Thursday, November 19, 2009

you win, sister.

hi, honeys. before we get started, i need you hoes to know that the sunday night sex show is sunday november 29th at 730pm at the burlington, which is on fullerton near kimball. and you need to know that because i am performing. miraculous, isn't it? and i want you to be there. so you should come.

well, i suppose the best part of being sick is all this weight i'm about to lose.
so i guess there's an upshot.
ugh, but you can tell whenever people lose a twelve-year-old off their hips and belly and shit and it didn't come from exercise and "healthy lifestyle changes." you ALWAYS KNOW when a motherfucker is dealing with some colossal badness and those new jeans are just a, um, bonus. new jeans and undereye circles and boxes of saltines. better than jenny craig, even.

the tricky thing with trying to learn how to deal with this crohns is that there are no triggers. one of my absolute worst flare-ups occurred on a day that i'd eaten, and i'm not even kidding, boiled noodles and white toast. i ended up in the hospital for four days after that business. four days of not shitting not walking not earning not eating not living after some goddamned toast! i am lulled into delusional (ch)eating by the good days, of course. days where pesto and fried chicken and ice cream go down perfectly and come out the same way. and i feel like, "hey! look at me! i can be normal!" and what does anyone want more than to just be fucking normal?

because i want to go to thanksgivings and order out for lunch and eat popcorn at the movies and grab a pizza just like any other sexy bitch who loves food and wants to be near people. but it's weeeeeird when you're the fucked-up one, and i think it equally weirds out everyone around me. because listen, i'll GO to the restaurant and i'll LOOK at the menu and i'll PRETEND i have options available to me, but then when i order the rice with a little bit of chicken next to it and no vegetables my dinnermates are always like, "what?! but the ricotta parmesan cream sauce beer-battered fried bologna milk butter chocolate vodka raw carrot donut pie is so good here! you have to try it!" and then, of course, i feel like i do. lest i run the risk of alienating someone who doesn't know me very well (and occasionally someone who does) with a boring, drawn-out speech about why i can't eat a goddamned delicious thing.

and i want to be part of the group! i work in a relatively friendly environment, rife with female sharing and commiseration, and when bitches are making dinner plans i want to make them, too. i want to go! i want to talk shit about our coworkers who aren't there! and i want to have some of what she's having! you fat bitches on diets know a little bit of what i'm talking about, don't you? sitting in a restaurant with some skinny slut who can order whatever the fuck and proceeds to DO SO while you sip your lemon water and act like that shit is delicious. but you're not fooling me, my love. because i know. soda tastes better. and grilled and/or steamed shit is for pussies. real women like US deserve a steak and the dessert menu, not this weak-ass broccoli and that pansy sorbet. i see you, my loves. don't worry your pretty little heads. we're in this together.

and lest i deny my tastebuds! let's not act like i'd be the picture of health save a few pushy friends and awkward dinner dates. i want food because it tastes good and makes me feel better. until it, inevitably, makes me feel worse. and maybe that's because my childhood was less than ideal or whatever, but oreos are cheaper than a therapist. even with this new insurance. (ps, thank god for it, but eff this new insurance, man! the worst.) but my oreo days are over, especially since i have to eat those hoes on the toilet. *tear*

not to make you dudes jealous or anything, but this recent hospital episode is going to cost me a lot.
1 it is going to cost me beer, and alcohol in general. which is tragic to a grizzled old drunk such as myself. although i suppose not nearly as tragic as writhing in excruciating pain and sleeping on the floor in the bathroom so i can be close to the toilet when i have to puke. but alcohol makes all of life's sticky/lonely/boring situations better. it just does. it helps to be drunk.

2 it is going to cost me cheese. and dairy, for the most part. because even though i shouldn't, i sometimes do. and it's not always a nightmare. just thinking about this is wearing me the fuck out, and i have an unopened pint of chunky monkey in my freezer that i got a little over a week ago and if you want it it's yours. goddamn this.

3 it is going to cost me diet coke, which seriously might push me over the edge. i'm not saying that i have more than a few a day, but i just might sometimes have more than a few a day. i'm weaning, because being on these steroids fucks up my mind grapes more than you could imagine, and going cold turkey would result in a ridiculously nasty headache. and i don't know how you bitches with migraines do it but, alas, i cannot. i would do anything to make a headache go away. ugh.

4 it is going to cost me grocery money, because i really should do things like shop and cook and eat breakfast. while that may sound enticing (i'm a helluva cook, yo) don't go all green in the eyeballs just yet. this morning's breakfast was peanut butter on dry raisin bread. beats the shit out of your full fat latte and buttery scone, doesn't it? i was all set to have some toast, then i realized that i busted the toaster like six months ago and never remembered to get a new one. really, in half a fucking year it has yet to occur to me to replace an appliance. seriously. not an adult.

5 it is going to cost me time and money at the pharmacy. i should say MORE time and money, as cvs gets a good chunk of my change every months already. it also might cause me to develop cancer, as one of the drugs dr. handsome has been asking me to take for over a year now has "cancer" as a handy side effect. awesome, right?! i know! jimbo the bossman has a similar condition, and he went on imuran and it put his shit in remission. which is rilly rilly fantastic. but i have bullshit luck, and taking this shit not only could cancer up my colon, i'd also have to have bloodwork every other week to make sure my liver doesn't sustain any permanent damage. i'm not bitching, i'm just saying. a few years ago i was on some shit that made my kidneys fail, and "potential side effects" are hilarious when you hear them on the tail end of a viagra commercial, but in real life that shit just sucks.

my kidneys are fine now, by the way. thank you for asking. you're so sweet.

in case you couldn't already guess, i don't resolve to do a goddamned thing. ever. i don't do it in december. or january. or EVER. because i'm already incorrigible and great, so what else is there to fix? truthfully, there are a lot of things i could fix, but somehow a year-end laundry list of all the shit i suck at is incredibly unappealing. i mean, i already know it, do i have to write it down? that never ensures that it gets done any faster. as a matter of fact, when i used to make resolutions they would just sit on my desk or in the kitchen or wherever, mocking my dumb ass as i broke every single one of them, one right after the other.

it's so unrealistic, isn't it, to fill up a sheet of paper with all of these lofty goals that you really don't have a chance in hell of achieving? and i'm trying my best to feel good about my stupid self, not have a daily reminder of all of my epic fail. because it feels like cheating to write down things you could actually do, like if i resolved to check the mail every day. because right now i don't. i don't know why, i just don't. unless i'm expecting something good from netflix, but even then i don't really know what's coming or when, because i read every third email or whatever. (it's mostly bills i can't pay anyway.) but if a passerby happened to glance at my new year's resolutions and saw "open the mailbox every day" they'd openly scoff at me!

"that's not a real resolution!" he or she would cry, clutching his or her pearls. "where is 'start exercising' or 'learn how to balance my checkbook?' don't you KNOW how to write new year's resolutions?!"

i'd sigh and feel like a dumbass, then i'd rip the whole thing up and try to shove it down that person's fucking throat. so here is what my new year's resolutions typically look like:
1 clean my apartment.
2 write more.
3 keep being ragingly awesome.
see? a list of things i can actually achieve! and it makes me feel so much better to cross at least two things off this list on a regular basis! (because let's be for real. until last night my apartment was a fucking hovel. but more on that later.)

considering that i only regularly speak to like, eight people, you dudes probably don't know that i talk funny. it's just that i've developed my own language and my own manner of speaking over the last twenty-nine years and nine months (can you tell that somebody's excited that she has a birthday just around the corner?!), and if you're around me all the time not only will you start to recognize words/phrases and understand what they mean, but one day you will wake up and realize that you've started saying all of this crazy shit, too.

i can't remember every single thing right this second, and that's probably due in part to my advancing age, but i'm sure it's also a testament to the massive amount of drugs i did in my youth. so as things come up i'll explain them.

the most important thing for you dudes to know, i suppose, is that just about everyone has a nickname. that's right, if i know and love you well enough to change your name in my beat-up shitty piece of bullshit cell phone, consider yourself blessed. i bring this up because as i continue to write this raggedy vag blog i have to reference the people in my life, and i can't write about "sarah" if i really call her "boobs." it just doesn't feel right to my fingers. so i figured i'd give you guys the rundown so you can start to get to know who is whom. ready? okay!

jenny = african
sarah s = boobs
sarah k = bitchass OR snatch
laura = lauraaaage OR mean mommy
chris s = jb
chad = bia
jen = doctor bia
lori = teenie OR tiny OR teenie tiger OR mama
helen keller = devil OR satan cat OR smelly helly OR chunky chunks OR little honey bun buns (because sometimes she is just so cute and i am just such a lonely cat lady.)

my old dudes get names, too, but it is WAY less important what their real names are. because eff them, that's why. hopefully you don't confuse easily, but i will try to explain who is who if they are ever referenced. but, just for fun, we in the irbyverse have so many stupid names for those clowns! spanks, the nerd, glasses, vajayjay, old dude, a-salaam-a-fuck-you, chili cheese fritos, marco polo, and that dude who hollered at my sister. the list is endless. just like the wind tunnel that is my birth canal. zing!

i have some lovely new friends (i'm looking at YOU akilah and senam) that i'll have to come up with names for, too. don't you worry. these mind grapes are always getting juiced!

so lauraaaage lives up in my ass all the time, and i appreciate her for it. i really do. because i am sloppy and careless and not always looking out for my own best interests. because i'm dumb, but i've already told you that. she mean mommies me all the live long day, and i kind of live for it. i always do and say stupid shit to get her to turn that glare on me. it almost melts my glasses, that gaze. *shudder*

she hates everything i ever do. hates might be a touch too strong. DISAPPROVES is better, and more accurate. every single time i mention that i'm thinking about doing some dumb ass shit or some raggedy ass dude i know if i glance at the desk behind me she will be scowling her disapproval and shaking her head "absolutely not."

eg, one of my wretched old used-to-bes was facebook commenting me to death (again with the goddamned facebook, egads) and i got suckered into some replies. totally weak. so lauraaaage jumps into the comment thread and says, "bitch, do you know what look i'm giving you?!" and i totally DID. she wasn't even in the same vicinity, yet i could feel THE LOOK all the way down to my colorfully striped socks. so i stopped the comments. saved from myself. i can't hide junk food in my desk drawer, because she'll find that shit and chastise me. and don't even let me be giggling and sniggling while secretly texting, lover. "who are you texting?!" she'll demand, all icily accusatory-like. and i am immediately flooded with shame, even if it's just my grandmother or something. (but it is NEVER my grandma! it's always some hot snatch. rawr.)

i called into work yesterday from my death bed to give an update, and after asking about how my broken intestines were faring, lauraaaage informed me that she and teenie were making a list of questions for old doctor hotmeat to fill out when i go see him in december. questions i would never ask, like "what foods should i avoid?" and "are there any homeopathic therapies that you would recommend?" i love that this bitch cares so much, although i secretly suspect she would like to go with me and ask the questions for herself, just to make sure i don't fabricate the answers.

because you know i would. i would write some shit like "taco bell three meals a day" and "unlimited chocolate and butter." teenie said i should eat baby food and drink water and abstain from sex, but what getting pounded hard from the back has to do with the state of my intestines remains a mystery to me.

so here are my 2010 resolutions.
-drink more water. (i hate water. except for pamplemousse lacroix. which i just bought a case of! way to go, me.)
-stop eating bullshit and take all my medicine.
-grow out my hair. (now i am smack in the middle of this, and it is a lauraaaage-specific request. it is so hard, because i am so lazy. but paul mitchell's leave-in conditioner is making a believer out of me, so this might just be doable.)
-keep my apartment clean. ish. (melissa came over last night to check on my dying ass, and was so grossed out by my living quarters that she proceeded to clean the entire thing, from top to toes. i was having a bit of an anxiety attack at the prospect of samson's visit and the daunting task of cleaning up in preparation, and now i don't have to. that bitch is amazing. she spic-n-spanned my shit in an hour. it would've taken me weeks. blerg! and i'm nervous about him hating my ratty/bohemian bachelorette pad. oh well. if he does, eff him.)
-wear more lipstick. i mean, really. these lips are my best feature (second only to those lips, maybe) and i should show them off.
-keep being fucking awesome. and maybe exercise. a little.

okay okay okay. that is ENOUGH. that's probably more than i could ever be expected to do anyway, and just looking at it is totally harshing my mellow and bumming me out. and i know that it should say things like: shut up more, stop making stupid decisions about dudes, quit swearing, stop smoking bowls, and focus on schoolwork. but we're trying to be realistic, remember?
this one's for you, lauraaaage. now let's have a dance party to celebrate!

ps, i have a date (maybe) saturday (MAYBE) with some dude who emailed me and said he thought my blog was "cute," but "gross." should i even bother? at the very least, i might go just to say some uncute, nongross shit about his ass. that'll teach 'im!