Tuesday, November 23, 2010

sharing is caring.

so i let some asshole talk me into signing up for speed dating. here's the thing: in my mind the whole concept of speed dating is counterintuitive when trying to meet a substantive and interesting dude. by design, you only get to know whatever incredibly witty (or massively stupid) introduction a person can cram into a three-minute soundbite. and the idea is the antithesis of who i fucking am, particularly since the most i could conceiveably get out of my mouth in the alotted time is "samantha. thirty. blog. kittens." you know, because of all of the nervous shifting and stuttering and adjusting of my various layers of clothing. i'm lucky that more people don't think i'm functionally retarded when they first make my acquaintance.

this is the problem with my various online dating profiles. they all sound totally fucking stupid; boring and long-winded yet not really encapsulating what it is that makes me awesome. actually, they're mostly brief. except that i can't help but list 800 metal bands and rappers and folk singers or whatever the fuck i'm listening to at the time. instead of sitting down and thinking, "how best can i present myself to the sexually neglected human male population?" and coming up with something charming and fantastic, i just say "hey, i'm hilarious!" and make a list of all the cool shit in my ipod. what a fucking asshole. i'm always surprised that i manage to get the limited responses i do; i am always tempted to respond, "you really thought that was interesting?!" at the risk of jinxing something rad, i just met this funny dude who i kind of think is the fucking shit. a super nice dude who HUGGED ME FOR A REALLY LONG TIME WITH HIS EYES CLOSED. (ginger was standing behind us.) so he messaged me and i read his whole thing which was smart and well-written and made me want to take my goddamned pants off, then i read my own and was like, "bitch, you're stupid." this dude must like broads who love to eat cake and snuggle kittens, because i was skimming my shit to find the captivating parts and came up sorely empty. for cereal, my profile pictures include both me eating a giant birthday cake with my tits out and me wearing a brace and clutching three tiny kittens who were straining against my hand to breathe. fucking gross. good thing i like mf doom.

because that's one of the things he said drew him to me. whew! so i guess writing an exhaustive list of all my mixtape jams wasn't a total waste after all. i assume most dudes just scroll through hundreds of faces looking for the ones attached to the skinniest bodies and the giantest boobs. and that suits me fine. what other choice do i have? this whole "i met him at a bar" or "i met him at the grocery store" thing is a fucking farce. can we just admit that already? NO ONE meets outrageously excellent dudes on the fucking train. outrageously shit-scented winos? absolutely. hot, gainfully-employed gentlemen with more than one brain cell rolling around between their ears? GODDAMNED NEVER.

elisse and i went out last thursday to get drunk and watch the bears game, and the dude who seated us was fucking HANDSOME. and he was all inked up and complimenting me on my tattoos. which i am surprised he noticed considering that his eyes were halfway down elisse's fucking shirt. in case you've forgotten, I AM THE WINGMAN CHAMPION. seriously, if you want a dude i will break my ass to get that motherfucker for you. all you have to do is point. and i would never do any shady shit like saying, "hey man, my boring friend over there is too much of a pussy to come over and tell you herself that she wants to bear your future children" or slipping him my name and number when you think i'm giving him yours. i give a stellar endorsement and then cop them digits. and i have a 100% success rate, except in the case of rachel, who let me do all the goddamned leg work before deciding she was too chickenshit to holler. pfffft.

anyway, i went to the bathroom at halftime to shit out those ill-advised hot wings i should have stayed away from (what the fuck is my goddamned problem?!), and dude took my absence as an opportunity to go over to our table and drop the lamest pickup line i have EVER HEARD on my girl. "i'm surprised you girls are in here tonight. i didn't know ladies like football. isn't this a man's game?" first of all, BLARF you misogynist dickbag. and second, were you born yesterday? where better to meet a virile slab of brisket than a sports bar on game night? you know that nothing makes my ears cry with sad more than the sound of a dude talking, but there's ZERO chance of that when the game's on, so we can sit and ogle undisturbed. then when the clock runs out and they're all fired up and passionately sweaty, filled with the thrill of victory (or deflated from the agony of defeat and easily preyed upon), it's our turn to dive in and get us some. DUH. unfortunately for me the only dudes in my line of vision was a table full of eighteen-year-olds and a dude with down's syndrome who was wearing a fanny pack and a pair of foam headphones attached to a yellow cassette walkman.

elisse, unfazed by lameness apparently, started gushing about him as soon as my tender asshole and i slid back into the booth. "did you get his number?" i asked, and she replied, "i'm too shy." FUCK, DUDE. why do you bitches always make everything so fucking hard?! a reasonably attractive waiter can't pause too long when taking my drink order before i'm getting my phone out like, "want to get drinks sometime this week...? what time is your shift over tonight?" strike while the goddamned iron is HOT, jerks. i was on the toilet for at least fifteen minutes; those assholes should've been married and on their second kid by the time i got back. but no, little miss coy just batted her darling eyelashes and fiddled with her drink straw looking cute instead of circling her prey and going in for the kill. well good thing she brought little miss desperate and aggressive with her. i had a couple more shots of liquid courage, and when we were leaving i was like, "hey hostess server person, my friend wants to bang you." and, lo and behold, HE wanted to bang HER, too! just like in a fairy tale! no good deed goes unpunished, because as soon as i put another notch in my wingman belt i had to stand there like a jagoff pretending to pay attention to the postgame interviews while they giggled and cooed and exchanged cell phone numbers. after a while of looking like an idiot and sweating inside my fucking coat i finally conceded defeat and sat down in one of the vacant chairs at corky's empty table. "hey, what are you listening to, the alvin and the chipmunks soundtrack? do you come here often? can i buy you a milk?"

well we can call this bedtime story "snow black and the seven illegitimate children," because it turns out that that piece of shit has multiple children in multiple states, and that's not the kind of dude you can let put his penis in you, children. he is a big bad wolf in sheep's clothing. one who thinks inviting you back to the place he works to sit at the bar and drink watered-down daquiris constitutes a "date."

and while i was bummed for her (not really, i HATE when my single ladies get manfriends! who am i going to dress up in wigs and leotards and dance in empty studios with?!??!??!!!), it made me feel a little bit better about trying to find someone to eat the leftovers i'm too snooty to touch on the internet. because THESE are the dudes you meet in real life. dudes whose meager income is rendered further obsolete by the number of garnishments placed on it. and not that you can't meet a dude with seven offspring online, but there's usually a have kids/want kids box you can check. and maybe this is profiling, but whenever a black dude checks the "have kids" box i rarely respond. unless he's abandoned them or whatever. i don't fucking like competition. i'm just playing. it's damned near impossible to find black people of either gender to fuck on who haven't shit out or shot out a goddamned baby; i have accepted that it often just comes with the territory. sometimes that shit even works in my favor, when a dude is like "i've had all the kids i'm ever going to have" and i wave my bloody tampon at him and yell, "me, too!"

frankly, i'm more worried about things like "does he read books?" and "can he tie his shoes without help?" a few years ago i went out with a dude who had an "L" and an "R" written in marker on the inside soles of his shoes. I AM NOT KIDDING. and you know where i met that mongoloid? IN PUBLIC. i only saw that shit because i met him at his apartment before dinner and his velcro shoes were lined up in the hallway near the door. i don't even know what possessed me to look in his shoes, but when i did i was like, "why is this my life?" and almost started crying. it took everything in my power to continue the date. i mean, he was gentle and sweet and i was going through a bad time. ultimately i was happy that i'd done so and hadn't let my prejudice blind me to a possible romance. that is until the dim-witted girl at the register left the toy out of his happy meal and he lost his mind in the middle of mcdonalds. i mean, who throws their apple slices on the floor and has a temper tantrum?! seriously!

so this girl i know did speed dating and loved that shit, and i let her talk me into doing it, too. because WHAT THE FUCK ELSE AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? watching television, heating up frozen burritos from trader joes, and cursing out my fantasy football roster, that's what. i signed up for the shit for two reasons: 1 you bitches need something to read about and 2 there are so many super-specific types of speed dating: fat chicks, old chicks, ugly chicks; bald dudes, smelly dudes, toothless dudes. whatever your pleasure. when corey was telling me about it i cut her off and was like, "NOT DOING THAT." she's an adorable blonde munchkin who is obsessed with grey's anatomy, and i was thinking to myself that there is no dude on earth who would be interested in both fucking her and my big, salty, tenacious d listening ass. then she broke it down to me that she had done jewish speed dating and that there are all of these sub-categories from which you can choose. l'chaim!

as soon as i registered i was filled with dread. how am i supposed to distill all of this awesome down to three minutes? one and a half minutes if i give him the chance to say his piece?! holy balls. what the fuck am i supposed to say? but then again maybe the point of this whole thing isn't what you say, it's just to figure out whether or not you want to fuck someone. because the internet tells lies, but sitting across from a bitch for three minutes is all truth. at least as far as your penis and eyeballs are concerned. did you know that bitches are still putting headshots from nine years ago on their dating profiles?! that's so foul! unless you have a time machine and i can go back and have sex with you five chins ago, why would you do that?! assholes. all my pictures are what i really fucking look like. and maybe that's why i've been as yet unsuccessful, but at least i'm not a fucking liar.

i called cara's mean ass because i know she is the only bitch salty enough to endure the trauma of this with her sense of humor intact and made her sign up for this silly business, too. also, she is one of my few single friends who has a working checking account (this bullshit ain't cheap!) and would be willing to subject herself to something this dumb without the promise of a relatively decent payoff. unless you consider my cracking jokes a sufficient payoff. (you shouldn't.) we immediately started hatching a plan. the way this works is totally different than i'd expected: you get your three minutes to make an impression, move along to fourteen other numbered participants, then mingle and get drunk afterward. no numbers are exchanged. then when you get home you go online and choose the people who made your junk tingly, then they're sent an email saying that you're interested. or they don't receive an email and they hang themselves from the shower rod. whatevs.

i never give a fuck about what i goddamned wear, but i pulled out my strappy riding boots and dropped a black dress of at the cleaners on my way to work this morning, so obviously i mean business. blog business, as i'm only embarking on this to get a few laughs. or because i'm a masochist who enjoys crushing disappointment. i think it'll be interesting to gauge the various reactions i'm going to get. my crazy hair and nerdy glasses and aggressive body art are a lot to throw at an unsuspecting dude all at once. but at least i'm trying! i told cara i was going to wear my pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved t-shirt and she just about had a heart attack then made me promise to put in at least a little bit of effort. SO I AM.

now i have to just work on my introductory paragraph. i should probably sit in my room with a stopwatch and rehearse, but i am the WORST at remembering important shit at crucial moments. guaranteed i'll write something amazing, take the time to memorize it, and when dude sits down i'll freeze up and say, "me like you mucho. should we fuck now?"

it's also gross when dudes try to come up with something witty and unexpected but it comes off as cheesy and totally staged. for instance, corey told me that one dude asked, "what's your favorite kind of cereal?" as his opening line. BLA-ARF. shit like that dumbfounds me. if you really want to appear all fresh and cool you should do what i do and ask, "what's the biggest shit you've ever taken?" THAT line is a goddamned winner. it catches them off guard every single time. it's embarrassing to listen to manufactured, bullet point biographies. i feel like i should conference in my friends and he should have a power point accompaniment.

the most awkward part of this whole thing is not only do you have the uncertainty that goes along with knowing that someone you're into is into a handful of other someone elses, but if you go to one of these things with a friend it's quite possible that one of the other ladies he's into (figuratively, LITERALLY) is your homegirl. i was talking to my friend, who'd gone speed dating with a couple of her friends, and she was telling me how she and her girl had dates with the same dude on different nights. and they were planning to compare notes after the dates! i'm sorry, lovers, but i'm not sure that i'm that progressive. if i like a dude and he likes me but he also likes cara, GUARANTEED when i go out with him i'm going to be all, "i don't know if you could tell by looking at her, but cara was just diagnosed with AIDS." i fight dirty, goddamn it. and, like i said before, i hate competition. because i don't like having to work that hard! whenever a dude is like "let's keep it open," i always agree, because i like options, but then i'm always secretly like, "aw, man! i'm too lazy to try to be better than his other potential girlfriends!"

and boy, AM I. i prefer to lie and cheat and steal to get what i want. earning things honestly is honestly overrated. i don't like breaking a sweat just to keep some irritating dude entertained. BLARF. that's why i like when i can introduce this blog into the relationship. "i know you've already seen my butthole, but have i told you that i write comedy?" then i can impress both him and all you jerks in one fell swoop. i didn't even wait with this new crush. i'm fucking tired, man, so i dropped my defenses and directed him here. and he read that piece about my period clot that i mistook for the son of man. he liked it, and he wasn't offended. which means that maybe sooner rather than later i can get him in a dog collar and a pair of leather underwear and make him call me "mommy." (or maybe not. he's reading this.)

anyway, i'll keep you posted on how things go, and whether or not i get the runs in the middle of some boring dude's prepared speech. and if all else fails i got corky's number. although it's a firefly his grandma gave him and he said he can only use it in an emergency. maybe his mom will let us have a play date? i'll bring the pudding snacks and apple juice. yowza.

Friday, November 19, 2010

happy fakesgiving.

well well well. lo and behold, it's the most wonderful time of the year yet again for children with dead parents and thoroughly dysfunctional siblings. i can't believe it's the goddamned holidays again ALREADY. seriously, bitches, an entire YEAR has passed? what the fuck have i been doing?! writing this shitty blog and getting drunk all the time and not having sex with another human being?! that's right, november marks eleven months, and if i make it to a year every single one of you gets a prize. a prize called my virginity. for cereal, i'll be GIVING it away. unless god leaves a candy cane under my hanukkah bush or whatever. but i've been a bad girl, so we'll see.

for those of you who weren't around last year, or you were but you don't fucking catalog every single thing i ever fucking do, every year my merry band of orphans, vagrants, miscreants, and otherwise misplaced persons gets together the week before thanksgiving to celebrate and pretend we're part of an actual family. without all of the fistfighting and cussing and putting arsenic in the mashed potatoes. for the last six or seven years we've all gathered at corey's house and gotten wasted before stuffing ourselves full of food then playing apples to apples until i get diarrhea and have to go the fuck home. and we call this little celebration FAKESGIVING. and fakesgiving is tomorrow night at seven. (you should come.) i fucking hate thanksgiving. surprising for a bitch who shits all the time, right? I KNOW. but for reals, i hate thanksgiving because i'm an intolerant asshole who will pout if you serve fresh cranberries or run out of crescent rolls. and turkey is fucking GROSS. i hate eating that shit. i like DELI turkey, because that's all delicious salt and nitrates. real turkey tastes like road kill you hung out in the boiling sun before deciding to throw it in the oven at the last minute. i have to mix my tiny portion in with the stuffing and a thick slice of CANNED CRANBERRY SAUCE (delicious!) just to choke it down. it's like trying to eat a goddamned sock. blarf.

i get a LOT of thanksgiving invitations, i imagine because bitches think it will land them on santa's good list to invite a salty orphan to dinner. i decline all of them, mostly because if i wanted to miss out on all the inside jokes and witness interpersonal family drama play out over the green bean casserole i'd drop in on one of the five people on earth i'm actually related to. please don't be offended. the real reason i never go to anyone's house during the holidays is because i don't want to have to shit there. and unless you can read me an ingredient list, i can't be sure there isn't something lethal to my crohn's lurking within your sweet potato casserole. and who wants to be the asshole with half an ounce of turkey and nineteen unbuttered dinner rolls on her fucking plate? NOT ME.

i hate god because go OBVIOUSLY hates me, but i do take time out once a year to thank horus for everything that has made my life a little less goddamned miserable in the prior eleven months. i'm thankful for a lot of stupid shit, because i REFUSE to give thanks for "waking up in the morning" or whatever you jesus people pretend to be happy about. samantha is thankful for things like not shitting her pants while talking to that hot dude over there and being able to stay awake long enough to watch tracy morgan's comedy special the other night. like you saps always say, it's the little things. so here is my annual list of people, places, things, and cats that have kept me from committing suicide this year. feel free to use it as handy holiday shopping guide as well. i mean, where applicable.

1 the pleasure chest. since my celibacy has essentially put up a virtual billboard, i thought i should give a few props to the sex shop that has suppliedjust about every orgasm i've had this year. at last count (yesterday), i have seventeen working vibrators. lest my vagina get bored, i have a bunch of different kinds that perform different, yet equally amazing, feats and functions. butt vibes, inside vibes, outside vibes, vibes that are both inside and outside AT THE SAME TIME, and most of them have been purchased at the pleasure chest on lincoln west of that fancy whole foods. right off the paulina brown line stop. (i'm too lazy to consult the google.) ginger and i took a sex toy class there a few months ago where we learned more about pleasuring oneself than i ever imagined was possible. and after which i stepped my self love game UP. for real, i have spent more on fancy vibrators this year than i have on shoes. no more sticky fingers, and no more cheap plastic tubes that stop working ten minutes after you buy them. you girls need a piece with some horsepower. and it's a sex-positive place with a knowledgeable staff where you don't have to feel dirty and ashamed. they have a huge condom and lube section, which is good for you ladies with sensitive taco meat.

2 cupid's treasures. now let's fucking be for real. I AM A PERVERT. and the pleasure chest has fruitybag ladyporn that dries my snatch up. so for all of my filthy, crazy, "if you tell anyone i like this i'll KILL YOU" needs, i go to cupid's. it's on halsted just south of irving park, and you should really go during the daytime because every time i'm in there at night i feel like i'm going to end up on some predator list or something. i don't fuck with internet porn. sorry, dudes, but i think jerking off to a computer is weird. i guess i'm old school in that way. but so are a lot of other people (who refuse to pay for internet access). CT has a gigantic selection of hardcore porn, and they also have all that deviant shit you freaks are into: urine, lactation, nuggets, senior citizens, feet, fat, vomit, EVERYTHING. i try not to judge what anyone else beats off to, but put your blinders on up in there if you're delicate. i learned the hard way not to ask any dude i'm sleeping with what kind of porn he watches. body builders and cream pies are my limit. anything more serious than that can be your little secret.

3 my new htc evo. i haven't yet had this phone for a full day, and i am already completely obsessed and totally in love with it. mostly because it is complicated and hard to figure out, which is exactly the way it works with most of the dudes i love, too. i can't help it, i just fall hard for those elusive silent types. you know, the ones that let me email while making a phone call or whatever. i'm too childish and impatient for gadgets, and by next week i will be bored with this thing and moving on to something else, but for right now i'm absolutely smitten. despite the fact that it takes me forty-seven minutes to send a goddamned text.

4 amazing hair products. it's a good fucking time to be a black bitch with natural hair, lovers. i shaved all of my long, chemically-relaxed hair off almost sixteen years ago, the day before i started my senior year of high school. at the time i didn't have any lofty or revolutionary intentions, i was just a lazy teenager who hated spending her fun money at the hair salon. not to mention i got tired of running from rain storms and swimming pools and scratching at the peeling chemical burns on my scalp. i'm not a self-righteous asshole, so i don't give a fuck whether or not you perm your hair. that's between you and hawaiian silky or whoever. here's the thing i hate about you yaki weave bitches, my simply TALKING about my own hair is NOT a recrimination or indictment of you and yours. my healthy, lustrous curls don't judge your dead split ends and rapidly balding, itchy ass hairline. i don't have a problem listening to a skinny bitch talk about how much she loves celery, so why the fuck are YOU bent all out of shape just because i mention how MOP's leave-in conditioner makes my hair so soft? cut that oppression off and maybe you wouldn't be so fucking sensitive. jerks. anyway, years ago the only options for natural black hair were nada and nothing. nowadays the internet (and even some real-life brick-and-mortar storefronts!) is chock full of fancy shit you can slather on your dusty slave hair. and i've tried just about every single one. take your asses to curlmart.com and have a fucking field day. my favorites are bumble and bumble, hair rules, devacurl, MOP leave in, and paul mitchell's the conditioner is my main jam. my hair is totally fucking long and gross and i hate it right now, but it looks nice and smells good and i think everyone in my life was getting tired of my looking like a dude. so it's a win.

5 the urban target. thank the fuck christ someone pulled his head out of his ass and decided to put the greatest store in the history of man in a spot where broke assholes who like to use pocket change to get where they need to go can get to it. in case you didn't know, there's a target on broadway at montrose now! i know what you're thinking, "isn't it still a little bit hood over there?!" and yes, it still is. but if you go during the daytime what fucking difference does it make? it's the only target in chicago that's close to the el. HOLY FUCKING SHIT. i know what you're thinking now. "ISN'T THAT RIGHT OFF THE WILSON STOP?!?!! I'M NOT GOING SHOPPING OVER THERE!" and my answer, again, is yes. but they're cleaning it up, i promise! remember that time a couple years ago when i was walking to class at truman a couple years ago and stopped to watch that tranny beat a dude half to death on the street with a chain?! well, it's a little bit nicer now. more white people (who don't know any better) are moving in. but so is a harold's chicken. um, so yeah. the target is banging. one of those multi-leveled, multi-storied affairs. with a grocery store. FANCY. that shit changed my fucking life. the only drawback, however, is that sometimes it's hard to remember that you have to drag that shit on the train with you. target is overwhelming, and i can't help but to put everything i can get my grubby hands on in my goddamned cart. but there's no way i can carry an air conditioner, four lawn chairs, and a dining set in my backpack. trust me, i learned that one the hard way.

6 stupid, wack, raggedy fucking ridiculous, horrible dudes. without them, what the fuck would i write about?! helen and tacos, that's what. and you kids would all be bored out of your gourds. maybe not, but that's not a risk i'm willing to take. don't get me wrong, having a romantic life that is made of horse shit and crushing disappointment makes me want to cut my own throat. but there are two reasons i don't. 1 i think my knives are from ikea and are so fucking dull that i can't cut a goddamned tomato without making crazy jagged edges. and 2 MAKING FUN OF COCKSUCKING SCUMBAGS WHO LIKE TO GET PEED ON AND JERK OFF TO BITCHES EATING CAKE AND ASK YOU TO SPANK THEM AND STICK PINS IN THEIR TESTICLES ON THE MOTHERFUCKING INTERNET IS THE GREATEST FEELING ON EARTH. better than a scarlet letter, goddamn it. in the old days i would just sit in my room alone in the dark listening to sad music and nursing my poor disconsolate broken heart. now i just get drunk and put that shit on the internet. and that's 1000% better.

7 al gore. thank god for that dude. without him i would have missed all the juicy bits of that tiger woods drama, there would be no bitches gotta eat, and i wouldn't have met that dude who tried to fuck me in the ass with the human equivalent of a half-empty water balloon. right now i'm listening to the new girl talk record which is JAMMING AS HELL, and that would not be possible without the interweb. i don't know how it works or why it works or where it really came from, but if you tried to take my access to it away i would tear your throat out and set your corpse on fire. for cereal. i throw my aluminum cans in with the regular trash because i hate the earth and recycling is for white people, but i LOVE me some goddamned internets!


9 loperamide, mesalamine, and azathioprine.
without this shit i'd be dead. or laid up in traction at the very least. i could give a fuck about how corrupt and awful the pharmaceutical industry is. i really would be messed up if i didn't have a truckload of medication is my system at all times. i would be shitting in a plastic bag strapped to my ankle right now. and that would be gross. SERIOUSLY. could you imagine the first, "hang on, handsome. before you take my shirt off, let me explain why my foot sort of smells like shit..." conversation?! ew and no and gross. so thank horus for copious amounts of drugs.

10 "he's just not that into you." that's right, whores who haven't smoked away your short-term memory. TWO YEARS IN A ROW. maybe you think i'm dumb, and if you do why haven't you killed yourselves yet?, but that fucking book continues to be the one of the most important things i've ever read. especially considering that i don't fuck around with religious texts or newspapers. that weird ass dude with the douchebag mohawk was 100% correct about every stupid fucking thing dudes think, say, and do and the best course of action to keep from playing yourself. man, fuck dudes. and double fuck making yourself look and feel like a silly asshole just to try to get one to suck your toes for a minute or two. maybe i'll work on the african-american version, because i know most of you broads won't read shit unless it's marketed directly to your black ass. keep your eyes peeled for "that nigga ain't into you, gurl." coming this summer to a beauty shop or church bake sale near you.

11 this salty ass bitch.

keep your fingers crossed that i make it through the meal without having to resort to wearing a diaper. gobble gobble gobble, lovers!

Thursday, November 11, 2010

why i hate the goddamned gym.

because my thigh teeth destroy all of my yoga pants? POSSIBLY. (you smartass.) but mostly because of a lot of other stupid shit. i was at the gym monday afternoon and got pissed off, like, seventeen different times. why is the gym always so damp and hot? why are the other people there so nosy and weird? why is the water fountain always lukewarm? why are there NINE busted treadmills?! blarf.

so my crohn's relapsed a week ago in SPECTACULAR fashion. what a fucking bummer, man. despite almost insurmountable evidence to the contrary, lately i have been conducting myself like a person who has something to live for. that means less beer, fewer tacos, and more things that require dirt and/or sunlight for survival. physically i've been feeling as good as someone who hates being upright for longer than twenty minutes at a time can feel. kate and i go GROCERY SHOPPING every other week, i threw out all the menus in my delivery drawer (including apart's, which makes me sad because i love that artichoke and champignon), i drink three liters of water a day while taking 723 pills, and i make use of that gym membership i exchanged my soul for six years ago. obviously i should have just kept getting drunk and eating shit out of trash cans, because monday i had a salad and tuesday i was in the emergency room.

tuesday morning i woke up with a belly full of the bad pain, then was pretty sure i was going to shit myself on the train. i didn't, but i got to work and turned green and vomited down my shirt while listening to this woman complaining about her stupid dog. hospital time. my bitchin' friend jen met me in the ER, which was almost full to capacity. on a fucking tuesday morning. there's the real evidence that the economy is shit and no one has health care. eleven a.m. on a tuesday and i have to sit and wait? bitch, please. that's why i go to northshore evanston university enh hospital or whatever the fuck it's called these days, so i can get five star treatment. if i wanted to keel over in the waiting room i'd go to the county. i registered immediately (i don't even have to give my full name anymore before the woman at the desk is like, "samantha, right? here for abdominal pain?") but then sat for half a fucking hour waiting to be triaged. jen tried her best to distract me by talking about bartending and blowing shit up (she does explosives and stunts for fancy movies), and i might have been okay if i hadn't looked at the dude with the nearly severed thumb across the room. the minutes he moved the towel he was holding to show the nurse his bloody had i knew it was over.

jen took one look at me and said, "you're going to throw up" and i nodded and got up and walked in the wrong direction to the bathroom, which meant i was standing like an idiot in the middle of the goddamned hallway when i vomited. EVERYWHERE. jen shoved a puke bag in the middle of the spew while i tried not to get bloody salad and string cheese on her shoes then went to get a box of kleenex. barfing is so fucking horrible. especially public barf, when people are staring and totally grossed out by you. and the maintenance lady was super fucking salty that i got a liter of water and wilted lettuce all over her pristine floor. how did i know? because even though all of my insides were now on the outside, it was so goddamned busy that i had to go BACK TO THE WAITING ROOM. what kind of shit is that?! usually vomit is like a get out of jail free card; one drop of puke and a bed magically opens up. not so. i had to go back and sit with the regular people with vomit mouth that tasted like old cheese with wet feet because i'd had to go to the bathroom and rinse out my godamned plastic shoes.

it wasn't any better after i got a bed. the attending (who i've had many times before) came in and asked me to self-diagnose ("minor crohn's flare up, abdominal pain and inflammation") and script myself ("two bags of sodium chloride, a dose of zofran, a big shot of prednisone, and a healthy bump of dilauded"), then he listened to me breathe and pressed my belly four times before saying, "you're right. sounds good. i'll order everything for you," and straight BOUNCING. (sidenote: i should totally go to medical school, right?) a few minutes later the nurse came in and told me that my IV and i were being moved into the hallway. to make room for someone sicker. or more important. as if there's such a thing.

what the fuck kind of shit is this? i really am TOO GODDAMNED FANCY to be treated like some sort of common person. in the HALL?! thank horus i kept my fucking pants on and doubled up my gown. for christ's fucking sake. pffft. so some nurses came in and wheeled me into the hall before propping me up and unloading a bunch of syringes into my arm. god, i love that legal heroin. it feels so good. jen was excited because she thought we might get to see some gross or  scary shit coming in on a stretcher, but there wasn't much except a pantsless screaming toddler who kept running to the communal bathroom and a crazy lady who had two police officers posted up outside her door. less thrilling than you think.

needless to say i got out of there the second the last drop of fluid went through my catheter. AND AFTER THEY RAN MY CREDIT CARD. is this obamaconomy really like THAT?! after the nurse hooked up my second bag this black woman in street clothes came over to me carrying a clipboard, and before i could say, "no, bitch, i'm not registered to vote in this district!" she handed me some papers and said, "would you like to take care of your copay at this time?" holy fucking shit. we must need to get some white people back in power, because this has never happened to me before. i was like, "i guess so?" and she said, "great. that'll be $150." i obviously need some new fucking insurance. that whore gave me a look that said "NO TAKEBACKS" and held her hand out for my card. i guess my black ass has run out of benefit of the doubt. these dudes want their money UP FRONT. i'm sure there is something unethical about asking a person who is blasted out of her mind on narcotics to make important financial decisions, but lucky for her i was too wasted to object. the whole thing was rifuckingdiculous. i shut off the IV 7 times while trying to sign. total comedy of errors.

i'm fucking stubborn and lazy, but these little dalliances with death always scare me straight for a few weeks at the very least. and since i hadn't fallen that far from grace to begin with, i felt less like an asshole when i got back home. usually i get home from the hospital and embark upon a guilt-ridden cleaning spree, throwing out all the blocks of fancy cheese and six packs of beer that have mysteriously ended up in my refrigerator. ("i don't know who put that in there!") but all i had to do this time was toss that lettuce (FUCK SALAD) and some expired rice pudding that i can't promise i wouldn't have eaten if i'd been desperate enough. oh, shut up. and i can't say i haven't removed something delicious from the garbage before and eaten it (oh, fuck you), so i took it down to the dumpster where some homeless person who likes fine french cheese could find it. then i called the russian and told her to meet me at the gym.

god, i fucking hate the gym. it stinks and it's full of assholes who fart while they're on the elliptical in front of yours. balls, man, fucking BALLS. anyway, that little mean-ass lesbian was doing one arm push ups at the top of the fucking stairs when i got there, using her dick like a kickstand when she stopped to make sure that i hadn't cheated and taken the elevator. (just kidding, she was standing and looking annoyed. but i like my version better.) then she made me get on the treadmill for an hour while she watched and ate a sandwich. bitch.

the gym makes me feel like a perverted homo. why do chicks get out of the shower or the sauna and then take their sweet fucking time sitting on that grody bench drying their hair or putting lotion on or whatever? why? why do you bitches do that? because when i walk in there to take a shit or collapse on the floor near my locker I CAN'T HELP STOPPING AND STARING AT YOUR GIANT AREOLAS AND WRINKLY TACO. seriously, i can't tear my eyes away. why do you have to do that? there's an area by the shower, away from me and the king sized bag of peanut butter m&m's i hid beneath my gym bag, in which you can dry yourself off and get dressed in relative privacy. i mean, these hoes really have to WORK to show off that smelly vag. out of the shower, across the slippery floor, and out to the locker room area where i'm trying to massage that "i don't exercise regularly enough" cramp out of my right side. they don't even care, wantonly rubbing that damp cottage cheese against the side of my head as i'm tying my shoe while they reach over me to retrieve their clothes from the locker above mine. can i get thirty seconds, bitch? go change in the bathroom like the rest of us prudes.

i feel like a suitable reward for a good workout is a pizza. i wish i had someone else's brain. not really, because everyone else is so painfully fucking stupid, but i wish i was the kind of person who could burn 2500 calories doing circuit training (that shit comes from SATAN) and then go home and feel satisfied eating an orange and a piece of boiled chicken. the russian and i were boxing a few weeks ago (me likey) and she told me how i was burning so many calories and working so hard blah blah blah and then i said, "how many beers does that mean i can have later?" and she rolled her eyes and dropped the pads and told me to go get my ass on the bike. every time i work out with that bitch i either feel like retching so hard that my stomach comes out of my mouth or jumping in the dumpster behind a mcdonalds and eating everything that isn't moving. do you kids really work out and then go home to a sensible meal? the last thing i want to do is spray pam on a piece of broccoli and wash it down with a glass of tap water. i want something dead and barely cooked with a pint of beer next to it, not some shit that screams "responsible, health-conscious person." come on, man. I EARNED IT.

bitches are fucking nosy. i always feel like the local affiliate has started their morning show version of chicago's biggest loser or whatever everytime i walk in the gym. you assholes do NOT keep your eyes on your own fucking paper. even when i'm there torturing myself in peace and quiet i feel like everyone and his dirty uncle is staring a hole into my ass on the stair machine. i hate to break it to you jerks, but fat people are the ones who are supposed to be working out. YOUR skinny ass should be the one skulking on the rowing machine in the corner trying not to draw too much attention to yourself. that protruding clavicle has already told me everything i need to fucking know about your fitness goals; why in the fuck are you staring like i'm the one who's out of place? why are there always three and a half fat bitches in a gym full of toned motherfuckers? you healthy sluts should be out eating frozen yogurt and wearing clothes marketed for people with "an active lifestyle." at least you know what brought me in here, what the fuck is your anorexic problem? shouldn't you be sitting at home barely making a dent in that couch you never use instead of hogging the triceps machine i OBVIOUSLY need? get your tiny ass out of  my way, jerk.

gym etiquette is confusing to me. like, which machines do i have to wipe down? and how thoroughly wiped does it have to be? if i don't sweat all over it because i minimally exert myself, can't i just get off and go to the next thing? how long is too long to "rest" between sets? sometimes i see dudes sitting on the shit i want to get on for, like, TWENTY minutes just panting and slobbering. when can i tell them it's my turn? if someone has gone over the thirty minute treadmill time limit, at what point can i go get the security guard? why do people think it's okay to ask for the name of my tattoo artist while i am on my back trying not to die while doing chest presses? how come SO MANY people think it's appropriate to talk to me while i'm obviously on my last legs? case in point, monday i was doing some lateral arm raise bullshit, and this ugly dude sidled up alongside me and DRIPPED SWEAT ON MY LEG just so he could say, "that's a sweet grim reaper tattoo, doll." first of all, FUCK YOU. second of all, BLARF. my new tattoo really does totally fucking rule, but get your ass away from me. how am i supposed to count my reps AND fend off idiots? i'm only one person, damn!

men sometimes work out in micro shorts. one of these days i'm going to see some fucking balls. for cereal. i get it, you're sexy. and you'd be just as sexy, and probably 100% more comfortable, if you were wearing looser clothing. no one wants to see the outline of your puny dick while she's working out. put that thing away. ALSO, maybe you should rethink doing the ab machine while wearing those teenie things. i could do a fucking colonoscopy. chicks are gross, too, but i try not to shit so much on women. oh, maybe i should. .01% of the female population should be working out in sports bras and spandex shorts. sadly, this does not include you. so stop it. thank you.

i don't give a fuck about getting in shape, because i don't think that is a thing i could actually be considering my genetics and proclivity toward laziness. but i'm too poor for therapy and everyone i know swears by endorphins. plus, i need an excuse to keep drinking my fancy beer and eating my fancy cheeseburgers. god, i love being drunk. hic.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

rough justice.

let's all try to live by this tenet, shall we? and by WE i mean YOU, because i stopped fucking dudes who don't read books a long time ago. man, what a fucking time-waster. bitches are always looking for an early indicator that a dude is going to be a worthless, piece of shit asshole, and NO BOOKS IN HIS APARTMENT is a dead goddamned giveaway. quit waiting for him to cheat on you or punch you in the face. if he doesn't read books he's not worth your energy. SERIOUSLY. maybe you could just bang him a few times to get it out of your system, but most of you bitches are too clingy and gross to properly execute the one and done. and hanging on to an illerate sonofabitch is downright EXHAUSTING. cute wears off, gorgeous. eventually that dude is going to be fat and have erectile dysfunction and you kids are going to need something to goddamned TALK ABOUT. shit. okay then, it's tough love time.

My boyfriend is leaving soon for basic training and will be gone for more than four months. We won't be able to talk in any way except letters. How do I keep our relationship strong and keep from missing him too much?

is that possible? i mean, really possible? i know that goddamned everything is considered unpatriotic in this era of halfrican presidents and the incessant talk of TEABAGGING on cable television news programs, but let's pretend for a minute that our first amendment rights are still unalienable and be for real about how hard it would be to date someone in the fucking military. hooray for soldiers, because the more of them that enlist voluntarily the less likely some hot young dude i'm trying to fuck will be caught up in the new draft, but this shit is HARD. my dad was a batshit crazy ex-marine who spent his formative years fighting in korea, and let's just say that among my laundry list of rules was "no whistling in the house" and "never look an adult male in the eyes because he might consider it a challenge." ptsd is real, sister.

that said, i'm kind of in love with the idea of four passionate months of hot love lettering, but only if he's got good grammatical skills and won't misspell too many things. for cereal. i won't let a dude who needs to repeat eight grade language arts text me too much, let alone try to sift through a whole letter's worth of indiscernible garbage. and i don't know how to keep a relationship strong (is that a real thing you can do?) with a motherfucker who's not dodging shrapnel in afghanistan, so i can't be of any help there. and EVERYBODY knows how you keep from missing someone: you find someone else to fill that void. someone with a big, um, void-filler.

What does it mean when a man loves you because you remind him of Justin Bieber?

that he's gay and you look like a fucking lesbian. DUH.

I'm a Christian and my boyfriend's an atheist. That doesn't bother me at all. I was just daydreaming the other day about us getting married and raising a family, but then it hit me: I would want my kids to be raised Christian, but he might have a problem with that. How would we go about discussing this?

"let's break up." do that dude a fucking solid and end your relationship with him. religious people are terrifying to me, because they are usually vehement and tyrannical and it's IMPOSSIBLE to get through to them 99% of the fucking time. and while they are unequivocally permitted to stand upon the rock and proselytize their fiction to me for the sake of an argument, if i say, cited "snow white" to underwrite a point of my own i'd be considered RIDICULOUS. parents are crazy scary, too, and jesus + mommy = YIKES. i can see how christians and jews might come to an agreement when raising their bireligious offspring, but if i view the ten commandments as a hilarious bucket list and you want to live your life by them, we should probably not shit out any babies together. i'm tempted to ask how dating even works, especially the whole virginity thing. i mean, you are a virgin, right? a good, clean christian girl worried about a possible future with heathen athiest offspring? you are pure as the driven snow aren't you? a christian girl with christian family values like you? you couldn't possibly be having sex, could you? mm hmm. as i suspected. just another hypochristian.

What's your opinion on domestic discipline? My husband wants our marriage to be a dd marriage. I'm not so sure. What do you think about this?

speaking of terrifying religious zealotry, my friend the internet told me this is a new thing some christian couples are getting into. in the name of the lord, of course. basically, husband gets to spank wife. when wife is bad. you know, to DISCIPLINE her. if a dude could prove his IQ was higher than mine and his ability to reason were more intact, then i would GLADLY allow him to turn me over his knee and correct something i'd said or done. too bad that no dude like this exists. so i guess i'll never know.

if you're dumb and require someone even dumber to plot your steps and punish you when you've done something he disapproves of, i'm all for this shit. if i want your baby spanked i DEFINITELY want your ass spanked right along with him. maybe hitting really is the answer. i was threatened and glowered at rather than whipped or spanked, and i'm a terrible fucking person. someone should have beaten the shit out of me! maybe i wouldn't be so "smart in the mouth" and have such a bad attitude. i'd like to be invited to dinner at a dd house, just so i could witness firsthand how this shit works. husband: "my mashed potatoes are cold!" wife: "oh no! honey, i'm so sorry!" husband, removing belt (or shoe or whatever sanctioned item you get to clobber your wife with): "get over here and let me teach you a lesson!"

blarf. how do you call the police if he goes too far? what do you do if he causes an actual injury? seriously, are you going to explain to the ER doctor that you live in a domestic discipline household? no, you are not. that said, if a dude let me spank him i'd be TOTALLY INTO IT. i'd let him pick his own switch and everything. yum.

I've been wondering this for a while now: why are women with cats always painted as lonely and desperate? I seriously don't get this, can you please enlighten me?

i'm a woman (mostly), i have a cat, and i am the awesome. aren't all the villainous witches in children's stories old broads with mean-ass cats, desperate to cook and eat some little fucking kids? i imagine some repressed homosexual who hated his mommy perpetuated this fraud. you know, the kind who would spend his adult life writing and animating CHILDREN'S STORIES. (i'm looking at you, walt disney.) if librarians can be seen as sexy then goddamn it why can't cat ladies make a comeback?! that's my mission, i just decided. to bring back the sexy cat lady. purrrrrrr.

Which is worse for a married man to have: an emotional affair or a physical affair?

BLARF. this is like choosing between the firing squad and the guillotine. but if i am forced to choose i have to go with emotional, simply because i can't STAND when a dude i'm into thinks someone is smarter or funnier than i am, and it would kill me if my hot piece was curling up next to some other bitch's jokes. if it's a physical thing i'd be pissed and probably have him murdered all the same, but i'd be a bit more understanding. i'm not that gorgeous and i'm totally fucking lazy. and trust me, NO ONE wants to stick his dick in a punchline. i've tried.

I met my boyfriend online. I want to do a background check on him for peace of mind for me and my family. How do I ask him if that's ok? It's understandable, right?

your family gets involved in your sex life? see THIS is why it rules to be an orphan. (there are dozens of reasons why it doesn't rule, but just play along for a minute.) i don't know, gurl. you got some CIA people? or some IRS people? because what the fuck could a regular-ass bitch find out about someone? what are you going to do, GOOGLE this motherfucker? bitch, please! you have to know crooked gangsters and convicts and shady lawyers to find out any real dirt, and even then who knows what they might find out? what are you going to do once you know a dude's low credit score and outstanding library book balance? refuse to let him buy you a cheeseburger? YEAH fucking RIGHT. you're going to do exactly what the rest of us would do: let that dude put it in your butt and make fun of him behind his back for never having returned "the house on mango street."

My boyfriend likes to explore the nether-lands. I'll kneel over to get something while in bed naked, and he'll ask me to stay like that as he looks at and fiddles with my lady parts for a minute. I think it's funny that he looks like such a chimpanzee, but it's nothing to worry about...right?

this is the shit i live for. how fucking crazy is this?! i'd NEVER STOP bending over in front of this dude. seriously, i'd never fucking wear pants! he'd have to be properly sanitized first, but then poke poke poke all you like, friend! he's OBVIOUSLY mentally impaired in some way, but at least he airs his shit out in the open, right? most people would suppress this kind of curiosity, choosing instead to bottle it up until one day he explodes and pokes a knife in your butthole. kudos to this fine gentleman. keep doing this. PLEASE.

How do you know when a guy only wants you for sex? What are the signs?

he's walking? talking? BREATHING?!

I love my job, but my fiance wants me to quit when we get married and be a housewife. He is a corporate lawyer so money isn't a problem. I just wonder why he doesn't want me to work. Does it really make a difference in a relationship if I work or not?

you "wonder why he doesn't want you to work?" well, let me help: HE WANTS TO TRAP YOU INTO DEPENDENCE. i will have some form of income, legal or otherwise, until the day i drop dead. nothing strikes empathetic fear in my heart faster than the words "i stay home and take care of the kids." could you sell avon? or tupperware?! is there ANY WAY AT ALL you can earn your own money? a PAYCHECK equals FREEDOM, mam, and unless your pre-nup isbangin', when this 99.99999% divorce rate catches up with your ass you're going to be FUCKED. you and your kids. dudes don't do the right thing anymore, get the mistress/secretary a secret apartment in the city while maintaining your standard of comfortable living in the suburbs. instead they jettison your saddlebagged ass and move in with that bitch these days, shacked up playing house until she pressures him for a commitment and he leaves her ass, too. and the only reason you'd need to care is if you were trapped waiting for his trickle down economics to pay your fucking mortgage. so yes, it makes a difference. the difference between being able to say "fuck you" while packing your shit and groveling pathetically while you wait for him to cut you a check. just cut out the middle man and marry your job. many happy returns!

It takes me a long time to warm up to strangers, and I get weirdly flippant when I'm nervous. Guys think I'm hilarious, but I feel like they know nothing about me. How can I stop making people laugh long enough for them to actually get to know me?

sorry to break this to you, but no one really wants to get to know the real you. seriously, they just fucking DON'T. and i'm dubious about how funny you are, but my funny has been proven and 99% of the people i know could give a shit who i really am. bitches just want you to crack jokes. and can you blame them? no one's trying to hear about my dead parents all the time, they want me to riff on some shit and make it funny. because laughing is basically an orgasm that comes out of your mouth, and nothing on earth feels better than THAT. and rest assured, eventually your true, unfunny self will come bubbling up to the fucking surface. keep people around long enough and they are bound to see you freak the fuck out or curled up in a ball in the corner sobbing or kick your dog out of anger or whatever it is you are dyyyying for them to get to know. personally i like to hide my cray cray behind the comedy veil, but if you want to unleash it on some unsuspecting person who just wanted to have a good time hanging out with you then BY ALL MEANS. go right ahead and ruin that budding relationship. idiot.

and i wish i knew how to stop making people laugh. but i can't. because i'm HILARIOUS. pfffft.

What are your views on drunk calls? Are things said in a drunk call honest and can be taken seriously?

drunk calls made or received? my drunk calls are epic and hilarious because i'm an expert lush, but the only drunk calls i've ever received were either lecherous, slurred booty calls (gross) or some bitch sobbing in my goddamned ear about some shit i could fucking care less about (grosser). but everybody knows i haven't answered my phone since 2003, so i make more drunk calls than i get. i'll talk until your voicemail runs out of tape, say dirty and delirious shit all in your ear, WHATEVER. i never make important calls that have to be taken seriously when i'm drunk, mostly because i avoid conversations like that AT ALL COSTS. i don't have heart-to-hearts with people, because i don't ever really fuck anything up. and i play the blame game rather than apologize for anything i do, so no "i'm so sorry" calls, either. i hate talking about shit. i like to do stuff that's fun. making serious phone calls is the opposite of that. and anyone who would wait until he or she was drunk to try to hammer out some sensitive shit with you is a coward and should be removed from your life anyway. if your man wants to have a relationship talk and you can smell beer through the receiver, HANG THE HELL UP. then tell him to call me.

I've got a TOUGH one! I "over-called" this guy I've been seeing for 4 weeks. Several calls, texts, and emails two days after our last date on Sunday. We had tentatively planned dinner for Tues, but he never confirmed. Yes, he said HE would call. Bad judgment on my part and havent heard from him. How do I fix this? Thanks.

either ask a friend to bind your hands or throw your phone in the garbage. i've stuck to my "never calling another dude AGAIN" phone plan and, while i haven't gotten laid, i also haven't suffered any unseemly (and emotionally crippling) embarrassment and humiliation overages. you bitches probably already know, but the stupidity one feels after having not one but several of her attempts at communication ignored is UNPARALLELED. god, that's just crushing. take it from a bitch who never answers her phone (and has a lot of angry "goddamn you, sam, you never answer your fucking phone!" voicemails to prove it) that that shit is MUCHO DISCOURAGING. i prefer overeating to overcalling, therefore after the FIRST one went unanswered i'd bury my sorrows in some tacos or saltines, depending on the state of my intestines at the time, and get in bed with a book and the first season of sons of anarchy. so why not try that? there's no such thing as FIXING this, so toss your phone in your sock drawer and spend a weekend reconnecting with the treats in your pantry and that book you've been meaning to read, then check your phone monday morning and see if he's called.

he will not have, of course, because you are motherfucking crazy and did your absolute best to terrify the shit out of him, but at the very least you will have a belly full of sugar (and probably cheap wine) and a newfound appreciation for jonathan franzen.

Okay, my ex broke up with me a few months back. However, he's acting like I broke up with him and that he's the one with all the hurt feelings. Can you shed some light on this for me?

for sure. dudes are manipulative pussies and melodramatic crybabies. somehow society has tricked women into thinking that we're the crazy, emotional, manipulative ones, and that is TOTAL FUCKING BULLSHIT. every cheater i ever caught cried and pleaded like a neutered dog and that made me embarrassed for them; i might have stuck around if one of them had been like, "look, bitch, i did what i did and you're just going to have to DEAL WITH IT," before throwing me on the bed and getting savage with my ladyparts. i wouldn't really, but at least i wouldn't have to stand there and pretend to listen to his poor torment and pain. life is just so hard for men, you see, that's why he couldn't be a good boyfriend and had to dump you. he didn't want to, but he's just so sorry and going through so many heavy things in his life right now. and if you could just understand how badly he hurts, how much he ached with melancholy after texting "i'm done with this relationship" to you at four in the morning from that other girl's bed then maybe you'd consider going easy on him and finding it in your heart to forgive. that decision was so hard for him, don't you get it?

man, fuck this dude. i'm not a big fan of the whole "friends with my ex" thing, because i think it mostly devolves into exactly this kind of silly shit. he said she said relationship rehashing, and FUCK THAT. it's either all this psychodrama or damaging rebound sex, neither of which is good for your further growth and development as a sentient being. bitches who don't add anything valuable to your life need to get kicked the fuck out of it, especially when those bitches have penises they used to stick inside you. TRUE STORY: last week laura and i were sitting at work, fucking around on the internet as usual, reading dlisted and shit and ignoring the please of small animals, when this dude i dated TEN YEARS AGO "dropped by to say hello." i don't know if laura's ever heard my "fuck this asshole" voice before, but she got an earful of it last week. i was all "fuck you, get outta my job, you're a dickbag" and he still tried to plead his sorry case. his TEN YEAR OLD case. isn't there a statute of limitations on cheating liars? holy fuck, dude, MOVE ON. and he's the second dude to pull the show up at sam's job and apologize for some OLD SHIT trick so i was a righteous bitch and humiliated him to make laura laugh, because that's the kind of friend i am. if my miserable follies make someone smile, then my job on this earth is done. the point, if you couldn't find it anywhere in there, is that as long as a dude knows your phone number or where you live or where you work he will never stop trying to rewrite history and convince you that it's somehow YOUR fault that he fucked you over. so stop talking to him. or emasculate his raggedy ass in front of your friend. whatever works.

Is there a difference between having sex and making love?

ew. if a dude ever said he was going to make love to me i would open his control panel and power him down before sending him back to the manufacturer and demanding he honor my expired warranty. romantic sex is a fallacy; it is also fruity and gross. i imagine making love is like softcore cinemax porn, you know, the kind with gay story arcs that is fucking impossible to masturbate to. who watches that? and how do you watch that shit?! directv gave me free cinemax because someone obviously tipped them off that i am a pervert and sexual deviant, and i was flipping past some shit the other night and stopped on a porn called "the hills have thighs" (that's fucking GENIUS, dude) and could only watch for half a second before i felt my brain beginning to atrophy from boredom. i like to see private parts and copious ejaculation, not a chick bouncing up and down on a dude's lap for ten seconds moaning like he's really doing something. bitch, please. the up-close crotch shots look like a fucking handshake! it's just flesh pressed together! no vag! no peen! how can i get hot for the sexual equivalent of a high five? that shit is offensive.

Is it ok to send a guy flowers?

absolutely not. dudes aren't into flowers, and if yours is he is MOIST. women like to get
flowers because they like for the other women gathered around the office water cooler to seethe in jealous rage at the sight of them. you really care about some rapidly-dying birds of paradise that fell off the delivery truck, lover? yeah right. you want janelle in accounting to SHIT HER FUCKING PANTS that you got flowers the week after she found out her husband was cheating on her with a pre-op and you really want amy in HR to know you're getting laid on the regular because you overheard that whore making fun of your wide hips in the break room the other day. if i got some flowers right this second i wouldn't check the card or anything. i'd brandish them in laura's face and yell "bam!", then i'd upload a picture on facebook like the rest of you bragging ass sluts with the caption, "guess whose boo is better than YOURS?"

if a dude is deserving of a special treat (and i doubt that he's sufficiently earned it but let's keep living in fantasy flower land), BLOW HIM. dudes want to get their fucking DICKS SUCKED, not smile sheepishly at the UPS man as he signs for that fruitbag edible arrangement your dumb ass spent 900 dollars on and had shipped to his fucking JOB, in front of EVERYONE, or the heart-shaped cookie assortment he has to run out and hide in his trunk because his coworkers won't stop giving him shit about it.

here's what you can send to a man: your dry cleaning bill, any other bills of yours that need paying for that matter, the receipt for the valtrex you had to buy after he gave you herpes, a naked picture of the dude you dumped him for, a cease and desist letter, DNA results that prove your child is, in fact, HIS, or any items he might have "accidentally" left in your apartment the last time you allowed him to stay over. stop throwing salt in my game, sir. take your socks with you when you leave.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

some dumb asshole stood me up.

"if i said 'i only drink top shelf liquor' to you, what would you think that meant?" he asked.

holy shit i fucking HATE talking to assholes. "is that a joke? are you kidding?"

"no, i'm not," he said in all seriousness. "i want to know what that means to you."

i sighed and sat down on my bed, un-muting the television and turning it all the way up in the hopes that bill maher would drown this idiot out. "if a gentleman said that to me," i sighed, "i would think he was a pretentious asshole."

sometimes i hate talking on the fucking phone. especially to a dude i don't know with whom it's too premature to have aural sex. the phone is horrible because you can't fucking DO anything while trapped in a telephone conversation. you can't watch tv or dance around to a hot jam while someone is blathering on in your ear, you just have to sit there and be a good listener. i'm all for scandalous gossip calls or guess who i just got fucked by calls, but other than that? YAWN. dudes suck on the phone because they often do other things while talking, and as interesting as you think it is for me to listen to you shout across the room to your homie trust me, IT AIN'T. also, some dudes think talking on the phone before you've hung out equals a date, which means when you actually do drag his broke ass out to a bar he thinks he gets to fuck you afterward. you know, because you listened in as he got the high score on madden 2011. you know, you're already close and shit. pfffft. i like to hustle a dude off the phone and out in fucking public. why would i waste a bunch of my anytime minutes talking to a dude who i'll find out in person is five inches shorter and five times gnarlier than he appeared on the internet? you don't get to cyrano ME, you sonofabitch. no sir. let me see what i'm working with. "maybe you don't understand what i'm getting at? what is 'top shelf liquor'?"

i knew what he was doing, and i definitely knew what he was "getting at," because i'm incredibly familiar with this specific breed of ASSHOLE. motherfuckers who think wearing suits and ordering macallan 18 at the bar makes them taye diggs or some shit. BLARF. "top shelf liquor is premium, higher quality, more expensive liquor. so named because they are often kept on the top shelf of the bar." i want you to know i was rolling my eyes SO HARD as i said that. what a fucking cocksucker. "do you often administer the hoodrat SAT before going out with a woman?"

he laughed because, in addition to being an asshole, he's obviously stupid. "i'm sorry, but the last date i went on i told the woman i only order top shelf liquor, and she had no idea what that meant. what a dumbass! i was really embarrassed for her, and i didn't ask her out again. so i had to find out if this conversation was worth continuing." aha!

let's pause here for a second and make a couple points. 1 speaking negatively about people you've dated in the past to someone whose booty cheeks you haven't yet gotten to slap is fucking gross and makes you look lame, particularly when it isn't funny. as a matter of fact, most things people say to one another are mostly fucking gross because they aren't funny. you know what you should talk about on the phone to someone you want to stick your fucking dick in? SOMETHING HILARIOUS. followed by ALL OF THE MOST AWESOME SHIT YOU'RE INTO, one right after the other. you know, all the cool shit that'll hopefully make a broad overlook the fact that you don't have your own apartment. 2 my standards get lower and lower by the second, so i might not be the best judge, but isn't "does she know what top shelf liquor is?" just a little bit outfuckingrageous?! it's worth mentioning that he hadn't yet asked what, if anything, i do for a living. or what kind of music. i like or whether or not i like it from behind. again, my priorities might be different, but i'd be thrilled as shit if a dude had no idea where my fancy beer comes from.

"i just hate when a woman really thinks she's doing something because she orders a fucking HEINEKEN at the bar. man, that ain't shit. i have superior tastes. i mean, everything i like has to be upper echelon. i only like the finer things." groan.

helen keller snickered and mouthed the word "DOUCHEBAG!" before running to her empty food bowl. what a bitch. anyway, to keep my eyes from rolling out of my fucking skull by this point i had walked into the kitchen and sat on the floor in front of the open refriegerator, contemplating for half a second before deciding to have lemon cake frosting and a beer for dinner. "so i'm fucking IN LOVE WITH YOU for knowing that," he said, expecting me to blush or giggle or swoon or whatever. "not to put too fine a point on it, but could you give me an example?"

is this dude fucking serious? i almost dropped my frosting spoon! but my vagina insisted i play along because his profile picture was excruciatingly hot. "well," i said slowly, as i would to a toddler, "i like vodka. so if i were ordering TOP SHELF vodka, i would order a vodka soda, made with belvedere or chopin."

helen, sensing my depleted state, seized the opportunity to jump into the refrigerator and start chewing on the thigh of a rotisserie chicken carcass i had put away without wrapping the week before. i swatted her with a package of baby broccoli. "bitch, get out of here!" i hissed. "stop eating that!"

"stop talking to that moist ass dude," she shot back before going back to her business with the chicken.

"i'm trying to find you a father, you ungrateful fucker." i slammed the door in her face, rattling all the expired salad dressings inside.

"what's that?" he asked. "what's vodka soda?"

now that took me aback. "um, vodka with soda?" i'm not easily confused, but mister upper echelon was throwing me for a loop.

"what is SODA?" isn't it funny when stupid people shout at you like you're hearing impaired when the real problem is that they are thinking impaired? in case you've forgotten, this dude who dumped what i'm sure was a perfectly likeable woman because she didn't know about pretentious bourgeosie spirits had to ask me WHAT THE FUCK GODDAMNED CLUB SODA IS.

in case you didn't already know, this is what sucks about trying to get laid in the modern age. dumb motherfuckers think they're smart and smart motherfuckers are already fucking someone boring and horrible. in what universe is it cool that i have to entertain this idiot just to try to get fucked properly one or two times? and maybe get a few free vodka sodas?! "club soda is carbonated water," i said again in my kindergarten voice. "water with bubbles."

no shame in his game. "oh. that sounds disgusting." i bet.

i cracked open a bottom shelf high life. "can i tell you something without offending you too badly?" i asked. whenever someone says that you know they're just asking for your permission to take a dump all over you, don't you? that's why my answer is always a resounding NO. i soldiered on before he could stop me. "it's obvious to me, already, that i am vastly smarter than you are. if you need standardized test proof i can get it for you, but i got a 32 on my ACT and a 1520 on my SAT. and if you ask me any more inane questions i will tear your scrotum off when i meet you." you know why you can talk to a dude like that? BECAUSE HE WILL FUCK YOU ANYWAY. a woman would slam the phone down and cry into her cake frosting, but dudes? never.

"what kind of beer do you drink?"

sigh. and they never fucking learn. "every kind. but if i'm slumming i'll drink blue moon or high life, and if there's money in my bank account i drink warsteiner or allagash white."

finer things expressed his relief that i hadn't said anything dumb or embarrassing, you know, like heineken. then he offered up his own suggestion. "have you ever heard of leinenkugel?"

"what the fuck did you just say?!"
i blurted, incredulous.

"what the fuck did he just say?!" helen burst out of the fridge, a mangled and dessicated chicken leg dangling from her mouth.

"that shit is made in WISCONSIN," i sputtered. "that's what you consider upscale beer?! you can get that shit in the grocery store."

i used to date this dude who was fancy for real, not this pretend shit, and he would never touch ANYTHING that came from a conventional grocery store. he did his shopping at foodstuffs and fox and obel; farmer's markets and all those little frou frou places that charge nineteen dollars for a loaf of artisan bread or whatever. the first time i was at his place and he asked me if i wanted a voss still i had no idea WHAT THE FUCK HE WAS TALKING ABOUT. so i stood there like an idiot and said "no" then almost collapsed from dehydration two hours later. bet your sweet ass i know what that is NOW. and i'm a huge snob, too, but i at least keep that shit well-hidden. the first time spanks and i went to dinner he ordered a GODDAMNED APPLE MARTINI. and i spent two years with that dude. see? i'm fucking TOLERANT.

if you're wondering why i continued this wretched conversation the answer is simple: you whores. if i don't get into shit and make shit happen this blog is going to devolve into a daily poop diary. and i know you'd really love that, but i think you'd like it better if i were writing about some hot dude's veiny wang? I WOULD. you know i'm a wholehearted believer that if you have sex with just one dude (even a dude who drinks LEINENKUGEL), the penis floodgates OPEN UP and hot dicks just start falling out of the fucking sky. for serious, when i'm getting laid i have to beat dudes off with a stick (take a minute to get the joke). now during this dry spell i'm thinking about paying for it. just to make sure my vagina hasn't broken from lack of use, like an old car.

because i'm trying to break the cycle i agreed to go out with finer things upon my return from san diego. mostly because I'M BORED and he's 6'3" with five black belts. yowser. "i really like you, sam. i can't wait to meet you. by the way, how would you describe your personal style?"

"moist!" helen shouted from inside the refrigerator.

"um, upscale vagrant?" how the fuck should i know what to call someone who wears clothes that could be mistaken for pajamas 100% of the time?! most days i look like i could have slept in a refrigerator box the night before, and that's just the way i fucking like it. "why?"

"well, i consider myself something of a fashion plate, and i don't want to be overdressed. you know, i don't want to show up in a suit if you're wearing jeans."

so i already knew that this wasn't mister sam. i mean, come on. with all that fruity top shelf talk? BLARF. but any dude who puts THIS MUCH THOUGHT into what he wears on a date? i'd rather be dead than spend too much time with a dude like this. dudes like this never think anything you do is good enough. nothing. and i'd rather gouge my eyes out with tweezers than let a self-described "fashion plate" criticize anything about me. including my plastic shoes. but i thought i might be able to deal with him long enough to squeeze in a little backdoor action and get my dick karma back on track. "wear what you want, homie. we're not going to great america. we don't have to match."

"have a good trip! i'm going to plan an AMAZING date for when you come back. seriously, i'm going to gaze into your eyes and shit."

helen climbed out of the fridge with a package of boursin and a bottle of campari. "if you fuck this dude i will NEVER FORGIVE YOU," she spat, then went to clean her butthole on my pillow.

i texted him upon my return, anxious to find out what an AMAZING DATE sounds like. no one has ever planned SHIT for me. not to say that i haven't been to some fabulous places, but they were all typically at my suggestion. and i'm not salty, if a dude planned some romantic stroll in the park with a picnic i would turn up my nose and remind him that i don't fucking eat outside, and then i'd say something snotty that insinuated he might be gay. here is the text i received in return: "i thought we might walk around belmont harbor for a while."
for those of you who don't remember, or don't live in our much-lauded city of wind, last tuesday was the day this goddamned town looked like the beginning of the fucking WIZARD OF OZ. the sky was black at two in the afternoon, gale force winds, cold as balls, and this genius thought it might be a good idea to WALK AROUND THE LAKE? try again.

after much back and forth (god, i sort of hate texting, too) we decided on a bar near my house. and if you know me then you know where, because it takes me thirty seconds to get there and it's dark enough that any stains on my clothing will likely go unnoticed. i went home after work and watched the entire celtics-heat game and part of the laker game that came on after it before i realized that finer things was TOTALLY FUCKING LATE. just as i was about to take my bra off (that's how you know my day is over) and go to bed he texted "i'm here."

i walked in the bar and immediately gasped when i saw a dude who kind of looked like finer things yet was an entire foot shorter than i'd been expecting. i was preparing my "i have diarrhea and i have to leave right this minute" speech when that dude left with an even shorter lady. i stared after them, bemused, then decided that finer things must be fixing his makeup in the bathroom or whatever, because there were seven people in there and six of them were bitches. i got a fancy TOP SHELF drink and sat at the table in the darkest corner, trying to come up with a funny opener that wouldn't make me seem totally fucking weird. a few minutes later i thought, "this is strange" and texted to see where he might be. there are a bunch of bars near me (that's why i live where i do, of course) and i thought maybe he decided to ignore both the address and directions i'd given. shockingly, i was wrong. i will transcribe, from my cell phone, the rest of the evening.

"i'm at train."

"cool. walk east."

"i don't know which way is east."

SERIOUSLY?! "the lake is east. you can see the lake, and the bar, from the train. follow the addresses. or ask someone."

"you expect me to just ask some stranger on the street? I DON'T DO THAT. i was hoping you'd come get me."

"is the dude who gave me the liquor test really asking me to walk HALF A BLOCK to pick him up? after 10 at night?! you're out of you're fucking MIND. i took my coat off and i have a drink."

"i think it would be common courtesy. don't you?"

as a matter of fact i do NOT. let me interject here for one second. DUDES, this is quite possibly the least sexy thing you could EVER DO. asking a broad to walk somewhere to meet you? just so she could walk you back to the place she was already at?! no, thank you. pick up your skirt, grab your balls, and get yourself wherever you need to go.

when i didn't respond i got this: "i can't believe you would have me out here with prostitutes and panhandlers and shit. come get me!"

at this point i was on TOP SHELF drink number two, and feeling loose. AND MEAN. "what a pussy. i thought you had black belts? what, are you worried about scuffing your fancy shoes? i thought you were going to dress down?" ahahahahaha.

a few minutes later: "you're seriously going to leave me here?"

i would never, and i mean NEVER, be able to forgive myself if i walked away from a delicious alcoholic beverage, out into the cold, dark night, to walk half a block to pick up an upper echelon dude who didn't even have a car and was apparently too scared of the "panhandlers and prostitutes" (pfffft) littering my neighborhood streets to walk his bitch ass down to the bar. or maybe he just couldn't count and didn't want to admit that he couldn't figure out the address. either way, if i'd gone to get him, and continued our courtship, every time he said anything or did anything or pulled his dick out of his pants i would think, "i had to go pick this asshole UP" and it would kill me a little bit inside. EVERY TIME. and even though there might have been a hot lay at the end of those ten steps (seriously, it's so close!) i couldn't bring myself to do it.

"i guess i'm going to pass and go home. i can't believe i traveled three hours to see you" yeah right "and you're just going to leave me stranded here. how could you not come pick me up?"

i ordered strong drink number three. "I DON'T DO THAT."

then i walked home and made some drunken calls, first to arizona, then to draper (i really talked for SO LONG on his voicemail), and then to ginger who, although she was disgusted by the moisture of the situation, contemplated whether or not she would have gone to get him. and she said she would have. fuck, man. maybe if i could take my ass off my shoulders, i might have a chance of getting it spanked. boo fucking hoo.