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.