Tuesday, May 4, 2010


"did you do the biology lab? could i copy it during fourth period?"

being fifteen sucks the universe's dirty asshole. i know, because once upon a time i was fifteen. hard to believe since i don't look a day over seven, right? because my skin is fucking ridiculous. but i WAS. and i didn't get to be the good kind of fifteen, either. the cute, skinny, shiny, happy, bouncy, made from a fucking rubber band kind of fifteen. i was definitely OTHER. miserable, moping, sad, fucked-up, and in a body that was impossible to shop for and clothe in any trendy sort of way. i hated every single second i spent at school, and i hated my life at home. seriously, the only joy i got was from sitting with headphones on listening to tapes of dreary and depressing music full of angst and tears, reading fucked-up ass books like bastard out of carolina (although i was technically sixteen when that shit came out), and watching every episode of "my so-called life"on constant repeat.

i feel like i spent 90% of high school hiding in plain sight, trying not to be noticed too much by bitches who were mean just for meanness's sake. i had enough shit going on in my house and in my brain that being on people's ridicule radar was certainly not at the top of my list. i just wanted to get Cs and get OUT. remember those kids whose best years are in fucking high school, those head-of-the-class football quarterbacks who are fat sacks of human excrement twelve years later? yeah, so do i. they never saw past the tips of their dicks at how they were going to end up in a wasteland future reminiscing about how four years that they can only hazily remember were the greatest years of their entire fucking lives. dudes who spit at me and took my shit and heated on my clothes are now disgusting losers with rapidly balding, graying heads and bellies that ooze over their belt buckles.

and i'm not fucking being figurative. a few weeks ago shorty and i were in target, when who did i spot but this asshole who was so outrageously mean to me that i wanted to change schools sophomore year. i guess he'd always been fucking small, but that's probably less noticeable when no one has had a growth spurt yet. this motherfucker was EASILY a hundred and fifty pounds heavier than he'd been at graduation, and three-quarters of his hair was WHITE. and we're THIRTY. shorty noticed him but is obviously more tactful than i and, sensing the impending new asshole-ripping, she hustled her ass on to the detergent aisle while i stopped dead in my fucking tracks. mouth agape.

now if you don't know me personally, one thing you should know is that i don't have any goddamned sense. not a drop. and i am not afraid of confrontation. if it must be done, i must do it. maybe it was all those years of sitting somewhere with my head down afraid to look bitches who weren't fit to shine my shoes in the eye because they were prettier than i was or smarter than i was or their parents and more money than mine had, but now that we're all grown up and i can see what people are made of: BRING THAT SHIT ON. i don't give a fuck about saying anything to anyone at anytime. unless you happen to be the object of my affections, but that is something we'll get into later.

i stood at the end of the aisle watching this fat bastard load seventeen frozen pizzas into his cart while yelling at his tiny speck of a wife, smirking and waiting for him to look up and make eye contact. shorty tried to divert my attention by hollering, "sammy! diet coke is on sale! how many do you want?" from halfway across the fucking store, but i waved her off. this dude had once pointed out the the entire geometry class that i was wearing the same pants two days in a row while i was at the board working out an equation. and by "pointed out" i mean "yelled and guffawed." and that shit never goes away. ever.

i was a miserable piece of shit teenager, too, but i never walked around trying to ruin a motherfucker's day because of it. all of that shit went internal and destroyed me from the inside. i just filled notebooks with line after line of plaintive song lyrics that i thought were so full of depth and meaning, mooning about reveling in the fact that i was so tragically misunderstood. i was lazy, school was boring, my gym shorts fit weird, and none of my crushes fucking liked me back.

and that is really the WORST shit, am i wrong? of course i remember things like failing history freshman year and not making first chair saxophone in band, but the most awkward, excruciatingly painful memories come courtesy of all of the interpersonal rejection handed to my awkward, painful ass. who gives a FUCK about physics when my crush just saw me slip and fall outside the library? i spent more time than i should admit figuring out which cafeteria some dude i thought was adorable ate his lunch in, then snuck in and sat in a corner to stare at him for forty minutes, pretending that he had any idea i was even alive.

and what's hilaaaaaaarious is that i never had crushes on the super-hot, totally obvious dudes. i was always wrung the fuck out over some clarinet-playing nerd or the stoic loner who always appeared to be weathering some complex internal storm. which made the fact that they never noticed me extra ball-chappy. like, how do YOU have the nerve to not notice ME? because, let's be serious, i've always been funny. and smart. and had killer fucking taste in music. plus i was all damaged and came from a broken home and you know what that means: low self-esteem sex.

but no one dared to dip his buoy into my pool of tears, save for an embarrassing jumping in headfirst without a life jacket situation when i was fourteen. i thought i was ugly and awful and would NEVER have sex. because no one tells your ass in school that all you have to fucking do is GET OUT, graduate and MOVE ON, and then shit will GET BETTER. i thought that handful of years was going to be indicative of the rest of my fucking life. why didn't anyone ever tell me otherwise?

here is a little something you may not know about me: everyone, particularly people i grew up with, refers to me by my first and last names. whether they are referencing me to someone else or speaking to me directly, people say "samantha irby." but they don't even really say that. they say, "samanthairby," all run together. and there was only one other samantha in our year. a lot of people also just call me "irby," all singular-named like cher or madonna. probably because it's a hilarious and weird name. if it makes you feel closer to me, please feel free to refer to me in this way.

"holla back, samanthairby!"
"what can i get you at the bar, irby?"
"hey samanthairby, should we get this party started?"
"irby is an asshole."
"no, i don't want to bite you, irby."
"please take the rope from around my neck, irby."
"i don't like it when you put your finger in my butt, irby."
"i can't find your gspot, irby."
"sorry i suck at fucking, irby."
"my neck has been in this position too long, irby."
"i hate being such a disappointment, irby."
"man, i wish i wasn't so lame, irby."
"i'm full of this weak, moist energy irby."
"i should really kill myself, huh, irby?"
"i'm going to leave the money on the dresser, samanthairby."
and so on.

so it was little surprise when dude FINALLY glanced up and said, "hello, samanthairby! it's so good to see you!"

and i love when people i would rather see dead are happy to see me. it makes crushing their faces into a pile of my acrid diarrhea feel that much more victorious. and for five minutes i let this dude have it, in a seemingly polite and respectful way, saying all the shit i was too terrified and ashamed to say fifteen years ago, when that asshole ran me out of a classroom in which i was just trying to mind my own goddamned business. "i hope you get hit by a bus and live" was my parting shot which, along with "i hope you survive a house fire" and "i hope you are slowly eaten alive by a wild animal," is my most favorite way to FUCK YOU out of a conversation with some worthless purveyor of suck.

i am made of HATE and WIN, and saying "screw you" or "i don't like you" is for squares. i like to tell a trick some shit that will rattle his cage a little bit, and imagining what your life is like after having your mangled body peeled off the face of a bus is the most horrific imagery you can inflict on a person. death is too easy for most of these assholes. shit, I am ready to DIE. life is hard as hell. i'm ready to get my ghost on. try this shit next time you get in a fight with a bitch you don't give a shit about. i'm telling you, it fucks a bitch's SOUL UP when you say something like "i hope a chimpanzee eats your face off and i see you on the today show, BITCH."

casey is one of the impressionable high school girls who flood my inbox with bullshit every week. and i LOVE it. because i secretly wish i could get a do-over, EXCEPT i'd be as ridiculously dope as i am now and kick high school's motherfucking ASS. the first time she wrote to me it was all gushy nonsense about how i'm so awesome and cool and she wishes she could be like me and do i listen to owl city? can we be friends? can i ask for some advice? what do you think of this new shirt i want to buy? i'm going to woodfield to get some new shoes. do you ever read anyplace that kids under 21 could come to? i would DIE to hear you read. when did you lose your virginity? are you in love with anyone right now? next time you're in the hospital i promise i will come visit you. what dating sites are you on? i make all my friends read your blog. can we take you out to lunch or something? why don't you ever post pictures of your boyfriends? do you ever watch 16 and pregnant? where do you and your friends hang out? do you know if i can go to planned parenthood for condoms without my dad finding out? and all that. i keep trying to tell you kids that i'm partially retarded and that "being like me" equals "drunk community college fucking around with halfwits," but you are obviously refusing to listen. and that's okay, i guess. because my fucking life is FUN. it really is. every day is a goddamned adventure when you're samanthairby.

i don't even know how they all found this filthy whore blog, but they did. and they LOVE IT. especially those "dear bitch" posts, which they lap up like kittens and then pepper me with endless questions afterward. and it fits, considering that half the time i'm reading those questions i think "this bitch has GOT to be seventeen." i've gotten a few "thank you for helping me feel better about my body" letters, but mostly these little sluts are like "how do i suck a dick right?" and "what can i do to make him notice my tits?"

casey is a sweetheart, though. she tells me about teachers that make her cry and boys who make her feel dumb and snatchy girls who make her feel dumber. she asked me if we could be facebook friends (i declined), she asked if i had a myspace (i denied it even though it's still active but i NEVER check that shit), she asked if she could call me on the phone (again, not the best idea), and then she suggested, since she lives in a suburb north of me, that we meet and hang out in person. i was like, "BITCH, ARE YOU TRYING TO GET ME DATELINED?" um...never. and when i say never i mean EVER. it would be just my luck that i'm walking up this bitch's driveway while she's yelling out some shit over her shoulder about squeezing me some lemonade (pffft) or getting a load of towels out of the dryer (PFFFT) and that i should make myself comfortable in the kitchen while that creepy dude in the cheap suit puts his dick back in his pants and slinks out from behind the curtain saying, "what brings you here today?"

that shit always tripped me the fuck out. now i don't think it's okay to try to fuck a child, even if that fully cognizant little girl scout slut badge has her cunt spread open on a goddamned webcam with her address tattooed on the inside of her thigh, but why the whole cat-and-mouse game with these stupid fucking dudes? just jump out and yell, "gotcha, bitch!" and point to the camera, then arrest that stupid fucking asshole. why read him the transcript of what he wrote? ugh. that makes you no better than him, dude dressed up like shrubbery to sneak attack him on the way out. why make him sit there clutching his rapidly-melting glass of sweet tea (that little bitch LOVES to make these dudes some sweet tea!) in his nut-hugging tighty-whities, sweating and stammering and stuttering and shit? just arrest his ass already. why make all of us suffer through the embarrassment of listening to a dude try to come up with an answer other than "i wanted to pop her cherry" or "i could never convince an adult to fuck me" to the question "what did you come here for today?"

i watched half an episode of that bullshit when it first came out before i wanted to throw up and die. that isn't shit but a how-to lesson for creepy, weird, backwoods dudes who want to fuck kids. just like how csi helps me get away scot-free with brutal murders and shit. pshaw. that shit was vile. thanks, nbc. first this, then my beloved conan. hold the phone! have i yet written about how i'm going to see my handsome coco in TWO GODDAMNED WEEKS?! ginger, gorgeous, and i are going to bask in the golden red glow of one of my comedic idols. if you're not jealous, what the fuck is wrong with you? because you totally fucking should be.

so i told casey that if she sent me a couple of her most pressing teenage-angsty questions, i would chop them up and spit some of that heavy game here, "dear bitch" style. of course they were burning up my inbox before i could even hit send. i've done you dudes the favor of cleaning up the grammar and getting rid of all the "lolz" and "omfgs" so that this shit is comprehensible. jesus. it was making my fucking eyes water.

i have a crush on a boy in my spanish class. how do i tell him?

well this one is easy as hell. YOU DON'T. so i am the queen of the unrequited crush. and i'm not wearing that badge of honor proudly, mind you, that shit fucking SUCKS. and it sometimes makes you feel all fucked up and bad about yourself. but it kinda sometimes doesn't. here's what i mean: i feel like crushes are little bits of sunshine that i squirrel away in my heart and my brain to swoon over when i'm bored or lonely or sad or feeling unloved. little fantasies to get lost in when my real life is dumb as hell. they're not things to act on or to be considered realistically. they're private. except you always have to tell somebody, because you're a dummy. so you spill the beans to your little sister or to the whore who sits next to you in physics and, before you know it, the entire school knows. which wouldn't be so horrible if he liked you back but, in the case of crushes especially, they NEVER fucking like you back.

here's how i know: crushes are usually built on innocuous little interactions that you, because he is smart or nice or handsome or pays you some attention or any combination of those things, make WAY bigger than they actually are. if a waiter brings me extra napkins unsolicited i convince myself he wants to fuck me by the end of the meal. same deal with my everyday mental paramours. if you're nice and you want to talk to me and you think i'm funny then give me five minutes and i will be hopelessly, secretly, desperately in love with you. not like "sitting in front of your building at seven in the morning" love, and maybe not even "give you a kidney because we have the same blood type" love, but "your face occupies too much of my mental space" love.

and, lest you think i'm channeling my junior year hopelessly in love with michael williams self and am out of touch and can't relate, i went through this humiliating bullshit JUST LAST WEEK. that's right. because i really am NOT THAT COOL. even though i'm thirty and can buy my own vodka and stuff. drapermy was reading my blog and IMing me at the same time, and he asked "who do you have a crush on?" because i'd mentioned that vague shit in whatever piece he was reading. in hindsight, i should have fucking lied. i really should have. but i'm trying this new thing where i'm being completely honest with people, so i got my balls out and typed: you. duh.
and then he kicked me in them. at least we weren't on the phone. blargh. although interweb silence is no less deafening. or devastating. the weird, awkward, uncomfortable blathering mess of soppy hurt feelings that happened after i wrote that made me want to die. die or never ever talk to him ever again. it was just so gross. and i was SO EMBARRASSED. and all crushed and hurt and terrible. because here is the thing about crushes, caseylove, they're CRUSHING. and if they like you, and i mean LIKE YOU like you FOR REAL for reals, they'll tell you. and i don't mean you'll have to pick through the ambiguous shit he offhandedly says to you to find bits and scraps of what might be evidence that he's into you in a friend+ kind of way. he will say, "I WANT TO HOLD HANDS WITH YOU AT JAMBA JUICE" or whatever the fuck it is you kids do nowadays. (man, it sucks to be a fucking kid!) trust me, i have mentally constructed entire relationships out of seven text messages and a couple happy hour drinks, so i am not judging you AT ALL.

so even though i vote NO on the admittance of the crush, deep down i'm a little bit of a romantic and secretly hope that maybe he likes you, too. even though i know he's openly lusting for the cheerleader bitch who has her bra straps hanging all out and show ass cleavage. so if you say something i won't be mad at you. i promise. we all have to learn sometime. and you bitches KNOW i'm fluent in spanish, right? let me know if you want to know how to say something dirty to him at the end of class. i still talk to drapermy because that dude is fancy and interesting and makes me laugh, but i also still feel like a fucking rejected asshole. although i try really hard not to think about him in his underwear anymore. i really do. i mean...not all the TIME.

how much is too much when you're calling a guy?
one phone call is one too fucking many. i really try not to ever call a man at anytime ever. NEVER. unless we're homies who have no sexual interest in one another. i mean, i'll holler at my penisfriends all the goddamned time. because fuck them. i need to know what time the cleveland game is on and the easiest way to take apart a microwave and whether or not batista won his match against edge, and i need to know that shit RIGHT NOW. and you'd better fucking answer.

but if you want to talk to me, you need to pick up the goddamned phone. if you want to hang out with me, you need to pick up the goddamned phone. if you want to have sex with me, you need to pick up the goddamned phone! i don't have time to chase some fucking dude to give away this ass. if you want it, CALL ME. you kittens need to learn this shit EARLY. i spent half my fucking twenties CALLING DUDES to GIVE PUSSY AWAY. and fuck that shit. it's possible that i have been listening to "mack lessons" too damn much, but i keep trying to reiterate that a dude will always try to get something for fucking nothing, and you have to set a precedent. and i'm not talking about tricking. no free conversation, no free ass, and definitely no calling. if he wants you, let him come get you.

and NO SEXTING EVER. not ever. under any circumstance. i mean that shit. no sending pictures of your miniscule boobs or your tiny little booty or whatever shit you think is hot. i really will find you and cause you bodily harm if i catch wind that you sent some fifteen-year-old jerk a naked picture to forward to your entire fucking grade. there are no secrets when you are young. your mom is reading your shit, you friends are reading your shit, i am reading your shit. everybody knows what the fuck your slick ass thinks you're up to, and it's only a matter of time before you get caught. so don't do it. i can't even tell you how glad i am to have grown up before all this technology. jesus. because i can't guarantee i wouldn't have been dumb enough to try to send a picture of my cervix to the dude who sat next to me in driver's ed. christ almighty. i shudder at the thought.

what makes a person cool?

now if it's not apparent from that picture above, being cool came late to my ass. but now i'm pretty fucking cool. seriously. my whole life is like a lesson in what cool people do. and to really know how to do it you'd have to fucking follow me around taking notes while helping me clean the shit and vomit off of myself, and that might get pretty boring. so here is what makes me cool today.

i'm wearing a gorgeous crimson shirt that makes my boobs look awesome.
i have great hair.
i am listening to the following albums:

"bitte orca" by the dirty projectors.
"psychic chasms" by neon indian.
"gorilla manor" by local natives.
"we kill computers" by the pack a.d.
and you should be buying and listening to entire fucking albums. i am irritated at this whole buying one song thing. i mean, i understand when it's some garbage-ass shit, but YOU SHOULDN'T BE LISTENING TO GARBAGE-ASS MUSIC ANYWAY. you wouldn't just read one chapter of a book, would you? not of my book, at least. so why treat an album like that? ingrates.
i am wearing new balances. from JAPAN.
i just got the new fart party book from amazon.
i'm going to my hot lover akilah's 33rd birthday jam tonight.
then i'm going out for martinis with this brand new hot lobster after that.
i had half a jamba juice and one taco for lunch.
i took the trash out this morning.
i memorized my favorite quotes from "there will be blood."
pretty fucking cool, as far as i'm concerned. i'm glad that young girls are reading this shit. especially because your MOM is never going to say "no free pussy" or whatever ho shit i wrote earlier. you bitches should keep emailing me, because now i'm concerned about you. and i would say that we should all hang out at mcdonalds (GOD IT SUCKS BEING YOUNG) and get milkshakes and gossip about boys, but the minute some fake-ass swat team motherfucker jumps out of a bush on my ass it is ON.

i heart you. and just know that this shit gets better. i promise, loveys. one day you will be old and dope and have apartments and debit cards and shit that bitches say about you will totally not matter at all ever. you can have sex with who you want and get drunk at four in the afternoon and laugh at silly shit all day. just hang the fuck in there.