Wednesday, October 28, 2009

dear bitch.

i am bored, so i am reading cosmopolitan. i know you nerds couldn't be bothered, and that's why i do it for you. the advice column is my very favorite, especially because i already know the 20 sexiest exercises for a rockin' bod AND the new sex tricks that'll drive him WILD! (i'm serious, bitches. fuck you if you think i'm being facetious. "where the wild things are" should have been a documentary starring my underpants.) anyway, the answers these advice dudes give is horrifying, and the total opposite of hilarious and awesome. let's fix that.

my boyfriend has a hard time climaxing unless i talk dirty during sex. the only problem is that i end up concentrating so much on what to say, i can't stay focused on enjoying the experience. how can i do both?

well this one is totally easy: who gives a fuck about his climax?! just kidding. (i'm not, really.) okay, for real, that's some total fucking bullshit he made up just to try to get you to say some lame shit like "your raging hard on is so...HARD. and big! give it to me, daddy!" every dude i've ever met could have an orgasm from a gust of wind, so i don't believe this stupid asshole for one second. you could recite the fucking phone book and as long as his penis is in the same room as you he's going to bust a nut. try that shit! i used to talk to spanks about politics while he was chug-chug-chugging away and he never broke stride, not even ONCE. if you want a girl to say some nasty, disgusting, gutterbutt shit, try asking. if she's not an uptight victorian, she'll say whatever you want. i know i will! oh, except "daddy." never ever ever EVER. ick.

my boyfriend is in his late 20s, but this is his first real relationship. as we near our first anniversary, he’s starting to act weird. how can i calm him down before he totally freaks?

break up with him and find him someone new to fuck. isn't that what you dudes really want when you start "acting weird?" that's manspeak for "fresh vagina," isn't it? so go get that noncommital bastard some new pussy to crawl into. should settle the poor baby right down.

there’s a coffee shop near my apartment, where i sit and read or do work on my laptop. i always see guys approach girls who are far less attractive than i am. generally, i don’t want to be interrupted, but i’d like it if a cute guy said hi to me every so often, if only for an ego boost. is it possible i’m sending out a hostile vibe?

not at all, lover. you're totally approachable. ugly girls are just easier, and we do WAY MORE dirty ass shit in bed. it's because of our low self-esteem, you know. you fucking gorgeous ice queens, with your high self-image and your exacting standards and your preternaturally shiny hair, are just too much fucking work. ugly bitches will put out for a scone and a latte, but not your sexy ass. sitting on your laptop typing away, probably looking up the most expensive restaurants with the most expensive wine cellars, just itching to be asked out on a date that justifies that dvf dress and those $400 highlights. while we dumb sluts get taken to matinees and the dollar menu. fucking ego boost. dumb bitch.

my boyfriend has one female friend. they’re really close, they hang out by themselves, he never asks me to join them, and oh, yeah — she’s gorgeous. is he going to cheat on me with her?

yes, as soon as he gets a chance. if he hasn't already. poison that bitch while you still can.

i'm often called cute but never hot. my guy friends tell me there's a difference, but they're vague about what it is. i've been having a dry spell, dating-wise, so i'm starting to think that cute is a bad thing and i may need to change something. so what does cute really mean?

UGLY. sorry.

all my guy friends say they can't believe that i'm single. i'm cute, i work out, i love sports, and i would rather hang out with the guys than go shopping with the girls. so with all that good stuff, what's the problem?

your name is samantha irby, and god hates you. well, maybe not, because working out doesn't do anything but make me want to kill myself and i've been known to drop thousands of dollars in an afternoon on total bullshit, so maybe i should amend that answer to say this: men are garbage. and they want to fuck your mother, your sister, your daughter, your cousin, your neighbor, your aunt, your teacher, your best friend, your enemy, and everyone else who isn't YOU.

i'm very close to my boyfriend of six months, but when we have sex, he closes his eyes and stays silent. he says he enjoys cuddling more than sex, yet he also says he wants more excitement. how do i interpret his mixed signals?

he's gay? grow a beard. and a dick. but don't tell him. then come into the bedroom dressed in your girl clothes and do a sexy striptease. exciting enough? you bet. damn, this is easy. these questions almost answer themselves!

when we met, my boyfriend was a virgin...but i wasn't. now he fears that his curiosity about other women will make him cheat. i suggested we have a threesome, and he thinks it's a great idea. but what if he likes her better than me?

i don't understand this AT ALL. i mean, why on earth would you do something like that? why don't sensible, logical people ever see that this is the worst idea EVER? i can't imagine anything more ridiculous. and way to make yourself feel like a dirty whore. i mean, come on. why would anyone in her right mind ever date a virgin?!

i'm dating someone who doesn’t have any goals. we’re not kids anymore, and i think he needs to get his act together. how can I tell if he’ll ever be motivated?

um...honey? that permanent dent in your couch is probably proof positive that he is never going to, in fact, "get his act together." thankfully, i have never had this problem with anyone i've ever dated. there are no broke, jobless slackers littering the samantha superhighway. i am probably the least motivated bitch i know, and EVEN I enrolled in fucking community college and manage to write this raggedy ass blog once a week. i have no idea what the impetus is for a dude to get his shit in order, but babies and/or death threats are the first things that come to mind. and who wants to spend her whole life trying to mean mommy some asshole off his playstation and out into the working world? fuck him. move on.

a few weeks ago, i got really drunk with my best male friend. he confessed that he was attracted to me, and we ended up having sex. now he is claiming that he was wasted and doesn’t remember what he said, and he’s been avoiding me. i just want things to go back to normal. what do you think i should do?

well. while this exact thing has never happened to me, which is a total shame because i have some smoking hot male friends (come on, dudes! what are you waiting for? let's get wasted and have regrettable sex!), i CAN attest to saying some dumb ass shit while under the spell of the drunks, and i usually solve said situations using avoidance and ye olde "blackout" excuse. at least until i can get sloppy drunk with that person again and take it all back while sobbing incoherently into my beer(s). so get hime drunk, or throw a bottle of vodka at him as he's running the opposite direction to try to get away from your ass, and talk it out. and if all else fails get blind drunk and fuck some other dude, preferably one not in your immediate circle of friends. 
aww, remember that movie? when minnie driver was fat and chris whatshisballs sorta looked like a girl? that movie gave my chunky little ass hope when i was a kid, that someone would see through all these layers of doritos and onion rings to love the real me. farcical fairytale bullshit. god, i need to do some push-ups or something.

i'm not too keen on giving oral. i have a gag reflex, so i never really go all the way with it. how do i get over this "fear" of gagging on it?

you hoes better get it together. i'm so tired of hearing this bullshit! i give head like it's my job and i'm angling for a promotion. and i don't hate it, either. especially since a dude will walk to the end of the earth if you ask him to ten seconds after you swallow. (ps, stop spitting. that shit is gross and totally kills the mood. if you can take a tylenol, you can handle a few mouthbabies. suck it up, girlfriend.)

how do i deal with a guy who suffers from premature ejaculation?

you thank your lucky STARS, that's what you do. i always end up with these dudes who think sex is supposed to be a marathon. rather than the sprint i much prefer. maybe a couple laps on a good day, but who has the time or energy or stamina for an hour+ of sustained physical activity? five minutes of rabbit sex is just what the doctor ordered. i want that shit to be faster than a fucking oil change. i want to order a pizza and be finished with foreplay, the act itself, AND the cuddling by the time the delivery dude rings my doorbell. i try to explain it to dudes this way: wet your finger and stick it in your nostril. it fits, right? now move it in and out at an easy, relaxed pace. it doesn't hurt, necessarily, but it doesn't feel awesome, does it? okay, now jam it in too far, then yank it out, then jamjamjamjam, then go slow, then more jamming, then shove it in WAY too far, jamjamjam grunt jam jam, then try poking it in the other (wrong) nostril, then alternate jamming and poking at an erratic pace, slipping in and accidentally out then jamjamjamjamjamjamjamjamjam really really fast, as fast as you can go, now YANK your finger out and shrivel it up against your inner thigh. welcome to sex. hurry the fuck up already.

even though my boyfriend and i have sex all the time, he looks at pornography every day. it makes me feel like he isn’t satisfied with our sex life. how much porn is too much?

i have so much porn it's kinda weird. i mean, not weird-weird, but weird-for-a-girl-weird. i justify it by saying i am just a very sexual person, but that isn't really true. i am a lewd and provocative person, for sure, but the term "sexual person" evokes images of flowing dresses and bitches who don't wear bras, and me that ain't. most of the dudes i've dated have MASSIVE collections, and while mine is limited to regular hardcore (sorry, but that ladyporn with a plot bullshit is for repressed housewives; i gotta see some penetra--you get it), some of my menfriends had some really strange, perverted shit. i've said this before, maybe not in this forum, but one of them showed me some bodybuilder porn. my eyes are still burning. so to answer the question i say there is no such thing. loosen up, prude!

i'm going to do this again. and soon. but the chair i'm sitting in is making my colon hurt and i have to get the fuck up. does that happen to you whores? sitting someplace so long you feel it in your internal organs? ugh, and my eye is twitching. can someone arrange it so i can sleep for a week straight? what the hell is my problem? until next time, freaks.

Friday, October 23, 2009

babies and booty.

so are dudes doing this now, or have i just run into a random handful of ticking biological clocks? what is UP with dudes and little babyfriends lately?! i have met/dated/talked to a number of dudes over the last few weeks, and pretty much every single one had something to say about his future crumbsnatchers. i told you hoes i was going to give africa another chance and i did, and my busted foot and i dragged our sorry selves out to meet him for drinks. it was RAD. i was a little late and had to sit on a barstool the whole night (i think i speak for every single ass that slides itself into a pair of double-digit jeans when i say FUCK THAT), but otherwise we had a killer time. that dude is fucking SMART, dude, and that's the hottest aphrodisiac in the history of ever. forget oysters and slow jams, i want a motherfucker who can break down thomas aquinas and philippa foot over a high life or twelve. seriously, i was almost outfoxed. and you know for a smartass political bitch such as myself that is quite an accomplishment. it was my first date EVER where some y-chromosome and i got into a heated discussion about the restrictions of a two-party system AND globalization in the same goddamned night. bonus: he didn't sound like a fucking idiot, either. because there are a number of pseudo-intellectual notches in my bedpost, but not a single one of those douchebags really knew what the fuck he was talking about.

i dated this dude briefly once who thought he was wolf blitzer or some shit, and it was a neat-o trick until i asked him to actually substantiate one of his totally ridiculous points of view and he sat gaping at me like a jack-o-lantern with the inside of its head scooped out, unable to come up with anything other than a random soundbite he'd memorized from the news. there are lots of people who just talk and talk and talk about nothing and they drop the occasional 50-cent word while everyone else in the room just sits there staring blankly at them and feeling too dumb to join the discussion because that asshole used the word "gravitas" in a sentence. it happens in class ALL THE TIME. some self-important loudmouth windbag will be droning on and on and on (while being wrong and wrong and more wrong) while everyone else cowers, too afraid to tell him to shut the fuck UP.

so when africa started talking about the free market and shit i almost took my pants off in the middle of the fucking bar. goddammit, a smart one! fuck a love song, fuck a flower bouquet, fuck a heart shaped box of old dry chocolates filled with gooey grossness. NOTHING gets these panties off faster than a dude with a fucking brain rattling around in his head. so i was totally on africa's side. he told me about how he was raised all over europe and went to college in finland and he even tried to teach me about soccer (yawn) and he was funny and so smart (sorry, i had to say it again; smart fellas wind my watch) and personable and nice and he drank cheap beer with me and everything was coming up roses and then he started talking about how he wants four children.

i'm sorry, what? what was that? what did you say?! did you mention babies?!! on the first fucking date??!?!!

i mean REALLY, lovers. how does one go from explaining how the stock market works (sorry, bitches, i don't have a clue) to talking about his future plans for my uterus? this is 100% irritating on SO many levels, the first of which is how a woman would be labeled ten types of crazy if she dared to even make the slightest allusion to marriage and/or family before six months of dating. no, TWO YEARS of dating. and even then dude would probably give her the side eye and start using words like "suffocating" and "controlling" and shit. i don't even think about using the word exclusive until he says it first, and that's usually right around the fucking one year mark. i have been so well-trained by my commitment-allergic manfriends of yore that i never even think about purging my contact list of all my back-burner dicks and tricks. and let's just say i always am happy to have kept it around. (ie, i'm still a spinster.)

i was fucking dumbfounded. so much so that i couldn't do anything but laugh for a good thirty seconds. it's surreal, right? because why would a dude bring that shit up unless he really wanted you to know it was one of his prerequisites? just like how i give an impromptu IQ test the second a dashing young gentleman caller asks me out. if you don't score high, you don't score AT ALL. and it made me feel totally weird to get into my reproductive history (and future) with someone not wearing a white lab coat and swinging a scary-looking speculum. was he really expecting me to talk about my ovaries and cervix and shit in the middle of a bar? while DRUNK?! while i have absolutely no problem talking about how babies get made (yum), it was a little awkward talking about baking one in this old raggedy oven with a veritable stranger.

maybe this is what it's like dating in your 30s? do young men have biological clocks? because africa wasn't the only one, just the most specific. what is up with these newfangled dudes who have their future fatherhood all mapped out in their mind grapes? isn't that for us ladyfolk to do? to hunt and plot and trap you and decide everything that happens in the rest of your life? i thought it was all about how many kids WE want? the type of wedding WE always dreamed of? OUR split-level ranch and white picket fence and golden retriever? what is up with dudes having opinions on girlie shit?

it's possible that i am only taken aback and offended by this because my version of the american dream is slightly skewed. i want to write about shit and drink whiskey and meet the love of my life on a hot and sweaty dance floor somewhere. i want to go DO some things. see something awesome really far away. go dancing every night and stay out way too late. grownup stuff. and while i'm not sure where that all really ends up, or who it's going to end up happening with, i'm almost positive it won't be happening after i've put on another forty pounds (jesus christ) and have trouble shoving my bloated hooves into normal shoes.

the craziest part of the whole thing is that i'm contemplating these issues with a dude i've spent forty-two motherfucking minutes with. i have had actual long-term sexual/emotional relationships with men who never broached this subject not even once. not one time. and i'm not even talking about any of those tenderonis i used to creep with back in the day who thought diapers and bottles were "icky." i'm talking real live grownups with checking accounts who took their shirts to the dry cleaners. don't you need to know someone at least a little bit before you decide whether or not to mix your collective DNA?

and my friends have had mixed reactions. some say to give baby daddy the old "stop texting me" speech, while others think i should stick it out in the hopes that he might change his mind. and to that i say, "bitch, is that a joke?" putting the shoe on the other foot, if africa was trying to talk me into letting four terrorists hijack the empty space between my corroded intestines and my curdled liver i would go absolutely apeshit. as would my feminazi ladyfriends.

and i am all about adoption. i have said before, and will say a million more times, that i believe in it with my whole heart, and when i have a little money and a decent credit score i want to go get myself a tiny little crack baby and bake muffins for it and teach it to be awesome. what's super fucking weird is how many dudes are totally against adoption. what the fuck? like it means he has a small penis or something if he's not raising a child of his own. that's totally fucking stupid. africa said to me, and this is almost verbatim give or take the fact that i was super drunk, "why would i adopt? what is the point? if i can't save all children, why save just one?" tell me that's not the dumbest thing you've ever fucking heard. i am still trying to wrap my brain around the twisted logic of it. so i asked him if he voted, and when he said yes i asked, "why? what is the point? millions of people vote, why would your ONE vote count?!" then i called him an arrogant egomaniac (he just kept saying "i don't know if i could love a child that isn't mine" over and over and over again) and we sat there doing that awkward blinking thing until he changed the subject and i thanked my lucky stars my apartment was too dirty to invite him over afterward. poor dude, and the poor women who might fall in love with him. you can NEVER make a dude like that happy, even if you rip your body apart to bear four or more of his spawn. dudes who think that way will never think the house is clean enough or that dinner tastes good enough or that the sex is incredible enough. and why waste my oxygen trying to convince him to change his mind?

isn't this the sort of fundamental thing that once you've decided it doesn't really change? i don't know, but i'm pretty sure that when you know that's a part of your life plan some trollop isn't going to change your mind with her promises of sleeping late and long weekends in jamaica.

okay, so let's say i meet someone fabulous who is willing to trade his dream of a flag football team full of little biologicals for my dream of one or two tiny creatures the stork leaves on our doorstep fully clothed, and maybe already past teething. i mean, come ON. (please find me, someone fabulous. i've been waiting forfuckingever. and i'm tired.) so you're picturing him, tall and handsome and smart and hilarious who is willing to do kinky stuff in bed and doesn't mind helen keller biting the shit out of his toes? fabulous. now try to envision our first argument:

fab: hey sam, did you take the garbage out?
sam: no i did not. i forgot.
fab: what?! how could you forget? it's piled to the ceiling, and the fruit flies have taken over the kitchen, the bathroom, AND my side of the bed! can't you smell the rot?!!
sam: i'm sorry. i said i forgot. i've had a busy week.
fab, with increasing hysteria: I CAN'T BELIEVE I GAVE UP HAVING CHILDREN FOR YOU!

because that's how fights go when you're in a couple, isn't it? from inocuous misunderstanding straight to "you ruined my whole fucking life?" i think that shit every time someone pisses me off, especially whenever i've done something nice for him. "i let you cheat off my biology test, and you have the nerve to skip ahead of me in the cafeteria line?!" and i would do the exact same thing if the tables were turned:

sam: did you get peanut butter at whole foods yesterday?
fab: no i did not. i forgot.
sam: what?! how could you forget? i wrote it on the shopping list three times! can't you read?!
fab: i'm sorry. i said i forgot. i've had a busy week.

so the next question, i guess, is what's to be done once you know your baby goals are different? he's a reasonably nice dude AND super smart, so should i drop him atop the garbage pile just because he's a reproductive blockhead? or is this a dinner/movie/bootycall-until-he-finds-a-fellow-breeder type of deal? do you have fun while it lasts or throw your hands up in exasperation because what is the fucking POINT? i mean, this should go without saying, but i HATE getting horizontal with some dude who has zero potential. just reading that makes me feel so old, but it's true. hiv has been hunting my sexy ass for years, and so far i've managed to avoid that dirty bitch, but i'd hate to end up in her vicious clutches on account of some lame-ass homie i was just fucking for fun.

i probably won't see him again, because i hate to perpetuate any kind of fraud, and talking about my ovaries with strange dudes is hardly my idea of pleasant dinner conversation. plus, even the thought of a booty call makes me tired, and i don't think sprint offers that kind of phone plan.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

oh, poo!

there are a couple of things chapping my balls today. the first of which is that the washable sweater i am wearing still managed somehow to shrink, EVEN THOUGH i washed it cold and delicate and dried it with absolutely no heat. son of a fucking bitch. and i woke up late and couldn't get up and my broken foot is really bothering me and by the time i got out of the shower (which is the biggest pain in the ass production considering said foot and its cast and the cumbersome plastic thing i have to pull on over my sock while balancing on the good foot and trying not to rip the damn thing to shreds/step on the cat/fall and break my face open on the radiator) i was too late to even properly moisturize let alone try on sweaters and make costume changes. i put my boot on wrong, dumped cat food all over the floor, and shattered a glass in the sink. so i just threw on a sweater without looking at it and put on my coat and hobbled to the train. which i fucking missed. because i am so slow. because of my broken down piece of shit asshole foot. my foot that STILL HURTS. i am really at the edge today.

you know why else? because my crohns just came roaring out of remission, and that makes me tired and sad. and IRRITATED. and i think a lot of things suck, but nothing is worse than this gross-ass shit disease. yes, there are worse things, but since those things are not currently happening to me, this bullshit is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of ever.

i don't ever talk about this business, because the word "disease" is off-putting and scary and i don't want anyone to ever move his or her chair away from me in public. but then that makes me feel all ashamed, like i'm hoarding some awful dirty secret. and i am trying to operate from a shame-free place. i have crohn's disease, and its little bastard cousin ulcerative colitis. there, i said it. i have some horrible butt disease that you would never want to deal with, and i er, embrace it. if you are my friend or my hot piece or my bitter enemy you would eventually find this shit out anyway, so i'd be a motherfucking idiot to try to hide it. because i will ruin your movie or your breakfast or your football game or your cousin's wedding or your graduation or your party or your concert or your REM sleep cycle with my poorly understood immunodeficiency inflammatory bowel disease.

that's right, friend! she and i will rear our ugly heads when you least expect it and are least prepared. like when you take us on that long road trip you've been talking about, and she and i ask you seven times to find us a truck stop because you couldn't find me something devoid of taste, texture, and nutrients to eat and i had no idea a plain bagel would race through my guts like a greyhound. or maybe you'll meet my special friend in the middle of that movie you really, REALLY wanted to see and waited in line for three hours to get tickets for. and if you don't automatically want to leave at the sight of my sweaty forehead and panic face, you will after i've gone and come back fourteen times. i have left dozens of plays and ceremonies and services and games and parties and events and i have stayed home from ten times as many because i fucking have diarrhea.

crohn's disease is an inflammatory bowel disease that causes inflammation of the lining of the digestive tract. it can affect any part of the digestive tract from the mouth to the anus, but is particularly fond of the small intestine. crohn's is an immunodeficiency disease, which means that the cells in my body that are supposed to protect against infection don't recognize food and normal bacteria that are in my intestine. let's break it down this way: an inocuous piece of bread is trying to make its way from my mouth to my booty hole. and it's pretty smooth cilia sailing , but only until the second it hits these grody old guts. my receptor cells, which should be like, "oh, hello food! what's up, delicious nutrients?" instead are all, "INTRUDER!" and flood my intestines with little soldiering white blood cells armed to the teeth to fight off the enemy. and while they are entrenched in battle, swords and spears and bayonets ablaze, i am in a ridiculous amount of pain which is typically followed by a torrent of bloody shit (and much apologizing to whomever i happen to be with at the time). YEARS of this gnarly in-fighting (think capulets and montagues, israel and palestine, keith olbermann and bill o'reilly...) have left my intestines a veritable wasteland of scar tissue. picture the circumference of your average drinking straw. now imagine shoving a chicken breast through it. (to be fair, a chewed-up chicken breast, but i think you get what i'm saying.) there are parts of my intestines that are so thick with useless scar tissue that whatever i eat has just that teenytiny space to squeak through. and with all that tussling and fighting going on around it, food rarely survives the journey intact. it just liquifies itself into runny chocolate pudding (on a good day) or smelly brown pee (on a bad one).

i have almost reached my lifetime limit of radiation exposure, as i have had three colonoscopies, seven CT scans, two barium series (small bowel imaging), and a capsule endoscopy (i swallowed a camera in a capsule that took digital pictures of my entire intestinal tract as it moved through my system until i crapped it out; somewhere in casa sam there is a dvd of all of the pictures. dude, you can watch it like a movie). i have had the contents of my stomach sucked out through my nose. i have shit in a bucket every day for two weeks and collected samples and shipped them fed ex to a lab. i've had various sections of my bowel removed. i have had to vomit while a doctor type dude sat and watched and took notes, and i don't mean in the sexy way.

my GI doctor is supermodel hot, totally fucking smoking oh my lord, and it pains me to imagine the ridiculous joke god is playing on my life; watching me and laughing his ass off while a calvin klein model tells me to relax my asshole so he can stick first his fingers and then the scope in. the first time he asked me about "the consistency of my last stool" i almost left my pants and ran screaming out the door. the BACK door. it's the worst kind of humiliation really, curled up on a cold table naked from the waist down fetus-style while a dude hotter than any dude you could ever imagine getting busy with spreads your booty cheeks and examines the skin around your hairy asshole. and he tries to be normal and talk to you about normal shit ("where do you work?" "what's your favorite band?" "what do you do for fun?") while he lubes up his dexterous digits so he can palpate your colon. try being comfortable during that! this is a dude i would be weirded out and nervous talking to while fully clothed and standing at the bus stop, let alone when his face is six inches from the crack of my ASS.

i wish you could've seen my face the time i shit on him. there are no words.

i spent my entire childhood with the ghetto diagnosis of a "weak stomach." you know what i mean. when black people let your little black ass shit her pants at school but still don't drag you to a doctor. i spent half of my junior year in high school in the second floor bathroom in the back of beardsley (you evanston kids know what's up), the one tucked in the back where they kept all the ESL kids. and maybe mexicans never have to go to the bathroom, but that bad girl was always empty. so i was always sitting in there, doing my chemistry and burning my asshole.

so think of the last time you had horrible diarrhea. i mean, use your mind grapes and really get back in that place. that hot, flushed, desperate, churning, panicky, butt-clenchy place. concentrate! okay, are you there yet? what about now? are you afraid you might crap yourself? or that the bathroom is too far? that traffic won't let up before you get to an exit? that someone will walk in the bathroom, recognize your shoes, then go running back to class to tell everyone what you were doing? that the train is going backward because the motherfucker is moving so slow? that your first day on your new job might have gone a LOT better if you hadn't spent your lunch break in the bathroom across the street at nordstrom because you don't really know these people yet? that your new boyfriend will be totally grossed out because it's your third date and you shouldn't have gotten the flaming cheese and now you're back at his apartment and are forced to ruin the mood (in his STUDIO) with a big noisy, smelly shit so you turn on the faucet in the bathtub because it's louder than the sink and you hope like hell he was drunk enough to pass out and doesn't notice you flushing his toilet thirteen goddamned times?

welcome to my universe, lovers. where i do not get to be lovely and delicate and demure because sooner rather than later i am going to have to talk to you about shit. when this bullshit is out of remission my life is a literal shitshow, on every channel. imagine the worst diarrhea you've ever had, and imagine having that nonsense every day. you could light a match on my poor rectum some days, i swear. i am the only child-free bitch on the planet with tubes of desitin in her purse. and in the bathroom. and in the nightstand. next to the vibrators, of course. and let's be for real. i have a sense of humor about everything, this included. i was diagnosed four or five years ago, and at the time i was MORTIFIED. while i was happy to have an answer, i was pretty fucking bummed to have some chronic, permanent shit at 24. i don't have the genetics required to live to super old age (don't cry for me, i've come to terms with it), but the prospect of even forty years with this bullshit was a lot to, um, stomach.

there is no cure, which is totally awesome. i'd take syphillis over this shit; at least i could get a shot in my vag and be right back on the horse a week later. in addition to no cure there is also no known cause, which makes climbing my disconnected family tree to inspect every branch for digestive difficulty even more awesome! my mom had MS, my dad was a vicious drunk, one of my sisters had cancer while another has had a couple heart episodes...where the fuck did this shit come from?! i'm supposed to only have a predisposition for gorgeous skin and a fat ass, both of which i got already. (thanks, parents!) this stomach shit is supposed to be in someone else's fucking family.

i take eight horse pills a day and massive amounts of steroids when i'm not feeling good. my list of NOs is longer than the credits of the last good movie you've seen and includes, but is certainly not limited to: sugar, caffeine, raw fruits and vegetables, alcohol, sweets, grease, cereal, dairy, yeast, fried, beef, pork, chocolate, spice, flavor, variety, and deliciousness. i don't adhere to these guidelines NEARLY as much as i should, which is why i still occasionally come frighteningly close to shitting myself on a weekly basis. sometimes a bitch's gotta pretend to be normal. i can't order rice and boiled chicken at fabulous restaurants, especially ones that don't have a children's menu. (thank god for the delightfully bland children's menu.) food is absolutely fucking delicious, and it's too bad that vile temptress is killing me and my intestines slowly. i should've called this blog bitches gotta shit.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

rest in pieces.

as i'm sure i've said before, i never try to unleash all of my crazy at once. just little bits at a time, strategically released so that you've forgotten about the last one by the time i drop the next truth bomb on you. because if you heard it all at once you'd cross the street if you saw me walking toward you or some shit. i have been on this insane baking kick for the last week, and at this point it might be bordering on a sickness. i need some psychotherapist type to let me know if wacked-out depression or rage or loneliness manifests itself in the production of copious amounts of baked goods. can you consult your medical journals and get back to me, pretty please? sunday i baked two madeira cakes. monday i made six dozen zucchini muffins. and two loaves. in the break between my classes. the break during which i should have written a reflection paper about religious pilgrimage. i baked four dozen sunshine muffins wednesday, and SIX 8" coconut cake layers thursday that are still sitting wrapped on my counter because i didn't have fresh lemons to make the icing and, upon discovering that, i almost started crying. my own real tears! why that hasn't happened since...? oh please. who am i kidding? i cry all the time. life is fucking hard, sluts. and everyone's always reminding you of how damn young you are. and really, all i hear when someone tells me to buck up and enjoy my relative youth is "the is so much more shit that has yet to happen to you." argh. so bleak.

omar sent me an email the other day that his friend had written about this frail old woman he'd seen struggling to navigate traffic and people and everything else while on her way to the doctor, and he took three selfless hours out of his day to help this stranger out: to walk her where she needed to be and make sure (to the extent that he could) that she was okay. omar asked me what i felt about it, and while i first noted the amazing compassion and patience of his friend, the most overwhelming feeling i had was one of intense, all-consuming panic. i was flooded with this terrible anxiety about being that old, childless, friendless lady hobbling around with a foot that won't heal and no one to make sure i get on the right train and shut me up when i try to tell rowdy teenagers to keep the noise down.

i pawned off most of the zucchinis on my classmates and coworkers, but there is still a bag of them taunting me from the top of my refigerator. and i was totally grossed out by everything the second it came out of the oven. i don't even know why. like, it was all cathartic and great to be working with my hands and baking again and heralding this crisp fall weather (even helen was bouncing around the kitchen with a spring in her furry step), but as soon as the work part was over looking at the glorious byproduct made me want to throw up.

i was talking shit to lori last week about wanting to "learn" anorexia (like it's a language or some shit), so maybe this is my subconscious finally getting the fucking message. i have also told it REPEATEDLY to stop pining for unattainable handsome devils and balance its checkbook more regularly, but it takes baby steps, i guess. i suppose it's interesting to be going through this phase right after owning up to that whole food episode, but i prefer to suppress my emotions and ignore coincidences so if the admission of THAT has anything to do with THIS i'll leave that for the therapist i have on retainer after my nervous breakdown in ten years to ferret out. they need to earn that $150/hour somehow. why not make it a game?

speaking of this crazy shit, have i told you dudes that i am SERIOUSLY considering hypnosis?! i told my sisters my brilliant plan and those dickbags totally shit all over it, and that probably should be reason enough not to ever tell anyone else, but i never keep anything to myself and, oh yeah, forget them. i really really really want to do it. and you totally want me to, don't you? you can come with me, if you like. as a matter of fact, i might really like that, too! i just have a couple of horrible habits i am powerless to break. and i am so lenient on myself it's almost embarassing, but i don't have the sticktoitness to hold myself accountable. so i figure the best way for samantha is to just take a little nap and wake up cured.

so i have a big place. big for a lady and her little stankin' ass bitch of a cat, but not quite big enough considering the massive amount of baked goods now lounging around where there's no real space to put them. and by "no real space" i mean there are trays of muffins piled lopsidedly on my bookshelves and there is a cake pan on the radiator. this morning i got up late as usual because i'm always fucking drunk and in the dark i was trying to mix helen's medicine in her gruel and i didn't have my glasses on and i knocked over an open bag of flour. when you are late for work, and wrecked, and dependent on public transportation, and are wearing a sock-cast contraption on your broken foot that you just dumped flour all over, and you still haven't taken a shower, and your apartment is cold, this kind of thing might ruin your morning. but, surprise surprise, my overly sensitive ass did not cry. my faced burned hot and i had to blink a couple times, but i did not cry. UNTIL. i saw that the flour had taken an open beer bottle down with it and had totally ruined my beloved dead list.

as you might have gleaned from my earlier bit of paranoid hysteria about that creaky old lady, i have a pretty healthy (not a "good" healthy, but a "too fucking much" healthy) preoccupation with death. specifically, my own.

my parents are dead. and lots of other people i know, or used to know, are dead, too. and one of my biggest fears is being found dead and alone in my apart, with helen feasting on my waxy dead face. but i have come to terms (sort of) with the fact that this is my inevitable end, so i have taken a few steps to make that transition easier. i am incredibly persnickety in life, and why should my death be any different? i like things done a certain goddamned way. stuck to my refrigerator are the following items: a magnet that says "i (heart) porn," a picture of nina and izzy on their wedding day, two pictures from my childhood, the new york times best 100 books from the last two years, a grocery checklist that i've been adding things to for six months but have yet to make a real, full-fledged trip to the grocery store, a greeting card a friend gave me that says "they say inside every fat woman is a thin one dying to get out; well all i can say is i ate that skinny bitch," and a recipe for posole that helen keller barfed on. PLUS, my dead list.

when i first moved into my own single and solitary roommate-free place, the very first thing i thought was, "i am going to be killed here." and it really did almost happen once. but it's not the eternal damnation aspect of death that terrifies me, i become crippled by fear when i think of some strange stranger rifling through all of my shit and judging me while my stupid carcass rots in the bathtub or wherever it is i slip and fall and crack my skull and die choking on a combination of my blood and pantene shampoo.

so i told sarah, because she has been the closest thing i've had to a husband in the last fifteen years, that if i die, at home or otherwise, she somehow has to get her ass to my place before the authorities do and "handle my business." she knows where the dead list is, as well as where i keep the backup copy, and she has to do everything on it BEFORE calling the police. i mean, if it's a police-calling type of circumstance. if i die in a hospital bed or whatever she just has to race the vultures i call family to my apartment before they pick apart all my shit. poor sarah. it sucks that she has to do it, but OH WELL. it's just what she has to do. the price you pay for my ridiculously awesome friendship.

first thing, if i die at home and my body looks horrible, she must fix me up. not "contaminate a crime scene" fix me up, but shave my legs if they aren't already and put a little lipgloss on me. is that too much to ask? i mean, who the fuck wants to die looking the way you look when you're just hanging around the house? if i am not already in a bra, she has to get one on me, because i don't want any hot medical examiners getting slapped in the face by something other than my dead fish hand. if she has time to paint my toes that might be a nice touch, too. and put some gel in my curls. i mean...come ON.

second, she has to throw away every single thing in my dirty sex drawer, because people read way too much into things they have no explanation for. and since i won't be around to tell you how i use that thing with the spikes, you don't get to stand around sniffing it and speculating about where it might go. or where it's been. she has to toss all of the porn, unless she might like a little massive wet asses to keep her chonies warm some dark and lonesome evening, all the various accoutrement and instruction manuals (YES), and even my pajamas, because sometimes i like to wear ugly old lady floral shit to bed. oh hush.
WHY is it that women pretend they go to sleep dressed like victoria's secret models? i mean, REALLY, bitch?! on a tuesday?!!?!?!! garters and shit?! yeah right. fuck you. really, though. if you saw a law and order episode where some old bitch in a raggedy nightgown with tiny daisies on it and a feral monster of a kitten attacking you from under the bed was found dead in her apartment with a drawer full of hardcore and seven vibrators hidden around the place like easter eggs (quiet you, i like surprises) you'd be all, "what's up, lonely?!"

she also has to empty the refrigerator and the cabinets, because i don't want anyone making any assumptions based on what i like to eat, either. i have twenty lean cuisines because they were on SALE, asshole, not because i cannot COOK. and so what if there's ice cream next to them on the shelf! what do you mean that's too much beer for one person? and what difference does it make that i have batteries in the fruit bin that has never once housed a piece of actual fruit?! i do NOT eat too much cheese!

you hear that? that is my voice coming from the grave to defend my old mother drunk hubbard cabinets from the officers investigating my rape and strangulation.

same thing for the shoebox i keep my million "medicines" in. i watch the teevee. people give WAY too much weight to things in prescription bottles and what they might mean. and fuck that. she can take anything good but the rest must be incinerated. along with my underwear. and that bag of bills i refuse to pay that i keep hidden under the sink. primetime police just love to talk about who you owe and guess the reasons why you haven't paid them. not me, homie. not me.

the garbage has to go out too, because have you ever seen on csi how they analyze every little piece of detritus the unsuspecting victim carelessly threw away before his head was sawed off in a parking lot?! they go through that shit with tweezers, man! how horrific. in my case they would mostly find bags of cat litter clumps and trashy magazines, but you never fucking know. and there's the usual stuff, too. phone numbers and social security number and bank accounts (with instructions to empty it and pretend i died broke) and passwords; i mean, a bitch needs someone to change my facebook status to: Samantha Irby is DEAD. isn't that how a person has to die in this information age? my death couldn't possibly be real if facebook doesn't know about it. i mean, come ON.

she knows i need to look hot, but not slutty, in the casket, and that my body should be cremated and as much of my acrid, incinerated corpse as she can possibly manage should be sprinkled into the meals of my enemies. she has to take them out for dinner, one by one, and when they go to the bathroom mix a heaping tablespoon of dead sam into their crab salads. or she can cook a big meal and invite everybody over for a little chicken a la sam. green eggs and sam. roast sam-on with potatoes. you get it. all in the hopes that i poison them. or, at the very least, give 'em a bitch of a time pushing me out.

she can do what she wants with the remainder (there should be plenty), but my request is to just be tossed in the trash in some hilarious place. like a brothel. or mcdonald's.

the moral of this story is obvious: it's very important to have a plan in case of your accidental demise. most people don't think about the housekeeping and paperwork that they should have in order just in case a ninja is hiding in the closet when they get home from work, but they fucking should. i know i do. and i sleep more soundly at night because of it.