Wednesday, October 20, 2010

i should just stay home.

it's a good goddamn time to be leaving the city of chicago, especially since my toilet broke monday and everywhere i turn some bitch is still trying to make jeggings happen. cut it out, ladies. and fruity hipsters. those are not pants. the maintenance dude still hasn't come up to fix it, and one of the hippies who manages my building left me a message that he couldn't come yesterday (OR the fucking day before) because of some, and i quote, "more urgent matters." now i don't know what the fuck the other people in my building are goddamned doing, but what could possibly relegate "toilet leaking pissy lake water onto my bathroom floor" to the bottom of the fucking list? and maybe you don't know me very well, but rest assured that i don't keep old piece of shit rags hanging around, so my floor is blanketed with expensive ass calvin klein towels. BLARF. and don't bother picturing a huge lincoln log turd clogging the situation; you should already know that with this crohn's i don't even fucking MAKE huge turds. i'm a raggedy toilet's dream. anyway, i was home monday doing domestic shit like pouring bleach down the kitchen sink and folding the laundry i washed two weeks ago, (sidenote: helen is TERRIFIED of the swiffer. i'm not even kidding! if i even go near that shit she skitters across the floor to run and hide behind the pillows on my bed! sometimes, when she is being particularly horrendous and i am feeling particularly filled with the wrath of satan, i chase her around with it, laughing while she hisses and screams. that little jerkass deserves it. she's the reason i have to swiffer so fucking much anyway. so too bad, bitch.) when it dawned on me that i'm leaving in a few days and haven't really done SHIT to prepare for it.

i got hoes in different area codes, and this week i'm going to see some of them. the ones who live in san diego at least. and i might never come back to my stupid cat in my stupid (although currently spotless) apartment with my stupid job and my stupid non-california friends. holy fuck do i love california. chicago is all dirty and gross and full of fat dudes in bears jerseys, while california is teeming with sunshine and artificially tan barbie doll people with plastic hair and giant teeth made of elephant tusks. the second i got back from my last trip i was like, "i need to fucking MOVE THERE." and i would, but i hate things like "moving" and "looking for an apartment" and "finding a new job that doesn't suck balls" and "trying to make new friends who are as ridiculously great as the ones who live where i already live." plus i'm not that great at directions and i hate walking around with my nose in a map like some godforsaken tourist. plus, i'm dumb. so there's that.

here is why i'm too retarded to travel:

1 i had to buy my own tickets and didn't really know how. i've flown plenty of times in my life, and all of those tickets have been arranged for by either a secretary or a hot dude. how the fuck should i know whether you go on the internet or call a travel agent or whatever? when i went to california last year i told mel when i wanted to go and he scheduled it and paid for it and faxed me an itinerary. i'm not used to this whole performing menial tasks thing. and i didn't even really do it on my own this time; i shouted across the office to laura. "what time should i leave?" "what time should i fly home?" "should i pay for early bird check-in?" "do you think it will be a full flight if i leave at two?" "when is the plane the least likely to be full?" i don't know that kind of shit! and even after i purchased them i kept worrying that i'd made some kind of horrible, irreversible mistake, that i'd probably chosen the flight most likely to be packed with screaming, teething spoiled toddler brats or rickety old senior citizens who need help getting into or out of the bathroom. listen up, airlines: i will pay WHATEVER YOU WANT if i somehow could get a list of my fellow passengers and their irritating quirks (and by "quirks" i mean "wives and children") before i choose to purchase a seat on that flight. it should read something like this: john johnson, age 53; traveling alone; although he is a scant 5'6" tall, he will lean his seat all the way back into your fucking diaphragm; beware he does this weird throat-clearing thing at 30-second intervals that will drive you to suicide if you are forced to sit next to it for more than a minute and a half. wouldn't that be so great?! i'd pay for that shit and i MEAN IT.

2 i don't have a fucking suitcase. and apparently everyone else knew that except fucking ME. last week corey was like, "do you want to borrow my carry on?" and i gave her the gas face and was all "NO. why?!" (i'm an asshole) then she said, with an attitude that i TOTALLY deserved, "well didn't you use sarah's suitcase the last time you flew?" smug bitch. as a matter of fact i did use sarah's suitcase last time. and i hadn't given it even an ounce of thought. i guess i was just planning to throw a thick book and a couple pairs of underwear into my purse (i carry a rilly, RILLY big bag) and keep it moving. and maybe an extra black shirt. i wear pretty much the same fucking thing every day anyway, so who cares? i'd give a thousand dollars to anyone who could tell the difference between any of my everyday clothes. it's all black. searching through my dresser is a pain in the dickhole, because i have to pull everything out to figure out what the hell it is. ("no, not that low cut black t-shirt, i wanted this low-cut black t-shirt!") i folded nineteen black t-shirts last night, and the whole time i was thinking, "this really is a fucking sickness." idiot. so i went on zappos last week to try to find a stylish tote big enough to travel with (i'm too fancy for that rolling rectangle shit, BLAH) and discovered another reason i can't ever do anything right: i don't know a goddamned thing about measurements. heaven help me if i'm ever robbed on the street, because i couldn't tell you if my assailant was 5'11" or 6'2". my brain doesn't work like that. here's a tip, purveyors of online luggage: describe things in a way a dumb bitch can UNDERSTAND. ie, instead of 12" x 36" x 17" maybe you could say "will hold one pair of jeans, two shirts, a week's worth of panties, some flip flops, your cell phone charger, and a book that you'll never have time to read because BITCH, YOU'RE ON VACATION." so i ordered this fancy bag that i sort of hate now but it's too late to find something else, and now i think i'm just going to take my beat up patagonia messenger bag that would be better served on a camping trip i never in my life would ever take. fml.

3 i can't really grasp those airline regulations. i would rather look like a goddamned terrorist than spend even ONE DAY without my favorite hair product. if i could shave it all off like i want to it wouldn't be such a big deal, but i'm growing it out, remember. which means it NEEDS SHIT. you white people have it easy; you can just walk into any walgreens or salon in whatever town you happen to be in and find something comparable to whatever it is you use at home, if not the EXACT SAME THING. i can't walk around california for a week with dusty slave hair and a nappy kitchen, no sir. i asked laura how many 3 oz containers i was allowed to take and whether or not there was a restriction on pills (i take SO MANY PILLS) and how much of my shit had to fit in a gallon sized ziploc which she informed me needed to be a QUART sized ziploc and i was immediately exasperated. i'm a bohemian when it comes to personal grooming, so i don't need anything but my hair gel and some scented oils, but all this is just so STRESSFUL and i don't LIKE it. then laura was talking about how i have to be put together properly when i go through the security line and how everyone in the airport will hate me if i take to long to get out of my belt and shoes. that's so much pressure! isn't there some sort of handicapped line i can go through?! should i just wear my metal braces and smile apologetically at everyone behind me as i unstrap them so they don't yell at me? can i pin a handicapped sticker to my shirt? what kind of shoes should i wear? should i forego the belt?! it takes me forty-five minutes to get out of the bed in the morning because i go to bed outfitted like a hockey goalie (draper said that), can i really be expected to zip through a security standpoint?!?!?!!

4 airports are full of the WORST PEOPLE ON EARTH. in my real life i am separated from people who wear mickey mouse sweatshirts as their real clothes and consider dinner at chili's a "night out" by geography and skin color, but there's no way to get the fuck away from them when you're all trapped waiting for the same effing plane. it's always some fat bitch from minnesota wearing drawstring pants and eating a mcgriddle letting her kid jump all over your fucking suitcase, despite the fact that that little asshole is ON A FUCKING LEASH. well not on MY suitcase, because i wear dark sunglasses and scowl and hiss at anyone who comes within a ten foot radius of me and my possessions, but on everyone else's shit. which is just as upsetting as if he were to jump on my own. i fucking hate bad ass kids. blarf. and someone is always crying while someone else is shouting into a cell phone and some other someone else is yelling at his teenage daughter to stop flirting with the inbred TSA dude. everyone is always so rude and so loud and so sitting on top of you, and that makes me a little crabby appleton, snarling and sneering at anyone who has the nerve to even look my way. this is going to be so awful. wahhh.

5 i'm worried about the goddamned cat. i kid you not when i say that the toughest decision i've had to grapple with in recent history was whether i should drug helen keller and drag her to the kennel or have someone come into the house every day to feed her and give her five minutes of delicious human interaction. when i was gone last time john stayed at my place and beat off all over my clean sheets (TRUE STORY), but at least he dropped me off and picked me up and kept her majesty company during my absence. what is she going to DO all day and night? she'll be so bored! our codependent relationship (and the occasional plate of fresh grilled salmon) is the only bright spot in her life. SAD. i could leave her at work, but then she'd be confined to kitty jail and subjected to the slags i work with making fun of her and poking her with sticks or something. but she'd have people to bite on and look at, at least. but leaving her home means i have to pay someone to go through my shit and watch judge mathis with his shoes on in my bed and eat all of the food in my refrigerator, ie "take care of helen keller." and i don't care about anyone rifling through my secret shit; all you're going to find is porn and unpaid bills, and by all means HELP YOURSELF. i'm just scared that helen is going to be howling at the door for hours on end waiting for me to get back. also, if she stays home her diet goes to SHIT since i'm not having anyone come over more than once, then we're right back where we started. sixteen pounds of pure, unadulterated menace. and i know she really doesn't give a flying fuck, but agonizing over her means less time picking which black t-shirt looks best with a black sweater. dummy.

6 drunk + irritated - food = TERRIBLE TRAVELER. i stop eating solid food a good 24 hours before any scheduled trip, because i have an intestinal disease and trying to hold diarrhea for five hours on an airplane just ain't happening. even the THOUGHT of being trapped in a small place with burning guts makes me cry a little. so i just don't fucking eat. and i likes to have me a cocktail or twelve before boarding time, and that plus the empty belly makes me the most ridiculous piece of snatch EVER. this should be interesting. i'm supposed to hang with some dude thursday, and you KNOW i don't believe in that "i'll just have a salad" bullshit, so i have to figure out a way to make it a non-food date without 1 looking like a fucking idiot or 2 doing something i don't wanna, like bowling or the goddamned arcade. and i'm going out with him after work, which is another stupid idea. "hi, nice to meet you, there are 700 different types of cat hair ALL OVER MY SHIRT." so we'll see what i can come up with that won't make me look like a raging alcoholic (nothing) or someone who just started dabbling in anorexia. or maybe we'll just go get a bunch of tacos and i'll be that bitch aeveryone hates who made the entire cabin smell like partially digested D grade beef. because fuck them.

everyone keeps asking me if i'm excited yet and no one believes that my real answer is "NO." i'm too stupid to travel, that's why i need a man who is rich and refuses to fly commercially. fuck, dude. i'll start getting excited the minute i can smoothly put my shoes back on in front of hundreds of onlookers without falling over or asking for help, but only if i'm not super late because the orange line out to midway fucked up its schedule. (or i left my place late, which is typically the case.) i'll be excited if this dude isn't lame and i can avoid shitting the diaper i'm thinking about wearing. i'll be excited if i have enough hair product and if all the black shirts i take are my good black shirts. i hope helen doesn't maul the sitter (i'm a SUCKER) and i hope that whoever sits next to me doesn't smell like gravy and old socks.i'll be excited when i GET THERE.

taco time.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

what's on your mind?

i don't know if you know this about me, but i love sharing and connecting with the people in my life. and no one is happier than i am that there is an internet tool that allows me to do so with relative ease. how else could i spy on bitches i haven't seen in 12+ years? cyber stalk dudes who don't want to sleep with me anymore but like to maintain some semblance of friendship via my tenuous grasp on our internet relationship? how would i know what you look like? and what your kids look like? or what your dog looks like? what your car looks like? what the renovations on that shitty clapboard house you bought in fucking BEACH PARK (blarf) looks like?! and, without facebook, how would i know EVERY FUCKING THING YOU EVER EAT, THINK, SAY, SEE, HEAR, or DO? because i really do want to know what you are doing every single minute of your day, just as i imagine you're dyyyying to know what i do with mine. because i'm 100% interesting. duh. but so are you, so it's totally cool.

but i have to admit that as much as i love reading about how you got three new baby cows on your farm, and that graffiti you drew for me is beautiful by the way, i never knew how much shit i would LEARN ABOUT OTHERS just by interconnecting and oversharing with the hundreds of tangential people in my (online) life. for instance:

1 you dudes have a LOT of haters. the other night i was scrolling through my news feed and read not one but FOUR separate warning statuses directed at various HATERS. veiled threats to kill a bitch and shit. which begs this question: why are you friends with people who hate on you? i mean if, in fact, they are actually expending any wasteful energy hating on broke motherfuckers with no real money or fame. and if they know you want to kill them or whatever, why haven't they deleted you yet? i mean, who the fuck hates on REGULAR people?! i mean, do YOU? i don't hate on any goddamned body, because it's pointless. pointless because real people are mostly wack and dumb and poor. you know who i would hate on if i wasted my time hating on people? OPRAH. because she's smart and rich and tricked the entire american population into making a fat, country bitch a goddamned gazillionaire. i mean, seriously, people actually hate on bitches who make partial late payments on their electric bills? yeah fucking right. i reserve my ire for slim and wealthy celebrities with sex tapes and reality shows, not some raggedy bitch with stretch marks who can't afford dental work. come on, kittens. let's be for real! and the same goes for stalkers. boy, motherfuckers must have a hard time holding down a job with all these "bitch, stop stalking me" posts. doesn't anybody watch television or read books anymore?! or are you all too busy shitting on hoes and sitting outside of dudes' houses with binoculars in your car? if someone was stalking ME i'd bake him a cake, not get on facebook to brag about how popular i am. i mean, tell everyone how much i hate be stalked. pffft.

2 you dudes thrive on positivity. who the fuck needs tony robbins when you've got the life coaching of that functionally retarded broad who used to sit behind me in seventh period chemistry? what, bitch, did "quotations for dummies" just come out in paperback? holy mother of god, can't you just tell us what you're watching on the teevee right now? why do you feel the need to be "inspiring?" as if one could be inspired by a regular-ass loser. you know that the rest of us know who you are, right? and we know about all of the bad, un-positive stuff you used to do? then maybe you should shut the fuck up. and what's wrong with someone being negative? doesn't the world need glass half empty people to survive? if for no other reason than as a contrast to all that shiny brightness? i would like some evidence that you people are being positive in your every day lives. because it's easy to throw a maya angelou quote at ME and tell ME to be good today, but are you really out there uplifting the youth and ministering to the sick and shut-in? i bet you're not. too busy trolling trying to shame me into being a better person. jerks.

3 you dudes throw a shitload of parties. what prerequisite does becoming a "promoter" involve? what criteria does one have to meet to include this on his resume? walking upright? breathing?! holy fucking shit. i used to think i was just popular, but now i know that there are just a bunch of motherfuckers i went to school with trying to meet the bar guarantee at some shitty spot in which i would never party. ladies night, mens night, black people night, white people night, big booty night, little titty night, midget night, poetry night, salsa night, reggae night, live music night, and stripper night, ALL FREE BEFORE ELEVEN PM. but not if you're wearing jeans and/or gym shoes. stop inviting me to this bullshit. it would be one thing if we'd had a conversation in the last ten years or if i might have seen your pretty faces in one of my crowds, but rarely is it the case that i receive an invitation from someone who'd even recognize me if i actually showed up. and that's okay, just stop littering my event calendar with a bunch of false hope. i know you don't love me, you just love my two drink minimum.

4 you dudes are super inquisitive. boy, the QUESTIONS. you bitches refuse to vote, yet the minute someone posts, "hey fb fam (BARF), how long should you wait before giving a guy you just met oral?" your fingers fucking catch fire trying to be the first one to add your answer to the queue. what does all this polling prove? are we really that starved for conversation? and all those questions really do is make me think you're a freak who's dying to do (or has already done) whatever it is your hypothetical "friend" is up to. you aren't fooling anyone, you dirtbag. and now the entire internet knows that you want to cheat on your wife while she's stationed in iraq or whatever. why not do what i do and call the least judgmental of your homegirls (you know, the whore who condones EVERYTHING) and ask her what she thinks. because you know you want to do it anyway. try to refrain from putting that shit up where MY bitch ass can see it then look at you and your companion reproachfully next time i run into you in the produce section at dominick's. "hey, girl! is this the dude you wrote that anal question about?!"

5 you dudes listen to a lot of bullshit music. and you insist on trying to make the rest of us listen to it, too. and before you even fix your mouth to say something to me, everything i post is either music or comedy GOLD. sometimes my perfectly neutral opinion of a person turns to boiling hate as soon as i see some ridiculous shit he thinks is funny. really, my man? THAT'S the kind of shit you like? BLARF.

6 you dudes are totally in love! i'll admit it: i'm jealous. i didn't get married in some lady's living room to a man with another woman in his profile picture and i am seething with rage that you DID. i would rather be dead than show the internet what it looks like when some dude has my tongue down his throat. if only the rest of the universe shared my sentiment. i would write love poems if i had any real talent (or any real love), but now i don't have to because i can just collect all the sappy shit you dudes put up and string it together with a couple "ands" and "buts." who gives a fuck about getting laid, this girl wants someone she can write "samantha irby misses @bigmandingo's big hot penis" or whatever the fuck you trollops are always going on about. and everybody knows that the most miserable bitch is the one trumpeting about how happy she is. that's why i write about how much i hate everything. it's called reverse psychology. (see what i did there? yeah yeah, i know. i'm a miserable piece of shit for real. but you almost believed me.)

7 you dudes really fucking love the lord. those jesus statuses make me want to blow my fucking brains out. do me a favor and STOP THAT SHIT. pretty please? i wouldn't be so mad if it were just on sunday mornings when you bitches are feeling guilty about sleeping off your hangover instead of going to kneel at the saviour's feet (YES I WOULD), but this shit is INCESSANT. all day every day. please show me the passage in the bible that says "thou shalt clog up all forms of social media extolling my virtue." wouldn't all that typing time be better spent actually doing the lord's work? you know, feeding the homeless and sacrificing yourselves to a crowd of angry, murderous jews? HOLY SHIT. and it's always a bitch with seven out of wedlock kids talking about "giving praise to the most high" and "basking in the glory of the creator." shut the fuck up already. why didn't you ask jesus to sterilize you? or teach you how to put a condom on? because unless those children were all conceptualized immaculately, you're a whore and jesus hates you. which i guess makes him one of those haters you're always complaining about.

8 you dudes have such a good time. i'm salty, man, because DAMN that party must have been hella fun. why didn't you invite me?! i like to have fun! and that shit looked FUN. so much fun, in fact, that you uploaded 723 pictures from it. you know, because you were having SO MUCH FUCKING FUN. i know when i'm out getting shitfaced and having a raging good time i always put the party on pause so i can run an fetch a camera. it's not a good time if no one commemorates it, right? your wedding was nice, too. i especially love that you forced all your chubby bridesmaids to wear ill-fitting satin dresses the color of warm diarrhea. clicking through the seventy-five cake and centerpiece photos to try to finally get a look at your groom's face was awesome, too. and your vacation was rad! who knew earth had so many trees? and grass? and SKIES?! amazing. i don't go on vacation. when i go to a party i steer clear of every single flashbulb in the room because i do three things at parties: eat, get drunk, and talk shit, sometimes all at the same time. and helen keller and i had a small wedding ceremony for which we couldn't afford a photographer, so you'll just have to imagine what that looked like and what we wore. in the meantime, did you see that ________ posted 2 gb of the exact same picture of her five-minute old baby not doing anything interesting or even changing facial expressions at all? go busy yourself with that.

9 you dudes are dangerous. sometimes this shit is like reading a goddamned police blotter. stolen bikes, hit and runs, drunken bar brawls, OH MY. did you at least call the police before you posted that your kid had gone missing? maybe i'm old school, but i like to do all of my raggedy family shit and my sketchy, illegal shit in the privacy of the real world. more often than i feel comfortable with i encounter some shit that makes me smh and mutter "paper trail, IDIOT," under my breath. and this is coming from a bitch who puts her vagina and butthole on the internet. some things maybe should be dealt with at home. or over the phone. or in person. and i know you want to jump her, or beat her ass, or kill her, but isn't the element of surprise half of the fucking thing? you're going to show up at her back door and get your head blown the fuck off, all because you couldn't keep your goddamned mouth (fingers?) SHUT. and that hater is going to gingerly step over your rotting corpse and say, "see whore? you shouldn't have put that shit on FACEBOOK." dummy.

10 you dudes are ugly. and you married ugly people. and had a couple ugly kids. plus, for the most part, you're unsuccessful, you hate your lives, and you're living in relative obscurity. i don't say that as a criticism, quite the contrary. my life is a polyp on satan's asshole, and your lives make mine look fucking AWESOME. and i'm so glad that you document every single second of it for my perusal. now don't get bent, i'm ugly, too. and poor. and i have weird, gross friends. so why not stick it to those HATERS and all laugh together? i'm just comforted and reassured that we're all in the same hilariously awful boat.

11 you dudes are INTERESTING. and that's why you post every single breath you take. i'm talking every single everything, down to your last hair follicle. i love it. keep that shit up. so i don't run out of dumb shit to write about.

so goodnight facebook fam. i just blinked and took a breath, now i'm about to take a shit and masturbate until i fall asleep. be sure to check out the 5,749 pics i put up from my godbaby's first birthday party. and all you haterzzz can eat my poo, because you don't know who you fuckin wit! i'm finna kill you hoez. right after i get done praising His holy name, for He is the rock that i stand on. and you trick ass bitches better remember that shit, especially when it comes to my man. "Nothing could be worse than the fear that one had given up too soon, and left one unexpended effort that might have saved the world." -Jane Addams. look at the mobile upload of that taco i just ate. you can follow me on twitter @wordscience. stay blessed and have a blessed day. love samantha "ionlyfuckswithdownazzbitchesandilovesuckingmymansdickprincess" irby.

feel free to fucking delete me, bitches.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

that's gay.

a couple weeks ago i was sitting in a bar inconspicuously watching this hooker from behind my fruit punch martini (only in a negro establishment would you find some shit called a FRUIT PUNCH MARTINI; who came up with that, your fucking seven year old?! white people would never make up some shit like that, if anything you'd be sipping on a "good creditini") eye-raping the patrons in search of a wealthy trick. i was also feasting my eyes on this fat old dude in a knee-length silk shirt (come on, now, i know a blouse when i see one) and church shoes trying to jedi mind trick him into either leaving the bar so i could people-watch someone hotter or purchasing a couple cocktails for me so at least i'd be too hammered to be offended by his stetson hat. NO DICE. all he did was post up at the end of the bar, too terrified of implied homosexuality to sit in one of the empty seats next to the various other single male losers pretending not to stare at that working girl scattered about.

so i had just come from spending way too much on cosmetics and a cab ride. tangent time. why the fuck are cab rides SO expensive?! i kid you not, i got in the cab at chicago and rush and he dropped me off at wabash and 15th and i paid TEN ENTIRE DOLLARS for that shit. and shut up to any of you that might suggest i could have walked (please) or taken the bus (never) because 1 fuck you and 2 i was already late. also, there isn't a bus that goes over there. i take public transportation all the time, but the whole point of BEING DOWNTOWN is taking a goddamned cab from one place to another so you can stay cute and not sweat out your good clothes or your hair or whatever. i think the cabbie even felt bad, because he was all extra nice and "don't forget anything back there!" while i was getting out. AS IF.

anyway, i am one of those obnoxious, annoying people who likes to gaze lovingly at her purchases even if she can't use said purchases until she finally makes it home and out of her daytime clothes in three hours. seriously, i was holding that bottle of chanel liquid cleanser like it was sweet baby jesus, caressing it before gently placing it in my nightmare of a bag before taking it home to pray at its false idol feet. i was sitting next to that hot piece of dark chocolate john, trying to avoid the lens of his camera. holy shit. that dude has taken 986 pictures of me and maybe 7 of them are flattering. jesus christ. that dude must beat off to extra chin meat, because in all of the pictures he's taken it looks like i'm wearing a motherfucking SKIN BEARD. stop taking my fucking picture, people. PLEASE. unless you let me photo edit. anyway, i'm fucking around with all the shit i no longer have room in my bathroom for when john turns to me and says, "i don't use lotion. THAT'S GAY." oh, for real?

you already know how much i love the gays. lesbians especially, because they always ruin EVERYTHING. and i hate being the only sour-ass puckered vagina in the room, so every time i see one i pull my chair right up next to hers. all of the lesbians i know hate every fucking thing and are so fucking mean. also, they make terrible relationship choices on a fucking whim and they're aggressive and argumentative and just SO FUCKING MEAN. and i love them. because obviously i am one. maybe not, because i don't play softball and can't fix the tuckpointing on the north side of the house my girlfriend of sixteen minutes and i just bought together, but i'm pretty goddamned close. seriously, i might be one carhartt coat away from helping some bitch raise those kids she accidentally had before she realized she loved the vag. i mean, i like to bang dudes and everything, but i fucking HATE them. so that makes me kind of gay, right? god, sexuality is totally confusing.

you see, i always thought that taking a dick up your ass or sucking one that doesn't belong to you made you gay, but if "moisturizing your epidermis" is a telltale giveaway then i know a whole lot of undercover homos. i hag enough fags to have a pretty good working knowledge of what constitues gay, and never once has my gay husband turned to me and said, "you know what is was, boo? you know what made me all of a sudden hate the pussy? LUBRIDERM." pfffft. i, of course, looked at john  like he had lost his fucking mind. "what, do you know a bunch of bitches who get off rubbing on dry ass crocodile skin? what kind of silly shit is this?"

first of all, i thought every black person in america spent his or her entire childhood being dunked in vats of baby oil and cocoa butter. especially those of us who grew up in cold climates. when i was a kid it was literally a fucking CRIME for someone to catch you out in the street ashy. i'm not even kidding. better to be caught with a pocket full of now and laters you didn't pay for than to have dry white cracks at the corners of your mouth. even my suburban oreo ass was sitting on the edge of the bed for ten minutes every morning rubbing vaseline and shea butter into my skin, concentrating on my elbows, heels, and knees. and don't forget your hands, particularly the webbing that connects your forefinger and thumb.

ASHY equaled "poor" or "dirty," or maybe it was just proof that your parents didn't really care about you, but ASHY was the last thing i ever wanted to be accused of being. even now if some dude approches me with ASHY hands (or the ASHY LIPPED KISS OF DEATH barf barf barf) i'm like, "ew, motherfucker. lotion is, like, three dollars." GO GET YOU SOME. most days i am moisturized to within an inch of my goddamned life, and i use OIL. because lotion is for white people. (gay white people, i guess.) i need to be basted like a christmas ham before i set one foot outside the house. for serious, if you catch me on the train platform at seven in the morning on a wednesday i'm glistening like new money, and you could fry a chicken on my goddamned lips. THAT is the real reason i hate the fucking summer, because the minute it's seventy-five degrees or higher my greasy ass starts to cook under the sun. that's why i always smell like hot dogs on a sunny day, because my meat is literally being BROILED.

so quel surprise at this gayvelation, because i thought proper moisturization was the one thing black people could AGREE on. this is why our community is so goddamned divided? because the angry straight dry people can't see eye to eye with us smooth and silky homosexuals? girl, i guess. i always thought the consumption of flaming hot cheetos separated the good blacks from the bad ones, but what the fuck do i know?

so i don't call things "gay" very often, unless said offense is being committed by, well, an actual GAY. and even then isn't it just redundance? that's like telling a fat broad that the rubbed-through hole in the thigh of her jeans is so FAT. "hey jalonda, that whole out of breath thing you do all the time is so FAT." um, okay? "ooh albert, stop snoring while you're wide awake! that shit is so FAT!" and it's always some closeted fucking homo hurling gay around like it won't come back and hit him in the bird chest peeking out of his low-cut v-neck. sidebar: have you ever noticed that it's always the fruitiest goddamned dude trying to call somebody gay? like that atlanta pastor who's in trouble for butt fucking all those kids. you mean to tell me that in all his years of preaching homo hate NO ONE looked up at the pulpit at that raggedy piece of shit shaped-up s curl and those bulging pectorals and thought, "heavenly father, this nigga is MOIST?" yyyyyeah. praise the lord and pass the panties.

now THAT is a word that says what it means. MOIST. because who would waste his precious anytime minutes homophobing precious little gay angels when he REALLY should be investing that time in hating on seemingly hetero dudes who do fruity ass shit and try to pass it off as masculine? i learned about moisture from my hero tariq, and here is his definition: MOIST: (adjective) a heterosexual (or perceived heterosexual) male who has an appearance or lifestyle that displays attributes generally associated with
homosexual men. (example) "i went to see the movie twilight and it was extremely moist." conversely, there is the term anti-moist, which is defined as follows: ANTI-MOIST: (adjective) a man who rejects social pressure to take on moist characteristics. (example) "i don't wear skinny jeans because i'm anti-moist." pay attention, because there's going to be a pop quiz at the end of class, hotshot. calling shit gay is, well, GAY. especially when it's a dude with waxed eyebrows (and a "girlfriend," pffft) pointing the mascara wand. stupid moistrosexuals.

anyway, i've been paying especially close attention of late to all of the things these bullshit ass dudes think is gay. hot damn, SO MANY THINGS ARE GAY. who knew?! but what's really surprising is all of the things that don't make the g-list. here are the results of my extensive (not really, a bitch is LAZY) research:

you know what's gay? SITTING IN A SEAT NEXT TO ANOTHER MAN. every time i ride the goddamned train i end up surrounded on all sides by a group of young men who board the train together, yet are too masculine to sit in seats directly next to each other so they spread themselves across the ENTIRE CAR and shout to each other over the rest of our heads. really, sir? are you THAT concerned about the appearance of homosexuality that you would rather sit in my fucking lap and scream to your homeboy than just sit in the open motherfucking seat next to him? holy fucking shit, man! i was coming home from the loop on sunday laden with shopping bags (i was trying to distract myself from all the food i couldn't eat prior to my procedure so i spent five hundred dollars on absolute bullshit) and had to stand in the corner by the handicapped button (fuck you if you're making a totally appropriate irony joke) because a bunch of dudes who obviously knew each other couldn't fucking sit next to each other. LAME. dudes who go to the movies together are tragically hilarious, too, leaning across the empty seat between them for two hours loudly whispering, "who is that? what happened to that other bank robber?" just like homeboy at the bar, standing for three hours during a jazz set because he was too afraid to sit next to a single man. who turns down a SEAT? i swear to horus sometimes i'd consider eating a broad out just to get five minutes on a comfortable chair at the club, but then again I USE LOTION. jerks.

but you know what's not gay? FACEBOOK. well, dudes who are constantly ON facebook. according to my man kenny, who is one of the manliest manual labor motherfuckers i know, "dudes be on facebook gossiping like bitches." he and i were discussing the sorry state of the male species in the car a couple sundays ago. "i can't stand that shit. the dudes i work with can hardly get anything done, too busy facebooking on their iphones." i giggle my dick off all the time reading dudes' status wars and bitchy posts. for cereal, it's ridiculous moist. i mean, come on, facebook is for GIRLS. and when dudes take it all super seriously it's wack and gross. every time i see some gorilla on the bus facebooking on his cell phone i'm like, "really, friend? can i borrow a tampon?" you have to update your status in the middle of old navy? accept a friend request while in the mcdonalds drive-thru? cyber stalk that girl who never called you back while in the revolving door at walgreens? dudes, that shit is SO MOIST. clearly you kids have too much free time. can't you find some wood to chop or some tile to grout? or are you too worried about fucking up your manicure?

you know what's gay? WALKING TO THE BATHROOM WITH YOUR MALE FRIEND. i went to dinner (yum) with a couple writer dudes (nerds) who were trying to convince me to write for some show they're putting together (meh) and they drank a lot of beer (gross) and both had to pee at the end of the meal and since it was their treat (excellent) i just sat there getting my cab money together (fancy) while they went to the bathroom one at a time. okay, so one dude said "i have to pee" and the other dude and i just sat there and when he came back the other dude said "i have to pee" so then original pee and i sat there making small talk until he got back. when he did i asked, "did you have to pee when he had to pee?" and he looked at me quizzically before answering, "yes." then i said, "why didn't you go with him?" and he waited a second before answering, "because that's GAY." oh yeah? because you hold his dick for him and massage the urine out? or does he piss in your FACE? is going outside to smoke with another dude gay? you know, with all the sucking and blowing? or is it just because you're both walking into a room full of naked, dripping penises? i think it's way gayer to stand at a table doing the pee-pee dance, but you're the expert. i guess.

but you know what's not gay? DINNER SALADS. i had dinner with this dude not worth writing about recently and i ordered a club soda and a medium rare porterhouse and he ordered a diet coke and a salad. no, not just a salad, but a SALAD. the kind that comes from the special SALAD section of the menu. the dudes reading this probably have no idea what the fuck i'm even TALKING about, as their fingers have never flipped to this section of the menu EVER. do you y-chromosomes even know that shit exists?! well, i suppose those of you who've bought a "not that hungry" shy bitch dinner are at least vaguely familiar, but have you ever ordered anything off that shit? NO YOU HAVE NOT, unless you are moist. for reals, don't you have to be wearing panties to eat a SALAD as a meal? are men really ordering SALADS for dinner? if so, i might have to resort to masturbating with flank steaks, because it is fucking HOPELESS. and i don't give a SHIT how much chicken is in it, that shit is SALAD, and you are moist as hell. the waiter looked at me like, "don't you dare fuck this fruity dude," and i looked back, "baby, don't even TRIP." i asked him if he was a vegetarian as he squirted lemon juice on the lettuce and his response was, "there's salmon in this!" really? well, of course you aren't. you, sir, are a VAGITARIAN.

you know what's gay? SHOWING YOUR EMOTIONS. a certain emotionally-stunted someone has been calling my phone when he knows i won't answer and hanging up on my voicemail an awful lot lately. what he wants to do, i'm sure, is feel me out to gauge whether or not i'd be interested in letting him back into my life. but because that might require a heartfelt apology, or at the very least a detailed explanation, he's trying to bait me into calling HIM. and leaving a message because he never answers, thus shifting the delicate power balance that has been in my favor for FIVE YEARS. is it really that hard to say "i'm sorry?" what about "i miss you?" does that one hurt, too? listen, i know that telling a motherfucker what an asshole i've been burns like acid on my tongue, which is why i try to never be wrong. BUT. if i am i just come out and say it. why are dudes allergic to that kind of shit? and they won't tell you they love you, either, even when you and everyone else you know ALREADY KNOWS. smiley faces and heart emoticons just don't cut it, gentlemen. we want you to shed some fucking tears. i mean, as long as they're heterosexual tears. idiots!

but you know what's not gay? WEARING YOUR LITTLE SISTER'S JEANS. i was talking to this hot dude in bloomingdales the other night and he was being really smart and hilarious and cute and awesome, and when i looked down to get my phone out of my bag i noticed that he was wearing red skinny jeans and immediately snapped my bag shut. i can't holler at a dude whose legs look like fruit fucking roll-ups. this is what is passing for menswear nowadays? american apparel got you dudes FUCKED UP. if i see one more dude in size zero pants or a hot fuschia dress shirt my head might fucking explode. i'm supposed to get hot for a dude with a v-neck open to his navel? pffft. MOIST. at the sex show i was OBSESSED with this dude whose entire body was the size of my fucking forearm. for cereal, he looked like someone put clothes on a pencil. he was macking SO HARD on this girl and she was totally falling for it, and that was BAFFLING to me. it wasn't even a little bit believeable. i just wanted to be like, "you're going to try to have sex with him? he's wearing doll clothes!" i go to so much stupid shit, and i feel like i'm SURROUNDED by nothing but dudes in scarves and crop tops and bright purple tights. dudes with girlfriends. you know, STRAIGHT DUDES.

this is by NO MEANS an exhaustive list. especially when you consider all of the not gay stuff i'm too lazy to include, like dudes drinking coke zero and watching glee. spending a shit ton of time in tanning beds. artfully sculpting their facial hair. listening to taylor swift. wearing clothing and sunglasses covered in logos. carrying handbags. reading this blog.

oh, i'm totally kidding. reading this shit is the manliest fucking thing you could ever do. i have a penis and i fucking LOVE lesbians. see? ALL MAN. i will be spending the evening re-writing the letter i'm going to give to forest whitaker and trying on a million different outfit and shoe combinations and practicing telling him how much i adore him without bursting into tears. so don't fucking call me until after saturday night, understand? i'm going to be BUSY. unless you're that hot bouncer because, in case you bitches haven't heard, HE FINALLY HAS MY NUMBER. let the clingy, desperate, crazy-lady games begin.

and ps, are you on my facebook fan page? are you my facebook friend? do you send me love emails? because really, you totally should be. i'm fucking awesome and i'm nice to people who fawn over me. seriously.
i might jack you off or something.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

my butthole works.

it's partytime all week around here, because i'm going to seduce forest whitaker in three days and my bitchass chron's is in REMISSION. so i had an upper GI small bowel series done yesterday morning, that awful awful totally fucking awful torture during which i had to ingest half a gallon of barium while being tortured and poked and prodded and radiographed while the xray tech yelled at me to hold my breath and try not to vomit. AWESOME. all while trying not to leak period blood onto the xray table while i rolled from my back to my left side back to my back now a quarter of the way up on the right side on my back again all the way up on the right onto my stomach up on my left side while wearing a gown made of tissue paper and shoestrings.

meanwhile, pictures of my gnarly guts were popping up on various screens in the room and it was sort of grossing me OUT. and it was really cold in there. boo fucking hoo. anyway, the radiology doctor comes in after a while and starts walking me through everything, spending more time than i thought was necessary on my "abnormally high amount of acid reflux." he told me that as soon as i drank the first barium the pictures he took of my chest showed it coming right back up my esophagus. INSTANTLY. which is why i feel like i'm going to vomit all the time. (as if i couldn't figure that out myself.) so of course i'm terrified that he's going to say this geyser of stomach acid is being caused by some sort of closure or blockage or whatever and that they're going to have to rip me open and dig a hole in my guts, and i'm sitting there wringing my hands and thinking how i'd feel so much more dignified if i could at least be wearing a fucking BRA during this stupid conversation, then he says, "i compared your films to the ones we took five years ago," i literally broke into a cold sweat right then, "and they look 100% improved. if i didn't know any better, i would say i'm looking at the bowels of a totally healthy person."

i've already told you i'm not a screamer, and i turned to him and said, "shut the fuck up." which caught him off guard, i could tell, but he recovered quickly. "i don't know what drugs your doctor's got you on, but you're BETTER." holy fucking shit, man. never in a million years did i expect to hear THAT. and i'll take an open esophageal sphincter (ahahahaha) over this brutal-ass crohn's any day of the week and twice on sunday. or would i? because i can swap out some of my steroids for prilosec, but the dietary restrictions are, um, well...THESE:

In acid reflux, acid-forming foods imbalance and increase the stomach's acid content, which then causes a backflow of the stomach's contents into the esophagus. According to Med Help, avoid high-fat foods, fried foods, spicy foods, highly irritating foods such as oranges and tomatoes, chocolate, caffeinated coffee, ice cream, tea and soda, and alcohol. These foods either take a very long time to digest, causing the stomach to produce more acid to break it down, or they irritate the stomach lining. Alcohol also weakens the sphincter muscle. Other foods to avoid include onions, mashed potatoes, lemon, grapefruit and cranberry juices, dairy products high in fat and added sugars, pastas, salad dressings, pastries, and sweets. These foods are also irritating to the digestive system and further imbalance the stomach's acid levels.

ohhhh, okay! that's all?! well why didn't you just SAY so?! pfffft. this shit, in addition to my crohn's shit, is going to be a big ball of fun. the eat list should read like this: water, boiled chicken, water, fruit in a can, and water. and that's what i'm about to eat, man, because this shit is awful. i haven't been shitfaced drunk in a while, which is good because i used to be worried about alcohol loosening up my outside sphincter, but now i have to be concerned about it fucking with my inside sphincters, too?! TRAGIC. i guess i'll just stay sober. i was talking to asshole the other night and he asked what i was doing and i said, "cooking," and his response was, "great, i'm on my way over." but then i explained to him that i was making some crohn's food and he was like, "oh." and that's what it's going to be for the rest of my days, i guess, looking down at my plate with a disconsolate "oh."

jeff was over last week chapping my dick off about something dumb, wasting time until i decided i was going to make something for dinner so he could sneakily just "be around" which loosely translates to "eat all my fucking food." i tried to dissuade him by telling him i was making a crohn's dinner, and he was like, "that's okay, maybe i'll learn how to make it in case i meet a girl with a sensitive stomach." well isn't that fucking nice. and A TOTAL LIE. this from a dude who stopped seeing a girl because she missed a leg waxing. he's really going to hang around and cook special food for some diarrhea broad? pshaw. yeah fucking right. then jeff said, "why don't you just use this in your online thing? you haven't done a recipe in a while. two birds with one stone and all that?" so why fucking don't i? besides, as jeff so sagely offered, "regular people get the shits, too."

so here it is: stir fry for people who get diarrhea that's easy enough for an idiot douchebag with a penis to make.first of all, that ridiculous movie orphan came on cinemax just as i was getting started, so this took twice as long as it usually takes to make. it really should take 20 minutes, if that. but i kept leaving the kitchen to watch that dumb shit, so it took me forever. anyway, normal people can add extra shit to this, shit like water chestnuts and carrots and bok choy and sprouts, whatever roughage you think tastes good. but diarrhea people should make it my way and cook the SHIT out of it so your intestines can process it without putting you in traction.

-two red bell peppers, one orange, and one yellow
-one medium-sized sweet yellow onion
-one can of chinese baby corns
-1.5 lb boneless, skinless chicken thighs-wok oil
-a bottle of commercial stir-fry sauce
-coarse salt and fresh black pepper
-whatever grain you like to eat stir fry on

1 cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces. i use thigh meat because breast meat is for white people. who wants to eat that dry-ass, flaky shit? i mean, seriously? thigh meat cooks up really juicy and nice and slides out of your butt with ease, and it tastes better. so just get some. put the cut pieces in a bowl, stab them with a fork, then sprinkle with some wok oil and toss to coat. season with salt and pepper and set aside.

2 i like to use wok oil because it has garlic and other tasty deliciousness in it. it's cheap, so even if you don't make a lot of stir-fry it's still a worthwhile investment. but it smells like balls, so be warned. chop the onion into big pieces (unless you have killer acid reflux, FUCK) and put them in your large, deep skillet or wok. spinkle some stink oil on them and turn the heat on low while you cut the peppers.

3 i obviously need some new knives, as i was sawing through the goddamned onion so hard i cut off the tip of my thumb. and got onion juice all in my open wound. then screamed so loud helen ran to hide in the bathtub. so jeff cut the peppers into thin, manageable pieces (think about the GUTS) and tossed them in with the blood-soaked onion pieces. turn the heat up to medium-high to soften the vegetables and burn off the HIV. or whatever else might be swimming through your bloodstream.

4 toss in the chicken when things start to wilt a little. so the water will sweat out of the veggies and whatever fat is in the chicken will sweat out of it and all that liquid is excellent, but to get things nice and soft add a cup of stir-fry sauce and a little hot water. liquid + high heat + vegetables and chicken = delicious mush that's easy to push through your delicate system.

5 now i usually eat this shit by itself because the only thing i can tolerate is white rice, and that shit's a calorie factory, but you can eat it on whatever belly-busting whole grain your colon desires.

jeff made a giant pot of quinoa and ate almost the entire wok full of meat with it (fucking pig) while i soaked up the gravy with a pita and scavenged what i could of the good stuff. we finished watching orphan (SO HILARIOUSLY TERRIBLE) and then watched five episodes of bored to death, at which point i was bored to death of dealing with him and kicked him the fuck out of my house.

boner appetit.

Friday, October 1, 2010

now THIS is how you wingman for a bitch!

i might be getting too old to go to fucking metal shows. jenny and i went to see some black heavy metal bands at the abbey last night, and today i'm tired. and maybe partially deaf. goddamn it, there really is nothing better than a bunch of live guitars chug-chug-chugging onstage, but i'm for serious about to be one of the assholes walking around the bar with earplugs in. at MIA the other night i saw this middle-aged dude walking around with ear plugs sipping from a can of ensure and i elbowed julia and was like, "bwahaha look at grandpa over there." then my eardrums almost exploded the second that bitch hit the stage and that dude was like, "yeah, bitch, who's laughing NOW?!"

i love that shit, though. jeff and i went to see some death metal band a couple weeks ago, and the minute they started playing the fucking reverb was so strong that it shook the fucking floor and liquified everything in my motherfucking bowels. i'm not fucking kidding. thirty seconds into the show and i nearly shit my pants. which wasn't a problem AT ALL, as shows like that are always fucking sausage fests and there are never any drunk ladyfriends vomiting all over the bathroom i'm trying to take a dump in. it's glorious. i used to wonder why more girls didn't show up just to walk through the crowd and collect boyfriends, but then i started paying closer attention to the dudes that show up and it sort of answered my question. i think a lot of metal dudes are hot, just on GP: burly and tattoed and dressed in leather, drinking seven beers at a time and never saying sentences with more than a few words. i mean, seriously. every time i go to kuma's i just sort of pout with frustrated lust because i want to take one of those gentlemen home. and since i can't i instead order those pulled pork waffle fries and drown my lust in grease and filthy swine.

but sometimes the dudes at metal shows are the kind you forget exist unless you live on the northwest side of the city. don't be cute, you know what the fuck i'm talking about. mullets and rat tails and shirts with fringe, grown men in highwater acid washed mom jeans tucked into hightop white reeboks. last night jenny pointed out this dude in a daytona tshirt standing next to a bitch with bleached AND frosted-tipped hair. it was like we'd gotten in a time machine and landed at a fucking ratt concert. at mastodon a couple years ago i ended up (BRIEFLY) next to a dude wearing a mesh tank top with arm holes open to his waist (what the fuck IS that?! are you quarterbacking a flag football game later? go put a real shirt on!) who insisted upon doing air guitar through the entire show. well, at least i assume he did. because i saw that shit and IMMEDIATELY MOVED MY ASS AWAY. because you never can tell with those kind of dudes, the casual racists who smoke unfiltered pall malls and drink natural ice and still say "nigger" in public. you know who i mean, the kind of racists who try to convince you that nigger is a term of endearment or that "colored" is an acceptable way to refer to a person.

metal shows are also good for those of us for whom doing the running man on the dancefloor is an impossibility. don't get me wrong, i loooove dancing. and, despite my physical limitations, i can work it out to a banging jam. that MIA shit was out of this world, literally the most incredible sensory experience i've ever had (shut up, geno). there were signs posted all over at the vic warning that the show would include "strobe light and lightning-like effects," and boy DID IT. there was a giant LED screen and crazy lights and thumping bass and everybody in the room was twitching like a fucking epileptic. everybody except me, because i was dancing like nobody's business. i don't go to a whole lot of dance music shows, mostly because if i want to dance surrounded by a bunch of sexy queens i'll pay five bucks and go get disrobed at berlin with chad on a saturday night, not spend a hundred bucks to squirm in my seat at the united center while watching an ant-sized madonna. but this business was AMAZING. an hour and a half of bitches dancing their asses off?! YES, PLEASE. i really was going so crazy. it didn't help that zoe was losing her mind next to me, either. insane feeds off of insane, you know. and the music was so pulsing and loud and the lights were so fucking bright and disorienting that i really thought at one point i was going to fall over, but i didn't. i did however lose another twenty percent of my hearing, as was evidenced when julia and i got in the car and i turned to her and shouted, "DID YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME?! I LOVED IT SO MUCH! SHE DID ALL MY JAMS!"

so before the show last night i got my eyebrows waxed (you needed to know that, right?) then caught the express train downtown to meet jenny. but first i went to water tower to holler at mary about some glasses and buy a bunch of socks. since you read this blog on the regular (you do, don't you?) you already know how crazy i am about hot sox. so i had to stop and buy some. i mean, really, THIS is the reason i couldn't really fuck around with some hot rocker dude for real in real life. because i buy $40 motherfucking SOCKS. a dude who buys all of his clothes and shit at the alley would NEVER tolerate that frou frou shit. he'd use his motorcycle boot to kick me right the fuck out of bed. sorry, i veered off course for a second. anyway, i brought up macy's because while i was sitting in SEE talking to mary, jenny called me 569 times. now i didn't hear that shit because I NEVER TURN MY RINGER ON, but the flashing light in my bag caught my eye.

assuming it was an emergency, especially considering that she was supposed to be picking me up momentarily, i actually answered. now, most of you know how much of an anomaly that is. really, it's kind of an event. and boy am i glad i did. jenny informed me that she'd just come from a business meeting at five star. while i would really like to heat on her having A PROFESSIONAL APPOINTMENT IN A BAR, that would just get in the way of the good shit. now for those of you who are confused, BIG STAR is my beloved taco jam in wicker park. FIVE STAR is my new 25 cent wing wednesday douchebag white hat hot dude bouncing the door jam in east ukrainian village, or whatever the fuck they are calling that neighborhood over by beauty bar (RIP sonotheque!) now. personally, i like to call it gentrifica. we'll see if i can make it stick.

anyway, as her meeting drew to a close who did she spy across the bar? none other than MY NEW BOYFRIEND. and by that i mean "that dude i was staring at and eavesdropping on even though i had my back to him last wednesday night while i tried to eat chicken wings in the cold." she got rid of her business associate by slipping off to the bathroom, then sidled up to my homeboy and introduced herself. asked if he remembered us. at which point he asked about her friend with the glasses. um...sort of. i'm pretty sure i remember her saying that she said, "my friend thinks you're hot" and he said "the one with the tattoos and the glasses who had her back to me?" but doesn't it sound better when we pretend he asked about me without a prompt? SIGH. so she said "yes" and he popped a boner (at least that's how i imagine it) and said "she was cute! give me her number!"

for the record, i have a pretty hot back. (this is untrue, but let's go with it.) jenny, in her attempt to shield me from the crazy (or to cockblock the SHIT out of me), gave him her business card and told him to email her instead. now i know you can't just give a bitch's number out. but i know big black dudes, and i'm pretty sure i'm going to have to just "drop by" or "find myself in the area" next week because either 1 the email from bigsexychocolatedick69 is going to get bumped right to jenny's spam or 2 he's not going to bother in the first place. he'll be too busy yanking on the weave of some skank he picks up when she passes out in a booth after last call.

i'm feeling cautiously optimistic, though. so much so, in fact, that i made an appointment to see the gynecologist in a couple weeks. (not because of dude, though. it's been over a year and i'm still passing tiny baby jesus clumps once a month and that shit is for the BIRDS. oh, and my birth control prescription is almost out.) i don't like to submit to all that speculum melodrama without a valid reason, and the general health and upkeep of my vagina is simply not good enough. the only thing that makes me nervous is that she said he's a "writer," and i know from personal experience what a NIGHTMARE that can be. first of all, that probably means POET, and you ALREADY KNOW how i feel about THAT. blarf. second, i talk a lot of shit, but i don't get all seeeeeerious about writing. like, i don't call myself a writer. people say "what do you do?" and i either say "lick cat butts all day" or "i tell jokes."

dudes are SO DUMB and i really hope he doesn't want me to sit around and listen to him read DUMB SHIT that he's written. i should stop being so negative. he's probably incredibly talented and i'm totally going to be blown away by his work, right? i might even keel over in a fit of jealousy. but that's better than hating it and thinking he's a moron, right? i'll let you know.

okay, kittens. hiatus time. hopefully these last few posts will get you through a few days. i'm going into the hospital for a bit so some dudes can put my insides on the outside. don't cry, i'll be on AMAZING drugs. and when i come back it'll be forest whitaker time, because I GOT MY FUCKING TICKETS. love love love.