a couple of times i was tempted to put my fingers in my ears. and i HATE people who do that. doesn't it make you want to kick a bitch? man up and listen to me, you pussy. putting your fingers in your ears just makes you look like a four-year-old. a STUPID four-year-old. barf.
years and years ago anna and i went to see U-571 in the theater, and there were signs posted warning moviegoers that the film was super loud and full of explosions. that shit was EXCRUCIATING. some people left because they couldn't take it. but you know i'm a G, so i toughed it out. but yesterday my ancient, creaky ass almost threw in the towel. my fucking ears hurt.
before the movie we had lunch (what do you call the meal that occurs at three-thirty on a tuesday when you haven't eaten anything other than tylenol and steroids and aren't going to eat anything else? brunner?) at feed, which i am going to have to start calling my new favorite place because i have been there twice since sunday and have had two totally different yet totally delicious meals.
you dudes should go there. and i will go with you if you want. it's organic southern comfort food made by white rockabilly hipsters. the place is really homey and sweet, covered in pictures and chicken figurines. there's a jukebox with REALLY GOOD MUSIC ("52 girls" by the B52s came on and i SERIOUSLY almost lost my shit) and it's super fucking cheap. really. you'll have money left over for cocktails later. ginge and gorge and i went on sunday for brunch, and the pulled pork sweet potato hash was amazing. which was good because i was in a disconsolate, incredibly shitty mood on sunday. and we all know what scrumptious food does for your frown. it turns it upside down, just in case you didn't know. next time your ass is sad go get yourself a cookie and see how glad it makes you.
there are only two downsides: it's at chicago and california which, for a FAR northside girl like myself, is an AWFUL LONG WAY to go for some fried okra and corn pudding and scrambled eggs. and it's next door to the continental. i know some of you dudes LOVE that place (rachel? amanda?) but i think it's just a grody little pick-up bar that is too far from civilization for my tastes 1 and never has any dudes inside that i would take home 2. that's not really a downside, i guess. just some misplaced bitching. which i am FULL OF. anyway, go eat at feed. and make sure you take cash. those bitches are NOT fucking around with any debit cards or whatever.
so vampire and i went to one of those fancy as shit newfangled theaters, the ICON on roosevelt. (i feel like a name like that warrants capitalization.) i felt like a hillbilly because i didn't know shit about choosing your seat before you even walk into the theater (what?!) or paying SIXTEEN DOLLARS to watch a movie from the cozy confines of a reclining chair with a beer in one hand and gourmet movie snacks in the other. i felt like such an asshole when the ticket dude was like, "where would you two like to sit?" and i just stood there staring at him and thinking, "why the fuck does HE need to know?" finally, seriously it was a fucking ETERNITY, that bloodsucker swooped in and explained to me that we had to choose before we got the tickets. thanks for sparing me from looking like a dick for five minutes. jesus.
movies are too goddamned expensive as it is. especially when you don't know whether or not that shit is BALLS. a nine-dollar wackfest hurts my feelings enough as it is, i can't IMAGINE the level of pissed i'd ascend to after spending almost twice that on a sucky piece of celluloid garbage. that movie better wipe my ass and drive me home afterward. pshaw. good thing the vampire paid. because we would have been watching a free dvd at casa sam if it were up to me. i'm just playing. i love fancy shit. but i was taken aback a touch.
one of the managers gave us a tour, during which i decided that i would like to fucking live there. it's SO NICE. and, more importantly, it comes equipped with a FULL BAR. i like drinking, you see. but alcohol would be detrimental to my moviegoing experience, i think. i'm a nine-dollar nap kind of girl. ie, I SLEEP THROUGH 90% OF THE MOVIES I GO TO. maybe even 95%. unless i'm with a hot dude i'm afraid to have exasperatedly poking me in the ribs for two hours because my snoring and drooling is embarrassing the shit out of him. for serious. i sleep through everything. EVERYTHING. even shit i'm dyyyyying to see. ask laura. or SARAH. she usually turns to me and says "goodnight, sammy" and pats me on the head as soon as the previews are over.
those i am wide awake for. ALWAYS. i love previews more than i love the feature-length film they precede. i live for them, because they are PERFECT. if you don't believe me, ask any of my regular movie bitches how fucking early we have to get to the theater. seriously. forty-five minutes prior. SERIOUSLY. i also like to make sure i get a seat where i like. oh, you didn't think i wasn't difficult about going to the movies, did you? silly rabbits! i'm difficult when it comes to EVERYTHING. that's why i have to be so funny and cute. because i will eventually annoy the shit out of you with something dumb. like my need to sit at the very top row in the very last seat and for you to leave me the hell alone when i inevitably lapse into a coma or else run the risk of my biting you in the face. i apologize in advance. (no, i don't. don't touch me.)
i might be in love with tony stark. since i've decided to do away with all contact from actual human male-type creatures i'm setting my sights on fictional representations of my perfect man instead. smart, handsome, charismatic, wickedly funny, and a sharp fucking dresser. you bitches know that i live for a man in a well-appointed suit, and that goddamned movie was full of them! between tony's fly ass and justin hammer's ridiculously hot tailored suitedness and that delicious military habiliment i couldn't stop swooning.
you dudes in your fucking flip flops and sweat pants need to take a fucking memo. put some pants with a goddamned crease in them on. and iron your motherfucking shirt. plus, your clothes need to fit. they really do look better when you aren't drowning in them. AND if they haven't been purchased from a sporting goods store. i was out at dinner recently and was amazed by the number of dudes OUT IN PUBLIC wearing clothes no man of mine would be caught dead in to wash the fucking LAUNDRY. because they might be assholes, but every single samfriend is a casket sharp dresser.
maybe i like dudes like that because my apparel of choice is what i like to call "understated chic?" ha. and maybe they like me because they AUTOMATICALLY look better than i do when we go out? because i don't fucking care. AT ALL. i'll get out of the mirror so you can get yourself all jazzed up. no problemo. i've had a number of dudes so stylish my friends were immediately like, "he's a homo, right?" upon making their acquaintance. shit, the first thing the vampire did yesterday was pull an akira bag from his trunk and show off his new fancy shoes. he's a fucking fashionista.
i don't give a shit about shoes. and i hate shopping for clothes. if i had unlimited money and a different body and wasn't forced to try shit on in a funhouse mirror (wtf with dressing rooms, right?!) i might get more revved up about clothes, but until then? fuck 'em. i'm not so surly and callous that i can't appreciate them, though. especially when draped over somebody smoking hot. i can pull it together when i wanna, but i cannot be relied upon to do that shit with any regularity. especially if it involves any sort of torturous undergarment or back-breaking high heel. eff that ess.
i really would much rather pull my weight in any relationship by being the smarter and funnier one. you wear the imported wool/cashmere blend notch lapel, two button, chest pocket, front flap pockets, side vents, fully lined suit, and i'll make the jokes.
so tony is like my dream man. he could sit in his lab all day playing with robots and snorting palladium while i drive all those amazing cars and make the robots cook me fabulous dinners. i'm fucking bossy, so a robot would be right up my alley. except i don't want one that can talk back. just do what the fuck i say, sambot. no back talk. and i'll bet tony's goddamned tv works properly. he wouldn't have to be on the internet soliciting dudes to fix the shit. (SERIOUSLY. i know dozens of you motherfuckers are reading this shit. RIGHT NOW. why has no one come over to hook up my tv? i'm two seconds away from placing an ad on craigslist. and do you really want my subsequent murder on your collective conscience? do you?! i'm old and disabled, i'll never get away! can you live with that? oh no? well get over to my fucking house then.) and i'd throw lavish parties every night and let you kids sleep over and touch your privates after you fall asleep trashed on jesus juice. it would be awesome.
and rdj's ass is motherfucking FINE. insanely so. holy mother of god that dude is gorgeous. and that whole strung out ex-junkie thing is fucking hot, too. it totally works for me. i don't have a mommy complex, but i'd volunteer to take the place of heroin in that dude's life. get hooked on ME, robert! i'm non habit-forming, and i don't even cost that fucking much. hell, i'd move in with him for a six pack of tecate and a bag of ground beef tacos. in real life i'd kick a crackhead down a flight of stairs with zero hesitation, but robert i would coddle and stroke like a newborn bunny. for cereal. i'd bottle feed him and stay up watching him all night to make sure he didn't have a withdrawal seizure, then i'd cuddle under a blanket with him until his teeth stopped chattering and he admitted he'd sold my vcr for an eight ball of cocaine.
so the movie was fine. though too loud and way too much gwyneth. barf. scarlett johansson and samuel l. are a definite yes. don cheadle still looks like a roach hybrid, and i would fuck justin hammer with the lights on. DON'T TRIP. especially if he kept on his glasses. god, when he was in that creamy yellow suit?! bitch, please. outrageously fly. but my pantymilk still curdles for robert.
two labia up.