Wednesday, June 30, 2010

here comes the bride.

is THIS where we're at now? ho shit wedding cake toppers?! holy matrimony, bitches. i fucking love this. look at how passionate these two plastic people are! i mean, they really love each other, right? i want to feel this way about somebody. i want to be SO HOT and SO EXCITED to spend the rest of my life picking up his dry cleaning and falling into the toilet because he left the seat up and hawkishly tracking every bit of money he spends and listening to all the dumb shit he's going to talk about for the rest of our lives that i clown and act a goddamned fool in front of everybody in the church and jump on my handsome betrothed and shove my tongue down into his stomach. that's still classy, right?

is it bad manners to wear white to someone else's wedding? even if you are a foul-mouthed whore for whom the donning of a white dress is purely ironical? cj's wedding is in three goddamned weeks and, as usual, i am thoroughly unprepared. and i just ordered ANOTHER black dress, but i put it on and immediately hated it. barf. and i don't have any goddamned time for bullshit like dress shopping. i'm too busy considering slitting my wrists at work. seriously. i am at the point where i don't want anyone to speak to me directly. EVER. i can't answer another fucking question. i can't pick up the phone. i don't want to see another dog as long as i live. i'm EXHAUSTED. and my apartment looks like afghanistan.

glad to see the wedding industry is taking all of you filthy sluts into consideration. why shouldn't your raggedy shotgun wedding be just as dreamy and perfect as those of the silly "traditional" brides who managed to keep their legs shut (or learned how to properly employ a condom into their out of wedlock lovemaking)? convention is boring. and why should anyone have to pretend not to notice the burgeoning baby bump stretching out the midsection of your overpriced dress? why pretend you've just put on a couple pounds? everybody is going to know anyway, when your ho ass spends the entire reception with your shoes kicked off drinking apple juice and seltzer. so fuck it. let's celebrate that little bastard. 

i have a date, though. and he's fucking HANDSOME. i bet he has a huge dick, too. that's always the hard part, isn't it? getting some hot dude to go to a wedding with you? especially when he's not bound by the boyfriend contract? i'm sure i am going to have to let him stick his finger in my butt or something for asking him to go to all the trouble of putting on a suit. fuck, man. with all the pissing and moaning you would think that you're asking them to walk down the fucking aisle, not put on their fancy shit and eat some free food and drink some free booze. when my sister jane got married i went to that shit BY MYSELF because the dude i was dating at the time was so noncommittal that even being in the proximity of two people who were devoting their lives to one another was too fucking much for him. idiot. so i did the next best thing: wore head-to-toe black, texted during the ceremony, drank a hundred vodka sodas at the reception, and hit on the minister outside of the hotel while i was waiting for the valet to bring my car.

i should probably think about marrying a woman. is that legal yet? i am not sexually attracted to women, but i need someone bossy and controlling to run my household, because i am incapable of doing it. obviously. i have to get my shit together. and i feel totally incapable of doing so. but if i had a lesbian bossing me around it might totally work, right? dudes don't pay enough attention to detail. this marcie needs a peppermint patty to tell me what to do and make sure i fucking do it. i'll even call her "sir." i like that both the butch and the femme are equally represented in this cake topper. totally obvious that a straight woman designed this. because if a man had it would just be two big-tittied, small-waisted barbie dolls wearing thigh-high fishnets and licking buttercream off of one another or sticking rolled fondant replica dildos in each other's vaginas. and if a lesbian had made it they'd be wearing carhartt coats and tool belts and covered in dirt from softball practice. has rachel maddow been to vermont with someone with a crewcut and a pickup truck yet? if not, i want to marry HER. doctor maddow is my JAM, and you already know how much smart people wind my watch. i can do her fact-checking and help her pick out tasteful pantsuits to wear on the air. i can pretend to enjoy a vagina. plus, she can introduce me to keith olbermann! with whom i am OBSESSED. maybe she'd be into a little polygamy...?

i'm a really good gift-giver. but i bet you kids already knew that. anyone who loves wasting money as much as i do is the BEST person to invite to anything. anything that involves presents, that is. especially if they're lazy, like i am. because i'm not going to go out of my way to try to get the best deal and order shit online from some discount place. i'm going to get on the 147, get off at crate and barrel downtown, and spend a couple hundred dollars on something fancy and white and breakable. that can be wrapped and packaged while i wait. then i'm going to buy a card, write my name in it, put some cash in it, and not think about it until i've cursed and sweated my way into my spanx and whatever shoes i can find (FUCK! shoes?!) and am on my way to the church. the church i might burst into flames upon walking into.
now THIS is some sam shit. my future benefactor better not be a prude, because this is totally going to happen to him. except i will be sticking my finger IN. i would like to have a wedding someday, mostly because i absolutely LOVE the idea of having all of my friends together in one place, screaming and dancing and having a good time. so many people whom i adore live so fucking far away, and a wedding would be a convenient excuse to get them all together. while receiving excellent gifts that i've already picked out, too? amazing! plus, there's drinking. AND CAKE. i can't really ask nina to fly in from san diego or jonny to hop on a plane from italy for a housewarming or my stupid birthday, but it's totally acceptable to ask someone to break his ass to do something for your WEDDING. isn't that hilarious? what's the divorce rate, 800%?! bitches want you to quit your job and sell your goddamned house to come to their shit, without giving YOU a guarantee that their asses might have a chance of staying TOGETHER. i didn't get a second mortgage on my shit for you to fuck around with the babysitter. and HOW SALTY DO YOU GET when some dumb whore who registered for $95 napkin rings (a set of six, please) gets divorced before you've even finished paying for those ridiculous things. TRUE STORY. i want to have a wedding that you dudes are still recovering from three weeks later. so much fun that you have a seizure from all the excitement. what, you didn't think you'd be invited? bitch, please! the day some idiot puts a ring on this filthiness it's going to be national news. and all of you need to be there, if for no other reason than i might need witnesses in court when he tries to back out of the contract i'm going to make him sign. and read aloud during the ceremony.

jenny's wedding is in may. you whores remember that i'm officiating it, right? isn't that going to be something. ten months away and i am ALREADY worrying about what to write and how i'm going to say it blah blah blah. let's be for real. the BIGGEST thing i'm worried about is who i'm going to take to spend a weekend with me in michigan. i knew this bitch was going to do this, book some fabulous house on the beach for us to kick it in for three whole days. if i can find a date, 1 that dude is stuck with the bitch OFFICIATING THE CEREMONY 2 that dude has to make conversation (or listen to me snoring) DRIVING BACK AND FORTH FROM MICHIGAN and 3 that dude HAS TO LIVE IN SIN WITH ME FOR THREE WHOLE DAYS. with jenny's entire family listening. if this sounds good to you, HOLLER AT YOUR GIRL.

i don't even know how i'm going to sell that shit. "hey, um...exactly how much do you enjoy my company?" and then when he says, "you're the greatest!" i'm going to drop the net and kidnap him to the UP. i'm a last minute kind of girl, too. so we'll see how well this pans out for me. i could always drag ginger with me, but that almost guarantees that neither of us will get laid. and i hate to inadvertantly cockblock. unless it's on a dude, because fuck dudes. i never mind doing anything alone because i am by far the most awesome person i know, but three days is an awfully long time to stew in my bitter spinsterism. and i need someone (not jenny) to listen objectively to what i write for the ceremony (not jenny) and tell me whether or not it's brilliant.

i'm honored to do it. but what a big job for such a big retard. you know she told me "no swear words," right? and i reassured her that my wolf mother did instill some basic courtesies in me when she let me leave the forest and strike out on my own. at first i was like, "i've known this asshole half my life! she thinks i don't know how to behave?!" and then i remembered that time i said "fuck that bitch" when i was in church and thought, "well, she might have a point."

call me old-fashioned, but this shit is moist. if my dearly beloved was like, "hey bitch, wouldn't it be fun...?" my immediate response would be "should i breast feed you, too?"

on second thought, that might be hot. anyway, laura might have solved my dress problem. she suggested that i wear leggings and flat fancy sandals with that black dress i just got and LOATHE. which means i now have to buy leggings and fancy sandals. well, i have these leopard print sandals from last summer but in my mind those seem old and i will be obsessed with people knowing i'm wearing old shoes and they aren't really that comfortable anyway and i should really just never go ANYWHERE. i shouldn't. ever. other than dimly lit bars and dirty ass taco joints.

are leggings really a thing i can actually wear? the jury is still out. i know all of you whores are out here accentuating your bullet wounds and cellulite in see-through stretchiness, but i'm not sure i'm there yet. it's low self-esteem time in the land of sam right now, so i'm not just going to have my ass all out in some sheer ankle-length panties. but they're cheap, so i might just try some out. plus, they'll be under a dress. i'm anxiety-ridden about this shit ALREADY. seventeen days. and counting.

meet my new friends, "curvy bride" and "burly groom." well, this is some bullshit. first off, the only "curvy" thing on my homegirl is her juicy melons. and maybe she's got a little bit of a saddlebag. but come the fuck on, kittens. THIS is a fat bitch?! you poor white women. they hold you to such crazy standards. where are her extra chins and her arm waddles? and other than some EXTREMELY broad shoulders and a puffed-up bird chest, my man burly looks almost, well, average. i'm all for representing people equally, it is your wedding after all, but can't we REALLY represent people? i want to see a broad stuffed into a wedding dress so tight that she looks like an encased sausage, with wet spots underneath the armpits and sweat beading on her forehead. and old big n' tall here should have a beer belly straining against the buttons of that jacket and a neck so thick his the end of his tie rests right below his throat. i couldn't find any plus-sized black people, though. maybe they're too busy eating pigs feet and chicken or whatever it is precious cooked for her mom all the time. that movie was fucking disgusting. what a disgrace.

i always get too everything at weddings. too drunk, too full, too loud. i don't embarrass myself on the dancefloor, though, because the music is always SO BAD. i'm too lazy to really throw a wedding or be involved with any of the planning, so hopefully i'll find a closeted homo who needs a beard and he can take care of all that extra shit that i don't give a damn about. i don't give a fuck about flowers or place settings. fuck that noise. i'm not wearing a dress, i'm not having bridesmaids, no one is removing my garter belt with his teeth, and no bouquet is being tossed over my shoulder into a crowd of cockthirsty dick hounds. i need it to be someplace fancy and fabulous with a dj who blow your asshole out with the awesomeness of his jams. or i'll dj that shit myself. because my taste in music RULES. we will have an open bar, and tacos will be served. real talk.

the only thing that's missing here is a red-faced, shotgun-toting father and a mother doubled over and weeping silently into her handkerchief. you can buy individual figurines of different sizes and ethnicities posed in different ways, then they ship them to you and you put them together yourself. cray cray! because in these modern race-mixing times you never know who is going to marry what. the hilarious thing is that they don't have any racially distinguishing features. i hate this PC era. i want some big lips and giant hook noses and slanty eyes. the "mexicans" look just like the "asians!" how the fuck am i supposed to tell the difference? do the mexican ones smell like suavitel? do the asians come with a side of rice? I NEED CLARITY.

black cake toppers come with drink tickets, i bet, as i have yet to attend a negroid function with a well-stocked, totally free bar. NEVER. at my sister jane's wedding this dude stopped me on the way into the reception to make me buy a fistful of tickets and i just shook my head and said, "we were raised better than this. this must be HIS fucking family." i rsvp "hell to the naw, cheap ass sonofabitch" to any wedding i suspect i might need to bring a mastercard to. i can't come all the way out of my pocket and then PAY SOME MORE. i can sit at home and watch bridezillas for free. and i don't have to put on fancy clothes to do it, either. or find a date. god, this is wearing me out. and i'm not an antsy, neurotic person, but i haven't heard from dude in a minute and i keep thinking "he doesn't want to go to this shit" over and over. but THEN i feel like i'd look dumb calling him up to re-confirm. maybe i could be slick about and be like, " i write your name on the card?" although that might land me in an awkward carrie and big situation. and that whole thing was GROSS. i don't want to be that idiot throwing a tantrum over a signature i'm going to have to fake anyway. jesus, this is stressful.

i've already started the process, though. i waxed my underarms (holy shit) and scraped off all of my leg hair. the hair on my head is looking pretty good, and i'm going to get a pedicure because i did a lot of the heavy lifting in the shower with a swedish file, but the rest of this work needs to be done by a bitch cursing my lazy ass out in laotian while using gardening shears to cut the gnarly parts off my feet. which will look SO GOOD. until i fuck up the nail polish trying to kick a homeless dude out of my way and cut my foot on some shattered glass during a bar fight or whatever other horrible thing that can happen only to me. why is everything so fucking hard?

okay, so i'm a nerd. and this is what i want. and if you are willing to give it to me (and not talk my ear off all the damn time) i'll love you forever. or at least until someone more exciting comes along. i bore easily.

Monday, June 28, 2010

i might vomit.

1 i can feel it. for reals. sitting at the top of my throat, just waiting for me to bend over too fast or trip and fall into the kitchen counter or take a punch to the gut. i drank too much last night, and on an empty stomach, to boot. fucking idiot. and drinking doesn't make me puke, EVER, and that's probably because i'm a well-practiced future alcoholic with a startlingly high tolerance. it's all of the decisions i make AFTER the shots are poured that lead me to where i am at right this second.

first of all, i never properly hydrate. which is so fucking dumb, and leads to SO MANY next day complications. back in the old pants-removal days, when i was out shaking my jibs in a club or a bar eight days a week, i would leave a bottle of makeup remover AND a bottle of water on the sink, in addition to seven or eight advil, that way when i dragged my raggedy ass in at dawn all i had to do was not confuse one bottle for the other, get my face clean, chug the water and a couple pills, then fall asleep wherever i laid down. which was sometimes in the bathtub. on the couch that belonged to my roommate. on the floor in the hall. nowadays i'm so fucking broken and old that i can hardly be bothered to clear all of the failed outfit options from the bed onto the cutting room floor before i collapse. and it never fails that i groan myself awake to a pillowcase covered in studio fix (my hot bitches know what that shit is) and age-inappropriate glitter. i just want to tell those of you that saw it in the flesh saturday night that i still have some of that shit in my eyelashes. STILL. it looked fabulous, though.

second, the drunks make me ravenously hungry. which is horrible because i never have any fucking food. and i lied. drinking doesn't make me hungry, not eating for a day beforehand does. two reasons why: drunken publicarrhea is sometimes too much. someone is always pissing or vomiting or fixing her weave or fucking or crying in a bar bathroom, and i can't crouch in my party clothes sweating half to death with one hand pressed against the stall door (them shits NEVER close properly) balanced on the balls of my feet trying not to make any noise while also trying not to SHIT DOWN THE BACK OF MY PANTS while some girl wails into her cell phone that's not getting any reception that the dude she came with is an asshole and i think he's hitting on that blonde bartender and i can't believe i paid two hundred dollars for these shoes and the heel broke and maybe i need to do a shot of ciroc to calm myself down and WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE SHIT IN HERE?!

fuck that noise. so i don't eat. this crohn's is such a goddamned hindrance. where is my cure at?! come on, scientists. do me a solid. i was feeling all good and cured and maybe in remission and then blammo! baby guts and diarrhea for three days. this stupid garbage. ugg. anyway, reason number two is simple: drunk faster. and, therefore, saving money. which i'm totally about to start doing. two pints of beer and i was feeling good, and a bunch of shots of whiskey and bottles of beer later i was smashed. so much so that i let the asshole feel my booty at the bar. which he immediately described as "not muscular." WHICH IS WHY YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. i think you might be in love with me, though. especially since you called to make sure i got home okay, even though at that moment i was passed out in the back of a cab. man, did we have a good time. shitfaced, i'm telling you. you should see the text i sent draper. ooh, lordy. next time i'm partying, would you hoes do me a favor and take my PHONE instead of my KEYS? i could get myself into trouble.

so i'm going to vomit because i am starving and it's hot and the only thing i have in my house that doesn't require some sort of preparation are cans of peas. le sueur peas, to be precise. blame it on my poverty-stricken upbringing, but i loves me some canned vegetables. anything but carrots. i will eat them room temperature and straight from the can. SO GOOD. and fuck talking to me about the nutrients being zapped out of them or whatever. can't you just be glad it's not a bag of oreos and get the fuck off my balls? thank you kindly.

i ate a can of peas over the sink and even though halfway through i started feeling the acid shooting up my esophagus every time one of the skins came loose and rubbed the back of my throat i powered through it and finished them. because i am always a good girl. and green mush exploding out of my mouth is awful. so i'm just going to sit here and hope it goes away. oof.

2 this new television makes me more anxious than i've ever been in my entire life. why are there so many goddamned thunderstorms?!

3 you know what helen's favorite movie sex scene is? the one in 8 mile. what good taste that little cat has. i, too, enjoy heart-wrenching feel good movies where dim-witted white trash defeat the black people who've got their feet on their necks. i watched that shit again this weekend, because i am smitten with mekhi phifer's glorious wig, and that sex scene in the metal plant KILLS ME. it is the most awful. brittany murphy literally looks like she is about to pass out and DIE throughout the entire ordeal, and eminem sort of seems like the world's worst kisser. for reals. BARF.

4 the sexiest voice i've heard in a looooooong time belongs to the dude who answers the phone at apart pizza. the one on broadway.  i called to order a capriciosa (it's later and i didn't vomit and i'm hungry again) and it's the second time i've talked to this dude. and he sounds HOT. and fresh. and comes in thirty minutes or less. (i hope. i start to chafe.)

5 i watched the BET awards. can i have my black card back now please? i know you africans took it when i was waxing nostalgic about that bartender last week. can i have it? pretty pleeeeease? i need it to buy some flamin' hots!

real talk, that coonery was hardly worth my time. except. MOTHERFUCKING EL DEBARGE. i was SCREAMING. helen ran and hid in the bathroom because i was shouting and singing and dancing while my man was on. what?! i love watching black people singing and dancing and screaming and crying, looking casket sharp in their church shoes with their press-n-curls looking right.

here's what i hated: when that homewrecking trollop alicia keys RUINED the best prince song in the history of earth (for cereal, if you and i ever have sex, and why wouldn't we?, and you let me put on the boning mixtape i make for that joyous occasion, you can bet your sweaty, about to be spanked ass that "adore" is track 2. and track 5. AND track 9!); monica's sleeves; and chris brown's tears.

here's what i loved: patti labelle; the radiantly beautiful queen latifah; nicki minaj's wigs (ONLY); diddy's magical negro dancing and lightstravaganza; el; that hoodrat keyshia coles and her blonde mullet; "all i do is win," because 1 i love absolutely anything involving a marching band and 2 every single one of my ex-boyfriends (except one) looks either like busta rhymes (in his bodybuilder post-dreads phase) or rick ross; and prince giving trey songz the "bitch, please" face when he was onstage butchering purple rain. my ears started to fucking cry. que horror! and his majesty gave that little girl the nastiest side-eye i've ever seen on live television. seriously. that shit melted my fancy new tv a little bit. get your young azz off the stage trying to sing my songz!


6 speaking of the awards, where are the REAL MEN at? really, universe? i'm supposed to get hot for drake? and goddamned trey songz? chris brown?! these dudes are 150% moist. prince is one of the most effeminate dudes in the history of the universe, yet there is no doubt in my mind that he'd have me bent over a purple diamond-encrusted coffee table at the drop of a stiletto. he could have performed in a bra and panties, yet when he sang "if i was your girlfriend" (the long and dirty version, you kinks) it would melt yours RIGHT OFF. do you REALLY BELIEVE a dude who looks like omarion is going to tear that ass up? NO, YOU DO NOT. these little fruity celebrity dudes make my heart hurt. and dry my pants right up.

white girls have it bad, too. zac efron? jonas brothers? justin bieber?! who the fuck are thirteen year old girls supposed to masturbate to? these dudes that look like their little sisters? PLEASE. can we get a heartthrob who can grow a fucking beard already? DAMN.

7 pamplemousse lacroix. still my main jam.

8 there is something growing out of the side of my neck. i noticed it last week, and i wrote it off as a pimple or a barnacle or the beginnings of a new chocolate chip or whatever. "chocolate chips" are what i call my many, MANY beauty marks. i have a bazillion of them, and they are tiny and adorable. i have black ones, brown ones, and a shitload of RED ones, too. i also have a gigantic red birthmark on my stomach jibs. (diarrhea and moles and bright red alien markings? i know i know, i just keep getting sexier. try to keep your pants on. pffft.) so i forgot about it for a couple days.

but it hasn't gone away. as a matter of fact, it has grown. and continues to. it is enormous, solid, and HOT TO THE TOUCH. and it keeps getting bigger. it's about to take over my entire head, i just know it. i made the bossman touch it, so what? he's a fucking doctor!, and he wasn't concerned, but i am convinced that it's cancer. and that I AM GOING TO DIE. it hurts and it makes my neck feel tight. omfg. this is almost too much. i am going to the doctor later this afternoon, and hopefully i'll start chemo or radiation by tonight. it's best to catch these things early. gahhh!!!

if this turns out to be an infected hair follicle or some dumb shit i am going to have an attitude.

9 too bad you missed the after party.

Friday, June 25, 2010

let's have sex with dudes on craigslist.

1 i think my vagina might be broken. the evidence? number one: my pee smells crazy. not "i just ate a bushel of asparagus" crazy. and not "bacterial vaginosis" crazy. just regular old CRAZY. now i'm on enough pharmaceuticals to render an otherwise healthy human male of average build impotent, so i usually blame them for whatever new and horrible unexplained event is occurring inside me. this morning i was peeing after i got out of the shower and i had to look into the toilet to make sure a stinky dead baby hadn't slithered out. i noticed it yesterday, too. and i've been drinking plenty of water. sort of. i mean, come on. beer tastes better. and there's no sexy culprit like chlamydia or gonorrhea, either, because i'm chaste. so who even knows. sheesh.

number two: my period is on strike. she's always pretty late to the party, but now i'm starting to think about looking for her. bitch, where you at? here is the thing. i don't care about babies, because i don't care about procreation. so i'm pretty "meh" about this premature menopause. and it is a scientific impossiblity for me to be with child, otherwise get ready to start praying to a new jesus. BUT. i'm retaining water like a fucking fish tank, and that's gross. here's the fun thing about being sick all the time: i have drugs for EVERYTHING. just lying around my apartment. so when i swelled up like a tick (blargh) i was like, "don't i have some diuretics around here somewhere?" and i totally did. WITH REFILLS. "that medication has four more refills" is the diseased person's equivalent to "i would fuck you with the lights on." that really is the only thing that makes me squeal with delight these days. anyway, i need someone with a big flashlight to head up the search and rescue team. hit me on my beeper, because i'll be out papering my neighborhood with missing period posters.

number three: speaking of that glaring innuendo, six months celibate. i'm sure my ovaries are just like "why the fuck should we be productive, old dry snatch? judge mathis is on!" and they're totally right. not a drop since christmas. i was thinking about it this morning, in the shower where i do all of my important thinking, and i just couldn't get over how much i don't care. i mean, sometimes i think "i gotta get laid so i have something to write about," but even then i'm like "eh" after a few minutes pass. there's plenty of dirty material to pillage in my ho-story. the thought of shaving my legs and defrosting my freezer or whatever else it is you have to do when a hot man is about to cross your threshold makes me TIRED. plus i need a new bed. and a new body. barf.

anyway, i've used my new electric boyfriend a few times and, honestly, i've had some pretty lackluster results. this might be a little outrageous, but the way those bitches at that class were talking i expected sparks to shoot out of my butt or something. if for no other reason than wetness + unreliable surge protection (that thing plugs into the goddamned wall!) = a million volts barbecueing my soft meat. but for reals, girls always rhapsodize about that hitachi magic, but for me it was just like going over a big speed bump. you know, one of those ones that make you feel like your car is going to fall apart. whereas my old faithful is like tick-tick-ticking up the tallest, steepest roller coaster and then ripping off the safety bar, jumping the fuck out of your seat, and free-falling to the ground where you crash into a cushy puddle of awesome. it's AMAZING. and i will kill myself if it ever dies.

that big, unwieldy thing is too effing much. plus, my good spot is INSIDE, and that gigantic thing is too big to fit. because vaginas retain their shape, apparently. and at one point in my life i might have been able to comfortably hold a size thirteen air jordan, a box of saltines, and a copy of the complete hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy in there, AT ONCE, but i'm virtuous and clean now. pfffft. crisis averted, as thirty seconds with my good one erased the doubt caused by that clunky old hunk of junk. so the engine is still good, but the transmission and the fan belts might need some work.

i need to call the gynecologist.

2 sarpino's breadsticks and marinara are so good i would FIGHT YOU IN THE STREET if you tried to take mine. i swear to horus. they must be made from foreskin and kitten hair, because they are the most delicious thing i've had all week. and they don't charge to deliver, which comes in handy for lazy people like me and corey, because we like our lunch dropped right in our laps, steaming hot and with minimal effort to procure.

i went to the grocery store and cooked some actual meals this weekend because i'm trying to be a better, more conscientious human being who wants to save money (no i'm not), so i brought my lunch and shit a couple days this week, but as soon as those leftovers ran out i was right back to "how can i spend $20 on a meal that takes less than 20 minutes to eat?" remember that financial advisor i met a million years ago? (it isn't your fault if you don't, i might have only written about him in my old blog.) well, he still checks in every now and again, and he's still annoyed half to death at what i require for "expendable income." i'm sure that between magazines, beers, meals not prepared in my kitchen, music, concert tickets, and a dress i spent four hundred dollars this week. THIS WEEK. and i probably paid my phone bill and i know i paid directv, but those aren't included. four bills on ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. it's a sickness.

dudebro is a money guy (and isn't every other nicely-appointed white man you've ever met in your whole life?), and he is working on some sort of investment plan or something for me and we're going to figure it all out this weekend. totally boring. i would rather pull my toenails off with pliers. and then eat them. but i am thirty years old, and it's about time i learned about some adult stuff. like what is in my 401k.

the thing about that, though, is that i'll find out that all of my investments are looking good and there's thousands of dollars socked away in it, and then GUARANTEED i will start trying to figure out a way to drain all of the money out. and i know myself. i will swear that it's an emergency and i'll promise myself that i'll put it back and none of those things will ever happen and not only will i be broke but i will be disappointed in myself and my lack of willpower. maybe it's better the way it is now, with my current system of just tossing those packets from schwab into the trash after i've burned them. (i already told you that i burn useless mail. over the sink. stop looking at me like that!) i wish i could just have a trustee who would take care of the bills and give me an allowance, but bitches are untrustworthy and they'd probably steal from me. or worse, they'd actually pay off all my bills and leave me with no money to spend on frivolous cabs and cover charges. god, i need to GROW UP. help.

3 STALKER FAIL. wednesday night ginger, laura, and i went out DURING A TORNADO AND A THUNDERSTORM just so i could see that adorable bartender again. laura and i took the express train down after work, sloshing nearly barefoot (why do i wear inappropriate footwear on rainy fucking days? i should watch the goddamned weather in the morning) through dirty-ass puddles of gross before cramming ourselves into the worst seats (the ones next to the doors, fuck you cta) on the muggiest train in history (foggy windows, barf) so i could ogle that handsome slab of bacon again. swoon.

it was the kind of night that you couldn't BELIEVE people were going out in, let alone think about venturing out in yourself. because you're smarter than that. duh. it was pitch black at four in the fucking afternoon; tornado sirens were wailing through the air; the rain was pelting and the wind was audible. a normal person would have looked out at that and been scared to go HOME, let alone travel way past home to catch a glimpse of some hot dude she would never really holler at in real life anyway. but this is the thing about me: i AM that dumb person. dumb might not be the right word. hm. i am the one who will go out drinking with you in a blizzard, brave a treacherous thunderstorm to get some fish tacos with you, dodge softball-sized hail to shake my naked booty cheeks in a disco if you want to come with. i'm a good sport. and a good goddamned time.

we walked in and my stomach fell right out of my butt, because i immediately saw that there was a tiny dude with hipster glasses and a pink necktie behind the bar, and not my precious polo player. hockey enthusiast? rugby captain? lacrosse star? sad face. we got a table, because eff the bar if my honeypants isn't there, and i sat there feeling damp, and yes, DUMB, while my toes squelched and slipped and squeaked in my flip flops. good thing the food is so jamming. i ordered an iceberg wedge 1 because i love bleu cheese and 2 because i had just spent an hour yammering laura's ear off about draper and iceberg wedges are a very mad men-era thing to eat. everything we got was divine, and i have no problems sweeping my disappointments under the delicious food rug, i might be an expert at that, as a matter of fact, and we had lots of giggles and girl talk and ragging on shitty dudes. then the sky went from the color of cigarette ash to this terrifying shade of yellow and i was convinced it was the apocalypse and that we were all about to die. good thing i didn't say no to dessert.

sneaky laura, always a good wingman, stayed behind while ginger and i started our slow trek to the car (this rain is destroying the use of my joints at the moment), and when i noticed she was gone and turned around to find her she was grinning from ear-to-ear and i knew exactly what she'd done. "he works mornings and sundays," she announced breathlessly. i don't sweat dudes. i let dudes sweat ME. i mean, shit, I'M the fabulous one! fuck them! who cares about some stupid guy? i'm not going to go bankrupt trying to get a look at some hot college senior. pfffft.

who wants to go for burgers next sunday?

4 mr. clean bathroom magic eraser. life-changing. trust.

5 you already know how in love i am with the personal ads in the reader. i live for them. missed connections is my first love, of course, because i just know in my heart of hearts that one of these days i'm going to see this: 147 BUS SATURDAY LATE AFTERNOON you: black, tattooed, criminally attractive, killer glasses and personal style, reading the kind of book that only intelligent women read. and carrying a big black bag full of so much shit it required its own seat. me: tall, impossibly handsome, wealthy and generous underwear model who only rides the bus to stay in touch with the "little people." our eyes met briefly when i caught you picking crumbs out of your bra, inspecting them, then eating them. they met again when i heard you fart. it was cute when you pointed to the unsuspecting gentleman asleep in the seat in front of yours and made a face like he'd done it. i would have gotten off at your stop so that i could properly introduce myself, but i thought that would be creepy. also, i didn't want to interrupt you on your way into planned parenthood. anyway, i am smitten with you and i would like to marry you and financially support you until you die at thirty-seven. ps, you can have boyfriends. and i have enormous testicles.

but my sexy, dirty whore of a mistress is the x-matches section. ohhhh honey, the kinky, fucked-up, deplorable, repugnant shit you bitches are into! i love it. my favorite from last week's paper, which i'm just now getting around to reading because i am so busy and important: MAKE ME CUM BLOOD (in the women seeking ? sub-section) 53 year old curvaceous female in dire need of some serious pain. multiple partners are a must, as are foot fetishes and intense anal play. i want to be hurt so badly i can't walk for weeks; hospitalization is not a negative outcome. have a husband, not looking for anything serious, just love to watch and join in. must be during the day, as i have 6 children. HUGE vag with space for multiple entries and toys. dungeon in shed, please lock me up and leave me wanting more. please fuck me hard in every orifice, asap! chodes accepted, uncircumsized preferred. down4brown69

okay, lovers. as much as this made me shout "OHMIGODYES!" the second i read it, i also thought, "is this shit real?" because there is just a little bit too much going on here. it sounds like this bitch read a list of the dirtiest things a dude would ever want to do to you and just lumped them all together here. because, really bitch? you REALLY are into "intense anal play" AND chodes?! yeah right. and why are multiple partners a MUST? how many dudes does it take to stick buzz saws and tire irons and cattle prods into your gaping vagina? and what kind of fucking insurance does this lady have? it cost me $900 goddamned dollars in uncovered services to deal with that bronchitis i almost died from (not really) in february; i cannot IMAGINE what her copays and deductibles look like. and what does she say to the ER doctor? that time i fractured my nose giving a blow job (i'll tell you later) the story i made up sounded SO DUMB and that lab coat looked SO UNCONVINCED and it was excruciating. maybe she's never been hospitalized before, but i am an EXPERT on that shit, and you would not believe the number of times you get asked "what's going on?" by every single person who walks by you. AND SEVEN HUNDRED PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS WALKING BY YOU.

thank jehovah i'm sick all the time and records are computerized, because those nurses know me by name and when i want in with vomit on my shirt and my belly distended ten times its normal size they skip the small talk and formalities and start jabbing needles in my arm and threading tubes up my nose. spanks used to regale me with horrifying tales from his days as a medical student in the emergency room, and the worst sexy thing i ever heard was about a vibrator that punctured some dude's inner booty wall. and boy was that gross.

so, this bitch. could you imagine that being your madre's secret life? gangbanging dudes in the shed?! your tiny ass goes out there one hot summer day to get out your dirtbike and you walk in on your mom fellating a dude in leather chaps with a sword stuck up her ass. DELICIOUS. and scarred for eternity. ugg. why the asap? why the uncircumsized? and WHY ON EARTH THE DOWN4BROWN69?!

6 ginger just forwarded me an email about a new gelato spot in chicago that serves whiskey gelato dipped in chocolate then rolled in crumbled bacon on a stick. FUCK YES.

7 my friend eve has been having casual sex with dudes she meets on craigslist, and she called me the other night to try to convince me to holler at that shit, too. listen, friends, if you want to refer me to a witty bastard with chiseled features who doesn't mind just holding hands (for reals, i might be over sex entirely; i'm tired!) and paying for everything, please feel free to send him my way. and i'm 100% happy if you find non-murderers on the internet to get naked with. i don't hate. yes, i fucking do. but not on that.

isn't that a weird thing to try to talk someone into? i understand getting your friend to try brussels sprouts or a new hand cream, but trolling whore sites for dicks? totes weird. and i haven't given up hope yet, despite all of the evidence that maybe i totally should. and i'm LAZY. don't get me wrong, i'd love to shave my legs and maintain the sharpness of my eyebrows, but i'm not doing all that for a dude who's just going to come over when i'm too tired to enjoy it anyway. to hell with that. craigslist works for this bitch because she "has two kids and doesn't have time to date," and i don't know what that means, really. i guess i'm not sexually driven enough to skip all the fun shit that goes away after the third month.

strangest, scariest conversation of my life to date. and i need to work on that buddy system so this dumb whore doesn't get chopped into a million pieces. i'm one of those kid's godmother. and i'll be damned if i'm stuck letting my television raise him because her ass is too good for a vibrator. pshaw.

8 this is what partying with sam looks like. all titties. my party is tomorrow, and i hope like hell you are coming. let's be serious. i didn't call the bar ahead of time to set shit up or reserve tables or whatever, we're just going to roll in and take over. here's what i know: a bunch of my burning hot snatches are coming; some of my platonic twig and berries will be there; my sexy internet stalker is coming (with binoculars around his neck, i think); we will be DRUNK; laura is wearing stilettos even though she is already nine feet tall; i have this fancy new bra that pushes my boobs up and together and i have a shirt that makes that bra really shine; there's a chance a table might get broken because rog will be there; i'm going to pay a tiny asian to rip the hair out of my face later in anticipation; there might be some glitter eyeshadow cream involved; lesbians aplenty; japanese gym shoes; and all this celibacy is fucking with my discretion, so you might get to see my butthole. EXCITING. saturday june 26, 10pm (i'm always late!), easy bar, 1944 w. division, chicago. i'll see you there!

and if i don't, i hope you get locked in a shed after suffering multiple unwanted entries. JERK.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

internet stalker sausage.

so i'm totally famous. and that is the awesome. you know i don't give a fuck about anything, right? that i only stay lucid enough to write this blog in the vain hopes of wooing some dashing, handsome, incredibly wealthy gentleman with a horse penis and vocal cords that have been rendered useless since birth who would like nothing better than to save me from my trite existence and retire to a condo downtown where i can raise our pets, eat tacos al pastor, and watch tv all day because work is for stupid people?

i get emails and shit all the time from dudes who read my blog and are all "you're so funny!" or "you're so amazing!" or "you're so hilarious!" or "you're so interesting!" and that's pretty fucking rad, except i can't stick any of those things in my mouth or up my butt. and i'm immediately bored with absolutely anything i can't put in my goddamned asshole. when am i going to get "i would die to have you, quit your job and move to my island?" a HUGE part of the reason i started writing my old blog (aside from laura's constant cajoling) was that i had a major crush on this hot piece of brisket and wanted to prove to him on the sly that i was amazing enough to crush in return. i'm not sure that i have that thing that makes people instantly likeable, and i often wish that i could hand dudes my ipod or something i've written and skip all that introductory garbage i'm not that good at.

that crush dude was my favorite kind, too. the smartypants kind that reads good books and knows some shit. i had dinner with zoe last week and she was talking about this new dude she's hollering at who is super duper smart and what a turn-on that is. i talk a LOT of shit about balls, but a big brain is where it's really at. there's nothing better than hanging with a dude who is smarter than i am. NOTHING. and i'm not really that smart, so finding one shouldn't really be that hard, but it really really is. i'm not sucking my own dick at all. shit, i went to HIGH SCHOOL. a couple semesters of real college, a few semesters of community college, and a whole lot of terrible decision-making and fighting like a stray dog to survive. that's all i got. why is it so hard to find a dude who reads books?

SERIOUSLY. and how many halfwits have you met who wear that shit like a fucking badge of honor?! "hey, random gentleman hoping for a chance to throw his hotdog down my hallway, what kind of books do you like to read?"

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA. girl, i don't read books!"

(that is the sound my sails make when the wind is zapped out of them.) SIGH. dumb stupid illiterate dumb retarded moron idiot dummy. why on earth would you be proud and brag about some shit like that?! and never have i ever before met someone who was either so busy or so interesting in his own right that he could justify never sitting down for five minutes with a book. if you have time to SHIT, you have time to READ.

there are two things that make you instantly impressive to women you might like one day to fuck: 1 comprehensive knowledge of the current socio-political climate and 2 reading books. and it doesn't matter what you read, just read something. ANYTHING. except babysitters club or gossip girl. or a tawdry romance. because those are moist. hell, i'd even be thrilled if you read quality magazines. shit, EVEN I have a subscription to both gq and esquire! come on, playboy, you can't?! esquire is the fucking jam. i'd marry a dude sight unseen if he told me he read that shit on the regular. the articles are hot, the clothes and styling are hot, and they do hot stuff like profile sexy slabs of angus beef and review books and teach dudes how to make croque monsieur. genius.

maybe we can compromise a little bit, manfriends? if you can't commit to a book (and seriously, it could be any kind, even one about sports or beer or the history of boning) AND it's too much to ask that you drop by a newsstand for something other than barely legal, could you please at least name drop a book the next time a bitch asks you? it's not like that bitch is going to ask you for a book report and a diorama. it's 100% guaranteed to step your game up, i promise, unless you're dealing with some dirtbag who refuses to use her mind grapes. ask someone literary what he's read currently; maybe he could even tell you what it's about so you can look a little bit more official. or just name something classic and gently steer the conversation in an alternate direction while she basks in your intelligence. let's practice:

"hey samantha, you look great today." (i totally do, but i digress.) "i was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me later, then retire to your abode for some scintillating tantric butt sex?"

"well, you, i'm totally flattered. but i think tonight is the night i wash my hair. also, you're fucking disgusting."
*scoffs in disgust*

"that is a pity. i just finished reading 'the fountainhead' and was really looking forward to dissecting the complexities of it with you, because you are so very smart. and also more beautiful than i can stand to look at directly. like the sun."

*melts into a puddle* "i would love to." gurgle gurgle. "bring the lube."

and if you can't do that you don't deserve to live. you have my permission to throw yourself off the nearest building.

my first love is fiction, and i think i've already told you kids that i wrote a novel. but then i hated my novel. so i stopped looking at it and i stopped letting people read it and i felt like a shitbag and stopped writing almost completely. so i had this six hundred page manuscript sitting on my bookshelf that i would move from apartment to apartment and sometimes gaze at longingly and think, "i should work on my book again. i am an assface."
one day a little over a year ago i pulled that bad girl off the shelf and read the entire thing, from top to toe. and the shit is really fucking funny. for reals. and it's smart and interesting. the characters are varied and have depth. at the time i started writing it women were being innundated with all of these lipstick-pink handbag-sized candy-coated "chick lit" books, and while bridget jones TO THIS DAY is totally my jam, most of that bullshit was cookie-cutter pseudo-feminist garbage.

i bristle at the idea that being a raging whore who is obsessed with her weight and the fact that she is not married is somehow empowering to young women; and, if that seems contradictory, let me clarify: i think fucking dudes before marriage is awesome. if you want to sleep with someone and then sleep with his brother the next day, i think you should go for it. videotape it and send it to me. i support your right to bang everyone you want to. do i think stretching your vagina out to comical proportions is a testament to your valiant womanness? not necessarily. joan of ark never teabagged seventeen dudes. using "feminist" to justify being a slut or as a blanket term to describe any dime-store fiction with a female protagonist is a little bit of a cheat. butt fucking hot dudes isn't a statement against a misogynistic society, honeys, you're just a girl who likes a pounding in the dirt star. and that's cool. i totally love it. let's just call a spade a spade around here.

i'm all fired up because i did a writing workshop a couple weeks ago, and we did this peer review exercise during which this bitch whose FULL-LENGTH NOVEL TITLE INCLUDED THE WORD "LOLLIPOP" tried to talk shit about my amazing piece of comic genius. and no, her piece of caca is not intended for five-year-olds, it is a purported real novel for real adult women. mm hmm. and i could give a fuck, but don't spread your ass cheeks open and take a huge dump on my work when yours is the literary equivalent of cotton candy with a hefty helping of desperation and loneliness sprinkled on top. these books are like dessert. they are gloriously silly FUN, with sprinkles on top, but they ain't ART. and if you eat too much of them you get a stomachache. so shut your snatch the fuck up.

while i would never claim that what i've written is the great american novel, i do think it's a hilarious character study of a real, relatable hot vag who really could be a woman you've met before. or even YOU. if you're awesome. the bitch of a thing about being a writer is that if you tell someone "i am a writer," his immediate response is "what do you write?" and can you guess how fucking retarded and awkward stammering out, "well, um, i'm working on this novel that hasn't been published and you can't really read it because it won't make sense of out context blah blah blah i should just kill myself blah" sounds?


and then i would just stand there and feel all embarrassed while the dude moved on to someone else better able to explain exactly what makes her so fucking cool. lame-o. so blogging is a neat and handy tool i can use to drop a heaping spoonful of AWESOME on some unsuspecting dude. which i try to do on a regular basis so all you kids don't run off and fall in blind internet love with some other broad. don't cheat on me, mmkay? that might hurt my feelings.

i love stalking. i suppose that's easy to say because i have never been officially stalked, but the idea that someone would devote the entirety of his free time to figuring out what the fuck my dumb ass does all day is flattering as shit. he'd be bored after half an hour. seriously. "i'd find him passed out in the alley behind work and have to slap him awake. "um...excuse me? shouldn't you be following ten paces behind me as i walk slow as hell to pick up my lunch?" i'm totally fucking lame. yawn.

if i came home to find some asshole with a bag of tacos and an adorable kitten picture taped to his forehead my initial reaction would be sheer terror, but if he hung around for a while (and told me about the last BOOK HE READ) i might invite him in and let him take out my garbage and put my air conditioner in. i need a personal assistant ie, HOT SLAVE. ooh, also. no gross-looking stalkers. ugly people are terrifying. so easy on the eyes + strong enough to carry an air conditioner = prerequisites met. take note.

so a reader got in his car and drove really far to meet me yesterday, totally unannounced. and it was pretty hot, except 1 i was wearing head to toe beige (including relaxed linen pants, barf) and 2 he neglected to drop to one knee and propose the moment he made my acquaintance. what kind of shit is that? it is my DREAM that some hot piece of business will love this garbage i write SO MUCH that he straps on a diaper, fills up his gas tank, drives to chicago, and whisks me out of these doldrums. or murders me. one or the other, i haven't really sorted out the details. as long as it ends in a happily ever after.

just like in all those baby pink books i love to read so much.

and thank you, virile and handsome and hilarious jacob knabb, for providing me with that title. comedy gold, you are.

Monday, June 21, 2010

i need a new bed.

1 you know what makes me uncomfortable? commercials for breakfast cereals. particularly when they feature a well-heeled, sharply tailored, impeccably groomed "family" carefully situated around a kitchen table. fully dressed and capable of carrying on a conversation at six-thirty in the fucking morning? yeah right, cheerios. i'd maybe believe it if bitches were slogging into the kitchen, hungover and in pajamas with runaway bed head rubbing the sleep from their eyes, slamming down a handful of advil migraine and mistakenly pouring orange juice all over their raisin bran. i'd also buy it if the commercial was a five-second blur of a bitch running half-dressed and shoeless through the kitchen and out the back door screaming, "i can't fucking eat i'm gonna miss my TRAIN!" at the top of her lungs. for every special k spot i see there need to be five commercials for starbucks, dunkin donuts, slim fast shakes, cases of diet coke, potato chips, turkey sandwiches, and whatever other convenient garbage we shove down our pie holes at the speed of light in the morning in lieu of those 42 vitamins and whole grains.

i also hate commercials for watered-down light beers. and any other ad for which creating a seemingly "fun" scenario seems like it took so much WORK. i hate all those contrived upbeat barbecues and faux club scenes. barf. not to mention that if a dude hollered at me while sipping a miller fucking light i would junk punch him. i know toddlers who drink better beer than that. idiot. but i would keel over with delight at the sight of a realistic beer commercial. i want to see bitches making bad decisions and dudes falling facedown into piles of vomit. yeahhhhh. use that to sell me a bottle of patron. not that i am an exception, mind you. do you remember that club ontourage downtown on ohio? (yes, with an O. shitfuckdamn.) is it even still there? anyway, in 2002 my dumb ass TOOK MY PANTS OFF ON THE DANCEFLOOR  there. fueled by a mind-numbing EIGHT bombay and tonics. some shitbag i was dancing with said, "let me see that booty, girl!" and my gin-soaked brain interpreted that as "take those pants off, sexy!" this is why i shouldn't be around impressionable young children or anyone else easily led astray.

sarah had taken my house keys so that i couldn't leave without her knowledge (and make one of those BAD DECISIONS, ahem), and ran over to grab me before security could and was like, "really, sam?" eyeing me up and down. "REALLY?!" dude was already settling up with the bartender so he could "give me a ride home," (ahahahahahaha!) and i wanted my goddamned keys. please keep in mind that I STILL HAD MY PANTS OFF. i had more gapers than a five car pile-up, yet i insisted on arguing pantsless with that bitch that i was lucid enough to leave with a complete stranger. a stranger who had encouraged me to remove my pants in the middle of a fucking disco. needless to say, we got KICKED THE FUCK OUT, and i almost got arrested for belligerent drunk going home with a douchebag half-nakedness.

she refused to give me my keys, but I SHOWED HER because i had a roommate at the time and HE would just let me in. so fuck you, you cockblocking whore! i don't even know how we got to my place. or how we got to the fourth floor. i can hardly climb stairs sober. i must have momentarily forgotten that i had a hardcore partying gay man living across from me when i spit in sarah's face about my keys (LITERAL SPIT; she would have been well within her rights to cut my heart out and force me to eat it), so of course he wasn't home at three on a sunday morning. i just slumped on the dirty carpet against the door, squeezing my eyes shut while willing the vomit back into my stomach. he got home and i showed my new paramour to my sexy boudoir (i had leopard sheets at the time, what?!) while i peed and tried to fix my runny eyeliner. i was such a raging whore back then that i kept a hot nightie hanging on the back of the bathroom door at all times, so i put that on and slipped into my bedroom. dude was naked and spread across the bed with an erection, RAWR, and i don't even think he was in past my incisors before i THREW UP ALL OVER HIS DICK. now put that in a commercial.

sales increased by a factor of ten. just saying.

2 if it keeps raining, i'm going to need a wheelchair. not to get all septuagenarian on you, but these torrential downpours are fucking up my joints. in a big way. especially since i've been too cute (and perpetually late) to wear my brace lately. i fucking forgot it again today, and my hand feels like it's about to separate itself from my arm at the wrist. GODDAMN this shit is painful. i am almost at the point where i'd like to have this bitch amputated. except that would fuck up my handjob game. and i know what you're thinking: isn't your dumb ass celibate? and yes, asshole, right now i am. but i always hold out hope. just not with my left hand.

3 i'm writing a craigslist ad for a manservant. i am going to require that he be strapping, handsome, docile, and hopefully mute. i will let you know what i turn up.

4 here's what a fucking weirdo i am. i desperately need a new bed. DESPERATELY. right now. or maybe yesterday. but i'm too chickenshit to go buy one, because i don't know what purchases you're supposed to negotiate for. i mean, i just don't understand the concept. now don't get me wrong. I KNOW that i'm not supposed to stand in line at walgreens and say "are you sure you can't let me have this toothpaste for $1.99?!" but are beds something you can barter? i'm a pussy when it comes to buying things. i just pay whatever it costs and go the fuck on about my business. have you bought a bed before? i've been lucky enough to have fancy friends giving expensive beds away at the right time.

i feel dumb buying a bed with no one hot to put in it. by that same token, i just ordered a bunch of new bras online, and i bought ones that are maybe a little less than sexy this time because i'm tired of wasting all my hot bras on nobody. you know my fancy ass only buys bras that are fifty bucks apiece, so paying more to add embellishments is RIDICULOUS when i'm just going to have to remove it myself at the end of the day. now don't get me wrong, my bras are sexy as shit no matter what. because i have an amazing fucking rack. but this time around i bought basic black cotton and underwire rather than the silky gorgeousness i usually get. because helen doesn't give a shit about my underwear. besides, neither do most dudes. assholes.

so i am loathe to spend a ton of money on a new bed without someone to show it off to. what the fuck do i care if i sleep on a lumpy mattress mel gave me when i moved a few years ago? at this rate i'm never going to get laid ever again, and i'd hate to sink eight hundred bucks into what is going to essentially become a giant cat toy. because i'm never fucking home. the comical part is that i'm never home long enough at the right time of day to even have a bed delivered! i need to do something, though. things are devolving at breakneck speed. in a couple months it's going to feel like sleeping in a ball crawl. and while in theory that sounds like something i'd get hot for (i love balls!), in practice it's going to land my arthritic ass in traction.

it's time to change this bed karma. and rather than search for and pick better dudes, i'm going to swap out my mattress and hope they come to me. and let's be honest. i'm not really searching for shit. so if the mattress dude is hot and not dumb, maybe i can kill two birds with one stone?

5 man, i love drunk texting. and i want to MARRY drunk dialing. goddamn is that shit fun. if i texted you saturday night, I AM SORRY. unless you liked it, which a few people must have because i got a lot of hot texts in return. i called the asshole and literally shouted into his voicemail for five minutes. exhilarating! now i have one more reason to get drunk. as if i needed it. pshaw.

6 finally, some tips for men: a ponytail on a dude is an INSTANT disqualifier, under any circumstance. write that down, gentleman on the platform at morse this morning who kept asking me, "what are you reading? is it good? what book is that? do you like it? what kind of book is that? what are you reading? how far along are you?" blah blah blah would you ever fuck a dude with a ponytail blah blah no i never would blah. cut that shit off, asshole! and he was BLACK, which makes it doubly offensive. because it's not a smooth, curling tendril resting gently on the back of his neck (those are gross, too), it looks like someone wrapped a rubber band around a cheap goddamned broom. FUG. STOP.

ps, tongue rings and wrist tattoos are MOIST. ew. especially those encircling the wrist like a bracelet tattoos. barf. and bracelets on dudes are iffy on the moist meter, too. and some necklaces. be careful.

how hot would it be if that was my actual bedroom? damn. i'm totally fucking living wrong.

Friday, June 18, 2010

i'm in love with a frat boy.

he's every sorority girl's dream
he's god's gift to games involving nerf

dudes love 'em, too
that's what you call a dudebro's worth.

see, i love all the fratboys
because they show me love
they know i never pay a fee
when i go to see the cubs.

but i can't even lie
their khaki shorts look so damn fly
the way they wear them polo shirts just got me mesmerized.

samantha don't ever trick
but goddamn i want his prick
i can't lie or be too coy
i'm in love with a frat boy.

he drinkin' he shoutin' he cussin'
he barfs on the bus and
i'm in love with a fratboy...

he yellin' he sweatin' he playin'
i'm not goin' nowhere boy, i'm stayin'
i'm in love with a fratboy.
sorry, but i LOVED that t-pain song. couldn't help myself.

holy amstel light, what is up with all of these friendly and adorable white dudes all of a sudden?
how did you fall out of that abercrombie and fitch catalog and into my lap? the other night my gorgeous ginger met me at dmk for fried pickles, newfangled cheeseburgers (more on that in a second), and fancy beers before we met rachel at the vic to kidnap (i mean see) aziz ansari. i might have to move to fucking wrigleyville. my neighborhood is full of wannabe thugs, old dirty-ass hippies, and young hipsters too poor to live in logan square or wherever it's cool to be starved half to death and have angular hair.

and I KNOW, i was just talking shit last week, but the more time i spend around those clean, gorgeous walk-ups and adorable brunch spots and happening little bars the more i want to sacrifice a left lung to be surrounded by them all the fucking time. i can learn to love shortened pants and white ball caps, can't i? every time i get off the brown line at armitage i die a little inside from the inexplicable jealousy surging through my veins. it's all just so painfully damn CUTE over there. and i want in. every single time i get off the train next to my building after burning up my paycheck at art effect and lush (followed soon after by a pitcher of white sangria at ba-ba-ree-ba, of course), i want to torch my own neighborhood to the ground. now i'm happy over here and everything, but i'd trade a couple of these taquerias for another starbucks or an artsy boutique or something. and you know i must mean it, because I LOVE TACOS.

i blame msnbc for all of this, because that is what i have on the telly 95% of the time that i am home, and listening to all these handsome, ridiculously smart, left-leaning dudes all night while i eat my lean cuisine or chips and salsa or cheese and crackers or apple butter on toast or unheated soup straight from the can over the sink is making me want a little vanilla dipped in this sexual chocolate. chris hayes? andrew ross sorkin? YES PLEASE. those dudes get me all hot and bothered with their smartypants political anal-ysis and impassioned rants against dick armey (most hilarious name of all time) and that british petroleum dude. this oil spill business is terrifying. i mean, what if it doesn't stop? for real? like, WHAT THE FUCK do we do if it doesn't stop?!

i have a huge beef with the media these days, by the way. (skip this if my leftist ranting chaps your ass. also? fuck you.) i understand that old president tar baby hasn't yet parted the ocean in the gulf and stuck his magic finger in the hole to stop the leak, and shame on him for holding out for this long, but i would like to see that dumb moose bitch watching herself shrill "drill, baby, drill!" on a continuous loop until she kills herself. i mean, shouldn't she really be hiding under a rock somewhere right about now rather than out on the stump for supposed "tea party" candidates? that shit is just a front for small-time militia dudes and undercover racists.

anylibertarian, let's get back to white dudes who make me want to take my pants off. dmk. i beat amanda there, so i was presented with the unsettling conundrum of "at the bar" versus "wait for a table." let's be serious. ordinarily i would wait in line for six hours rather than sit in an uncomfortable high chair eating food that is dangerously close to my face off of a sticky wet surface covered in filthy money and germy towels (for cereal, why wipe off the bar only to throw the dirty, un-rinsed towel right back on the fucking bar? WHY?) and purses and shit. bitches put everything on the bar. how do i know? BECAUSE I DO THAT SHIT, TOO. if you don't know me for real, i carry a huge black bag. seriously. ridiculous big. like a sack of fabulous testicles. because i need to carry a lot of shit around all the time.

dudes who are rolling their eyes (and i know you are) can go get bent, because i want you to think about all of the random shit you have rolling around in your trunk or backseat and then come talk to me about what's in my bag. my public transportation bitches know what's up. you need a small makeup bag. and one for pills. (that might be a sam only kind of thing.) a gigantic wallet. case for enormous sunglasses. a book. the new issue of glamour. cell phone. keys. two bottles of kiehls musk oil. seventeen black pilot G2s. okay okay okay. that all might just be me. but so what? i need that shit!

and of course every time i roll in the club and post up at the bar, all my money and cards and shit are at the bottom of that blackness, and the first thing i do is toss my bag (my bag that rides the train floor, my bag that sits on sidewalks, my bag that fell in the alley, my bag that helen slept on, my bag that might have touched the seat of a public toilet) RIGHT ON TOP OF THE BAR. because that tab isn't going to open itself, and i need to find my fucking bank card and get the liquor flowing.

so i don't eat at the fucking bar. i know everything everywhere is filthy and disgusting, but if i can try to limit the filth and disgust that makes me feel a little bit better. BUT. dmk is cute inside. i mean, REALLY CUTE. and it's all modern and new, which i love. BUT. they do that communal dining thing, where people who don't know each other share tables. while they eat. and talk. if you've never hung out with me you totally fucking should, but it doesn't take much imagination to guess that my dinner conversation often sounds like "so, he got a boner in the car and i was totally grossed out and he expected me to, like, touch it or something when we got back to my place. i mean, while we were still in the car! plus i heard that he gave monica gonorrhea in her butthole."

or whatever i fucking talk about. who even knows. i'm so dumb. pffft. whatever it is, it's always 100% raunchy and mired in gross. which makes for a hilariously fun dinner, but i'm not trying to let brad in the purple polo in on the adventures of my snatch. and i hate listening to stupid people talk about nothing, especially when there are carmelized balsamic onions and lemon aioli on my tongue. idiots fuck up my good time. so i opted for the bar.

and thank horus i did. drew, the bartender closest to my end of the bar, is ADORABLE. where are my skinny blond white chicago girls at? you bitches need to holler at that dude, for reals. then send me a transcript of every sexual encounter you have with him. holy lord was he cute. so cute, as a matter of fact, that i ignored both his khaki shorts AND his upturned collar and let him wink and sparkle at me across the bar. i don't know very much (really, i hate history and science is boring and chemistry is hard and zzZZZzzZzz), but one thing i DO know is what i want to drink. all the time. the selection was listed on a huge board above the bar, listed first by brewery then by type of alcohol, and i skimmed it for approximately an eighth of a second before deciding in my mind that i was going to have whatever three floyds option they had available.

that was, of course, before this little cherub (strike me dead if he is even a DAY over twenty-two and a half) turned around and smiled at me and asked if i needed help deciding. i should have said no, because i am too old and too salty to engage in pointless flirting with an embryo who probably says "bro" in real life without even the slightest hint of irony, but goddamn he was easy on the eyes. and so eager to talk to me. which i appreciate from any man, unless he is 1 homeless or 2 wearing a mesh shirt as his real clothes. i let him tell me about every single goddamned beer on the menu. and he did so while looking right into my eyes and leaning suggestively across the bar, talking in his "aw, come on, baby just let me put the tip in" tone of voice.

are you kittens finally trying to sink your teeth into some dark meat? is that what's happening here? because in the olden days (ie, six months ago) all the white men in my life ever wanted from me was to use me as a beard so that they could unself-consciously go to underground rap shows and to buy 40s at the liquor store without suffering a raised eyebrow from the clerk. better a secret alcoholic than a public wigger, i guess. pshaw. i've said a million times before that i've never seen a pink penis in person (peter piper pumped his pickled pecker), so i intend to find out what one looks like. then WRITE ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET.

that place was busy as shit, so when ginger flew in on her strappy red platform shoes (so sexxxy i almost died) he quickly suggested a couple of IPAs, got her one, and went to help some other bastard. i stared at that dude all night. at his big baby blue eyes and his tufts of blond leg hair. i could barely be bothered to eat way too much and viciously gossip with my ginge. 3/4 of what i said sounded like, "that guy is so cute." gush. and he was nice. and he kept apologizing that he couldn't spend more time with us. i was sorry, too, and i told him so. hot damn. he was so hot i didn't even care that i had grease on my face and beef crumbs in the corners of my mouth. and you know how i feel about THAT.

i guess you dudes must be tired of catching fire as you bump all those hardwood knees and legs and elbows together with these skinny mannequins you hump on. trying to get in bed with something that is warm and squishy instead of making a hollow thunk when you're stroking away on it, eh? well that's grand. let's get something going. i really almost wrote my number on my credit card slip, but then i remembered that dudes like him exist on tips and that phony charm is the best insurance to get a good one. i think i tipped him 47%, i was so goddamned smitten. and maybe even trying to get a little tip of my own.

but the gulf between twenty-two, white, and male and fifty-three, black, and female (you are how old you feel, right? FUCK) is a big one, and even if he were good at drilling for oil what would we even talk about once i recovered and contained the spill? i hate the cubs, i really can't stand looking at a dude in short pants for very long, flip flops and visors on grown men are totally moist, and i'm too afraid of serious injury to let a dude head butt me. that's how they say hello, right? head butting? he really was cute as shit, though. like, that was two days ago and i'm still wondering where he likes to go for fun and what kind of music is on his ipod. le sigh. i should get over that toddler. big, big mistake. that's right. i'm over him. for good. done with it. i mean it. DONE.

anyone want to go out for cheeseburgers next week?

Thursday, June 17, 2010

not always funny.

my parents are dead. if you read this regularly, you already know that. today is the day i sat on the polished white linoleum hospital floor next to the bed in which my mother lay dying at 55 years old, twelve years ago. the day i was officially orphaned. my father had died in horrific fashion four months prior. i was eighteen years old.

i don't ever want you to forget that there's a real person buried under all these jokes. and i try to laugh 100% of the time, because trying to be happy is better than thinking about all of the bad things that have happened to you, and all of the ways you've been disappointed, and all of the things you could have been that you won't. why live if you're just going to wallow in it? but it's sad. i mean REALLY SAD. and sometimes i feel like i don't have the right to be this sad, especially as i get older and older and older, like there is an expiration date on grief and i'm long past the point at which i should have thrown it away.

but there is mothers day and fathers day and christmas day and my birthday and their birthdays and all these other days when thinking about them is inevitable. and i don't just miss them as people, i miss them as possibilities. i didn't even really get to know them as people; i was a child when they died. so i'm stuck missing my mommy tucking me in or my daddy peeling grapes for me because i didn't like their skins. or missing what could have been, which is the saddest missing of all.

don't feel bad for me, because i feel bad enough for myself. just go do something nice for your mom. or call her. and think about people who can never call their moms again.

this is my grandmother, my mother, my sisters, my nieces, and our friend jessica. my mom has her eyes closed and is all the way left. this is the last photograph i have of myself with her, and i was maybe ten years old. this was also probably the last time she was ever photographed while she was still able to stand upright of her own volition.
this is also the last time i was in a church without fear of bursting into flame. i am in red, of course, because even then i was HOT.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

this is the sexiest shit i've ever seen.

pack your bags, bitch. WE GOING.

Private. Irresistibly convenient. Yet a world away from the everyday.

The Champagne Lodge and Luxury Suites is a boutique hotel featuring spa suites that offer seclusion and privacy while pampering you with all the contemporary conveniences of modern design. All of our 38 suites include CL standards such as an oversized whirlpool tub, walk-in marble steam room with rain forest shower, stone-encased fireplace, LCD/plasma TVs, surround sound system with cd/dvd player, wi-fi, wet bar, luxurious bedding, bathrobes and more.

You will find our staff to be subtle and discreet, yet attentive to your needs. Our personal concierge is here to complement your CL experience with dinner reservations at a local fine dining establishment, tickets to Chicagoland theater or concert and sporting events. Whether you're looking for a private getaway or you're in town for business, plan to relax and indulge yourself at the deserve it.

you are BUGGING OUT OF YOUR MIND if you don't think this is right up my filthy back alley. whoever wrote this shit is a marketing GENIUS. who wouldn't want to stay here? just look at all the sexy ways they lure your dumb ass in:

PRIVATE. well i know i love privacy. and i'm sure you love privacy. you wouldn't want to rub all over a hot bitch in a room full of spectators, would you? duh. TOTAL WIN.

IRRESISTIBLY CONVENIENT. now here's where it starts to heat up a little bit. these two words on their own are alluring, i guess, but when you put them together? panty moistening. because it's one thing to be irresistable. it's quite another to be convenient. but IRRESISTIBLY CONVENIENT?! that's fucking amazing! i mean, to be SO convenient that you're irresistible? what else on earth is that awesome? starbucks? mcdonalds?! even though there's a golden arch every fifteen goddamned feet it's not so hard to resist a #2 meal that takes just long enough for you to regret having walked through the door in the first place that you are powerless against it. i can't holler very often because that delicious poison murders my digestive system, but every time i am in a mcdonalds that fast food is just slow enough to make me think about how quickly it's going to kill me.

YET A WORLD AWAY FROM THE EVERYDAY. oh, thank god. because i absolutely despise my everyday, and the further i can get away from it the fucking better. i desperately long to be transported to a magical faraway (but totally convenient) place filled with couples massages and overpriced champagne packages, yet not so far that i'd be stranded in a stinky whirlpool that smells of bleach and someone else's vaginal secretions.

whoever wrote this must have done so with his pants off and his dick in his hand, because it is sexational. you know what rain forest showers, wet bars, marble steam rooms, and luxurious bedding sound like to me? sextacy.

i first heard about the champagne lodge from the dashing and elegant claire zulkey, and i raced to the nearest internet connection i could find and googled my way to near-orgasm. what's not to love about a place that is devoted solely to the pleasures of the flesh? i mean, the sybaris is aight, i guess, but huge slides just aren't that appealing to me. nothing screams "don't fuck me!" like awkwardly skidding and sliding down a giant piece of plastic. or crash landing into a huge puddle of chlorine, then having to blow stinging water out of your nose and shake it out of your ears all goddamned night. not sexy in the least.

this is on some next-level player shit. because any old square could take his jumpoff or bustdown to a sketchy hourly motel, but only a classy gentleman who's got his mack weight all the way up (seriously, i mean a top tier game-spitting champion) would suggest a sensual evening at the champagne lodge. try to tell me you wouldn't go. I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU.

my 100% platonic homeboy and i have a secluded spa suite booked for a few weekends from now. i have no sexual interest in him AT ALL, and apparently neither does he because the first thing he said was "i'm bringing my playstation." pffft. which might be the least sexy sentence i've ever heard uttered, after "no, i don't think those bumps on my dick are contagious." (i refused to touch them nonetheless and kicked him and his eggroll penis out of my fucking house.) so it's a safe assumption that everyone's underwear will stay firmly in place. except for the five hours i plan to spend getting whirlpooled. he also told me last night on the phone that i ACT LIKE A MAN because of the way i mentally chop and screw these simple ass dudes.

barf. nobody wants to fuck the smart broad who flips the script on them, i guess. he was accusing me of being a bad friend (which is probably true) and i was instantly all huffy and defensive (because it is totally true), and instead of conceding and tucking my tail between my legs and apologizing like i should have i swiftly turned the tables (he didn't even see the shit coming), blamed him for something he hadn't really done wrong and elicited an apology from HIM. he was saying, "oh, i'm sorry, no i'm a bad friend" before he even knew what was coming out of his mouth. i'm a pimp, obviously.

more dudes than i can reliably count have done that shit to me. isn't it infuriating?! when some liar or cheater has his game wrapped so tight that you end up saying you're sorry to HIM?!! "oh, i'm so sorry i gave you so much space to be yourself and have your own life, lover. i had no idea that my consideration would force you to put your dick in that crackhead-looking bitch who lives across the hall. my sincerest apologies." i must have picked this shit up through osmosis considering my vast amount of experience with situations like these. bah. whatever. fuck them. back to the swank.

yum. i cannot wait to spend the weekend in my 330 square foot executive suite, luxuriating in an elegant bathrobe while surrounded by softly flickering lavender candles, guzzling two bottles of premium champagne from crystal flutes courtesy of the "sprinkles" package (that name is so lurid and disgusting that you KNOW i'm going to splurge and get me some), enjoy a scrumptious deep tissue massage (complete with happy ending) before indulging my inner epicurean during dinner at a local fine dining establishment, one that had been arranged by my discreet personal concierge of course, then curl up in some plush eiderdown and drift off into a deep, sensual sleep.

i can't promise i won't come back pregnant. i'll keep you posted.