Monday, April 19, 2010

weight watcher.

this is why i'm an asshole. i'm sure you have your own carefully crafted list of reasons why, but you can keep that shit to your fucking selves. anyway, i'm a fucking asshole because i read those michael pollan books while eating a bucket of foie gras, i read fast food nation and watched super size me while sucking down veal, and i cried through food inc over a plate of bald eagle, but it wasn't until i was like, "who took that goddamned picture of me looking like THAT?" that i thought, "maybe i should care about what the fuck goes in my mouth."

now you already know i like a huge hunk of FDA-approved penis in there. as well as: beer, tasty alcoholic beverages, beef, swine, duck, fish, pasta, biryani, fortune cookies, and cake. i also like medicine. what i can have is so goddamned restricted, but i push those limits EVERY DAY. and most of the time it's TOTALLY WORTH IT. i don't know, i just don't understand those people who don't appreciate delicious shit. i just don't get it. when i was 19 and destitute and sleeping on the floor in my apartment i ate those 99 cent packets of rice EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY. and just like with everything else in my fucking life, when i got some fucking money i was like, "i'm never eating shitty food again." and you should understand that sentence to mean "shitty" as in "cheap." as in "rice packet+water+2 tbsp of margarine=dinner."

it didn't help that i worked in food service at really nice places and that mel shot and did catalogs and packaging for really nice food service companies. he'd do a photo shoot and get it catered and i would be like, "i've been living wrong." what the fuck, parents? no one ELSE was eating hamburger helper! that's not true. and i know the answer is WE WERE POOR and MY MOTHER WAS DISABLED but i've already talked about that. let's talk instead about how once you have a few pennies and nickels and dimes to your name all you want to do is never live that way AGAIN. even if it bankrupts you. that's why my soaps are fifteen fucking dollars apiece. because i couldn't have anything like that when i was a child. it is also why my cabinets are bare, because all we ate was shit that could survive a nuclear attack. fucking peasant food. i didn't have a vegetable other than salad that had not come out of a can until i was fifteen fucking years old.

which is why i buy what the fuck i want. and drink what i want. and eat anything dead and slathered in butter. because i fucking want to. and because i work fifty hours a week and i don't have any fucking kids and did you just read how i said i grew up on tuna helper?! my refrigerator is full of expensive bullshit that somebody else made. my mom would have NEVER bought green beans someone else sauteed. i do so at least once a week. my shelves are lined with containers from fancy places that make me feel special: foodstuffs, bari, goddess and grocer, fox and obel, sultan's, grand food centre, that fancy-ass store that's in the century at clark and diversey, you name it. any place i can buy mortadella and capicola and sopressata and arugula pesto at an exorbitant price. just to let it spoil in my refrigerator because you hoes are always dragging me out to restaurants and making me not want my fancy shit at home.

not that i'm complaining. what is the point of a waistband that expands unless it's to fit a food baby? and what is the point of living in chicago and eating at home?! so i don't do it. i go the fuck out. because i still know a handful of bitches and dicks with no kids and some disposable income who'd rather split a slab of ribs with me (RIBS) than sit home watching law and order and eating spaghetti. AGAIN. brunches, dinners, lunches, two am tacos, YOU NAME IT. fuck cooking for yourself. and i am a really good cook, i'm not even playing, but cooking for myself is boring. and i can't make hot love to myself after i've served myself a meal worth making hot love over. i mean, i guess i could. but where is the fun in that? i cooked for hot weekend and he liked it so much i almost got PERIOD HEAD. now THAT is worth the price of a pound of chicken.

so if i had a slice of mancake i'd be cooking shit and baking muffins all the goddamned time. not because i'm particularly domestic, but because the look on a person's face when you've made something for him is priceless. especially when it doesn't taste like something the cat barfed up. i tell every dude i'm ever with how much i TOTALLY HATE DUDES, so it's always a nice surprise when i actually dust off a pot and pan to prepare something for one to eat. i don't even spit in it or add a few drops of visine before it's served, either. (which i totally should most of the time, because men are seriously awful.)

because that's how you get a husband, right? braising lamb shanks and roasting cornish hens? sweating your tits off making homemade sheets of pasta and souffles that don't fall? OH MY GOD HERE IS SOMETHING GREAT: when we were dating, spanks came over for dinner. dinner that i had cooked. with all the shit that sonofabitch put me through i totally should have made boxed macaroni and powder cheese, but that's not my style. so i made this fresh pasta and vegetable business. i hate turkey (inconceivable, i know), but i also marinated and roasted some turkey legs. overall, it was a lovely meal. at the time i actually had a dining room table, and i set everything out and it looked amazing. this motherfucker rolls in, surveys the spread, and points to the pasta bowl. "i can't eat that."

now, i talk a lot of shit, but i am really fucking sweet at the core. so i immediately panicked and was like, "what's the matter? are you allergic to peppers? WHAT CAN I DO TO FIX IT?!" i really loved that stupid ass fucking dude, and it was important to me that he have a worthwhile dinner. but he just stood there staring like an oaf, he was EXCEPTIONALLY good at that, blinking at me. i'm sweet, but i have very little tolerance, plus i like to cook with a cocktail. so i finished my (second) vodka tonic and screamed, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH IT?" to which he replied, "i can't eat that kind of pasta."

me: "elaborate."

that asshole: "i only eat angel hair."

me: "i'm going to need you to repeat that."

which he DID. and at that point i realized that this future anesthesiologist might be just a touch MENTALLY RETARDED. because he didn't understand that orecchiette and angel hair are the made of the exact same thing, they are just in a different shape. "IT'S THE SAME FUCKING THING, YOU FUCKING GORILLA! THE SAME EXACT MATERIAL, DIFFERENTLY SHAPED," i shouted at the top of my lungs. "it's durum semolina, and sometimes those crazy italians make it into crazy shapes just to be crazy and piss you off. just taste it."

he did NOT, and i'm not typically a shit loser, but you better believe there were WORDS. mostly "stupid," "idiot," "uncultured," "inbred," and so on. is that not the stupidest shit you've ever heard in your fucking life? FUCK the fact that i wasted energy that could have been better spent watching exercise infomercials while sucking down nachos, at that moment i realized that i was dating the dumbest motherfucker alive. i didn't even want to LOOK at him anymore.

after i'd clarified that his objection was indeed to the SHAPE of the pasta and not what it was TOPPED WITH, i thought to myself, "he is not allowed to put his penis inside me EVER AGAIN." i can't fuck dumb. i told you bitches before, i can sleep with almost anything but STUPID. no stupid, no lame, and no crazy. i was just thinking about this dude the other day, getting all wistful and weak, and then i remembered that he is a goddamned idiot. reverie ends.

so if you've got a dude worth cooking for, fry some shit up. and when he's done you can make him wash the dishes and then say, "i've got a beautiful place to put your face" and if he balks you just remind him where the pork chop juice he just finished licking off his fingertips came from. and that he's got a face you need to sit on.

i used to make things all the time and bring them to work, but without a car that shit is annoying. fuck if i'm going to drag eight dozen pistachio cookies on the fucking train. NEVER. it's also nice to feed a dude because you don't have to deal with leftovers, which i will not fucking eat. sorry mom and starving africans, but eating some grody old bullshit is just not samantha's style. i got in big trouble when i was seven for throwing my reheated leftover quiche in the garbage while my mom was in the other room on the phone. she came back in the kitchen, caught me scraping that shit into the trash, and yelled at me to GET IT OUT and put it BACK ON MY PLATE. i am the most stubborn, resilient piece of shit bastard on earth when i am angry (the longer you know me, the better you will know this) and i sat at that table until my fucking bedtime, staring at that ridiculous old nonsense and standing my goddamned ground.

i might have gone to bed with no dinner, but i think we ALL know who won that argument.

so now i don't eat old food. i showed YOU, grace. and i get drunk too often and have delicious treats too often and skip the gym WAY too often and then some filthy whore will tag a photo i didn't pose for wearing something that i should have burned and THEN i start to think about not having so much cheese all the time. and doing the elliptical more.

except i HATE the goddamned elliptical. why do you hoes do that shit? i'd rather fuck my knees up the traditional way, getting some hot salami delivered to my service entrance, not trying to maneuver a machine i always feel like i'm about to fall the fuck off of. god, FUCK that damn thing. and double eff all of you people who ride it with no hands. fucking show-offs. i have to stop the fucking machine COMPLETELY to take a sip of goddamned water, which i STILL spill all down my fucking front. i had to stop wearing light-colored tshirts and bras to the gym. i'd be at full visible areola ten minutes after walking through the door. i do the bike when my broken foot hurts, but there are always actual senior citizens on them shits, and i just can't do it sometimes. i mean, i just cannot pedal a bike next to a bitch who is 137 years old while people my own age are doing acrobatics on the other side of the room.

i like the weight machines. really, i could do those all day. i read some shit about how working your muscles fucking doubles whatever calories you're already burning, so i was like, "fuck yeah, triceps curls!" but because god hates us he made cardio, so i do the treadmill, too. i am working out with that scary russiaslovakian lesbian bitch again. she weighs twelve pounds, is also twelve fucking years old, and does shit like running ultramarathons over rough terrain for fun. what is an ULTRAmarathon, you ask? well why don't i tell you, because i fucking know. this tiny bitch runs marathons that are 50 or 100 miles. AT ONCE. get the fuck out of here.

she told me that shit when i first started working out with her last summer, and i was like, "i want someone else." but she's really nice. and she doesn't do shit that fucks up my midsection, which she calls "the bad place." you know, because we had to sit and talk about my fucking guts for an hour before i could let her start torturing me half to death. she's cute. we circuit train (i would rather be dead than continue to do that) and do "strength work" (it makes me suicidal for reals) twice a week, AND i take this stupid pilates mat class one night a week. and that class totally stresses me out one because the teacher is this super hot dude and two that shit is HARD. plus, everyone else's workout clothes are so much cuter than mine. and they look cuter in them. make no mistake, that fine ass dude has to come over at least once every class to make sure i haven't died. and let's just clear this up, in my real life there is no such thing as "fucking the hot pilates dude." because i was telling cara about it and she was like, "ask him if he wants to have a recovery shake one night after class." i want one of you to SHOOT ME IN THE FUCKING HEAD if you ever hear me utter the words "recovery" and "shake" in the same sentence. and also, that is not plausible.

we really need to talk about how we have to stop pretending we can holler at unattainable dicks. because it ultimately makes me want to kill myself. for instance, when i told cara that the teacher was hot, that bitch should have said, "that's nice. have you farted in class yet?" because i have a serious problem with fixating on impossible dudes, and it is your job as my goddamned friends to be like, "less supermodel, more bus driver." i delude myself into thinking i can get into some pants i totally can't, and that crash back down to earth hurts my fucking backside. and then i miss all of the "just friends" signs. i was talking to draper about this last night, how dudes are oblivious to the fact that they are sending "i want to be your boyfriend" signals to bitches (ME) they just want to be friends with. no other bitches in my circle seem to be contending with as much romantic ambivalence (i was going to write "rejection" but just fucking couldn't) as i am. and that is lame.

draper is WAY MORE TOLERANT than i am of opposite sex mixed messages, but i think that's because he's a hot dude and it really doesn't matter when bitches are vague or noncommittal with him. because he can walk out his door and get ten phone numbers, and he probably doesn't even have to show his penis. so if some girl gives him the runaround, what's the big deal? there are others, and they'll sweat his balls off. so it's hilarious to him to have some asshole broad jerking him around. meanwhile, i have to tap dance, write a symphony, spend 1000 bucks, and perform open heart surgery just to get a call back from a dude who probably isn't interested in me, you know, LIKE THAT. it's difficult to have draper try to figure out my dude-lemmas, because he is sane and rational and can't explain why other dudes are fucking idiots. i felt dumb even talking about it, though, as i have been celibate for four months (ouch) and nothing is happening romantically for me anyway. you can always tell when i'm having a drought, too, because that's when i start writing about my dead mother and how much i fucking love tacos. okay. enough of this.

i started this E2 vegan cleanse business at the beginning of last week, thinking i could drop a toddler by the time funny ha-ha rolls around in may, the next time i expect to be 1 doing my little song-and-dance in front of a large group of people again (you're coming, right? you better be) and 2 heavily photographed. emphasis on the heavily. rachel did that shit and so did danielle, so laura and lori and i decided to try that shit, too. except i kind of forgot that about 80% of the inside of my intestines is the diameter of a drinking straw. so i need to eat white bread and applesauce that have been chewed already, basically. i'm fine giving up dairy. i don't need that shit anyway. all it does is make my asshole bleed. i love meat, but my vanity would let me live without it for 28 days. sugar, too, even though i have a TERRIBLE sweet tooth. we can't get into that. i'd write all day. fucking delicious sugar.

really, if i had a dick i'd stick it in a cupcake. or some soft, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. and i wouldn't even fuck those cookies like a whore, i'd make love to them like a lady. seriously, if you've ever been to any birthday of mine, think back to how great the cake was. look at that picture i posted! forget my amazing rack (no, please don't, it's GLORIOUS), look at that fucking CAKE. *drool* and it was $60 and from three tarts because, like i said, I NEED MY SHIT TO BE FANCY.

anyway, i was all amped on cleansing my cellulite down the drain or however that shit works, and i had two good, clean vegan days (except for some beer which, while it might be vegan, is not allowed on this diet) and then i ate a huge bowl of brown rice. with some peanut sauce and steamed vegetables. and i was FINE.

until i was not.

if you've never seen or felt undigested food before, consider your sweet ass lucky. and i could go into it, but i trust that you kids have healthy enough imaginations to figure it out for yourselves. i was sweating in agonizing death pain, then dropped a bag of uncooked whole grain rice into the toilet. at least that's what it looked like. 30 seconds later i was like, "fuck this cleanse." my intestines are literally a gnarled, tangled rope of scar tissue suspended in blood, no need to torture them further.

since every case of crohn's is different, trial and error is really the ONLY way to figure out what you can and cannot eat. if you search on the internet for "foods to avoid" the list is a fucking mile long. so you just have to eat something, wait a day, and see if you end up in the hospital. for instance, i can't eat oatmeal. and i found that out the hard way. i also can't fuck with raw carrots. but i can eat nuts and seeds. crazy. ooh, and i almost missed that that's a TOTAL DICK JOKE and i hope your little brains are making it on my behalf. i can make at least three. come on, you can do it!

so, even though laura called me a quitter, i took the grains out and put the meat back in. because i can prolapse my rectum trying to add more barley to my life. beef and greens, just as horus intended. the doctor doesn't give a shit what i fucking eat, as long as i don't show up in the emergency room at two in the morning. and if that hot pilates dude and that scary lesbo can't help me burn a little pork tenderloin off these thighs, what the fuck am i paying them for?!

this whole thing stems from a conversation ginger and gorgeous and i were having about body image and how it affects your interpersonal relationships with men and your approach to dating. or whether or not how you look and how big your curves are really determines the number of dudes who are interested in you. my vote was "YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES." there might have been a few more yes's. because i have spent my entire life waiting for these superficial ass dudes to move personality to the top of the list, and GUESS WHAT. still no dice.

maybe in the future when we all are just holograms of perfect people that we can project our towering intelligence and incredible sense of humor on i will meet manfriends who want to do shit other than ask me about some OTHER bitch or try to fuck my fucking homegirls. wouldn't that be sweet? it might be even sweeter if a dude could just stick his dick in my jokes, but i guess i have to wait for steve jobs to figure out how to make that happen. come on, future! my love life SUCKSSSSSS. these assholes hate me. invent a way for my to be attractive without really having to DO anything!

i was talking to david about this because he has a lot of credit cards and is unabashedly shallow, and i sometimes appreciate talking to a dude who is honest and gross and admits that he doesn't pay attention to anyone bigger than a size 4. he fucks girls who have marbles rolling around in the space between their ears, and they all smell like plastic and suntan lotion and they are IMPOSSIBLE to converse with. once he asked me to meet him out while he was hanging out with some slut and i was like, "you're on a date" and he said, in front of her, "i can't talk to this idiot, she's just for fucking. come out. i'll open a tab." and while he is a total fucking pig, i respect his honesty.

because dudes who talk to me often think there is a "way" they have to talk to me. like they have to be their most progressive selves or some shit. stop doing that, please. i know you're an asshole, so just be an asshole! i know maybe seven good, upstanding gentlemen. and if you think you're one of them, you prolly ain't. let's all keep it real with each other. how the fuck can i learn how to handle these testicles if all my jockstraps keep LYING to me? "i really want someone with a nice personality," texted this lying liar i know recently. unless the lexicon has changed and i can interpret "nice personality" as "tight little fucking ass," you are pulling my tampon string, sir. and i don't LIKE IT.

"you're not going to be happy," david mused i as literally SHOVELED crab legs into my face. that dude always pays, so THIS dude always picks fancy seafood restaurants. i'm not stupid. "let's say you take a year and get in shape. well, better shape than you are now, a year is not that long. (jesus, dude, don't spare my fucking feelings.) and let's say you get your teeth fixed (hey!) and do something about those hands (heyyy!) and get rid of those ridiculous glasses (HEY!) and figure out something to do with your hair (HEYYY!) and then prince charming comes out of the woodwork. you're gonna get all fucked up and weird and overly analytical and say it's only because you made superficial changes and he's not into your brain blah blah all that boring shit you talk about blah."

well i didn't mention my fucking teeth number one, i think my glasses are lovely number two, and i only have this fucking hair because laura will not let me cut it and everyone keeps telling me how feminine i look which must mean that when my hair is short i look like a fucking man and no one has told me that in all this time and that's very upsetting number three.

"you can't compete with these bitches out here. just give up. fire that fucking trainer so we can sit around drinking beer and eating smoked meats all day. eventually some asshole who wants his jam to jiggle will come along and notice how good your personality looks in your jeans. or you could just get some sperm and have a fucking baby. they love everybody."

and while i do enjoy spending hours on end eating bacon with that dude, i already paid for the trainer in full. and i paid for six months of that damn pilates. so i'm going to keep going, i guess. if for no other reason than to fart on that hot dude while trying to do the plank.

me and b yesterday at the zoo.
i wonder if she's staring at my chins? and i really do need a cosmetic hand surgeon. inbox me if you know a guy. jesus wept.