Thursday, February 25, 2010

fancying this bitch up!

so blogger added some new stuff.
OR my dumb ass is just now seeing all this new stuff.
like, i can add pictures and links and videos and shit.
with relative ease.
isn't that exciting?!
i'm playingmessingfucking around with it and getting totally jazzed.

i am an idiot, so it might take me a while to figure it out.
be patient, for goodness' sake.
in the meantime, enjoy some pictures from your girl's fabulous birthday soiree.

this is me, and i am fucking awesome.

i love cake.

an awful lot.

this is my buttercream likeness.
(in my post-anorexic bulimia phase, obviously).
in a garden of beer bottles.
of course.

my manicure is jamming, right?!
and those baby quiches were delicious.

this is my good friend allen.
he's gorgeous. as is his fringe.

this is corey.
she smells nice.
and is SINGLE, hot dudes!

did i ever tell you dudes i have seven backs?
that shirt was a bad choice.

but i also have dimples.
the universe balances itself out.
(hi, roger.)

at the darkroom.
a bunch of hours later.
and there are a million other pictures,
but i can't be getting bitches' legal approval to post their image.
effing eff that.
who has the fucking time?!

so look through my facebook if you know me.
and cry in your beer if you don't.

i will try to never post like this ever again.
but i'm like a child.
when i have a new toy, i must play with it to DEATH.
just ask my vibrators.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

"miguel, i'm ready."

i hope you assholes missed me. because i TOTALLY missed you. how are you? is that a new shirt? i really like what you've done with your hair. did you get it cut? mmm, i could tell. you look yummy. how's your mom? what did you do this weekend? i told you to stop getting so fucking drunk. did you sleep with that dude finally? you know who i'm talking about, the one with the big teeth. stop playing. i knew you would, you dirty slut. gross. how was work last week? did you get that promotion you were worried about? see?! i knew you would. because you're so smart and handsome. come over here and let me pinch your cheeks. my, you've gotten so tall since the last time i saw you! the government must be putting something in the milk. that bulge in your pants is bigger, too. don't think i didn't notice. did you get that voicemail i left you? how was that show you went to? i knew you would hate it. i told you, only douchebags listen to lifehouse. did you get your cable turned back on? how did that pesky stalker situation finally resolve itself?

damn, we have so much to catch up on.
you should probably come over.

for serious. we'll drink some wine, braid each other's hair, and maybe touch each other in inappropriate places. i'll dare you to pee in helen's litter box, let you try on my new japanese shoes, and i'll make that vodka sauce recipe i recently perfected. don't worry, my bed's a full but there's room for you. i'll even share the duvet! and i'll wear my least stinky pajamas. now you KNOW i like you.

i believe in natural remedies.
i believe in vitamins, herbs, tinctures, powders, supplements, salves, pastes, teas, and oils.
i believe in fruits, vegetables, fresh water, cage-free poultry, grass-fed beef, and tofu.
i believe in prayer, meditation, fasting, yoga, holistic divination, chanting, and cleansing.

for YOU.

because when my motherfucking ass is sick, there isn't a chemical ON THIS PLANET that i wouldn't inject myself full of in the attempt to get better. bitch, let's be serious. all of that healthy earth talk is cute and everything, but the minute i have a cough that lasts longer than 10 seconds i'm in cvs filling my basket chock full of whatever poisons my helpful television advertisements have assured me will drive the disease out posthaste.

i don't pray, i don't meditate, i don't cross my fingers and hope really really really hard that everything is going to be okay when it feels like that "tickle" might be the initial stages of "ebola." sure, i might take some vitamins and maybe wash them down with some orange juice, but you better believe that's only after i've had a tylenol/sudafed/benedryl cocktail to start with. i take action. and not real action, like working out and washing my hands and using sanitizer and eating vegetables. no, i cough and sneeze all over the train and drag myself to the pharmacy and stand there open-mouth breathing on everything while i try to decide between extra-strength and extra-EXTRA-strength. (who is it that's buying "regular strength" shit? hippies and old people, that's my guess. bitch, please.)

if i have a headache, i don't sit in a dark, quiet room with a towel wrapped around my head until it goes away. i take three tylenol for arthritis (laugh if you want, but there are WAY MORE milligrams of acetaminophen in those than there are in the regular kind...who's laughing NOW?!) and if it hasn't subsided in twenty minutes i call lori to see if she thinks i'll die if i add an aleve to the mix. even if she says yes i'll take one anyway. that bitch isn't a doctor, what does she know? (don't worry, all my liver function tests have come back normal. trust me, i make them check.)

i would drink bleach, take hydrochloric acid through an IV, or do an anthrax enema if you told me my cold would be two days instead of nine. i just don't give a shit. i will spend whatever i have to, sit in the doctor's office for however long i need to if it guaranteed that i wouldn't be up all night coughing up green lung butter while alternately sweating on the toilet with "sick" diarrhea. don't act like you don't know what i fucking mean. that sickly-smelling, off-color, inexplicable because you haven't eaten in four goddamned days itooktoomuchfuckingnyquilarrhea. dristanarrhea. alkaseltzarrhea. robitussarrhea. azithromycinbenzonatateatenololsudafedazathioprinepentasabenazeprilhydrochlorideamlodipinemucinexarrhea.

that last one might just be me.
i'll give you a minute to try to parse all of those fucking drugs and see if you can figure out what all is wrong with me. first one with the right answer(s) wins a prize. see me after class.

so last saturday was my birthday and it was fucking raging. super big fun. if you weren't there, you should reevaluate your fucking priorities, and maybe the next time i invite your stupid ass to something you won't be such an asshole and maybe think a little harder about showing up. there were hot naked people and catering by charlie trotter and we gave out close to ten thousand dollars in door prizes. shit, there was even a bitch on a trapeze. don't skip my shit, dummy. it's not good for you.

sunday (valenblah day) was uneventful save for one very nice text from hair model who i'm still pissed at a little and thus negated the surge of joy i might have felt upon reading said less-than-160-character-message. if it had been a marching band or a box of blood diamonds i might have worked up more of a lather. where are all the hot dudes who are supposed to be sending flowers to me?!

i need some future ex-husbands in my life. valentine's day never wears me out too much, mostly because i make such a BIG FUCKING DEAL about my birthday the day before that all that happiness just sorta oozes over onto the next day. i typically get totally trashed in honor of moving out of my first apartment; my mother's uterus was cramped and the rent was too fucking high, plus there were mice and tacky artwork and the bitch next door was too damn loud (carol). so if i'm lucky i spend vday barfing and trying to remember whether or not i said anything dumb to someone smokin'. i say enough dumb shit sober that drunk sam is usually good for one or two "bitch, don't say that!" moments, but i always get a pass because i'm so funnnnnny.

if my birthday weren't on the 13th i would've shot myself in the face by now. with my luck i would have missed my brain and now have to walk around looking like freddy kreuger after a stroke or whatever. it's okay. i look good in stripes. seriously, though, i've been at work enough times watching bitches flowers get delivered, and i hope you get hit by a bus if you pretend that shit doesn't piss you off. it's the worst! particularly when they a) live together or b) have plans to get together later that evening. get the flowers at dinner, you self-centered bitch. fuck you! you really want me to help you find a vase somewhere in the office, motherfucker?! pleeeeeease. would you also like me to water those flowers with my unrequited tears? do you REALLY need to read the card aloud? because those (rapidly wilting) white roses might be from someone other than the dude whose morning breath woke you up today?! give me a fucking break. god, i hope you die. in a fire.

that shit is calculated and hurtful and mean and i can't WAIT until i get to do that shit to someone else. take that, you lonely BITCH! someone felt brow-beaten enough by my bitch ass to half-heartedly call 1-800-flowers in my honor and have the cheapest shit bouquet on the menu delivered right before we closed for the day! he maxed out he secured credit card for ME. think about THAT while you eat your lean cuisine! mwa ha ha ha somebody fucking loves me!

i watched the all-star game (why do nba dudes have the WORST FUCKING SKIN and the most horrifying tattoos?!) and read a dozen boring magazines and waited for the doorbell to ring so i could accept the delivery of dandelions or tumbleweeds or pond scum you jerks loved me enough to send. never happened. figures. when i woke up on monday my throat was scratchy, and after my mid-afternoon nap (god, my life is SO HARD) i woke up to a full-blown cold-type thing seizing my fucking lungs. i could give you all the details, but i know you heartless bastards don't really give a shit, so let's just say i missed almost a week of PAY (i don't mind missing WORK, i mind missing MONEY) because i was stricken with goddamned bronchitis. the worst.

i never have a problem going to the doctor, but for whatever idiotic reason spent three fevered days thinking this was a "cold" and sweating through my clothes while walking around trying to live my normal life. i wasted TWO MORE days at home drinking orange juice and praying for death (you folks who pin all your hopes on "the power of prayer" must know something i don't, because i am still riddled with disease and ALIVE). i went to the doctor saturday, after five days of coughing up green lung butter and blood-tinged yellow sinus cheese and breathing through one nostril at a time, when i wasn't breathing through my open pie hole, and that bitch listened to my chest for thirty seconds before she was like, "z pack. get out. don't touch anything."

i know i said i was going to write about love and dudes all month, but since i spent a week captive in my hot, sexy bed, you hoes get to hear all about THAT. ahahahahaha suckers. first thing, let's talk about how fucking happy antibiotics make me! seriously, cartwheel-happy. you filthy hippies are going to have to get in the back seat on this one, because in my car, we believe in ILLIN. penicillin, amoxicillin, all that beautiful shit. i would take capsules full of battery acid if it meant i could beat the shit out of this lung business and keep the party going, so what do i care about a little course of antibiotics?

why do some dudes HATE them so much?! i could probably google the shit and find out quicker, but if any of you armchair physicians want to fill me in that would be incredible. but for reals, what's the big problem? is it the yeast infections? if so, PSHAW. i'd rather spend three days trying to rub my vagina against a cheese grater to get some relief than piss thumbtacks or spend more than a day with a cough that sounds like my chest is full of quarters. monistat is a hell of a lot cheaper when you actually have a paycheck to buy some. no one ever gave me any money for sitting around my house steaming out some vile infection or whatever it is you earthy crunchies do with yourselves.

what i did over my midwinter vacation, by samantha.
grade four, ms. mitman's homeroom.

i watched A LOT of tv. man, so much delicious televisiony goodness! when i was a kid and spent the first day of school sitting indian-style (RACIST) on some itchy carpet listening to everyone talk about what they did over the summer, i was always mystified by the amazing, faraway-sounding places those little snot-nosed brats had spent their junes and julys exploring, when all i'd done was literally melted myself into the carpet directly in front of the television from 7 am until 9 pm. maybe i rode my bike around the block a few times or spent the odd summer at a day camp down the street, but i MOSTLY watched cartoons (alone), read books (alone), played with barbies and jem (alone), and ate popsicles (alone). and tuna salad with macaroni served on beds of lettuce because that was all my mother "cooked" when it was hot as balls.

i always thought those kids had to be lying. or had "big imaginations," which is what you say when a little kid is fucking making shit up all the time. i figured they read a lot of roald dahl or whatever and sat in their rooms like i did concocting these fantastical fairy tales before retelling them to the class during sharing time. this, of course, was before i knew the fucking meaning of POOR. and that we were it. and that real people actually got on planes and took their children with them. so my answer every year was "watched tv" until i was ten and said "went to australia." where i lived in the streets and had a pet kangaroo and whiled away my days feasting on koala meat. that i'd killed with a spear, naturally. my mom picked me up later that day and swatted me on the bottom for big imaginationing to my teacher (that wicked witch called home!), and if i ever embarassed her and big imaginationed AGAIN, she was going to wash my mouth out with dish soap.

i didn't do a whole lot of sleeping.
i watched:
-big love season 3 (so good)
-nip/tuck season 4 (so good and thank you angie)
-tiger's weaksauce apology (barf)
-the view (awful, hate SO MUCH)
-eight nba games
-lots of wrestling (love)
-the family that preys (i might have watched this six entire times. for cereal. for some reason i have free showtime, a bitch has cable now!, THREE channels of it, and they ALL were showing this movie. like, 150 times. serrrrriously. i watched every time there wasn't something better on. and every time that hot bald dude slaps andrea so hard she flies over the counter i screamed, "you go, boy!" or something else tyler perry-esque.)
-ABDC (i kept it locked!)
-a bunch of episodes of 16 and pregnant (horrifying)
-PTI and around the horn every single day (what can i say? i love tony kornheiser!)
-judge mathis (you already know)
-a keeping up with the kardashians marathon (including khloe's wedding to lamar odom and the one where khlamydia flushes her retainer down the toilet by accident? what? what did you say? one of them isn't named khlamydia?! oh.)
-every episode of young and the restless that soapnet replayed saturday night (did you know that eddie winslow from family matters is on that shit now?! i almost shit myself! i kept waiting for urkel to burst through the door. the last time i heard about that dude was when superhead made that video saying he liked it up the butt. ahahaha what a loser. ps, he TOTALLY looks like a crackhead now. hilaaaaaaaaaarious.)
-this radiohead special called "live from the basement" which was 100% AMAZING. ridiculously so. these dudes sat in a studio and played the in rainbows record from start to finish. no awkward intros, no shitty commercials. radiohead is one of those bands that requires that i own every single thing they've ever recorded that i can get my grimy little mitts on, so of course i locked up the cat and turned the volume on my tiny tv all the way up and didn't move until it was over. so so so so good.
-a shitload of documentaries, my favorite, including a dazzling one about annie leibovitz that made me cry.
-speaking of tears, i watched philadelphia twice because amc showed it twice, and in addition to crying like i hadn't already seen it thirty times, i decided that i want a gay husband just like antonio banderas. except not gay. and maybe not latino because i can't handle a whole lot of spicy food. or suavitel. anyracist, i need somebody advocating for me and pushing people out of my way and yelling at doctors on my goddamned behalf. sitting in a courtroom gallery being all supportive while i get on the witness stand and admit to a room full of people that i'd banged some hot piece in a dingy movie theater. they don't make husbands like that anymore! all these sensitive bitches who get salty if you cheat on them (oh boo hoo, crybaby) and would leave you if you try to give them AIDS. wack. they don't make life partners like miguel anymore, that's for sure. that hospital scene when andy is blind and dying and just beat the pants off wyant wheeler to the tune of 5 million dollars and denzel leaves and his family leaves and the doctor leaves and it's just him and his lovah and miguel is crying and kissing his fingers and he struggles to take off the oxygen mask and he croaks "miguel, i'm ready" and you just sort of feel his little soul ascending to heaven always fucking kills me. *dead* then that neil young song starts and i had to change the channel so i wouldn't have a meltdown. and i was crying and ache-y with a face full of bubbling snot and i thought, "miguel, i'm ready," and laid down to die. but i didn't. because bronchitis isn't deadly apparently. fuck! so then i got up and sat down in the shower until helen knocked the soaps on the ledge into the tub and ruined my shath. or bower? ugh, whatever.

speaking of helen keller, i discovered what that little scamp does all day: NOTHING. she just sleeps. and lays next to her food bowl while she grazes. and craps a lot. she ran out monday because i was in and out doing the laundry, but other than that she was an inert lump. totally boring.

i read:
-"the lacuna" by barbara kingsolver (i like "animal dreams" and "poisonwood bible" better)
-"my booky wook" by russell brand (hysterical)
-"case histories" by kate atkinson (read this)
-"the brief wondrous life of oscar wao" by junot diaz (please please read this)
-"the ha ha" by dave king (please please PLEASE read this)

i listened to:
-"parc avenue" by plants and animals, which is sort of freak folk-ish, but don't let that deter you. be brave! i hate devendra banhart and joanna newsome and all those other freakyfolky jerks with a passion, but i really like this album a lot. you'll probably hate it.
-"songs for silverman" by ben folds, and i'm sure you think he's an asshole but I REALLY LOVE BEN FOLDS.
-still totally obsessed with "teen dream" by beach house.
-some dude made me a cd of unreleased dilla beats, and because i'm a nerd i sat in my bed and made up stupid lyrics for those songs, which i will rap for the next person to hand me a hundred dollar bill. that i get to KEEP.
- listened to radiohead's "hail to the thief" that day i wanted to die, because that shit sounds like a FUNERAL DIRGE. terrifying. but i love it.
-plus, randomly: lots of peaches and avenue d (they keep me sexy!), psapp, asteroid galaxy tour (i have this live record that is ASTONISHING), paul wall (shut up), ely guerra, the grates, and these raggedy old sufjan four-track christmas records that are really beautiful because that dude only makes the most beautiful music.

i should have warned you black readers to skip that section. but i am forever holding out hope that you might start listening to the shit i love oh so much.

i ate:
virtually nothing. because when you're sick everything tastes like boogers. salty boogers. garlicky boogers. sugary boogers. but boogers nonetheless. gag me.
so i lost fifteen pounds and that rules. these anorexics obviously have something right. man, who knew?! i need to get myself a little red bracelet and start hanging out with some fifteen-year-olds. amazing! i don't ever want to get better!

your eyes better be tired after reading all of this. ESPECIALLY those of you who complained to me personally, yet were loathe to be on my doorstep armed with nutrients and and entertaining stories from the real world. thank god for melissa, who brought me shit, like, FOUR TIMES. the rest of you are getting written out of my will. that bitch gets everything.

speaking of melissa, we were in whole foods (i feel so fresh and healthy when i'm there) so i could buy fruit and shit (momentarily possessed by new age sensibilities; not to worry, i'm over it now) and we were talking about what a stupid douchebagandahalf john mayer is, and it was the best (clean) public fun i've had in a long time. what a dumbass, eh? just shut the fuck up, dude! i write all the time about how my bedpost notches range from cafe au lait to iced mocha to black with no sugar (for serious! i always get these dudes with attitudes! BARF), but i'd never be like "i have the NAACP of vaginas." well, maybe i would. of course i would! i'd be an imbecile not to. that's fucking hilarious!

BUT. it wouldn't be such a big deal because 1 i'm not shooting my snatch off in a national magazine and 2 who the fuck cares what black people say?! isn't that the deal we took in place of our reparations? the right to commit any race-based offense without persecution?! if i'm wrong, please tell every black comedian in the history of ever who's started a joke with "you know why white people so weird...?!" all i know is when i got the "negro rules" handbook at my black mitzvah, rule one stated: "you are allowed to say anything about any other race you damned well please whenever you damned well feel like saying it;" rule two: "cornrows are NOT acceptable in a professional environment (unless your profession involves sports or rap music);" and rule three: "your elbows need lotion."

so FUCK JOHN MAYER. that dude has the doughy face of a bitch in liver failure and uses it to make weird fucky faces when he plays his stupid guitar. you dudes aren't listening to his dumb ass anyway.

i'm glad to be back in the land of the living. and you should be glad, too, because my next post will be about how much i loooooove.


(hot and sexy) coda: i never heard from mrmussel, quel surprise!, which is proof positive in my book that not only do steroids cause you to murder your children and set your house on fire, but they also SHRINK YOUR PENIS.

stupid pussy.

Friday, February 12, 2010

mister muscle.

dudes are so fucking weird.
so yesterday i got an email from this dude i met SIX MONTHS ago. you read that right. six effing months. the time span between the vernal and autumnal equinox elapsed between when i made his acquaintance and the next time he contacted me. *sigh*

he didn't automatically gross me all the way out like most dudes. well...he grossed me out a little. i've already told you how much i love a good nickname, but what i love THE MOST is being called "honey" or "sweetheart" or "darling" or whatever. seriously! maybe it's because i'm such a piece of shit. or because i wasn't loved enough as a child. whatever the case may be, i'm a total sucker for a bitch who calls me "sugar." gooey putty in the hands of a whore who tacks "angel" onto the end of a sentence aimed in my general direction. really, i'll giggle and coo and all that. i fucking love it. the trick is, there's always a goddamned trick with me, a dude can't do it too soon. or too fucking much. because then i get all weird and sketched out and want to punch him and stuff. baby talk is a fucking deal breaker, too. ugh.

so this dude. please, sociologists and relationship experts among us, fucking explain to me what the deal is with big giant ripped-as-shit motherfuckers panting after fat chicks? just like with gym dude (if you do not know to whom that refers, stop fucking reading this RIGHT NOW and search through the archives for a blog entitled "fat fuck!" read the whole thing, and every other piece you've missed, and then come back and join the rest of the class. dismissed!), that mountain of steroid-addled physical perfection, this dude had no neck and those extra shoulder bumps (i'm not a goddamned personal trainer, bitch, i don't know what them shits are called!) and you could trace his pecs/abs/traps/delts/glutes (i have no idea what i am talking about) with your finger through his shirt. rawr.

muscles don't mean shit to me. really, they don't. all they do is serve as a reminder of how out of shape i am, and there are plenty of staircases around that do that job quite nicely on their own thank you. but i get hollered at a ridiculous amount by dudes so into working out that they have barbells next to the bed in case they wake up in the middle of the night with an insatiable urge to tricep curls. (is that a real exercise?) i've stubbed my toe 632 times trying to run and do the after-sex pee and spare myself a UTI. fucking awesome, right? trading antibiotics and orange pee for taped-together toes and a pronounced limp. RAD.

but more often than not the dude sidling up next to me at the bar works out ten times a week and has muscle milk (fuck you dudes, barf) and vitamin water (in the ass this time) lining the shelves in his refrigerator. i'm always mystified at the end of the sleepover, standing barefoot in some asshole's kitchen trying to remember whether or not i had socks on when i got there, staring into the fridge at a bunch of candy-colored "water" (suck it, for reals) and energy bars. where is the container of cake frosting? the half-eaten tube of cookie dough? the leftover pizza? the doggie bag from the cheesecake factory? the 12-pack of diet coke? the brick of cheddar cheese that you peel the cellophane back and nibble from while you sit on the toilet or watch teevee?

where is the fucking FOOD?!

and why can't i find any goddamned paper towels?! jesus christ, men, BUY PAPER TOWELS. i feel like it's too much to ask a single human-type male to have things like hand towels or dish towels or decent sinkside soap, but is a roll of brawny too much of a goddamned commitment? and maybe i'm weird (i'm TOTALLY weird!) but i not only have two different types of dish soap, i have two different kinds of HAND SOAP available, too. i told you dudes, i like options. sometimes i like warm, spicy hands, and sometimes i like fresh, lemony hands. shut up, you. (sur la table makes this amazing lemon verbena business that i am totally in love with. ladies, go get you some.)

i know it's a whole lot to ask, but could you also buy something other than dial or irish spring or axe for the bathroom? how many of you girls have cracked your face into seven million pieces after washing your makeup off in some dude's grody shower? it's bad enough you have to walk around the rest of the day smelling like a leprechaun's taint, but you have to do it with a dry, itchy, tight-ass face.

let's not get too cute. i have a prostitute bag just like everybody else does, but sometimes you have no idea that you'll need it until you're already desperately smearing old spice deodorant under your arms because you have to be at work in fifteen minutes and homeboy lives twenty minutes away from your apartment and you already wasted four precious minutes scrubbing the crotch of your underwear with shampoo because it was the only thing you could find that didn't smell like a bath house and you will be written up YET AGAIN if you show up at work late so there's no time to go home for a fresh pair. i will indulge those of you who want to pretend not to know what a prostitute bag is (or have one, LIARS), and explain exactly what it is.

when you've been hollering at a dude long enough to sleep over at his crib once or twice a week, you have to have a bag OTHER THAN THE ONE YOU USE FOR WORK OR SCHOOL set aside specifically for those nights. it's like a pregnant lady's "oh my god i'm about to shit out this baby!" hospital bag, except WAY SEXIER. mine is a relatively inconspicuous black kate spade tote, full to the brim with underwear, a switchblade, deodorant, aquaphor, spare socks, FACE WASH, and an all-purpose moisturizer. i also keep a novel in there, because most dudes are wack and fucking boring. losers.

no condoms, though. oh, pipe down. here's why. because i cannot EVER have this awkward experience EVER happen to my ass again:
one of my very first boyfriends (i'm dyyyying to say who, damn these ethics) was incredibly cocksure (bwahahaha!) about the size of his johnson. i mean, TOLD ME ABOUT IT OVER DINNER proud of it. so we dated and dated and dated until finally we had the "hey, do you want to just come over and watch a movie?" conversation. of course i did. i'm pretty much all systems go after ten minutes in the presence of a hot piece, and all that formality dating is a total fucking drag. let's get you out of them pants!

so i packed my slut stachel and left dude's address on the message board so my roommate would know where to direct the police in the case of my disappearance, and i filled the ford up with gas (do my long-term bitches remember that car? damn it was amazing! amazingly terrible) and set off on my journey. i detoured to walgreens, that ghetto ass 24-hour one at howard and western that used to sell booze late at night, to get a six pack of honey brown (worst beer ever, but it was dude's JAM) and an economy-sized package of rubbers.

prior to that moment i had never before actually purchased condoms. i'd used them, sucked them, squirted lube on them, and rolled them down bananas, but never actually stood in a drugstore line with them tucked sheepishly under my arm or hidden beneath the november issue of elle in my basket. i never new there were so many different KINDS. and they're all lined up like candy in their multi-colored boxes; the multitude of options and special features was positively overwhelming. what is a reservoir tip? does it need to glow in the dark? is sheepskin made from an actual SHEEP, or is that some sexy euphemism? would my pleasure need ribbing?! how could i possibly know?!?!!

the biggest quandary of all, of course, was: WHAT SIZE DO I GET? are black dudes insulted by regular old trojans? would white dudes balk at a box of magnums? how do you ask without looking like an asshole?!

the truth is there's no way NOT to look like a fucking idiot, at least a little bit, so i did the next best thing. i found a dude about his height, weight, and shoe sze standing in the laundry aisle and asked him to get his dick out. just funnin'. really, i bought eight different types and brands of varying lengths and widths and texture, then shoved them all in my bag and hoped they wouldn't fall out if i ran into anyone i knew in the parking lot.

it was a bonafide cocknucopia.

so i got to his place and we watched motherfucking STATE PROPERTY. i keep trying to tell you how fucking stupid some of my old trade is, and maybe now you'll believe me? you probably just needed to see it in context. do you get that shit now? i know, lovers. HORRIFYING. but how stupid was i, because i still let him nail me after that?! i have the mental capacity of a goddamned fourth grader when it comes to dudes. SERIOUSLY. they are like shiny metal or bright crayons or glittery stickers, TOTAL GIRL KRYPTONITE to me. it's awful.

i just kind of dumped all the boxes on the bed and played it off. "silly me! i couldn't choose! they were all so pretty!" and he picked up the magnums. OF COURSE. and i just sat there smirking when he unzipped his pants and a garden snake tumbled out rather than the anaconda i'd been expecting. i will remind you that i prefer a hot dog to a kielbasa, because that business HURTS and my intestines are jacked up enough as it is. sheesh. but i'd been hearing tale after tale of the swashbuckling king ding-a-ling, and it was comical looking at that little vienna sausage bobbing around. it looked like an infected thumb. or an acorn. it made me giggle.

i laughed for the SAME REASON YOU WOULD if i told you i was going on a shopping spree at forever 21. that shit just doesn't look right. it would be like sticking my big toe in a hot air balloon. condoms aren't supposed to flap. or whistle. two mintues in and it sounded like my ship was at half-mast in choppy water down there. jesus. bon fucking voyage.

and i would never care if he hadn't been all "i'm so huge" and shit. i made him pull out right away and then we sat on the side of the bed and reassessed the appropriate size and shape according to the selection i'd brought. he picked out a nice, normal-sized durex that fit like oj's bloody glove, and i said, "see? isn't that so much better?!" and patted him on top of the head like a child.

a child who could tuck his entire shaft AND BALLS into a big boy condom. fucking TROID.

where the fuck were we again? i run off track too damn much.
ahhhhh, i know. arnold schwarzenigga. okay! let's continue. so i met him and he was great and nice and foxy and not too dumb. that gets you an email address, at the very least. ex-cop, current criminal justice professor, bald head, muscles, blah blah blah. like every other black dude you've ever met. you get it.

the first time he emailed me it sounded like fuck talk. in electronic form. i should have saved the shit, but it fucking embarassed me to read it so i deleted it right away. damn. anyway, it was like: hey samantha baby. how are you, sweetie? are you having a good day, baby? how was work today, baby? are you feeling okay, cutie? do you want to hang out sometime, honey? how's it going, gorgeous? do you like that, baby? when i go slow, sweetie? what about when i speed it up, honey? mmm, you like that, don't you? tell daddy how much you like it. SAY IT. tell me how much you fucking like it. BEG ME FOR IT. whose is it? i said, WHOSE IS IT?! WHAT IS MY MOTHERFUCKING NAME, BITCH?!

i may have embellished that a little bit, but you understand what i mean.

but for serious, every other word was babysweetiehoneycutie. BARF-O-RAMA, dude. i would rather a dude call me, well..."dude." or "bro." or "homie." i mean if we just fucking met. because i'm the most darling bunch of cute honeyness you will ever fucking meet, but shouldn't you get to know that first?! i met this dude at _______________ (i can't tell you, way too embarassing) for a literal thirty-five seconds. no time to establish myself as anybody's BABY. dang! find out my last name, why don't you?

maybe he actually thought it was baby?

my response email was nice and hilarious (i can't help it), yet curt and to the point on the pet name issue: FUCKING STOP IT. because that shit is gross. i like you and everything, but STOP. and he did, man. he totally DID. he stopped emailing me altogether. which didn't bother me. i don't take that shit personally. one more day without a permanent manfriend is one more day i get to eat chunky peanut butter out of the jar with my fingers in peace. one more day i get to make googley eyes at that dreadlocked purple line conductor who drives the 750am that i take to work. one more day to let my pubic hair run wild. (that waxed business grows in QUICK, no?) one more day of taking my birth control whenever it fucking occurs to me. one more day of talking public shit about the dudes i like.

one more day of being free of some lame asshole's b u l l s h i t.

i read that email yesterday and it gave me a chuckle. he offered no explanation for his absence (why would he?), and his tone was as if we'd just met the day before. i figured he was affronted by my distaste for my name change and had written him off after the third day. see ya, bitch!

but there he was, popping up in my inbox with all my facebook notices and potential eharmony matches. i should have said this in that last post, but HOW IN THE FUCK, if they have such specific matching criteria and match you on all of these different levels, do i have 935 (that number is NOT exaggerated) active matches right now? right this very second! i have NINE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE soulmates? IN ILLINOIS?! fucking hogwash. i'm sure i have 1/2 a soulmate, and he's probably reading this shit right now and thinking, "who is this silly bitch? omg, i would NEVER fuck her. what a lame-o."

want to know why i checked it?! because late yesterday afternoon i got an email that i had received a communication, which is what eharmony calls it when some douchebag wants to holler at your sexy ass. and guess who it was from?! A TINY ASIAN DUDE. and that is how you know god is a comedian. because i was JUST BITCHING about how i don't have a taste for fried rice, and then bryan from hanover park dropped me a note that he would love nothing more than to stick his eggroll in my hot buttered corn bread! or whatever soft and squishy thing black people eat. oh, wait, i've got it! in my CATFISH. hehehe i'm so fucking clever. can you even believe it?

what are the odds, right? when i say my life is ridiculous, you should believe me.

i wrote mister muscle back, of course. his email is mrmussle at, bitch! (that is HIS misspelling, not mine.) what?!?!!?! is that FUCKING PERFECT or what?! how could i not? and then he wrote me back, and he still sort of seems like an idiot. but how could i judge a man by his musculature? shouldn't i try to get to know the blood and guts underneath?! he asked if i wanted to hang tomorrow (fuck you, it's my birthday) or sunday (FUCK YOU, first date on valentine's day?! getthefuckouttahere), and finally i was just like "come to my party if you want to."

this shit was already going to be bitchlarious, and now EVEN MORE SO. if you were going to skip it YOU FUCKING SHOULDN'T. it's going to be amazing. my squirmy awkward flirtiness alone should be entertainment for hours.

if i don't die of alcohol poisoning first, i will write about the big bag of suck that is that dirty cunt valentine's day next week. i'm also going to write a blog that explains to terrence why i like long balls so much. he's been wondering. really, i am enamored of those swinging sacks!

in seven hours i will be kicking thirty years in its fucking nuts. wish me luck.

WAIT! one more thing! he just emailed me again and referenced, in all seriousness, his "milk chocolate love." this is going to be FUCKING FABULOUS.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

gimme gimme gimme.

hi, honeys. let's kick this shit off in style, shall we? i am wearing this low cut leopard print sweater business at work today, and these bitches are going CRAZY. for serious! it's too bad they all have vaginas. balls!

my birthday is in TWO goddamned days. that's exciting shit. i dry-cleaned my special occasion thong and everything. so thirty is a big fucking deal, and everyone keeps asking what they can get me. and i keep saying "nothing but your pretty face" and they keep staring blankly back at me. so i was taking a shower last night (i'll give you a minute to masturbate while envisioning that delicious image), trying as hard as i could to wash the bitch off and rinse it down the drain. to no avail. still a salty bitch and a half.

so i was toweling off (sexy), getting into my dirty pissy pajamas (sexier), and looked through the medicine cabinet for my cancer pills and tums (sexiest), and a brilliant idea washed over me. i like practical fucking gifts just as much as the next poor unfortunate soul, and i HATE for people to try and guess what i might "like" (here's a tip: ASK ME), so i decided to post my general shopping list as a reference for those of you who insist on showering me with glorious gifts.

at least shower me with some shit i can USE. it's neither comely nor glamorous, but what were you going to get in the alternative that actually IS? before i start i really want to reiterate that presents are wholly unnecessary, but if you wanna get 'em i wanna receive 'em.

i fucking love making lists. it makes my sloppy, messy ass feel like an organized bitch who has her shit together when the TOTAL OPPOSITE is true. i like to see those slanty black lines covering whatever takeout menu or stray receipt or unpaid bill i can find at the time i feel like being all put-together and stuff. it makes me feel like an adult. so there are lists in varying stages of completion littering my apartment and day bag, and my wallet is stuffed full of post-it reminder lists that i invariably find one week after i was supposed to have done whatever i wrote down.

that's why my eharmony is still active, because i forgot to notice the post-it stuck to my checkbook reminding me of the date i needed to inactivate that shit before they auto-renewed my subscription and hijacked my card. fucking wankers. they robbed me blind AND failed to find me my goddamned soulmate. is there no justice? it's probably for the better. because after honestly answering all 2,437,895 multiple-choice analytical mind fuck questions; submitting to a cat scan, physical, and blood work-up; and signing over my firstborn to dr. warren for a lifetime of indentured servitude. every asshole they sent to me was 37, from schaumburg, ready to settle down and have a bushel of younguns, and whose perfect woman would describe herself as "athletic" and "dedicated to the lord."

uh huh. um. yeah.

i described myself as "part lesbian" and "really into anal," and that's all i get? toothy, gel-head doucheknockers who aren't really into black chicks anyfuckingway? fat dudes in polo shirts posing with labradors? negroes who uploaded blurry cell phone photos so shitty that you can't even tell whether he's light-skinned or not? there are so few fucking black dudes up in that bitch that i was terrified i might be somehow related to every single one who contacted me. and our family is not that fucking big. seriously. it was like sweden or something.

THAT is what my $1800 paid for?! (not really, but considering i could have met almost every single one of these fuckholes at level on a saturday night, anything over two dollars feels like highway fucking robbery. shit.) i could probably have better luck on craigslist. because i'm not worried AT ALL about getting chopped up and shoved in a mattress or whatever. and it least then i could be specific about what i look like and what kind of junk i like to rub up on. because if you're a fetishy kind of motherfucker eharmonizing is NOT FOR YOU. you can specify what race or religion you'd be interested in, and i remember thinking "am i a racist?" when i unchecked almost every available box. "what will dr. warren think if i say i'm not into indian dudes? is the aclu monitoring this shit?!"

i mean, my vagina has valid reasons for her innate racism. for instance, i don't know any giant-ass asian dudes. sorry, i just don't. if you know one, bring him to meet me so i can adjust my prejudices accordingly. until then, i don't feel comfortable snuggling up in bed next to a dude who might disappear into one of my belly folds or get swallowed whole while trying to fuck me in the rear. okay? call me vain, but i don't want to feel like an elephant in bed with my peanut. eff that. that's the same reason why, for the most part, short dudes get the same treatment. i don't like walking around with a dude who looks like he could be my goddamned son. but i will make an exception if he's got some meat on him or a full beard. kids don't fucking have beer bellies.

and the whole "about me" section is ridiculous. how do you whittle down all this awesome into a bunch of misleading bullet points? especially one who happens to be a fickle hypocrite who changes her mind every thirty seconds? so then everything i wrote just sounded fucking stupid, like "i make good mixtapes" and "i like to eat casserole." damn dummy. i mean, would you date that idiot? my "five things you can't live without" were: oral, oral, oral, oral, and fisting. who is trying to marry that bitch?

ahahahahahaha couldn't you just see us on the commercial?!
"samantha and ja'qu'arshion were matched on august 19, 2009 and bonded over a mutual love of bacon-wrapped fried chicken dipped in mayonnaise chocolate sauce and hardcore cartoon porn. they both love gospel stage plays, bragging on the size of their dicks, and having "whose blood pressure is higher?" competitions every saturday afternoon at walgreens. samantha is a relatively unknown writer (read: secretary) that you've probably never heard of, but you may recogonize j'aquar'shion from his mulitple appearances on maury's spectacular paternitypalooza! or whatever the fuck that step n' fetchit shit is called. (STOP FUCKING EMBARASSING THE REST OF US, YOU HOODRATS.) they are third cousins on her mother's side, but since they have never been previously introduced and there will never be a family reunion we just said fuck it! match, bitches!"

one second, please: that maury coonery fucking KILLS a bitch like me. you know, a bitch from the suburbs who tries to pretend there aren't people like that in her family. and i know there are, asshole, but STILL. stop it. put a condom on. take some birth control. put a nuvaring on it. or write down which dude you fucked on which day, like i do. because THAT is the shit rush limbaugh and glenn beck are using as a barometer for our race and, like or not, they have a bigger platform than you do. i hate them too, but more people listen to THEM than they do my proper dicition and purposeful enunciation, which is all the more reason we ned to work on our "act right." (or "ack right," depending on the caliber of african-american to whom you're speaking.) and i know that there is white trash aplenty running and screaming and throwing themselves on the floor backstage, but we make up 12% of the ENTIRE POPULATION, yet are 95% of the trifling-ass paternity pool on this goddamned shitshow. now don't get me wrong, i like to laugh at a bitch named conjunctivitus and her fatherless twins pinot and grigio just as much as the next evil jerk from hell, but COME ON. stoooooooop it! please? is this really what martin luther king died for, so you could humiliate yourselves on syndicated afternoon television programming? NO, HE DID NOT. he died so that oprah could humiliate middle-aged gated-community housewives on syndicated afternoon television, and you sambos are FUCKING EVERYTHING UP.

omar is the only reason i didn't firebomb the eharmony headquarters ten minutes after my payment cleared. we went out and it didn't work but we're still goddamned friends. because that dude is HYSTERICAL, and i hate to be an arrogant pig (no i don't!), but no dudes ever really crack my shit up. at least not consistently. so thank god for that asshole. his jokes are the best. but not better than mine. i mean...PLEASE.

okay. back to those of you tearing out your lace-fronts over what to get me for the blessed event that was my emergence from my mother's hairy ass. i have snagged every wayward list posted on my fridge and floating under my bed and stashed next to the toilet and am going to compile them for you to choose from. you know, because i'm generous like that.

there are three tiers from which to choose, depending on the status of your funds and/or how much you want to bone me with the lights on. get your pens out. (gross! the one you WRITE with, dummy! ew!)

a 12 pack of charmin ultra strong, liquid tide (clean breeze scent), johnson's lavender baby oil, lemon chicken lean cuisines, gingersnaps, peach iced tea crystal light, a package of black sharpies, clorox 2, dry swiffer cloths, two boxes of swheat scoop cat litter, a case of savory salmon fancy feast, always pantiliners, 3 boxes of imodium, secret deodorant (fresh water orchid scent), bobbi brown extreme party mascara, a pack of oral-b toothbrushes, a large bottle of kiehls creme de corps, lush sultana of soap, a bottle of caldrea delicate detergent, cantaloupe jelly bellies, pilot g2 black pens, the new hot chip cd.
(i wasn't kidding. this is my real "if i ever get to target/grocery store/macys" list. holler.)

nip/tuck seasons 4 and 5 on dvd, a large bottle of jo malone french lime blossom, a fancy spa massage, hoodies, medium black emergency bags, and deep v neck shirts from american apparel, a laptop PC, payment on my com ed bill, new balance 574s from japan, a blackberry, new glasses from SEE, plates from cb2, a new desk, mac studiofix in c6 and spring bean lustreglass, a new coach wallet (my current one is gnarly), a night in a swanky hotel, a new bed/mattress/boxspring, pay off my podiatrist bill.

a flatscreen teevee, multiple pairs of chanel 1/2 black sunglasses, platinum anything from tiffany, a giant macbook pro, a condo on michigan avenue, a brand new car. i mean, i know a few ballers. get out that black amex, player.

happy birthday to me. thirty never looked so dirty.
i'm not playing.
i don't wash behind my ears and shit.

Friday, February 5, 2010

the rules.

a dude i am into fucked one of my goddamned friends, and that is the subject of today's episode of "why samantha hates everyfuckingthing and everyfuckingone."

i have 637 fucking things to say about this, all of them fucked up and bitter and stupid as hell, so pardon me if this post is a little disjointed and scattered and all over the place and crazy. plus, my neck is broken. just in case you might find a thing like that interesting. really, i should just kill myself. how can one person have so many fucking things wrong with her?!

remember when i got written about in that gut study? in that fancy medical journal? because i shit in a cup for two weeks and let nineteen goddamned people stick their fingers and scopes and probes in my asshole and drank liters of barium and vomited into plastic bags and swallowed capsule cameras and had 5 ct scans and dozens of xrays and had tubes fed down my throat and up my ass? WELL. i read that fucking article, and the list of all of my crazy body shit was fourteen (not really) pages long. but for real, sometimes when i'm taking handfuls of pills every day and getting injected with toxic, hazardous, poisonous chemicals i think to myself, "is that all there is?" because i'm over it, in the realest way. sick and tired of being literally sick and tired, i am. who the fuck else do you know that has to write "meat" on a fucking calendar because she can only have it once a week?! just reading that sentence should make YOU want to die, TOO.

and i didn't break my neck in some sexy way, contrary to popular belief. oh how i wish i gave a blowjob so good that it rendered both my neck and his penis fractured, but i broke it the conventional way, by smacking my head twice in as many days. HARD. first i hit it on a control box on the train on my way to school, then i hit it the next day on a pipe that runs along the ceiling in the basement at work. HARD. that second time i really did almost faint. goddamn. betty heard it and shouted down the stairs asking if i needed her to help me. i banged the shit out of it, and fractured a vertebrae in the process. i suppose it's good news considering that i thought i was having a heart attack yesterday morning. lori and i were in the break room and i bent down and my chest/arm/back exploded in pain.
my left arm went dead (apparently there is a pinched nerve within) and the first thing i thought was, "i am going to die on a dirty carpet covered in dog hair."
the second thing? "i never finished my fuck you list, and now those dudes will never know. and therein lies the real tragedy."

because it really isn't that sad if i die. i'm sure my insurance company would heave a huge sigh of relief (it is just NOT POSSIBLE that i will ever not be a tremendous liability), bill collectors could stop running up astronomical long distance bills trying to hunt me down for the thousands of dollars i am indebted to them, women across the nation can unshackle their husbands and boyfriends and let them see the light of day again. the sad part would be that i haven't yet had the chance to projectile vomit in a whole lot of people's stupid faces (that is repugnant imagery and for that i apologize, though i resoundingly refuse to apologize for the urge to commit said repugnant act). because a staggering number of people i hate don't fucking know it, and before i die i'd like to tell them just how much i do.

if i am ever unfortunate enough to have that pathetic conversation during which some poor shmuck doctor has to sit me down and tell me just how many minutes are left ticking away on my life's clock, i'm not going to cry. i promise you. crying is for pussies and i'm all dried up. i am going to look that asshole in right the eye and ask him EXACTLY how long i will have enough strength left in this raggedy vessel to commit multiple homicides (and i'm talking strenuous ones, like mutilations and decapitations and torture and shit), have sex with forest whitaker (shut up and fuck you), and make a few phone calls. and by "make a few phone calls" i mean "steal a car and show up on some bitches' doorsteps." ARMED.

for realsies. you know how bitches find out they have a brain tumor and do a complete 180, forsaking ho shit and hood rat stuff to spend the rest of their truncated lives making societal reparations? FUCK THAT. i'm going to spend my last days BLOWING SHIT THE FUCK UP. because i won't have to give a shit about jail. i'm going to ruin the lives of everyone who contributed to the ruin of mine, and right before i keel over i'm going to accept christ as my savior just in case this heaven business is real.
i look really good in white.

"yes i know i'm going to hell in a purple basket,
at least i'll be in another world while you're pissing on my casket."

so i was talking to a very good friend of mine who happens to be the proud owner of a working penis, and he admitted that he treats me just the tiniest bit differently because of the threadbare state of my health. this is a "friend" with whom i have shared cooties, if you will, and he was like, "eh...i was thinking about your intestines when we had sex and it sort of grossed me out." well, then. shitballs. i suppose this means i will have to lie to every future dude i ever meet, so he's not wondering whether or not he's perforated my small bowel with his hasty rabbit fucking.
broken guts, broken foot, broken neck, broken heart.

i have decided that my life is too hard. and that is wholly depressing. thoroughly irritating. because when you decide your life is too hard there isn't much else left to do. say, for instance, that you decide your life is too AWESOME. (i'm having a hard time imagining such a totally ridiculous thing, but work with me here.) so all you have to do to fix that shit is stop going to all those fabulous parties, stop fucking all those smoking hot dudes, and stop being so goddamned attractive. give away that fortune you amassed for doing absolutely fucking nothing, give back all of those designer clothes (you can actually fit them!) that just fell out of the sky and into your closet, and give your million-dollar penthouse to some homeless bitches. trade in your luxury car, skip the weekly trips to the spa/salon/masseuse/escort service, cut up all of your black and platinum cards. stop wiping your sexy ass with hundred dollar bills and flushing diamonds down the toilet.

and then guess what, kitten?! POOF. your life is not fucking awesome anymore! and you can die happy, you stupid bitch. but when you decide your life is too hard, there's nothing you can give away that might make it better. nothing you can stop doing that makes it easier. as a matter of fact, if i had to give something away right now it might even make life worse. unless i could give away this debt and these extra fucking pounds. that would be glorious. but because today's program has been brought to you courtesy of the tenth circle of hell, my dumb ass would probably be forced to give up some shit i fucking love and could never imagine living without. like nutella.

i'm pissed, man! and bummed! and exhausted. bad things keep happening to this good person and, despite what i may write, i'm not yet 100% jaded. 100% salty, yes indeed, but NOT 100% jaded. YET. but i am careening toward that end at breakneck speed (i'm never too mad for a motherfucking pun, baby!) and my hatemobile's got recalled toyota brakes on it. because i worry now that being such a miserable bag of barf will continue to push people further away from having any contact (physical or otherwise) whatsoever with me, and how much worse will it be once i'm past the jaded point of no return? the line between silly and savage is a thin one, and the flimsy veneer shrouding these "jokes" is sometimes a little more transparent than i'd like it to be.

well, whatever the fuck ever. i've never been too preoccupied with being nice before, so why start now? i'm always so damned angry and rife with discontent. i am mean, vile, disconsolate, indigent, crestfallen, selfish, crass, hostile, churlish, irascible, splenetic, vexed, acrimonious, sarcastic, petulant, indignant, belligerent, caustic, awful, and grotesque. (my vocabulary is fucking preposterous.)

also, i am drunk.

i must become the lion-hearted girl, ready for a fight.
first of all, i just want it noted how totally NOT FAIR a situation like this is for the bitch in my predicament. no, wait. first first of all i would like the record to show that i'm going to be thirty in eight fucking days and my life yet remains an absolutely appalling after school special. chock full of crushes and heartbreak and bad skin, doubt and shame and crippling insecurity. it's a real-live episode of degrassi fucking high, without the stupid canadian accents.

thank god for music, otherwise you might have left your house this morning to find me attached to your exhaust pipe. and no, not THAT ONE, you fucking perverts. just like in high school, when the smashing pumpkins "siamese dream" and juliana hatfield's "become who you are" were the soundtrack to my misery, i have turned to the cd player's warm embrace for solace during this laughable point in my history. this is what i am listening to on incessant repeat, and you should consider this a directive to download these albums posthaste, in their entirety. none of that 99 cent single download bullshit: "contra" vampire weekend, "team dream" beach house, "lungs" florence and the machine, and "phrazes for the young" julian casablancas. you have forty bucks lying around, i know it. or most of you bastards find the shit for free and download it that way. so no excuses. just go get them. immediately.

i had a really good dinner last night, and that makes things better, doesn't it? my weekly meat allowance cozied up next to a mound of potatoes, with some asian slaw and broccolini. at bandera, my new favorite place i'd like to go to more often than i can conceivably afford. then vodka chased by bottles of wine. that really makes shit a whole lot fucking better. because who the fuck cares when you're drunk?! i really could give two shits about anything when i'm wasted. maybe the solution is that i need to be wasted more goddamned often.

anyway, my place in line sucks total dogshit asshole because 1 he isn't my boyfriend 2 he isn't my boyfriend 3 he isn't my boyfriend 4 he isn't my boyfriend 5 he isn't my boyfriend 6 he isn't my boyfriend 7 he isn't my boyfriend 8 he isn't my boyfriend 9 unrequited paramours aren't legally off limits. i consulted the friend rules, and on page "you're an idiot" it specifically states that your friends can fuck a dude you like who would rather be lobotomized fully awake than take you on a date. so i don't even get to be, like, MAD. i get to be hurt. or sad. or depressed. but MAD is off fucking limits. it's off the table. i can stare longingly at MAD across the room and wish like hell i could get all up in it, but alas i cannot. i'm stuck over here snuggled up with miffed, and that is total weaksauce.

but here's what's weird: i've talked to this bitch 137 times this week, and she failed to mention it. and it. happened earlier. this. fucking week. not a word! not even a little hint of a peep. which just makes everything feel all dishonest and sneaky and WACK. because if you aren't doing anything shameful, you don't have to keep it a secret. i'm the QUEEN of doing shame-filled shady shit, and i put that shit up on the INTERNETS. because i don't give a fuck. so when people who are candid to a fault clam up and tell lies of omission, that makes me want to punch someone. right in her dirty mouth.

this is not the first time some shit like this has happened. as a matter of fact, it wouldn't be going out on toomuch of a limb to say that this is happening CONSTANTLY to me. because i have a lot of dumb ass friends. and a lot of cute friends. i do NOT have a whole lot of funny friends. and i have said before and will say again that when you are funny and you don't take yourself too fucking seriously and you talk about filthy vagina scum in public, bitches want to be your friend. oh my goodness do they want to be your friend! what they DON'T want to be is your boyfriend.

now sometimes they want to bang you just to see if all that shit you said was true (IT IS), but that's boring. i've been banged. yawn. i want a motherfucker to make ME laugh and be smart and interesting sometimes. sport fucking has its place, for sure, but i am old (and don't forget DISGUSTINGLY SICK) and relatively terrified of communicable disease. and while i'm not quite ready to retire my birth canal, sometimes i just want to riff on some bullshit on the teevee and go eat pancakes and stuff with a hot dude who has low-hanging balls. i mean, seriously. can't we tell jokes and talk shit and take a gander at at each other's privates? how old does one have to be before one can begin searching for a "companion" rather than a "boyfriend?" can i just fast forward to whatever age that fucking is?! i'm tired! and these youngsters keep hurting my fucking feeeeeeelings all the time!

"the rich or the poor, muslims or jews
when roles are reversed, opinions are too."

i think i was a touch too young to know what was up when that rules book (written by those two bitches who look like fucking scarecrows, EGADS) first came out, but i do remember all of the hullabaloo surrounding that bad girl. rules women don't date a man for more than two years. rules women never call a man first. rules women go to parties even when they don't feel like it. blah. all that shit is excruciatingly painful. and who the FUCK can remember all of it?! do i call him after 7 days or after 17 days?! should he pinch my nipples first or do i pinch his?! HELP!!!!

i would like to make one simple rule that everyone, men and women ALIKE, should abide by. could you assholes please be perfectly clear, even to the point of brutal honesty, about your intent as far as your relationship with me is concerned? thank you kindly. i would really appreciate it. i mean, you should probably be clear with each other as well. if you're having trouble conceptualizing what i'm talking about, let me help you envision it. as always, i will use myself as an example.


so here goes nothing:
a hot, virile dude with a massive uncircumsized penis is in attendance at a show in which i am reading. i "blaze the stage" as they kids say, regaling the rapt, wide-eyed audience perched at the edges of their seats with lewd and disgusting tales of my past sexual debauchery. he's sitting in the front row, getting spit on and loving it, drinking in every word. he thinks i'm so funny! and he thinks i'm so smart! and hilarious! and witty! (it's amusing how many different ways bitches try to tell me they think i'm "funny." but you know motherfuckers ain't got no damn vocabulary. just say i made you laugh so hard that a little poo squeezed out, or something new and entertainting just like that.) after the show, he stands around shifting from foot to foot, nervously waiting for me to finish the seven beers i like to have after i read, hovering at the end of the bar. finally he picks up his skirt, grabs his balls, and decides to come holler at my sweaty ass. he stutters and stammers his way through an introduction, then tells me how totally righteous i am. and i love it. and we exchange numbers and chat it up and are feeling all warm and groovy until it really is too fucking late to be awake for a second longer. in my head i'm thinking, "maybe this could be something...?" getting all full of gorgeous butterfiles and excitement.

when he suddenly clasps my hands between his and looks deeply into my eyes and says, "listen sam, i am totally uninterested in dating you. do you hear me? i mean it. SERIOUSLY. i think you're funny and i want to talk to you every single day for the rest of my retarded life. i will sit front row at all your shit, make everyone i know read your blog, and reference you CONSTANTLY in my every day conversation. i will take you to dinner and buy your drinks in bars, i will call you and talk in my bedroom voice late at night, but i am never going to sleep with you. don't bother picturing me naked, or playing the fantasy future game in your head. don't talk to your friends about me. don't make me a mix cd. you never have to dress up when you know you're going to see me. you don't have to shave or clean your apartment or comb your hair or brush your teeth or shower. i want to copy all your music and go to bears games and heckle stand-up comedians, but you will NEVER SEE MY DICK. you can dream about it, because i will say vague and suggestive things that supply you with an endless amount of false hope, but dreaming is all it will ever be. i will seek your counsel about every single encounter i have with a woman, i will tell you about that stripper i fucked when i was supposed to be at your party, i will introduce you to the vacuous sub-human piece of garbage to whom i have proposed and plan to wed, and i will expect you to smile through all of it. i promise to remind you how superior to her you are in every way, EXCEPT for whatever reason it is i have chosen her in your stead. she's impossibly dumb, and she's a fucking asshole, but it's her short straw i've chosen. you can cry on my shoulder if you want, because i understand what a total letdown this is. but you'll get over it. you're a good egg. and i love you like a sister. a tiny little infant sister that i would never in a million years have romantical feelings for. i mean it. I LOVE YOU. but don't get your hopes up or anything. so what do you think about this dress? do you think my girlfriend will like it?!"

because that is shitty, but it is honest. and i'll take honest and lame over vague and uncertain any day of the goddamned week. and twice on sunday. so let's all make a pact, can we? if you meet someone, and you will never want to fuck him/her, you have a duty to say so. within the first three interactions, so that no one gets any funny ideas. and if you don't hove the cojones to come right out and say it, keep alluding to a mystery girlfriend or something. just let a bitch down easy, okay? i've burned the skin off my fucking fingertips checking my goddamned phone every thirty seconds the past few months, waiting for word from one "friend" or another whom i'd really like to be a "FRIEND," if you know what i mean.

you don't wanna fuck me? fine. JUST TELL ME. i'll live. and then maybe i'll stop looking at you like a fucking corned beef sandwich. fucking simpletons.

"all that i can do is sing a song of faded glory
all you got to do is sit there, look great, and make them horny.
together we'll sing songs and tell exaggerated stories,

about the way we feel today, in the night, and in the morning."

Tuesday, February 2, 2010


i just decided, just this second, that i'm going to only write about love this month. it's february, right? isn't that what you whores do?! spend all month wearing red sweaters and plaiting red bows in your hair? waking up every morning to cut hearts out of red construction paper and glue them to white doilies and sprinkle them with glitter? fucking perfect! i see you, arranging vases of red long-stemmed roses and pink gerbera daisies and yellow tulips, reciting pablo neruda poetry, and humming "draw me a circle" under your breath. daydreaming while you wash the dishes, stars twinkling in your eyes. i know who you are, biting into poisonous apples and sliding into glass slippers before tiptoeing off with prince charming's name burning your lips.

i am such an asshole all of the fucking time. and i know, it's BORING. i know it, lovers, i really do. i can hear you muttering to yourselves out there in cyberspace:
"you should be on medication."
"don't you EVER have a good day, bitch?"
"does ANYTHING make you fucking happy?!"

and the answer, quite simply, is no. BUT. i am secretly a lovesick romantic, so you sluts are going to get a month of hot swoony navel-gazing. i'm irritated already, but i promise i'll try not to be so mean and nasty. as a matter of fact, there are a limitless number of things that REALLY DO make me squeal with delight and collapse in a fit of giggles. a few of which are:

the song "zebra" by beach house, kittens, christian bale, dirty text messages, fancy beer, bliss soapy sap, chicken soup from cozy, my houndstooth coat, new glasses, keith olbermann, boxes from amazon, hot sox, dudes who smell good, charmin extra strong toilet paper, amanda glasbrenner, gossiping about dumb shit, jokes, talking on the phone late at night, clean sheets, la roux, dlisted, silver bracelets, scarves, brunch, talking so much shit, political debates, hotels, having my toes sucked, nightclubs, tizi melloul, writing this filthy whore blog, daft punk, hardcore pornography, obscenely tall people, reminding you how smart i am, having the dopest shit in my ipod, paul mooney, aziz ansari, fantasizing about hot smart dudes, conquering said hot smart dudes, money in my bank account, modern art, shanghai coladas from ben pao, maya liparini, writing my new trollop shit

i can't stop listening to "zebra." seriously. like, 137 times this afternoon alone. i am officially obsessed, i think. at this point it is a veritable sickness. i also can't get enough of "static x" by andrew bird. and "map of your head" by muse. but you kids are probably too hip for that shit, what with your gucci mane and your little wayne. tsk tsk.

"this is why i hate crushes. first of all, i tend to be a one at a time type and it is so fucking annoying. and then everything else seems boring and like waste of time. if i was asexual i'd probably be some kind of world-renowned physicist or author or something by now."
i was talking to my gorgeous ginger amanda, author of the glorious quote above, the other day about how much royal fucking ass it totally sucks to be in your late twenties and still have unrequited motherfucking crushes. it's just so goddamned stupid. and exhausting. seriously! devoting what little chunks of brain matter i have left floating around this raggedy cranium to in-depth analysis of the teeniest, weeniest little scrap of bullshit some assface dude says or does. or DOESN'T DO. it just makes me so tired, all of this thought. all this painful thinking and consternation, calling in my team of experts (ie, other bitches who don't have a fucking clue) and making them scroll through my text messages and emails, trying to decipher whether or not some dickhole who probably has raging chlamydia or can't fucking read likes me or likes me likes me. it's draining! i could be a UN interpreter with all of this fucking practice. an interpreter with a very specific set of skills, mind you. i don't speak french, i don't read lips, and the only "negotiating" i'd be capable of doing with a terrorist is the horizontal kind, but i can look at a text that says "c u soon!" with one eye while in a coma butt naked on the top of mount kilimanjaro while being burned alive and determine whether or not the sender wants to mount me or just wants me to tap dance and tell him jokes while he runs off to fuck someone dumb and uncomplicated.

and here i lie, prostrate atop a testosterone tide, imagining all the fabulous places i could be going with all these dudes who have no interest in fucking me. on the precipice of thirty. BLAH. i'm like fucking angela chase. angela chase with seven goddamned jordan catalanos. which is traaaaaagic. now don't get me wrong, i loved that shit. but ANGELA was fifteen (and, uh, fictional) and SAMANTHA is twice that. and desperate and severe. AND REAL. it's awful. i mean, at this point i'd holler at brian krakow. shit, at least he was SMART. and he loved her. outright! he wasn't all cagey and weird like these newfangled dudes. fuckers.
so here's something horrifying. i was talking to this nice young man whose acquaintance i made recently, and he was talking about what is essentially his romantic modus operandi. which basically distills down to one sentence: "i don't sweat NOBODY." well that's heartening, isn't it?! i cannot even describe how i filled up with love and sweetness and happy feelings the moment he uttered those precious words. the fact that he wasn't even talking about me notwithstanding, i immediately started to glow with all of love's possibilities. because this is what it's LIKE now, am i wrong? dudes so worried that they might APPEAR TO ACTUALLY LIKE YOU that they inadvertantly behave like bloody assholes?! like i said, HORRIFYING.
so if the crushing weren't, well, crushing enough, you THEN have to deal with dudes who really do want to crack open your wishbone acting all shady and elusive! it spins the head and boggles the mind. fuckers. i spent the entirety of my teens mooning about, lost in thought over any number of handsome devils who occupied the seat next to me in chemistry or biology or latin american history. ha. unrequited every single last one of them, but that hasn't stopped me from having about a billion and a half more.

because i'm fucking stupid.

i have a stomach full of butterflies RIGHT NOW waiting on some goddamned dude (one whom i managed NOT to have a high school crush on and reconnected with a week ago) to re-confirm
some plans, and i hate it. because they aren't pretty little sunshine butterflies, they're dirty grey moths of impending doom. they're like "just wait until he disappoints you" gutterflies, sloshing through my stomach acid and corn chex (with soymilk, of course), making me want to vomit. that's really all this game ever ends up being, the race to fucking disappointment. i should keep a chart, recording how many days lapse between breathless inception and bitter demise.

i wish i could prevent it from happening, but i haven't yet located the switch in the brain that turns off the ability to swoon with reckless abandon. if i could i would. it would save me a shit ton of heartbreak. and i don't have a heroic amount of self-control. i'm sorry, SUE ME. i'm human, not a fucking vagina-less robot. these motherfuckers be getting all up in my estrogen and shit.

i mean, why dudes gotta be so cute? and why they gotta smell so good? and be all smart and sexy and hilarious? why they gotta have nice smiles? and hot outfits? why they gotta be so charming? why they gotta be so goddamned talented? and have such creamy voices? why they gotta look at me like that? and call me while i'm in bed? and say nice things to me? why they gotta like good music? why they gotta laugh at the shit i say? why they gotta get my number? why they gotta hang out with me in dimly-lit places? why they gotta have such nice hands? and such handsome faces? why they gotta touch me like that? why they gotta curl my toes?!

and why they gotta be so lame? and act all distant? why they gotta be so cavalier? why they gotta act so cool? why they gotta not call for a week? why they gotta not sweat me? why they gotta think i'm more funny than fuckable? why they gotta be so vague? why they gotta not make plans in advance? why they gotta no call no show? why they gotta give me the little sister treatment? why they gotta try and get written about? why they gotta disappear? then REappear just when i thought i was over them?! why they gotta put bass in their voice? and pick dumbass fights? why they gotta holler at my friends? why they gotta confide in me about bitches i ain't and NEVER have a chance of becoming? why they gotta text constantly when they're out with me? why can't they stay the whole night? or cook breakfast in the morning? why they gotta forget my birthday? or spill shit on my good bedspread? why they gotta think we're still "just friends" after they've put their weenie in me?!

this is bullshit. and i totally fucking hate it. but because i try to be optimistic and hold out hope that i, too, might experience the heretofore unobtainable joy that is REQUITED love i keep fighting the good fight and getting my face kicked in every. single. time. fuck, man. but i know how much you love reading about it, and i use that fact to console my withered old vagina.
i told you i was going to write about love. i just didn't guarantee that you would love it. or that it will ever love you back.