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.