Monday, January 24, 2011

kids fucking love me.

"get away from me with that camera while i am wearing my inside pants." that is what this face is saying. i am wearing your grandmother's scarf, your grandmother's sweater, your grandmother's magnifying glasses, and your little brother's gigantic headphones. these clothes are the reason you can't drop by my place unannounced. because what you can't see is a nightgown, pajama jeans (YES, I BOUGHT SOME), another scarf, and slipper socks. i dress like a motherfucking stuffed animal. jeff thought it would be cute to take a kamikaze picture of me in my house clothes while i was doing my nerd work (I AM ACTUALLY WORKING ON MY GODDAMNED NOVEL AGAIN) and he was supposed to be adding up all those receipts i fucking saved. i can't even begin to tell you about the hissyfit this dude was throwing. a veritable tantrum over my choosing to buy fresh flowers (i knew that would make him crazy) and refusal to go the the grocery store. seriously. he WOULD NOT SHUT UP.

so the boss man comes into work last week with a cd that his teenage daughter made, and he tells me that she REALLY wants me to listen to it and tell her what i think of it. because she thinks i am awesome and knows that my taste in music fucking rules. DUH. i've got my finger on the pulse, obviously. so i listened to it a few times, and it was pretty good. varied and diverse and totally made by a fourteen year old girl. so then i blew her mind by calling her to tell her how much i liked it. seriously, i have never heard so much breathless giggling in all my life. and my ego had a FEAST. you have to remember a few things: 1 i have been earning this girl's college tuition for her since she was five years old, 2 i have tattoos and insane glasses and i spend every day talking shit to her dad, and to kids that shit is cool, and 3 james and i have a weird BFF relationship that is totally gross. he makes me mixtapes of boring old man shit that i have to pretend to be interested in (mississippi all-stars? for reals?!), he texted me in california when he was in the emergency room after having been bitten by a bat in his backyard, and when i was in the hospital for a week in july he came and sat with me for a couple hours and graciously offered to inject some euthanasia solution into my catheter. no, he didn't. but at the time i was ready to GO. blarf.

i offered to make a playlist for her because she's adorable and i knew she would shit herself with glee. plus, my review is in april and i like to walk into that annual torture session with as much artillery as i possibly fucking can. nothing says "increase my PTO" like "remember how i made your kid that mix and how she almost died because it was so great? more money please!" oh, i'm kidding. i have to pry that free money out of his cold, dead hands. anyway, here is some rad music i made for a child who is too naive to realize what a piece of shit i am. i have ten thousand records, easily, and if life were awesome and fair my job would be sitting and listening to music and going to shows and talking about songs. but fate is a cruel mistress, so my job is to memorize the different types of limited-protein diets available for your wheat-allergic cocker spaniel. "he's still itchy? well eukanuba makes a kangaroo formula, have you thought about trying that?" RIVETING.

my playlist for amy.

this is all the shit i am obsessed with these days, the music that is drowning out train chatter and honking horns and essentially putting me in extreme danger most of the time i venture outdoors. and it's amazeballs. copy and paste the URL, download a compressed zip file, double click the file so it unzips, drag the tracks into your itunes, listen, weep tears of joy at the aural amazingness i just dropped on your eardrums. ALL FOR FREE. because i think you look so cute today. at first i made one giant mp3 and that shit was balls and stupid, then a little bird taught me how to upload the tracks individually in an archived folder. so if there's one (or all) that you want to listen to obsessively over and over and over again (like i do because i am lame), YOU CAN. hooray for technology!

please don't forget that i am featuring at revolving door THIS WEDNESDAY, january 26, at the south halsted gallery, 1932 s. halsted. the event starts with an open mic at 730. there will be a dj, and BOOZE. admission is FREE. and the best part? i'm going to be there, reading some dumb shit, despite the fact that i am really sick again and on some new drugs that I CANNOT CONSUME ALCOHOL WHILE TAKING. if i can show up, so can you. so come out and let me tickle your balls off, unless you hate shit that is awesome.

and sorry in advance, black friends. y'all finna HATE this playlist. ain't no gucci on it.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

i kind of suck at podcasting.

i am not a very DIY kind of person. i don't make things. or build things. or put things together. i like choosing from something that has already been made or paying someone to put together whatever it is i need so i don't smash it into a dozen pieces after attempting three times to correctly construct it. i don't have any patience, and the only things i want to learn how to do are play the acoustic guitar and make rice pudding. and there isn't enough time in the day. i can't find time to read all the books and magazines and blogs i want 0r watch all of the shit on television i want to watch and listen to all of the podcasts and radio programs i want or write or work on my novel or sleep or go out with hot dudes. luckily i don't need to set a lot of time aside for that last one. seriously. they don't call me back. even when i have sex with them. i'm cursed, obviously.

so i made those first two podcasts sitting in my bathroom, rustling paper around, and getting burnt to a crisp by the radiator. and i'm not sure if they were funny or what. but i'm trying to keep people happy and interested, so i recorded a handful more, this time out in the open with the humidifier on and helen snoring on the bed and some lemon lacroix nearby. i think i am frustrating the hippie, first by not having a sexual relationship with him, then by being difficult during this whole recording process. so he produces a radio show and is a big tech person, which is way cool. and he wants me to care a little more than i want to about the quality of the product i am putting out. and i totally do, but i care about the CONTENT, not the SOUND QUALITY. i'm not averse to it sounding professional and well organized and put together, and if he wanted to be my producer while flipping switches and fiddling knobs then that would be rad. but he wants ME to do all of that stuff. and i will not.

my friend bakeem sent me a whole bunch of amazing information about podcasting, and as soon as i upgrade to a newer, faster machine i will totally put those things to good use. i will shit out a slick, shiny, cohesive little nugget of a show and glitter will shoot from your ears upon its hearing. BUT. i need fifteen hundred dollars for the fancy computer i want and someone else's ambition to get the ball(s) rolling. i sort of just wanted this to be some little shit to make you smile, but these dudes are SERIOUS. the hippie said i need to consider my brand, and the quality of the material i put my name on. huh.

you kids understand that i write this shit during my downtime at work, right? or in my shitty pajamas sitting at my desk that is covered in empty diet coke cans in my dirty apartment? and i don't edit, EVER. which is why you get spelling errors and changes in tense that go unnoticed. i just write write write then POST. i never want my shit to feel fussed over. or unreal. that's gross and i'm lazy and fucking drinking all the time. you really have to understand who i am, which you should by now. you know i don't write this shit while sitting behind my modern chrome and glass desk, sitting in some gleaming and sterile office building. you also know that my apartment isn't shit, and i'm sure you've (correctly) assumed that my mac is a glorious hand-me-down and that my recorder is borrowed until the one i ordered is shipped from amazon. i mean, come on, kids. what do you expect? i've worn the same clothes for the last three days! to lunch! to the bar! TO WORK! does it surprise you that you can hear mic sounds and heavy breathing?! well, it shouldn't. i wanted it to feel like what it is: me in my bedroom, playing music and telling stories.

but i feel a little guilty now, like i should be giving you something better, so after these i'm going to sit down and work on it for real and make it nice. nicer. nice-ish. whatever doesn't force me to exert too much energy. i hope you love it.

episode 3

episode 4

episode 5

episode 6

happy listening.

Monday, January 10, 2011

i wore a diaper to speed dating.

this is NOT my biological clock.

i was sitting on the toilet texting some stupid dude when the phone rang. i only notice the phone ringing when i'm dicking around on the internet or dirty texting some slut. my butt has been relatively good since that hospital visit in october; my immune system is completely chemically suppressed (hello, pneumonia! and this constant coughing and sneezing for the past two weeks!), i've been off steroids for a while now, and my stomach isn't hurting. plus, i'm not all stressed the fuck out. so i am happy. but sometimes i can't tell when what's on my plate is going to destroy the rest of my week, and i'd had some noodles from lulu's and essentially had to move my whole desk into the bathroom for the evening. books, cell phone, notebooks, magazines, markers, pens, you name it. and helen keller sleeping on the bath mat, of course. it was cara.

"black or fat?" she asked. "black or fat?!"

i hate when people start a conversation as if you just finished one that had been interrupted. i racked my brain trying to find a point of reference. what the fuck could this bitch be talking about?!

"sam, you need to decide. BLACK or FAT?"

"um, both i guess? no one's ever asked me to choose before. there's no fat box to check on the census."

"you fucking idiot. i'm trying to sign up for this stupid speed dating you're making me go to, and we have to choose whether we want to go to 'chocolate singles mingle' or 'curvy girls rule.' which would you prefer?"

then i started laughing, because all i could think about was saying "check my fat box" to some dude.

"focus, asshole, and pick one before the page refreshes and i have to enter in all my information again."

well therein lies the dilemma. i have only ever seriously dated black dudes, and i have never even seen a pink penis in the flesh before. i'm not lying. almost thirty-one goddamned years old, and i've only ever seen nappy pubic hair. and not for lack of trying, nor because of some inherent racism. white dudes just have not hit on this big black ass, and everybody knows i don't go barking up trees i can't piss on. white dudes always want me to be their sassy black sidekick, and that would get old if they didn't always 1 drive the getaway car and 2 pay for absolutely everything.

and while the only dudes who've ever offered to put it in my butt have been on the free hot lunch program at one point or another during their childhoods, not all black dudes are into me. it's crazy, i know, but true. and sometimes dudes who are into fat chicks are fucking creepy. or they're losers hoping to take advantage of some low self-esteem. the thought of sitting in a bar with a roomful of sissified mama's boys or recent parolees makes my goddamned skin crawl, man. gross. but then the thought of moving from one table to the next of salty black dudes who thought some videos hos might show up to fucking SPEED DATE (yeah right, dickballs) and are disappointed that i've shown up in their stead was even worse. how do you choose? firing squad or guillotine?!

"fat," i finally said, and helen cracked one eye open and bared her fangs at me. "I WILL SHIT ON YOU," i said, pointing to the door. "get the fuck out of here, little buddy."

i could hear laptop keys clicking and clacking. "perfect. you owe me thirty-five dollars. see you next week." CLICK.

cara showed up at my apartment last night wearing a long black dress with a plunging neckline and high-heeled knee boots. and her hair was all done up and fancy. she smelled like creed, my favorite one, the one in the white bottle. i fucking thought this shitshow was a JOKE. i mean, i knew we were going to go for real, but i thought we were just going to look normal and make fun of the assholes who were participating in that shit in earnest. i didn't know this was a hair salon/eyebrow wax/manicure sort of event. i was still in my house clothes, but even though i had just taken a shower i felt dirty and gross just standing next to her. stupid bitch.

i am totally old now, so the very few nice things i have to wear for an evening out are from expensive-ass j.jill and eileen fisher; in other words, THE SHIT YOUR MOM WEARS. i surveyed the sensible black relaxed fit pants i'd hung on the closet door to keep them away from helen's hairy ass and decided i was going to kill myself. they are lovely pants, and i almost had my electricity shut off so that i could purchase them, but they are not SEXY. they are for parent-teacher night, or an early dinner at the stained glass, but they most certainly are NOT pants that scream "i'm going to fuck you without a condom later." i hadn't even gotten far enough to pick out a companion shirt, and cara pushed me in the bathroom to "fix my hair" (ahahaha NOT POSSIBLE) while she found me an appropriate top. meaning one that my tits hang out of.

fixing my hair turned into diarrhea i couldn't control because, despite the fact that the idea of speed dating is comical to me, i was a little nervous. i've been shitting myself for twenty years, so having diarrhea doesn't often get in the way of whatever it is i'm trying to do. i just put a butt pad in my pants and keep it moving. but i was out of my usual pads, and the only thing i could find in my closet were diapers. adult diapers, because no one who drinks this much should have children. i wear diapers all the time. guaranteed one (or sometimes all) of the times you and i have hung out (if we have indeed hung out) i was wearing a diaper of some variety. and you had no fucking idea. isn't that hilarious?! it always tickles me a little to be hanging out with bitches while wearing a depends or rubber underwear with a cloth baby pad in them. and no one is the wiser, unless i point it out. because in regular pants you can't fucking tell. if i have jeans on, you'd never know. well the asshole might know, because all he ever does is stare at my ass and i'm sure has every contour committed to memory, but no normal person ever would.

"i have to wear a diaper," i called to cara, who was making some campari sodas for us in the kitchen. "i might even have to take one with. i have crazy diarrhea right now." that bitch isn't fazed by shit, and she came around the corner and was like "i have a bottle of perfume in my bag in case some shit leaks out, to cover up the smell." i love my fucking friends.

so i put on one of my best bras, used a cotton ball to wipe A+D on my anus, slathered diaper cream in my butt, folded some soft gauze pads between my ass cheeks, pulled on a depends, and immediately started to panic. "i can't go," i blurted, on the verge of tears. "no one wants to date this person." i waved my hand at all of my butt supplies and accoutrement piled on the bathroom sink. "no dude wants to be with a broad who goes through 19 rolls of toilet paper in a month. i'm staying the fuck home."

i talk so much shit, but i really do get very sad when i'm counting out all of my pills and dragging economy-sized bags of adult diapers home on the train, when i'm ordering rubber underpants on the internet from websites that have pictures of smiling "active seniors" waving at me with their new comfort grip ultra absorbent poo pants and crinkly sheets that just wipe clean for incontinent elderly people who have accidents in bed, when the medical waste service comes to my apartment on mondays to exchange my shit cloths for clean ones. i heard that one of my friends recently described me as "bitter," and if it ever appears that way you know i don't mean it. bitter is one of those words with a fucking horrible connotation, and i promise you that isn't what i really am. i'm funny and everything, but what i really am is a thirty-one year old adult who spends a lot of time sick and drugged and diapered. so pardon me if i'm not a ray of sunshine 100% of the goddamned time.

i put my face paint on anyway, blubbering the whole time that i should just throw in the dating towel and wait until i'm fifty and can find some sixty-year-old who can actually relate to all of my incessant LEAKING, and then i put on those silly pants and some jewelry and the worst possible shirt to wear when meeting someone for the first time, this slippery wrap business that NEVER STAYS TIED. i once had an entire conversation at green dolphin with my entire left breast exposed. DUMB. i sat on a chair a few times to see if my diaper made any audible noise when i plopped down, then dismissed the idea entirely because how could they possibly expect the women to do the rotating? it would look like a cow herd. at this point taking a party purse was out of the question, so i loaded up my day bag with all of my crohn's reinforcements: wipes, desitin, extra diaper, ziploc full of gauze pads, water bottle, imodium, pentasa, and emergency steroids, then i wrote my hot doctor's number on a post-it and stuck it in cara's wallet. she looked at me crazy and i said, "in case this turns into a flare-up. a couple times i've fainted from the pain."

"don't faint," she admonished. "seriously. NO ONE will go out with you."

the cab driver let us out in a dirty puddle of slush that i am almost positive had vomit in it, then we showed the door guy our IDs, and i'm pretty sure he gave me a pity look right before we went inside. the bar was really lovely, all dim twinkling lights and dark wood tables and shiny hardwood floors, elegant tablecloths and soft music.

"well this isn't what i was expecting. i thought there would be chocolate chip cookie centerpieces and a snack table with sticks of butter and cured meats," cara said, handing her cape to the coat check girl. sidenote: fat bitches in capes is really a depressing look. i literally COULD NOT stop telling her how much i hated that stupid thing. no quicker way to unintentionally turn yourself into some sort of cartoon villain. stop it. BLA-ARF.

"it smells like bacon in here," i snipped, glancing around at my competition. "and i bet every spanx in the greater chicagoland area is in this room right now." as a rule, i refuse to wear spanx. or any item of clothing that requires i externally bind all of my internal organs to fit into it. and with this chrons?! yeah fucking right. i'd be in traction, with shit shooting out of my eyeballs and nose and mouth and ears. gross.

the cheerful woman at a table across from the door motioned for us to come over to her. she very excitedly showed us the blank name tags and black magic markers and explained how the evening was going to work. the men were going to move from table to table at three-minute intervals to ensure that no fires broke out from all of that thigh meat rubbing against itself at the same time while we remained seated and tried not to sweat while sitting still. well, she didn't really say it like that. but what she said is boring, so i wrote what my brain said. her name was amy and she had a voice like a chipmunk and spoke in exclamation points: "is this your first speed date event?! are you nervous?! you get two complimentary drinks! i really like your cape! the turnout is fantastic! there are some good looking guys in there!" she squeaked, clapping her doughy little hands and nodding at the crowd clustered around the bar. "who are you gals looking forward to meeting?!"

i wrote "thunder thighs" on my name tag and affixed it above my boob. "closeted homosexuals?"

cara had written "delores" on hers. "ex-convicts?"

"dudes who are forty-three and still live at home with their mothers?"

i could fucking hear amy's little heart breaking. "we're going to start soon," she sighed wearily, no exclamation point. "go get your drinks."

we're fucking assholes.

"what if i have to go to the bathroom?" i hissed in cara's ear as we walked to the bar. i couldn't just excuse myself; i'd fuck up the rhythm of the whole thing, and everyone would have to sit there twiddling their thumbs while they waited for me to come out of the john. WHAT A FUCKING NIGHTMARE. a bar full of people waiting for me to handle my business?! i would rather be dead. cara shrugged her "cross that bridge when you get to it" shrug and ordered our drinks.

we split up and sat at opposite ends of the room, because i don't want anyone i know to hear what i might say to a dude i want to holler at. or worse, engage in awkward small talk with one that i DON'T. my well vodka soda (i hate complimentary drinks!) and i settled at a corner table and skimmed the crowd of dudes for one i might find sexually provocative. i saw a lot of homemade sweaters and outdated shoes, and when i spotted a dude in A MOTHERFUCKING BOLO TIE i immediately decided that a diaper was most definitely NOT the worst thing a person could wear to have 900 mini dates with a bunch of judgmental strangers.

our host was this fat broad with long black hair who said she'd met her husband at one of these things and could "feel the magic in the room." i rolled my eyes and started thinking about my killer opening line. i needed something really genius, you know? something to knock a dude on his fucking ass the minute i opened my mouth. or should i just wait and see what he'd dreamed up and riff on that? so many tough decisions. then i got distracted by the sticky gross lip print on the side of my glass and forgot all about thinking of something cool to say to these assholes. such a child.

the first dude was tall and dark-skinned and introduced himself as "jordan," while POINTING TO HIS NAME TAG. i pointed to my own name tag and said, "thunder." he did not laugh. dating black people is difficult, because in addition to all of the newport smoke and hypertension and sassy attitudes and lottery tickets, it is often impossible to nail down how old we are at a glance. seriously. this dude could have been twenty-two or sixty-eight. i had no fucking idea. "tell me the last five records you bought," he said, and my IMMEDIATE RESPONSE was this:

"halcyon digest by deerhunter, merriweather post pavilion by animal collective, black skin no value by cody chestnutt, alegranza by el guincho, andeyelid movies by phantogram." i was starting to get excited. i REALLY LOVE dudes who are into music. "what about you?!"

"that new black eyed peas album is pretty good."

"ahahahahaha. ahahaha. ahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. ahahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHA. THAT'S HILARIOUS." loudly.

blank stare. "that's funny?"

holy fucking shit. LISTEN TO ME. you can't ask someone a question like "what are the last five records you bought" when you listen, in earnest, to THE BLACK EYED FUCKING PEAS. how am i supposed to know that isn't a joke?! no real person who would really be interested in the music you listen to would ever say whatever it is fergie and that black dude are doing is quality fucking music. if that's what you like, do you even CARE what other people like? i mean, for real? you should never talk about music with other, SERIOUS, people. i'm a huge audiophile and music slut, and i could have named the last fifty albums i bought (health, new mastersounds, arcade fire, menomena, kanye, warpaint, the spinto band, panda bear, best coast, i could continue but you all would get mad). but it is impossible that what is on my ipod matters to you if you have the now that's what i call music! compilations on your own. god, dickballs, give me a BREAK.

we sat uncomfortably for a few seconds until the referee tinkled her little bell, and i mentally took back everything i'd said about three minutes not being enough time to become properly acquainted with a person. i'd cycled through ten or so nameless, faceless, uninteresting dudes when we were informed we could take a bathroom break and stretch our legs. i made a beeline for cara. "this sucks, right?" i pulled out the wad of cocktail napkins i'd been jotting notes on. "i would have dinner with four of these dudes and have sex with one. maybe. i couldn't tell whether or not he smelled funny."

"i am actually having a really good time," that traitorous bitch of a whore replied. "i've hit it off with quite a few of these guys."

i scowled at the men wandering around the room. "who?" i barked, folding my arms angrily over my naked bosom.

"jerome, in the khakis."

"not very smart."

"stephen, the latino? or maybe asian?"


"and i had a really nice time talking to harrison. the white guy with the salt and pepper hair."


i pouted my jealous ass to the bathroom, where i commandeered the biggest stall and changed the padding in my butt after using a couple wipes. what a PRODUCTION, this whole fucking thing. give me two or three years before i stop leaving the house entirely and start collecting cats and social security. a normal person can only live like this for so long. there were bitches waiting by the sinks and i could hear the dull roar of their whispers floating over the stall walls until i finally shouted, "i fucking have crohn's disease! wait a goddamned minute!" and they dispersed. fucking vultures. can't you hear the delicate surgical procedures going on in here? stop acting like i'm doing coke off the toilet seat or fucking the bar back or whatever. MY FUCKING ASSHOLE IS BROKEN.

cara was swooning at salt and pepper when i got back to my seat, but by that point i was too overwhelmed and exhausted to give enough of a shit to throw hate darts with my eyes. that stupid fucking bell tinkled yet again (i swear that noise is now the soundtrack to my nightmares), and the men got in their places to resume their musical chairs.

bolo tie was actually pretty amusing in an unironic way, and this chubby white dude with the best glasses i have ever seen and some super cool tattoos made me laugh so hard club soda came out of my nose. salt and pepper was nice, but cara texted me "WHAT IS HE SAYING" twelve times the second he sat down in the fucking chair across from mine so it was nearly impossible to enjoy his company, and then this hot piece of brisket slid into the chair.

i had seen him before, but had written him off because even from across the room i could tell he was 5'7" on his best day, and the short dude ego is goddamned intolerable. i don't mind picking up a dude and putting him in his booster seat at dinner, but not if he's going to be chapping my fucking ass the whole time. but he was funny and engaging, enough that i could forgive him for wearing a tight ass top to show off his musculature. i did say "it was nice of your little sister to lend you her sweater for the night," because i cannot stop my mouth from making such mistakes, i mean really he was just BEGGING for that, but he laughed and said, "i like funny girls."

i could see the hostess reaching for the timer that was about to go off, so i made nice and shook hands and told him my real name. and he made a joke about my bringing the thunder (the insinuation was that he can't wait to fuck, right?! did i misread that?!), then it was my turn to laugh. and i did, pretty hard. and then i shit my diaper.

what a betrayal this fucking body is. i sat there trying not to let it show on my face, mentally calculating the amount of liquid that had come out, whether i could comfortably stand up in a room full of people, trying to recall if it had made an audible sound, and hoping that it didn't smell. the lucky thing about all this, um if you can call it that?, is that when you shit water all the time it doesn't really have an odor. it just smells a little acidic, but not like poo. you know how baby dumps smell sort of sweet? it's kind of like that. and i was past the point of passing any solid fecal matter, so i knew that there weren't any chunks in my pants. life's little victories, i guess.

"are you okay?" booster seat asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

"YES," i said too loudly, nodding. "EVERYTHING IS FINE."

"i had a great time talking to you. i would love to see you again sometime." he stood up to walk around the table. why is he doing that? no! why?!?!! oh, that's right, TO HUG ME.

"WE SHOULD DEFINITELY HANG OUT. EMAIL ME OR SOMETHING. THEY HAVE MY INFO AT THE FRONT DESK." i didn't move, just sat there woodenly, willing my diarrhea to absorb. or at least not run down my leg. i am a frustrated crier, and i was blinking 700x a minute to keep them at bay. i hadn't heard anything the host bitch said because my ears were too full of I AM SHITTING MYSELF RIGHT NOW, but apparently the event was over, because people were milling around putting on coats and exchanging phone numbers and facebooks.

at this point he was standing over me and i was just paralyzed in my chair, terrified to move. i wasn't really upset, i just wanted to get up and fucking GO HOME. and i wanted to do that without hugging a dude while in a poopy diaper. not that he should, but what if he grabbed my ass or something?! he was only knee high to a june bug, and what if this short motherfucker's ONLY OPTION once i stood towering over him was to wrap those teeny arms around my waist?! i could get diarrhea on him! these goddamned things get soggy if you sit in them too long, and i didn't want to hear a loud, wet SQUISH as we embraced. also, I DIDN'T WANT TO GET MOTHERFUCKING DIAPER RASH. FUCK. i hate my life.

now it was awkward and i was looking like a huge asshole. so i stood up and grabbed the hand he was trying to snake around my back and shook it, firmly, like a real man would. but that wouldn't do, as he laughed heartily and pulled me in for a long hug. once i'd stood up i could feel that there was liquid human waste seeping out from the bottom and climbing up my back, and i almost shouted as he did the back-rub-while-i-am-hugging-you thing, WIPING SHIT UP AND DOWN MY BACK THROUGH MY SHIRT. i was seriously about to cry. MORTIFYING.

finally i broke away and scribbled my email on a napkin and threw it in his direction before snatching my bag up from the floor and high-tailing it over to where cara and s+p were huddled in a booth. "I HAVE TO LEAVE," i shout-talked. "I AM GOING TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW." she gave me the death stare because she obviously wanted to stay and motioned toward the bar. "just get another drink, sam. calm down."

"i am covered in my own waste, cara. i need to get out of this diaper and go to the emergency room. i don't think a couple beers is going to fix that. call me later." salt and pepper's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "yeah, dude, we had a date while i was wearing a diaper." i rolled my eyes and walked away then stealthily tucked two handfuls of bar napkins in the back of my pants to soak up the excess. or so i thought, because i looked up to find booster seat standing in front of me in the corner of the room in which i thought i'd been hidden, his mouth agape, holding the napkin with my email scrawled on it.

"i was just wondering if this was an E or a C," he said, finally.

at this point who the fuck cared. i sighed in defeat and shoved another handful in. "it's an E," i muttered. "but i'm sure you want to just throw that out now. it's cool. nice to meet you."

i cried in the cab and called my gastroenterologist's office, trying to get a hold of the on-call physician for the evening. the answering service left me on hold for the entire cab ride home, twenty-two minutes. i took the elevator upstairs, fed helen, turned my phone off and put it in the sock drawer, then fell asleep in the bathtub. lame.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

dudes still don't know shit.

this is why my friends are the awesome. because they throw animal-themed costume parties at christmastime. no fruit cake, no mistletoe, just booze and cured meats. and all of us dressed as animals. in case it isn't obvious, i am a zebra and ginger is a unicorn. a scumbag zebra who has been liberally sprinkled with salt, apparently. that really is how my face looks 99.9% of the time. always so fucking angry about everything. LET'S DO THIS.

If a woman is covered in tattoos, does it mean she's a freak in the bedroom?

Yes. She will probably chain you up, whip you, pierce your dick without asking, etc. Be prepared for the ride of your life. (Actually the number of tattoos a woman has probably means next to nothing re: her approach to sex. And this is a really dumb question.)

what is the definition of "covered?" and is being a "freak in the bedroom" a bonus? i feel like i need to know these two things before i feel properly equipped to answer this question. because if the connotation of a freaky, tattooed broad is a negative one, then my answer is NOT AT ALL. tattoos mean she is a chaste, wholesome, saint-type creature. but if answering yes means someone would be willing to blow off the dust that has settled in the creases of my vagina, then my answer is HELL FUCKING YES. i have all these sweet biker tattoos because i'm fucking cool, man. and weak, spineless people are intimidated by them, which makes me feel better about myself indirectly. what a lot of tattoos really means is that this bitch is never going to make a shit ton of money in corporate america, nor is she likely to become a preschool teacher or a member of the clergy. so figure the sexy answer out for yourself: hot tattoos or the ministry? i think the answer is pretty fucking clear.
She slept with another guy after our first date, but before we hooked up. Is this a sign that she's not a good long-term prospect?

What are you, a Mormon? Who says things like “long-term prospect?" In any case, I don’t think you can judge whether she’d be a good girlfriend/sister wife by this. You guys were not exclusive. It is 2010. Shit, dating sucks. If a woman has tried out the dating thing even a few times, she has probably lost all hope that this latest guy is “the one” and so, until you make an explicit agreement to be exclusive, she just continues living her slutty life as she had been before you made your appearance.

Plus, guys do this ALL THE TIME and no one questions their long-term worth. I’m supposed to be head over heels for any guy who lets me stay the night at his place after I give him a blow job, regardless of the number of other broads he’s banging. I’m supposed to start planning the wedding in my head as I take the train home after the first hand job. Come on. Don’t act like you didn’t invite your favorite call girl over after you only got a peck on the cheek at the end of the first date.

i wouldn't date this bitch, but that's only because i like a motherfucker who DOESN'T TELL EVERY GODDAMNED THING ALL THE TIME. if this was my ass, you'd have no goddamned idea who i did or didn't fuck between the time we met and the time i fucked you. and you wouldn't know who i fucked AFTER i fucked you, either. why can't women keep shit to themselves? ESPECIALLY low-down dirty shit that makes you look like a big ol' whore? SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY. really, everyone should stop talking so fucking much. every bad thing i ever learned about someone i'd been dating i wish i'd never known; i prefer to spend my days in blissful ignorance, not walk around saddled with the knowledge that you were fucking nine other girls when i thought we were "exclusive." all of this honesty is just depressing. and it puts a lot of unnecessary shit on your mind. like THE SEXUAL PROCLIVITIES OF A WOMAN YOU WENT ON ONE DATE WITH. cut this moist shit out.

shouldn't you be more concerned with the earning potential of your "long-term prospects?" this bitch didn't graduate high school and doesn't have two nickels to rub together, yet you're running around wondering whose dick she sucked last week. whooooooo cares?! i need to know a person i'm dating likes to read books and doesn't earnestly listen to john mayer. he needs to like steak and not be a shitty spades partner. the only thing i need to know about anyone he's slept with is whether or not they have herpes, and even then i'd probably just tell him to put some saran wrap on his dick. that works, right?
What's an inexpensive but equally impressive alternative to a dinner at a hot restaurant?

A slide show of your trip to Dubuque, Iowa and boxed wine. Wait, no. 40s on a bench in the park. Hold on, I’ve got it. Browsing the health and hygiene section of Target while sharing a shake from McDonald’s.

You know damn well that there is no inexpensive yet equally impressive alternative to fancy dinners. But only certain women expect that kind of thing. I like having drinks at a dive bar. If you buy the majority of my PBRs, I will be quite happy. Or a BYOB sushi place is nice. If you can’t afford to date the kind of lady who wants dinner at a hot restaurant, then she is out of your league. Find a good woman who isn’t looking for a sugar daddy. Man, you dudes are dense!

i'm about to catch an attitude up in here. this is the VERY REASON i feel like most dudes should be set on fire. you want me to fuck you after we split an appetizer at chili's, eh? FINE. i hope by "fuck" you mean "half a handjob." i love these dudes who think reading poetry and watching television and talking on the phone equals THINGS I SHOULD FUCK YOU AFTER. you gentlemen are wrong. NOTHING ON EARTH is better than a fancy dinner you pay for. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. don't let these new age bitches fool you. real women want to go someplace nice with a dude who smells like aftershave and won't stare at our tits all night, preferably after having been picked up in his car that wasn't handed down from his parents. let's be serious. i don't mind paying for my dinner. but it is nearly impossible to find a dude who can even come up off the money for what HE orders. and that's goddamned frustrating. plus, and it might be profiling to say this, but i never want to have a dollar menu motherfucker in my goddamned apartment; what if something comes up missing? i tell helen to keep an eye on my expensive eyeglasses and my dvd collection, but that bitch is LAZY. the last time i was like, "look alert, you little asshole" i caught some dude walking out of my place with my directv box, two seasons of nip/tuck, and the goddamned BATHTUB. after i murdered him in cold blood and hid his body in a dumpster i was like, "nice fucking job, helen. how was i going to take a shower?" she looked at me and shrugged. "what was i supposed to do, sam?! he had CHEETOS."
Public marriage proposals: Yes or no?

This is all about your lady. I know it’s hard, but pay attention to her for a brief time. Does she scream “WOOOOO!” a lot when you go out to the bars? Does she start stupid, pointless feuds with her “friends” and discuss the drama to death? Does she loudly argue over stupid, pointless shit with, say, the cashier at CVS?

If so, public proposal it is! She loves the spotlight and will appropriately cry and yell and hug you and show off the ring to everyone in the vicinity. This also applies to women who are borderline insane.

I, on the other hand, would turn down any guy who publicly proposed to me because that would be an excellent indication that he does not know me at all. I do not like attention from strangers, I don’t think my “love” needs to be publicly celebrated, and I suffer under no illusions that anyone on the street/at the ballpark/in the restaurant has any interest in my personal life. In other words, I’m pretty normal. If your girlfriend is anything like me, don’t do it.

Also, please don’t do it if I’m around. I’ll be annoyed by you two.

shit like this makes me jealous. i really do have a hard time being happy for people, even when they are my friends. unless whatever they're all tickled about is dumb. i would say not to do this because it isn't fair to your girlfriend. what if she wants to say no? do you really want your rejection splattered across the fucking JUMBOTRON? give your beloved, and yourself, a break. do that shit at home. where no one will see your embarrassed tears. seriously, brother. it's fucking gross when dudes cry.
Where on their bodies do women wish men would spend more time?

Provided you are paying sufficient attention to the clitoris, I would say maybe the neck. I don’t know if it applies to all women, but some light kissing/breathing on the right part of my neck really works for me. But I am relatively sure all women are different, so maybe you could ask her (I know – revolutionary idea). Or test out various parts of her body and pay attention to her reaction. That could result in hilarity or success, really, and I’m a fan of both.

I bet Samantha says toes.

ordinarily i totally would say toes, or BRAIN, but i am so fucking bitter and crabby and pissed off at dudes at the moment that i'm going to say THE STOMACH. you need to feed a bitch, goddamn it. in case i wasn't clear before.

The younger woman I'm dating is throwing a party. Is there a way to make nice with her friends without looking too out of place?

How old are you, and how young is she? This seriously has a grandpa-dating-college-girl vibe. Or an adult male molesting a child vibe. Either way, you are not going to blend in. Either go and fully except to be the odd man out, standing in the corner with your punch, or stay home and go over afterwards to help her clean up/bang her in the kitchen (god, I truly only mean that if it’s the 20 year old/60 year old thing here. Turn yourself in if this is a child.)

I mean, if she’s like late twenties or up and you are only 10 to 20 years her senior, I don’t see this being a problem, so I’m assuming a major age difference with an immature crowd of friends. Just don’t try to win them over. You’ve got the adoration (or something like that) of one younger lady, don’t be greedy. They all think you’re a pervert or having a mid/end of life crisis or some shit, anyway.

don't go to that fucking shit. come on, dude. have a little self-respect, with your old ass. nothing you could do will make it less awkward, and why would you subject yourself to that? young people hate old people, generally, and you don't want to be making corny jokes to bored teenagers who are smiling politely and trying to find a way out of the corner you trapped them in. you don't know what they listen to, you don't know what drugs they're doing, and they can totally tell that you're wearing wrangler jeans. this reminds me of that skin crawlingly awkward scene in the movie greenberg during which roger is at that teenage party and he's talking too loud and acting too weird and saying, "so you kids do coke now? is that right? coke is making a comeback? should i do some coke? i thought you kids only had sex on the internet? who has the coke? hold on while i put some duran duran on the stereo." BLARF. you don't want to be that dude, do you? i mean, come on. it's gross. i have text sex with ginger's little brother, who is almost eleven years my junior. everything's fine when he's talking about getting drunk and touching himself, but the minute that dude starts talking about mario kart or getting a fake ID or whatever i'm all "c u l8r. LOLz."

I was about to break up with my girlfriend when she lost her job. How do I get out of this without being a jerk?

Why do I think this is funny? I guess because you are so totally screwed. Why did you wait to break up with her? I bet you waited awhile, being all cowardly about it, drawing it out for this poor girl... well, you can wait awhile longer. A few months or until she finds a job. Or, do what you need to do and fuck what people think/whether she loses her shit completely. Your decision.

just do it. pity dick is gross and mean.

Is there any way to tell if I'm good in bed?

You should hand out questionnaires after sex! Keep a stack of them on your nightstand; it will make you look like a sensitive stud. The first question can be whether you are good in bed. The rest can be about your pillow talk, d├ęcor, and wardrobe.

Or you could just, you know... ask. You might want to go about it a bit more delicately than, “Am I good in bed?” What happens when she says, “No.”? That will suck. And actually the “did you come?” question is kind of annoying, too, so don’t ask that. Do(es) your lover(s) seem into it? I mean, what are they doing? If they are looking over your shoulder, making unenthusiastic noises, and possibly mentally putting together a grocery list, you are probably bad in bed. If they appear to have electric currents running through their bodies, or they are creating little puddles on your bed, you are likely very good. If it’s somewhere in between, you can always ask if there’s anything else you can do, or ask her to show you how she gets herself off, or something. Then do what the lady says/does.

i already know i'm not great in bed. but what i lack in technique and enthusiasm (seriously, sex is fucking boring), i make up for in ambivalence. ie, a dude can do whatever he wants and in turn i will do whatever he wants. my perfect dude would be into partially-clothed mutual masturbation followed by a nap and then maybe a movie or something. so if your girl has an orgasm that doesn't seem fake, you're probably pretty okay. and if your girl starts shaking like an epileptic having a stroke and her jaw goes slack and she shits herself and starts screeching like an orangutan, you're probably KING DING-A-LING. and you should call me.

Is it possible for a woman to have an orgasm and not make that much noise?

Absolutely. Vocal theatrics are not my thing. Sometimes I moan a little bit or something, but I think it’s mostly my breathing that gives me away. I’m just not inspired to yell or scream in bed, and I’m not the type to put on a show. I don’t always completely trust really vocal lovers, either. The chick who lives above me has the EXACT same loud, escalating, “oh god” orgasm routine every time. Now, that sounds like faking to me.

the last time i made a noise louder than a whisper during intercourse helen let herself out of her crate and was like, "BITCH, i am trying to SLEEP." even when i get the vibrator out she's all, "could you hurry up with that goddamned jet engine? my soaps are on." i like dudes who say funny shit when they come. one of my old boyfriends used to scream "HERE COMES THE THUNDER" really loudly, and that made me laugh and laugh and laugh. i'm good for a warning shout, but all that gratuitous screaming is so fake and weird. plus, i refuse to cater to a man's ego. i like to say in a monotone, "great job, sir. i had an orgasm," then kick him the fuck out of my vagina.

My girlfriend has extremely hot friends, and we're going on a beach trip. I'm worried about getting an erection. Is there anything I can do to control it?

HAHAHAHA. Oh god. Is this a real thing? I have no idea because I do not have a penis. I also have no idea what to do about it, because I do not have a penis. Do men really get erections at the sight of “hot friends” in bikinis? Or is this guy just bragging about his girlfriend’s hot friends (which btw is pathetic)? Because if it if the former, my sense of pride at causing erections while naked or half-naked or gently stroking a man while fully clothed has just gone out the window. (Yes, I’m 30. Stop pretending you don’t still get a little thrilled each and every time some dude you’re with gets it up. And if it’s just me, shut up about it.)

2010 was the year of the semi-flaccid penis for me, so i'd be glad just to have a dude in my sightline with a hard dick. you dudes must be really stressed out or whatever. i need to call barack obama and tell him to fix this goddamned economy, because if i never heard "sorry, girl, i've got a lot on my mind" again it would be too fucking soon. why can't you kids maintain an erection? what, is eating pizza and watching MMA fights too emotionally taxing for you? why aren't your dicks working?

cocktail weenies aside, this is why i try to limit the number of hot broads i keep in my goddamned inner sanctum. and i FOR DAMN SURE wouldn't be taking these hoes on vacation. bitches is scandalous and dudes have no scruples. i take dudes i'm fucking to nursing homes and introduce those broads as my friends. you ain't trying to get with gertrude and ethel are you, homeboy? DIDN'T THINK SO. now pass me my cigarettes and my cribbage cards, shuffleboard is starting in the game room in ten minutes.

My girlfriend found out I earn way less than her. Now she insists on paying for everything. I don't want a sugar mama!

If I were you, I’d shut the hell up and enjoy the ride. Generosity is a lovely trait. And if I love someone, I want to share what I have with them. If what I have is oodles of cash, then dinner is on me. Also, take into consideration the fact that she may want to do things that she knows you cannot afford. She could either be an asshole and ask you to overextend yourself financially in order to date her, or she could just ease the stress for both of you and pay for stuff.

However, she should let you pay for things every once in awhile. Like, she gets dinner, you get drinks after dinner. If she keeps insisting on paying, just have a talk. Don’t be an asshole and say that it insults your manhood or some dumb man shit like that. Just be like, “Look, if a man paid for you all the time, wouldn’t it make you feel a little uncomfortable after awhile? I just want to pay sometimes."

man, i'm in love with this. i don't care how broke a dude is, but if he won't even meet me at a bar and offer to buy me a high life (or, at the very least, purchase his own high life) i get over him with a quickness. i don't know what the fuck is going on, but men nowadays are too complacent and okay with not being MEN. you can be a gentleman on a budget. i mean, COME ON. court a motherfucker! i don't have to go to morton's or alinea on a date. i like TACOS. and let's drop a couple truth bombs here: if you can't do that, if you can't buy a couple beers or a cheeseburger or starbucks, YOU SHOULD NOT BE DATING. because being nice isn't it. sorry to hurt your feelings, lovers. when i first started working at judy's and was being paid essentially in small change and doughnuts, I DID NOT DATE. because i couldn't afford to. women aren't excluded from this, either. if you don't even have laundry money in your bank account, you need to take down your profile. for cereal. this bitch wants to get shitfaced and go to metal shows, and you should put yourself in my friend zone if that's not something you can do. broke dudes are mucho boring.
A coworker started dating my ex and keeps asking me about her favorite this and that. Creepy, right? Is there a nice way to tell him to shut it?

I don’t really think you have to be that nice to the dude who decided to date your ex. I would start lying to him. Tell him that her favorite movie is some Vin Diesel piece of trash, that she loves a man’s natural musk so he should stop wearing deodorant, and any other lame and stupid lie you can come up with. Obviously if he has a brain, he’ll catch on early and realize that he’s being a real weirdo with these questions. Or maybe he’s an idiot and you will successfully ruin their relationship. I mean, he’s totally cheating here. You are supposed to figure out this shit on your own by listening to your girlfriend speak. I know some men hate to do that, but society is set up so that we all actually have to listen to the inane bullshit that the person we are banging spits out. (Men are boring, too.)

I WOULD HANNIBAL LECTER THAT DUDE, omg. what's hilarious though is that dudes are so fucking cavalier about women that not only do they 1 have the unadulterated gall to ASK HER COWORKER EX if she takes it up the dirt star but 2 said coworker writes to a MAGAZINE TO ASK HOW TO TELL HIM NICELY THAT HE'S A BAG OF SHIT. what the fuck.
true story: i went to the morseland on halloween dressed as samantha irby, and i went to the bar to do a couple shots before closing out my tab. well well well, someone stupid i used to date was sitting at the bar with his new girlfriend. oh good for them. i flipped him off before signaling for the bartender to refill my empty glass, fully prepared to MIND MY OWN FUCKING BUSINESS. i'm really good at that. so dude comes over and says, "hey baby, you look good." instead of responding i turned to his woman: "your pig got loose. come get him. TWO VODKAS, PLEASE," i shouted at aaron. i hate when the bar is fucking busy. BLARF. this asshole excused himself to go to the bathroom, and it wasn't ten seconds before that bitch apparated at my side. "so you and [garbage face dirtbag shithead] used to date?" she asked, pretending to be sweet. "if you want to call it that." (vodka one.) sheepish giggle from her. "any advice? i mean, girlfriend to girlfriend?" (VODKA TWO.) "uh, that dude likes to touch little kids. he's totally on the registered sex offender list. GIRLFRIEND TO GIRLFRIEND."

and then i left, because fuck halloween. and fuck his stupid girlfriend. two days later i got a text from a number i sorta kinda recognized. "thanx for braking up my realtionship asshole. real matture to make shit up." ahahahahaha ahahaha ahahahahahahaha ahahahaha go fuck yourself, dickballs.
I was in the shower and my girlfriend came in and used the bathroom. I'm not quite ready for that level of intimacy. How can I tell her?

Gross. I would never do this unless it was a major emergency, and even then, I’d enter screaming “EMERGENCY! I AM SO SORRY BUT THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!” And you’d have to accept it because you surely don’t want to date a pee-pants.

Why do people think that just because someone gets naked with them for sex, it’s appropriate to share bathroom time? I will never be that wife who leaves the bathroom door open so I can continue a conversation with my husband. Bathroom time is private time. Didn’t we all learn this when we were, like, five?

In the future, lock the bathroom door. She'll get the hint.

unless she barged in and took a huge smelly shit, you are an asshole. dudes in my life have to get immediately comfortable with shit like depends and bloody gauze pads and asshole surgeries and splatterhea 100% of the time, and i will be damned all the way to hell if a single one of them has ever deigned to raise a complaint. i wish a motherfucker would. you better act like bringing me magazines on the toilet is what you were born to do, otherwise you can get the fuck out of my house. seriously dude, a little tinkle never hurt nobody. not that i oftren take a shit with an audience, because i would never let a dude in my shower. they're messy, and they leave beard stubble all over my pristine fucking shower curtain and pubes stuck to my french-milled almond soap bar. ew. and i don't want to spend an entire day smelling like balls and old spice, so i refuse to bathe at a dude's house. unless it's an emergency. like I SHIT MYSELF BECAUSE THAT ASSHOLE LOCKED THE GODDAMNED BATHROOM DOOR.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

sex is weird and awkward and gross.

i had my suspicions before, but now i am THOROUGHLY CONVINCED that one of you assholes put a hit out on my vagina that expired december 31, 2010 at 11:59 pm. because 2011 wasn't even 48 hours old before I BUSTED MY YEAR-LONG NOT HAVING SEX SLUMP. that's right, i've had nineteen advil and thirty-seven celebrex today because i had actual sex with an adult human male last night. you should be turning a fucking cartwheel.

goddamn, my body hurts. apparently the muscles you use to give some hot dude the night of his young life AREN'T the same ones used for lifting tacos and shaking cocktails. my neck is sore. i have an icy hot patch on my lower back. MY ARMPITS HURT. how are you dudes having regular fucking sex?! are you just in really incredible shape? because okay, i can admit that i need to do some fucking push-ups or something, but i don't recall needing two vicodin and half a tramadol after the last time some neanderthal put it in my butt. i'm going to have to hire a goddamned hooker the next time i'm not getting laid, because twelve months is eleven and a half too many according to my dislocated hip and twisted ankle and bruised knees. even my fucking TEETH are in pain, which is a shame considering that i'm skilled enough not to use them. hi-yo! seriously, though, i either need to 1 never have sex again or 2 have sex every other day for the rest of my stupid life; i didn't get out of bed until TWO O'CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON. i didn't eat, i didn't get a drink of water, i didn't feed helen, i didn't do SHIT. at one point i rolled over to get my ipod and listen to the new deerhunter record over and over and over (GET THAT SHIT), and between naps i managed to watch the movie "greenberg," but mostly i just did fucking nothing while trying not to lift my arms over my head too quickly. and before you give me too much credit for my acrobatic sexual feat, IT WAS NOT. it was like vanilla frosting on yellow cake sprinkled with saltines and served on a bed of white toast. TOTALLY FUCKING BORING. but delicious nonetheless. (i would totally eat that cracker cake toast. just saying.)

so i totally fucking forgot that i had a profile. mostly because that shit didn't fucking work. match is for white thirty-somethings who are tired of fucking the skankbags they meet vomiting in the street outside of wrigley field. or recently divorced people trying to get some action after twenty years of soul-crushing domesticity. none of those dudes were EVER trying to get at me, so i stopped paying for that shit after six (incredibly expensive) months. it's a shame, too, because my profile is goddamned hilarious. anyway, it was too depressing to even get those stupid "someone's been checking out your profile!" emails in my regular inbox, so i changed it to an email address i give to dudes i don't want to have sex with and old navy and amazon and any other place i buy shit from on the internet. i remember to check it once or twice a month, and the last time i did i saw that i had a MESSAGE. from a DUDE. on MATCH.COM.

shit got stupid then. because in order to read messages from your potential future beloved, you have to PAY. for at least a month of service. a month of service that is going to set you back THIRTY-SIX DOLLARS. now let's be for real, i DRINK more than 36 bucks every day; so the money wasn't an issue. but what if i dropped that kind of cash to read a sleazy message from some cock knocker who is five feet tall and functionally retarded? you can't tell from a picture if a dude is a good speller and has a handle on grammar. so i said "fuck it" and didn't pay. but it kept taunting me, that unopened message. every day i would think "that cute dude could be awesome," and i would get out my debit card and punch half the numbers in before feeling like an asshole and deciding against it. then james handed out our bonuses a couple weeks ago and i took that as a sign that he wanted me to buy myself some sex for christmas.

he asked "what are you going to do with yours, sam?" and i responded "try to fuck this hot dude on the internet!" while tearing open the envelope with my teeth and booting up the computer. he sighed. "sometimes i wish you wouldn't be so honest. would it have killed you to just say 'pay a few bills?'" YES IT WOULD HAVE. anyone who knows me knows full well i'd get my ass evicted before i let some hot sausage go to waste. fuck com ed.

so i paid. and it was worth it, because his message was smart and funny. AND he made it clear that he had read my fucking profile. which is a little thing, but a little thing that made me want to hang out with that dude. men are so stupid, sometimes. you act like we demand so much and are so insufferable, and maybe some of these bitches are, but i decided i liked this dude because my "about me" referenced my being a beer-swilling borderline alcoholic, and what did he do? OFFERED TO TAKE ME OUT FOR A BEER. amazeballs.

there wasn't a whole lot of fanfare prior to our date: no over-texting or emailing too much, and NOT EVEN A SINGLE PHONE CALL. and i've decided i like it better that way. on one hand i was like "i really don't know SHIT about this fucking guy," but on the other hand it wasn't like i spent weeks on the phone getting to know and like a dude who was going to show up with a tucked-in shirt or criminally bad body odor or half a foot shorter than his description had promised and have to figure out a polite way to tell him fuck you very much, now beat it.

i got to the bar first because i have to. i'm ordinarily not this much of a control freak, but i just can't be that bitch who's all flustered and not composed rushing into a bar and searching for some dude who hopefully isn't too disappointed in how gross she looks. i don't fucking need that shit. so i get to the bar or restaurant or golf course or shooting range, wherever we've decided might be the most fun to get to know one another, FIRST. got there, got my drink, got involved in that boring-ass seahawks game, then noticed that i was alone. for longer than i'd expected to be. so i pulled the book i'm reading out of my bag ("a visit from the goon squad" by jennifer egan) and went into i just got stood up mode. which means i pretend that coming to this place and eating this meal all by my lonesome was EXACTLY WHAT I'D INTENDED TO DO. i get tired of looking like a fucking asshole, so i've developed this handy mechanism that works in just about any situation, except falling down suddenly or unexpected vomiting. you just act like whatever just happened was engineered by you to happen in exactly that way. i'm not a bitter old stood-up spinster hag! not at all! I, as a matter of fact, AM A CONFIDENT SINGLE WOMAN WHO WANTED TO ENJOY A MEAL ALONE ON A SUNDAY NIGHT. i'm not going to hide in my apartment with a bottle of wine and a hot pocket, i am going to TAKE MYSELF OUT FOR A BEAUTIFUL DINNER. because I DESERVE IT. and it stings a little at first, but all you have to do is believe that shit until you've read a few chapters or finished a couple drinks, at which point you scoop up your dignity from where it puddled around your feet and drag it back home. then you can cry and throw shit and play sad records on repeat.

he had been calling, of course. but i never have the ringer on, so i had no idea. OF COURSE. he had gotten lost but would be there soon. likely story. anyway, the date part is mucho boring. i mean, do you really care where he went to college or what he was wearing? the highlights: smart, funny, degree in information systems (whatever THAT fucking means), handsome, working, dressed nicely, smart, LACTOSE INTOLERANT, handsome, funny, working, laughed at my jokes, wicked smile, smart, funny, employed, watches good shit on tv, not dumb, hot body, smart, AFRICAN. oh universe, you've opened your butthole and shit down my throat YET AGAIN.

born here, no real accent, not wearing yellow shoes, but african nonetheless. the internet has obviously decided to make a mockery of my life. sure, bitch, you can get some action. yeah, you! you over there! go get you some! but here's the catch: he's going to be african. african in a way you won't be able to tell from his pictures. (usually, I CAN TELL.) and he'll be all westernized and hilarious, and your dumb ass will LIKE HIM and INVITE HIM UP TO YOUR PLACE. why? because you talked shit about people from the continent on your silly blog, that's why! now shut the fuck up and EAT YOUR KEYBOARD.

dang, interwebs. why you gotta be so mean? i fucking knew it. deep down in my soul i knew the only way i was going to fuck my way out of this black hole was on the torso of some hot african dude. because my life is dumb, and because i obviously needed to be punished for making so many loincloth and cheetah jokes. the way it happened was pretty hot, at least. he scoffed and shooed me away when i tried to pay for my dinner, then walked me out and offered to drive me home. except i lived down the street, literally comically close, and it seemed ridiculous for him to drive me. "i guess you didn't have a good time," information systems said. "otherwise you'd let me take you home."

well my vagina knows a challenge when she hears one, and she forced my brain to tell my mouth to say, "i had a great time. where's your goddamned car?!"

there were two cars in the parking lot. one an expensive-looking mid-sized sedan, and the other a beat-up red sports car with tiger stripes painted on the door (really, dude?!??!!) and a garbage bag in place of the driver's side window. i slowed my steps and tried to come up with an excuse, and just as i was about to try to force myself to shit my pants information systems jingled his keys and the fancy car blinked to life. i clamped my sphincter shut and scurried over to jump in the heated passenger seat.

you know what i hate? that stupid i-think-we're-going-to-have-sex-so-i'm-driving-around-to-find-a-parking-spot-in-your-neighborhood awkward small talk. i have to move the fuck out of rogers park. we drove around for fifteen goddamned minutes, making dumb jokes and collectively holding our breath at every empty space that turned out to be a fucking fire hydrant, NPR droning in the background. i know you smartypants all love your national news and interesting stories, but sometimes a girl wants to hear A GODDAMNED JAM. you know, to get her in the mood.

helen keller greeted me at the door, as usual, her salty sour puss primed to go off on me. "damn, bitch," she started, "would it have killed you to fill my fucking bowl before you left? what the fuck did i tell you the last time you left me here without a meal? don't make me punch you in the OH MY GOD YOU CAME HOME WITH A MAN." she automatically wound her way around his shins. "pardon my outburst," she purrrrrrred. "nice to meet you. i'm helen. can i get you something to drink?"

helen fucking loves dudes. it's the only time she stops acting like a total asshole and puts her nice pants on. too bad she doesn't encounter one very often. i let her entertain information systems while i tried to hide all of the empty cereal boxes and tied up baggies of cat shit on my floor. that's how you know i hadn't planned this evening of debauchery: sexy sam would clean the fuck up. i mean, i wouldn't go CRAZY, but i might run the swiffer and wipe down the bathroom with one of those clorox towels i keep under the bathroom sink. i would have taken out the trash, too, and hidden all the porn in my sock drawer. it's not my ideal to be running around my apartment with a whole foods bag throwing out all of the empty beer bottles that have accumulated on my desk. and this fucking dude kept turning the goddamned LIGHTS ON, squinting at my books and shit. i know what you're doing, african. quit pretending you haven't read fucking twilight.

helen was busy tap dancing and doing magic tricks while wearing a sign that read "will you be my daddy?", so i took the liberty of going into the bathroom to put my pajamas on. well first i chewed up a handful of tums, then i put my jams on. which leads to more evidence that this skullduggery wasn't premeditated: I ATE A CATFISH SANDWICH WITH COLESLAW ON TOP AND NEGLECTED TO TAKE ANY MEDICINE. whenever i think i'm going to get some action i order water with a side of water with more water sprinkled on top. i don't eat real food. because real food gives me diarrhea, and i haven't met a hot dude who is into that just yet. and then i put on the real shit i wear to bed: floor-length pants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. in case of a robbery or fire. duh. i can't be the bitch standing outside in a negligee. no sir. not going to happen.

i rounded the corner and dude was stark naked. the first thing i thought was "boy, i'm glad i didn't put my hand brace on," then he laughed and pointed at his boner and was like, "LOOK AT MY AMAZING PENIS!" and my second thought was, "this fucking dude is AWESOME." not because of his penis, which was amazing i guess, but because he's funny. and having a dick you can hang a coat on isn't bad either, i suppose.

he took inventory of my outfit. "is this really what you wear to bed?" he asked.

helen jumped on the bed and rolled her eyes. "yeah, is THIS really what you're fucking wearing?!" i eyed her crate and tried to calculate how fast i would have to move to wrangle her and successfully throw her ass in it, but she followed my eyes and was like, "fuck that shit" and disappeared into the kitchen.

"that pregnant cat is hilarious," he said, and helen's head shot out around the corner, a rotten piece of pork tenderloin she'd rescued from the trash dangling from her mouth. "what the fuck did he just say?!"

"she's not pregnant, she's just fat,"
i sighed. that bitch is now on this expensive ass new food that's all protein, essentially the atkins diet for cats, and she hasn't lost a goddamned ounce in two months. she just sits by the food bowl. or on my head, pointing to the food bowl. and it kills me not to feed her. is it my fault that she eats her feelings? i just want her to be happy! i've resorted to starving her while i'm gone during the day and feeding her right before i go to bed so she won't keep me up all night, but i can't turn to the cool side of the pillow without that bitch jumping on the bed and pawing at my face. at my wit's end, just about. maybe i'll just have to keep telling people she's pregnant.

so i start getting out all of my beginner tools, and apparently that was system overload for mister amazing penis. "you really use that stuff?!" he giggled. "oh my goodness!"

"are you being serious? i didn't even pull out anything SHARP."

man, that is the fucking BEST. vanilla sex dudes are the greatest. i like feeling like a rock star in bed, and it's nearly impossible to do so when a dude wheels a suitcase full of leather restraints and ball gags into your apartment. a normal person cannot keep a dude like that happy. FOR CEREAL. i'd have to bring a goddamned blowtorch into the bedroom on our third fucking date. i like being the best sex some dude ever had without having to work that hard. no need to throw my back out just trying to get some idiot off when i can just put a vibrator on his balls and lie there. i forgot, though, how awkward and embarrassing fucking is. how stupid and clumsy one feels with somebody new. how it's smelly and sticky and wet, sometimes in unexpected places. at one point i was like, "i don't think i missed this as much as i thought i did." the nice part is the thrill of having some hot dude want me. oh. and orgasms.

so it was great. great-ish. mostly because i didn't sweat too much and kept him away from my bad arm. and he didn't goddamned care. he just kept laughing and saying "WOW." it's nice to be naked around a positive, cheerful person. especially one with an amazing spear. even if his last name is probably spelled sdpkpsmkdp *click*