Friday, January 29, 2010

bitches get old.

in two weeks i will be thirty. and i am totally goddamned excited. would you like to know why? okay then, i will tell you.

i am excited because i am thirty years old and i don't have a man in my life, i haven't had any children, i haven't finished college, i don't have any major accomplishments of note, i don't own any property, i have a "job" and not a "career," i am incapable of going grocery shopping (in my refrigerator: campari, club soda, orange juice, and high life that i can't drink), i haven't paid my electric bill in the last three months (whoops), i have a broken foot that won't heal, i'm not that smart, i have squamous metaplasia (also known as CANCER) in my ileum, i can't see shit, the radiator in my bathroom is broken but i haven't called my landlord because i need to take the garbage out first (and pick up all of the dirty panties piled next to the toilet), i still don't know how to work my fucking phone.

i can't make pancakes, i busted my laptop and can't afford a new one right now, my novel is finished but unedited and unpublished because i busted my laptop and can't afford a new one right now, i don't have cable, the pants i'm wearing right this second have a hole in le snatch, my stomach hurts ALL OF THE FUCKING TIME and these drugs are making me too sick to properly function, i have to be a vegetarian now but i keep sneaking chicken, i can't hear either, sometimes i'm just not that nice, i laugh at a lot of stupid shit, i have to wear a diaper sometimes at night when my crohn's is acting like a bitch, i haven't voted since 2001, my hair is totally crazy, i am into way too much age-inappropriate music, it is impossible for me to listen to my voicemails, i snore, i can't do sudoku, my nails are too long for my liking right now, i have an attitude, my neck hurts, i have weird patches of hair in unexpected places, i have a horrible sweet tooth.

i should fucking work out, i can't work out because my achilles and broken foot are RUINED, i am irritated 99.8% of the time, i hate everything, i loathe everyone, i sleep in a full sized bed, i don't know how to fucking alphabetize hyphenated last names, i am CONSTANTLY seething with jealous rage, i talk a lot of shit, i fight to the death, the smell of christmas trees makes me sick, i can't stay awake in a movie theater, i am a cat person (sad), i'm ridiculously tormented and moody, i can't have multiple orgasms, i would eat toaster struedel every day if i could, dudes don't promptly return my phone calls, i can't stand alicia keys, i have vomited on the train three times in the last eight months, and i fell asleep in a bar two weeks ago.


i need a therapist and i need a nutritionist. i need someone to style my outfits, i need a tall person to come over and change my lightbulbs, i need a cook and i need a maid. i need to go to the dentist and the gynecologist, i need to pay the podiatrist, i need to look into retaining an acupuncturist, i need to save up to go to a hypnotist. i need a financial advisor, i need a tax attorney, i need a car so i can go to more shit, i need a person to dig said car out of the snow in the winter and find me a parking space every night within ten blocks of my goddamned apartment because i have to live in rogers park where the rent is cheap and i can still get away with waking up forty minutes before i need to have my ass at work.

i need more people to describe me as "the funniest asshole they know." i need some fucking PARENTS. and maybe even some godparents. i need a brand new macpro with endless gigs of ram. i need a lint roller that actually works, OR i need a hairless fucking cat. i need helen to stop sneezing on my clothes in unsuspecting places only for me to discover a dried glob of snot halfway through the day. i need some more friends. i need a fucking loan. i need braces, i need a massage, i need a pedicure. i need $465 to give to mel so he will stop calling me every single day.

i need some hot dudes around who want to get half-naked with me (i like to remain semi-clothed during sex), i need some ugly dudes around to make me feel good about myself, i need some smart dudes around to help me cheat the government and take over the planet, i need some muscle-y dudes around to carry my shit for me, i need some angry dudes around to beat bitches up when they fuck with me, i need some literate dudes around to do my homework, i need some girly dudes around to keep my eyebrow game on point, i need some salty dudes around to talk shit and giggle with me, and i need some sweet dudes around to keep me from killing all of the other types of dudes.

i need to find a pharmacist who will exchange medication for blow jobs. i need to have the ability to kill someone with a look. i need to get a bike. i need a comcast hookup. i need some manners. i need patience. i need a more effective approach to homework. i need a bottle of maalox. i need a couple cocktails. i need an eye exam. i need a new gastrointestinal tract. i need to meet quentin tarantino. i need for someone to fall desperately in love with me. i also might need a sedative.


i want a piano, because i have played since i was four and it just doesn't feel the same on the keyboard i keep tucked away in the closet. i want to go swimming. i want to eat pizza without puking. i want a pet lion. i want a magic wand. i want to be able to murder in cold blood and not go to jail.

i want a flat screen television. i want a couch on which to sit and gaze at that flat screen television. i want to learn how to dance for real. i want to do a one-woman show. i want to speak italian. i want some comfortable shoes. i want 500 bitches to read my blog every day. i want to learn how to sew so i can try out for project runway. i want a harem of asian-looking black dudes, or black-looking asian dudes. i want medical marijuana for this raggedy belly (but only if it won't give me the munchies, because i can't eat shit anymore). i want to ride a camel to the club, and valet that shit. i want ten tubes of mac's spring bean lustreglass. i want cuter stores in my neighborhood. i want the new peaches record. i want to see muse in concert.

i want to get over all my old manfriends alfuckingready. that said, i want dudes to DROP DEAD the second they hurt my tender little feelings. i want more time to read. i want people to stop leaving me facebook presents. i want some mixtapes from dudes who have hot crushes on me. i want the keys to the kingdom. i want a winning lottery ticket. i want some fannie may eggnog creams. i want a dilauded drip next to my bed. i want a leopard print snuggie. i want jeff buckley to rise from the dead. i want to get more of my drinks paid for. i want to live with nina in san diego and eat hot carrots and rolled tacos every day. i want fresh flowers delivered to me every day. i want to sleep 18 hours a day, and dance to la roux for the other 6. i want a winning lottery ticket.

let the countdown begin. february 13. it's on.

Thursday, January 28, 2010


so i obviously have to get my fucking shit together. corey's goddamned ass came into work this morning and peered at me over the top of my desk for a second before asking, "do you have plans tonight? are you going on a date? you look nice today." BITCH.

i just look regular today. jeans that happen to be clean, a grey shirt that tara's baby once vomited birthday cake on, and a soft grey wrap sweater thing that looks like it came from your grandmother's attic. but nicer. it's very tailored and grown up, which means it makes me look 137 fucking years old. and, you know, nice. i have some shit in my hair, and i might have a little makeup on, but that's because my hormonal old lady skin is fucking up on me lately. wearing the same bracelets i always wear, that the past few days i have been too lazy to take off both AT NIGHT and IN THE SHOWER. i just walk around my house like a fucking gypsy, draped in hoodies and scarves and silver bangles and scented oils.

actually, that's how i look 99.9% of the fucking time. think about the last time you saw me. i bet i can tell you what i was wearing, and it doesn't matter if it was last week, last month, or last year. wanna play? good! okay: a raggedy ass (probably) black tshirt, some sort of hoodie or baggy sweater-ish business, dirty ass jeans, 250 noisy bracelets, 8 scarves, and new balances. or these manly north face boots, which i am kind of in love with. for reals. i'm talking, i might wear these bitches in the summer LOVE. generally, i look like a fancy vagrant. or maybe just an average run-of-the-mill vagrant, since this normal middle aged white lady sweater and shirt has prompted such a stunned response from my peers.

gasp! maybe i really don't know just how shitty i'm dressed all the time. why hasn't anyone told me?! just like with my lesbian shoes, you bitches look at me all day every day and don't say SHIT. ugh! why is that? because you want to keep all the dudes to yourselves?! i know. leaving me to find that rare sub-species of human male who gets boners for chicks who look like they got dressed out of a rusty shopping cart. you don't even have to tell me. YOU get the all hot meat, while i have to wait around for the creep who would love nothing better than to run his fingers through matted pubes. eff y'all! (also, please keep in mind that i am WAXED now, so you sluts won't be able to hold me back for long! my bald eagle and i are clawing our way back from EXTINCTION.)

some other bitch might mow the lawn in what i have on today, yet three bitches i work with EVERY DAY have all INDEPENDENTLY ASKED ME what fancy thing i'm going to this evening. three people who know my punk ass better than anybody else are so used to my being dressed like cinderella before the magic apple (or however the fuck that damn story goes) that the appearance of some decent-ish shit they have all SEEN BEFORE prompts speculation about a freshly burgeoning social life. corey even thought i was being coy and subversive when i told her the truth! like I would ever pretend that i didn't have hot dinner plans. pshaw. my manscape is so fucking barren that i'd put that shit on a fucking billboard.


who am i kidding? i'd fucking sky-write that shit.

if you don't want me to describe in vivid detail precisely what you wore, what you ate, and what you said, you should probably never fucking take me out. i mean, you totally should, but just know that i'm going to be texting every vagina in a five-mile radius the second i get in the cab to go home. and i love it. i don't want to be around bitches who act all shy and weird and don't want to talk about who they fucked or where they went. for serious. i cut every snatch the fuck out of my life who plays the "i don't kiss and tell" game. man, FUCK YOU. honestly! stop reading this blog right goddamned now if you have a uterus and you are like this. i don't want you here. BEAT IT. i'm not saying you have to go on oprah and shit, but if i ask how your dinner with that hot walgreens cashier went, i want to know EVERYTHING. i want to know every fucking thing he got off the olive garden menu, including how many free salad and breadstick refills he asked for. i want to know how many times his CRX stalled out on the drive home. i want to know how dusty his timberlands were. when he kissed you, what did it taste like? were his teeth weird? did he stick his tongue so far down your throat he got stomach acid on it?

ooh, here's something gross! five years or so ago i was in the hospital for TWO WEEKS dealing with these raggedy intestines, and i had a tube fed up through my nostril, down the back of my throat (i was WIDE AWAKE when the nurse did that shit!), and into my stomach. the tube was connect to this machine that sucked the contents of my stomach out. let me say that again, for the dummies in the back of the classroom. THE CONTENTS of my STOMACH were SUCKED OUT through my NOSE. and there was this clear container at the other end of the tube that collected the thick, sloshy, bright-orange vomity sludge. total fucking balls.

bitchass visited me in the hospital and couldn't stop laughing, as they'd taped the tube to my fucking face with this thick white mummy wrap. i couldn't close my goddamned mouth because i couldn't breathe through my goddamned nose, and have you ever breathed with your mouth open for more than five seconds? oh, you haven't? because you're the fucking pictures of health?! well, good for you bitches. let me tell you what happens. your fucking TONGUE dries the FUCK OUT, that's what. it's like a fat dry horrible lizard tongue, and it gets so gross that you don't even want it to touch the roof of your mouth. GROSS. when sarah came in i was propped up in the bed crying after having been awake all night because it's hard to goddamn sleep with a TUBE down your THROAT.

and i know what you're saying, asshole. "if it had been a dick you wouldn't have cared." and fuck you for saying that. because when is the last time you read me talking about using a penis as a pacifier? NEVER. that's some cruel ass shit to think, and i hate you for it. anyway. so she comes in and outright laughs at me (you get what you give, i suppose) and looks on gleefully as i vainly attempted to let some ice cubes melt in my mouth. i did that shit for TWO WHOLE DAYS before the doctors decided they weren't going to cut my guts open and i could have the tube taken out. righteous, right?! WELL. have you ever pulled a strand of spaghetti or linguine out of your throat because it was too long and you felt like you were choking? i haven't, because my supreme mastery of the gag reflex renders that kind of thing unneccesary. i just swallow it. (see? this time i made the dick joke for you. you're welcome.)

so it felt kind of like that, but 1000% worse. i was sitting in the chair and the nurse was standing in front of me, pulling 12 feet of plastic tubing from my belly out through my goddamned nose. it hurt, it tickled, it burned, but mostly it was just weird, and i kept hiccuping and gagging as she yanked it out. as we neared the end (really, it just took soooo looooong) she lost her grip and spilled hot, concentrated STOMACH ACID all over my gown, face, and the INSIDE OF MY MOUTH. for cereal! she was like the r. kelly of the gastrointestinal ICU, spraying burning hot nasty shit on her unsuspecting victim. i was totally traumatized. now back to that other shit.

i just went to pee and looked at my reflection in the stupid mirror, and i look like i should be teaching the third graders how to tell time. or like i should be having bob and carol from down the block over for lunch. man, fuck this. i was obviously going through a j.jill phase or something and thought mom clothes were hot for a second. ugghh. the problem is that mom clothes appeal to me at my most basic level, that part of me that just wants to wear things that are soft and comfortable and totally unflattering. stringent waistbands and belt loops and stiff fabrics fucking bum me out, man! i want to wear shit that is soft enough to sleep in ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME. i have a rule against men in soft pants (ask me about it), but i live for them. and i like things layered. i mean it. layers and layers of plush, mushy, cozy, creamy, velvety fabrics. i want to wear clothes that require you to whisper while wearing them.

unfortunately, even if you weigh 14 pounds it's hard to pull off gentle clothes without looking like mama fucking cass, so i have to wear sturdy shit when i'm out with the public. i like a sharply appointed ladysuit as much as anyone, i'm just lazy and rife with sloth and perpetually somnolent. plus, i never get to go anyfuckingwhere. so why are we not hanging out? bitch, i need a reason to buy some real clothes!

okay okay okay, so isn't the point of whorefriends to dissect every single scrap of shit a dude gives you? i mean, for reals! i can't even think of the last time i went out with some fuckhole and half the bitches in my phone didn't either 1 text me constantly during or 2 get a "he sucks giant dog balls" text immediately following. when i went out with boat shoes i talked to lori's ass during that awful shit! so what's with you liars who clam up?! stop that! TELL IT. part of what i like most about my blog (shamlessly egotistical fucking bitch) is that i write about the most real, the most retarded, the most mundane fucking shit on the planet, because you dudes can RELATE to it. because, ultimately, THAT is the point.

i remember being in high school and feeling like the fattestugliestdumbestleastpopular bitch on earth, and because children (especially the girl kind) are so spiteful and hateful and full of shit, very few of them shared that they were going through the same exact thing. my life was too fucked up to even try to pretend to put on some sort of ridiculous happy facade, so i just moped around and cracked jokes and waited for graduation or death, whichever came first. lucky for you assholes i didn't die. seriously, though, all those kids pretending shit was cool when shit was not is a total fucking bummer.

and it sucks just as much now, when i'm all "and THEN this motherfucker fell asleep while he was eating me out and I had to pay for breakfast and he didn't call me for three goddamned days" and the bitch who's listening to me is like, "oh really? i never have problems with men." WHAT?! yeah fucking right! why do girls DO that shit to each other?! you know good and damned well your boyfriend's dick is three inches long and he spent your rent money on manga and only eats white foods or whatever. quit playing! we should TALK about it. we have to!

because i can't be sitting alone in my apartment talking to the cat every night (and even she sometimes is like, "bitch, i heard that story before!" rolling her eyes and shit; she thinks i don't see her ass but i fucking DO) mistakenly thinking that you dudes are all being taken out on fabulous dates and getting your brains fucked out when you're really home in bed eating cereal out of the box, scared to admit that your ass is a silly loser, too. why, lover? CALL ME. we'll talk about it!

and nothing will make you feel better about yourself and your stupid love life than listening to me talk about the time a dude had an asthma attack while inside of me. or i can regale you with the vagina-warming tale of my lovely date with a nice young gentleman who VOMITED IN MY FUCKING PURSE. there's the dude who cursed out a waitress (horrible), the one who left our dinner WITH ANOTHER FUCKING WOMAN (despicable), and the one who showed up at my apartment DRIVING HIS MOM'S MINIVAN. i'm a bitch, but not the worst one. i didn't care about that minivan shit! until he was like, "i have to do the grocery shopping and pick up her prescriptions. you know, 'cause i live with her." at thirtymotherfucking seven? bitch, please!

i've already said a billion times that i'm the most arrogant piece of shit on the bottom of god's shoe, and one thing i have no hesitation in climbing up on my high horse about is old ass dudes living with mommy. because fuck them, that's why. i have had my own place that i pay for since i was eighteen, and if i can do it, asshole, SO CAN YOU. step your fucking housing game up. GROSS. if you have a cell phone and an xbox and spinning rims (are dudes still into those?) and an ipod and an xsport membership and swanky threads and internet access and shiny jewels and you sip belvedere and you have to TIPTOE IN THE HOUSE AT FOUR A.M. SO YOU DON'T WAKE YOUR MOTHER UP please just kill yourself today. or, at the very least, stop fucking talking to me. shut up and sign a goddamned lease already.

i told you hoes i will always be honest, and for the entirety of the two years i spent hanging off zachary's balls he lived AT HOME with his MAMA. oh, i know. what a hypocrite, right? well, fuck you. because he was in MEDICAL SCHOOL at the time. most dudes who live at home are busy studying pornography 101 and intro to eatingeverythinginthegoddamnedhouse. jerks.

anyway, we don't just have to commiserate, lovers! i love hearing every filthy nasty awesome thing you girls are getting done to you. seriously. it makes me so happy. because if YOU are letting a dude punch you in the jaw and wearing an alf mask while he fucks you in le butthole, that makes MY kinky shit seem that much more normal. i like to know that somebody else is being humiliated and degraded, too. helps my self-esteem a little. ha. PLUS, you know i won't be shy when i have some hot shit to tell you. i'm an idiot, and the first asshole to tell you how big how long how old how dumb how smelly how ignorant how perverted how lame some damned dude is. just you wait until i get some shit on my front burner! make sure your cell phone bill is paid, because we GOTTA TALK.

i also might buy some new clothes. no, i probably won't. but maybe i'll start wearing the ones without rips and holes and puke more frequently.

at least until i turn back into a pumpkin.

i love you for reading this. you know that, right?

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

crack is wack.

i fucking hate the homeless. that's right, i said it.
i hate the fucking homeless.
at first i was going to write "i hate black people," but then i thought about all of the ridiculous, ebonics-riddled hate mail i'd receive and then decided against it. although it would be amusing to see all of the different ways you assholes spell "finna."

why the fuck do i always have to choose the most dangerous option? seriously. in any given circumstance i continually set my default to "scary as shit" or "you might get fucked up." it's so stupid.yesterday was the first day of the spring term. oh, joy! i don't know what the fuck i was thinking about when i decided to take a class from 7:15 to 10:15. at night. IN THE HOOD. now, you southsiders and REAL gangsters may beg to differ, but there are a few areas up north that qualify as "hood." at least in my estimation. but what the fuck do i know?! i grew up in evanston.

truman, that shining beacon of upward mobility and higher education, is in uptown on wilson just west of broadway. on the most crackish stretch of earth i have seen. and i've been to BALTIMORE. the pavement outside of school is literally littered with all varieties of human waste: vagabonds, tramps, hobos, drunks, crackheads, and urchins all clawing at your clothes and dripping leprosy on your shoes, moaning their despair at you as you try to fight the stench and see through the stink lines to get to class on time. they're sleeping outside of the popeye's chicken on the corner that is shut down for health code violations every five goddamned minutes; they're oozing and bleeding outside the starbucks and in the parking lot next to subway; they're scraping cigarette butts out of the gutter in front of the 7-eleven.

i knew truman was going to be some bullshit the minute i saw a "men's hotel" next to a bar that opens at ten a.m. across the street from school, but the shit is six stops south of my house or whatever and it's cheap as hell so i ignored my wariness (read: the voice of terror screaming inside my brain) and signed up anyway. shit, i'm tough. but really, nothing says "get the fuck away from here" more than a men's hotel. nothing good could ever come from one of those. case in point: sargis and i were leaving our religion class last semester, at night, and walked right into a raging crackhead street fight. and not just any old street fight, a street fight in which these dudes were using BUCKETS as WEAPONS. totally treacherous.

i saw a dead body on the train platform one night. also, there was the incident during which this tranny prostitute beat the shit out of a dude in the middle of the sidewalk WITH A CHAIN. you might also remember the time that dude tried to STEAL MY FUCKING SHOES WHILE I WAS WEARING THEM, but thankfully i had a switchblade on me at the time and he didn't steal a goddamned thing. man, fuck him. i walked through a drug deal at 7:30 one SUNDAY MORNING while on my way to math, and the dudes didn't even flinch. not to mention the myriad number of times i have been grabbed, followed, touched, harangued, yelled at, spoken to, pissed near, and nearly vomited on. one night i watched a man remove his pants, squat, and begin to shit in the alley behind the borders on lawrence while i was walking from school to see the cool kids at the riv. just like a bird or a dog or something. he didn't even care. all nonchalant and shit, bracing himself against a building and pushing out squishy turds while making poop grunts. fucking gross. i was horrified, but i watched for a second. i mean, i had to, right?

as an aside, i was making a little dookie on the phone the other night (remember, you should never call me EVER) and i inadvertantly made that straining to get it all out noise, you know the noise!, and it was HILARIOUS. especially because i refused to acknowledge it, i just continued talking about all my crushes or whatever. all of my UNREQUITED CRUSHES, i should add. (i will write soon about how that sucks the stankiest, hairiest balls in the history of ever. fucking gross. i should just kill myself already. what the FUCK am i doing out here? liking dudes who want me to tap dance and crack jokes while they put their dicks in someone more awesome?! DUDE. it's terrible. hide the shotguns.) and then my homegirl was all silent and i think she was trying to catch me but then it just got too weird and i hung up and finished. disgusting! next time you call me instead of "hello" you should say, "bitch are you shitting?!" come on. it'll be hilarious. okay, back to the crack.

i don't really worry, you know, because i stay G'd up. (hahahahahaha if you know what my voice sounds like please imagine me saying that to you. hysterical!) but for real, i have all sorts of knives and pepper spray and ways to fight off potential attackers. and i'm not afraid of death. i AM, however, afraid of having to live the rest of my life all fucked-up and victimized, reliving the nightmare over and over again. man, fuck that. if i can be assured of a quick gunshot to the brain i'd leave my door unlocked and post a sign out front, or maybe i'd place an ad in "robbers weekly." you automatically get into heaven if some assbag murders you, right? PERFECT. but i refuse to be a rape survivor or robbery victim or whatever. that shit is for dumbasses. i've seen enough lifetime movies to know that spending the rest of my life unable to get naked with a hot dude or sleep alone in my apartment is not the life for sam. bitch, please.

and that is why i cut up that dude who came through my window in the middle of the night a couple years ago. the dude who cornered me and demanded i take my shoes off (yeah fucking right) wasn't even properly armed! pshaw. i have a knife tucked into every single on of my coats, and hidden in various places around my apartment. i also have a hammer and a bat. a long time ago this dude i was dating raised his hand as if to strike me (again, YEAH FUCKING RIGHT) and i had a blade pointed into his scrotum before he could even finish calling me a "bitch." if you are ever in my house and you attempt to harm me, i will make you a member of the castrati without a moment's hesitation. asshole.

i also don't worry too much about being killed because i come from some of the worst people to ever walk the earth, and they will avenge my death in the meanest, nastiest possible way. i'm talking using your blood and guts to paint murals and shit. watch yourselves. my sister carol comes from the pit of hell, and she will hunt you down and kill you in my name. and you'll never even see her coming, since she's dark-skinned and only does her dirt at night.

so i get out of bed at 5:30 in the afternoon (that fucking RULES) and took a shower and left for class. i learned a few semesters ago that a three-hour class requires a lot of provisions, so after i got off the train in crackville i first walked to starbucks and then 7-eleven. venti black iced tea? CHECK. falafel sandwich from alma's? CHECK. (have i written about this cancer in my gut yet and how i have to be a vegetarian now? i don't think so. shit! next post. yet ANOTHER reason to stick a gun in my mouth. fml.) now i am well aware that i have the luck of a titanic captain, so i knew full well that the convenience store was sure to be anything BUT convenient.

i walked in and spotted dude IMMEDIATELY, standing by the beer cooler. now i like beer almost more than i like human contact, and i'll never shit on anybody for drinking. life is fucking hard, lovers. your parents die, dudes treat you like shit, and then you get cancer. and THEN you take lots of drugs that makes you sick all of the goddamned time and throw up every day and eat anti-inflammatory cancer food that makes you want to jump off a fucking building. for serious. i would rather eat notebook paper. every time i take a pill or eat a carrot for a split second i think, "i wish i were dead." and THEN i think about how if i don't eat the carrot or take the pill that i'll have to have chemo and I AM NOT DOING THAT. my plan is to die young and leave a hot corpse, so you dudes better cross your fingers that these pills (which make me feel like i am dyyyyying a little bit) WORK. and that is why it's better to be drunk sometimes. it is surprising that i don't have a more serious chemical dependency issue, but give me some time. it's early yet.

black bums always make a beeline for my sweet honeypot. i don't know what it is? maybe they can tell that beneath this tough exterior i'm a bleeding heart liberal? which i am 100%, EXCEPT in the case of homeless men. i wrote a blog called "the negrometer" forever ago that is worth digging through the archives to read (seriously, GO DO IT), and that is where my war on the homeless began. i wouldn't have a problem if they would just shut the fuck up. if they weren't rude or intrusive or mouthing off all the time.

wait a minute. fuck that. YES I WOULD. nothing on earth makes me want to vomit more than a grown man begging for my change. black, white, whatever (although you never see homeless asians or hispanics, just "lazy-ass white folks and lazy-ass niggas" as paul mooney so eloquently put it), they earn my ire equally. i would do anything i could to help a woman or child, and i mean that. but help some raggedy dude? NEVER. why? because this is a man's fucking universe, and if you and your penis can't get your acts together then to hell with you.

and this isn't the byproduct of my typical all-encompassing hatred towards all y-chromosomes. this is a case-specific malevolence targeted directly at dudes who take the easy way out and shirk their responsibilities. fuck you dudes. in this world that men still run, where men make more and are in charge of every fucking thing and are heralded and deferred to and still pay less for their dry cleaning, why the fuck are you out on the street? and yes, YOU FUCKING TOO, african-americans! because it's STILL easier for you than it is for a black woman. so shut the fuck up already and get your shit together.

i refuse to do anything requiring physical exertion for a man. if there is a bag that needs carrying and there is a man there to do it, i will simply walk away from it. YOU pick that shit up. isn't that what your dick is for? to hang extra shit on and free up your hands?! i don't open a door or hold shit or lift a goddamned thing. EVER. even with my homos. my gay husband chad is 22 and weighs 37 pounds, yet he already knows that HE is carrying the bags and opening the doors and hailing the cabs when we go out. and that's the way we like it. because, fruity little queen or not, he's still got nards. we walked six blocks to a party once; sam carried a purse full of girl shit and chad carried a case of high life.

that's the way we like it!

with one notable exception: if i like you, i mean like you like you, i will break my fucking arm off trying to carry some shit for you. for cereal. i will dislocate my shit to help your ass out, pile your stuff in a basket on my fucking head and walk a mile to drop it off for you. i'm not playing. if you want to know whether or not i'm hot in the skirt for you, just drop a bunch of stuff near me. if i bend down to pick it up (and you are neither disabled nor 100 fucking years old), then you know i'll soon be doodling your name in the margins of my schoolbooks surrounded by loopy hearts and squiggles.

and motherfucking white homeless dudes kill my ass the MOST. this is YOUR SHIT, homie! we live in goddamned A M E R I C A! are you serious right now?! this is a nation run, for the most part, by rednecks, hillbillies, and trash, and you mean to tell me that you can't hold down a fucking mop job?! get the fuck out of here, dude! when white dudes ask me for money i always think, "i bet your grandfather started general electric or some shit. why the fuck are you such a loser? i would DIE before i help you." and i fucking love white people! like i said before, I'M FROM EVANSTON. it can't be helped. my boss is white, my lawyer is white, and my accountant is white. but my DOCTORS are INDIAN, because FUCK THAT. they're fucking smart. :)

so the homeless dude in the 7-eleven. he looked like red foxx circa the final season of sanford and son: sweaty, matted-ass beard, overall disgusting. AND WAY LESS FUNNY. he made eye contact (no-no numero uno) and motioned to me, which i ignored. i'm the fucking master of looking through a dude; i don't even blink! we ended up at the register next to one another, and i surreptitiously slipped my hand into my coat pocket and turned up my ipod (angie stone "lover's ghetto," in case you need to know; what a jam!) from "train polite" to "jet engine." i knew he was talking to me, but i just kept staring into my wallet.

the clerk took an interminably long time ringing up my THREE THINGS, and i stared a hole into him to avoid looking at ODB incarnate. finally dude finished up and gave me my change, and just as i was about to leave i felt a grubby paw on my arm. shooting hot bullets from my eye-guns, i turned to glare at what was sure to be an oily dirt spot being ground into my coat. "i don't have any cash," i said, trying not to sound too bitchy. "i can put that beer on my debit card, if you like?" (see? sometimes i'm sweet!)

"keep your money," he growled. "i just wanted you to know your fly is down."

what a stupid bitch. i might need a drink...

Thursday, January 21, 2010

you jerks.

"on a scale from one to chris brown, how pissed off is he?"

our show was this past saturday, and it was raging. i'd hoped to see your sweet ass there. obviously, i am an embecile. because a lot of you heartless bastards couldn't be bothered to fucking show up. this isn't my first dalliance with the cruel mistress that is crushing disappointment, i am a heterosexual woman who has spent the last 12 years dating african-american men after all, but i took this one a little bit personally. how much motherfucking tap dancing do i need to do to get bitches to come out and listen to me read? i understand that for some of my (incredibly wack) friends, even taking five minutes to sit down and peruse this blog is too much of a commitment (and to that i offer a healthy, "WHAT THE FUCK?"), but too hard to LISTEN?! man, fuck them. and you, too, if you don't like it. fucking fuck everybody.

in the asshole. with a dirty screwdriver! why is it so hard to get you dudes to support my art? i would get it if it cost you a shit ton of dough or if it was difficult to understand or if you even had to leave your goddamned apartment to do it, but you fucking don't. you just have to turn on your computer. for which you will be rewarded with copious amounts of belly laughter. i'm going to try to reverse my visible support karma by going to everygoddamnedthing i am ever invited to. if for no other reason than to throw it in your fucking faces later, when you inevitably "can't make it" to some of MY shit.

i was like a sad little kid, man, waiting desperately at the window with her hands clasped beneath her chin and tears in her eyes for the arrival of santa claus or the ice cream man or her biological father. standing at the door with the sad eyes collecting the cover (everybody hates the bitch who's asking for money, even when they're warned!), freezing my snatch off, peering hopefully through the glass that a face i'd recognize from someplace other than goddamned facebook would light the path. dang! not a fucking chance. people who love me at least a little tiny bit were kind enough to break my heart via text message beforehand, but most of you didn't say shit. not a fucking word. what's extra hilarious is that quite a number of people who couldn't be bothered to come to the LAST TWO things to which they'd been invited had the nerve to ask ME to come to some shit. isn't that a dirty bitch?!

and it's no problem, honey! just know that i am keeping a mental checklist, and the next time you're in the hospital after suffering a savage beating or your child is having YET ANOTHER motherfucking birthday party i'm expected to bring a gift to or you want me to come over to make tacos and prank call hot ass dudes i just might be, oh i don't know, BUSY. i guess this is the upshot of having dated only horrifically shitty scum-sucking assholes, but disappointment goes down much more smoothly in my old age. perhaps i'm used to it. maybe i've been stood up turned down and fucked sideways so many goddamned times that little shit like THREE PEOPLE I KNOW SHOWING UP TO MY EVENT looks like a poppy seed in a punch bowl in comparison.

that's right, bitches. laura, corey, and mark (the three biggest stars in my sky until someone who burns brighter comes along and the chances of that are slim-to-yeahfuckingright) were the ONLY samantha people at the show. which is crazy to me. because i know at least a million times more people than that. rude fucking awakening, eh? all of these associates and not a single one of them wants to associate with me. boo fucking hoo. it's cool, though. for real. because i will conveniently remember and be "unavailable" at a time you really want me to do some shit. now, don't get me wrong. my intestines are fucked up and i'm always dyyyyyying of one thing or another and i'm totally caring and empathetic, so if you were sick or hurt or out of town or without childcare or at a funeral or broke or otherwise indisposed i totally understand. and extend my heartfelt condolences. i mean it. i really do.

but if you skipped my shit to fuck some bitch you met on the train or to watch a golden girls marathon or to go see avatar or to clean your apartment or because you just didn't feel like taking the bus or whatever bullshit excuse your teeny little brain comes up with: FUCK YOU. i mean it. i really do.

and here's what i want you to remember when i'm too famous to even consider talking to you ever again: i hope you are murdered by a bear. or some other wild ass shit that will rip you open and start eating your insides before you're all the way dead so you can watch. for real. i want you to gasp for your last breaths while you watch a coyote dig through your hot carcass to eat your liver or some shit. that'll learn you.

i'm scratching you off my fucking christmas card list.

thankfully, akilah has quite the selection of lovely and talented friends that got off their gorgeous asses and gave up ten bucks to come hang with us. we had a good time, a REALLY GOOD TIME, and you should consider killing yourselves, those of you who missed out on all the funnnnnn. akilah and simbryt looked good and sang good and moni might be the only poet on earth other than terrence that i don't absolutely hate with every fiber of my being. she was amazing. and chris, paul, and rico were dope. who are they, you ask? the band, bitch! because YES, we even had a live band. and the food was ridiculous. like i said, if you fucked up and missed out and you have a knife handy, you might want to drag it across your wrist. just remember to do it vertically, because that's the way to really DIE. none of that weaksauce attention-seeking two little slashes across the wrist business, the shit that ends you up in the hospital for a day or two and (momentarily) keeps your boyfriend from leaving. do it for real, you pussies.

i felt like such a dirty filthy slut, though. i mean, during the show. not my usual dirty sluttiness. because reading five dirty whore things in front of a room full of veritable strangers kinda does that to you. i'm not one for disclaimers, but i sort of wanted to say, "uh...these stories are spread across years, remember." i don't want anyone to think i'm a disgusting tramp. i'm still single, you know, and trying to get laid on a regular basis, and talking about all of my ho shit in public might scare off the faint of heart. really dudes, only a handful of the earth's finest (pshaw) has hiked my mountain range. i'm just sayin'. i didn't want anyone to be afraid to shake my hand or eat off my spoon.

the tagged photos from the event kind of reminded me why i need to be on a treadmill more often than once a month, but other than that i was fucking fabulous. i really am hilarious and talented, and my ssssssexy lissssssp and i are big fun to listen to. i made a whole lot of new friends, and that is exciting for me. because, contrary to popular belief (though evidenced by the lackluster showing by my fanclub at saturday's soiree), i don't have that many fucking friends. really. my phone just doesn't ring that often. which, when compounded with the fact that i live with a little raggedy jerk cat, sometimes feels very lonely.

i used to have sprint's cheapest fucking plan, the one where you get 7 anytime minutes a month and 42 free text messages for $29 bucks or whatever, and i NEVER went over my fucking minutes. it was all i needed. serrrriously. i would have some left over! when all the kids started texting and shit i had to upgrade to unlimited texts, but even then it only added ten bucks and wasn't a big deal. it was mostly useful because those hoes would text me when my shit was about to get cut off (i am WAY TOO SCATTERBRAINED to deal with monthly bills; i need a guardian or whatever the fuck britney spears has so someone else can write the checks and make sure i keep my fingernails short enough that i don't scratch my face in my sleep). i upgraded a couple weeks ago to the unlimited all day all night email facebook phone sex extravaganza package because i got this swanky new phone that does shit my other one totally couldn't. and nowadays the first thing a bitch asks you upon making your acquaintance is, "does your phone get internet?" goddamn. and as much as i hate to admit it i CANNOT be the bitch that says, "no."

i was at the shrine monday night with akilah and my new favorite hot shit on legs, tonya, and i met 137 new motherfucking people. in addition to all the ones i met on saturday. and bitches can barely finish shaking your hand and patting you on your back fat before they're whipping out their iberries and adding you on facebook. and i would feel like such an asshole if i couldn't immediately add them. imagine all the disbelieving looks i'd get! so thank god i got this fucking thing. i already broke it (i can't get the back to stay on properly...are any of you dudes cell phone handy? i need some help), but thank the lord nonetheless.

moving on.

i'm about to get my period.
and maybe that's from where all this venom hath sprung forth, but let's roll with it. this may weird you out, but i'm kind of in love with my period. no, really. i'm serious! i don't mind it AT ALL. maybe it's because mine have never been particularly arduous or painful, but i kind of like the feeling that my body is working. grinding. churning. doing what the fuck it's supposed to do for a change. it could also be because it signifies that there are no babyfriends growing inside and robbing me of my life force, but i don't think so.

this little slut is late, and for a minute there i had a calendar and an abacus and a graphing calculator and a solar chart and my smart-person glasses and was hunched over my desk sweating bullets trying to figure out if it was humanly possible that i might have a terrorist hijacking my uterus. omfg. but i peed on a stick and a clot fell out so i think i'm in pretty decent shape. crisis averted, call off the bloodhounds!

sex while the old bloody faucet is running is more fabuloso than i can say. all those little ladyparts moving and working make it feel 1000% more excellent. if you girls aren't doing this you should be, and fuck it if you can't find a dude who is willing. all you hoes should be masturbating anyway, and if you use a vibrator while you have your period you might just die of happiness. a certain gorgeous vampire friend of mine recently expressed his disdain for swimming the red sea (prude), and i TOTALLY get that. if the situation was reversed and some asshole was waving his oozing flagpole in my face i'd pepper spray him and kick him in the junk. i get it, but when you find a dude who's into it you'd better tie him to the bedpost and never let him leave. not even to pee.

it amazes me that there are still people who "don't do that" in bed. i mean, for real? in 2010?! you bitches still aren't giving head? you dudes are still reluctant to stick your face in a vagina?! what the fuck? i will do pretty much anything that isn't degrading or illegal or involves more than one other person. i'm not even kidding. my don'ts are pretty much limited to: shit, vomit, children, animals, needles, fire, threesomes, swinging, being hit in the face or spat on, public places, and videotape. everything else is pretty much golden. i have a collar and binds and paddles and all sorts of shit. and i don't need them, i'm just not scared of them. and if a dude returns my phone calls because i let him blindfold me and put a ball gag between my teeth, that makes it all worth it, no?

thank goodness i got that upgrade. i bet my phone is about to start ringing off the fucking hook.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

i don't like you.

so i went out with this asshole right before the christmas holiday and i totally hated him. TOTALLY. and i didn't write about it. shut up, i already know. all the more reason he should be verbally disemboweled across the internets. let's talk some shit, shall we? fucker.

so people effing love me. for serious, they really do. i don't even really do anything to try to make it happen, it just does. so i'm arrogant about a bunch of shit. not obnoxiously so, at least not in my humble estimation. and not arrogant in general, just in regard to a very specific number of things. but seriously, if you try to tell me that something i've written is garbage or that my taste in music is shit i will bring the thunder down upon you. because i am arrogant about both my writing and my well-appointed eardrums. and also because you are wrong.

school is about to start next week (fucking gross) and i am taking a writing class, which should fill me up with little soda bubbles of excitement. but it absolutely does not. because most bitches who teach writing have no fucking idea how to do it and they suck and are terrible teachers and i hate them. that's right, i said it. and i always wind up with teachers who are failed writers and resent the shit out of students with real talent. (i am about to get really obnoxious, and if that is annoying to you by all means skip this paragraph. really. beat it.) my first semester back in the smelly dungeon that is community college i took a writing class. and truman makes you take a placement writing test, and of course i tested out of all the dummy shit. so a bitch should assume you have a little skill, just by default. my teacher was young (strike one), black (strike two), and female (strike fucking three). now, because i am not a sociologist by trade i don't feel like i can scientifically break this shit down here, but i will say this: black bitches always try to cut down our own. not me, mind you, because i don't give a fuck about anyone enough to try to fuck their shit up. just leave me and my shit alone and we've got no problem. i only hate people who fuck MY shit up. and if you do you better watch out.

so the first day of class this bitch tries to play the "i'm black and smart and nerdy and no one understood me growing up" game and YAWN. totally boring. and unneccessary. just shut up and teach the parts of speech, for fuck's sake. i don't know...maybe that helps white people relax? all of that rambling and ducking her head and giggling, silently apologizing for her natural hair by batting her eyelashes and shit? fucking GROSS. and humiliating. stand up straight and quit talking about your failed attempts at writing a novel. really. because is that even a good idea? the first thing i thought while listening to this verbose moutharrhea was, "is she qualified to grade our papers?" i mean, because EVEN I wrote a NOVEL, and all i did was slide through and graduate HIGH SCHOOL. they should've let me teach that class, seeing as how i'm all writer-y and accomplished and everything. plus bitch, i grew up in evanston, where smart and black and nerdy ain't that big of a deal. you couldn't swing an advanced algebra book without hitting one of us in the face and knocking our glasses off. so your manufactured plight isn't that novel. AND you couldn't write one! zinggggg!

the first paper i wrote she gave a B, and that was purely out of spite. i write this raggedy ass bullshit blog while sitting at a desk in the middle of a busy-ass animal hospital, surrounded by barking dogs and bitching clientele while answering the goddamned phone and troubleshooting this ridiculousness with the smell of dog shit and cat pee wafting gently on the breeze around me. and you see how brilliant and hilarious this shit is. so IMAGINE what my real writing is like. i know, you can't. because your brain isn't big enough. well, i'll help you. IT IS FUCKING AMAZING. i can write a term paper while in a coma that's better than anything that bitch ever wrote. you want to know how i know? because she gave us examples of her own expository writing against which we were supposed to compare our work. PLEASE. she handed out her example and i corrected some of the grammar and gave it back to her and then my paper got a B. mm hmm. fine. whatever you say.

my paper on barack obama got a C because, contrary to popular belief, we all don't think he shits rainbows and walks on water. now don't get me wrong, i'm totally in love with that dude. he's smart and hot and knows how to wear a suit. AND he burst onto the public consciousness right about the time i was going through my skinny dude phase. so you know i was all over that. i'm just saying, there is such a thing as "devil's advocate." and maybe it's my fault for not echoing her much-repeated exaltation of him, but isn't that what grownup school is about? challenging the establishment? questioning authority? we had to read his books and watch his speeches and write poems about the pineapple in his pants. or maybe that was just me. i could see if the shit i turned in was like "obama sucks" with a smiley face next to it, but it was five thoughtful, incredibly well-written pages analyzing the gaping holes in his inauguration speech. you know, because he should have talked about being oh, i don't know...BLACK. and motherfucking PRESIDENT. OF THE UNITED FUCKING STATES!

a country in which senators still use the paper bag as a visual barometer for your electability, harry reid.

well, she hated that shit. and she hated me. especially since there were a bunch of whiny kiss-ups who did shit like email her and ask her about her weekend making me look like as asshole. i don't give a fuck about your weekend, bitch, i want you to explain to this foreign dude next to me how to properly use a gerund so he can stop craning his neck to look at MY shit. (god, i'm a bitch. fuck! but it's true. and i can't apologize anymore.) but FOR REAL. teach these hoes about participles and auxiliary verbs so i can drink my starbucks in peace instead of telling miss know-it-all in the front row that you didn't really like the food at mia francesca. ps, that's crazy talk.

so i'm arrogant about my writing. thankfully, to pass the class you have to anonymously submit a portfolio of your collected writings from the semester (blank and ungraded) to a panel of professors NOT INCLUDING YOUR OWN. that's how i know there's a god of some sort. because guess whose portfolio got an unblemished A? i don't even have to tell you.

i'm also a supercilious asshole when it comes to music and what sucks, and i could spend ten posts berating you about listening to shit that's weak and unimaginative, but i'll spare you the misery. i will just suggest some things for you to download instead:
"shoulder to shoulder" little joy.
"make me over" bilal.
"street cred" drake.
"hejira" joni mitchell.
"conspiracy" paramore.
"hair" pj harvey.
"like a pen" the knife.
"back in your head" tegan and sara.
"BYOB" system of a down.
"hallucinex" stereolab.
have fun, kittens.

so this whole self-confidence business came up the other night because i said to akilah, very matter-of-factly, "everyone likes me." then she blamed my cockiness on my being an aquarian. not in a mean way, just in a "smh-you-damned-aqua-babies" way. but that shit is true! i can't help it. dudes just like me. i don't even have to do anything really. just show up and start talking, then bitches want to be president of my fan club and shit.

your mom would loooooove me. so many moms do. and so would your dad, for that matter. and your little brother, too. your cousins? for sure! and all your aunties and uncles and them. your sister will be texting me twenty minutes after she makes my acquaintance. your grandma will be IM-ing me and shit. i am LIKEABLE. i don't know why, i just am. people like talking to me. and they like listening to me talk.

it's because i'm funny, i know. BUT. it's not like i walk around with a bullhorn spewing hilarious shit all day. my usual public face is snarling and scowling and nasty and unapproachable. at least in my head it is. but there must be something about my face. because i'm like a fucking bitch magnet. more than half the people i know i met in some random ass way: they came up to me on the bus or the train or on the street or in a bookstore or at a reading or in a restaurant or at the movies or wherever. i have my theories.

1 i am goddamned interesting looking. note that i did not say "devastatingly beautiful" or "undeniably ravishing" or anything like that. i look weird. my hair is always fucking ridiculous. i have all these stupid tattoos. i have funny little kid buck teeth and a million pairs of retardedly hilarious spectacles. and i dress like a bag lady. and that is not a joke. a bag lady who, upon closer inspection, is wearing 200 dollar boots, but a bag lady nonetheless. i always have some crazy shit on and, despite societal evidence to the contrary (who ever approaches a bum?), people walk right up to my homeless looking ass and ask me all kinds of shit. they want to touch my curls and poke their fingers in my dimples, all pillsbury dough cheeks-style.

2 you know how some fat people smell like old cooking grease or burnt taco meat or rotten hot dogs or whatever? not so around here. i smell like jesus's scrotum, and that's why bitches want to get all up in my face. i don't take care of my clothes; fuck reading a label and hanging dry and all of that wackness. but i DO wash with tide, which cleans like the devil! and i've written extensively about my insatiable, incurable obsession with soap. and scented oils. and expensive perfumes. overpriced candles. akilah will testify in open court that my apartment smells divine. and smelling good = bitches rubbing all up on ya. plus, i wear a lot of soft clothes, and bitches can't help but to nuzzle all up on that.

3 once they're drawn in by all that hot messiness, then i get to knock them dead with my smarts and my funnies. and then they're mine forever. YOU are mine foreverrrrrrrr. so buckle up. settle in.

here are a couple things that suck about my stanky ass:
-i absolutely cannot stand to not get my way. i just won't tolerate it.
-it baffles me completely when someone does not like me.

it's unbelieveable, right? and the gist of this ridiculously awkward dinner with the aforementioned ridiculous asshole is that he didn't like me! which is excellent because i didn't fucking like him. i tried to, i really did, because he is the brother of this nice woman who reads my blog and thought we'd hit it off because i'm so, you know, likeable. and while i appreciate the gesture, when it doesn't work it makes me want to drop kick a bitch off the top of a building. i wasn't going to write about it, because i am a sensitive person and i didn't want this bitch to read about what a gaping bloody asshole her godforsaken sibling is. and i left that shit alone, for almost a month, and then he called me again. FOR REAL. and that means the gloves have to come off.


at first i thought it was strictly a socioeconomic-political thing, as i arrived dressed like an upscale street urchin while he had on a suit and shiny wingtips. i should admit that i was already skeptical because he'd suggested elephant and castle as a meeting spot and everyone knows that place is for cunts. loud ass cunts who think drinking shitty imports equals "class." CLASS, despite the fact that they are drunk and shouting and lousy and red-faced. i went to a political function there with pat (how i love and miss my pat SO MUCH) in 2002 when i was working for schmidt and it was so awful i vowed to never return. it's full of fucking young republicans and bitches too goddamned dumb to know any better than to date them, assholes who couldn't hack wall street so they end up banking here. fucking gross.

as i expected, we were the only negroes in the place. now i don't have any problem going ANYWHERE. i am instantly comfortable, no matter where i'm at. i know who the fuck i am. i know what i have. so i have no trouble at all relaxing, no matter the situation. everyone who knows me knows what i said the day i met bill clinton. and if that isn't a bitch who's comfortable with herself, i don't know who is. he said it was close to his job and he liked it, so i conceded and crossed my fingers that he wasn't a raggedy fuckstick.

i know how to fucking dress up. and i ALSO KNOW that chicago is cold as a motherfucker in winter. in addition to that, i know that my broken foot will neverrrr see another high heel in its life. so. i wore my requisite tight dark jeans, big hulking filthy boots (it's winter, you dirty bitches!), and a slinky black thing on top from which my entire rack HANGS OUT. and i put makeup on and shit! gelled my goddamned hair! (that's how to really know if i like your ass; if you see gel in the hair? that means i lurve you.)

i found him quickly ( was easy) and when i shook his hand he said, "did you forget we had a date?"
i had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, especially since i was EARLY. "what do you mean?"
"i was looking at your shoes. are those really first date appropriate?"
oh, of course they weren't. "they are WINTER appropriate. are you always such a stupid toolbag?" i figured we would just part ways after that. you know, the name-calling insult-hurling thing.
not so! "not always. only when i'm awake."

i didn't even take my fucking coat off (which cost me $500 last winter, mind you). but i believe in scamming dudes out of shit more than i believe in anything else, and this asshole was going to buy me dinner whether he wanted to or not.


if i coulda had an abortion while sitting at the table i woulda. and shoulda. i cursed like a fucking sailor, chewed with my mouth open, and did that open-mouthed drooly thing i do when i'm bored to make myself laugh. he commented on my "healthy appetite" (twice!) and asked how far i planned to get in life with "all of those irresponsible tattoos." i was obnoxious and moronic, argumentative without cause, belligerant, belittling, mean-spirited, pompous, and insufferable. just like every republican i've ever met. except judy, because i love her.

when i told him not to call me again he just smiled and walked me out to get a cab. the cabby was young and energetic and talked my fucking ear off (i TOLD you bitches love me), and when i told him about the boot thing he said, "you shoulda put one in his ass." word.

so tell your brother not to call me anymore, because he is a cocksnot with fucked-up sensibilities. and i don't need his elephant anywhere near my donkey.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

only the lonely.

"way to go, lesbian."

that's what jb said to me at seven yesterday morning upon surveying my artfully styled dark trouser jeans. really. no "good morning," no "how did you sleep?" no greeting whatsoever. jerk.
for christmas, in lieu of a real gift, he'd made me some ugly, bullshit collage that 1 i totally hated and 2 helen had started to chew on and i'll be damned if that little bitch has to have exploratory surgery after eating some nonsense this fake-ass basquiat poseur tried to burden me with. what, was walgreens out of chia pets or singing billy basses? goddamn it!

*please don't ever buy me anything. ever. PLEASE. i implore you. unless, dear reader, you know me and my impeccable (read: SNOTTY) tastes very well. or you have a killer sense of humor and it's a funny gift. really. i don't need anything. and if you refrain from purchasing something for me, you will save me the trouble and humiliation of showing you what an ungrateful bag of ass i am. because bitches don't give you surprise ipods and laptops, and they don't really pay enough attention to your habits/likes/tastes to get you something you like. i got some amazingly good loot this year, and all from conscientious people (read: people who actually love me, like my greenes and my hickses) who keep their eyes and ears open around your girl. no, bitches usually regift you some weaksauce nastiness they got but couldn't sack up enough to throw in the trash. or they run out to whereverthefuck and grab whateverthefuck is cheap and holiday-ish. blah! because even if my last-minute omigodididntknowiwassupposedtogetsomethingforthatbitch gifts are dope. i run to kiehls or lush or h20+ or some shit. not the dollar store.

i'm a fucking asshole. sowwy.

you know what i like the most? CARDS. not cookie cutter mailing list not even signed cards, but cards bitches write in and tell you how much you mean to them. i'm the most card sendingest bitch on earth. i fill up all the space with hilarious witticisms and i draw little dorky pictures and shit and tell you how much i love you and how pretty you are and all that good stuff. and you know that i mean it because it's there, in print, right in front of your face.

and if you know me you know i have a HUGE aversion to committing anything, particularly something potentially damning, to paper. bitchass and i talk all the time about voicemails and text messages and the kinds of things we say therein. don't you hoes watch judge mathis?! it makes me cringe down to my socks every single time the plaintiff or whatever is all, "well, bitch, i got yo' ass on TAPE!" and the crowd goes "oooooooooh!" and titters excitedly as she procures a little tape recorder from her purse and proceeds to play the message in which the defendant did in fact admit to smashing up her pontiac before threatening to do it again. dummy.

i don't tell anyone when i do something lowdown and dirty. you'll never read any menacing notes writ in my delicate hand, neither admission of guilt nor recognition of wrongdoing. there isn't a bitch on earth who has a text message sent from my phone that says a damn thing i wouldn't cop to in court. i'll swear on a stack of bibles that i sent every single "fuck you sideways" text hair beats off to, but never in a million years will someone tell a judge "she texted me she would pay for it!" or "listen to this voicemail where that bitch threatened to kill me!"
eff that.

"what?!" i exclaimed, incredulous, stamping my feet on the train platform and curling up my fingers inside my big woolly mittens. "what's wrong with my pants?" i glanced down at them.

he smiled. "oh, nothing. i was just wondering what time softball practice is tonight."

"dude! these are SO not lesbo pants!"

(pause.) "where do you clip on your tool belt?" ahahahahahahahaha! (that's how he laughs, like a fucking hyena. idiot.) "can i hitch a ride? is there room for me in your pickup?"

"oh, fuck you. you tragically hip asshole."

"aren't you hanging out with some dude later?" he asked, all snotty-like.

"yes. so?" (pissed!)

(another pause.) " don't want him to find you appealing in any way? i get it! i mean, i guess. once bitten, twice shy..."

at this point, i was rolling my eyes so hard i thought they really might get stuck that way, as my mother had threatened all through my adolecense. "first of all, fuckstick, it's not like that. second, i am awesome and hilarious no matter what kind of pants i happen to be wearing--"

"mm, hmm. RIGHT," he interjected.

"shut the fuck up, you troid. third, i've been bitten 742 times--"

"your fault, dummy. you pick stupid dudes."

"don't interrupt me. stupid dudes pick me. and i keep giving love a chance! AAAAND, it's the universe's fault for sending me its less-than-palatable inhabitants. i'm like a halfway house for shitbags. lots of my ex-homies have gone on to do much better things. and you should feel bad for me! fourth--"

"oh my god! fourth?" he shook his head. "fuck me. i never should have said anything."

"next time, don't. and these pants were ninety bucks!" i grabbed his head and shoved his face down by my butt. "see?! look at that stitching!"

jb stood up and straightened his jacket (hipsters refuse to wear actual COATS, no matter what the thermometer says) and looked around to make sure that no one standing near us on the platform had noticed that brutal display of assholery. i thought the argument was over (how could you not win after stuffing someone's face in your butthole?!) and it appeared to be, as he set his lips into a firm little line and closed his eyes against the blowing snow.

revelling in my victory, i edged away from him to get closer to the heat lamps and chuckled into my gaiter. (another sapphic accoutrement, i'm sure.) dudes always want to talk shit and can never back it up! jagoff.

my train came before his, and i squeezed his elbow goodbye as i went to step in. "have a good day, you fucking monkey," i said sweetly as the bell signaling the imminently closing doors tolled.
he opened his eyes and smiled. "hey sam?" he called.

i stuck my head out. "yeah?"

"was that ninety bucks before or after you added the carhartt coat?" he exploded into peals of laughter and high-fived the complete stranger grinning beside him. DICK.


so the point of this post, you really thought my lesbian pants were the main event?, is that i haven't posted a recipe in a while and somewhere along the way i said i was going to do more of that. dang!

winter is awful, though i don't mind it that much. i fucking loathe being hot and sticky and gross and sweaty. double yuck. even in bed! it's the worst of the worst. i like looking at snow; it's so pretty on the sidewalks and the lampposts and the trees. the city looks like a movie set or a greeting card or something. everytime we get a big snowstorm my heart gets a warm rockwellian fuzzy. doesn't snow make everything seem all quaint and genteel?! i love it. for a split second i want to make snow angels and build snowmen, then i realize how lame that is and get over it. but everything looks so perfect and clean and fresh and new, before hulking snowplows dirty it all up and dogs piss and shit in it. before it soaks through your "waterproof" boots and leaks through your "weatherproof" window treatments. before you slip and fall in it or freezer-burn your tender fingertips.

i hate both waking up and going to bed in the dark, but other than that i like that winter is an excuse to be all snuggly and cozy and bundled-up. my current issue is that i have no one to spoon with except my ridiculous snatch of a cat and, if you've met her, you know that she is hardly the cuddly type. while i would rather have the human equivalent of a mug of hot chocolate lounging in my bed, i am forced to tolerate that little furry terror and whatever books and magazines i fall asleep reading.

but in the spirit of making lemonade out of these rotten lemons, i have taken a new approach to winter nesting. embracing the solitude, if you will. and i'm going to tell you how you can, too. this is for girls, because fuck dudes. i mean, seriously, with a rusty wrench. and you would just try to find some dummy to do it for you anyway, so PSHAW. it's a recipe in two parts: the first part for your body, the second part for your belly. and this is what i do almost every single night when i get home, and since i'm so totally rad i know you'll want to do it, too.

part one
-a small humidifier
-a c.o. bigelow frankincense candle
-a glass of pinot noir (i am especially fond of smoking loon)
-a chunk of lush soap, preferably noubar or sultana of soap
-a bottle of johnson and johnson lavender baby oil
-carol's daughter sage and shea foot butter
-soft pajamas and big, padded slipper socks

this is pretty self-explanatory, is it not? start the humidifier, light the candle. drink some wine. lukewarm shower, lather up the soap, rinse it off. wine. oil up and get in your jammies. more wine. grease up your feet and get in your socks. more wine. get your sexy ass in the kitchen.
finish bottle of wine.

i like stews and soups and hearty pastas in the winter. i made this one the other night. it's easy as shit, and delicious. and you can eat it if you have crohns or stomach cancer or whatever the fuck i have going on inside. because it takes so long to cook, you might want to do the cooking part before the shower ritual. i dunno. whatever you like.

part two

-2 lb leg of lamb, cut into bite-sized chunks
-1 head of garlic, separated into cloves
-12 oz can pitted black olives in brine, rinsed and drained
-3 oz carmelized onions (from a jar)
-4 tbsp capers, rinsed and drained
-2 tsp ground cumin
-2 tsp ground ginger
-1 750 ml bottle of cheap red wine

i don't know why some people have such a problem with lamb. i mean, i really don't. is it because mary had a little one? or because jesus is a lamb or something? oh who cares. it's gorgeous. and so tasty.

1 anyway, oven at 300.

2 put EVERYTHING into a big pot that has a lid (i use a giant le creuset cast iron dutch oven and that works quite nicely), pouring the wine in LAST. give it all a good stir.

3 bring everything to a boil, then put the lid on and toss that bad girl into the oven for two hours, or until little lambykins is all soft and tender. i don't know, go watch sex and the city or snapped! or something else sad and girly while it cooks.

i always make a pilaf or couscous or quinoa or something equally plain-ish while this shit is in the oven, then i fill a big bowl with the grain and ladle the stew over when it's done. i get in my bed armed with ipod, magazines, books, remotes and whatever else my solitary ass might require as a distraction, and i eat as much as i can before slipping into a coma. i dream about all the hot dudes i could be cooking this for, and then wake up with helen's claw in my eye.

boner appetit.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

you know, like madonna!

i hope you're eating your breakfast, because i'm going to write about my sweet, gorgeous asshole. i had surgery on my bum yesterday. are you jealous? you should be.

let's get all medical and shit:

procedure: colonoscopy with biopsies.

details of the procedure: a rectal examination was performed. the variable-stiffness adult colonoscope was inserted into the rectum and advanced under direct vision to the terminal ileum. the quality of the colonic preparation was poor. narrow-band imaging was utilized to assist in the detection of flat lesions where appropriate. a careful inspection was made as the colonoscope was withdrawn, including a retroflexed view of the rectum; findings and interventions are described below. the patient tolerated the procedure well, and there were no complications. she was taken to the recovery area in stable condition.

findings and interventions: tortuous and fixated colon, consistent with adhesions. normal colonic mucosa throughout, although visualization limited by poor prep. possible scarring in the terminal ileum, s/p biopsies. hemorrhoids (internal), moderate in size.

post procedure status: stable.

estimated blood loss: minimal.

specimen: yes, see intra-op B note.

recommendations: i believe the patient has isolated small bowel crohn's disease. the inflammation seen on multiple prior studies has likely caused pelvic adhesion. this likely also accounts for her atypical pain and other symptoms. given her frequent need for steroids, i would consider an immunomodulator such as imuran, she can continue her pentasa for now.

a copy of this report was given to the patient.

love, dr. gorgeous heartheartheart i love you heart. xo

(i might have embellished that last bit.)

what, you didn't understand all that? you mean you geniuses don't really get what he's saying?! GOOD. me neither. i just wanted to make sure you dudes are as confused as i was. because doctor delicious delivered this glorious news while i was groggily coming to in recovery, zoinked out of my mind grapes on fentanyl and midazolam. he may as well have been speaking chinese. i couldn't understand a fucking word he was saying. all i remember is nodding and wondering whether the oxygen tubes stuck in my nose and wrapped around my ears left an impression in my face while i was sleeping and if he had noticed that my asshole was all cleaned up after my run-in with that crazy wax lady. my hand was hurting SO BADLY from the iv, and i'd woken up with my body curled around my hand like an animal protecting its wounded cub. his voice distracted me from the pulsing pain coursing up my right arm; i like watching his lips move.

he called me his "favorite patient" again when he came into the procedure room, and that loosened my booty cheeks right up. i had a terrible time with the prep this time around. i just couldn't keep it down, despite the fact that they'd given me some anti-nausea meds to take beforehand. that shit tastes so vile that i cannot even come up with the words to accurately describe it. and i thought i was doing myself a favor by using the cherry flavor packet (last time i did lemon-lime, EPIC MISTAKE), but it just tasted like cherries that had been left to rot in a sewer and picked up with a pooper-scooper. i drank as much of that horrific slime as i could, but my guts were all, "bitch, please" and kept sending it right back up. i just stood in my little kitchen drinking through a straw (doesn't help) and barfing into the sink while helen meowed and coiled around my ankles in sympathy. i talked to lori on the phone about halfway through and was so evil and disconsolate that she hurried herself off the phone and left me to stew in my bile and misery. i had icky mud butt all night (not cute) and while i got pretty empty, i still had dirty stools yesterday morning. sexxxy!

i had to wear a pressure cuff during, and i swear to god every single fucking time they give me the ones made for linebackers and fucking pro wrestlers. it was on my left arm, and i had monitors stuck to my chest in two places and in one spot on my left forearm, and all those tubes and wires are tricky to navigate, particularly when you are naked and cold and out of your mind and jiggling all over. so the cuff was ill-placed and he asked me to turn on my side and i couldn't get in a good position and it was like an episode of benny hill or something, me and nurses and technicians running around on fast forward trying to shift the bed and the pillows and my hips and my arm and reposition the cuff and move the tubes and adjust the monitors and turn on the was goddamned exhausting. finally i was lying how he wanted me (hiyo!) and he raised the bed and started the drugs and


fucking la-la land.

it is a cruel joke straight from satan that you cannot remember a single thing you say or do during this torture (because yes, you are kinda sorta technically awake and you can hear things the doctor and nurses say to you and respond and move where they tell you to) but you can totally hear yourself snoring. so loud, as a matter of fact, that you're sure he's inserted the scope so far that it's in your nose or throat or some other ungodly place that's making you sound like that. because you're a delicate creature from heaven, right?, and you would NEVER make such a horrific racket! efuckinggads, kittens. SO. FUCKING. LOUD. i do remember feeling the probe in my midsection. hot damn! it's like having a pirate sword wedged up your backside and twisted around! they don't just take a little peek around your rectum and call it a day, they get all up in there!

one thing that tickled me about the whole thing is how you can totally tell doctors and hospitals are in crisis mode trying to cover their fucking asses. i was asked, and i wish i were exaggerating, at least seven times to recite my full name, date of birth, and the reason for my visit. i said my name forwards, backwards, upside-down, without the consonants, doubling the vowels, and every other gd way a person can say samantha mckiv--


sorry. that shit really knocks a bitch on her ass. 100 bitches ask you 100 times who you are and what you need and who is coming to pick you up. and i always think, "pshaw. i can take the train home. fuck all this precaution!" and then when i'm teetering around the room on sea legs trying to put my underwear back on without slipping and cracking my skull open on the table or the chair or the monitor i'm always glad that i had a few emergency numbers to write on the list.
and many many many thanks to the lovely and talented carol greene for being my ambulance driver yesterday. thank god for other people's moms, and i am not even kidding. she even came in the room while i was waking up and at my most delirious! plus, she got to meet dr. handsome, and she can confirm that i AM NOT EVEN PLAYING when i talk about how smoking that dude is. i think i even saw her blush when he shook her hand. AND she got me some butter cookies at three tarts (if you don't know you better ask somebody, preferably me) and they were the most delicious little bursts of sunshine to ever melt on my tongue.

an aside: for serious, those of you who eat shitty cake i simply do not understand. i have a vicious anal disease (har), and even i don't eat raggedy cake. if you were at my birthday party last year (and where the fuck were you if you weren't?!) and got to have a piece of that delectable three-tiered banana confection, count yourself lucky. that bad girl was from three tarts! my 30th birthday is fast approaching and i will have another extravagant shindig this year, to which you are all invited. really, our goal is to shut the city down this year. i write that in all seriousness.(speaking of, my usual birthday soiree space, the amazing sonotheque, is fucking closed! what?! gah! so i need some hotspot suggestions from all you party people.) and there will be fancy fucking cake, so get your bellies ready. because it is my goal to enlighten and educate, these are acceptable places from which you kids can purchase and eat cake: three tarts, vanil, dinkel's, bittersweet, rolf's patisserie, molly's cupcakes, and sugar bliss cake boutique. and i worked in a bakery for four years, so i am a veritable expert. stop eating cakes from fucking dominicks. that is all.

let's just gloss over the fact that i can never eat cake again. i mean, not REALLY eat it. i can have a bite of yours, maybe, but that's about it. and i'm off the sauce, too. which is lame because i have a case of high life in my refrigerator that needs to get drunk. so come over already. i'm not quite ready to deal with all of this. because, thanks to my handy medical translator "the interwebs," a "tortuous colon" means that little sister is all twisted up and "adhesions" means it's stuck to itself. BOLLOCKS. my "terminal ileum" is a part of my small intestine, and i think you all know what "scarring" means. "internal hemorrhoids" are exactly what you think they are, i just can't see or feel them. gnarly. they're the reason i've been all bleedy out the backside lately. "pelvic adhesions" are scar tissue that links organs together abnormally. and if you've never witness my "atypical pain," consider yourself lucky. crohns pain is an evil, searing beast from hell. the worst. only a handful of people have seen me while undergoing that excruciating shit, and it's enough to make the most hardened asshole tear up on my behalf.

so jb and i are friends again, which is cute. i guess. he wears me out more than a toddler would, and much in the same way: constantly angling for my attention, doing bad ass shit just to see if he can get away with it, being too loud and babbling incoherently, dropping his food on the floor, throwing temper tantrums, depending too much on the bottle (zing!), and desperately trying to show me his latest creations. though instead of showing me his fingerpaints and macaroni necklaces, he unloads pocketfuls of phone numbers and primitive drawing that he passes off as "high art."

apparently he thought i was joking when i told him that if you tell me to beat it, then beat it i shall. no calling, no texting, no emailing. i just evaporate into the ether without a second thought, free to hang with my kewler friends. so back he came, snivelling and crawling and pledging his undying devotion. just how i like 'em. this asshole has a phd in eastern metaphysics (pretentious. fucking. wanker.) and he dilly-dallied at oxford and MIT and harvard and all these other smartypants institutions for years and years and y e a r s before deciding to settle for the simple life of banging dumb girls and foisting childish arts and crafts on unsuspecting novice art dealers and collectors as ultramodern, au courant artistic innovation. PSHAW.

i love that sissy, though. we're good buds. he's the smartest fucker ever, and you hoes know how i feel about a dummy. can't do it, not even for one second. for reals. of all the assholes i let club me over the head and drag me back to their caves, you won't find a stupid one in the bunch. i don't care about shoe size, i want to know your IQ score. i need to see some proof of scholastic aptitude, dang it. anyway, he bought me pads for the bed and helped change my diapers (those of you within spitting distance of my apartment should THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS that i didn't dial your phone numbers) and got me in the shower. he scrubbed the bathroom and hosed down the kitchen vomit and even washed a load of inside pants because i'd leaked blood and/or poo in every single pair over the course of the last week. (i told y'all a bitch was sick!) don't go misty in the eyes just yet. he did "accidentally" give me an anal probe (jerk!) but was swiftly repaid by a torrent of bloodarrhea straight to the face.

and thank god for him. there is no other dirty, overeducated, chronically-unemployed, thirty-four year old hipster lothario who lived two years in india yet speaks fluent mandarin (wtf?) i'd rather have washing my soiled linens and peeling the yucky diapers off my grouchy old ass. he could be a certified cna at this point! while he makes a fantastic omelette and waffle brunch, he can't cook shit else, so if you hoes want to drop off some delicious soups i promise i will answer the door. (i'm looking at you, melissa.) i also promise not to poop on you because, tragic though it may seem, i've got this adult diaper thing on LOCK. bring on old age!

(no. rilly. don't. i'll jump off a building.)

anyway, jb and i vowed that this is the year we "reinvent" ourselves. you know, like madonna! mostly because it sounds cooler than icky resolutions. resolutions are for poor people, right whitney? more on the reinvention in the coming days. let's just say a certain someone has to "develop healthier habits" (pshaw) and "be nicer to people (PSHAW).

i'm bloated and in a whole lotta pain (ouchies!) and was idiot enough to come to work today, but what is the alternative? lay around with helen, not making a dime? better to drag it in here and collect all these pity looks. although not THAT many...these tricks have been down the samantha gastrointestinal highway of horrors a million times already. what's another? i'm sure at this point they all blend together, just like that burrito you just ate.

so get over here and bring me some soup. or something fibrous. or some crackers. or some trashy magazines. i'm dyyyyying. (and i smell a little bit.)

*and while you're at it, mark jan 16 on your goddamned calendars. that is my show. you will enjoy yourself, and probably laugh a lot. if you've never seen me in person, i sort of look hilariously stupid.
i will be doing a few readings from these here archives, and some hot new shit i'm working on especially for the occasion.

i will also be showing you slideshow pictures from this latest colonic episode. i make a mean powerpoint, son! byobarfbag.

Saturday, January 2, 2010

a dream deterred.

"love kills slowly."

i imagine i felt a lot like your mom did that first time you bitches brought your asses home from college for winter break. i'm sure she was totally stoked out of her fucking mind, cleaning your room and buying new towels and grocery shopping her little ass off, making sure she had all of the stuff she remembers you actually liked to eat: potato chips and pizza and cookies and juice, not all the cottage cheese and prunes and lettuce and shit she tried to force on you when you were still a captive in her home.

i'm sure she tried really hard to erase your memory of all those fights about curfews and bad grades and skirt lengths, feeling absolution wash over her as she scrubbed the tub and toilet in preparation for your arrival, watching the sins of bad motherhood bubble and swirl down the drain. she tried to make up for her crabby bad days and her inattentive tired days and her forgetful absent-minded days by stuffing your stockings with little things she knew you'd get a kick out of, by buying lots of christmas gifts that moms buy, by being super excited to see you get off the plane.

she never gave a fuck about a cozy bed before, but she washed your sheets and laundered your duvet and fluffed your pillows so you could "sleep tight," as they say. she organized the cabinets that had gone a little bit to shit since you'd left, thinking that you'd notice that the labels don't face forward or whatever. she lit the candles and swapped the soaps and dusted the corners into which she was pretty sure you'd never look, but on the off chance that you might...

in other words, she busted her fucking ass trying to make sure that your fucking ass had a good fucking time.

i'm motherfucking empathetic, and i'm almost positive that i know exactly how she must have felt. waiting, with baited breath as we women often find ourselves, for you to burst through the door and tell her how much you've missed her and how nice the house looks and how pretty the new dress she bought is. for you to throw your arms around her neck and shake your coat off and drop your bags at her feet before breathlessly describing to her all of the shit that wouldn't fit into the parameters of your once-a-week phone calls home, your stupid roommate and your frustrating classes and the depressing food in the dining hall of your dorm. she'd waited for months for all of those tiny mundane details, pleased as punch to hear about every little thing, just so long as she got to do so whilst staring into your gorgeous little faces.

a romantic i am not. for serious. i've had my poor little heart stomped on and stabbed through my back and karate chopped too many motherfucking times to really believe in romance. i believe in the idea of it, i believe that sometimes one catches brief glimpses of it through all of the asshole and idiot and lame and fucktard, but it is not a convention i put a whole lot of stock into. i don't watch romantic movies because they make me cry. not because they are so touching, mind you, but because they are often a two-hour long reminder of all the shit that is not happening for my stupid ass. because i sit through the entire film with my face all screwed the fuck up, ticking each fictional romantic gesture off on my mental checklist. you know, the one entitled "things not a single one of these goddamned, shit-eating assholes has ever done for me."

sent me flowers at work? NEVER.
showed up at my doorstep dripping with rain because he'd walked a mile to declare his undying devotion? NO WAY.
cooked me a nice dinner? FORGET IT.
bought me something? anything?! NOT EVER.
made me a card? or a mix tape? or even doodled my name on a fucking napkin? NAY.
wrote a song or poem about my awesomeness? NIX.
defended my honor? NOPE.
put me first? and i'm talking first-first, not in theory-first or in the mind grapes-first or when i'm actually hanging out with you-first. before mama and papa and job and homeboys and homegirls and shorties and dog and sportscenter and play station and weed man and mailman and homeless dudes and bitches at the club and total fucking strangers? NOTHING DOING.
slayed a dragon for me? NEGATIVE.
made me feel totally special, and not like an annoying afterthought? DON'T HOLD YOUR FUCKING BREATH.
was not, at least partially, a selfish asshole who couldn't see past the tip of his penis where our, ahem, "relationship" was concerned? NEVER IN THE GODDAMNED HISTORY OF EVER.
sorry motherfuckers.

as much as it kills me to identify with miserable, self-loathing bitches slagging their ways through their forties and fifties and sixties snatching about their miserable, inconsiderate, self-absorbed twenty- and thirty-something offspring, I CAN. because i cleaned up and shopped up and fantasized up just to spend the better part of a week babysitting a fucking suitcase. and to that i say: "pshaw!"

here is where my dear friend romance and i intersect and find ourselves at odds. because i didn't call or text or even think about that dirty whore. i left her to her own goddamned devices, free to wander through nicholas sparks novels and loiter around renee zellweger movies and leave my ass alone. yet there she was, nestled in one of the grooves deep in the recesses of my brain, planting little romantic seedlings. seedlings, i might add, that had been watered by a countless number of absolutely lovely text messages and emails and flirty conversations. i'm not a fucking robot, dude. if you tell me a thousand and one times how much you absolutely adore me, around the two hundred and thirty-seventh time i just might start to soften up a little bit and believe you.

the seedlings don't help, i'll tell you that much. because in addition to sprouting gorgeously fragrant blossoms (blooms, i might add, that can be snipped off when they become too annoyingly interfering), they also grow ROOTS. long, spindly, obnoxious cords that snake their way through my grey matter and take hold until they become impossible to extricate, no matter how hard i try. it's the roots that taint my otherwise sensible, rational (read: CYNICAL) approach to my dealings with the opposite sex. because i wouldn't get sucked in without that little part of my brain that clings desperately to every fairytale it's ever read, every julia roberts movie it's ever sobbed through. because I AM A BITCH, yet my vagina is not immune to all of the propaganda thrown its way.

so quel surprise that my romantical ass ended up just like your mammy did, sitting home twiddling her thumbs wondering why you never told her you had friends to see and places to go and shit to do other than hang out and let her cook for you and show you how to needlepoint. wondering what she could should have said to let her know she wanted to spend time with you while you were busy making plans to see everyone else who missed you. wondering why she bought food and thoughtful gifts and cleaned up for a ghost. because she'd had no idea that her place was just a drop spot, that you'd be dyyyying to leave the moment you walked in. silly old lady, nursing her hurt feelings and disappointment while you gallivanted all day long having fun with your friends, you had SO MUCH to catch up on!, forgetting to remember to return her calls.

"that's what i promised. i promised i would rock your shit in the bedroom."
"i never said i was a total, a great guy all-around."
"i'm a good time in small doses."

i got laid exactly four times.
but my plan, as you may or may not remember, had involved something like 457. so i'm a few short. and that's where we shall leave this for now, mon amis.