Wednesday, July 7, 2010

i'm definitely too old for this shit.

1 guess what we saw friday night?! seriously, when all is said and done i am a fourteen-year-old girl. crazy skin that does whatever the fuck it wants to no matter how much i try to beat it into submission, raging hormones coursing through my veins, crushes on every dude who smiles at me. it's fucking hopeless.

i read all four of those garbage ass twilight books, and i could be cute and say that i'm a student of popular culture and that i read them for purely socio-anthropological reasons, but no. i read that shit because 1 everyone else with a vagina did (yes, i would jump off of a building too, mom) and 2 by the middle of the second one i was truly, madly, deeply in love with jacob black. holy fucking shit. and this was BEFORE they picked this sexy toddler to play him in the movies. i read this nonsense with the breathless passion most people reserve for, well, breathless passion. i remember i was staying at tom's house for a weekend when i was reading the third and fourth ones, and i seriously did not get off the couch for longer than the time it took to pee. i didn't even eat, just sat with the dogs in a shroud of blankets for 72 hours, visions of sexy werewolves dancing in my head.

boy, does this bitch know how to write a hot male character. edward is too bossy and controlling for my liking, plus wouldn't it be like trying to fuck a marble countertop or some shit? BARF. i want to snuggle up to the hot creature with the gigantic teeth (i told you i like biting) and big strong arms who's silently brooding and pining for me. that really is one of my fantasies, for the perfect dude to just sit and wait while i try every other dish on the menu before finally taking him home in my doggystyle bag. and you know i like anything where a woman gets to have her cake and eat it, too. i'm salty she picked edward, though. i want a sex scene featuring this little piece of sausage in the WORST way. they should have let my nasty ass write the screenplay. this dude would be naked 100% of the time, alternating between sexy angry scenes where he's all glowering and intense and scenes where he is sitting on edward's face. hot.

and here's a tip, dudes: the smiling while biting your bottom lip thing is THE SEXIEST THING YOU COULD EVER POSSIBLY DO. if a dude does that to me (melting) he could totally ask me to pay his rent right after and i would do it. TRUST ME. there is nothing hotter than that. nothing. so get your asses in a mirror and perfect it.

2 speaking of sexy things, the asshole and i have been talking about the possibility of joining our smelly parts in an act of sweet, filthy lovemaking. and in case you were wondering, THAT is how you know you're a nerd, when your ass has calculators and charts and diagrams and spreadsheets laid out trying to figure out the logistics and specifications of possible sex. and actually, this whole thing is not very sexy at all. don't let this sass fool you. i am the NERDIEST. and that dude is a weirdo genius who i think might be so awkward and gross in bed that the whole thing would just be awful. or HILARIOUS. depending on who fails harder. i seriously have talked to him about how our coupling would require that he trim his nails. SERIOUSLY.

with his incoherent ramblings and coke bottle glasses and my hand brace and encyclopedic knowledge of everything dumb (twilight, anyone?) this union might very well tilt the earth off its axis. it would either be the most perfect thing or i would wind up scarred for an eternity.

i might have to take this fucking blog down, because on the phone poindexter was all, "you always write about how lazy in bed you are, and i don't know if i could get with that." this from a dude who was playing halo, eating cheetos, and reading sci-fi in his mom's basement while on the phone with me. ain't that a bitch? me?! LAZY IN BED?! pfffft. i have to switch my game up, obviously. start writing about how i do somersaults and tie cherry stems with my labia and shit. that's right, gentlemen. i swing from ceiling fans, i don't bitch and moan AT ALL if you want me to get on top, and i literally can fuck ALL GODDAMNED NIGHT. i don't stop. really. i'll make you come thirty-five times. i totally don't fall asleep the second you pull out or start complaining if the hand job takes longer than six minutes. i don't chafe, i won't make you stop if i can feel it in my guts, and my BUTTHOLE NEVER GETS TIRED. ever! we can quit our jobs and just have acrobatic sex all day. who the fuck needs money? or groceries? or to walk upright? and i bet all you dudes are SO GOOD at fucking that even if i wanted to stop i couldn't tear myself away from you. pffft.

god, is he weird. he came to my party last weekend and stood off to the side from all of my friends (ginger, one of his biggest fans, had no idea he was even there) because he's such a nerdatron, so i went over to hang out with him and let him look at my boobs up close (they're glorious, for reals). without making eye contact he says to me, "this bar is probably the reason you aren't meeting any black dudes." and then he put his hand on my ass (the possibility of maybe getting to touch it has been tormenting him for months; for cereal, we became friends in NOVEMBER and other than whatever plumber's crack he gets a glimpse of when i get out of the car he gets absolutely nothing) and said, "it's jiggly. i like it. it's much better than a muscular booty."

best. compliment. ever.

so i am considering it because: 1 he calls me almost every day. every single fucking day. EVERY DAY. just to see how the hell i'm doing. or to pick a fight with me about star trek. whatever it is nerds do on the phone. you other assholes can all go kill yourselves, because that is true devotion. 2 he's smarter than i am, and that's way hot. WAY HOT. my ACT score is higher than his (it's higher than most people's), but he chose to do more with his life than slave labor and wistful daydreaming. my life might be complete if i could find a vibrator with a brain on the tip. rabbits are mean and they fuck all the time. 3 i kicked the table onto our waitress in this really nice restaurant because i had my shoes off and was trying to get situated (you read that right, I KICKED A FUCKING TABLE OVER; candles, cocktails, and appetizers kicked into the chest of this tiny woman who was a little too aggressive for my tastes but certainly did not deserve to end up covered in weak cosmopolitan) and he didn't laugh or act like a jerk or make fun of me. when i was all squirmy and embarrassed as she slipped and slid in my puddle of pre-game he was like, "who cares. fuck that bitch." and that made me feel better. 4 all of my friends, even the judgmental ones for whom no man i even exchange looks with is ever satisfactory, are rooting for this. ALL OF THEM. at dinner friday night rachel couldn't stop making lobster claws, and mean mommy lights up like a fluorescent bulb just at the mention of his name. seriously, laura is dubious of everyone and has a checklist for every dude whose name even passes my lips. and it usually takes less than ten seconds for her to rule out a potential suitor. and if SHE likes him, shouldn't i? i mean, my standards are waaaaaaaay lower. so we'll see.

3 i spent a lot of time staring at helen this weekend because i thought she was going to die. and she spent an equal amount of time staring at me, because i will probably beat her ass to the punch. and we slept SO MUCH beneath half-naked men with rippling muscles fanning us with palm fronds. our codependency would be gross if we both weren't so awesome in our own right. in my efforts to retain the crown of "worst cat owner in history," i forgot to bring a bag of food home for her saturday afternoon. i thought we might be okay with what was left in the bin, but i'm afraid that bitch will kill me in my sleep if the food runs out, so when jenny and roger and i went to the jewel in mount prospect on our way to robin's barbecue i picked up a bag of fancy purina to take home to my mistress.

not to anthropomorphize too hardcore here, but the food hellion eats right now is the feline equivalent of iceberg lettuce with a lemon wedge squeezed on it. i mean it literally smells like cardboard. because this bitch is on a diet and should only have 15 calories a day or whatever. the food i got at the grocery store is like a cheeseburger fried in butter with doritos crushed on top. ie, DELICIOUSNESS MANIFESTED. i mixed a little of the yummy in with what was left of her regular food and put it in her bowl and waited for her to go bonkers. NOT SO. she just walked away. AND DIDN'T EAT ALL WEEKEND.

now i play tough and talk a lot of shit, but you know the day this little asshole dies on me i'm going to have a complete mental break. i did a hefty amount of sleeping this weekend, but anytime i was lucid and functional enough to roll out of bed i kept checking her bowl and sticking a thermometer in her rectum to see if she might be running hot. totally normal. (you like that imagery? me strangling that feral beast long enough for her temperature to register? i know you do.) finally, i brought a bag of sawdust pellets home yesterday and lo and behold this bitch started eating like a sally struthers african who just received your eighty-five daily cents. i was fucking dumbfounded. it would be like if you wanted a really good dinner because you hadn't eaten all day and i handed you a plate of boiled chicken and uncooked rice. unbelieveable.

i should've just called this whole thing the #5 reason i should let that asshole get a look at this asshole: I CAN'T STOP WRITING ABOUT THE CAT.

4 you know what makes me feel better about my life? watching intervention. holy shit are people fucked up. i spent all day monday lying under the air conditioner with a fan directed at my face crying my eyes out over these junkies' stories of familial love and triumphant redemption. this is why i don't watch tv. whatever issues i've never worked out on a therapist's couch come POURING OUT OF MY FACE when the television is on. i'm serious, there isn't a thing i can watch without crying the entire time. that's why i only watch msnbc; but even then i get rage tears.

i probably cry every day. every day that the tv is on, at least. and not just sappy shows and movies. i tear up when ali sends a dude i like home on the bachelorette; tears roll down my cheeks during commercials; and shows like intervention cause that red-faced, tight-chested, headache-causing embarrassing crying. i might have watched six episodes of that shit. SIX HOURS of crying, drying up, then CRYING SOME MORE. lame.

and don't go to the movies with me. i was crying so hard during sling blade that sarah made me leave the theater. for cereal. it's gross. i have to take 200 napkins in with me. and even then it's not enough. so i use my sleeves, until they're so fucked up that i don't even want to wear the sweater anymore because it's become a giant snotrag. i went to see million dollar baby BY MYSELF one afternoon when it came out because no one wanted to sit next to me through that. i tricked sarah into seeing the secret life of bees (she had no idea it was sad! SUCKER), and i cried and cried and cried so much that she got frustrated and finally made me cry into my coat as she moved four seats away.

the first time spanks and i saw a movie together i thought FOR SURE he would never want to see me again, because first i got snot on his sweater and then i couldn't drive my car home because i was too upset. ridiculous. i am horribly insensitive to real people i actually know, but put a bitch with a sad story on my flatscreen and i am instantly reduced to mush. it's terrible. don't watch shit with me. i will bawl my eyes out, then fall asleep. and i'll totally finish the popcorn.

5 this falafel i'm eating tastes like the person who made it might have had shit on his hands while doing so. ugg. you dudes probably don't have NEARLY as much reason to be attuned to your bowels as i do, but i can feel this mess turning into diarrhea as i'm chewing it. and i hate that. i'm going to be prostrate atop a smelly brown tide before the day is over, and in this heat? BARF.

6 i was watching a mad men season one marathon on amc this weekend whilst awaiting the arrival of the season three dvds at my doorstep, and have you whores seen these new ketel one commercials? holy smokes. SO HOT. excruciatingly handsome dudes in suits laughing and getting drunk in a dimly lit fancy bar? more, please.

those commercials are like what i wish my life was like. surrounded by fancy career men drinking two fingers of quality vodka up with a twist. and i know they're probably jagoff douchebags, but in 30-second increments they are what i want to be like. there are so many bars like that in the city, plush with dark wood and old school handcrafted cocktails, but the dudes who populate places like that are totally strung out on coke and pills and they talk too fucking loud and curse too much (glory be) and stink like cheap cologne. sigh.

maybe it's for the better that i'm just now seeing them. just another thing to make me cry.

7 i'm back on birth control, because sooner or later i'm going to wake up with a full goddamned beard. any amount of tweezing is too much for a lazy slob like me (oops, i meant to say a "tenacious go-getter"), and the regularity with which i have to press my chin to the mirror since all that extra estrogen stopped coursing through my veins is seriously bumming my ass out. and maybe it's time to start taking an "if you build it, he will come" approach to my sex life. not that i'm even a fertile myrtle, but it can't hurt to be prepared. so i took my first one today, along with a handful of tums. because, well, you know.

8 although i might be better served skipping the pill and investing in some electrolysis, because i am one step closer to rendering the need for men in my life 100% obsolete. I INSTALLED MY OWN AIR CONDITIONER. before you know it i'll be rebuilding car engines and getting a woman pregnant just by hanging my suit in a closet next to a woman's dress. this heat makes me a violent little crabby appleton. i just want to kick shit and throw things and yell at inanimate objects. i was sweating my BALLS OFF during the night and woke up in a rage, so i got out of bed and stomped into the closet (kicking shit out of my way, of course), grabbed that heavy piece of crap and shoved it into my window. four dish towels, threee minutes, two fans, and one extension cord later my apartment started to be livable again. helen is walking around with icicles on her whiskers, but who the fuck cares? i like it cold.

my lease is up next month, and my landlord hasn't yet slipped a new lease under my door. i'm starting to worry. aren't we cutting it a little bit close? do they have to give you notice before kicking you the fuck out of where you live? how do these things work? i could email her, but i don't want to get one back that's all "take a hint, bitch. EVACUATE MY PREMISES." i'm not generally an anxious sort of person, but the thought of finding a place and packing and moooooving REALLY STRESSES ME OUT. i'll die if i have to move. seriously. *dead*

but just in case the knife i use is dull, can helen and i come live with you?