Wednesday, December 29, 2010

fuck you and die, 2010.

this past year can suck my asshole. as much as i love a year-end montage, imagining my own for this garbage-ass year makes me sick to my stomach. i make at least a few resolutions every year, if for no other reason than to give myself a hearty laugh come june, when i realize i have been doing (or NOT doing) every single thing on the goddamned list. i like the look of a list; it makes me feel put together and capable and organized. plus i like the way all of those lines look on the page. it fills my tiny heart and brain with the promise of fresh possibility, that the dawning of a new year might bring with it a newfound sense of purpose and hope. and by january 2 i'm right back to being drunk and mean and making inappropriate jokes. which is why a few years ago i stopped making resolutions that are impossible to maintain. people who try to lose a hundred pounds or start a new career are just fooling themselves. if you could've done that shit you would've a long time ago. i know i'm not going to change my body in a month, which is precisely how long i have the patience to commit to drastic diet and exercise plans. so rather than setting an impossibly high bar, i instead make micro goals that are actually attainable. BECAUSE I LIKE FEELING LIKE A GODDAMNED WINNER.

i usually tape my resolutions to the bathroom mirror and leave them there until they get all water-stained and warped from steam, just so i have a constant reminder. because i spend a fair amount of time in the bathroom. last year's list of microscopic goals included a bunch of shit i actually accomplished, like not buying potato chips and using the dust buster more. what, you thought i was kidding when i said i need my shit to be manageable? only an asshole would burden himself with a laundry list of shit he could never achieve. i don't need another reason to feel bad about myself. plus i am lazy and i work sixty hours a week, and i can't pretend that i am going to re-invent the wheel in my fucking downtime. last year another of my resolutions was figure out a pubic hair maintenance plan, and i totally fucking did that shit, too. because a year ago i didn't know i needed one. then i went to the gulag and paid that tiny soviet bitch to tear all of the hair out of my butt. and i kept it up, because it was on the back of the apart pizza menu i wrote my goals on last december.

no more phone sex. i decided this a little over a week ago, and when i told laura she almost fell off her fucking chair and IMMEDIATELY drafted the above contract and made me and a bunch of my work minions sign it. here's the thing, i fucking LOVE phone sex. it's easy and hilarious, and you can totally paint your nails or mop your kitchen while doing it. BUT. lately i have been putting the phone sex cart before the dating horse, and that shit is fucking WEAK. a couple years ago i vowed to not fuck or suck or HJ a dude who couldn't be bothered to meet me out for dinner or a drink. and i was pretty good about upholding that. but lately i've been fucking slipping, talking dirty to dudes who want to spend three hours panting into my ear over the phone every night but to whom it never occurs to ask if i might like to go out for a latte. and FUCK THAT DUMB SHIT. i refuse to get to know some dude within the confines of my apartment. EVER AGAIN. maybe if i were seventeen we could sit in my room listening to records and making out while trying not to get caught, but i have a fucking bank account now. "dinner at home" is for bitches who know each other, man. i want to go OUT. also, it sort of totally sucks when a dude is moaning hot shit into your ear and in person all that big talk results in little action. and it's my own fault; i engaged in premature aural sex due to no one's fault of my own, but i thought since we're all grownups now that eventually things would fall into place. and by "things" i mean "cloth restaurant napkins." how much is a taco, gentlemen? THREE DOLLARS?! lame. it just goes to prove the point that i've made here so fucking often, that dudes will always be as shitty as you let them get away with being. so i'm stupid. but not anymore, because mean mommy has this contract in the drawer of her desk, and i already told you: I LIKE WINNING.

invest in the entire led zeppelin catalog. self-fucking-explanatory. duh.

take a class or something. i feel like i haven't done SHIT with myself these last twelve months. nothing exciting, at least. creatively i've been on a fucking roll; i've been reading everywhere and making you bitches laugh, but i feel like my brain is beginning to atrophy a little bit. i had brunch with anna and her fine-ass canadian yesterday, and anna is the number one champion of my upward mobility. so when i was bitching about having thrown my education in the garbage for yet another school year she gave me those crinkly mom eyes and said, "sameeeeantha. you should take a class. please?" community college is a fucking bummer, dude, and i might have been more excited to go if there were hot dudes there or fewer nine-year-olds trying to correct the algorithm solution i just put on the chalkboard (man, fuck that girl!), but there weren't. just a bunch of tired single parents and disaffected thirtysomethings (ahem) glaring at the young people because we ruined our youths. SERIOUSLY. last semester there was a nineteen year old dude in my lab group; i could BARELY UNDERSTAND ANYTHING THAT MOTHERFUCKER SAID. sorry, friend, but i don't speak CHILD. i have no idea what these fucking kids are talking about. or listening to. or WEARING. but the old people just depress me and make me terrified that i'm going to die bitter and alone while trying to read the odyssey for the first time in literature 102 at community fucking college. the old people never hear anything the professor says, and the can NEVER figure out the computers in the foreign language lab. i spent all last summer watching this grandpa squinting over his magnifying glasses at the computer screen, struggling to conjugate spanish verbs and match nouns like "chair" and "shoe" using this flash card game intended for TODDLERS, but he couldn't click the mouse fast enough and kept getting disqualified. CHINGADA. i don't want to go back there! but internet college is a joke and real school is for tenacious go-getters. so i'll be back at truman in january. i died a little inside just writing that. sigh.

buy more lean cuisines. this is my version of "eat right and exercise more." i'm a good cook but let's face it, I ONLY COOK WHEN THERE IS A HOT DUDE AROUND TO COOK FOR. cooking for myself is sad and boring. when it's just me and helen i eat cold soup straight from the can or a bag of marcona almonds sprinkled with rosemary for dinner, standing over the kitchen sink in my pajamas. nothing on earth is more depressing than slaving for an hour over a hot stove, dripping sweat from the tip of your nose onto a fancy cookbook, hurting your knees and lower back and stirring shoulder, then finally deciding you are too tired to remain upright and totally uninterested in whatever it is you just finished making. and leftovers are gross. and for poor people. so i rely on pre-packaged meals from whole foods, frozen meals from trader joe's, and tacos. so say what you will because i don't give a fuck anyway, but letting stouffer's watch my calories and provide my fiber is good enough for me. they taste like upscale hospital food, they cook in less than five minutes, and only two or three varieties give me raging dietarrhea. no better way to pretend that i care about my health. AND they make them with less sodium now, which means you natural foods people who are about to chap my balls of can STFU and STFD. bring on the skinny, 2011.

break up forest whitaker's marriage. okay okay okay. every resolution list needs at least ONE unattainable goal, and if your delusional ass gets to write "steal my ex-boyfriend away from that bitch he cheated on me with," i can have this. stop shitting on my dreams.

stop drinking beer. sacrilege, i know. but that shit turns into sugar which turns into BELLY, and what is the point of eating frozen vegetables in bland sauce with gummy pasta if i fuck it all up with a six-pack of trois pistoles? i reserve the right to drink it when i'm broke, but i have to switch to vodka sodas and whiskey shots, or whatever it is the bitches on the hills used to drink. last week at big star i had a sasparilla, which is whiskey and root beer, and i almost cried because that shit was so amazing. and beer gets me too drunk too fucking fast and makes me feel like a fucking frat boy, and i always end up nearly pissing myself in some dirty bar bathroom because i can't get my pants down fast enough. i am attempting to grow up a little bit here. beer is for kids.

get a reservation at the girl and the goat. my birthday is coming up. and i'm tired of throwing my own birthday parties, only to have three-quarters of my friends sit the shit out. this could just be my salty talking, but i'm thinking about skipping it this year. all that hard work just to stand at the bar tallying the bitches who lied and said they'd show up but somehow failed to on a cocktail napkin before trying, in vain, to find someone with whom i might stumble home and have birthday sex like the dude in that song. the same seven people who show up to see me read are the same seven people who come to my birthday, give or take a few, and there's always too much cake left over. cake that sits in my refrigerator taunting and mocking me for days until i finally throw it away. and by "throw it away" i mean "eat the entire thing while weeping." i get drunk, eat cake, and plot revenge on all the people who didn't come and think texting me "sorry, girl. hope you had fun!" is an acceptable explanation. man, fuck you. and it doesn't help that my birthday is the day before valentine's day, also known as "no one loves you enjoy purchasing your own fucking chocolate day." so i'm going to have to settle for veal ravioli and roasted pig face. now i just need someone to go with me.

pay someone to deal with my stupid fucking hair. i'm still growing it out, especially since not looking like a lesbian is a vital piece of my trying to reverse the sorry state of my withered vagina, but i need someone to do something with it before i go crazy. please african americans, direct me to a bitch who knows how to style and cut curly slave hair. i'm at the point where money is of no object, i just need to stop looking crazy. this unruly bird's nest atop my head is driving me fucking APESHIT and i hate it, no matter how beautiful people think it is. and for the first time in the history of ever my bathtub drain is running slow, and i know it's because it's full of hair i'm too terrified to dig out. BLARF. i should just shave this shit off. boo fucking hoo. help, please.

quit hollering at ginger's little brother. he is cute and smart and hilarious and everything, but he is TWENTY. and i need to quit before i catch a case. but this little dude dirty texts like nobody's business. SERIOUSLY. that shit makes me blush, and i'm not a prude by any means. he's all hot and young and his hair is too long and he plays video games all day but holy fucking shit that boy makes me clutch my pearls. but i'm going to stop. for real. i mean it. i'm cutting this off. i swear i am.


floss. i hate it, but i should do it, right? and i need to get some cavities filled. (other than the one between my legs, you jerks.) i also need to make an appointment to see the gynecologist, even though it's pointless because he was the last person down there anyway. but he brings his dogs to our hospital, and he was in today dropping one off to get a cysto and the second i saw him i was like, "oh shit. um...HI." and he gave me the disappointed doctor eyes and reminded me that the last time he'd brought the dog in he'd had to remind me that i was way overdue for a pap smear. all in front of clients and shit. this is why my life is ridiculous, because my goddamned gynecologist brings his goddamned dog to my goddamned job and reminds me that since my last pap was abnormal he wanted to check another one six months ago and why haven't i made an appointment yet? i don't even get embarrassed anymore, i just stand there with my head hung and promise to call his nurse in the morning. then i spend the rest of the day thinking about how that dude has looked in my vagina 700 times and i'm expected to just sit there and act like he hasn't while he's paying for dog food. BLARF.

play the piano more. i am a classically trained pianist (heh), i've been playing since i was four years old, and no one knows it. that needs to change. and fast.

have sex with a smart, masculine dude. easier said than done, bitches. not for lack of trying, lovers, but 2010 was the year of no sex. i should amend that to say "almost sex" because there were a handful of failed attempts, but thinking about having attempted getting banged is somehow more tragic than the fact that it didn't happen. so let's just say i didn't have any. my consolation, of course, is that this was also the year that i raised my motherfucking standards. and was punished for it. if this continues i'm going to have to resort to fucking stupid, uninteresting dudes with no talent, and i'm too goddamned old for that shit. so we'll see how that goes. either that or this might be the year i finally turn lesbian and find some bitch with facial hair to boss my ass around. where are the masculine dudes at? i am 100% OVER these sensitive mama's boys who want me to listen to their navel-gazing.  FUCK THAT. i want a man with a square jaw and a cleft chin to punch me in the face, kick me in the stomach, and take this ass from me before i can even get my panties off, then smoke a cigar on my fire escape while drinking a bourbon before jumping onto the hood of a car in the parking lot below. barefoot. in the winter. this man should have a beard, and he should smell like sweat and manual labor. i want him to kill a deer with his bare hands and carry that motherfucker up to my apartment on his back, butcher it, then grill it on my radiator before eating his piece bloody. he should be able to change the lightbulbs in my place, chop me down a tree, mine me a diamond, and drive a stick shift without burning out the fucking clutch. his penis should be made of titanium, and he should never speak more than four words at a time. and there should be chest hair. happy fucking new year.

feel free to cheat off my paper if you need some motivation. fuck joining a gym.

Monday, December 27, 2010

it's winter, assholes.

hooray for ugly season. THANK HORUS. winter is when i really shine, lovers. i'm as happy as a kitten with a brand new shoe it shouldn't be chewing on. 'tis the season to dress like a fucking bag lady and not catch any shit for it, when my fourteen layers and insulated boots are an asset rather than the distracting attire of someone mentally infirm. do you ever do that shit? stare at someone's clothes trying to figure out whether or not he is batshit crazy? god, that is my NUMERO UNO train activity. and the more clothes = the more CRAZY. except when the temperature plunges below zero, when wearing four sweatshirts, a flannel robe, fleece pants, two pairs of jeans, nine hats, fur gloves, heated socks, and a full-body snow suit makes you look like the smartest person who ever lived.

i love winter. i love cold weather and sweaters and thick socks. i love not having to look at overexposed regular human bodies on the bus. i love football season segueing into basketball season. hot food is better than cold food. no one makes you feel guilty for spending an entire week shrouded in blankets while watching television and drinking wild turkey in bed when you could "be doing something outside." and i understand why some people don't like it, but you pussies should move to fucking florida and leave those of us who can drive a RWD manual transmission with bald tires uphill in whiteout blizzard conditions to our own devices. i'm on a lot of ridiculous mailing lists, and i got an email the other day entitled: winter skin survival tips. it was full of handy suggestions like "don't forget sunscreen!" and "switch to a heavier, more emollient face cream!" not intended for black women, i assume, as "slather your entire face in a thick layer of cocoa butter" somehow missed the list, but helpful nonethless. but they missed a few things. so i'm here to help.

your hoodie is not a coat. oh, i know. it's totally warm. and stylish, too. it even comes equipped with drawstrings! but this is chicago, and that little piece of shit is not appropriate. i don't care if people keel over from hypothermia because they're too hard-headed to dress in a manner that will keep them alive. i really don't. but i am irritated when they pretend what they're wearing is suitable winter attire. it is not possible that you are warm, and because you're such a moron i am forced to stare at you and your chattering teeth, obsessed with how cold you might be. and really, if you are wearing a scarf AND mittens with that hoodie, STOP THAT SHIT. you know it's cold. go put your big ugly puffy winter coat on like the rest of us.

i know you have amazing legs, and you're only running from the gym to your car (and the grocery store, dry cleaners, hair salon, starbucks, the post office, the florist, the apple store, back to the grocery store for that one thing you forgot, and the bank) but you should really put some fucking pants on. it's fucking cold, you asshole, and would the thirty seconds it takes to slip some sweatpants on over them daisy dukes really throw off your schedule that fucking much? QUIT PLAYING. i hope you get locked out of your car or house and freeze to death.

we're totally laughing at those high-heeled boots you insist on tiptoeing around in. big clompy snow boots aren't fashionable. (and the SUPER expensive ones i bought last year are totally giving my calves leather burn, BLARF.) but they keep you from falling down. and "not falling down" is high on my list of shit that makes me goddamned happy. i like traction. and balance. and my feet serve their purposes the best when they are not frozen into giant blocks of ice. i have these fucking atrocious north face boots that are all disgusting and white with salt residue, but they feel like i am wearing a christmas stocking inside of an ice-crushing machine, so i fucking wear them. because slipping in snow is humiliating, and IMPOSSIBLE to do gracefully.

i know that "it's cold out there!" you know, because my spaceship didn't just drop me into this heated building. i've been outside today. so stop saying that dumb shit. you can also kill yourself rather than tell me to "stay warm!" do you think that ISN'T my primary objective? the windchill is NINE FUCKING DEGREES, asshole. warm is how i'm trying to STAY. that's like telling a bitch "keep breathing!" or "right foot then left!" i'm a motherfucking adult, and i grew up in this climate. I GOT IT. my response is always a cheerful, "well, i hope you fucking die of hypothermia." ooh, burn.

shovel your fucking sidewalk you JERK. that nice house you just bought came with a sidewalk, and clearing that sidewalk is your responsibility. a few years ago mel and i got into a MAJOR fight because on my way into the studio to do some work for him i WIPED THE FUCK OUT on the walkway that he refuses to salt or shovel. EVER. fuck me, fuck the mailman, and fuck anyone else trying to service his business; he used the BACK DOOR, why shovel the FRONT? same thing at work now. the boss man drives a 4wd soccer dad car and uses the parking spot right by the door, why waste money on a snow plow? forget that two winters ago i slipped and fell UNDER COREY'S CAR and lori spent eight weeks in physical therapy after some stupid dog she was walking on a sheet of ice pulled her down and dislocated her shoulder, HE doesn't have to stand out there trying to clean catch dog urine in a snow drift, so why should HE care? you can always tell which neighbor all the other neighbors collectively HATE during snow season, because there is always one unshoveled walk smack in the middle of a snowblowed neighborhood. and what do you do the second you see that shit? you think, "that dude's an ASSHOLE," and glare at his house while you step defiantly into the street to avoid the slick and bumpy piles of tread-upon snow. and it's always the dude with the shittiest house, the one least likely to have homeowner's insurance decent enough to pay for the broken arm you incurred trying to remain upright on the snow that has melted and re-frozen five times on his stupid property. at the very least, could you throw a little salt on that shit? damn!

the fact that you almost ate it seven times in front of that SUV notwithstanding, it might be time for your dumb ass to put that motherfucking bike in storage. i am going to make a few enemies i bet, but dudes on bicycles are assholes. they piss me off as both a motorist and a pedestrian, and winter is the fucking WORST. every time i see cars sliding across the road there's always some fool on a bike sliding right along with them, and i always think, "you deserve to die." i wouldn't parachute into afghanistan without a machine gun and a working knowledge of how to make a bomb out of dust and the ink from a ball point pen (or whatever it is those motherfuckers are using to blow our asses up), so why would i play fast and loose on a rickety piece of metal and rubber in a fucking blizzard? come on, now. we all know you are all man, a virile piece of meat with a huge cock. you've proven it. now go put that little shit away. and take off those shiny sateen stretch pants while you're at it.

i never let winter get in the way of my partying either, and maybe no one has ever told you this, but being fully clothed at the club is not illegal. i don't want to see the icicles hanging off your labia, sister. get dressed already. and there's nothing worse than some ridiculous bitch thinking she should be able to jump me in line or steal my fucking cab because i wore jeans and she wore duct tape. put your pussy away if you're so goddamned cold. otherwise, enjoy your frigid, teeth-chattering, sub-zero time.

could you buy some chapstick, please? and carry some goddamned pocket kleenex. nothing makes you want to throat punch an adult more than looking at their dry ass lips, and november through march is throat punching SEASON. good lord, dude. how cheap is carmex? and my nose is running, too, but i have tissue in my bag for that. nothing more repulsive than a stream of eye snot and nose tears running over the crusty, dehydrated lips of someone trying to have a conversation with you. what are you, four years old? go wipe your fucking face! sorry brother, but i just can't with that. run a fucking humidifier at night if your shit is that bad. bathe in vaseline. WHATEVER. just moisturize. PLEASE. and this probably goes without saying, but there is ABSOLUTELY NO EXCUSE for an ashy black person. none. if you can't afford baby oil and vaseline or whatever it is we are supposed to use to grease ourselves up like chickens out of the fryer, call me or something. i'll send you some. just stop embarrassing your mother all out in the street with grey lips and eye water dried in streaks down your face. that shit is gross.

happy winter wonderland, lovers. now go put some fucking outerwear on.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

bah, humbug.

blink and you'll miss my weak attempt at christmas "decorations." if it weren't THE SADDEST THING ON EARTH to send out christmas cards when you live alone with a cat, this would be our card this year. one sad string of lights on my bookshelf. two empty stockings. helen lying on the floor in the hall near the door in case anyone comes in who might let her run away and escape my codependent clutches. what are the suicide statistics for this time of year? high as hell?! i bet. nothing makes you feel more miserable and alone and unloved than christmas commercials and holiday cheer. FOR REALS. it is impossible to feel like your life isn't lame while watching some elated bitch unwrap an acura that santa gave her undeserving ass. and thanks for reminding me that i had a shitty childhood EVERY TOY ADVERTISEMENT THAT EVER CAME ON TELEVISION. jesus christ, i hate my parents. i can only be thankful that i'm not growing up in 2010, because i didn't get a nintendo in goddamned 1989, so i KNOW i wouldn't have an ipod or a cell phone or a wii or a psp or whatever it is kids need nowadays. and then i would have shot up my school.

i don't give a shit about the holidays, because everyone is broke and cheap and miserable and they just buy you shit at walgreens and pretend it's a suitable gift and i'm not that good of an actress. i'm an ingrate. and totally shitty. and i stopped buying christmas presents a long time ago, because i hate calculating the difference of the value between what you bought me and what i bought you. and "it's the thought that counts" is something people who buy shitty gifts say. because most gifts aren't thoughtful. they're stupid, and i know you just grabbed that thing for me at the last second while standing in the check-out line at wal-mart because you don't want to look like an asshole. but you know what? you DO look like an asshole. because my gift cost money and your gift cost thought.

so i just tell people not to buy me SHIT. i'll buy my own stuff that i'm never going to use. that way, i get exactly what i want and don't have to worry about listening to you bitch about what expensive tastes i have. at this point i'm over material gifts anyway. i have pretty much everything i need, and everything else either can't be bought or is illegal to pay for. but a girl can dream...

1 i want all of you jerks to come see me read at revolving door january 26. which, if you think about, is really my gift to you. it's at red kiva, 1108 w. randolph, 7 pm. and it is absolutely FREE. seriously, if you've never seen me read before (or if you're one of the seven people who has seen me read a million times), this is a good place to do it. the place is really beautiful, the food is good, the drinks are strong, and did i mention this shit is FREE? and that I AM GOING TO BE THERE?! i don't get these feature gigs very often, and i am probably going to die soon, so you should show up and support me and my taco. live. on stage. reading funny stuff. okay okay okay i'll stop.

seriously, though. give me a reason to keep breathing. and buy me a motherfucking shot.

2 i need a butler. not in general, because i don't like anyone bothering me all of the fucking time, but i have a few very specific tasks around the house that it would be nice to have someone else perform. for instance, i HATE cleaning the humidifier. and i always forget to put placemarks in my books when i'm done reading them for the evening. then in the morning i waste two of the minutes i should be using to make the 7:06 train flipping through whatever i'm reading to find where i left off. i don't like cleaning my glasses, or the bathtub. and, all joking aside, i need a motherfucker to change my lightbulbs. my ceilings are high, and if i fall off the chair to my death helen will have half my face eaten off before my body even gets cold. also, he should be old and white. i don't need anyone distracting me while he's bending over to clean out the litter box.

3 HOT DUDES. duh.

i DO have a little something for you guys, though. TWO PODCASTS. hooray, right?! i spent two hours in my bathroom last night recording myself reading some dumb stories for you and your kin, THEN i spent three hours downloading software and adding mp3s and learning about wav files and voice manipulation and blah blah you don't really give a shit blah. i made the mistake of listening to them both and at this point am totally grossed out at the sound of my voice, which you'll have to excuse because i'm still fighting my way through this pneumonia and i have post-nasal drip something FIERCE. excuses are for jerks, so i won't make any. just know that i'll work the kinks out as i go along. and i promose to stop saying "um" so goddamned much. what a toolbox.

episode 1:

and for those of you who don't get it, ahem GENO, the format is this: full-length jam of my choice, awkward rambling and nervous giggling, reading a piece or two or three, dunzo.

ooh, and here is a logo for those of you who want one in your ipod. i'm leaving no goddamned stone unturned. right click and save this shit.

i hope you laugh at least a little bit. happy hanukhristmas.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

i might have to stop being a jerk to pretty girls.

I AM A HATER. i know it's not polite to admit to that in public, or in mixed company even, but i refuse to keep living a lie. i'm a motherfucking hater, goddamn it, and unapologetic about it. i don't want to hear any news unless it's bad news, especially if i know you and like you and your mere presence in my life will serve as a reminder of all the good things that are happening to you. fuck you. i want you down here slogging through the misery with me, and the more times you graduate from school and get married and give birth to healthy children, the more i hate your fucking guts. call me when you get cancer, bitch. blarf.

i live in the kind of neighborhood that doesn't frown upon bedclothes worn out in public, and last week i went to the bodega around the corner from my apartment wearing: a nightgown, my long grey inside pants, a grey sweater, a grey coat, my giant man boots, seven scarves, woollen mittens, a headwrap, sunglasses, vaseline lips, and my weekend bra. i hadn't bathed, but in my mind since all of my clothes smell like luxurious musky oils no one will notice if i am a little stinky. pfffft. homeless chic at its absolute finest. so i'm standing in the cookie aisle with a basket over my arm (contents: almond dish soap, one loose peach rolling around, two persimmons, a loaf of black rye, and a package of roast beef from the deli), minding my own business. and just staring. as a rule i don't buy things like cookies. potato chips, either. because i would really just eat them all in a day and spend the rest of that day beating myself up. i have to buy shit that comes in a single fucking serving. ONE SLICE of cake. ONE PIECE of chocolate. boo hoo.

anyway, wearing sunglasses inside makes me feel inconspicuous and i listen to my ipod SO FUCKING LOUD to drown, so i didn't notice this gorgeous bitch i went to school with waving at me from the cracker end of the aisle until she walked over and waved her hand in front of my face. "samanthairby! is that really you?! it's so good to see you!" (that's how she talks, all pick and shit. she TALKS PINK.) then she tried to hug me but my cat-like reflexes quickly shifted my basket to an awkward angle, making coat-to-coat contact nearly impossible. ugggghhhh GROSS. why is shit like this always happening to me when i haven't brushed my teeth, my pajamas smell like pee, and i am visibly drooling over a box of petite ecolier?! "it's me," i groaned. then i mentally reprimanded myself for being such a fucking jackass and tried to sweeten my tone. "how have you been?" but the truth is, i didn't want to know. i never run into girls who are like, "holy fuck, my life TOTALLY WENT TO SHIT since the last time you saw me." no, i somehow happen upon all of the wealthy smug marrieds who spent the last ten years modeling before deciding to settle down in hawaii with some hot NFL cornerback. this is the kind of bitch i hate on principle, just for happening to exist: gorgeous, smart, nice, hip, and not the least bit belittling in any fucking way, and when she said, "i just got engaged and finished my phd. i can't believe i ran into you!" my mean ass died a little inside and i turned into happybot for the rest of the conversation. "that is nice. i work with animals. i live in an apartment the size of your bathroom. i have the meanest piece of shit cat on the face of the earth. i don't have a boyfriend. i haven't gotten laid in almost one calendar year. i have crohn's disease. this brace on my wrist isn't a prop. i routinely pray for death." excited gasp. "you work with ANIMALS?! that's awesome! you must love it!" BIG SIGH.

i'm not even sure how i got out of that conversation. if she'd been an asshole i would have just been like, "fuck you, bitch. you were mean to me in biology" and pushed her cart over, but she was nice. excruciatingly so. so i just stood there nodding in my big sunglasses and wondering if she could smell that i was on my period. but if she did she didn't show it, just kept grinning at me and suggesting we "hang out sometime." how come people always say that? is it too uncomfortable to just say, "i'm glad we both made it through this uncomfortable encounter intact. i hope i never run into you again?" FUCK, DUDE. that's the one thing that is balls about living where you grew up, running into bitches you never intend to see again. in TWELVE YEARS you never looked me up, honey. why we gotta fake like we're about to be homies? just say "good to see you!" with a fake smile and remember to never come to this grocery store ever again at this time of day while not wearing a disguise. let's go back to pretending the other doesn't exist, shall we? why you gotta make shit so AWKWARD?! to dodge the phone number exchange bullet i said, "look me up on facebook" and set my basket on the floor and walked out, guaranteeing that bitch will 1 think i'm a huge weirdo and 2 NEVER EVER LOOK ME UP. then i waited five minutes in the liquor store down the street and went back and bought my shit. i am obviously imbalanced.

last week i went out for tacos with my sweet, beautiful princess omg unicornz. ordinarily i try not to surround myself with beautiful people. no one makes good looking people be smart or interesting, so most of them just twirl their hair and giggle on cue and find seductive ways to toy with a cocktail straw. but sometimes they're fun and interesting, and those ones make me NERVOUS. and instead of trying to catch myself up (would it kill me to use a little blush, for god's sake?!) i just devolve into a disgusting sloth ("why wear clean pants? she's just going to look prettier than i do anyway") and make zero effort to look nice whatsoever. cute bitches are the WORST, man. always inadvertantly catching the eye of EVERY DUDE IN THE GODDAMNED ROOM and making me look like shit in the process. i may as well be fucking wallpaper when i'm out with these broads. two seconds after one leaves to go to the can and vomit up her dinner our table is flanked by assholes who are too moist to talk to her directly yet have no problemo interrupting ME to ask if she's single or if she dates black dudes or if those are her real tits. step your game up, gentlemen. don't you see i'm deep in conversation with this vodka soda? leave me alone!

because dudes have no imagination and all assume that i'm there to cockblock and play bodyguard (or worse, CYRANO), they try to get in good with me so i can be the catalyst through which their penises enter her vagina. that's fucking boring. this hot bitch and i are FRIENDS, goddamn it. i'm not her tutor, and she's not doing charity work as part of her probation. we're fucking TALKING. scram!

good looking dudes are usually gigantic steaming bags of shit. and even if you think you know one who isn't, just give him a few minutes. he'll let that cat out of the bag eventually. seriously, every smoking hot dude i know is a SELF-CENTERED ASSHOLE. and he's usually smart and funny and shit (otherwise i would not waste a millisecond of my time with him), but asshole is generally his dominant frequency. because good looking people don't have to be nice. if history has taught us not a goddamned thing else, it's proven through millions of years of reinforcement that pretty people can just do whatever the fuck they want. because SOMEONE is going to think that shit is cute and put up with it.

i have a hot friend who is fucking MURDER on a dude. for cereal. and she's always giggling on the phone telling me all the shit she puts him through, and up until a year ago i would think to myself "why does he put up with this shit?" and then one day it hit me. HER FACE. and her tiny ass. this bitch could be like, "walk to the target in this blizzard with no shoes on and bring me back a patio set" and that fool would do it. JUST TO KEEP DROPPING A LOAD IN THAT ASS. i'd be afraid to ask a dude if i could give him a piggyback ride on a ninety-degree day to the taco stand and pay for his carne asadas then fan him while he ate them, lest i inconvenience him or interfere with what he already had planned that day. pffft.

long story short, i'm mean to attractive people. because they deserve it and FUCK THEM. life is easy enough for you bastards. the entire universe is already your slave, fuck if i'm going to bend over backwards to do something nice for you. get your own drink, hang up your own coat. or ask that dude over there with the erection to do it. except that sometimes pretty girls are really nice. and funny. and surprisingly tolerant of a grizzled old asshole hissing and spitting venom at anyone who comes within a five-foot radius.

after waving for a cab for TEN GODDAMN MINUTES at north and clybourn (what the FUCK is up with the traffic over there?!??!!), i arrived at big star. omg unicornz had texted me that she had gotten seats at the bar, and the minute i walked in and looked over i saw 1 her gorgeous face and 2 some dude in a sweater gazing longingly at it from the bar stool next to her. with my attitude meter set to SALTY i walked over and crashed their party. after discerning that this dude didn't know my girl i introduced myself and figured the evening was going to go one of two ways: he would either fuck off and do his own thing or he was going to bother the shit out of us all fucking night. i bet you can guess which one happened.

one thing i resolutely am NOT is a motherfucking cockblocker. i know how hard it is to get laid out here (two more weeks until i hit a year, kittens), and while i hate the shit out of dudes, i would never stop one from fucking one of my friends. as a matter of fact, i will do everything i can to help facilitate that shit. especially if it means that once you get her number you will LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE because i have a lot of shit to talk about and dumping all my troubles on the adorable j. crew model that wants to stick his dick in my friend was not on my agenda this evening. so i did a couple whiskey shots and wingmanned my dick off. shy giggling ensued. numbers were exchanged. tacos de panza were ordered. and consumed. yet dude kept sitting next to us. and talking. WHILE HE ATE A SALAD FOR DINNER.

you already know how i fucking feel about that shit. 100% fruity. dinner salads are for GIRLS. not this girl, because i need lots of protein to maintain all the hair on my chest, but anorexic bitches need something to eat in a restaurant, too. and because "i'll just have a water" makes a bitch look bad, dinner salads have a reason to exist. and i might not have cared about this dude and his panties (seriously? a fucking salad?!??!! even his friends were talking shit about him!), but he was infringing upon my date. which might have been cool if he was willing to let me sit next to the bed while he was trying to bone her, but i didn't think he'd be open to returning that particular favor.

i don't ever want to hear anyone say that i am not a good friend, because although it would have been well within my friend rights to poke out my bottom lip and pout while this dude tried to impress the unicorn with his vast knowledge of beer pong and sweater vests (or whatever the fuck white dudes talk about), i pulled out MY GLORIOUS EVO and texted bitches for an hour. oh, and i got more and more drunk. but what i DIDN'T do was detract from my lovely lady's mack-a-thon. like a hater. despite the fact that she's drop-dead beautiful. thank horus for this fancy fucking phone. i alwayyyyys have a book or twelve and a magazine in my giant bag, but facebooking on a novel-sized phone makes you look way less like a losery asshole. i've been the bitch reading at the bar before, and i hate it. so if i lose my phone, or you steal it, i will die. take note.

between bouts of his fawning all over her, omg unicornz and i talked shit about that dude and every other dude we could come up with. she told me about some asshole she'd recently been seeing who, after both borrowing money from her AND introducing her to his parents, disappeared off the face of the earth. and i don't mean an alien abducted him, i mean HE JUST STOPPED CALLING. i was fucking SHOCKED. "wait a minute," i said, puzzled. "that kind of shit happens to YOU? but you're so pretty!" and it had indeed happened. to her. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

i don't like when the earth conspires to shit on my well-founded philosophies. and one of my longest-held beliefs is that hot people have it easier. THEREFORE, my hatred of them is totally justified. never did i imagine some dude would play the "i accidentally on purpose forgot your number" game with someone adorable! HOLY FUCKING SHIT. this turns everything i thought i knew upside down! i thought that I was the only lovesick idiot buying ipods and playstations and helping out with rent! EUREKA.

seriously, WHAT IS THE POINT OF BEING HOT if you end up doing what the rest of us regular people do? if a dude asked me for money i'd say "FUCK NO," then think to myself, "god, bitch, you need to lose fifty pounds," and then sigh and say, " much are we talking about exactly?" while digging through my pocketbook. "are large bills okay?"
so now i have to be nice to you ladies because i've realized that the majority of us are ALL eating shit off stupid dudes. and while the real solution might be that we need to thelma and louise it over the edge of a cliff, until chevy makes a car that can fit NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF THE EARTH'S FEMALE POPULATION, we're stuck here. never again will i scowl at some long-haired gazelle who jumps the bar line ahead of me, nor will i trip her half-naked friend as she makes her way to the bathroom. (ordinarily i TOTALLY WOULD.) because those bitches aren't staring at their phones all night because handsome dudes are texting the shit out of them. they're staring at their phones all night because handsome dudes AREN'T texting the shit out of them! and despite the old adage that a watched pot never boils, we all know that a stared-at phone is bound to ring. sooner or later. these chicks and i have SO MUCH in common. i stare at MY phone, TOO! so instead of wishing death or some scurrilous plague to befall them, i'm going to usher them under my massive wing and pet them and sing them lullabies.

oh who am i kidding. i'm miserable and made of dog poo. so i'm still going to be awful to you hot broads. not those of you who have already clawed your way into my shriveled dead heart (OMG), just the rest of you. so after i knock that drink out of your hand and push you face first into a puddle of vomit at the club, i'm going to say, "NOW your life is hard. welcome to the shit with the rest of us."

postscript: that fucking dude texted omg unicornz to see if she'd made it home okay (i left the bar early to give them some time "alone" in a bar full of fucking people, pffft), then HE NEVER FUCKING CALLED HER. what the fuck, dudes? WHAT THE FUCK?!

Thursday, December 9, 2010

it's not the size of the boat, it's the motion of the ocean.

who the fuck doesn't love mini shit? kittens, tacos, golf, comic strips, hand lotions, halloween candy, flashlights, water bottles, dwarves, coopers, skirts, blinds...TINY SHIT IS TOTALLY BETTER.

i'm trying a new thing, kittens. a couple new things, as a matter of fact. and if you know me, you know i am vehemently opposed to change. which is why all my fucking clothes are threadbare and why my hair looks so retarded all the time. so you should be proud of me for being so brave. anyway, it has come to my attention (more than fucking once), that my posts are too long. apparently it is too much of a fucking commitment to ask people to sit down and read my novel of a blog. like you bitches have so much to fucking do. pffffft.

it probably goes without saying that the ONLY PEOPLE TO COMPLAIN HAVE ALL BEEN MALE, but this shit is for dudes, too, so i guess i should listen to what the people want. personally i think if i was posting every day instead of once a fucking week it might be a whole goddamned lot to ask, but life is better when you're flexible, right? so i'm going to suck up my attitude and bend to the whim of the people. i tell stories and i'm good at it, so i'm going to fucking figure out how to tell one using fewer words and see if that shit still makes you laugh. except when i don't. because fuck dudes. and ADHD.

my other new shits are way more exciting: i'm going to start podcasting this bitch, and that will be totally fucking righteous. that way those of you who are too lazy to read can just download the dulcet tones of my voice and take me everywhere you go: the laundromat, the grocery store, church, crack house, wherever! a miniaturized, portable sam! woot! and if you're thinking "why would i listen to that shit when i could read it?" the answer is this: BONUS MATERIAL. like phone sex and helen meowing in the background. plus, i'll be drunk.

i go out a lot and have a shit ton of disposable income, so i'm going to start casually reviewing all these places my bitches and i go. and i know you could just get on yelp or whatever, but the assholes who post on that bitch always try to pretend like they're real reviewers and use fruity food language and shit. while i on the other hand will write about whether or not any black people go there or if the bathroom is one you can comfortably take a shit in. and i'm a mellow fucking person, so you won't have to worry that i hate a place and posted a nasty rant because my goddamned soup wasn't hot enough. who the fuck goes to a restaurant and orders SOUP??!?!?!! these bad girls will be tagged "opinions are like assholes." keep your eyes peeled.

so i guess you miniature gentlemen can fucking relax. apparently bigger isn't always better.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

stupid dudes, stupid problems.

now this is a dude i feel sorry for. fuck real dudes. human dudes are rarely worthy of a single tear or drop of sympathy, which is why i rarely give one any. boo fucking hoo, asshole. dogs, on the other hand, are helpless and sweet.

ginger is riding the tandem bike with me this time around, because she hates men almost as much as i do. and reading what bitches write is way sexy. prrrrrr.

A bite on my wife's lip sends her over the orgasm edge. Why?

I like to have my nipples bit but it’s never been timed exactly to test this kind of thing out. But I also like my lips bit (within reason, no blood drawn) and I can see this working by slightly distracting from her concentration on her orgasm, which can be helpful if you are a lady who thinks about it too much. Then again, maybe she’s faking the increased intensity to fuck with you. I like to consider all possibilities.

man, biting is the greatest. and i don't mind bleeding. but i've found that sometimes it's really hard to talk a dude into doing it. i've had better luck getting men to let me put my whole shoe up their assholes than i have asking them to play jeffrey dahmer for an evening. occasionally you run across a real freak, the kind of dude who pulls out a knife and fork and does WORK. but we live in the age of HIV and hepatitis and flesh eating bacteria, so you have to be wary of just whom you pull your fangs out for.

i'm too fucking lazy to research whether or not this is true for other women, but for this whore there is a direct correlation between the bite and the intensity of the orgasm. remember that time my doctor almost fainted because my back was bitten up so badly? super hot. decent sex can be AMAZING SEX if a dude knows how to masticate. i kid you not, the command i give the absolute most in bed is "USE YOUR TEETH." lips and nipples (especially nipples) are fantastic, but if a dude bites my ear or neck i'm his forever. be careful, though, and remember to ask for permission if you aren't sure. i don't want you taking a bite outta crime.

My girlfriend lives far away. Any tips for, ahem, e-relations?

I don’t really do long distance because I hate talking on the phone, I refuse to chat online (my face doesn’t want to fill up anyone’s computer screen, thanks), and – oh yeah – I like penetration. But you guys are probably in love or something, so I’ll try. I think phone sex is kind of hotter than skype sex, but that is because I’m weird about holding a webcam up to my lady parts and stuff. I guess if I were you, I’d probably alternate between the two. And as someone who is not inclined to do either of these while totally sober, I would suggest that if either of you is at all shy, have a few drinks first. That’ll really loosen you up.

Maybe you could skype while watching the same porn? Also, you could write dirty stories about your sex life and email them to each other throughout the day. Or one of you could start a dirty story, the other could write the next paragraph, then the first could write the paragraph after that...that could be funny and/or sexy, actually.

I’m kind of into this now. Where is my long-distance lover?!

everybody already knows that phone sex is my absolute favorite kind. no messy bodily fluids, no pushing you away from my side of the bed, no yelling at the cat to get in her crate, no worrying about leg hair, no changing the sheets, no pretending to enjoy silky nightgowns, no nothing. just me, my vibrator, and the phone. PERFECTO.

i am opposed to every other kind of virtual sex, mostly because i like to have orgasms. the hippie sent me some excruciatingly hot dirty texts this morning, and all i could do was squirm at my desk and wish i could take my pants off. i mean, how am i supposed to work a twelve hour day after "pussy this, throbbing that?" what am i, a robot?! for me the hottest part of phone sex is listening to the other person moaning and groaning on the other end of the line. i'm less interested in fruity story lines and all that garbage. i want to listen to you lotion your dick and beat it against the receiver while you grunt like an old man trying to heave himself out of a chair. so if your girl is like ginger, you better get to a computer and get your romance novel on. and if your girl is like sam? all you need is a tub of margarine and an unlimited phone plan. yowza.

I've tried everything, but I still last only a few minutes during sex.

Have you really tried everything? Cock rings? Actually, I was unsure as to whether cock rings generally make a guy last longer, and so I went to Wikipedia (I’d have to recommend the Wikipedia cock ring page, it’s kind of hilarious) and the Babeland cock ring info page, and it seems that it only helps some guys last longer. So if you haven’t tried one, do, but it might not work.

If you’re young, I bet this will improve with age. I hope it will. But in any case, you just have to not make intercourse the focus of your time in bed. Perform oral sex on your partner, manually stimulate him/her, do all kinds of crazy shit with toys and props and porn and whatever, and just keep your dick out of the game. Make him/her come (a few times if it’s a she) and then stick it in. If you are good at all the other stuff, she may not mind it so much.

NO PROBLEM. i fucking hate a dude who takes forever to come. BLARF. number one, i have shit to do today other than help your dick across the finish line. i'm a busy person! number two, i'm crippled half the fucking time and that much physical exertion is goddamned tiring. if i have to take a naproxen and two celebrex halfway through trying to get you off, chances are you will not be invited back. and that "make her come first" shit can be tricky. i'm like a dude; when i'm done, I'M DONE. i want to roll over to the cold part of the sheets and fall asleep with my mouth open and a paper towel wedged between my legs, not do the shake weight on your penis. or i want to watch tv. or make a sandwich. or paint my nails. or go to the bar. anything other than listening to you groan "almost there" for another forty-five fucking minutes. come on, man, i'm DRY. i would much rather get off, let you get your two pumps in, then get up and go get tacos. don't be embarrassed, just find the laziest bitch on earth. as a matter of fact, see what the fuck i'm up to sometime.

I've heard watching porn together can spice things up. How do I convince her to join my viewing?

What are you, a Mormon? Just ask! “So, do you want to watch a porn tonight?” If you suspect that she’s not that into porn (as Samantha knows, I’m more into that crappy softcore stuff and I don’t watch a lot of hardcore porn), maybe you choose something a little more straight one-man-on-one-woman stuff at first. Work up to double penetration, ass to mouth, gangbang, torture, etc. But seriously. You’re hanging out, watching a movie or making out or something, just bring it up. Unless you two are 12, she’s probably seen porn before. Even if she doesn’t like it, she’ll probably agree to it so she doesn’t seem like a prude.

man, i love porn. the more hardcore, the better. BUT. it embarrasses me to watch porn with another person. this is probably more than i should divulge, but if there's a hot part i will just keep rewinding that shit over and over and over until i'm finished. and i don't want to talk about porn with a dude. i don't want to hear what nasty shit gets him off, and i certainly don't want to explain why that specific cum shot needed to be rewound seventeen times. maybe i'm just enabling myself and this guard i've placed around my heart and vagina, but i think everyone needs a shit ton of privacy. and, for me, porn is between me and my g spot and that filthy little corner in the back of my brain. besides, it's not something you'd grab a bowl of popcorn and sit on the couch to watch. how the fuck long are you watching porn? three and a half minutes? "hey babe, you want to watch a movie with me? i'm just putting one in the dvd player. come over and sit with me. could you bring me a beer from the fridge? and grab the remote and bring over a blanket and get my m&ms and HOLY SHIT I'M ABOUT TO COME." and then you bust a load in your pants before this bitch's ass even touches the couch next to you. mucho boring.

so i would just ask this broad outright, and if she says no then you should respect that. no kamikaze porn on the tv when you know she's about to get home, no sending her dirty videos during the day to try to win her over. listen, if you need a bright side, you can pretend you're fucking those girls if you're watching them by yourself. and you won't have to listen to "is she prettier than me?" "are her boobs better than mine?" "do you picture her when we're having sex?" see? you're over this shit already!

My wife says I penetrate too deep. Is this possible?

I think the correct word would be “deeply,” as it’s an adjective here. And, yes. We have stuff in there, we’re not blow-up dolls with a giant empty tube for you to bang around in. When you tap the cervix repeatedly, it hurts (and depending on the time of the month, a woman’s cervix can move further or closer to the vaginal opening. True story!). Let her control the extent of the penetration (having her on top, doggy style with her controlling the motion – and doesn’t that sound hot anyway?), at least at first, to show you how deeply you can penetrate without hurting her. Then, if you can control yourself and your insatiable need to penetrate SO DEEPLY with your long, giant cock, perhaps you can take over.

Note the tone of my last sentence. You probably already knew ALL THIS SHIT and just wrote this to brag.

is your wife twelve? if not, tell that bitch to MAN THE FUCK UP.

Is there an ideal angle for sex from behind?

Well, first, go with the angle that keeps the penis in the vagina. Once you have mastered that, I think it depends more on how your dick angles. Like, if you are angled upwards, you’re kind of shit out of luck when it comes to hitting her G-spot in this position. If you hang downwards, then good for you. This is the position for you and your lady and will probably bring her much joy. If you are a straight shooter, just try to work it so that the bottom of your cock rubs against the front-facing side of her vadge. Does that make sense? I hope so.

now this is my all-time favorito if i have to actually be in the same room as the person i'm fucking. GROSS. anyway, the slipping out all the time is the biggest problem, but i think that has less to do with the angle than it does some idiot dude trying to show the fuck off. in my experience it is typically the dudes with the biggest dicks who are the biggest dicks, mostly because they think that all that's required of them is to show up with that huge horse penis and kick back while you swoon. man, fuck that. and the dudes who act like they're performing for some invisible camera wear me the fuck out, too. and they try to do weird acrobatics and shit, resulting only in mucho embarrassing slips of the penis, which does NEITHER of us any damn good. don't try to do swirls and curlicues and write your name on my vaginal wall; put it in, take it out, repeat. ejaculate. TACO TIME.

Why do some men have foot fetishes?

The only man I ever met who displayed a foot fetish had a teeny tiny penis that he literally could not fuck me with. It was really too small for even a decent bj. So he played with my feet a lot. This is totally anecdotal but I’m sure a fair number of people develop odd fetishes because they’re bad at or unequipped for “vanilla” sex.

because they are gross. DUH. that said, my favorite loverrrrrr of all time is a dude who both sucked my toes AND begged for a finger in his butt. man, was he hot. so i like gross stuff. obviously.

Does a $30 bottle of wine really taste better than a $10 bottle, or is it just my imagination?

I love this question in the wake of Sam’s idiotic “top shelf” dude. You fancy assholes and your slightly more expensive habits! It puts trash like me to shame. (Personally I like boxed wine.) It is your imagination. Maybe there is a noticeable difference between a $10 bottle and a $100 or $200 bottle, but not with this $20 difference. However, idiots like you keep this economy from totally collapsing, so keep buying these overpriced bottles.

oh, my hilarious ginger. i fucking hate wine. YUCK. i like drinking beer, whiskey shots, and fruity drinks made with rum. so i'll stick to where i'm best acquainted. cheap beer tastes like roach spray most of the time, and it'll give you baby guts for three days after. blech. there is a definite difference between a shot of old fitzgerald and a shot of jameson or buffalo trace, but if you're going to follow that shit with a glass of water or a sip of beer anyway, who the fuck cares?! last saturday we were doing $3 whiskey shots and that shit was like drinking raw listerine or nail polish remover, HOLY FUCKING BALLS, but it was followed by a delicious taco al pastor, so it made me no nevermind. and i was drunk as hell all the same. also, i was out with terrence and arizona and paid for a round of shots for those gentlemen, and that shit cost me TWENTY-ONE DOLLARS. if someone else is buying, get the good shit. but if it's coming out of your wallet, sneak over to the bar, order the booze, bring it to the table, and LIE YOUR DICK OFF. people are fucking stupid. and no one can tell the difference between shit. pfffft.

I've been on a few dates with a great woman but she has a cat, and I'm very allergic. Help.

Every guy I have dated in the past two years (for those of you keeping track, that’s... two. But also some men I’ve hooked up with) has a goddamn cat, and I am seriously allergic. Which leads me to a tangent – this “cat woman” nonsense is total bullshit. I think 80% of people who are single past the age of 25, male or female, have cats. Women just live longer and people like to pretend that all childless women are insane. Hence this alleged “cat lady” phenomenon. At least that’s what I think.

Back to the subject. I’m currently dating a dude with a cat. At first, it was awful when I went to his house. Thank god he found a runny nose, sneeze attacks, and probable loud snoring TOTALLY SEXY. (I made that up. I’m just assuming since he banged me after I sneezed on him repeatedly and blew my nose 52 times a night.) This was even with allergy pills (it was also hay fever season though, and so my life in general was a mess of snot and tears).

However, he was kind enough to sometimes launder his bedding before I came over, and clean up the cat hair, and I’m not sure if he’s keeping up with that or what, but my allergies have been gradually getting better. And I’m not over there all the time so this is pretty impressive. You seriously do get used to cats – my sister also had an allergy until she lived with a cat in college. Another thing I have considered is getting allergy shots, because it’s clear that I’m destined to live with a cat one day (seriously, all men I am remotely interested in have cats) and I’m willing to get poked with needles so that I can get poked (wink wink) on a regular basis.

For the time being, you can alternate where you sleep (your house vs. her house) when you spend the night together, too, saving you some of the pain. But unless you are looking for an excuse to remain single, the cat shouldn’t be a dealbreaker.

i am fucking offended. "a great woman BUT she has a cat?" this furry little feline diminishes her greatness? in what way? ASSHOLE.

i don't see what the problem is. have you dudes never heard of goddamned benedryl? that shit is almost criminally cheap. GO GET YOU SOME. all my future paramours better listen up: i work with animals. i will continue to work with animals. because i care about them. (and because this dude pays me an obscene amount and doesn't care that i'm on facebook all fucking day. but i digress.) i live with an animal. i will most likely live with more animals. so many that it might make you uncomfortable to be in my house. but i do not care. if you would like to hang out with me and are hesitant because you're "allergic," pfffft, you might want to think about taking a motherfucking zyrtec. or getting allergy shots. or wearing an oxygen mask. because this cat was here before you, and she'll be here long after you piss me off or disappoint me so much that i am forced to kick you out of my life.

besides, everyone knows that allergies are a goddamned myth anyway, a fucking byproduct of this spoiled rotten, sissified society. toughen up, you itchy sneezebags.

I'm learning guitar. How good should I be before serenading a woman?

Hahahahahahahaha. Omg, don’t do it. EVER. Or at least not until you’ve written a song featuring her name that has broken the top ten for at least two weeks running. Then again, if you really think you should be serenading a chick, you should probably do it on the first date every time. Warn these poor women what they are getting into. Some idiot will stay with you and the rest of us can escape this kind of nonsense. I can only nod and smile so much.

this sensitive dude i used to bang would get out his guitar and sing to me after we made sweet love and, i'm not going to lie, that shit was FRUITY. i thought i might be into it, you know? i'm a sensitive artist! i understand! anyway, he had a beautiful singing voice and was super handsome and shit, and i REALLY wanted to enjoy basking in the glow while he sang love songs to me. but mostly i just laid next to him wishing he would shut up so we could order a pizza. or thinking about how much a dude licking my clitoris for an hour makes me have to pee but i couldn't get up because i didn't want to be rude. or i would think about his slimy, retracted balls nestled and shivering in the dark under that guitar. god, i wish i were mature. the one time he was cooing and strumming his guitar and i got up to put a wrap on and tiptoe across his messy floor to relieve my bladder (it was about to pop!) he threw the guitar on the bed and had a total fucking hissy fit, chastising me for killing the romantic mood. he was fucking FREAKING OUT. so bad, that i tiptoed back and got in the bed and rubbed his back while he cried. (seriously, SO SENSITIVE. fucking musicians.) he picked up his guitar eventually and started to sing again, and i laid there seething inside while pretending to be captivated and peed in his bed. JERK.

in other words, don't do it.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

bitch, this is why you're single.

this is my kitchen. more on that later.

i hope you had a nice thanksgiving. no, i really don't. i was sidelined with a head cold and diarrhea and was in bed in my pajamas all day, so it would suit me just fine if you jerks had to eat dry turkey and lumpy potatoes and burnt pumpkin pie while fighting off the wandering hands of your creepy uncle. tis the fucking season. i spent the morning flipping between a star trek: the next generation marathon and a marathon of the first 48, which are two of my MAIN JAMS. nothing is better than television, and i'd fight you in the street if you say otherwise. then i made the mistake of turning on that saints cowboys game in the third quarter; it was exciting enough, but i had fifty dollars riding on them boys and i was salty that they lost. boo hoo. for real, though, when buehler missed that field goal at the end i screamed so loud helen pulled her face out of her asshole and was like, "use your inside voice, bitch. before i put your ass outside." my thanksgiving dinner consisted of fish sticks, chili sauce, some watermelon that might have been a little spoiled, and frozen peas i definitely didn't cook long enough. jealous? i thought so.

jeff is another sad and lonely piece of shit with dead parents and crippling social anxiety disorder who spends every holiday crying in his bathtub (that might be more me than him) and when he called to see if i wanted to split a bottle of wild turkey with him as an homage to his pilgrim ancestors raping this nubile nation my answer was a loud, resounding "YES." well, my first answer was, "barf, do i have to put a fucking bra on?" and when he said no i said "YES." this is a crying fucking shame, but whether or not i have to put a bra on is a huge decision point (zing) when determining whether or not i'm going to do something. that's why you have to catch me right after work if you want to kick it during the week. because if i get home and i'm sitting around bored for more than a fraction of a second, that bad girl is coming off and i'm getting my ass in the bed. and not getting out. and public bralessness is not a goddamned option, lest my nipples get caught in my fucking belt in the middle of a bar or wherever you want me to get out of bed to go with you. so i changed from my daytime pajamas into my nighttime pajamas and threw all of my errant socks and underwear in the laundry basket and lit some frankincense candles because i really think that at this point that i'm 100% desensitized to the smell of cat pee and didn't want my homeboy to be grossed out.

jeff isn't the kind of dude you can fuck on, but he is marginally entertaining and has a LOT of credit cards so i hang out with him as much as i can stand it. i don't ever want you to forget how much of a piece of shit i am, so i should probably tell you how i'll keep hanging out with someone who sort of sucks huge ass if he does things like ply me with alcohol and pay for my cab ride home. anyway, helen keller likes that dude so while i was "straightening up" (throwing everything on the floor into the bathtub and hiding it behind the shower curtain) she busied herself with the task of getting her taint clean. cat lady side note: helen had to get what we in the industry call a "sanitary shave" a couple weeks ago, and i have spent every day since throwing shit across the room for her to fetch (she does that) just so i can watch that little bald booty running away from me. fucking hilarious! so jeff just got dumped by this pretty little ice queen i found thoroughly unimpressive upon our introduction (HATER), and the minute he walked through my door he started blubbering and crying about being alone during the holidays and no one loves me blah blah blah. he was obviously already drunk, so i snatched the bottle he'd brought with him and went to pour some shots to catch up. because i have to be drunk to engage in these kind of self-pitying conversations.

here's a thought, emotional people: SHUT THE FUCK UP. or find someone who advertises himself as "a good listener" to talk to. last night i was on the phone with the hippie (swoon!) and before we could get to the phone sex (yes, please) i found myself starting to talk about one of my friendships that is totally fucking falling apart before my eyes, and just before my vagina parted her lips to lay down the backstory and draw the timeline and map out the conflicts and sort through all of the "she said, i saids," and build to the cinematic dissolution i caught myself and said, "holy balls. sorry, amigo. let's talk about your balls leaving a burn mark on my chin. men don't want to hear about this kind of stupid shit."

and they totally fucking DON'T. neither do i unless the shit is juicy and scandalous and gossipy
, in which case i bring a tape recorder and take fucking NOTES. and you know what he said? "that's okay. tell me about it. i'm a good listener." come again?! now i'm not stupid. this dude hasn't fucked me yet, so this could easily be a ploy to convince me he's sensitive and awesome enough to deserve to put the meat in my taco. as a matter of fact, i'm sure he was jerking off with one hand and playing tekken with the other while i was explaining to him why i need to kick a bitch out of my life, but he kept that shit quiet and said, "mm hmm," "word?," and "yeah, you're totally right" (my FAVORITE) every time i paused to breathe. i don't even remember what he said when i finally finished, but i did think to myself "for listening to that story, i'm going to let thise dude put it in my butt."

i don't want to bang jeff, though, so unless he was going to leave some money or something on my dresser i could see little value in listening to him navel gaze and mourn the loss of a bitch who wears a bleached blond weave. BLARF. but i'm a good friend, so i did shots and nodded sympathetically every time he looked up from his bowl of teary-os for some moral support. in the end i couldn't think of anything to say other than "good fucking riddance, that dumb bitch had to ask me to help her with the menu THREE TIMES when we were at dinner. let's turn the computer on and make you a profile." it took us an hour and a half to come up with something suitable, he kept arguing with me about wanting to include the phrase "giant horse penis" in his descriptive essay, and then he said he wanted to talk to me about a business proposition.

i'm too fucking lazy to get involved in anything more complicated than a pinkie swear, so i immediately said, "NOT DOING THAT" and turned on HBO. "hey look, avatar is on!" this asshole told me that he wants to start a website or service to help chronically single women figure out what it is they're doing wrong that continually drives men away. you did not misread that. the minute i got the gist of what he was saying i was like, "hold up, didn't you just get DUMPED?!" he's going to put advertisements in the reader and new city and craigslist, offering his consulting services to "lonely gals who want to break the cycle of ruining relationships." i want you to know that i listened to his pitch while sitting on the toilet with the door open, and i was rolling my eyes so much i almost had a fucking seizure. even helen poked her head in and was like, "this ninja has lost his damn mind" before pinching her nose closed and saying, "damn, bitch! COURTESY FLUSH!"
so his plan is to go into women's homes, look through their shit, take pictures of their clothing and living spaces, interview them, and basically hang out with them to figure out exactly what it is they are doing to make men run screaming from them. he's going to take them to movies, bars, clubs, starbucks, and all that other date-type shit for two weeks, at the end of which he'll write up a report card listing what she does right when it comes to relationships. and what she does WRONG. i listened to him blathering on for a good half an hour and the only qualification i could discern is that he has a penis and enough time on his hands to engage in this nonsense. this motherfucker is a BANKER. and he's not very good at THAT, because i asked him to take a look at my 401k and invest some money for me and he fucked it all up and i ended up having to send one of my goons over to his house to get my goddamned money back. (don't worry, that was a long time ago. we're over it now. pfffft.) his deal is that he'll write a comprehensive analysis of each woman's potential as a girlfriend, tell her what needs to be amended, then send her out into the dating world armed with his advice to conquer the single men of chicago. total fucking bullshit.

i asked him what he would need me for, and he immediately lied and said he wanted me to be a co-consultant or some shit; hang out with the ladies and point out the ones who are wearing cheap shoes and have bad lace fronts and make terrible jokes. well i don't know shit about that. i wear velcro gym shoes and my hair is a disgusting tangle of weeds 99.9% of the time, what the fuck do i know about girlfriend possibility?! "nice try, but i don't have a fucking man. i'm an expert at being drunk and watching television. want to start a website for that?" i put on my best "bitch, please" face and asked again for the real reason he wanted me involved. he almost lied to me again (i could see it on his face!) before looking down at his shoes and whispering, "i was hoping you'd be my first client." I FUCKING KNEW IT. i'm "chronically single," i have spent a fair amount of time trolling craigslist, and i'm almost desperate enough to entrust my dating fate to an unproven jackass who puts a free ad on the internet.

instead of wasting my time pretending to be insulted (i really wasn't, i'm kind of the perfect candidate for this shit) i just asked if my testimonial (provided that he could "fix" whatever my fucking problem is) would even be valid considering that he'd obviously be biased in my favor. i mean, come on. this asshole has known me for years! i could write his report in my sleep: and the verdict is, this bitch is single because she is TOO MUCH AWESOME. case closed. i obviously have to be cool with dying alone. jeff gave me his own bitch please look and informed me that there are quite a few things that would land me on the boyfriend kryptonite list, the most important being my "childish kitchen." oh, for real?!

too many bright colors (who the fuck lives here, rainbow brite?), too many containers of cat food (seriously, there are FOUR), too many swiffer-related products (inherent laziness), my miniature oven (men like baked goods), so many pill bottles (dudes like healthy broads), too much cereal (lazy), cluttered countertops (dirty), metal shelving (industrial and manly), dust on the cuisinart (lazy, again!), obama bumper sticker (silly idealist), i heart porn magnet (whore), picture of cate blanchett taped to the cabinet (that bitch is ugly), too many "all natural" cleaning products (smelly hippie), cat pictures (lesbian), magnet from when sarah and i saw wicked (lesbian), and the kitchen smelled like fish sticks and lemons (LESBIAN).

well okay then. when you put it that way, i guess i see what the issue is. i'm a smelly immature little girl who doesn't cook enough, has too many food options for one cat, and stinks like breaded cod fillets. PROBLEM SOLVED. the hippie is coming over this weekend to "watch movies" and "eat dinner," blarf he is a goddamned vegetarian so i'm not even sure what the fuck that is going to mean, but i'll be sure to give him the guided tour and gauge his assessment of my kitchen. i'm sure he'll love it. and then i'm going to let him put it in my butt.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

sharing is caring.

so i let some asshole talk me into signing up for speed dating. here's the thing: in my mind the whole concept of speed dating is counterintuitive when trying to meet a substantive and interesting dude. by design, you only get to know whatever incredibly witty (or massively stupid) introduction a person can cram into a three-minute soundbite. and the idea is the antithesis of who i fucking am, particularly since the most i could conceiveably get out of my mouth in the alotted time is "samantha. thirty. blog. kittens." you know, because of all of the nervous shifting and stuttering and adjusting of my various layers of clothing. i'm lucky that more people don't think i'm functionally retarded when they first make my acquaintance.

this is the problem with my various online dating profiles. they all sound totally fucking stupid; boring and long-winded yet not really encapsulating what it is that makes me awesome. actually, they're mostly brief. except that i can't help but list 800 metal bands and rappers and folk singers or whatever the fuck i'm listening to at the time. instead of sitting down and thinking, "how best can i present myself to the sexually neglected human male population?" and coming up with something charming and fantastic, i just say "hey, i'm hilarious!" and make a list of all the cool shit in my ipod. what a fucking asshole. i'm always surprised that i manage to get the limited responses i do; i am always tempted to respond, "you really thought that was interesting?!" at the risk of jinxing something rad, i just met this funny dude who i kind of think is the fucking shit. a super nice dude who HUGGED ME FOR A REALLY LONG TIME WITH HIS EYES CLOSED. (ginger was standing behind us.) so he messaged me and i read his whole thing which was smart and well-written and made me want to take my goddamned pants off, then i read my own and was like, "bitch, you're stupid." this dude must like broads who love to eat cake and snuggle kittens, because i was skimming my shit to find the captivating parts and came up sorely empty. for cereal, my profile pictures include both me eating a giant birthday cake with my tits out and me wearing a brace and clutching three tiny kittens who were straining against my hand to breathe. fucking gross. good thing i like mf doom.

because that's one of the things he said drew him to me. whew! so i guess writing an exhaustive list of all my mixtape jams wasn't a total waste after all. i assume most dudes just scroll through hundreds of faces looking for the ones attached to the skinniest bodies and the giantest boobs. and that suits me fine. what other choice do i have? this whole "i met him at a bar" or "i met him at the grocery store" thing is a fucking farce. can we just admit that already? NO ONE meets outrageously excellent dudes on the fucking train. outrageously shit-scented winos? absolutely. hot, gainfully-employed gentlemen with more than one brain cell rolling around between their ears? GODDAMNED NEVER.

elisse and i went out last thursday to get drunk and watch the bears game, and the dude who seated us was fucking HANDSOME. and he was all inked up and complimenting me on my tattoos. which i am surprised he noticed considering that his eyes were halfway down elisse's fucking shirt. in case you've forgotten, I AM THE WINGMAN CHAMPION. seriously, if you want a dude i will break my ass to get that motherfucker for you. all you have to do is point. and i would never do any shady shit like saying, "hey man, my boring friend over there is too much of a pussy to come over and tell you herself that she wants to bear your future children" or slipping him my name and number when you think i'm giving him yours. i give a stellar endorsement and then cop them digits. and i have a 100% success rate, except in the case of rachel, who let me do all the goddamned leg work before deciding she was too chickenshit to holler. pfffft.

anyway, i went to the bathroom at halftime to shit out those ill-advised hot wings i should have stayed away from (what the fuck is my goddamned problem?!), and dude took my absence as an opportunity to go over to our table and drop the lamest pickup line i have EVER HEARD on my girl. "i'm surprised you girls are in here tonight. i didn't know ladies like football. isn't this a man's game?" first of all, BLARF you misogynist dickbag. and second, were you born yesterday? where better to meet a virile slab of brisket than a sports bar on game night? you know that nothing makes my ears cry with sad more than the sound of a dude talking, but there's ZERO chance of that when the game's on, so we can sit and ogle undisturbed. then when the clock runs out and they're all fired up and passionately sweaty, filled with the thrill of victory (or deflated from the agony of defeat and easily preyed upon), it's our turn to dive in and get us some. DUH. unfortunately for me the only dudes in my line of vision was a table full of eighteen-year-olds and a dude with down's syndrome who was wearing a fanny pack and a pair of foam headphones attached to a yellow cassette walkman.

elisse, unfazed by lameness apparently, started gushing about him as soon as my tender asshole and i slid back into the booth. "did you get his number?" i asked, and she replied, "i'm too shy." FUCK, DUDE. why do you bitches always make everything so fucking hard?! a reasonably attractive waiter can't pause too long when taking my drink order before i'm getting my phone out like, "want to get drinks sometime this week...? what time is your shift over tonight?" strike while the goddamned iron is HOT, jerks. i was on the toilet for at least fifteen minutes; those assholes should've been married and on their second kid by the time i got back. but no, little miss coy just batted her darling eyelashes and fiddled with her drink straw looking cute instead of circling her prey and going in for the kill. well good thing she brought little miss desperate and aggressive with her. i had a couple more shots of liquid courage, and when we were leaving i was like, "hey hostess server person, my friend wants to bang you." and, lo and behold, HE wanted to bang HER, too! just like in a fairy tale! no good deed goes unpunished, because as soon as i put another notch in my wingman belt i had to stand there like a jagoff pretending to pay attention to the postgame interviews while they giggled and cooed and exchanged cell phone numbers. after a while of looking like an idiot and sweating inside my fucking coat i finally conceded defeat and sat down in one of the vacant chairs at corky's empty table. "hey, what are you listening to, the alvin and the chipmunks soundtrack? do you come here often? can i buy you a milk?"

well we can call this bedtime story "snow black and the seven illegitimate children," because it turns out that that piece of shit has multiple children in multiple states, and that's not the kind of dude you can let put his penis in you, children. he is a big bad wolf in sheep's clothing. one who thinks inviting you back to the place he works to sit at the bar and drink watered-down daquiris constitutes a "date."

and while i was bummed for her (not really, i HATE when my single ladies get manfriends! who am i going to dress up in wigs and leotards and dance in empty studios with?!??!??!!!), it made me feel a little bit better about trying to find someone to eat the leftovers i'm too snooty to touch on the internet. because THESE are the dudes you meet in real life. dudes whose meager income is rendered further obsolete by the number of garnishments placed on it. and not that you can't meet a dude with seven offspring online, but there's usually a have kids/want kids box you can check. and maybe this is profiling, but whenever a black dude checks the "have kids" box i rarely respond. unless he's abandoned them or whatever. i don't fucking like competition. i'm just playing. it's damned near impossible to find black people of either gender to fuck on who haven't shit out or shot out a goddamned baby; i have accepted that it often just comes with the territory. sometimes that shit even works in my favor, when a dude is like "i've had all the kids i'm ever going to have" and i wave my bloody tampon at him and yell, "me, too!"

frankly, i'm more worried about things like "does he read books?" and "can he tie his shoes without help?" a few years ago i went out with a dude who had an "L" and an "R" written in marker on the inside soles of his shoes. I AM NOT KIDDING. and you know where i met that mongoloid? IN PUBLIC. i only saw that shit because i met him at his apartment before dinner and his velcro shoes were lined up in the hallway near the door. i don't even know what possessed me to look in his shoes, but when i did i was like, "why is this my life?" and almost started crying. it took everything in my power to continue the date. i mean, he was gentle and sweet and i was going through a bad time. ultimately i was happy that i'd done so and hadn't let my prejudice blind me to a possible romance. that is until the dim-witted girl at the register left the toy out of his happy meal and he lost his mind in the middle of mcdonalds. i mean, who throws their apple slices on the floor and has a temper tantrum?! seriously!

so this girl i know did speed dating and loved that shit, and i let her talk me into doing it, too. because WHAT THE FUCK ELSE AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? watching television, heating up frozen burritos from trader joes, and cursing out my fantasy football roster, that's what. i signed up for the shit for two reasons: 1 you bitches need something to read about and 2 there are so many super-specific types of speed dating: fat chicks, old chicks, ugly chicks; bald dudes, smelly dudes, toothless dudes. whatever your pleasure. when corey was telling me about it i cut her off and was like, "NOT DOING THAT." she's an adorable blonde munchkin who is obsessed with grey's anatomy, and i was thinking to myself that there is no dude on earth who would be interested in both fucking her and my big, salty, tenacious d listening ass. then she broke it down to me that she had done jewish speed dating and that there are all of these sub-categories from which you can choose. l'chaim!

as soon as i registered i was filled with dread. how am i supposed to distill all of this awesome down to three minutes? one and a half minutes if i give him the chance to say his piece?! holy balls. what the fuck am i supposed to say? but then again maybe the point of this whole thing isn't what you say, it's just to figure out whether or not you want to fuck someone. because the internet tells lies, but sitting across from a bitch for three minutes is all truth. at least as far as your penis and eyeballs are concerned. did you know that bitches are still putting headshots from nine years ago on their dating profiles?! that's so foul! unless you have a time machine and i can go back and have sex with you five chins ago, why would you do that?! assholes. all my pictures are what i really fucking look like. and maybe that's why i've been as yet unsuccessful, but at least i'm not a fucking liar.

i called cara's mean ass because i know she is the only bitch salty enough to endure the trauma of this with her sense of humor intact and made her sign up for this silly business, too. also, she is one of my few single friends who has a working checking account (this bullshit ain't cheap!) and would be willing to subject herself to something this dumb without the promise of a relatively decent payoff. unless you consider my cracking jokes a sufficient payoff. (you shouldn't.) we immediately started hatching a plan. the way this works is totally different than i'd expected: you get your three minutes to make an impression, move along to fourteen other numbered participants, then mingle and get drunk afterward. no numbers are exchanged. then when you get home you go online and choose the people who made your junk tingly, then they're sent an email saying that you're interested. or they don't receive an email and they hang themselves from the shower rod. whatevs.

i never give a fuck about what i goddamned wear, but i pulled out my strappy riding boots and dropped a black dress of at the cleaners on my way to work this morning, so obviously i mean business. blog business, as i'm only embarking on this to get a few laughs. or because i'm a masochist who enjoys crushing disappointment. i think it'll be interesting to gauge the various reactions i'm going to get. my crazy hair and nerdy glasses and aggressive body art are a lot to throw at an unsuspecting dude all at once. but at least i'm trying! i told cara i was going to wear my pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved t-shirt and she just about had a heart attack then made me promise to put in at least a little bit of effort. SO I AM.

now i have to just work on my introductory paragraph. i should probably sit in my room with a stopwatch and rehearse, but i am the WORST at remembering important shit at crucial moments. guaranteed i'll write something amazing, take the time to memorize it, and when dude sits down i'll freeze up and say, "me like you mucho. should we fuck now?"

it's also gross when dudes try to come up with something witty and unexpected but it comes off as cheesy and totally staged. for instance, corey told me that one dude asked, "what's your favorite kind of cereal?" as his opening line. BLA-ARF. shit like that dumbfounds me. if you really want to appear all fresh and cool you should do what i do and ask, "what's the biggest shit you've ever taken?" THAT line is a goddamned winner. it catches them off guard every single time. it's embarrassing to listen to manufactured, bullet point biographies. i feel like i should conference in my friends and he should have a power point accompaniment.

the most awkward part of this whole thing is not only do you have the uncertainty that goes along with knowing that someone you're into is into a handful of other someone elses, but if you go to one of these things with a friend it's quite possible that one of the other ladies he's into (figuratively, LITERALLY) is your homegirl. i was talking to my friend, who'd gone speed dating with a couple of her friends, and she was telling me how she and her girl had dates with the same dude on different nights. and they were planning to compare notes after the dates! i'm sorry, lovers, but i'm not sure that i'm that progressive. if i like a dude and he likes me but he also likes cara, GUARANTEED when i go out with him i'm going to be all, "i don't know if you could tell by looking at her, but cara was just diagnosed with AIDS." i fight dirty, goddamn it. and, like i said before, i hate competition. because i don't like having to work that hard! whenever a dude is like "let's keep it open," i always agree, because i like options, but then i'm always secretly like, "aw, man! i'm too lazy to try to be better than his other potential girlfriends!"

and boy, AM I. i prefer to lie and cheat and steal to get what i want. earning things honestly is honestly overrated. i don't like breaking a sweat just to keep some irritating dude entertained. BLARF. that's why i like when i can introduce this blog into the relationship. "i know you've already seen my butthole, but have i told you that i write comedy?" then i can impress both him and all you jerks in one fell swoop. i didn't even wait with this new crush. i'm fucking tired, man, so i dropped my defenses and directed him here. and he read that piece about my period clot that i mistook for the son of man. he liked it, and he wasn't offended. which means that maybe sooner rather than later i can get him in a dog collar and a pair of leather underwear and make him call me "mommy." (or maybe not. he's reading this.)

anyway, i'll keep you posted on how things go, and whether or not i get the runs in the middle of some boring dude's prepared speech. and if all else fails i got corky's number. although it's a firefly his grandma gave him and he said he can only use it in an emergency. maybe his mom will let us have a play date? i'll bring the pudding snacks and apple juice. yowza.