Thursday, February 11, 2016

how to trick strangers into believing that an adult lives in your apartment.

this is my stupid kitchen. YES THAT IS AN AUTOGRAPHED PICTURE OF NICK OFFERMAN AS MY HERO RON SWANSON. the inscription reads: sam. tenacity, and meat. swoon city, amirite. what a fucking dreamboat. anyway, my dumb birthday is on saturday. the other day brooke was like "hey for your big day i'm gonna bring snacks over and watch six episodes of the amazing race." *anxiety emoji* and i love brooke and everything but girl you need to understand that "birthday present" means "olive garden giftcard" not "force you to haphazardly disinfect your living space in a single, panicked afternoon while reconsidering those cutesy dishtowels you overpaid for on a whim and grossing yourself out re: tv stand dust and miniblind discoloration." people who actually love you will never ask to see the inside of your house.

friend: sits in the car messing with the radio while waiting for you to get your lipstick right for brunch.
enemy: forces her way inside the door then picks cat hair judgmentally off your bedspread while griping under her breath about how hungry she is.
friend: hollers at the deli with the jammmm chicken noodle soup and arranges for several quarts of it to be delivered by a faceless man on a bicycle to your den of influenza.
enemy: takes the day off work to bitch at you from your own motherfucking kitchen while making her mom's gross soup recipe (WHAT THE FUCK IS A PARSNIP, HOE) and insulting your starter cookware on the sly.
friend: texts you.
enemy: CALLS.

omg the fucking millisecond the state of illinois allowed me to legally get out of foster care forever (and the college grant money i spent on nachos and magazines ran out) i rented an apartment that was way too nice for a person of my limited grown up experience and filled it with everything i could afford: luxurious milk crate end tables, a couch with a rip in it salvaged from an upscale suburban alley, an abandoned laundry basket i stole from the dusty utility room. my pantry was filled with the food of the gods; 10 for $10 lipton rice mixes and store-brand peanut butter and the occasional can of le sueur peas. the only person who got lucky enough to see the beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows i was too poor to hang curtains over was this dude i dated who carried a playstation in his backpack wherever he went. this was 1998, children, the days of old when de la soul cds were a real thing and technology was too big to fit in your jacket pocket. anyway homeboy would carry around the console and controllers and i would watch him play heart of darkness for hours and this is what passed for romance to my newly-emancipated teenage self.

not much has changed since then save the fresh aloe juice and acidophilus tablets sitting unused in my fridge, and i have cable and a way better tv but who even cares because i'm pretty much the only person ever sitting on my one chair watching that new oj murder show. and sure, my place is clean. the laundry is put away, the dishes are stacked neatly in the cabinets, and the hall closet is organized but lesbihonest: i drink wine out of the same crate and barrel stemless glass every night and i rotate the same handful of semi-sheer black t-shirts. when you live like that you can't help but look like a grownup. if i was somehow forced to prepare complicated meals every night or (gasp!) incorporate colors into my clothing this tenuous grip i have on togetherness would evaporate completely. one cup i can routinely wash; add a frying pan to the mix and everything would dissolve into chaos.

ugh if you insist on having people over, you should probably buy a lot of books and stack them artfully around your crib like you just happened to take up residence between the stacks of a super hip indie bookstore like i do. this is why the kindle is kind of a bad move, because you can't impress people who hate you so much they actually crossed the threshold of your apartment to lay eyes on all your shit. and duh, i have one, because the other sweet shit about being an adult is disposable income to waste on whatever you want, but i only use it for embarrassing stuff like the first twelve sweet valley high books (what they were like 20 bucks okay) and jonathan franzen. who even gives a fuck whether or not you've read them, you're trying to impress a hot new piece of trade not make a motherfucking diorama. ps: leave some fresh flowers and/or fruit out if you can afford to. i definitely am about to get scurvy but my houseguests ain't gotta fucking know.

also also you have to get some quality booze so your bootycalls will be impressed by your sophisticated choices while snooping through your shit for reasons to never call you again. just try not to drink all of it while watching a snapped marathon by yourself. motherfuckers will believe you actually care about yourself when they happen upon an unopened bottle of laphroaig just chilling under your kitchen sink. they don't have to see the manifestation of your self-hatred in the form of that of that half-drunk gordon's vodka shoved behind your ice-encrusted healthy choice meals. ask dude at the wine store to show you where the impressive $16 reds are and put them on display while you drink that $2 trader joe shit in bed during judge mathis.

even bad art is hella expensive so fuck that. what tf do i even know about art. i have this poor person laminated print by emily mcdowell that is some of the realest advice i have ever fucking read propped up on a shelf: i will not compare myself to strangers on the internet. and at the risk of sounding like your grandmother, facebook and instagram are such fucking treacherous territory, and i don't even know from snapchat whatever the hell that is, especially for the delicate among us. like me, who sees your new car and fresh haircut as a personal assault. your heartwarming stories and adorable offspring only remind me that i watched a dude piss into the wind on the train platform this morning. and it’s so easy to be dazzled by someone else’s highlight reel when your own backstage footage looks like shit. so it’s good to have a reminder that all the happy people are probably lying, and all the pretty people have access to photoshop.

that print is the extent of my art collection, because if one of my asshole friends sees a framed piece of artwork on my wall he will assume i have money. and then he will ask to borrow some of it. and then OUR FRIENDSHIP HAS TO DIE because let me peep that dude checking in at the aviary or dove's before i get my $40 back, bitch i will get in an uber and carry my ass down there and awkwardly glare at him. protip: never borrow money from black people.

i'm not good at a whole lot of things. word jumbles, picking out eyeglasses, getting a good seat on the amtrak: this is the extent of my talents. but the one household thing i'm bomb at is cleaning the bathroom, especially since it is the place where i text myself jokes and read selections from my one of my many leaning towers of books. before you agree to host that oscar party, a crash course in 15 minute bathroom ablution: 1 squirt some cleaning goo in the toilet (i like kaboom) and shut the lid 2 spray the tub with whatever you like that won't choke you (my fave is better life all purpose) and scrub the shit out of it then rinse clean 3 wipe down the outside of the toilet (cleanwell botanical disinfecting wipes are the jam) 4 scrub the inside real good 5 wipe down the sink and get all that fucking toothpaste off the goddamn mirror (WE CAN SEE IT IN YOUR SELFIES, FAM) and 6 swiffer. put down a fresh bath mat, promise yourself that you are for real going to scrub down the walls and dust the lightbulbs next time, then bathe in the warm glow of your accomplishments.

i'ma be 36 years old in two goddamned days and all i really want is to sleep for a week after watching nine straight hours of eyeliner tutorial videos (i don't wear eyeliner!) on the youtube, but just in case brooke shows up at my door this weekend with a box of frozen pizza rolls and a silly rom-com from the redbox i am going to take this bag of magazines down to the recycling, hide all my prescriptions (you know bitches be sitting on your toilet googling your fucking medications), and arrange all of my fancy skincare items intimidatingly around the bathroom sink. omg i am officially "close to forty." brb buying so many high-waisted elastic pants.