Monday, May 10, 2010

no wack dudes.

alexis took this picture yesterday. god, i look good. who in his right mind could ever hit that fucking face? i really am a peach. and i'm fucking perfect. look at my lustrous curls. and i have dimples. ON BOTH SIDES. which you know means i sit at the right hand of god or some shit, right? seriously. dimples are irresistible. who could ever want this face mangled and destroyed? this is a face that deserves to be caressed and sensually stroked (ha!) and sat on by a hot piece of glistening meat. can i mention that i don't have a speck of makeup on? other than what we'll refer to as a "healthy glow" (read: glaring t-zone), my skin is goddamned amazing. put your face up to the motherfucking screen and check my shit out. NOT A BLEMISH. because i'm an angel from heaven. duh.

not really. i get drunk, consume diet coke by the case, sleep in my makeup (seriously, almost every day i'm so fucking lazy, and i ruin my pillowcases), and spend most of the time scowling. a recipe for luminous skin that does not make. most of you kids know that i'm a beauty product whore, and even though i would wear a fucking garbage bag in lieu of structured clothing every day if i could get away with it, i would do so whilst smelling like jo malone. i really do wear gym shoes and black tshirts pretty much every day of my life, but my bathroom and makeup suitcase are stocked like fucking saks and barneys. and i am the spoiled rotten baby of four obnoxious girls so i DO NOT believe in sharing, but i'm in a charitable mood today. so here is what i do to my face, and what you can do to yours: i keep a bar of "coalface" and a container of "dark angels" by lush in the shower. i start the water cold to both close my pores and alleviate my pesky morning erection (silly wet dreams), and i holler at that coalface for six days and dark angels on the sabbath. or sometimes i use this dermalogica powder that you mix with a little water. toners are wack because they burn up and dry out your fucking face, so skip that shit. although i do keep two bottles of clinique clarifying lotion (#3 and #4) in the refrigerator in the summer. so i am a contradictory liar. anyway. i like kiehl's ultra facial moisturizer spf 15, and it is more than you want to spend, but it is WORTH IT. look at my fucking face!

i was going to tell the dudes to skip that last paragraph, but i have a shit ton of metros in my inner circle now, and i'm sure they appreciate it and even made a shopping list. shit, they probably have a more banging skin game than i do! i've seen my BFF vampire twice in the last seven days, and that dude is so pretty my vagina just shrivels up and throws in the towel whenever he's around. for serious. what the fuck is the point? i mean, that dude is so good looking that i don't even TRY to pretend to be a fairy princess when he's around. i don't do my face, i don't wear any sort of stretchy spandex torture devices under my clothing, and i eat like a fucking truck driver.

maybe i am the opposite of most women in that way. the hotter the dude, the less effort i put into my shit. it is some next level cruelty to be teetering around in uncomfortable heels unable to take a breath because the "minimizer" or "slimifier" or "bulge reducer" or "skinnytizer" you have stretched from your ankles to just beneath the underwire of your bra is so fucking tight. i've done that stiff-ass mummy walk before. you look like you're doing the fucking robot when what you're REALLY doing is constricting your internal organs and cutting off the circulation to your goddamned brain. have you ever talked to a fat bitch who looks a little too smooth at a fancy party? how dumb did she sound? probably like she reads at a third grade level.

but it's not her fault! them shits is TIGHT. she can't sit down because she can't bend, so she's got jelly legs. she can't eat because you can't even fit a cracker in there without running the risk of EXPLODING, so she's delirious and hypoglycemic. but she looks good, goddamn it. i like to knock shit over in front of a bitch wearing some spanx and watch her try to contort her way to the ground to pick that shit up. you could fracture something. at jonathan and kelly's wedding a year ago i wore the most beautiful dress known to mankind, and under it i wore this shiny black piece of sadistic shit that had obviously been designed by some skinny mad scientist who hates delicious food. and it almost destroyed me.

sarah and i had a fancy hotel room (yes) and i bailed on the reception before she did (old) and drove her car back to the hotel (find your own ride) so i could go the fuck to sleep (drunk). i had to pee the second i got the key card in the door (fumbling), and i kicked my shoes off and found the light switch (blind) but not before i stubbed my toe on the pullout couch (ow) and stumbled into the bathroom (finally). i hiked up the dress (difficult) and tried to get out of the spanx (impossible) while doing the pee pee dance (awful). i could NOT get that fucking thing off. i'm sure it was because i was hammered (love weddings), but it was also one of those ones that attaches to your bra (next level) and i couldn't get the whole contraption undone (idiot). because of the whole bra thing it had a pee hole (gross) and wasn't meant to be worn with underwear.

i have to pause to interject here that i just don't do the no underwear thing. i am too moist and fragrant for all of that. and i know a lot of you other bitches are, too, otherwise there wouldn't be seven hundred brands of pantiliners on the market in varying shapes, sizes, and levels of absorbency. so just stop it already. my gorgeous caitlin was in town and we went out for tapas saturday afternoon (god, i ADORE HER) and she was wearing leggings, which she said she prefers to wear without panties. i wish i could be that cool. alas, i cannot.

that lunch was so rad. 1 my guts are good 2 my guts are good 3 my guts are good and 4 tapas is amazing. and i like eating with dirty-minded bitches who aren't afraid of food. it was two in the afternoon (fuck my stupid saturday job) and the place was almost empty, and nothing makes you feel like royalty more than having a waitress's undivided attention. the same thing ALSO makes you feel like you are eating under a microscope, but let's just pretend for a second that we weren't paying for that lunch with rent money and loose change dug up from the couch cushions. lamb empanadas estan la mierda, mijos. SO GOOD.

so i'm in the hotel bathroom trying to figure out how to get nineteen beers (not really) out of my body and into the toilet. and i remembered the pee hole (genius). but i also remembered scoffing at that pee hole as i put my underwear on (idiot). so i stood in the bathtub and tried to hold up this floor-length dress with one hand and slide the crotch of my fancy skivvies to the side with the other (horrific) so i could pee down the drain. did i learn nothing from that african? i got piss EVERYWHERE, on EVERYTHING. what a nightmare. then, of course, i flew into a rage because there was urine on my feet and my dress and i couldn't wash it off because i was still strapped into that fucking torture device, so i tiptoed my pissy feet all around that room and went through sarah's luggage until i found her emergency scissors and I CUT THAT FUCKING THING OFF.

i cut it off and tore it to pieces and put it in a plastic bag with the underwear i was so intent on wearing and put them in the garbage can next to the elevator (smelly) to hide what i'd done. then i washed out the tub with shampoo and tried to spot clean that beautiful dress. that little piece of bullshit cost me a hundred and twenty bucks, and i acutely remember because it really hurt when my jaw hit the floor as the salesbitch rung me up. ouchies.

sarah came back in the wee hours of the morning, when i was all jammied up and asleep and unconsciously dreading our long road trip home. i haven't worn one of those things since. i also haven't been to anything too fancy. and i also have done readings and other public shit for which the resulting photographs made me go, "goddamn bitch, you should have put a fucking spanx on." and i haven't worn that gorgeous dress, either. maybe i'll put it on next time i let the laundry pile so high helly kelly can't jump over it, or maybe i'll throw it on to run to starbucks or to get the sunday paper from the corner store. as we were leaving the hotel, tired, hungover, faces half-obscured by giant ass sunglasses, sarah turned to me and said, "does it smell like pee in here to you?"

now i will gussy it up and put on some painful accoutrement to hang with an ugly, quasimodo-looking dude because then i might get fucking noticed. it might be worth the goddamned trouble. but if i put my face on and push my tits up just so everyone can ogle my dining companion i will be MAD. not because they aren't paying me any attention, but because eating in lipstick is tricky, and all my hot dude jeans are tight and leave no room for warsteiner bloat. it's just easier to relax around a hot piece. he's probably so worried about his pedicure and whether or not his eyebrows need waxing that he won't notice i had to undo my pants before the dessert course. seriously. i had dinner with the vampire last night and i looked like i had walked through a car wash then rolled in cat hair. my head hair looked ridiculous (seriously, this shit must come off) and, while i always look stylish, nerd-style is not really high fashion.

plus, a dude is going to find out just how much you jiggle when you roll that body stocking off, so what the fuck is the point? just relax and enjoy yourself. shit.

jeremy was talking to me from a thousand miles away the other night about his fancy boots (and taking them off), and i was like what kind are they? then he started explaining them and all i could hear was "fancy fancy expensive metro fancy homo fancy." i don't know shit about boots, but i DO like that hot dude's voice circling around my brain, so i listened. then i thought about asking him what kind of pants he was wearing, and whether or not he might want to take those off, too. HOLD UP. let me tell you about this little lovers' quarrel we had. i don't know how it started, but i know it ENDED with his assertion that don cheadle is a good looking man. better looking, in fact, than my beloved forest whitaker. pffft.

i fight dirty, so i immediately countered that he and his olive complexion are unqualified to gauge black handsomeness. he called bullshit (sorry, forest, i tried) and then we had a battle of the hot dudes. and that should have felt gay, but it DIDN'T. i'm hot for dudes who can recognize that another dude's face is well put-together. it's sexxxy. except when that face belongs to don cheadle, because who on earth thinks that dude is FINE? he's all scrawny and skeletal and shit. like a dehydrated california raisin minus the saxophone and the shades. blech. he's a good actor, but bitch please.

i'm not sure who won the argument (SAM), but that's a voice i'd like rattling around my head every night before i go to sleep for sure. i can't promise that i was wearing pants during that conversation. hotness. it was SUPER late, and when i pointed out that it was the booty call hour he said that he doesn't understand booty calls. you know, because what are you going to do, get in your car? and come over and see me with my hair messed up? forget it. fancy motherfucker! i bet he TOTALLY irons his underwear and turns all of the axe body spray in his medicine cabinet so that the labels face the same direction. his cereal is probably alphabetized. and i bet he has an actual BAR, rather than throwing all of his liquor bottles under the sink next to the tilex and formula 409 like the rest of us. it's okay, though, because i'm totally obsessed with him. like, i save his voicemails and shit. how old is too old to be doing that?

who cares. with hot dudes i feel like the ordinary statute of limitations doesn't apply. so fuck it. saving them forever.

arizona mancrush called me on friday to talk about what happened to me and ask how i was doing, and he gave me the greatest pep talk i've ever gotten. well, he sort of cussed me out, too, but it came from a place of love. i went to group therapy after talking to akilah's mom, and that shit was really eye-opening. more women than you know are getting the tar beat out of them on a daily basis, and that is terrifying. and i'm not so naive that i just think "you should leave," but listening to them explain why they really can't broke my heart into a million fucking pieces.

some of them had been married for years and years before their adoring husbands decided to break a lamp over their heads. i read that memoir "crazy love." it was written by this smart, gorgeous, educated white woman whose perfect white-collar husband was kicking her fucking ass every day, and the group is FULL of women like that. these aren't crackhead hookers getting beaten up by pimps; these are school teachers and nurses and shit. with children. i'm a softy, you know, so i just cried and didn't talk and added to the list in my head of all the dudes i have to kill when i find out i have terminal cancer and don't give a fuck anymore.

arizona told me a hundred times that i am amazing and wonderful and perfect and that i should own that. and stop shitting on myself. except when literally shitting on myself, because sometimes i get smashpants when i don't take my pills. the center of his argument was that i should stop hanging out with sub-par dudes. i tried to tell him that you can't know until you know, but i'm not making a lifestyle choice out of hollering at dudes who should kick rocks. as a matter of fact, i didn't know that dude was crazy until he had his hands around my throat and my eyes were bulging out of my head.

here is the thing though, ladies. and critics. where does one go to meet quality people who won't beat your brains in? arizona said, and this is verbatim, "baby, i know you need to keep my seat warm while daddy's away, but you need to do so with men of a higher caliber." like i've been combing the sewers and hanging out at wife beaters anonymous meetings trying to find somebody to fuck. i find dudes the way the rest of you whores do, in church during bible study class. volunteering at homeless shelters. on mission trips to third world countries. rescuing endangered species in the forest. handing out pamphlets about the environment.

oh, i keed. i fuck bitches on the internet, just like everybody else. but not anymore. my fingers are back in the game, but my vagina is waiting patiently on the bench. it's worth mentioning that arizona and the vampire are best manfriends, and that arizona said i should try to find some dudes like them. if it were only that easy. let's just clarify, in case this isn't clear to you, that i'm not shoving all of the perfect specimens that are falling out of the sky and into my lap out of the way to make room for dudes with brown gums who call me "shorty." for example, a dude on the train last night pick some food out of his teeth before asking me if he could LICK MY BREASTS, and i didn't even think twice before turning down that generous offer.

the problem is not my TASTES, the problem is that good dudes are with unfunny bitches who suck donkey balls. i mean, DUH. i see a hot dude dragging along a piece of shit twenty times a day, and that is disheartening. i'm out here tap dancing for these silly tricks while dumb bitches with no personality walk around with all the hot rotisserie meat. i know there are lots of bitches who intentionally pick losers, and that is not me. i'm a fucking winner, and i need a winner standing naked in my kitchen making me cheese grits while i scratch my butt and watch tv while shouting out orders.

until then, maybe i should start going to church.

my prince charming.