Tuesday, March 30, 2010

dusty trick bitch.

this post is kind of a cheat. no pun intended. i wrote this little bit of a piece for our trollop show in january. you know, the one most of you bitches decided to skip in favor of licking some dude's grody old balls or sticking your thumb in your butts or whatever. listen, i don't care anymore. i'm over it. OBVIOUSLY. when the dvd of the show is finished i'll be able to show you better than i can tell you here, but simbryt and akilah sang robin thicke's "teach you a lesson," and between the verses i read this bullshit, then did a hilarious vamp at the end. i'll send you the dvd when i get it, i swear. just use your imaginations or something.
hot for teacher.

so i decided to go back to school a year ago. and it was a really agonizing, excruciating decision. not because this bitch is dumb. and not because this bitch is broke. but because this bitch is getting OLD.

it has taken me longer than i’d like to admit to realize that my goddamned ass is old. but slowly and surely i am fucking catching on. i have to exfoliate every day, and i have to use night cream. i have arthritis in my foot. i have to use a bra with more than two hooks. i have a grody little patch of chin stubble that has to be “dealt with” regularly. i read the fucking new yorker. and i like to be in bed with a book by ten o’clock. at night. when i was a hot young trollop i’d get home at ten in the fucking morning, rinse with listerine, slap on another coat of deodorant, and roll right back out of the house and go to work. i kept changes of clothes in the trunk of my car, and a ziploc full of makeup in the glove box. i spent every day straddling last night’s hangover and today’s buzz, and my skin still looked like i washed it with angel tears. not so today. these days i need 27 hours of sleep and a bucket of fresh virgin blood to look halfway decent in the morning.

youth is fleeting and elusive, and staying ahead of the curve just grows increasingly more difficult the earlier you go to bed and the more money that accrues in your 401k. the first day of school i realized i was totally in over my fucking head. these kids nowadays are skinnier than you could possibly imagine, and they’re so fucking fashionable with their painted-on jeans and colorful hoodies and oversized plastic glasses. it made me feel like my own grandmother that first day, walking in wearing my sensible gym shoes and appropriately-sized sweater.

what the FUCK is the deal with the young girls and their preemie-sized outfits?! is it really too much to ask a bitch to cover her motherfucking c-section scar?! i mean, goddamn. i have pubic hair too, bitch, but the difference is that MY hidden rainforest remains just that: HIDDEN.

so i don’t have the right hair. definitely don’t have the right shoes, and my clothes are a dead giveaway that i have what some might call “personal responsibility.” or, a “full time job.” i hate everything about this shit: i hate shiny linoleum floors, i hate the bulletin boards papered with ads for clubs that’ll never gain membership and raggedy ass books people are trying to sell that no one wants to buy.

essentially, i am a miserable bag of shit that should’ve pulled her ass together twelve years ago and gotten a degree before her breasts looked like those of some indigenous head-basket women being fed by sally struthers. but i couldn’t, because real life got in the way. or maybe i just didn’t. or worse, WOULDN’T.
but you know what I don’t hate? young fucking dudes. jesus. there is simply nothing hotter than a twenty-year-old asshole, big and awkward with extra testosterone coursing through his body like as electric current. you can smell the sex on these dudes. it smells like sweat socks and xbox, and it’s totally fucking delicious. i want me one.

ostensibly, i am in school studying math so that one day i might teach, but i’m not sure how plausible that is for me as a career choice. one of my favorite movies of all time is “notes on a scandal.” maybe you’ve seen it? or maybe you’re such a smartypants that you’ve read the book?! well, i absolutely understand if you’ve done neither, especially if you are an african-american, but i’m a filthy ass dirtbag so of course i’ve done BOTH. because the story revolves around a hot middle-aged art teacher who has a torrid love affair with (and by “love affair” i mean “fucks the shit out of”) this little sophomore in one of her classes. like i said, HOT. she fucked that dude outside next to some abandoned railroad tracks, in the art room while the rest of the kids were at a christmas assembly in the nearby auditorium, and in the guest cottage behind the house where she lived with her children and husband. hot damn!

and when people found out they were all scandalized and shit, judgmental bastards. i just didn’t understand that nonsense. all right. i understand that it is ILLEGAL, but what i don’t understand is acting like you don’t understand why she did it. hence my apprehension about my ability to be a fair and honest teacher-type person. first of all, standing in the midst of those raging hormones every day is sure to cause some sort of chemical imbalance, and i might not be able to control myself, you know? i’d be trying to teach algorithms and matrices and shit while sweating through my shirt and imagining the linebacker in the back row in a dog collar. i’d have to wear a diaper or something.

second, i would totally exchange sex for grades. “extra credit” could take on a whole new meaning in my classroom. forget tearing my hair out trying to grade mountains of hastily done makeup homework, i’d just install one of those fold-down beds next to the chalkboard. and when i tell a little dude to see me after class (wink), he’ll know we’re not going to be working on anything too complex. i’m going to teach him how to divide (my legs) and add (his private parts to mine) and multiply (my orgasms). zing.

what is hilarious about reading this business, in hindsight at least, is that i recently dropped my sweet ass OUT of school for the semester, because i fucked my computer up and i'm too tired and blah blah blah whine blah. and as much as i feel like i SHOULD miss it, i DON'T. and you kids better figure out something for me to study, because the minute i start thinking about teaching, i'm going to have to take this blog down. no one is going to let me around their fucking children writing shit like this.

for cereal. can you imagine the facebook/blogosphere/internet search of my name and the sheer chaos that would ensue? it doesn't matter WHAT the fuck i do at this bitchass job i've got now. i've been shucking and jiving around here for eight goddamned years. what the fuck does jim care if i write about my vagina on the internets all day? he already doesn't say shit when i come to work drunk and surly in dirty jeans with my tits on toast out, putting my name tag on upside down or on the inside of my sleeve or wherever. i am insolent and bossy and cruel, and i NEVER get to work on time. i am mean to clients and mouthy with my coworkers. i'm not good at sharing, i don't want anyone to ever touch anything of mine (regardless of the fact that i leave my shit EVERYWHERE), but i am killer good at this shit, so i get a pass. really, these bitches LOVE me around here. so what are a person's options when she's reeeeeeally not compelled to do SHIT? i'll let you know what i come up with.

i don't want to say too much, but this list of bitches was written by a third grader. if you don't believe me, i'll send you the link so you can read it in her handwriting. being a huge bitch and all, i HAD to repost. i mean, COME ON. (also, i am easily 30 or more of these.) enjoy!

Types of Bitches

1) Dirty dumb ass bitches
2) Ain't got no ass bitches
3) Dusty trick bitches
4) Fishy bitches
5) Don’t know how to fight bitches
6) Got all that mouth but can’t step bitches
7) Ugly looking bitch that think they all that
8) Can’t keep a man bitch
9) Track wearing bitches
10) Bitches that be trying to steal your man
11) Hoochie looking bitches
12) Ain’t got no damn sense bitches
13) Stupid bitches that act dumb
14) Bitches who can only get a dirty boy
15) Want to be jocking bitches
16) Bitches who think their man love them but get pregnant and be left alone
17) Bitches who think they better than me
18) Instigating bitches
19) Talking behind your back bitches
20) Loud mouth bitches
21) Pissy bitches
22) Stingy bitches
23) Funky looking bitches
24) Short hair bitches
25) Spanish bitches who think they all that cause of their hair
26) Bitches that be ignoring you when they know they can hear you
27) Staring in your face bitches
28) Big eyed looking bitches
29) Crazy bitches
30) Nappy tender headed bitches
31) Booty shorts wearing bitches
32) Coast-signing bitches
33) Dick riding bitches
34) Whipped bitches
35) Buck tooth bitches
36) Cheesy teeth bitches
37) Same wearing clothes each day bitches
38) Ghetto bitches
39) Hair dyeing bitches
40) Wearing shoes that be talking bitches
41) Bitches who think they hard
42) Bitches that think they get money
43) Bitches that go to a dirty school
44) (page missing)
45) (page missing)
46) (page missing)
47) (page missing)
48) (page missing)
49) (page missing)
50) (page missing)
51) (page missing)
52) (page missing)
53) (page missing)
54) (page missing)
55) (page missing)
56) (page missing)
57) (page missing)
58) (page missing)
59) Gay bitches
60) Stanky fishy coochie smelling bitches
61) Tomboy bitches
62) Stain on your pants bitches
63) Dry scalp dandruff bitches
64) Dirty hair bitches
65) Stealing bitches
66) Stinky feet bitches
67) Big gap bitches
68) Protecting their store bitches
69) Pajamas outside bitches
70) Ragly braid bitches
71) Stanky butt bitches
72) Greedy bitches
73) Slimy grimy bitches
74) Psycho bitches
75) Drug dealing bitches
76) Geekin’ bitches
77) Suntanning bitches
78) Goofy looking bitches
79) Triflin’ bitches
80) Skanky bitches
81) Mugging bitches
82) Sloppy bitches
83) Dirty fingernails bitches
84) Dirty sock wearing bitches
85) Uncreative bitches
86) White bitches that think black people poor
87) Conceited bitches
88) Tall bitches
89) Short bitches
90) Jealous bitches

until next time, you gay, uncreative, stanky butt, dirty fingernails bitches. i heart you! (oh look, more inner beauty.)

dream a little dream.

i hate every picture ever taken of me. except, like, the ones when i was little and precocious and adorable. there other day i got an email from some fucking weirdo who was like "i want to see pictures of the real you. i want to see the face behind the words. i know there's a gorgeous queen inside you. open up and let your inner beauty shine." that is a DIRECT QUOTE. sigh. i need to come on a little stronger, apparently. because he's obviously gotten the wrong impression about me. i thought i'd made it perfectly clear that shit like that makes me want to junk punch a bitch. i don't think dude wanted anything romantical, but even within regular everyday interactions i am best dealt with AGGRESSIVELY. i don't respond to shit like "shiny beauty lights" or whatever. if you have some shit to say to me, OUT WITH IT ALREADY. i can't deal with whiny, mealy-mouthed pussies. number one? it's CREEPY and GROSS, dude. don't say shit like that to women if you ever want to have sex with one. ick. number two? i don't HAVE any inner fucking beauty, so your asking to see some makes me feel BAD ABOUT MYSELF. are the jokes really not enough? i have to soft shoe and jump through a ring of fire and suck you off, too?! this is what i mean when i say fuck a goddamned dude in his goddamned asshole. with a crowbar. there are 70+ hilarious posts in this motherfucking blog. i don't skimp on length, quality, or humor. you are not required to participate. you don't even have to read it if you don't want to. you never have to wait for more than a few days, unless i am sick or hospitalized. and IT'S TOTALLY FUCKING FREE. and that is STILL not enough?! what else can i fucking give you? my ATM pin? a pint of blood? balls!

i am not ordianrily this hostile, but the rest of the email was so fruity and inappropriately demanding that now i have an attitude. quel surprise, i know.

so you can EAT MY SHIT david _________. eat my shit and never email me ever AGAIN. and, just to fuck with you, here is a blurry-ass fucked-up picture of me my gay husband chad took after we sat in his apartment for three hours in the middle of august drinking a handle of vodka mixed with red kool-aid. my ass was literally MELTING into that chair in the sweltering heat. it was a literal 90 degrees at ten o'clock at night. and that is my usual uniform, a black t-shirt and borderline surly expression. cute, eh? my skin is literally five different shades of brown and you can totally tell that i am DAMP. stupid summer. and those were my favorite glasses, but i passed out drunk on the floor in them once and they BROKE on my FACE. i have butch tattoos and my hair appears to be thinning on the side. i hope this picture confirms the dream samantha you've conjured up in your teeny brain. this is what i really look like. the inner beauty is enough to knock you on your ass, isn't it? damn, i'm beautiful. ahahahahasshole.

dreams totally weird me out. both definitions of the word.

first, i was watching "kell on earth" because i have this odd fascination with kelly cutrone and i simply cannot get enough of her. i really can't. i watch every single repeat of that damned show. and i read the blogs and shit. i am in love with her, i think. she just looks so fashionably scumbaggy and gross, and that is something to which i aspire. looking unbathed yet totally new york glamorous. and RICH. i don't like children interfering with my reality television programming, yet her little daughter is so great and adorable that i really do think twice before flipping to something else to get her off my screen. i still switch, but right before i do i always think, "that little bitch is SMART."

anyway, i saw this clip of the capable stefanie (the gap-toothed one) snatching about how she watched every episode of sex and the city when she was in college (jesus christ i am getting old, i was TOTALLY AN ADULT when that shit came out) and decided she wanted to direct fashion shows after watching the episode where carrie EATS IT on the runway in those stupid panties (forgive my editorializing, but carrie was just so fucking annoying in that episode) and every subsequent step in her life has been toward actualizing that goal. huh. imagine that.

and now she's working at this super famous fashion PR firm and barfing up my tv every week and she's totally going to get to live her dream. that's fucking amazing. blame it on my upbringing, but i never really dreamed about doing SHIT. and maybe that's why my biggest accomplishment to date is not dying while driving the jeep home from slick's in a blizzard after having (count them) NINE cosmopolitans while wearing stiletto ankle boots and screaming at chidi (assbag) on my cell phone. fucking idiot. that shit was a manual transmission, too! driving stick and talking on the phone is a feat under any circumstance, but add dddddddrunk and psychotic and blizzard to the mix and there is no good reason i am alive today. i fell asleep at every red light and had to get out of the car and throw up in the street at the corner of ridge and pratt, where i nearly got obliterated by a truck because i had neglected to pull over. i just GOT OUT, no hazards no nothing, and left the car in the intersection and puked in the gutter. by that point i'd taken the boots off and was stocking-footed in the snow. all 937 inches of it. if you remember my old place on damen you remember what a shitty area that was to try to park a car, so i parked essentially ON TOP OF a little honda or toyota or whatever and went to sleep right there.
i should mention that that was on a week night. damn you should have met me back when i was cool. now i'm all crotchety and boring and old.

once i was watching "gimme a break!" when i was a kid and there was an episode featuring a woman of the night, and the next day i announced in class that i wanted to be a prostitute when i grew up. i didn't know what it meant, obviously. it was just some shit to say. i suppose i got the filthy whore meaningless sex part right, but the nicest thing a dude's ever given me was

i've always written fiction and kept journals and shit, but i've never said "i want to be a writer." and i still don't. i want someone to pay me to write this bullshit blog and i'd like for my fiction to be published, but i don't know that i want this as my JOB. i like the idea that someone else pays the taxes and organizes the health insurance and is ultimately responsible when the ship sinks. if oprah put my book in her book club TODAY, i would still be scheduling your dog's dental procedure and your cat's annual vaccines TOMORROW. because my luck is balls. before i could even cash the checks oprah's crack detective squad would find out about my tax troubles and questionable ethics and shoddy dating history, not to mention the bodies hidden in my crawl space (zing! to you if you've made that a filthy sexual innuendo), and i'd be back on her couch crying and begging for forgiveness like that million little pieces asshole.

i like self-made people, but my "self" is lazy and unreliable, and i'd fuck some shit off or misfile something important or not get out of bed for two weeks and samanthacorp would go right down the shitter. my best bet is the lottery or a wealthy husband, and i believe you already know the odds of either of those events occuring. i don't know, i just tune out when optimistic people start prattling on about all of the things they want to accomplish. all i can think is how it probably isn't going to happen, and if it DOES it won't be the way that they planned it. i'm negative, because my life is garbage, and that shades my opinion. all i know is there are a lot of people walking around just waiting to shit in your cereal and alter your course.

"don't go to school. you're too dumb."
"don't change careers. you're too old."
"don't try to diet. you're too fat."
"don't have a baby. you're too irresponsible."
"don't get a boyfriend. you're too slutty."
"don't get sober. you're too weak."
"don't get divorced. you're too ugly."
and that's just the shit MY mean ass is saying to you. just wait until you talk to everybody ELSE.

night dreams creep me out, too. i always have REALLY VIVID ones, and they're horrifying. even when they aren't scary. and i always wake up terrified with my heart pounding, super disoriented and gross. it's the worst. and they're always too specific and insane to ever be properly analyzed. like, i don't have dreams about my teeth falling out or my hair being on fire. i never dream that i'm lost or trapped in a dark room. no chasing, no falling, no monsters, no dead people. just eerily specific slice of life dreams that are impossible not to read too much into.

for instance.

the other night i went to bed at 830. first of all, that bullshit probably warrants its own post. unless there are seven-year-olds reading this nonsense (if so, pussy pussy pussy whore GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW shit fuck damn bitch ass hell cunt), no one else in my audience is asleep before the news. the NINE O'CLOCK news. i can't even help it. sigh. it's pitiful.

i got home at seven, thought about going to the gym, immediately decided NOT to go to the gym, thought about doing the laundry, immediately decided NOT to do the laundry, got into my pajamas, made my dinner, ate it standing over the kitchen sink, then got in my bed and went to sleep. that can't possibly be normal. my job just isn't that hard. i'm not that stressed out. i'm not that worried about anything. why can't i keep my eyes open past nine pm?!

even the cat gives me the side eye, like "lazy bitch, EVEN I don't require that much sleep!"

let's blame it on these guts. because everywhere i go i keep hearing that "thirty is the new twenty," so it cannot be possible that i am tired due to my age. in my defense, i do work approximately 32 hours a day. i start yearning for the bed right after lunch. really, at two i start checking the clock every five minutes. i was making plans to hang with one of my hot musician friends on a weeknight, and he was like, "let's get together at 11. is that cool?" i just sat staring at the phone, blinking. ELEVEN? on a MONDAY NIGHT?! just the thought made my body hurt. i'm telling you, i used to be able to party all night and work TWO jobs on three hours' sleep, and now i have to plan my days around getting at least seven hours. the other night i had a

HANG ON ONE SECOND. if you read this blog regularly (and why don't you, if you don't?!) you know i make it a point to talk about this crohn's all the time. i just like grossing you bitches out. so there are two things i forgot to tell y'all: one, my pathology came back normal. so those of you who had your fingers crossed that i was going to die of cancer can fuck yourselves now. i'm going to live forever, just to FUCK YOUR SHIT UP. (no, i won't, because i'm throwing everything i can at this bitch to make her go into remission and she just WILL NOT and i am almost ready to throw in the towel. shit!)

and two, this dude who'd been reading my blog asked me, in all seriousness, if crohn's is "inflammation of the vagina." i'm sorry...WHAT?! i maybe write the word "diarrhea" 700 times a post. for instance, i have not had diarrhea in four days. (you should be clapping, by the way. that shit's amazing. especially since i had some tacos the other day.) and if that didn't clue you in, you are reading my shit on the INTERWEBS. a carrier pterodactyl didn't drop a rolled-up papyrus scroll in your cro-magnon lap, stupid. why not skip on over to google and do a little research? seriously, if you google "crohn's," one of the first images that pops up is a drawing of the digestive system. YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO READ! why embarrass yourself, your mother, and me by saying that? i couldn't get off the phone quick enough. ew.

this is a tangent that can't be helped: i don't understand, and have NEVER understood, bitches who make an unnecessary ass out of themselves. i never have to take anything back that i say. i may have to scramble and say some more shit so you don't slap me in the face, but i never stand there hearing whatever dumb ass shit i just said echoing in my head, bouncing off the walls of my brain, reminding me that i am a piece of shit idiot. save yourselves the heartache and TAKE THAT TWO SECONDS to think about what you're going to say. fuck, man. stupid people wear me out.

it's one thing if you're caught off guard and some pompous asshole at a cocktail party has you trapped in a corner and is quizzing you about some shit you forgot to pay attention to in high school, like how many amendments there are in the constitution. but why sound like an uneducated piece of dookie when you don't have to? have you ever had a conversation with an ignorant bitch who fronted like he could hold his own in a political discussion? well, i haven't. because i don't talk about politics with assholes.

ugh, since i'm giving them out, here's another tip: stop talking politics with a person whose political affiliation is unknown to you. i was waiting for the bus at the addison brown line last week, and these two strangers (i assume) started talking about current events and almost ended up in a fistfight because they were on opposite sides of the coin. i am a raaaaaaaging liberal, in case you couldn't tell. and i have a VISCERAL response to wingnut conservatives. my body tenses up listening to some racist, woman-hating moron running off at the chops about how we're all race-mixing and stealing from him. goddamn it. this health care shit is killing me, too.

and i'm not going to talk about it, because i don't know enough to sound like i really know what i'm talking about, but pappy got health insurance for all his little worker bees THREE MONTHS before this crohn's popped off five years ago, and if i hadn't been insured I WOULD BE DEAD. not joke dead, real dead. because they would not have cut my intestines up for free. that first hospital stay, when i was shackled to a bed for two weeks with a highway of tubes emerging from every orifice, cost EIGHTY-TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. "oh sure, hospital administrator, hang on a second while i get my checkbook..."

i don't thank god, i thank JIM. and those dirty rotten scoundrels at humana. because i had to come off of ten grand of my own money (siphoned from my account by a collection agency over a period of several years, let's be serious: i did NOT just write a check), but that's a drop in the bedpan compared to what all this shit has cost. and it is really necessary for me to reiterate that those of you who knew me then would have been at my funeral in august 2005 were it not for health insurance. my torqued intestines would have burst and i would have died. and you'd be reading some other shitty blog.

i was watching countdown the other night (i loves me some keith olbermann, BELIEVE THAT), and it made me physically ill to watch all these protests. cutting a dude's gas line over healthcare? for real, son? and of course those idiots targeted the wrong fucking guy. GENIUSES. what kills me the most about this business is that it's always poor, white, militia-starting motherfuckers, the people who live in CLAPBOARD HOUSES and eat MAYONNAISE SANDWICHES and cut their hair with FLOWBEES, in other words: THE BROKE-ASS WELFARE COLLECTING HILLBILLIES WHO WOULD BENEFIT THE ABSOLUTE MOST.

because you know THAT is who's on welfare, right? i know it's cute to think that black people are the ones draining the nation's resources, but let's be honest. there just aren't that many of us. and HALF of us are imprisoned. so check those bitches who still have curly perms and home-school their children. check your nebraska peeps, your delaware peeps, your idaho peeps, your montana peeps, your dakota peeps, your utah peeps. your seven-wives-forty-offspring-each-collecting-a-government-check mormon fundamentalist peeps. now i'll talk a mountain of shit about all the little kids eating little bags of cheetos for breakfast, but that pales in comparison to those appalachians who pour mountain dew in the baby's bottle and pack crystal meth in little kody's (or kaleb's or krystal's) lunchbox. i have said a million times before, but everything i ever say totally bears repeating, that white people who can't get it together are ridiculous to me. build a future on that skin of yours, you loser. totally grosses me out.

i like to use myself as an example whenever possible because if you like me, it brings the shit home. if you don't, continue praying for my demise. (and why are you reading this?) don't worry, if limbaughcoulterbeck have their way, it'll happen soon enough. if for whatever reason we lost our health insurance right this second, i'd be dead within a few years. my pills cost 200-250 bills a month, WITH the insurance. so i'm not paying for that shit at cost. scratch my hot specialist, and the regular doctor, too. skip the ER, because those astronomical bills would take me out at the knees. so eventually i'd have a disastrous flare, torque, and check out of life as i knew it. and you hoes would be so sad. shouldn't everyone else have the opportunity to take lots of pharmaceutical drugs and flood the internet with angry histrionics?

so thank obama. that halfrican knows what time it is. you can't just let poor people fucking DIE. because that is what happens. why aren't more people saying that? i hear a lot of screaming and yelling about raised taxes and public options and (imaginary) government subsidized abortions, but no one is banging the drum about how if you are not insured, when you get really sick, you will really die. my parents were sick people who were inadequately insured, and chronically underinsured, and my parents are both DEAD. it really is that simple. when the system has failed you, you are reduced to the cheapest option. and let's be honest. death is cheaper than EVERYTHING. for you, for the doctors, for your family, for everybody.

this disabled dude with parkinson's was sitting on the sidewalk holding a handwritten sign advocating obamacare, and these obnoxious middle-aged white men stood over him, shouting that he was stealing from them and throwing dollar bills in his face saying, "why don't you just take my money NOW? why wait for healthcare?!" i was distraught watching that shit. really, what fucking country is this? are we really degrading sick people in the middle of the goddamned street? leaving people to die with their preexisting conditions? because isn't death the inevitable alternative?
i'd never been insured prior to that, which is why i suffered from a crippling intestinal disease for TWENTY-FIVE YEARS before a near explosion forced me to take care of my goddamned self. i was about to pretend to be sarah's "domestic partner" when CPS started offering coverage for cohabitating lesbos. times are desperate, my loves; we got the paperwork and everything. i could dyke it up for a little PPO. who am i kidding? i would dyke it up for some HBO. or some OPP. oh, whatever. i'm stupid. anyway, in the nick of vagina james took his ass off his shoulders and ponied up some insurance for his indentured servants. i mean, i don't have a problem lying (to an incredibly prosperous insurance company ESPECIALLY), but what if it was like that INS green card shit? like, what if they dropped by our apartment (we were roommates at the time) unannounced and made us prove on the spot that we were lesbians? i don't know how to go down on a lady.

are there black people and animal hospitals in sweden? because i'm fucking moving, and i don't want to stand out too much. plus, my skill set is sort of limited. at this point puppies and kitten are all i know. i don't know what to say to humans anymore.

i apologize for all this, but i don't just sit around thinking about sticking my fingers in hot dudes' booty holes all day. (yes, i fucking do.) i think about other stuff sometimes, too. plus, i watch too much msnbc. and i spend too much goddamned time alone. thinking thinking THINKING and going crazy inside. and all that just builds up and i start ranting and then my fingers catch fire. and don't be intimidated by this blathering, because i just glanced down to discover that i have gravy on the bottom of my shirt. at nine-thirty in the morning. because i had a slab of leftover brisket for breakfast. i also spilled lime lacroix on my cardigan. so I might be brilliant, but YOU still win in the looks/fashion/coordination/breakfast department.

my point, 17 paragraphs ago, was that batting ideas around in mixed political company is dangerous territory. and i have some republican friends, if for no other reason than to prove how tolerant and progressive i am, and you know what we talk about? NOT POLITICS. or religion. or the global economic landscape. or popular culture. or books. or magazines. or television. or music. or anything. oh, i'm kidding. no, i'm not. leave them to their wal-mart guns and conspiracy theories and am radio.
and my other point was for idiots to put a lid on it. don't worry, i know when to shut the fuck up, too. even when i watch jeopardy by myself i don't shout out the answer if i'm not 100% sure it's right. same thing when a bunch of smarty smart people at an event are talking about some shit i don't know about. i can't converse knowledgeably about existentialist painters, so i politely excuse myself and get familiar with the punch bowl and hope somebody equally retarded shows up so we can talk about what happened on real housewives of new york last week.

tell 'em, abe: 'tis better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt. in other words, SHUT YOUR DUMB ASS UP.

now i'm too worked up to write about what i started writing about, which is how i had this crazy realistic dream and woke up all disoriented and out of my mind and called the police because i thought spanks was in my house trying to murder me. ten seconds after the dispatcher answered i realized what was happening and tried to joke my way around explaining it to her, but that bitch was NOT having any of it. i don't think about that dude that often, so it was hilarious to me that he showed up in my dreams wielding an ax or whatever.

as disconcerting as that was, and as insane as the post-911 call analysis turned out to be, i prefer murder to those weirdo sexual dreams i can never figure out. especially when they feature someone inappropriate, like the married mailman or whoever.

this is boring, and i am salty. so i'll see you later. take good care, and GOBAMA.

Monday, March 29, 2010

the golden rule.

in case you missed it, and EFF YOU if you did, here is what i read last night at the sex show.

when most people make life-altering changes, that decision is usually motivated by some major external event or personal milestone. like, "i need to lose 120 pounds by my wedding in three months" or "since i am on the verge of giving birth to a child, i should probably stop shooting heroin."

sometimes you make changes at the behest of someone important in your life, like when your mother asks you to move out of her basement finally and get your own fucking life because you're, like, 35 and you have never had a girlfriend and you wear the same pajamas for weeks at a time and you smell weird and she would like to start exercising her post-divorce vagina. and occasionally you make minor adjustments because you want to impress someone awesome, like that time i stopped eating meat for two weeks so i could fuck that hot vegetarian. in case you're curious, in the end it wasn't worth it. i much prefer actual kielbasa to that dude's shriveled veggie dog.

ten years ago, during a brief and fleeting interlude of introspection and emotional maturity, i decided to make some important changes in my life. i was turning twenty, knee-deep in the process of blossoming into the beautiful and delicate rose i am today. i sat in my bed on my 20th birthday and made a list of every single thing i absolutely hated about myself and needed to change, then vowed to fix all 137 of them. i was fully fucking committed: i was going to stop eating hot pockets for every meal and having a beer or three before i went to work in the morning; i was totally going to buy sensible shoes and walk through shopping malls carrying a pedometer with the old milkshakes at six in the morning and try lift something heavier than a dude's hairy scrotum every once in a while to maybe build some muscle definition. i had this whole plan all mapped out. and i fucked it all up within a week.

two days after i posted that shit on the refrigerator door i was back to cussing and talking shit and gossiping and fucking sketchy dudes and getting drunk all the time. part of me was disappointed that i had the determination and endurance of an infant, but a much bigger part of me was thrilled to have a dick back in my mouth. there was one promise i made to myself that i managed to keep, though. a really important decision i made that would be the foundation of my love life for the rest of my life, a pledge upon which my sexual future would be built: i vowed to never let an african put his penis inside me EVER AGAIN.

africans (and we're talking fresh off the boat, straight from the motherland, plate-lipped bone-nosed managed to dodge the slave trade AFRICANS) fucking LOVE me. they really do. i don't know if it's because i'm the physiological representation of the limitless bounty that is life on american soil, but i can't walk by a goddamned taxi stand without seventeen skinny motherfuckers in church shoes jumping out and asking for my hand in marriage. african dudes always look like they're on their way to some formal event to which you could never even DREAM of being invited. except something about the outfit is always a little bit skewed, like dude'll be wearing a tuxedo that's missing one piece in the middle of the day or whatever. just walking around on a thursday wearing a shiny black vest with a white shirt and bowtie. it really does catch me off guard, and i always turn to look for the rest of the groomsmen.

before i knew any better, i was fucking nice about it. what's the harm in eating a little goat with a dude who could finish the boston marathon in forty-five minutes? back then i was much more optimistic about my prospective boyfriends; you never know when you're hollering at a cab-driving neurosurgeon or if the dude ringing up your mcnuggets and fries is really the heir to the throne of zamunda. i dated a dozen of them, trying in vain to find my prince. but hans christian andersen doesn't write fairytales like that, where surly little black girls with an attitude problem are whisked off to palatial african kingdoms, over which they rule to the death with an iron fist. no, my scary tales were full of prepaid international phone cards, basement "restaurants," and sweating the fuck to death at outdoor summer festivals in washington park. before long i started to notice a pattern with these dudes. more often than not they were bossy. and DEMANDING. and i'm an arrogant fucking american. i wouldn't let a field negro yell at me like that, and i'm CERTAINLY not going to eat shit off a dude who grew up without SHOES. i mean, please.

and i got goddamned tired of hearing, "in MY country..." totally fucking BORING. "in MY country i have much land and own successful business, and woman like you would have to bow to me."

"okay, nigga. well in MY country you empty garbage cans and wash windows. and you missed a spot." i don't need all that yam yam from an asshole who, in profile, could be confused for a piece of linguine. fuck that.

so i decided to cut them off cold monkey. and at first it was totally easy, because african dudes are usually pretty easy to spot. every time a man approaches me wearing electric blue pants with a royal purple shirt i'm like, "not so fast, homie." seriously, it doesn't take a rocket scientist. i came up with my own handy little strategy for identification and avoidance. for example, if a dude with a bluetooth in his ear who is wearing woven sandals in the winter is headed toward me, i duck into the nearest starbucks and wait for him to pass. africans LOVE JESUS, too, which is why i never walk too close to a storefront church. some dude might drag me in, put one of those big fabric headdresses on me, and force me to marry him on the spot. because marriage is high on the priority list for these fellas, right between deference and subservience; they start talking about weddings on the first fucking date, asking how big you expect your tribe to be before the waiter even brings the goddamned water.

three years passed while i ignored the rest of my list and dated only worthless, shitbag americans, dudes who had to actually LOOK UP directions and didn't have pockets full of singles with which to make change. totally lame. i lived in this pretty horrible building which was a total piece of garbage but had a laundry room ON EACH FLOOR, rendering it awesome despite its obvious flaws, like intermittent hot water and suspect elevators. one night, after discovering that all of the washing machines on my floor were otherwise occupied, i went down to the third floor to use theirs. i had my back to the door, sorting my laundry into piles of really dirty and SUPER dirty, when my penis radar went off and i felt a presence behind me. this smoking hot dude was standing there, smirking at me. he introduced himself and caught me off guard, since he looked like a regular old black dude yet had a silky european accent. i was smitten instantly.

needless to say, i was naked in his apartment three days later. now, it TOTALLY goes against every rule in my sex book to fuck a dude i might run into in my sloppy pajamas with cake frosting smeared across my glasses while taking out my disgusting trash. an episode of "friends" my life is not. i would hardly appreciate coming home to my obnoxiously friendly neighbor perched on my couch eating all my sun chips, ruining the hot time i was planning to have with some other dude. but this one, and for the purposes of this story we'll refer to him as "amistad," was too delicious to pass up. i'd just have to suck it up and get my shit together and take my garbage out in eyeshadow and high heels.

amistad was a special breed of african that i'd never before encountered: those of the wealthy, cultured, erudite variety who'd been educated in swiss boarding schools and spent their summers frolicking on beaches in brazil. i read a LOT of fucking books and think i'm such hot shit, but THIS asshole was the real deal. handsome, custom suits, genius level IQ, fluent in four languages, MBA from some fancy london school, six-figure income, blah blah blah. TOTAL hot shit. i didn't even realize i was breaking my cardinal boyfriend rule until the third time i was in his place with the lights on and saw a couple batik daishikis peeking out from his closet where they were carefully hidden between soccer jerseys and ralph lauren purple label suits.

for whatever reason, maybe it was all those crispy, expensive suits, i decided to keep hanging with him. i could learn to wear loincloths and chase cheetahs or whatever. i thought it might be fun, like an episode of tarzan or a rudyard kipling story come to life.

the sex was sort of weird, all sensual hand-holding and deep eye-contact and other shit you only see in softcore ladyporn. i was used to rough and violent wild animal fucking that ended four minutes after it began, not extended "lovemaking" sessions with a dude who recited pablo neruda right before he stuck his tongue in my butt. i got used to it, though. even started to think i had found my very own prince akeem. i learned to like having my face caressed and my needs acutally attended to. IMAGINE THAT.

one day after he'd parted my nile river (four or five weeks into our latenight sneak downstairs fuckathon) i got up to pee like i always did, and he followed directly behind. ordinarily i would wrap the sheet i'd snatched off the bed to hide my thighs in the light of the tv tighter around me and and ask, "what the fuck do you think YOU are doing?!" but despite my cruel and evil exterior, at heart i am the GIRLIEST of girls, and my stupid brain was ridiculously flattered and saw this weirdness as a sign of intimacy. "oh my god, this is SO CUTE. we're, like, totally connected and stuff," my estrogen gushed. i peed and he brushed his teeth right outside the door and we were just like a happy little married couple, without all the joint bank accounts and bitter fucking resentment. i was SURE it wouldn't be long before we were cooing at each other while picking out bathroom fixtures and kitchen tiles to be installed in our royal palace.

bladder infections are the handiwork of satan, so every time i let someone tinker around in my woodshed i kill the mood by launching myself immediately from the bed to the toilet to try to piss out whatever cockteria is rapidly swimming up my urethra. even when dudes are all, "come on, let's cuddle!" i roll out of the bed and into the bathroom to spare myself a raging UTI followed by harsh antibiotics and an overgrowth of vaginal yeast. so it was refreshing to have a guy not only withhold his objections to my leaving the warmth of the bed, but to also stand naked sentinel in the cold hallway outside the bathroom while i flushed my kidneys. what a gentleman.

it only took another two weeks for him to ask if he could come in and watch. now i will indulge pretty much almost any filthy fantasy a hot dude who likes having sex with me is into. but the peeing i didn't understand; not because it was gross, but because he couldn't really SEE anything, what with the toilet being opaque and my hips and thighs hanging over the sides and all. and i get performance anxiety. it's one thing to psych yourself up enough to put on a spiked dog collar or eat half a dozen deliciously glazed donuts, but peeing on command is HARD. it made me NERVOUS. but i kept trying. i am a total quitter, albeit a selective one, but even after the first few times of sitting on the toilet under his watchful eye for twenty minutes sweating my goddamned ass off trying to produce one measly drop i DID NOT GIVE UP. i would drink a gallon of water as soon as he called to tell me he was pulling into the garage, and i would race down the stairs and stand doing the pee pee dance while waiting for him to open the door. i'd get out of my pants and plop down on the can as fast as i could, DESPERATE to squeeze it all out, only to find that the pressure of his eyeballs searing into me (not to mention the distraction of his hand moving around inside his pants) completely shut off the faucet. i had no idea where the pee went, it just disappeared. i was sure i was going to wind up in kidney failure or something.

thank god for cheap beer. we went to the glenwood arts fest one summer afternoon, and i drank approximately 42 pints of fucking old style while burning to a crisp under the sun, and the second we walked back to my apartment i had to pee. BADLY. i could barely get my ass on the seat before the floodgates opened, and it was one of those orgasmic pees, the kind where you've held so much for so long that you almost weep tears of joy when it comes pouring out of you. little did i know that orgasm was reciprocal, as i looked up to find him jerking off into the sink when i reached for the toilet paper. sexy.

from that day forward he always just happened to have a six pack around whenever i came over, and drunk jackoff peeing became something of a ritual. i even kind of liked it because, let's be honest, i'm into any sexual act during which i am not required to work too hard. sitting down and peeing was literally the simplest request that had ever been made of me. but, as with most weird fetishy dudes, he started out with the simple shit before he hit me with what REALLY got him off: actually being peed ON. which was a relief, because i'd been expecting him to go all r. afrikelly on me at any minute. now i'm no idiot, but it took a minute for me to figure out and conceptualize how this might physically happen. a TOTAL neat freak, amistad shit a brick when i spilled some barbecue sauce on his tablecloth; i couldn't imagine that he'd be down for my PISSING in his BED. and i've had my urine tested enough times to know what totally repugnant and messy business that shit is when you don't have a penis. i've pissed all over my hand and on the floor of every hospital bathroom i've ever been in, spilled it down the back of my pants and inadvertently dumped it down the sink. i couldn't even begin to imagine how i was going to get urine on some hot dude.

well. things sort of crystallized for me when i was standing over his naked body stretched the length of his bathtub, deep breathing and relaxing my kegels to try to produce a long, slow, steady stream instead of weak little drippity drops. i suspect that even if i had legs the diameter of broomsticks i would have run into this bit of trouble, but it's kinda sorta IMPOSSIBLE to contort a real human female body into whatever position is optimal for spraying urine into a dude's face within the confines of a coffin-sized apartment bathtub. i almost broke my fucking teeth on the edge of the motherfucking sink falling out of the tub while trying to make sure the pee ended up somewhere in the vicinity of his upper body rather than running in rivulets down my legs before pooling along the side of his torso. i ripped three shower curtains, destroyed a bottle of shampoo, and gouged my cheek on the faucet skating and slipping and sliding around in my own liquid waste. it might be helpful to admit that while peeing on the toilet in broad daylight was no big deal, i REFUSED to let him keep the lights on while i hovered over him spreading my labia apart trying to play sharpshooter with his face.

i just didn't want to look down and see THAT. you know what i mean. because i'll indulge some weird perversion for the sake of a good story, but it doesn't necessarily garner you my respect. it made me embarrassed to think about him down there gasping and begging to get some of my urine on his face. what a pussy. it just made me want to push him off the swings and kick him off the jungle gym or something. it didn't take long for me to master the art of peeing on demand, on a target. i was 100% committed to getting this shit right. in school i never gave a damn about getting stright As, but i wanted to be at the head of amistad's class and bring home a report card with straight Ps. i pretty much got that shit down to a science: i'd get drunk, strip naked from the waist down, spread my lips apart, go. he would take a shower, i'd wait in bed, then i'd sit on his face or whatever other sexified thing you want to imagine.

early one morning i peed on him before i went to work (morning pee was his favorite, all hot and concentrated; it was like uncut sexual cocaine), and he turned the shower on while i was still standing in the tub. so i'm not usually one for the shower duet, as i don't feel like anyone really gets clean, and i hate standing at the back of the shower with my teeth chattering in the old while he scrubs off his smegma and dingleberries. but i was late and it seemed economical to just wash my smelly parts and run to work. and it was sort of sweet, you know? it was cute that he wanted to wash my hair and stuff. i really had to jet, and as i started to get out of the shower he pulled me back in to kiss me goodbye. that's romantic, isn't it? it was fairytale perfect. you know, the fairytales in which the beautiful princess wakes up from her coma and defies her wicked stepsisters and kisses a frog who magically morphs into a handsome prince? a handsome prince who then proceeds to SPIT A MOUTHFUL OF URINE DOWN THE PRINCESS'S FUCKING THROAT.

i should've known, man. i should've heard it collecting in his mouth, i should've been suspicious since he hadn't said a word. but only a crazy person would hold someone else's piss in his mouth for five goddamned minutes before expectorating it down that someone's gullet. and i know all you sassy bitches are all, "i woulda beat that dude's ASS." and that easy to say, because no one is piss-snowballing you right now. at the time i just stood there, thinking about how i'd just swallowed easily three-quarters of a cup of my own pee pee. goddamned african. i didn't even know black people were INTO shit like this, and i certainly never anticipated that it would happen to ME. i tried to spit some out, but he'd forced it in so hard that i couldn't help but to drink it. i considered vomiting it up, but then i figured tasting pee+stomach acid might literally kill my ass.

he was all proud of himself, telling me how he wanted to, and i QUOTE, "share the experience." asshole. why doesn't anyone ever want to share the experience of having money in the bank or share the experience of front row bulls tickets? he couldn't understand why i was so "upset." i'm sure he said a bunch of other shit, too, but it's hard to hear a person when you're gargling half a bottle of listerine and scraping your tongue with a brillo pad.

needless to say, our relationship sort of DRIED UP after that. and never since have i EVER broken my GOLDEN RULE.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

opposite sexpertise.


my sweet ass is reading at the sunday night sex show THIS SUNDAY march 28th, and you sassy minxes better have your asses there. here's the deal: sexy sluts robin and allen host, there's sex trivia, hot questions about sex, and sexy bitches reading hilarious sex stories about sexy shit like sex. also...IT'S FREE. except for all the drinks you're going to buy me. 730 pm at the burlington (fullerton and kimball), a BAR, so leave your little sister at home. if you've never seen me read you're missing the fuck out. i'm totally dumb. plus hilaaaaaaaaaarious.

"swollen junk is the HOTTEST. every time i want to obliterate men from the earth, i run into a hot erection and fall in love all over again. damn." that is a direct quote, from a facebook message written by me to rachel and amanda.

i love dudes, i really do. helplessly and hopelessly. maybe one day our cruel heavenly father will see fit to give me one of my very own. until then, i will continue to invest in quality orgasmatrons and economy-sized boxes of C batteries. i only talk shit about menfriends in an effort to build them into something better. you can understand that, can't you? i'm like the army or something. i use my expansive wealth of knowledge and experience to mold them into the exceptional specimens god intended, despite whatever deficiencies in breeding or upbringing they might be otherwise saddled with. every dude i've ever hollered at is ten times the man he was before i got my hands on him, and you better believe that shit. dang, maybe i need to dabble in a little lesbianism and help these stupid bitches out, too. my vagina obviously has her work cut out for her.

anyway, thank god you bitches have laura, because she suggested we sift through piles and piles of men's magazines in order to answer some of THEIR burning questions this time. genius, right? i didn't even know dudes wrote shit to maxim and details and men's health. this nonsense is pure comedy GOLD. i almost peed when i read some of this garbage. IDIOTS.

you precious kittens are helpless! it tugged at my one heart string, reading this continuous feed of clueless male drivel. GODDAMN y'all need help. and guess who's here to give it to you? as usual, these are REAL QUESTIONS, except this time they've been culled from the likes of maxim, details, and men's fucking health. come get you some.

how do i get out of spending thanksgiving with my girlfriend's family?

i'm sure there are a lot of chicks reading this who just became INSTANTLY ENRAGED reading this question, thinking about all of the times they've had to drag some kicking and screaming dude to little jojo's third birthday party or uncle cletus's retirement celebration or gram and grampy's 700th anniversary. ladies who have screamed, cried, yelled, begged, pleaded, and otherwise humiliated and subjugated themselves to get some asshole who swears he loves the shit out of her to drive six hours to aunt becky's for turkey day, only to find that motherfucker sulking drunk on the couch with his jeans unzipped, texting some hot bitch who is less demanding.

i am not one of these women.

here is the sweet shit about being an orphan (bet you never thought you'd ever hear THAT in your whole fucking life): i really don't ever have to do anything i don't want to do, ESPECIALLY around the holidays. i like to make my own food and sit at home in my pajamas and sleep and watch football on thanksgiving, not put on clothes with buttons and zippers and shoes to sit in some stranger's living room eating food that will probably definitely land me in the emergency room. and since i will NEVER have the joy of subjecting some dude to the withering scrutiny of my mean-ass parents, i will NEVER let some dude do that to me. i can't be up all night wringing my hands about whether or not your mother will approve of my pumpkin pie recipe or turn her nose up because my skirt is an inch too short. fuck that bitch. i'm going to sit home in my own filth and root for whomever is playing against the lions.

so, gentle sir, tell your girlfriend your parents are dead. and that being in the midst of a family celebration when you don't have one of your own is unbearable for you. she should eat it right up. might even let you holler at her butthole because she feels so bad for you. and if you bitch up and find yourself sticking to a plastic-covered couch, squashed between alcoholic aunt mildred and ambiguously gay cousin ralph, i'll be at home awaiting your text.

how big an age difference is acceptable when dating?

if you have to cut up her food for her, i'm going to go out on a limb and say this bitch might be a touch too young for you. this doesn't gross me out nearly as much as you might expect, ONLY BECAUSE i was super smart when i was super young and couldn't really relate to ignoramuses my own age. even now i'll be talking to a dude my own age and halfway through the conversation i have to stop him and ask whether or not he graduated high school. i can't be talking to a dude who seems incapable of properly conjugating his verbs and can't correctly structure his sentences. grammar and syntax are important to me, okay?!

so if it's from the perspective of a smoldering hot girl genius that can't find a dude in her age bracket with whom she can carry on an intelligent discourse (burdened instead with the dumb assholes who refuse to see movies with subtitles or won't eat anything more adventurous than pasta), i'm with this shit. because i can't handle misspelled text messages and dudes who don't read. that's why hair still has my phone number, because his texts of undying love and devotion are written in fully-punctuated, grammatically-correct sentences.

but more often than not it's some grody old milkshake trying to forget he's 187 years old by roadtesting his viagra on some scarcely enlightened nineteen year old while his wife and her lawyer plot to take half his retirement. that night at the W i saw a billion couples who fit that profile to a T. bitches scantily clad in forever 21 draped with dudes wearing ill-fitting suits from joseph a. bank. icky poo. i dated a super old dude when i was young, but i was smart enough to understand that he didn't care about getting rock starred in the bathroom at slick's or the new cast of the real world or whatever the fuck i cared about back then. i just let him buy me fancy dinners and drive my ass around.

old dudes like everything i like: sleeping, laying around, eating soft foods, napping, blankets, colace, drinking chivas, yelling at the tv, cardigans, snoozing, relaxing, taking pills, going to the pharmacy, taking more pills, scooter chairs, and being inside on nice days. really though, you don't have to worry about acrobatic marathon sex with a dude who has heart problems and a bad back. pumppumpOVERsnore is about all i can handle these days.

the difference is that we never went to places where young people go, which is the mistake most of you dinosaurs make. fucking a young girl DOES NOT MAKE YOU YOUNG. you are still old and gross, and you make the rest of us want to VOMIT when you're crushed into our ribcages as we're desperately flagging down the bartender at club 720. i don't want to watch your medic alert bracelet jingling around your wrist as you pay for your kaopectate on the rocks with your AARP card. barf. i wouldn't be so irritated if you wouldn't be so public. but that's 110% of the reason old dudes holler at their bridge club's grandchildren, so that they can parade that prepubescent snatch out on rush street. and i think all THOSE dudes should die.

everyone else? you know 20 years is too fucking many. just stop it already.

i've been good friends with this one girl since middle school. i've always wanted to ask her out and decided a little while ago to give it a try. long story short, i got rejected (she asked for a rain check and i didn't hear or see her until we got the same summer job). the problem now is i can't quite get over her. i really liked her and something in my brain does not want give this up. i know it would be best to get over it and try to get back to being just friends but i don't know how. i work with her regularly so i can't just avoid her (i wouldn't want to anyway). any tips?

aww. poor puppy. this is sad, right? no one fucking liked me romantically in high school, and to all those dudes i have this pearl of infinite wisdom: go fuck yourselves. kids make you feel like fucking dogshit, all of the goddamned time. ESPECIALLY if you are fat or poor or retarded or have weird hair or ugly clothes or whatever your stupid problem is. our ten-year high school reunion never happened, and THANK GOD, because i forgot to apply for a gun license. i would have shot you bitches up and pissed in your graves. probably not, but man, fuck high school. my fucking mother was dying and my life was coming apart at the seams, and fuckbag dudes like corey chang did fuckbag shit like dump their lunch trays in my lap. you eths 97 bitches know who i'm talking about, and if you see that dude spit in his face. or push him in front of a bus.

now i'm all mad. FUCK THIS BITCH. she's obviously a loser who can't recognize how awesome you are. and get fucking used to it. the universe is full of people who will NEVER appreciate your sweetness and goodness, and if you wear yourself out over them you'll drive yourself crazy. NO ONE is good enough for you. i wish someone had dropped that truth on me at seventeen. learning things the hard way is totally overrated.

so here's my advice, kiddo: start taking whatever you can get from whomever you can get it from. emotionally, financially, physically, spiritually, whatever. and try to do so while giving up as little of your real self (and your soul) as you can get away with. .00000001% of the earth's population is worthy of you and how fucking fantastic you are, so stop wasting all that awesome on all these fucking peasants. LEARN SOME SHIT and MAKE SOME GODDAMNED MONEY. earthlings are vengeful and stupid and useless and totally fucking damaged, and they will USE YOU UP and DESTROY YOU if you let them. i spent more than half of my 20s letting manipulative sacks of shit (friends and lovers both) pillage my life and annihilate my fucking self-esteem, and i don't do that shit anymore because it made me fucked up and horrible. seriously, i let bitches eat my dinner every single day because i was trying to be "nice," and all it got me was "nothing." please.

and this probably isn't that funny, but it's totally true. and you little dudes (and grownups, too) should learn to protect yourselves a little better. these jerks out here will rape your life before pissing in its face and setting it on fire on their way out the door, and FUCK THAT. you're better than these asswipes. so, like i said, to hell with this idiot. work hard, show up on time, SHOW UP EVERY DAY, and become her fucking supervisor by the end of the summer. there will be others, and maybe they'll deserve you.

but probably not. bitches ain't shit.

i'm a 23-year-old virgin. is that a turnoff?

YES. god hates ugly dudes with no game. didn't you know?

hey, here's my question...i have a slightly "strange" fetish where i get turned on by the thought, sight, and even smell of girls farting. i have even gotten excited by watching girls poop on video or on websites. (you'd be surprised how many there are.) anyway, how can i bring this up to a girl without her thinking i'm a weirdo? thanks in advance for any advice.

number 1: i love that this asshole put "strange" in "quotes." like that shit is ALLEGEDLY weird. naw, dude, it's all-caps hide my children cross the street when i see you coming STRANGE. pervert.

number 2 (ahahahahahahahapun!): nothing on the internet surprises me.

number 3: there is no way to bring it up without looking like a weirdo, because this shit is FUCKING WEIRD. that said, don't assume she wouldn't do it. i told you hoes i think fetishes are hysterical, and you should know resolutely that i would do this, eh, shit. well, i would try at least. it took me, like, seven times to work up to peeing, and even then it was still a while to get into the flow. (i'm full of them today!)

amanda's kinky ass recently told me she watched a porn where a girl farted on a cake and that, um, blew me away. every time i think i've seen or heard it all...my stinky ass would be right up the alley of a dude like this. i could skip all my pills for a week, have a slice of cheesecake and some chinese takeout, and SET IT OFF. he should hang around dr. gorgeous for ten minutes; he'd meet more poop girls than he could fit into an outhouse in thirty seconds. i'd make this dude's day. half a bowl of fiber corn cereal and almond milk? i'd run out the tape on his video camera!

i wouldn't tell any normal person about this business. unless she talks about her many colonoscopies on your first date or whatever. like i do. then you should feel free to let 'er rip.

i have a fantasy of shaving my girlfriend's bikini area. all of it. think she'd go for it?

have you ever eaten dinner with or hung out around a grown man who couldn't help but spill food down his shirt or walked around with sloppy clothes and broken-down gym shoes? have you ever been in a car with a dude who had to move mcdonalds bags, miscellaneous pieces of paper, and animal carcasses off the passenger seat so that you could sit down? what about a dude who walks around with dirty fingernails and skid marks in his panties? chapped lips, nappy beards, unkempt eyebrows, hairy noses, fuzzy teeth, ungroomed hairlines, ashy knees, cracked heels, stubbled cheeks, adult acne, crazy pubes, long, raggedy nails, visible baby powder, wrinkled clothes, dusty slave afro, taco meat chest hair?

yeah, so have i. which is why the minute a single one of them starts trying to make "improvements" on me they get the old "BITCH, PLEASE." i'm disgusting, but i smell like lush soaps and jo malone. and my feet don't look like fucking claws. the nerve of some asshole who needs to tighten up his grooming game to suggest MY sweet ass needs some work. for cereal.

also, can you imagine the raging ingrowns and road rash and indian burns some dude who can't pluck his ear hair might leave in his shaven wake? most dudes fuck so bad that i can't even fathom what other ways in which they'd abuse and ruin our vaginas. dudes who can't make spaghetti all of a sudden think they should be allowed around our nether regions with sharp objects? yeah right. i'm guessing the thrill you seek comes from the act of shaving itself, not solely the baldness of the vag, and to YOU i suggest starting with your back. or that patch of scruff you call a "goatee." or those ten pounds you put on since she first started dating your dumb ass. idiot.

my roommate uses the “hey, let’s go back to my house and play wii bowling” closing line at bars...and it works. should i try this?

no, because that's weak. what kind of lame-o junior high ass is that line getting this dude? baby bitches who wear sweatpants with "cutie" printed across the bum and listen to justin bieber? FOR SHAME. now don't get me wrong, i read twilight, too, but if a dude was like "wanna go to my house and play wii?" drunk-ass sam would probably say something sexy about where he could put his controller. or ask to see his wii-ner. you know, some filthy ho shit.

for serious, playa, leave toys to the children for whom they are intended and take a page out of my dapper arizona mancrush's big boy handbook: be a gentleman, use your deepest, bedroomiest voice at all times, and drench every word you say in honey. every time i see that dude's number on the caller ID i take my underwear off. for realsies, it's pavlovian. he is handsome and hilarious and smooth as margarine. i have the crushiest crush that ever crushed, which is especially surprising considering that he's light-skinned.

i don't know what it is, but aside from a few notable exceptions, i cannot get enough of special dark hershey bars these days, if you know what i mean. I NEED SOME AMISTAD IN MY LIFE. serrrrriously. i'm looking for a dude who looks like he just got his freedom papers; a motherfucker or two who could run a train through my underground railroad. i'd run my fingers along those whip scars across his back and sing "swing low, sweet chariot" while cooking him grits and pig feet and flaming hot cheetos, or whatever it is you negroes like to eat. then i'd make him do my laundry. because let's not get it twisted, back in the day my ass would have been in the HOUSE. eff you militants, house > field. i would have had fourteen biracial babies.

and SHOES. bitch, please.

i went over to a coworker's house to talk. we start drinking wine and i asked her if i could do something that i have wanted to do for a long time. she told me, "okay," so i leaned in and kissed her and told her i loved her. we kissed some more. then we started to slow dance and things started going a bit further, but i made the decision to leave her house. i had to be back at work at 8 am and it was 2 am. now, she gives me the cold shoulder and just does not even say hi to me anymore. before all of this happened, everyone in the office thought we were dating. now i can't stand to see her or talk to her. why did she play me like that? i did not play any games with her. i told her how i felt about her. why is she playing these games with me?

because you fucking SLOW DANCED with her. this is totally creepy and grosses me out in the worst way. first of all, let's talk about how uncomfortable i get watching people slow dance. now i have readily admitted that i have a number of emotional deficits, and this is one of them. watching people slow dance makes my skin crawl. ew. i can't handle it. and maybe that's because i'm immature. i can't stand the feeling of fabric rubbing together (really, if you want me to start crying rub your sweatered arm against my clothing and i will flip out), and i don't like to think about boners poking your jibs out on the dance floor. barf.

with that out of the way, let's get into how crazy THIS dude is! she PLAYED you?! yeah fucking right! unless i'm reading this shit wrong, YOU went to her house to TALK, laid some heavy and uncomfortably awkward shit on HER, kissed HER, FORCED HER TO SLOW DANCE (shudder), and then YOU decided to LEAVE. stop me when i get to the part about how she took a shit on your face or whatever.

sensitive dudes like this make me want to die. because he took a situation in which HE was totally gross and creepy and yucky and turned it around on HER. and so what? bitches aren't allowed to have a little buyer's remorse? it's shitty that she won't talk to you, homie, but that's what happens when you fuck around with bitches you work with. those are the breaks. in a perfect world she would sit you down in the conference room with the HR person supervising and tell you exactly why she doesn't want to pal around with your wine-drinking, slow-dancing ass. but this is EARTH, where everything SUCKS. deal with it. and let your nuts hang, sister.

what do i do when she cries for no reason?

punch her in her fucking mouth. NOW she has a reason.

where is the sexiest place for a man to have a tattoo?

NOT: the small of his back, his wrist, his ankle, around his bicep (laura thinks that is SO GROSS), on his thigh (fucking YUCK), around his navel, on his butt cheek, the nape of his neck, his moob, his face, or any other part of his skull for that matter, his obliques (or any other part of his midriff and/or torso), his fingers, his pecker, his balls, his knees, on his neck below his ear, the top OR bottom of his feet, his toes, his ankle, his wrist, his ankle, his wrist, his ankle, his ankle, his ankle.

and if that's not clear, he should use any of the fabulous dudes from any season of tool academy as a point of reference for what NOT to fucking do. that is all.

for years i dated a girl who i thought was the one. an opportunity to study abroad made us try the always difficult long distance relationship and three months ago we broke up to ease the tensions of being far away from each other. well, i found out she is dating a jerk. i called her and even though she said loud and clear that i am the one for her and that she is in love with me, she doesn't want to break up with him to continue our long distance relation. why is she doing that? should i go back and fight for her? is she bluffing? any advice?

finding out someone you love long distance and would kill to be with is staying with some raggedy bitch is the worst shit in the fucking universe. i can't even fake like i don't know about this wackness intimately. it's awful. here's what sucks: when you love someone who can't uproot his or her entire life to be with your hot ass and you keep in touch and still talk to each other and still love each other but understand that because you can't be together physically you have to be able to get physical with other people, the reality of that is a bitter pill to swallow.

because you want her in your life, but you also want to be in china or wherever. and that's lame.

if you went back and fought for her i would cry my own tears, because that would be TOTALLY RAD. but since you have a penis and therefore a brain the size of a walnut, i will not hold my breath. sigh.

so my girlfriend has laid down the law—games or her. how can i decide? i love them both!

you nerds are killing me. and so are you bitches, for that matter. do your games have a hole into which you can insert your limp noodle? oh, no? well THAT is how you fucking decide. dummy.

(is anyone else wondering how this dude got a girlfriend in the first place?! yikes.)

do you think women have less sexual urges then men or are they just hiding it because of society? is it more about having a double standard (women with many partners = slutty, man with many partners = king) or is it biological? do women think of sex as much as men do?

for me, man with many partners = AIDS, but i'm old-fashioned like that. i've banged a lot fewer dudes than you all think i have, but when a woman is open and honest about her sexuality, "slut" is one of those risks you just have to take. labels don't bother me, man. and here's a fun fact: they don't bother most dudes. sure, there are some judgmental assbags who won't fuck a free spirit, but i'm going to bet dollars to donuts (i love you with all my heart if you understand why that analogy is REALLY funny) that they're the kind of dudes you wouldn't want to holler at anyway.

"oh pretty please have sex with me, sexually repressed, uptight toolbox! pleeeeease?! i've always wanted to have missionary sex with the lights off! please don't deny me!" bwahaha FUCK that dude. that's why i give out my blog link as much, if not more, than i give out my goddamned phone number. and ONE DUDE to date never called me again after having read it, but he was ALSO a dude who gave me a fake fucking name and said he didn't want to have sex until he got married. which equals teeny weeny peeny. and i'd marry a small dick, if for no other reason than that dude probably picks up his socks and does all the grocery shopping, AND if he ever started getting loud and popping off at the mouth i could be all, "i know YOU ain't talking shit with that tiny dick?!" and he'd shut his ass right on up.

i don't know about you girls, but i hide my sexual urges because i don't need the hassle of dudes who fuck wrong constantly calling my phone all hours of the day trying to see "what i'm up on later." gross. and NOT YOU.

my lady friend has hinted to me what she wants for xmas: jewelry. my question is: what piece of jewelry is appropriate for a four-month relationship which won't send the wrong commitment message?

"lady friend?" "wrong commitment message?" ewwies. get her a platinum noose from tiffany, then push her off a bridge as she tries it on. she doesn't deserve to live, because her boyfriend is totes a giant DOUCHEBAG.

i'm a somewhat successful new professional who is looking for someone to spend time with. the problem is, i'm kind of a loner and don't really enjoy the usual mindless, getting-to-know-you banter. what i'm looking for is a woman who will just let me be alone at times and not try to butt into everything. do you have any advice for a lone wolf?

call MY bitch ass.

i LOVE dudes who need time alone! i'm lazy and entertaining is hard. plus, i have a lot of stuff i like to do without some nosy-ass dude watching me, like wear my leopard snuggie (love you, aum!) backward like a queen in her robe and surround myself in bed on a throne of books and easter candy. seriously. that's what i did monday morning after i went to the gym. i came home and had a GIANT soy latte then read "the wild things" by dave eggers. you can't do that with some stupid asshole hanging around, poking you in the side trying to get you to take your comfortable inside pants off. amy (my favorite) and i ran some stupid errands and i had an ill-advised cheeseburger, followed by hot diarrhea and a lukewarm shower. my little helen is sick, and i laid in bed with her and watched 500 days of summer. twice. and i don't even love it that much, because i fell like summer screwed tom and it doesn't end happily ever after enough for my taste. again, no dude is going to go for that. we culminated the evening with a ke$ha-themed dance party and the replay of monday's episode of kell on earth. and that's JUST ONE DAY. a day chock full of single person activities. at no point could a pair of testicles been easily inserted into the plans, which is why i have to have my own space.

so i get this. but most chicks DON'T. and i don't even mean that in an "i'm so cool" kind of way. i mean that in an "i let the cat sleep in the bed and shit all the time and forget to throw out old food and never bring in the mail and am lazy about scooping the litterbox and only eat lean cuisines and use kleenex when i run out of toilet paper and drink beer in the morning and burn smelly candles and pile clothes on the radiators and still like to text my old boyfriends and sometimes eat pasta sauce straight from the jar" kind of way. i simply cannot not do all those things you're supposed to hide from a hot dude. i can keep my nasty habits at bay for a week, max, but then i'll start to crack and wear dirty jeans for more than four days and skip flossing and shit.

i was engaged once. do i have to tell my new girlfriend?

i guess it depends on the kind of bitch your girlfriend is. because if she's a girly girl dead set on being someone's blushing bride who's had a wedding scrapbook since the third grade, you might want to keep that bit of information to yourself. because the second she finds out that you were "not afraid of commitment" once, she's NEVER going to let your punk ass off the hook. you can't act all terrified, because you've DONE THIS BEFORE. we've all slept with those homeboys, the ones who act like being called someone's boyfriend is an incurable disease. boo to that.

i've bought that line, too. "aw come on, sam! you know i luh yew, gurl! why we gotta be boyfriend-girlfriend to prove we love each other? it's just a title, it don't mean nothing!" blah blah blah blah asshole. but little suzy homemaker can't go for that (no can do). while little sammy whoremonger would simply climb back up on the baloney pony and think about all the other dudes she was going to call as soon as she could get this moron to bust a nut and get the FUCK OUT, suzy would dredge up that old engagement and pick a fight until you propose. suzy wants a diamond ring, sammy wants a nuvaring.

except not really, because the thought of 21 days of plastic wedged up my birth canal curdles my stomach. how do you hoes deal with that? is the pill REALLY that hard?! lazy bitches. anyway, a girl like me would loooooove to hear about that failed engagement. because that lets me know you're not going to try to lock me down. my favorite classification of dude (after "hot," "interesting," "not dumb," "smart," "handsome," "intelligent," and "not a goddamned idiot") is RECENTLY DIVORCED.

man, there's nothing better than a dude who HATES the last bitch he fucked! here's why:
#1: I'M NOT THAT BITCH. so, by default, everything i do is AWESOME.
#2: he doesn't want to immediately jump into anything serious.
#3: some other bitch has already taught him how to dress.
#4: and stepped up his shoe game for him.
#5: AND taught him how to make at least two meals.
#6: have i already mentioned that I'M NOT THAT BITCH?! dudes who've recently escaped the clutches of some hate-filled, resentful, micro-managing shrew are so grateful that i'm there and not bossing them around that they treat me like a princess. a princess with a vagina made out of NFL playoff games, saturday nights with the boys, and italian beefs with hot giardinara. and every other fucking thing mean mommy won't them have in peace.

this is precisely why i let that married dude take me out a billion years ago, because he was so happy i wasn't snatching at him about the dry cleaning or carpooling or the recycling or the kids or the dog or the gutters or the neighbors or the phone bill or the burned out floodlight or the grocery list or whatever it is you married people spend all day yapping at each other about. also, his thirsty ass bought my old car a new transmission, and i'm pretty sure it was only because i let him stick his hand in my panties.

so figure out whether you've got a suzy or a sam, and proceed accordingly.

i have met a woman that i may be interested in. however, i heard through the grapevine that she has been dating someone for a couple of months or so. should i let her know my sentiments or will i end up having her avoid me?

"heard through the grapevine" is such a fruity thing to say. and is that a veiled way of saying you think she might be a slut? (it's quite possible that i am a touch too sensitive in this regard.) i don't know, just tell her. if she balks, just chalk it up to the fact that she's probably dating some hot, mysterious rich dude with a gigantic rod, not the fact that you're a pansy who uses words like "sentiments" whom she should TOTALLY BE AVOIDING.

my fiancee asked me if i think about her when i masturbate. what is she hoping i'll say?

her sister. no, her brother. even better, the upstairs neighbor's seven year old daughter. jesus christ you dudes are stupid.

i NEVER ask a dude about his fantasies. or ask about his celebrity crushes. or look at his porn. you know why? because the second you do and he honestly tells you who his dream ass belongs to, your tiny little monkey brain will OBSESS OVER IT constantly until you are forced to break up with him. because unless his answer is "nell carter," i probably can't compete. so then my regular-looking ass is all bent out of shape, walking around giving the stank eye to all the halle berry lookalikes on the train and showing up during his lunch break to make sure all the pretty girls in his office know that his ladyfriend knows her way around a machete. and i don't need that bullshit. i'm fucking TIRED. and i like my self-esteem right where it is: somewhere between the sidewalk and the sewer grate.

if you're smart, which you probably aren't, you'll feebly say "you" and hopefully sound believable. maybe she won't see your eyes rolling.

do women expect men to be exclusive right off the bat?

i don't know about WOMEN, but I don't. first of all, that's naive. and second, i like to be able to shop around. can't buy the first car you test drive. (i figured i would use an analogy a scrotum could understand.) how else will you know if the engine runs smoothly? or if it overheats? or if it brakes on a dime? or what kind of gas mileage it gets? or if it will cheat on you, break your heart, fuck your sister, steal your jackie brown dvd, lie to your face, talk behind your back, and take twenty dollars out of your wallet when it thinks you're asleep?

dudes aren't worth the oxygen it takes to keep one alive, and i'm not sure i want to be saddled with one for longer than i feel like. man, they're SO boring and they're SUCH liars that while i'd like to get married to have an excuse to get all my hot and pretty friends all glammed up and in one place so we can rage and get drunk and dance together, i feel like the second the party's over the countdown to the divorce begins. it's only a matter of time before he slips and falls into his secretary's vagina or i kidnap the nineteen year old bagging my groceries and chain him to the bed in the guest room until hubby comes home from his business trip.

i'm not that interesting (AND NEITHER ARE ANY OF YOU), and i feel like after a while the conversation dries up and you've heard all this motherfucker's hilarious stories and nothing new happens in his day and you've eaten at every restaurant and done it in every position and boring boring boring DEATH. which i'm cool with. look at long-term friendships. sarah and i have been friends for fifteen goddamned years. i have already heard EVERYTHING THAT BITCH IS EVER GOING TO HAVE TO SAY. we went to indie cafe for dinner the other night, and you know what exciting shit we talked about? NOT A GODDAMNED THING. she has been staring at my face for more than half of her life; we even lived together. what else is there to know? i don't get MORE interesting. i went over my hot dude updates (which took all of 1 second) and we had an in-depth discussion about some gossip i shouldn't have been sharing, then we ate and left immediately because like i've been saying, this crohn's is wearing your girl OUT. put me out of my misery already.

blame it on cosmo, but dudes are under the impression that things have to be spicy (am i right, vampire?), and as soon as you get to the comfy, sandwich-eating stage of your relationship, they start sniffing around for a fresh piece who still regularly trims her toenails and pretends she doesn't ever fart. which brings us back to my policy of keeping as many horses in the stable as will comfortably fit without getting manure all over my barn. because if WE'RE NOT EXCLUSIVE, then I'M NOT THAT BORING.


how do you know whether persistence will win a woman over or be just a waste of time?

now this stalker is speaking my language! because "persistence" is another word for "i'm sitting outside her house right now."

the problem with persistence is that it's always the dudes you have NO DESIRE TO GET WITH who won't stop fucking calling and texting and IMing your sweet ass. i'm usually not ambivalent about a dude. if i'm interested, there is no such thing as calling or texting too much. i may never have my ringer on, but i do enjoy unearthing my phone from whatever pile of garbage or dirty clothes it's hiding under, throwing it on the charger (it is alwaysalwaysalways DEAD), and seeing that some hot piece tried to call me thirty-seven times. makes me all tingly and warm.

but more likely than not, it's some pervy creepatroid with food in his beard clogging up my inbox with some bullshit i'm not trying to hear about rpg's and the daily show. motherfuckers who wear pajamas all day, live-blogging cspan and listening to police scanners. you've met them before, dudes who stand in the front row at coheed shows (i love me some coheed, but UGH) and/or wear eyeliner and have afi lyrics scrawled on their converse. alternately, they can be those weirdo backpacker hiphop types who try to explain why aceyalone is dope (he's not) and are forever challenging your "realness." EXHAUSTING.

for instance, i dated this little hiphop dude who commended me for having that madlib blue note album, but took away a handful of cool points because it wasn't actually on vinyl. are you serious?! what other bitches do you know that have that fucking record?! he also got all mad because i was listening to YNQ and he'd never heard of it. fuck, man. that kind of competition is EXHAUSTING. needless to say, that little jerk followed my around for three weeks after i cut him loose. leaving mixtapes in my mailbox and shit. mixtapes, i might add, that were titled shit like "music you never heard of," etc. GROSS.

so homie, if you are a pompous asshole, or a whiny, annoying little girl, or an obsessive gamer, or an incomprehensible nerd, quit peeking in that girl's windows and go make some fucking friends. but if you happen to be a sizzling hot chunk of 80% lean meat who's looking for a hot broad to choke and dress up like rerun, inbox me and i'll send you my address.
i've got some bushes you can hide in. zing.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

why, do you have roaches?

i should probably not start with something as inane and stupid as this, but if i could somehow combine christian bale, my hot little t-rex, and richard the genius/hilarious/brutally awesome dude who writes about le teevee for gawker in a blender with three bottles of yuengling traditional lager and a sprinkle of crushed narcotics i would drink that business every single morning and probably stop complaining so much. and i maybe could burn all my sad and lonely music in a fire. just saying.

so here's some fresh crazy for you: when faced with a prospective "brand new hot dude paying a visit to casa sam" situation, i am always TOTALLY OVERWHELMED by the insatiable urge to completely overhaul my living space.

i spent an entire week getting my shit together prior to hair's visit in december, scrubbing baseboards and hidden corners and unseen crevices with earth-murdering hazardous chemicals and non-biodegradable towels, using 1 swiffer cloth per square inch of my humble abode, bleaching and laundering everything i could get my filthy hands on in gallons of super-hot wasteful water; essentially, i took a huge shit right in mother earth's mouth just to impress some goddamned dude. one who wasn't even in my fucking house long enough to notice my artfully arranged kitchen cabinets and expertly styled bookshelves.

i don't know what the fuck my major malfunction is, but i just CANNOT accept that, despite their constant oversight and idiocy, men could give a shit that my toilet paper is on the roll the correct way.

and, in case you don't fucking know, the loose part should hang FROM THE BOTTOM, not REST ON TOP OF THE ROLL. why don't you assholes know that? all i can think when i see that is how i'm about to PLACE MY HAND ON and then WIPE MY ASS WITH someone else's shit. we haven't talked about poop in a while, so let's fix that. my crohn's will not get its ass together, despite the fact that i am pouring hundreds of dollars of fancy medicine down my gullet by the minute. i am impatient, man, and i've been taking this new shit for almost two months and this bad girl simply WILL NOT go quietly back into remission. and i'm irritated. two months is too soon to expect too much, but i'm aggravated out of my fucking mind. especially since i had, like, THREE normal weeks where i had normal-ish craps that actually had a shape and some heft to them.

i'm too dumb to have these rare and intermittent good weeks, because then my tiny corn kernel of a brain forgets that between my ribcage and my pelvis my internal landscape looks like fucking afghanistan. all charred and bombed-out and shot up and crawling with pissed off insurgents declaring jihad on my digestive system. and my joints, because please don't forget how bad this peripheral arthritis is. especially in the fucking morning. jesus. i'm staying at tom's right now, and i had to sit halfway down his big flight of stairs because my knees hadn't warmed up yet. what an old lady. no wonder i don't have a dude. i can't find a hot one with a walker fetish.

i'm about to start acupuncture just to try to come at this cunt from another direction, but those of you who pray should do me a favor and add "cure for crohn's disease" to the top of your lists in the likelihood that that bullshit is going to fail, too. speaking of needles, i was in the hospital recently for some treatments. exciting, i know. but i don't mind the hospital. AT ALL. because people who are sick and falling apart feel better once they get there. you normal people who break your arms or bump your heads and sit terrified in the emergency room waiting to get in make me sad. i get triaged ten seconds after i walk in, especially if my stomach pain is at an eight or higher. i don't have to dick around with insurance forms and co-pays, they just get me in a bed, get dr. handsome on the horn, and pump me full of steroids and dilauded until i pass out.

did i ever write about how i almost DIED my last ER visit?! it was in november, and i knew at two in the afternoon that i was going to "flare," a rather innocuous-sounding word considering what it physiologically means. the purpose of all these drugs i take is three-fold: 1 maintenance/flare prevention, 2 trying to get the disease to lapse back into remission, and 3 to keep the pharmaceutical industry rich. flare-ups often feel like the world's strongest man stuck his hand into my midsection, grabbed hold of my intestines, and started wringing them like a wet towel while STABBING ME IN THE GUT WITH A MACHETE. awesome, i know.

so anyway, i knew early that i was going to be fucked up, but i can't DO anything until it happens, just try to flood my system with steroids or sit and wait to puke and then holler at the ER. so ten hours after the first warning sign i was lying on my bathroom floor with my face in a puddle of acidic bile and foam, and i called melissa and asked her to be my date to the vomit-prom. fast forward to us in this tiny curtained room, tubes stuck all in up my everything, and this jersey shore bitch in blue scrubs comes in with syringes and a clipboard, blinking through her tarantula lashes at me. she asked me THREE TIMES what i was there for, then muttered, "this is an awful lot of painkiller, honey," AS SHE WAS INJECTING IT INTO MY CENTRAL LINE.

i would take a horse tranquilizer if it meant that unbearable pain would go away, so i didn't even flinch. bring it on, bitch. do your worst! WELL. heavy-duty shit like that...slows...your breathing...to...a...CRAWL...and sometimes...you.





i don't remember much other than being yanked away from the white light by the deafening shriek of the pulse ox machine and a blinding red light blinking outside the door. two nurses burst in and snatched me out of baby jesus's loving embrace, shaking me awake and shoving oxygen tubes in my mouth and nose. exciting! dying is no big deal to me, life on earth is serrrrriously wearing me out, but i texted my lawyer anyway. why shouldn't my sisters feast on caviar at my funeral? live it up, you dirty snatches. but BOO fucking HOO i did not die, that time at least, and am now just sitting on the toilet waiting for my next opportunity. right now i'm pretty good, only flaring up once every six to eight months, but melissa is moving to seattle. so you bitches better keep your phones on. come may or june you might have to come pick a bitch up.

i have steered this stupid ship disastrously off course. let's refresh: hospital awesome needles treatment. you still with me? amazing, you smartypants. so i'm all hooked up to IV bags and getting all injected up and i have my shoes off and a book (i broke down and am reading "edgar sawtelle;" book report to follow) in my lap, settling in for three nonstop hours of ass-numbing misery. and then my favorite thing on earth happened:

i got to witness a couple having a nasty public fight.

i always piss and cry and moan because no one is waiting at home for me every night with a hot bowl of pesto and a handful of xanax, and the ONE THING that eases that persistent dull ache is watching two assholes in love scratching each others' eyes out in the grocery store or a hair salon. makes me feel MUCH less anxious that there is no man contractually obligated to suffer through sex and the city 2 with me or that i still have my original last goddamned name. at first i couldn't figure out how the brouhaha got started or what it centered around, but these dudes went from glaring at each other to raising their voices to cell phones being thrown and security getting called. i just sat there texting hot weekend and thanking my lucky stars that no one else's name is on my lease.

UGH. how do you fightfightfightfight and then go HOME with the person you just fought with? you know i don't believe in arguing, i believe in "get the FUCK OUT." i am uninterested in it, all that tiresome back and forth. and i'm the nastiest grudge holder you will ever meet. seriously, if we have it out just do yourself a favor and cut my ass loose. because i NEVER let anything go. i will keep bringing up old shit every single time you get on my last nerve. it's not worth it. trust me. so either don't eff me over, or tell me to take a hike as soon as we take the gloves off and get to scrappin'.

this crohn's business makes me feel lame and unlovable, but watching this bitch hiss and spit through clenched teeth about the unpaid electric bill and some other bitch whose number was in his phone after he promised he'd delete it made me feel a smidge better. because while no one loves me at all ever not even a little bit, at least no one is snatching my wrist and idly threatening me in the middle of a phlebotomy lab. i just sat the with the nurse, opening and closing my fist 469 times so she could collect a gallon of my blood one tube at a time. seriously, like EIGHT tubes. i can't even stomach watching it. a butterfly needle in my bad hand and a giant bloodsucker in the other arm. christ almighty. open close open close open close open close FAINT.

so when it was decided that hot weekend was going to come over to luxuriate in my incandescent glow, the first thing i did was call maya's ass and say "you know where we need to go? TARGET." because this dude is totally going to notice that my shower curtain rings are sorta dull and that the plug-in in the bathroom is almost out of scented oil. pshaw.

i talk a lot of shit. but the minute some dirtbag is like, "want to watch a movie at your place?" i'm out the door in thirty seconds flat buying new dish towels and replacing the sink mat. no, really. and i know a man doesn't have the sense or observational skills god gave your average housecat, but i still like to have my ducks in a row just in case. you know, what if he's part gay or something? then he'll totally notice that my blinds are dusty and my dish towels don't match. and i can't deal with that.

here is what i bought and/or replaced in anticipation of this four-hour visit, in no particular order: shower curtain liner, shower cleaner, hand soap dispensers, pink grapefruit dish soap, an electric blue laundry basket, a surge protector, kitchen sponges, paper towels, toilet paper, plug ins, air freshener, silver glitter toothbrushes and fennel toothpaste from merz, formula 409, comet, clorox wipes, shea butter soap, water filters, a humidifier filter, juice boxes.

then i: cleaned the cat kennel; washed and changed the litterbox; threw out 100+ old issues of the new yorker and bust and bitch and vanity fair that had been piled atop the cat kennel; washed all of the dishes; dusted the metal rack in the dining room; swept and mopped the dining room, and the kitchen, and the BATHROOM; scrubbed the oven and the stovetop; bleached the refrigerator; scrubbed the toilet; put all my clean laundry away; hid all the dirty laundry; swapped out the dish towels; dusted all the bookshelves and the blinds; reorganized the dvds; changed the bedsheets, shams, and the duvet; and did dumb shit like uniformly filling the ice cube trays and made sure all my spanish and algebra books were stacked neatly, spines facing outward, of course, on top of my desk.

all after i spent half an hour on my knees retching into the toilet (and not in the cute way) because i'd taken a small army of drugs on an empty stomach (idiot) then tried to chase them with crackers and dry corn cereal. but i'm a soldier, man. i took a benedryl and slept on the bathroom floor then got up and cleaned my place, terrorizing helly with the swiffer because she's a dumb cat and can't discern friend from foe.

hot weekend called to let me know that he was en route and asked what i was doing.

"well, i just took the garbage out, and i'm about to shove all my new balances into the hall closet." as sexy as he'd expected, i'm sure.

he laughed. "why?"

"i just cleaned up, and i don't really have any place to put all my shoes. so i'm going to hide them until after you leave." i mean, DUH.

"you didn't have to clean up for me. i could care less."

well thanks for telling me that NOW, asshole. argh. "of course i did. i didn't want you to see all my errant porn. or find that bag of chocolate cashews that melted at the foot of my bed. so i had to clean up."

long pause. "why, do you have roaches?"

"what? eww. no!" horrifying.

"okay, well that's the only thing i care about. i HATE when a woman has you over to her place and there are roaches crawling all over your shoes and shit. yuck. so you're cool as long as i don't have to kill any bugs."

so i didn't have to lysol all the doorknobs and clean the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush? shit. 

"so that's the barometer for whether or not you like a bitch's place? ROACHES?" 

why did i go through all the trouble to put all my cool movies out and make sure my smartest magazines were on the nightstand? why did i drag all of those ancient bottles of salad dressing and decades worth of old, shredded period underwear down to the dumpster? why did i wipe down the lightbulbs over the vanity and re-fold all of the bath towels? fucking stupid.

"uh huh. anything else? totally doesn't matter. i wouldn't even notice."

hot weekend assured me he'd be at my place in twenty minutes and i hung up, dejectedly glancing around at my spotless apartment, wishing i'd already made the dinner i could eat off the floor or that i had spent more time napping so i wouldn't have to pound diet cokes all fucking night. helen looked at me and shook her head, laughing. then she got in the litterbox and dumped half of the fresh litter on the floor, took a queen-sized dump, knocked her food bowl over, sending teeny little pellets skittering across the hardwood in forty-seven directions before jumping her shitty behind in my clean bed. blerg.

when he arrived i was in the kitchen sweating a bunch of onions in a big dutch oven (sexy sexy date food, right? i am suave to no end, lover!) so he was left to see to his own coat hanging and comfort making. "is this the coat closet?" he shouted, but i was intensely focused on not burning his dinner and didn't really register what he'd said. until i heard all the shoes. come tumbling down from wherever they'd been shoved.

"oh my god, are you okay? did anything hit you?!"

"ALMOST," he grumbled, pouting as he rounded the corner. "i could have been knocked out!"

"dude, i'm really sorry. i have GOT to figure out something to do with my stupid shoes."

"it's okay,"
he said very nicely, considering the shoevalanche he'd barely escaped intact. he smiled, and i assumed everything was right in the world again. then he paused for a few beats.

"i thought you said you cleaned up?"