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.