and messy. i'ma keep you posted.

after impressing the future of america with my sparkling wit, effervescent charm, and my uncanny ability to sweat through three layers of clothing in a temperature-controlled environment, julia and i fled a campus full of skinny jeans and fake plastic glasses (they're still doing that, omg) and went to a preview for this new chicken restaurant called leghorn. WHY THE FUCK HAVEN'T I EVER THOUGHT OF THIS. i write a blog called "bitches gotta eat," son. i should be on every restaurant publicist's list in the city, amirite!? they don't have to know that i write about banging sluts and vomiting into my handbag on the train until after i've already consumed my glamorous free meal.

we rolled up to the spot and i immediately panicked because all of the girls i could see while squinting through the windows were tiny and adorable. "this is a place that serves biscuits and chicken thighs, right?" i side-eyed julia. she reassured me that she wasn't leading me into a motherfucking kale smoothie spot and i was surprised to hear mf doom bumping at a deafening level from the speakers. i still felt like a fucking fraud, tho, because i didn't have the prerequisite expensive shoulder satchel or jaunty fashion hat. how can you be a food reviewer if it doesn't appear that you actually eat food? straight up like, where the fuck are you going to put that chicken thigh, amy.

what a total goddamn treat it is to eat food without having to wait in line or get smacked in the face by the six layers of winter clothing the bitch at the table next to yours has to take off before she can fit into her chair, FUCK CHICAGO. somebody put me on every foodie publicist list in this godforsaken hellscape, because if the shit was free and served in the kind of place where bearded hipster bartenders wear unironic suspenders then i would probably eat dog food on communion crackers and then write a glowing review. i had a super-delicious pickle-brined chicken thigh on a buttered biscuit with hush puppies and fries and i posted that shit on insta and the twitter machine, and so begins my new side hustle as a fancy and important restaurant critic.

EXCEPT. two more of my teeth are now rotting out of my head. WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK, UNIVERSE. i swear to god that i grew up in america, with access to toothpaste and fluoride in my tap water. and when i was in my early 20s i did what i was supposed to do: i saved every nickel and dime i could scavenge and instead of getting a cell phone from cingular or a giant bag of opiates i was responsible and paid this dentist in a real office with real magazines in the waiting room and real equipment to root canal several of the teeth my disadvantaged childhood had left to die in my skull. i took the antibiotics and sat at my freelance job with bags of frozen peas propped against my jaw and spent weeks taking the bus back and forth to this crumbling medical building as she took apart and cleaned out my gross teeth. and then last summer a couple of them broke in the middle of the goddamned because the roots within hadn't been properly cleaned and my upper jaw had spent the last seven years filling up with raging bacteria. so i went to a new dentist, and then an endodontist, and then an oral surgeon, and now i have a gaping hole in the top right side of my mouth. it cost $4,319,623, most of which i still owe my goddamned boss, who i'm pretty sure at this point officially owns me.

and i had the come to jesus moment, i promise. i started flossing more than once a season and burned the top layer of my fucking tongue off rinsing with listerine twice a day and my reward for such diligence was TWO TEETH BREAKING IN MY BOTTOM LEFT JAW LAST WEEK. do you know what it's like to hear your teeth break inside your head? the jagged stalagmites immediately lacerated my cheek and i got blood all over my shirt before stuffing a paper towel in my mouth and leaving work to go get it looked at. SAME SHIT, DIFFERENT DAY was my official diagnosis, as the last of those back door root canals reared its ugly head, this time with nine years worth of bacteria causing the fracture. my dentist was out of town, so the on call dentist shaved the sides of the broken teeth after pointing out the new cloud of blood-poisoning infectiondeath hovering gloomily over the left side of my mouth on the xray. two more weeks of antibiotics, and i'm going in next week to talk about a "treatment plan," which translates to "you need to get a kickstarter to raise money for me to wrestle out two more of your disgusting teeth."

so yeah, i need a young dude. especially one with a few extra teeth. bridges is expensive.