Tuesday, July 15, 2014

happily never after.

i have a few friends and relatives with gluten intolerance and celiac disease, so when i attend events where one or more of these friends are going to be present, i often contact the host and ask permission to bring a gluten-free dessert. this is usually met with enthusiasm from the hosts, who sometimes have forgotten about it entirely. my question is, which dessert do i then eat? do i eat the one the host provided, or the gluten-free one, which is usually less popular (i’ve been assured it’s not due to subpar baking skills; a lot of people just prefer the regular desserts when available)?

WHAT. when my intestines swelled up and tried to claw their way out of my body in 2005 and my hotsex doctor made me undergo every single excruciating, humiliating exercise a human being has ever subjected herself to in an effort to figure out why she can’t stop shitting her pants, the first test he ordered was to check my autoantibody levels and take a bunch of intestinal biopsies. i had tiny, high-powered microscopes forced down my throat and up my ass for weeks. that shit was totally fucking horrifying. and thank goodness i just have crohn’s disease, so i don’t have to be one of those insufferable assholes who’s all, “DON’T LET THAT DINNER ROLL COME ANYWHERE NEAR MY BOILED LETTUCE AND RECENTLY-SLAUGHTERED MEAT!” in the middle of the goddamned restaurant. here’s the most important question, though: why the fuck would you eat the gluten-free cake if you are not intolerant? have you ever tasted that shit!? those poor fucking people; if i had celiac disease all my cakes would be made from sharp cheddar cheese. man, fuck rice flour. unless that shit makes you lose weight. because most of you liars are just doing that shit to be skinny, right? is it working? because i love bread but i'm also totally lazy. come on, girl. you can tell me. i promise i won’t force any whole wheat on you.


i was planning my girlfriend's bridal shower, and a week ago she informed me that the wedding is off. she has offered to reimburse me for the expense i have incurred thus far for various items, including the printing of invitations. should i accept the reimbursement? i feel she's probably going through enough, having to make the decision to break up with her fiancé and call off the wedding.


pardon me for being a huge piece of shit, but if i buy a fancy gift for your ridiculous wedding and you motherfuckers stay married for fewer than five years i want my tiffany sterling silver cake serving set back, please. (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, BITCH.) if she’s writing you a check you better cash that shit immediately, before the caterer and the event space coordinator and the minister start snatching their non-refundable deposits out of her half of their joint account. you dodged a bullet, sister. nothing is more frustratingly (and inexplicably) expensive than some other bitch’s goddamned wedding. showers and parties and strippers and dresses and shoes and a male escort to go to the damn thing with you ADD THE FUCK UP, GIRL. and for what, so that smug asshole who stopped taking your calls once she got a boyfriend spends six to eight months ruining your life with her debilitating demands? count your blessings, and your money, when that sad bitch pawns her ring to pay you back for those monogrammed custom invites she demanded you spend half a paycheck ordering after you finished the calligraphy course she insisted you enroll in when a facebook event and a couple text messages would have been equally effective. BITCH.


i have been asked by a dear friend to be a bridesmaid in her upcoming wedding. the problem is, i am on a strict budget and i am sure she will select extravagant dresses for us to wear. can i hint that i have a limited income to spend on a dress and shoes? or should i simply turn her down and tell her why?



i don’t know if i will ever get married. 1 i never want anyone else to have my ATM pin, and that’s the marriage thing: that some dude can just, like, legally take my jellybean and concert ticket money  to start his lawnmowing business or whatever and i just have to be cool with that. and 2 i’d be happy about it for the five minutes it takes to tweet that shit and post pictures of my tasteful wedding pantsuit on insta, then i would just grow restless and bored waiting for some asshole whose dick i don’t want to suck anymore to hurry up and die already so i could go to the caribbean with the insurance payout. but let’s say i live in a magical dreamworld where good things happen to me and i tripped over someone RUL interesting and smart tomorrow while tumbling out of the bar and, after the prerequisite eight year courtship and minimum three year engagement period while i skeptically wait for the other shoe to drop and we literally starve to save $50,000 to feed a bunch of people who hate us at a party that only lasts one goddamned day, we are finally married: i will be forty-five motherfucking years old. AND OLD BITCHES AIN’T GOTTA HAVE BRIDESMAIDS. what i look like lining up all my friends’ varicose veins in matching blue taffeta? i just want to wear my talbots mid-calf skirt and shoes with proper arch support and eat overcooked hotel steak while the DJ plays cypress hill because i came of age in the early 90s and b real is my shit.

BUT IF I HAD TO. maybe i don’t know shit about weddings, but aren’t your bridesmaids supposed to be the bitches you know the absolute best? i’ve never seen anyone’s w2, but i know which of my friends can barely afford to go half on a pizza and which ones can spring for a fancy steak dinner downtown. also, it’s hella gross to ask a person, regardless of income, to drop a shit ton of money on a dress she is going to wear one motherfucking time. even when they exclaim, “I TOTALLY PICKED A STYLE YOU COULD TOTALLY WEAR AGAIN!” the truth is NO YOU FUCKING WON’T. unless there is a junior prom in your future. and hinting is bullshit. i would be proactive and call her up. “hey courtney, i’m broke. how about i wear this $13 catsuit i got at forever 21 to your wedding?” yes, she’ll probably kick you out of the wedding party, but that is a goddamned jam! you can come late, leave early, and wear whatever flammable polyester trash you fucking want. MAZEL TOV!

am i expected to give a gift if i'm attending a destination wedding? if so, is it customary to send the present in advance? should i spend the same amount as i would for a couple getting married closer to home?


as much as i want to be like, “FUCK THEM, JAMAICA AIN’T CHEAP,” i think you still should get those jerks a gift. i like having good manners, which really means i hate giving anyone a reason to question my upbringing behind my back, so even if they said not to i would at least get them a little something to prove my limitless wealth and generosity. don't invite me to your destination wedding, tho. it's hard enough to catch a cab in your good clothes to get to a wedding downtown, let alone trying to look good halfway across the globe with only the 1 oz of hair product that survived the trip intact. and i'm not trying to make small talk with your dad while scratching a bunch of weird, oozing insect bites and fighting off some as yet undiscovered tropical disease. but if i were you i would: 1 buy a first class ticket, for sure; 2 invest in a good quality jersey dress because ironing in a hotel is the lamest, you should be drunk; 3 fuck every dude you make eye contact with over that cocktail you're sipping out of a coconut, and 4 get those assholes a giftcard in the checkout line at the grocer. congratulations, guys! please enjoy your dinner at ruby tuesday!


my sister purchased a replica of my engagement ring. what should i do?


BEAT THAT TACKY BITCH TO DEATH. 


i’m getting married in october. my fiancĂ© and i are over 45 and well established in life. both of us have houses and have been married before. we really don’t need standard wedding gifts. is there a way to ask for a gift card or just cash without being rude?


what the fuck does "well established in life" mean? because my interpretation is "please enjoy this top shelf open bar and five star buffet without worrying about buying us a goddamned thing, BECAUSE WE EACH HAVE OUR OWN MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE." why not just charge a cover? because if you don't need this toaster i bought you tj maxx along with a couple pair of new balance with fucked up stitching i purchased for myself, then why i gotta give you my money? this oven toasts four slices at a time, bro. do you know how hard it is to try to put $29.77 in a motherfucking hallmark card!? TAKE THIS GIFT RECEIPT AND SHUT UP.


how do you throw a small wedding without offending your uninvited family members, coworkers, and friends?


YOU ELOPE.


my boyfriend of 3½ years recently came home with an invitation to his sister’s wedding that included only his name. no “and guest,” no “my name here.” nope, only his first name. i must also mention this is a formal affair that his parents are paying for. i, of course, was offended. there was not a separate invitation for me, nor was my name mentioned on the internal envelope. he argues that of course i’m invited, and the lack of my name on the envelope means nothing. i, on the other hand, am sure this is a direct way of telling me i’m not invited. what should i do?


this might be a good night to sit home and empty out the DVR with a tube of raw cookie dough and some elastic-waisted pants, girl. i don't know, man. you're pretty fucking salty, and it just feels like really fucking bad karma to go to what is supposed to be a joyous celebration with a puss on. DO THEY HATE YOU. IS YOUR BOYFRIEND BANGING SOMEONE ELSE. ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE A REAL COUPLE. or maybe they're doing you a favor? other people's family shit is the worst. especially for those of us with dead parents. MY DAD IS NEVER GOING TO SHOW YOU HIS DICK AT A FAMILY BARBECUE. seriously, you will never stick to the plastic on my mother's 1974 sofa while choking down some dusty shake and bake pork chops, my dude. so please do me a solid and tell your parents that i am in a coma or something every time they ask when i'm coming over for game night. i would for real get over yourself and get a red box, boo. i ain't gotta shave my legs and get a haircut just to watch your drunk ass mom attempt to line dance seventeen times in one evening!? HALLELUJAH. cha cha now, y'all.


should we put “and guest” on the invitations addressed to our single friends?


man, fuck you and fuck this. YOU CHEAP BASTARDS. of course you should. the only thing worse than being a smug single person at some asshole's stupid wedding is being a smug single person at some asshole's stupid wedding with no one awesome to talk shit about it to. as much as i don't want to burden you with that extra $75 lukewarm chicken breast spent on some dude i found on craigslist, just think of it as an insurance policy that i won't fuck your reception all the way up with my drunk crying and vomit-flavored hiccups. let's be honest with each other: this idea that single people are just living it up at your holiday inn ballroom wedding is just not the goddamned truth. i was a bridesmaid one time, and i attended that wedding with only my sad singlefeelings and champagne to keep me company. i think when bitches are waxing rhapsodic about all of these amazing weddings they've been to they are totally forgetting the worst part of it, that part of the night when you didn't want to leave at old person o'clock but missed the "single and carefree!" window by, like, forty-five minutes and now you're stuck keeping an eye on the kids who've fallen asleep and you are eating all the half-eaten slices of cake left by parents your age who never get a night out and are stoked to hear songs from their high school prom so they never come back to the goddamned table to rescue you because they don't want their dream evening to end and half your spanx is wedged uncomfortably between your cheeks and you drank all of the sangria which was basically hotel grape juice with a granny smith apple floating in it and you didn't even get a buzz. OR MAYBE THAT'S JUST ME. i hope you choke on the rice they throw at you.


perfect wedding gift.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

picking cherries is hard.

chapter one: i fucking hate nature. we have had a contentious relationship since the summer of 1987. i was in some special summer camp for dorks that involved neither 1 athleticism nor 2 outdoor social activity. we sat in a darkened classroom with no air conditioning, learning about fish and whales without ever having to be near any, eating lunch quietly at our desks while reading and going home at 2pm to sit quietly in our bedrooms doing 100% voluntary summer homework.

my grandmother grew kale and collard greens in the garden alongside her house. i didn’t have a plump warm grandmother who smelled like warm chocolate chip cookies and fresh laundry. nope, my gram was skinny and mean and ashed her cigarettes in the pan while frying sardines in it and once killed a rabbit with a slingshot as it was trying to feed itself on her plants. on second thought, that shit wasn’t even a garden as much as it was a “section of the yard where plants kind of grew.” during the summer of 1987 my gram made me eat that kale, tough and flavorless as it was, before sending me off to nerd camp with even more in my lunchbox. i shit my pants that day, viscous dark green goo pooling in my underpants before running down the length of my pants (i am a person who wears pants in the summertime) and exploding onto my shoes because most of the bathrooms were closed during vacation for repair. i had to walk home on a ninety-degree day in sticky corduroys i had to rinse out in a drinking fountain in my goddamned underwear. my gram and her dirty fucking kale are the reason you're going to find me frozen to death in my apartment under the industrial air conditioner some future july. fuck summer.

chapter two: i am a nice friend. cherry picking is not my idea of a fun time. i might cancel on dinner once or twice but if i love you and you need a bitch to help fuck your ex-boyfriend's new car up then yes i will get out of bed and help. i love my goddamned friends and there isn't anything i wouldn't do for one of them. so when kate asked me to get up at dawn on a sunday to drive three hours to michigan and pick fruit on some bonding type shit i angrily said, HOE ARE YOU NUTS WHO THE FUCK WOULD EVER WANT TO DO THAT. and then i felt bad and was like, fine but we are stopping at a motherfucking cracker barrel.

chapter three: the construction on 94 will fuck your whole shit up. i’m not about to go into a whole big thing because it was infuriating and google maps can suck a huge d, but if you are traveling to michigan from chicago there is an unmarked turn to continue going east that if you miss you will be re-routed right back into illinois and you will say dumb shit like, “there are significantly fewer trees than i expected” and “why hasn’t the time changed yet?” before you realize that you are in MOTHERFUCKING AURORA WHERE THERE IS NOT A SINGLE CHERRY TREE TO BE FOUND and then you will resort to asking siri how to get there and then almost wither and die in shame as the first thirty seconds of connecting your GPS is just that insufferable bitch laughing at you.

chapter four: two hours a slave. i could feel the burning stares of slack-jawed rural white people confused by my modern asymmetrical haircut as soon as we got out of the car. “YES, WE ARE BIG CITY LESBIANS,” i announced to all of the jc penney elastic-waisted slacks in berrien county. “WE HAVE COME TO AVAIL OURSELVES TO YOUR MANY QUAINT AND CHARMING LOCAL CUSTOMS.” after registering the car with a charming milkmaid and declining her offer to sign up for the pit-spitting championship, we drove a winding series of dusty gravel roads out to the cherry orchards. “this is just like the grapes of wrath” i said to kate as a man with dusty overalls and a handful of teeth handed us large pails for our cherries. i smiled at him the way you smile at people you feel kind of bad for, and he smiled at me the way you smile when you still call people nigger. WITH THE -ER. 

i should have done some motherfucking research. the easily accessible low-hanging fruit had already been snatched off by children and crafty wildlife, so we basically had to fight through the branches and stand on tiptoe to reach whatever was left. or take our chances with one of the rickety ladders sprinkled across the orchard. but i wasn't trying to be black with a broken fucking neck in michigan backcountry. we dragged ourselves up and down row after row of nearly naked trees under the punishing summer sun, our buckets heavy with tart red cherries, the only ones that survived the harsh winter. which means we couldn't even fucking eat what we picked. erase from your mind the image of us city mice feasting on fat, succulent cherries, our faces and shirts stained with their sweet juice. from tree to tree we soldiered on, for hours, filthy and sweating and bent at the waist from hauling the weight of our inedible spoils. "this feels like slavery," i grumbled to a bee hovering dangerously close as i tried to shake cherries loose from their branches without any white people seeing me. i starting humming "lift every voice and sing" softly under my breath. then that racist asshole bee stung me in the fucking face.

chapter five: i did not get to go to cracker barrel. when i decided i'd had e-goddamned-nough of those fucking cherries we dragged our buckets to the weighing station where i was shocked to learn that the most calories i have burned in a year yielded a little over fourteen pounds of sickly-looking bruised berries. i for real thought dude was going to be like, "thirty-seven pounds!" and we would win a prize or some shit. i couldn't believe that all that hard ass work had barely met the minimum amount you can take home. HELEN WEIGHS MORE THAN FOURTEEN FUCKING POUNDS AND SHE IS A CAT. i almost cried.

we sloshed our cherries around in these huge fucking sinks and picked out all of the leaves and dirt i accidentally got in my bucket because picking cherries is totally fucking harder than you think it is, then watched this teenage girl load them into a giant pitting machine as we stood underneath it trying to catch what came flying out. now is probably a good time to mention that i was wearing flip flops and what i had worn to the club the night before and that all of these items were now freezing and soaking wet. plus the top was sheer so BOOBS. we drove back to the registration building to pay for these cherries we were never going to eat and get me a bottle of fresh apple cider. i also purchased: apple butter, fancy toasted peanuts, sweet cherries we could actually eat in the car, and other assorted bric-a-brac michigan stuff. you know, a live deer and whatnot. 


i had not accounted for the holiday weekend, for all of our fellow illinoisans who would clog the deconstructed highways with their mountain bikes and their jet skis, anxious to get back to chicago before nightfall to get ready for the week ahead. it took us four hours to get home. four motherfucking hours to circle the lake to get back to the good side where there are shiny new hospitals and cafes you can take your dog to. OH AND BLACK PEOPLE. we were not stopping for an honest-to-goodness homecooked country meal. i was robbed. also, july 6 was national fried chicken day and i spent it in a field cutting my fingers and slap boxing pissed off insects to pick food i didn't even want to eat. that is not what rosa parks sat down for.

chapter six: i am never leaving my apartment ever again. i made a cherry crisp with one bee-stung eye swollen shut while maxing a popeyes three-piece mild. SEE YOU IN NOVEMBER.


click here and buy this thing i made and read it inside.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

what i learned about new york on my second ever trip there last thursday.

1 donald rumsfeld doesn't travel with any discernible security. let me tell you what the airport is like when your boarding time is 625 IN THE GODDAMNED MORNING: a wasteland of  cranky travel zombies mindlessly slipping into and out of their comfortable flying shoes, anxious to trade the security line for the one snaking around the corner from starbucks. my flight was delayed, which afforded me just enough time to sleepwalk over to jamba juice, and as i stood there dozing off with a bunch of dudes in bad suits staring at me, too afraid to ask why i was loitering around the first class boarding line. AND THEN DONALD RUMSFELD WALKED BY. and i wish i was cool enough to shout "murderer!" or whatever as he passed by, flanked on either side by elderly gentlemen who looked like they would lose a slap fight with a third grader, but i ain't so i just drank my 400 calorie mashed up juice and told somebody's nosy stepdad to "take a picture it'll last longer, you racist." 

2 bad ass kids fill my heart with explosive joy. chicago sam does not sit outside. new york sam, however, drinks beer on a patio and eats her mister softee on a bench in morningside park. i also: 1 ate a fancy donut at a flea market in green point, 2 stood outside in the rain in harlem without complaining even one time, and 3 ate lamb off a truck at 2am in park slope even though i have an aversion to shit like that for real. VACATION SAM IS SO CAREFREE AND FUN. anyway, vanessa and i were sitting in the park with justin, watching a group of squealing kids splashing around under a sprinkler and pushing each other too hard on the swings. i was tipsy from lunch and feeling a little conflicted about my proximity to impressionable youth, but nevermind that. one kid, a little older than his contemporaries and not as conventionally cute (thick glasses; scrawny bird chest; a grating, high-pitched laugh that threatened to shred my eardrums), tumbled clumsily into my sightline and i was enamored of him immediately. the other children skidded out of the way as he approached, his baby teeth spaced like tombstones in his giant head. he had a plastic bottle that he would fill with water while dancing alone under the sprinkler then he'd race over to the slide, pour the water down it, then hop on and scream all the way to the bottom. he repeated this exercise several times, delighting in his genius. a couple unsuspecting little punks scooted down the slide in their dry clothes only to emerge at the end of the ride irritable and soggy-bottomed. our hero snickered as he watched them ruin their school clothes one by one, then bounded away to fill his bottle anew. one final time he ascended that staircase, his precious chalice held safely above his head, giggling to himself all the while. he sat down on the slide, his grin spreading wider. and then he pushed off, pouring the water down his body while shouting "OH YEAH!" to the heavens. he hit the awaiting pavement with a satisfied thud, laughing and laughing and laughing. BUT WAIT.  a new kid entered stage left: tinier, cuter, and with a head full of bouncing curls that all of the mommies have heretofore been tousling. everyone loves this little guy. and he knows it, batting his eyelashes and blowing kisses to the abuelitas smoking next to the fence. our hero's face darkened a bit as he watched this adorable new nemesis skip over to the slide, his tiny swim trunks dripping wet, crying "watch me! watch me!" with every dainty step. i know what's about to happen, AND SO DOES THIS FUCKING DUDE, because we locked eyes and start cackling at the same goddamned time. FUCK A CUTE KID. he took forever to climb those fucking stairs, while glasses and i watched and waited with bated breath. when he reached the top he turned to make sure everyone was looking at only him, and all the ladies cooed and got their instagram fingers ready. "wait, is that slide wet?" justin asked. "YES," i breathed, barely able to contain my bubbling excitement. that boy shot off the slide like a bullet, landing (SPLAT) shocked and confused in the puddle of water left behind by our hero's underwear/swimming attire. he got up and staggered toward the crowd of women rushing to help, while glasses hid his crooked smile behind his hand. "are you available for adoption?" i called out to him, but he was already running to get some ice cream and fuck if i'ma go to jail for chasing a child in public.

3 kara walker is an exceptional human. kara walker is the most important artist of our time. we stood sweltering under the brooklyn sun in that long ass line outside the domino factory for half a goddamned hour, but it was worth it. i'm not an art person. i write butt jokes on the internet and can't speak intellectually about art in a way that doesn't make me sound like a fucking dummy but sugar baby was incredible so youtube it or read that times piece and pretend those are my words. just add some swears and they can be, shit.
afterward we went to this place called pies and thighs that at first i thought was a strip club but omg they had fried chicken made by white people there. BROOKLYN YOU CRAZY.

4 an aspiring american apparel model will charge you $25 for a 12 oz cup of juice with a STRAIGHT MOTHERFUCKING FACE. coming up out of a new york subway in the summer is like fighting your way out of a dog's mouth only to find yourself clawing your way through a sweaty human greenhouse. i am not immune to shiny toys and pretty things, or the pavlovian pull of an air conditioned sanctuary filled with food blending machines (see item 1), so when i rounded the corner to find a gleaming edifice constructed of sparkling glass and shimmering stainless steel it was futile to resist the urge to find out what was inside.
i should've fucking known when i didn't see a price next to anything.
i should've fucking known that "young thai water" wouldn't be cheap.
i should've fucking known that coconut oil and maca could potentially bankrupt me.
i should've fucking known that bee pollen is for rich kids of instagram only.

i should've fucking known that a cup of mushy juice that took fourteen minutes and three motherfucking people to make was going to literally be the most expensive purchase i made in a single day. AND THIS IS A PLACE THAT CHARGES $7 FOR A BUDWEISER, FAM. i almost choked when the girl at the register gave me my total. i closed my eyes and walked down the chelsea street making believe i was a person who actually had money for this kind of dumb shit, popping my eye out and unhinging my jaw trying to suck two pounds of spirulina and raw kale through a fancy juice straw the circumference of a needle eye. AND THE JAMBA GODS LAUGHED MERRILY.

5 new yorkers will stand idly by while a person appears to be having a complete mental breakdown as they look on. three hours walking around manhattan and my inner thigh meat looked like christmas dinner: HEAT-RADIATING NEON PINK HAMS. vanessa needed benedryl because we'd spent two days fucking with mother nature and that bitch bites back, and i decided it would be a prime opportunity to let some air conditioning caress my soft meats and also buy one of those chafe sticks fat girls need to carry with us at all times in the summer. we were circling around the park, past many tables of knockoff bags and counterfeit jewelry, when we encountered a man completely naked save for an afro and a tiny, dirty speedo. he was shouting the words to "old mcdonald had a farm" and moving his body in such a manic, jerky way that i thought he was either 1 having a seizure or 2 attempting to do the humpty dance. IT LOOKED PAINFUL, MY DUDE. i stopped in my tracks, sure that a police officer or ambulance would be rolling up at any second. not only did this not happen, there were dozens of people just lounging on the steps of union square park casually eating lunch and making phone calls, totally nonplussed by this dude with public testicles screaming ON THAT FARM HE HAD A DOG at the top of his goddamned lungs. i can't send a goddamned text message when it's raining. you dudes are fucking brutal.

6 animals > humans.
so i spent one night with my friend mariyam in brooklyn and my punishment for not paying $572719824 a night for a hotel was a FIFTH FLOOR WALKUP AT TWO IN THE MORNING. or priceless friendship but whatever. here's why chicago is better than new york city: if i tell you that i live on anything higher than the third floor, you can rest assured knowing that you ain't gotta huff and puff your way your way up to my shit. hell, i live on the third floor now and my building has two motherfucking elevators. are they terrifying? YES. will you be out of breath and nursing a side cramp when you step off of one? A RESOUNDING NO. our laziness is written into the building code. after the forty-five minutes it took me to drag my bum leg up the stairs i was greeted by the most adorable kitten ever. "i thought you were fostering two of them?" i asked, as they were the primary reasons i had agreed to stay in her apartment. the black and white one bounced around like a ping pong ball, eating and jumping and sinking her little needle nails into the hem of my asos dress. we found the grey and white one lying hot and limp under the coffee table and my immediate thought was, "FUCK I JUST CLIMBED ALL THOSE MOTHERFUCKING STAIRS." that kitten was basically dying. after frantically cutting air holes in an amazon box and taping her inside i dislocated a hip following mariyam down to the car and we spent two hours in a dark, echoey emergency hospital being lectured at by a russian technician with an awkward sense of humor whose jokes i didn't understand because i had been awake for almost 24 hours. i spent the entirety of the next day falling asleep in the back of cabs, but that kitten goddamned lived. so i'm basically a hero.

7 THEIR PIZZA REALLY IS KIND OF GROSS. i say this as a person who doesn't really enjoy cheese in a breadbowl chicago pizza knife and fork goo: eating a folded oversized slice of soggy new york pizza is like shoving a used maxi pad into your mouth. and watching people do that open-mouthed licking-the-pointy-end-to-get-it-between-their-teeth-to-take-a-bite thing is motherfucking disgusting. DEAL WITH IT.

and there was still so much goddamned trash on the street. I HEART NY.

click here and buy this thing i made.