Friday, July 2, 2010

where my groupies at?

1 so guess who could give a SHIT about my being crush of the month? THIS salty bitch. i fucking knew it. the ones who hate you the most are always in your inner circle. i came home from dinner late last night and this whore was sitting where she's always sitting while i'm away, in the hall staring directly at the door. i rushed in the door breathlessly and was all, "omg, helen keller! have you been on the internets at all today?! no? you were too busy sleeping and licking your asshole on top of my pillowcase? oh, okay. well anyway, your one and only was named the 'crush of the month' by the chicago sun times! this is so exciting! can you even believe it?!"

i don't know why i expected this little piece of shit to be anything other than a raging bloody asshole, but we've been getting along pretty well lately now that i moved the bed to a better spot for her to jump on and ruin it and i thought that maybe she'd start being nice to me now. or at least feign passing interest when i do something totally fucking cool. but no. not this whore. she was just like, "bitch, my bowl is empty," and walked into the dining room. dutiful slave that i am, pfffft, i dropped my bag and my leftovers on the bed and went to scoop some diet food into her TWENTY DOLLAR CAT BOWL (i'm so dumb) and mix up her medicine and hot water and gruel under her scornfully watchful eye. "why the fuck are you getting home so late? didn't i tell you that any time you're going to just roll in here after ten o'clock that you need to leave an extra 1/4 cup in the morning? IDIOT."

shattered, defeated, and hurt beyond repair, i averted her withering gaze and hung my head. "dude. i'm so sorry. i won't forget ever again." and she didn't even try to make me feel better, just pointed at the dumps in the litter box and said, "HANDLE THAT" before vacuuming both bowls dishwasher clean in the time it took me to bag up two human-sized turds and an economy-sized clump of urine. piglet.

go fucking figure. i break my ass to get this jerk the highest quality food (i steal it from work), medication to deal with her various illnesses and deformities (i steal them from work), and get her the best goddamned veterinary care money can buy (except i don't have to pay for it) and she STILL treats me like garbage? that hurts my feelings. maybe she's mad because this bitch is on a DIET. not even a regular diet, but the strictest, most limited diet in the history of cats. she is on the most calorie-restricted prescription food on the market (not even sold in pet stores! you have to get it from a veterinarian!), and even then she only gets a teeny little scoop a couple times a day. but my apartment is where "healthy lifestyle changes" go to die, because somehow that bitch (AND this bitch!) have not yet achieved waif-like thinness. hm. obviously drinking water, eating a nutritionally balanced diet, and taking vitamins makes you fat.


if you haven't heard already, it is GO AWAY AND DIE time for all my goddamned old boyfriends. here's why:

are you kittens in love with me yet? i certainly hope so. i sweated my balls off doing that interview, mostly because i was trying to figure out the best and least obvious way to seduce wealthy, handsome men through the computer screen. duh. and that shit was DIFFICULT. i could be cute and pretend that i'm interested in furthering my writing career (i totally am) and that this article is the catalyst through which i intend to do so, and maybe sometime in the near future that will be true, but right now THAT shit was about getting my ass some complimentary steak dinners. provided by dudes who want to lick my butthole. but would be satisfied just holding hands.

i need some writer groupies. in general i think groupie culture is wack, and i'm sure that anyone who has watched more than ten seconds of "basketball wives" is in staunch agreement with me, but i feel like writer groupies would, at the very LEAST, be smart enough to read. now let's not kid ourselves. this isn't some highbrow heady literary affair all of you and i are sweatily engrossed in, but i'm not a goddamned IDIOT. i mean, for reals. check my grammar. and then check yourself.

my hair looks like it's thinning in that picture. and the tattoo i hate the absolute most is totally visible, and it makes me look like an asshole. my eyebrows look jamming, though. especially because i didn't have time to get to the waxer (i'm really busy and important, you know) and you can't tell. or maybe that shit is photoshopped to high heaven? i doubt it. retouching is HELLA expensive, and the newspaper is a dying industry. ie, they can't afford to make me more digitally bangable. also, i am PLENTY fancy, but i ain't no damn tyra banks. my teeth look exceptionally white, though...? hm. but wouldn't they have airbrushed out my chocolate chips? no one has crushes on skin growths.

i walked outside after work yesterday expecting the sky to be raining eligible bachelors, but all i got was a grown man with his pants off TAKING A SHIT IN OUR ALLEY. that is the second time i've seen that. THIS WEEK. and it was six-thirty. broad fucking daylight. he didn't even flinch, just nodded in greeting (seriously, dude?!) and grunted as he pushed. and let's just say it wasn't anything i could scoop. this motherfucker was SPRAYING DIARRHEA on the brick partition that separates our parking lot from our neighbor's IN FULL VIEW OF DOZENS OF PEOPLE.

and listen, i'm sympathetic. i have diarrhea all the goddamned time. it's terrible. but i put mine in the TOILET. and everybody already knows that this crohn's has made me shit myself before, but EVEN THEN no one else was witness. maybe he thought we would think is was dog shit because we walk dogs back there? fucking repulsive. i stopped in my tracks, just froze right there on the spot. i don't have a key to the back door and had just locked myself out, and i knew ken was inside but didn't know if 1 it was worth it or 2 if he'd hear me if i tried knocking, and what really are my options? i mean, is there a legal stance in regard to the public poo? is it something i could call the police about? "oh hello, officer. sorry to bother you, but there is a gentleman relieving his asshole on my property. could you send someone over? please do hurry, it looks like he's had some corn."

FUCK. it would have taken me an hour to find my fucking phone in my bag anyway. i'm going to stand there like an asshole listening to this dude strrrrrain while looking for that broken piece of garbage i forget to call people back on? yeah right. and a lot of homeless people are insane. he might have figured out what i was trying to do and turned that poop shoot into an ass-ault rifle. and fuck if i am going to get projectile shit on by homeless a dude EVER. especially not while wearing flip flops! oh, the indignity. so i was standing there like a flustered statue for a minute while i waited for a sign from horus telling me what to do next when this dude turned to me and said, yes he actually addressed me mid-dump, "get home safe, young lady. hope you had a good day." while he was SHITTING. in PUBLIC. onto a BRICK WALL. DURING THE DAY. (not that nighttime makes this repugnance any more palatable, but at least it fucking conceals it.) and in one fell swoop i felt as ordinary and lame as i always do, and i said, "i did. i'm the crush of the month. haven't you heard?"

then a 253-year-old dude who looked like he could have been the captain of the ship that brought my ancestors to america told me i looked like "his kind of woman" on the train. and he kept asking me if i would "join him for coffee." in other words, "pick a few crops and give birth to some light-skinned babies." i almost stepped off in front of the next train. WHAT?! a date with a dude old enough to be my GRANDFATHER?! god, my life is fucking retarded.

anyway, this crush shit better get me laid. by someone YOUNG.

i bought some new clothes. doesn't that make you so happy? i'm trying to make myself worthy of the adulation of our entire bustling metropolis. yesterday and today i am looking totally fucking cute. let's just say that "splash of color" is now a phrase i can use in reference to myself. except said colorful clothing makes me SO self-conscious. even in moderation. i use color the way healthy people eat butter, as a special treat maybe once or twice a month. this gorgeous shirt i'm wearing today makes me look like i lost a paintball fight, and really the only reason my slutty ass is wearing it is because it's 100% sheer. and i'm going to see rachel and ginger this evening. but mostly because it's sheer. i have excellent cleavage when it's pushed up right. and i try to exploit that whenever possible.

i bought those leggings i was going so crazy about. and they are still in the bag, double dog daring me to take them out and pull and tug them on. i'm ALREADY irritated, and i haven't even taken the price tag off. the anticipation of them being just like tights (albeit tights that are somehow acceptably worn outside WITHOUT THE DRESS), is wearing me out. i hate walking around with ill-fitting, spandex lycra blend crotch, chafed out of my fucking mind. ugg.

i ALSO bought some special occasion panties. now you already know i don't believe in impractical clothing that sits around waiting to be worn, but for underpants i make an exception. omg they are SO CUTE. black and ruffled with tiny polka dots. and it's okay if that just made your dick hard. i was mesmerized and drunk with lust the second i laid eyes on them. jenny's salty ass (voice of reason) was like, "THOSE ARE GOING TO GIVE YOU A YEAST INFECTION," shattering my reverie. and i know that, but that's why they're for special occasions! i can't spend a workday in non-breathable panties. i might as well sit around in a wet bathing suit. all that sugar and bacteria would throw a fucking PARTY; i could bake a loaf of bread in my goddamned birth canal. that's why i have a drawerful of sensible cotton. but i also have a bunch of frilly things with a three-hour without a pantiliner wearing limit.

i need to get somebody special in my place with the lights off SOON. i can't waste the pretty on some shitbag, and i'm itching to put these ruffles on. pun intended. come on applications, start pouring in. and don't worry, helen has a kennel. so you won't have to worry about her biting or jumping on you or anything. although i don't have a soft muzzle at home, so i can't guarantee that just as you start to hit your stride you won't hear the cruellest voice EVER saying, "get your shit together, stepfather. YOU FUCK WRONG."

4 so it turns out the conjoined twin growing out of the side of my neck is a sebacious cyst. google that if you want to throw the fuck up. thank god mine is small. and shrinking. some of the pictures online made me want to cry and gouge my eyes out. the doctor said to put hot compresses and alcohol on it, and so far that's proven effective. and would probably be even more effective if i did it with any semblance of regularity. this is a testament to my laziness. i hate this cyst more than i've ever hated anything, yet i'm too goddamned lazy to put any work into making her go away. laura was leaning over me earlier and said she could barely see it, but she might just be trying to make me feel better. except she doesn't really do shit like "make me feel better." to add insult to injury i have a mosquito bite just below the cyst and it's itchy and disgusting and i really do hate summer so goddamned much.

5 jenny and i got kicked out of a cab the other night by some asshole who picked us up on state street and claimed he "only had twenties" and couldn't make change for our short trip to michigan avenue. and he was AFRICAN. of fucking course. a CABBIE who only has TWENTIES? where in the fuck is he driving people? across state lines? or are you bitches paying for your cab rides with thousand dollar bills these days?! fucking fucker. jenny was so mad she called the cab company ON THE SPOT, and my bitch ass lit up 311 like a christmas tree the minute i got home. and you know i believe in kicking my problems in the BALLS. so friends, if you want to give me an early christmas present, why doesn't every single one of you call carriage cab and register a complaint against cab 6681? if you do, i'll love you forever.

although it might be worth mentioning that when we got in the back seat jenny muttered, "it smells like bad breath in here" under her own sweetly-scented breath to me. and it TOTALLY DID. stinky bastard. i don't think he heard her, but just in case...maybe you shouldn't ALL call. just every other person.

6 no one has proposed yet (what the hell are you dudes waiting for?!), SHOCKER, but i think i might have already gotten the best response i could ever hope for to this whole crush business. i had just finished doing ninety (read: eight and a half) push ups, and i was lying on the gym floor in a puddle of sweat and my own excrement panting with exhaustion, and to distract my sadistic trainer from the rope torture she had in store for me i said, "hey russian lesbian, i'm going to be in the newspaper. i'm the chicago sun-times crush of the month!"

she scowled at me. "vat is this bullshit? vat is this crush? you just vasting time. ten more!"

"no, seriously. you know what a crush is, right? well, it's like the ENTIRE CITY OF CHICAGO has a crush. and it's on me!" i think i might have even clapped. what a dummy.

she just continued folding up the mats and organizing the hand weights.

"you aren't excited? it's a really big honor, you know. it's because of my blog. may amazingly hilarious vagina blog that ALL of the cool kids are reading." ahahahahaha liar!

"ver you vant go next? treadmill?" continuing to ignore me, she pulled out her notepad and started scribbling shit in it, making note of my lack of progress I'M SURE. one day i'm going to snatch that fucking thing and see just vat she writes about my ass. i'm sure it's all "lazy lazy lazy not trying hard enough lazy still drinking beer lazy lazy tacos lazy chocolate lazy never does what i say lazy."

then i decided that she wasn't having a reaction because, due to the language barrier, she didn't really UNDERSTAND what a BIG DEAL this whole thing is. that the only reason she stood blinking at me like an ox while i told her the most exciting thing to happen in my recent history was because somehow "crush" didn't easily translate into rusbekistanvian. so then i explained to her, in excruciating detail, what exactly a crush is and what skills and traits a person must possess to be deserving of such a distinction. i talked away a good five minutes of quality workout time. at the end of my rambling explanation i set down the eight-pound dumbbell i'd been holding the entire time and said, "see? NOW do you get it?!"

she rolled her eyes (THIS BITCH) and sighed. "i know vat crush is," she said, all sour and shit. "as a matter of fact, i vish YOU have crush on sit ups. now go get the jump rope and shut up. and do forty-five minutes on treadmill. make a crush on valking fast."

happy birthday, america! or whatever the fuck holiday this shit is. if you never hear from me again, it's because i'm in jail after murdering some asshole child setting off fireworks outside my window. here's hoping a bitch gets some goddamned SLEEP.