Wednesday, March 30, 2011

having young friends is totally fucking weird.

my radio show starts sunday, and i am hella nervous. because the shit is on the real radio, on northwestern's station, and i am not young. so i'm totally fucking smart and into cool shit and everything, but i still sometimes record shit on cassette. and for that i apologize.

here are three things i decided yesterday that make me feel fucking old:

1 i am going to see a rheumatologist about my useless goddamned joints. i was talking to the doctor on saturday about how i am almost at the point that i need a walker (not really) and that the minute that happens i am going to steal a car, fill it with kittens, and go on a killing spree (probably) before driving off a cliff with susan sarandon duct taped against her will to the passenger seat (definitely). and his response was "let's call a rheumatologist." you virile, healthy people probably don't even know what the fuck that is, and i'm too depressed about it to tell you. that's what the fucking internet is for. seriously, though, i keep having to ask my friends to please slow down when we're walking anywhere together and that is embarrassing. BECAUSE I AM THIRTY-ONE GODDAMNED YEARS OLD. and typing this blog hurts my bad hand, so you bitches better ship me some celebrex or something before i shut this shit all the way down.

2 i am not going to wear real pants anymore. this was an especially shocking decision, even to me, because it forces me to violate one of my most cardinal rules, "thou shalt not wear soft pants in public." FUCK IT. if it doesn't feel like pajamas and i can't pull it off with one arm then i am not wearing it. I MEAN THAT. i just ordered 900 pairs of nice-ish black yoga pants, and i am never wearing anything else. no more thigh teeth chewing through 100-dollar fucking slacks. no more setting my pubic hair on fire from denim friction. i know this is a trend that typically doesn't start until after retirement, but i don't care. a quarter of my hair is gray. to hell with it. and all of my hippie birkenstocks just came in from zappos, so i'm GOOD. i just need a book club and a pinot grigio habit, and my transformation into modern housewife will be complete. i was hesitant at first, because i hate any article of clothing that enhances VPL, but the lesbian at my starbucks yesterday was like, "hey girl, do you have a mirror in your pants? because i can see myself in them." ugh, i'm lying. what she really said was, "i accidentally made this extra hot. be careful not to spill it on those thin pants." and then i did just that. fucking third degree thigh burn. stupid soft pants.

3 i am going to jamaica to have sex with some tropical dudes this summer. no one in chicago is trying to fuck me, no one in america is trying to fuck me, and every single time i've been the caribbean has been very hospitable to my vagina. srsly, EVERY FUCKING TIME. you can hardly exit the plane before some asshole is trying to hand you a pineapple with his dick in it. AND A COUPLE HAIRY COCONUTS. zing. and they might want green cards or whatever, but they have no idea that i have neither the money nor the tolerance for sustained human company to fly them the fuck back here. i only need three days of making out to "three little birds" and i'm set. all that sunshine and island air suits me. in antigua i was banging this dude paul for the entire time sarah and i were there, and it was AMAZEBALLS. he took me to soca parties and told his bartender friends to give me free vodka tings (heavy on the vodka, light on the ting), he drove me around the resort in a golf cart that i fell out of twice due to rum punch inebriation, and he found me asleep (read: PASSED OUT) on the beach at four o'clock where i'd been since ten a.m. on a 99 degree day and dragged me to the infirmary to treat my sun poisoning. despite the fact that i was sunburned so badly i needed steroids, despite the fact that my shits turned black because you can buy any drugs you want over the counter there, and despite the fact that i was sober .01% of the two weeks my friend and i were there, that dude LOVED MY GUTS. and so do they all. really, all you have to do is ask "is there a singles mixer?" when you check in to your resort (it's fruity, i know, but that shit WORKS) to let them know you're available, and before you can turn around some mandingo is at your side sliding your luggage onto his erection so he can "show you to your room." and don't worry, i've never caught any island cooties. or any full-grown dependents. all you do is give them your email address, promise to keep in touch (pfffft), and then go to barbados next time. piece of cake.

so the producer of my show is a senior at northwestern and she rules. she's got really cool style and ridiculous tastes in music and fun shit, plus i like listening to her talk. and she likes listening to me talk, which is my only prerequisite for friendship, as i am a pompous egomaniac who lives and dies on the validation of others. let's pause for one second, especially considering this sex stuff i just wrote: i was talking to man omar the other night. a call i made in response to this text message: HEY GRRRL. READING YO BLOG. HOLLERRR IF YOU NEEDZ SOME DYCK. I GOTCHU. first of fucking all, abbreviation is one motherfucking thing, but WHY ARE YOU INTENTIONALLY MISSPELLING A WORD?! really, dude? DYCK?!?!! even if i was trying to "GET [MY] BANG ON" (subsequent text), reading the word DYCK would render my vaginal region a virtual desert. when i was like, "that's gross" he was all, "WHUT" and then i was all, "what you misunderstand is that i have very few PHYSICAL needs, what i'm looking for is the VALIDATION of someone's sexual interest in me."

bitches who pretend to have insatiable carnal requirements are fucking full of shit. your body needs to rest, eat, and move around; everything else is mental. i really doubt that the ache in your lower back is your body SCREAMING for some cock. i'm not one of these broads who pretend that not having enough sex (or EVER) is akin to a physical ailment. i have this one hoe-ass friend who says, "oh my god, i need to get LAID" the same way a starving motherfucker would say, "please give me a bite of that sandwich before i collapse." i haven't taken a razor to my armpits since 2009 and I JUST TOLD YOU I'M NO LONGER GOING TO WEAR PANTS WITH A WAISTBAND, so for me it is .1% about the act of having sex and 99.9% about knowing someone would want to if presented with the opportunity. which i would turn down because i'm hairy and lazy and tired all the time at the moment.

so friday night producer kate and i got manicures at some fancy place and went to big star, because i have some sort of magnetic attachment to that place that requires i go to it at least twice a week. i got this sparkly glittery pink nail polish despite the fact it is obviously intended for children, and i told a lot of hilarious jokes and made one of those little manicurists fall instantly in love with me. seriously, she was giggling SO MUCH. too bad it was the one doing producer kate's nails, because the bitch i had nearly ripped all the skin off my fingers trying to beat my raggedy cuticles into submission. when she was lotioning my hands she was looking at me like, "do YOU ever consider doing this, asshole?" and i looked back, "NO, I DO NOT."

after nails we were in the car and producer kate introduced me to "math rock," a new genre of music that i am obviously too old to know existed. i'm not a music critic or anything, but i felt like a hillbilly admitting i didn't know what the fuck that is or who plays it. this is the beginning of the end, right? when entire genres of music are slipping by me? HOLY BALLS. then i was talking about my colorful past (bwahahahaha) and told her about my first real job working for judy and that shitty apartment i lived in when i was 18, in 1998. "i was in the third grade," she said, and my pride just liquified and slid all down my face. WHAT THE FUCK, gurl. is it legal to be friends with someone who was a child when you were an adult?! i was sitting there feeling like a pedophile or some shit, like dateline was going to get in the back seat at the next red light and show me the pixellated pictures of my raggedy old vagina i'd unknowingly sent to their decoy. i don't know how you old people who have sex with young people do it, but my guess is that you NEVER EVER TALK ABOUT ANYTHING EVER. that's the only way it can work, right? if you never talk about how you got your first ipod at 47 while this bitch had wi-fi in her bassinet?! i imagined for a second, which is obviously all i have before the dementia creeps in and takes over my whole brain, what i'd feel like if i'd been a dude trying to put it in her butt later that night. or a lesbian trying to caulk her tub later that night. whatever.

when i was twenty i was banging this hot fifty-year-old for a while, but i was so nervous that he'd discover i sucked my thumb or had only had my license for a year that i never brought up ANYTHING young. at that point i'd had my own place for a couple years and enough old people problems and responsibilities that i'm sure i was considered "mature for my age," but i also lived on ramen and hot pockets and peanut butter on toast. i didn't talk about what bands i liked or what books i read; he never came to my apartment or saw the inside of my car; i never introduced him to a single one of my dumbass friends. i hung out at his house and pretended i liked watching documentaries and reading anything other than the style section of the new york times. every time he asked me a probing question my response was, "want to have sex again?" and he always did, so i didn't have to say SHIT.

his body was old but i didn't care because i was making $8.25 an hour baking cookies and taking cake orders, and that dude kept his pantry STOCKED and didn't mind supplementing my magazine habit and the occasional tank of gas. he had crepey testicles and scraggly chest hair and was fond of saying "just because there's snow on the roof doesn't mean there's no fire in the furnace." except there was snow in the furnace, too, as evidenced by his dirty grey pubes. it was like a dust bunny was curled up asleep on top of his boner. and sometimes he couldn't get an erection when he was stressed out, but i didn't care because i am lazy and it gave me an excuse to pretend i was salty and sleep by myself in the guest room. i hate sleeping in bed with another person. i can't fucking relax enough to get a good night's sleep and am irritated IMMEDIATELY if they can. we should both be tossing and turning, ahem. wake your ass up.

two reasons i couldn't get serious about that dude: 1 he was thirty when i was born and 2 sometimes he talked to me like a parent, and that is weird because my dad never lectured me with his penis hanging out of his robe in the middle of the kitchen after breakfast. maybe he felt guilty for fucking a college-age girl who was too broke to go to college or something, or maybe i reminded him of one of his shiftless children, but every time i would spend the night and stay long enough the next morning to let him fix me up a few pancakes he would always start asking what i was doing with my life. like in the light of day this motherfucker really cared about my future, when at night it was just "let me dip my scrotum in your mouth and try not to gag." all i wanted was the most important meal of my day, not an after school special. SHUT THE FUCK UP. one morning after i'd let that dude shave my privates the night before, he brought a handful of college brochures to the table. FOR REAL. i came down the stairs and retrieved a diet coke from the fridge and barked "two eggs, scrambled!" at his back while he stood at the stove. i sat down at the table ready to doze off while my breakfast cooked and noticed a bunch of college brochures fanned out on the table.

at first i thought the whole thing might have been an elaborate recruitment scheme. are colleges really this desperate for students? GODDAMN. then it dawned on me that he was either suffering from some MAJOR guilt about putting his dick in my high school diploma OR he really did hear me when i'd said, "i like cinnamon toast crunch" under my breath at the grocery store. i wasn't offended, just amused. i might have even been flattered, but then i realized that I MADE $8.25/HR SLINGING DOUGHNUTS and COLLEGE WAS A FISCAL IMPOSSIBILITY. "we should get your transcripts," he said casually, sliding a plate of eggs and sausage on the table in front of me. "what could it hurt?"
my pride, apparently. i wasn't trying to talk to some dirty old lawyer who liked to come in my butt like he was my fucking guidance counselor! suddenly i was all hot and embarrassed, and i said i needed to make an emergency phone call and had left my cell phone upstairs. "i'll put your plate under the heat lamp!" he called cheerfully after me. i didn't even put on real clothes, just sunglasses and gym shoes and my nightgown and shoved everything else into my overnight bag. i knew his wallet was in his pants pocket, and i helped myself to fifty bucks and tiptoed down the front stairs and got into my shitty car. my shitty car that refused to start. i hoped one of those brochures had been for that mechanic school that advertised on daytime television. *sigh*

at big star the security dude kept circling the bar to ogle my tender companion and, even if you don't want to, old people simply CANNOT HELP shielding and shepherding the young. so i scowled at him menacingly and made sure producer kate didn't need the emergency bib i keep in my purse. (she did not.) here's what i don't get, dudes. if you want to fuck a girl, and she is hanging out with her salty drunk friend, why would you insist upon annoying circling around them like a vulture rather than interrupt, apologize profusely, plead your stupid case, and move your ass along? i block no cocks, not ever, and i know how to shut my pie hole and go to the fucking bathroom so you can use your dick to stir my homegirl's drink or whatever. really, i do. but what i CAN'T do is pull your dick out for you and place her on top of it. sometimes you have to do a little leg work yourselves. hovering over a bitch isn't sexy. ASKING HER OUT IS. i knew he wasn't looking at me and the high-waisted briefs under my bootcut yoga pants, and if he had been i would have stopped him the second or third time and handed him the business card i reserve for people i might sleep with but don't feel comfortable giving my address to. then everyone involved could get back to whatever the fuck they were doing IN PEACE.

we fought through the capacity friday night crowd to get out of there, high on horchata and pork belly. as we squeezed past the entrance and out into the cold air security jerk made a point to stop us in front of a bar full of people so that he could say, "goodnight, beautiful" to producer kate and her delicious mini-skirted legs. WTF. what am i, her au pair? mrs. fucking doubtfire or some shit?!
YES. yes, i am. good thing she's already in college. i'm fresh out of course materials and applications for devry.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

the shit standoff.

on a cold, rainy friday night a few weeks ago i had dinner plans with a couple of lesbians at pete miller's steakhouse. because sucking down bowls of hot lobster bisque and gnawing on slabs of bloody red meat is exactly what sexy bitches should be doing together on a friday night. i had already had a couple high lifes and 1/3 of a bottle of champagne with jessica and claire earlier in the evening, and on top of the fact that cheap beer acts like a fucking diuretic, i sort of had to take a big shit.

i hate eating when i have to take a poo. first of all, you can't really relax and enjoy your meal. or at least i goddamned can't. all i can do is sit there and picture my insides, like adding too many orange peels and leftover dinner scraps to an already-full garbage disposal and watching it trying to chug-chug-chug that shit down while praying nothing gets stuck. by that same measure, i won't shit in a toilet that already has toilet paper or whatever in it. i hate standing over the bowl with my fingers crossed hoping that i won't have to remember where i last saw my fucking plunger. i like the feeling that, despite the fact that the stomach and bowels are separate entities entirely, i actually have room to make a food deposit. plus, my guts are all narrow and i eat super slow and all that chewing and processing just pounds the food to my colon even faster.

now i'm not shy about shit. AT ALL. how could i be? because of all this below the belt crohn's activity, once when jason and i spent a long weekend in rural michigan i was forced to shit in my purse on the drive home because there wasn't a place to stop. i shit in a grocery bag once behind a gas station in washington dc. i've shit the bed, i've shit on nurses and aides, and doctors are always digging around in my butt. a couple years ago jeff and i went to pitchfork and i spent an hour trying to find someplace to shit and we missed !!!'s entire set. (um, yeah, so DAS RACIST, THE DISMEMBERMENT PLAN, and DEERHUNTER are all playing this year, and i hate being hot but i am willing to brave the swelter to see them because they are all my JAMS. if anyone is interested in going, HOLLER.) so my own private little room with both a toilet AND a door makes me feel like fucking royalty, no matter how cramped and dirty it might be. don't get me wrong. would i much rather be at home where i can take my pants and underwear off and read an entire issue of atlantic monthly on the can? FUCK YES. will bathroom shyness force me to walk around the party on tiptoe all night trying to squeeze my butt cheeks shut attempting to hold in a deuce? FUCK NO. i mean, i'm not an advocate of people who are SO comfortable crapping in public that they pull out laptops to work on their screenplay and try to talk to you over the stall door and shit (why do you do that, friends? WHY?!!?! just be quiet and poo already), but i'd rather deal with a bitch like that than one who tries to hold her breath and not move a muscle in the vain hope that you won't notice she's been sitting in the same stall for an hour and a half waiting for the bathroom to empty out for more than ten seconds so she can drop her butt load. hey gurl, i love you and everything, but MY SOUP IS GETTING COLD.

the bathroom at pete miller's is an intimate one. three stalls, super small, low ceilings. and the sinks are right up next to the stalls. TOTAL CLOSENESS. no way to separate oneself from the dump. anyway, there are very few places that the north shore's middle aged can go on a friday night to try to get their dicks sucked, and PMS is one of the places. (so is that union pizza. the food is the JAM, but we have to go on a sunday or a tuesday when we can actually get a table because does anyone in evanston EVER EAT ANYWHERE ELSE?!) first of all? GROSS. if you catch me drooling over some recent retiree with my titties out at fifty-five falling off a bar stool while slugging down fifteen-dollar martinis please PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY. the only thing more awkward than watching people flirting (i hate that) is watching people with active AARP memberships flirting. i remember when mel was setting up his and scrolling through ladies, making jokes about which ones looked like they could still have sex.

picture my horrified face. i was like, "sex with what?"

i'm sure he did something lewd like point at the saggy spot in his armani jeans where his wrinkly old penis should be, because despite the fact that he is my surrogate earth father, that is the kind of relationship i have with most people.

"i thought old people just held hands and complained about rap music while watching QVC? isn't your screen name 'must love pudding?' shouldn't you find a bitch who knows cpr?!"


the only thing that's hot about old people fucking is that they can do it fucking BALLER STYLE. mel wasn't taking hoes to starbucks, TRUST ME. that dude in his killer suits and italian shoes puts a down payment on the pussy, and there's nothing sexier than that. which is why cara is still calling that salt and pepper dude she met at speed dating even though he banged her and immediately said he wanted to "keep things casual." everybody knows that's code for "thanks for fucking me, stupid," but she still calls that asshole because he got a reservation at alinea on a SATURDAY NIGHT and didn't bat an eyelash at the bill. my motherfucking RENT is cheaper than dinner there. i don't know if that girl is thirsty for dude or hungry for saffron-scented puffs of air on a bed of organic give me your left kidney to cover the exorbitant cost of this meal, but she is still texting that dude twice a week in hopes for a response. laaaaaaaame.

so i like watching dudes in suits buy drinks for botoxed old white ladies in clothes they're twenty years too old for. which is why i go there on friday and saturday nights. live jazz and OMG DO YOU SEE THOSE TWO SEPTUAGENARIANS HUMPING IN THE CORNER BY THE COAT RACK?! the bathroom was teeming with broads adjusting their spanx and doing body shots of virgin blood to keep their skin tight, so i hovered in the corner waiting for my chance to make someone's hair lose its curl. i like the handicapped stall because there's more room, duh, and i was staring a hole through its door when it dawned on me that the middle stall hadn't opened the entire time. i acted like i dropped something so i could glance and see if there were feet under the door, and there indeed was a pair of brown mom shoes frozen in place.

open close open close went the doors of the other two stalls, and i shuffled my feet as the line inched forward. as awful and vapid as bathroom talk at the club is ("did i drop an eight ball over there? is that brian urlacher in the VIP?!"), this shit was worse times a MILLION. all "mackenzie got into princeton" and "tyler made the football team." boring. i was starting to feel bad for the poor woman trapped in that middle stall, teetering precariously at the precipice of anal rupture or poop toxicity while these bitches cackled and fixed their eyeliner and shit. by the time i got to the handicapped stall 1 i was dangerously close to shitting myself and 2 everyone else had cleared the fuck out. then i decided to be an asshole and have a little fun. because maybe SAM should be the one who gets to shit in peace. so i sat there, and didn't do anything.

under ordinary circumstances i would have courtesy flushed and then shit the first round, because really the only terrifying thing about public poos are the noise. like no one has ever heard a fart before. but still, i do it, too. i'll flush the toilet 900 times or however many i think it takes to make you feel comfortable that i have the nerve to be emptying my bowels next to you, the person polite enough to just be peeing. or if i feel a major ass-burning torrent of violent diarrhea on the horizon, i will sniff a few times or clear my throat to let you know that you and that tampon wrapper better HURRY IT THE FUCK UP. seriously, it's always a bitch either on her period or fixing her stupid hair that gets in the way of your inconspicuous public shit. get the fuck out of here so my date won't notice i've been gone an hour and a half, you stupid bitch! that's why i'm just like, OH YEAH? here's what my butthole thinks about that shade of lipgloss: FRRRPPPPRRPP.

i rustled some toilet paper so she would know i was still there. then i waited. and waited. and WAITED. until finally my large intestine told my rectum to get my doctor on the speed dial and i finally went. only to find out it was a fucking FALSE ALARM. for real, the only thing worse than having a big public poo is thinking you're going to die if you don't get that poo out into the public only to find out that it's one marble-sized turd with a gale force wind of hot, smelly air behind it. nothing on earth more satisfying than giving birth to a pound of (poorly) digested food. remember that sex class ginger and i took? when that woman was rhapsodizing ad nauseum about how our buttholes have pleasure nerves that we should not be afraid to play with and explore, and as an example she told us to imagine how good it feels when you shit out that entire pizza or slab of bacon you just ate. yeahhhhhh, the does feel good! so good, in fact, that you can't wait to poop AGAIN. and what do you want to do the minute you flush the toilet? GO EAT SOME MORE FUCKING FOOD.

those little peas that anticlimactically climbed out of my asshole mocked me as they swirled to rejoin their brethren in our drinking water, then i took too long to wash and fully dry my hands just to be a bitch. all while this woman sat like a statue in that middle goddamned stall. i went back to my lesbians and my jameson (yes, please), but as i passed the hostess stand i did hear a dude asking if the girl had seen his wife. "she's about yea tall, you know? brown hair? wearing a bright blue sweater? she left the table to go to the bathroom ages ago, is there anyone who can go in and make sure she's okay?"

"oh, of course! give me one second, i'll go right in!"

poor thing. no rest for the weary. frrrrrrrrrpppppp.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

i went to a goddamned psychic.

there is way too much delirious insane chit chit chat chat chatter constantly ricocheting off the walls of my tiny brain. and, when i probably should have called a psychoanalyst or a physician or a medicine man or a minister, i instead chose to scrape together all the laundry quarters stashed in various hiding places around my apartment and drag my ass to a goddamned psychic. sometimes i feel like a crazy person, because i'm all in my head all the time, pacing around my place babbling at the cat and forgetting why i got up to go into the kitchen. religion isn't my fucking bag, dude. i'm fine with whatever anyone wants to do, and if spending your sunday mornings trying not to fall asleep in the back of a hot ass church is what you're into then that's just what the fuck i want you to be into. especially since that means you won't be clogging up the brunch line at orange or m. henry or lula or toast or bongo room or wishbone or tweet. i fucking HATE standing outside like a goddamned asshole waiting to get some fucking pancakes or whatever. you either have to get up at 730 on a sunday morning to beat all of the parties of 19 huddled around sipping lattes and impatiently checking the waitlist every thirty seconds trying to figure out their place in line despite the fact that the girl with the clipboard told them the wait was THREE HOURS five minutes ago. or you try to sneak in at ten minutes to three or whatever, right before they shut down to prep for dinner, when all they have left is rye toast and whatever burnt egg they can scrape off the griddle.

i like brunch for two reasons: 1 you can have both CAKE and MEAT at the same meal and no one frowns upon it or even gives you a second glance and 2 most places let you get drunk. as a matter of fact, they encourage that shit. also, eating food when you don't have anything to do later in the day except nap and maybe disinfect the bathtub is just better. i don't work on mondays, and that rules super hard because there aren't any fucking crowds to contend with and the waitstaff is way more mellow and happy to see you. plus, kids are in school. if i never had to watch a child pour milk over an entire table ever again it would be too goddamned soon. and i already know, BRUNCH IS FOR ASSHOLES. but i can't help it. i like pretending my life is like sex and the city.

so i don't go to church because it's boring and i hate god and until someone loads the bible on my kindle when i've got my back turned there isn't a chance in hell i'm ever going to read it. or make it into a puppet show. or a bunch of little dioramas. you know what would be really dope? if univision made that shit into a TELENOVELA. right?! here's what i watch on the teevee: bill maher, big love, top chef, msnbc, and spanish-language soap operas. i'm fluent and, trust me, it's worth it to learn spanish just so you can watch this shit. you dudes need to be watching eva luna, triunfo del amor, y la verdad oculta AHORA. seriosamente. and holy fucking balls the TALK SHOWS. jerry springer doesn't have shit on these. escandalo. you know what else? I'M NOT READY TO GIVE UP BEING BAD. i'm more of a death bed conversion kind of girl, i think. if i have to stop drinking and cursing and coveting and killing and adultering and bearing false witness and having multiple gods to walk the straight and narrow path to heaven i will fail spectacularly before i'm even out of the fucking gate. i'm not good at mini-proclamations like "don't stare at that cute dude on the train," so why would i even attempt something as grandiose as taking the lord's name in vain?! i'm just going to do what serial killers and axe murderers do; i'm going to live my heathen life however the fuck i want and when time runs out on my life clock i'm going to accept jesus into my heart and get a free pass into heaven. bitch, i saw "dead man walking." i know how this shit works, goddamn it.

and you'd think i'd be the kind of miserable jerk to disavow psychics and tarot readers and astrologists but, surprisingly, I AIN'T. that shit is real. or at least real enough that i refuse to reject it outright or talk shit about it. i have a healthy fear of everything i don't understand, which is why i refuse to declare that anything is a fraud. i can speak authoritatively about neither theology NOR evolution, so i stay where i'm better acquainted, with the drunks and the whores and the tax cheats. i can recite the apostle's creed and i've also read a bunch of christopher hitchens, but i still don't think i have a real comprehension of any of it. dinosaurs, aliens, walking on water...all that shit sounds right to me. what the fuck do i know?!

so i asked the internet to find me a psychic not too far from the red line (fuck walking), and it totally did. except what i really mean is that i harrassed the shit out of amanda until she both agreed to go with me AND found the psychic online. safer to do it that way, for sure, as i am a notorious maker of FUCKING TERRIBLE decisions. she found a reputable-looking place with a decent website (why are psychic sites so fucking shitbaggy?!) and a normal-looking woman and i was happy. she ALSO found a bunch of sites with batshit-looking grody old cat ladies with long scraggly hair and art teacher outfits. seriously, like oversize canvas jackets and shit. in awful colors, like teal and coral. i want my witches dressed in flowing black robes and smudgy eye makeup, please.

i called to make an appointment and carolyn, the psychic, answered on the first ring. "i knew you'd be calling," she said, and i PASSED THE FUCK OUT. when i came to i realized that i'd made that up in my mind and hadn't really dialed her number yet. bahahaha. she was super mellow on the phone and said she could see me and ginger at eight-thirty. tuesday morning i was all excited to tell the assholes i work with about how i was about to get all up in my future's ass, and these bitches TOTALLY MADE FUN OF ME. i can't say that i was surprised, but i caught an attitude anyway because fuck them. JERKS. i really have been feeling nightmarishly tweaked out lately, and i'm not sure why. stupid and crazy things are happening in my life right now, and i keep rolling with the punches, but i think the byproduct of joking your way through shit is some residual cray cray. or maybe it's seasonal affective disorder and my irrational hatred of the sun and long days has manifested itself in some mental unrest. whatever. but the minute i made that appointment i felt better. a lot better, actually.

okay, so i work until six every day. and i have no problem at all going out during the week, but if i have to stop by my house before whatever post-workday activity gets going, i am not coming the fuck back out of my apartment. sorry, but the minute i see my pajamas the day is fucking OVER for me. if you want to hang during the week, it better be at seven. FUCK, i'm old. i arranged for ljb to meet amanda and me at bangers and lace, this new bar that just happens to be across the street from our psychic. i don't want to sound like an asshole, but wicker park is fucking horrible. my cabbie was like, "this part of division is so beautiful," (the part west of ashland and east of damen, i'm guessing) "i wish i could live here." and i was like, "REALLY, dude?! what the fuck would you fucking EAT?! ain't no garam masala over here." ain't no brown people over there, PERIOD. i'm surprised the bars don't serve brussels sprouts and skim milk. pfffft. (and BEETS; white people fucking looooove BEETS.)

"i like pizza!" he offered as an explanation. "yeah right, you just want to fuck white girls," i scoffed. he winked at me in the rear view and nodded. UGH, and now we have a secret joke. i hate having secret jokes with people i've never met, like when this asshole and i both saw this woman's pantiliner slip out of her pant leg on the bus and he kept making big eyes and fake laughing in my direction. gross. why do total dirtbags always recognize me as one of their own? he couldn't just sit up front and be the fuck quiet? why he gotta be forcing me to talk about skewering some succulent white meat on his kabob?! dirty little predator. you pretty white girls better travel in packs. before you fuck around and wind up in SAW 9: bollywood. it's deep out here.

ljb was there, as was her friend laura, and at this point i have so many lauras in my life i am going to have to start numbering them. yikes. anyway, that bar is pretty cool, i guess. it's dark, which i like. and they serve corn dogs, which i LOVE. and the bartender looked like rick rubin or some shit, which amanda found incredibly alluring. or maybe rob zombie, because he's less fat. HOLD THE FUCK UP.  my most favorite favorite FAVORITE bartenders right now are the dudes who work saturday nights at the southern. holy fucking shitballs, baby. those handlebar mustachioed gentlefellows are BANGING. too bad that fucking place turns into the massengill headquarters after nine o'clock. i could hardly eat my hush puppies without someone in a rhinestone-studded t-shirt splashing DOUCHE all over them. bla-arf. maybe you should just go on a tuesday. those dudes are really hot, though.

but it made me feel fruity to say i was going to a place called "bangers and lace." i mean, come on. that shit is moist. i want to go to a bar called SHIT KICKING CUNT HOLE or FUCK ME WITH A CHAINSAW. someplace righteous and tough. and that place had lace curtains and a wall of mirrors in the bathroom. i probably won't go back. unless amanda wants me to get that bartender for her. because i'm totally good at that.

we left the lauras and their venison sandwiches at B&L (i just can't anymore) and went to find out what the fates have in store for us. i stepped into the street and immediately almost got hit by a motherfucking cab, and i briefly wondered whether or not carolyn knew ahead of time that she was only going to have an appointment for one. my joints are FUCKED UP these days, which is why i'm so salty these days. april showers bring crippled ass samantha, for cereal. before i could even touch the bell the door swung open and carolyn said, "i knew you'd be here." just kidding. we rang the bell and she let us into a little sitting area that was easily nine hundred goddamned degrees. i started sweating immediately, and amanda volunteered me to go first. OF COURSE.

i decided to do tarot, because i love looking like an idiot when someone asks me to shuffle a deck of cards. PFFFT. i cannot, for the life of me, shuffle cards. and i'm the best spades partner you'd ever want to have, but not when it comes to deck shuffling time. these days i can just blame it on my stricken joints and useless bones, but even when i was a kid i didn't have the coordination to properly execute that shit. what a fucking failure, i tell you. anyway, i started sweating even more and she calmly said, "there is no right way to shuffle them. let the stars guide your hands." holy shit, her voice was soothing. i almost slipped into a coma at the goddamned sound of it. so i gave up and just sort of slopped them on the table in front of her. she told me to divide them into three piles. i did that, and she told me to select a stack. i did, teetering nervously on the edge of the chair and fogging up my glasses. i might need to switch deodorants or something.

she dealt the cards out in silence, then sat studying them for a few minutes without saying anything while i LITERALLY sweat through the seat of my pants. finally she looked up and said, "i'm going to tell you everything i see here, good or bad." and while my mouth was smiling and saying, "okay," my brain was screaming, "I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE I'M GOING TO DIE ALONE AND THE CAT IS GOING TO EAT MY FACE FOR THREE DAYS UNTIL SOMEONE NOTICES I'M MISSING." i wiped my hands on my pants (gross sweating groos omg blarf gross) and waited.

"you are an orphan," she said, and i immediately got lightheaded. i just sat there nodding with my mouth open while she said shit like "you are creative, too. a writer, yes?" and "i see some health problems, around your midsection? some intestinal disease?" okay, so i'm a fucking skeptic and i hate EVERYTHING, but that bitch was blowing my fucking mind. she just kept saying shit she couldn't have possibly known with no provocation from me; i hadn't even told her my full name when i'd scheduled the appointment. i sat there like a fucking department store mannequin, nodding like a bobblehead and sweating through the upholstery on the chair. she said that i'm in a good place as far as my job is concerned, which is good considering i'm too lazy and apathetic to work anyplace else. she also said that my creative shit is about to blow up and i won't have to do anything but sit back and let it happen, which is also news to my lazy ears. and is starting to come true, because i just got a radio show and oprah's book club is going to publish my novel. only one of those things is true, but she also said that if i want something to happen i just have to speak it aloud and tell the universe i want it. hear that, universe? O-P-R-A-H. please and thank you.

she started staring intently at the cards again, shaking her head. "well, the only areas of that are unclear to me are the ones surrounding your love life." you and me both, sister. i wanted to tell her that's because it's nonexistent, but she probably already knew that. so i just kept quiet. "i see a lot of people here," she said after another stretch of silence.

"oh yeah? are they all fully clothed and talking my fucking ear off about being in love with other people?" boo hoo. my life suckssssss.

too smart to indulge that she kept squinting at the cards, "i see one person who keeps trying to get into your life, a couple more that are disappointing, and another one who is great waiting patiently in the wings." i am impatient and i don't like guessing games. "can you see what any of them is wearing?" i asked, rooting through my bag so i could text the description to myself. "especially the waiting in the wings one who's awesome? i need to know what to look for."

"i don't want you to do anything," she said. "don't pursue anyone. don't think about romance. don't think about dating, don't talk about sex with anyone." (i had to blink my eyes a couple times to make sure mean mommy hadn't snuck in and kidnapped the psychic.) "just sit back and wait for the universe to dictate what is supposed to happen. and don't make any decisions. just let things happen. oh, and you should be doing yoga." um, okay. while i was happy she said my health shit isn't going to be an issue and happy that i'm not going to have to work at mcdonald's or whatever and was TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY by how scary accurate the shit she said was, i at least wanted to learn how to put a curse on my enemies or get a crystal to  put in my bank account or something. what, no candle to burn every night before i go to bed in the hopes that a hot piece of bacon will be lying across from me when i wake up?!

"candles and crystals are only for people who truly need them," she replied. "and you don't. you're fine." when i continued to blink expectantly at her she said, "believe me, sam, if i wanted to sell you some unnecessary merchandise i would. but you'll be okay. the universe will take care of you. trust that." then she ushered me out to the room in which amanda was waiting before whisking her away to read her palm. ginger had had two impromptu palm readings in the past, both with disastrous outcomes, and she was hoping for a good one this time. best two out of three, i suppose? i had hardly started wringing my pants out before she came sauntering out, smiling. we paid carolyn and left in silence before exploding on the sidewalk below. lots of high-pitched, breathless squealing. i told ginger about her ridiculous psychic ability (for reals, dudes, the shit she said about my childhood was dead fucking on) and her advice to "do nothing and let it just happen," then ginger told me she was going to live a long time and should be expecting a marriage proposal soon.

what the fucking FUCK. that bitch isn't even dating anyone right now! i'm not trying to get married, believe me, but the only thing miss cleo has for me after locking me in that sauna for ten minutes is "stop stalking dudes you meet on craigslist," and one glance at ginger's palm reveals some hot future husband on the horizon? is that what fifty dollars gets a girl these days?! too bad that asshole didn't see a malignant tumor in my future, because then i'd feel less bad about wanting to throw a molotov cocktail through the window. wonder if she'd fucking see that coming.

i limped back across the street ready to bang myself with a lace curtain rod. (what a stupid fucking name.) we collected the lauras and piled in a cab to big star, so i could manifest my lamesauce destiny all up in some tacos. a different chatty pervert this time, making eyes in the rear view and jerking his head toward the back seat while whispering, "the one in the middle is very cute." i said something crass and referred to his cab as a "pussy mobile," then decided i was over psychics and cabbies and humans in general and just wanted to cozy up to some horchata. the bitch i like who works the door was there and let us get our regular booth, then i DECIDED (gasp!) to order a trio of pork belly tacos. i also decided to drink some cheap whiskey. you know, to keep me warm while i'm just sitting here not doing anything.

waiting for the universe is fucking boring. wake me up when someone is willing to kill himself for me. zzZzZzzz.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

blah blah blah.

i think i may have figured out part of what the fuck my stupid problem is. and what some of your problems might be, too. and this might not be hilarious, but draper just informed me that "sometimes you have to turn down the lights a bit and do a slow jam." so consider the lights dimmed. the other day i was on the gchats with my gorgeous girl ljb, and we were doing the color commentary play by play post-drinks deconstructive analysis of a date she'd been on the night before. he sounded like a pretty amazing dude: handsome + nice + not dumb. which almost = FICTIONAL nowadays. seriousballs, i read all that shit and was like CYBORG. or alien in need of a green card. so this is how our conversation went:
1:50 PM ljb: I went on ANOTHER date last night
1:52 PM me: how was it?
1:53 PM ljb: it was actually the first time it went how a date is supposed to goit was really nice and way fun
  i forgot what "normal" acts like
1:55 PM me: HOORAY.
 ljb: yeah!!
1:56 PM but now i have to wait around during that awful, "I think it went really well and we're supposed to hang out again but maybe he didn't feel the same and will he call?" part
1:57 PM cause it always seems to go downhill at that part. poo.
 me: i have no encouraging words.
 ljb: hahaha
 me: men are shit, i hope he calls. 

that makes me fucking sad, dude. but not for the reasons you might think. waiting around for someone to call you isn't really the tragedy we often make it out to be. SERIOUSLY. let's stop pretending that staring at your phone for four days straight, or worse, pulling it out of your bag every five minutes to check that it somehow hasn't stopped working due to lack of use, is the worst thing that could ever happen to you. it just isn't. what sucks about this exchange, and about humankind in general, is how comfortable people are with lying right to your pretty little face. okay, so how that relates is not readily apparent. i get that. so here's what i mean: ljb wouldn't have to wonder how dude felt about the evening if she hadn't already experienced the crushing disappointment that is "yeah, i had SUCH a good time and i can't WAIT to see you again" followed by a tumble off the face of the earth. or at least that's what you're left to assume must have happened, as it is IMPOSSIBLE that someone who claimed to like you that much could have just been saying that shit just to say it. or is it?

one of anna's FAVORITE stories of mine is the one in which i ran into a girl we went to high school with and refused to play along like we were actually going to hang out after our chance encounter and awkwardly avoided writing down her phone number. so this was before everyone walked around with her facebook in her pocket, way back in the stone age of land lines and portable cd players, and i ran into this girl i liked just fine but had never been super close to outside of the liquor store next door to my job. IMAGINE THAT. we made pleasant small talk for a few minutes because i'm not such a fucking asshole that i don't care about the baby you had or the degree you just got; i'm fucking happy for you, sister. tell me all about that shit. back then i was even nice enough to spare random reconnects from the tragedy of my dead parents and failed attempt at college. if your dog accidentally runs up and takes a shit on me or you back your car over my foot in the parking lot at whole foods or however we might run into one another after all these years ("oh my fucking god, bitch, you're still ALIVE?!" is my all-time favorite greeting in these situations), you can expect that i will smile and nod at all of the lies you string together about how great you're doing, then rewrite my own sorry history to afford you the chance to return the favor. but what i won't do, especially before the phrase "facebook me" became an action verb, is get my phone out and make imaginary plans that, let's face it, neither one of us is ever going to pursue.

what i said at the time was, "all that number-swapping isn't necessary, gurl. it was great to see you, i'm very happy you're doing so well, good luck with everything in the future." because shit got IMMEDIATELY uncomfortable i added, "maybe i'll see you around sometime," but deep down in my heart of hearts i knew that if i ever saw that bitch again i would immediately turn on my heel and walk in the other direction. or kill myself. anything to avoid another tricky interaction. and you don't have to be a fucking dickbag about it, just stop leading bitches on. the awkwardness of that moment would be eclipsed TEN FOLD if i'd run into her again after ignoring her messages for two weeks. and she doesn't have to feel the repercussions of this thing she said just to be nice coming back to bite her in the ass in the form of my incessant "hey, when are you free for dinner?!" texting. i understand why people say things they don't mean, for shiz. at least in theory. because more often than not the natural progression of most of these phony conversations we end up having every day is to seal it with a promise you have no intention of keeping. if i don't want to see a motherfucker ever again, i won't tell him that i do. in any capacity. no need to be a fucking jerkface, but if your response to "we should totally hang out again!" is "god, you know what? i am just SO SWAMPED and SO BUSY right now," i get your motherfucking point: YOU DON'T WANNA HANG OUT WITH ME. and my feelings might be a little bruised, but that hurt has a shelf life and an expiration date. causing that five minutes of "good lord, that was brutal" isn't illegal, nor is it a crime. as a matter of fact you, sir, deserve a medal for being so goddamned direct.

i try to never say anything i don't absolutely mean. because i understand that eventually you are going to expect me to DO WHAT THE FUCK I SAID I WAS GOING TO DO, and that is a sticky trap to get out of. how come there are so many people who aren't like that? do you enjoy making people hate you? i've got a phone full of platonic numbers (like atomic numbers, sans the sexy electrons) belonging to well-meaning jerks who led my simple ass to believe that they actually wanted to spend some kick it time rather than find a seemingly harmless segue out of whatever conversation we were having. two things about that: 1 i'm not the person you have to do that to, because i want out of this wretched conversation worse than you do, and 2 99.9% of the time this happens to me it is 100% UNSOLICITED. universal example that everyone can relate to: you run into this bitch you used to LOVE at summer camp or boy scouts or first period detention or wherever the fuck. you smile and small talk it up, maybe even give each other a christian side hug. you pretend that you haven't forgotten this woman's name (what class did i have with her again?!) while she pretends not to notice all the weight you've put on since graduation. the conversation slowly dwindles down to nothing. you're all ready to walk to your car while tossing a "good to see you!" over your shoulder when she says, apropos of nothing, "you are so great! i rilly, rilly think we oughta hang out sometime!"

WELL. what a conundrum this poses. i mean, she was your bff in the children's choir at church, after all. and sometimes it really is hard to spit in the face of someone who sounds so caring and genuine. SO YOU CAVE, even though you sort of know it is likelier that an actual dog will text you before this bitch does. you get out your cell phone and your date book and start conference calling your secretary to try to find an empty spot in your agenda. you spend three weeks playing one-sided voicemail tag before realizing that fake-ass bitch just might have been lying. and now YOU FEEL LIKE AN ASSHOLE. over someone who doesn't mean anything anyway. and that's why life sucks.

i fall for all of this bullshit of best intentions hook, line, and sinker every time. first of all, you can't always tell when someone is blowing smoke up your goddamned ass. especially when that someone is a someone you already know. blame this crushing loneliness, i guess. maybe we all just need to exercise a little healthy disbelief anytime another human being opens his or her mouth. i mean, i wouldn't immediately believe some dude who told me he'd climbed mount everest, so why should i automatically believe him when he says he enjoyed the meal we just shared? i don't know how to do emotional things, like turn off my feelings so they don't get hurt, but i am VERY GOOD at repeating shit over and over again in my brain to make myself feel better. i am totally the fucking champion of self-help books, because i'm brilliant at lists, and those bad girls are FULL OF THEM. i sat down and wrote my own, of course, on the back of a piece of garbage, of course, under the heading: "shit bitches say and totally don't fucking mean." it could also be called, "no, i'm not coming to that thing you invited me to even though i promised i would and you're a fool for extending the offer."

so here's my handy guide (i really should've had pamphlets printed up, but no one reads shit printed on paper anymore) for those of us who are dumb enough to give people a fucking chance, also known as "things not to believe when said to you by another human being." or "why your heart is broken all the time, you goddamned idiot."

i'm willing to concede that the first one on the list probably happens to me waaaaaay more than it does to some of you, but i hear you're like a daughter to me more than is ever really necessary. i wasn't HATCHED, my parents are just DEAD. and as much as i appreciate that you want to boss me around or guilt me into hovering over your death bed, i only want fake parents who are going to GIVE ME SOMETHING. i mean, isn't that the killer shit about living parents?! sorry to break it to you, but i've done just about all the nursing home sitting i EVER have to do. you want a full-grown kid? WRITE THIS BITCH A CHECK. here's why that declaration is gross, before you castigate me for being an ungrateful piece of trash: BITCHES DON'T REALLY MEAN THAT SHIT. mel considers me his surrogate child, and mel has also bought me two cars, paid the insurance on those cars, put me on his cell phone plan, counseled me through a bunch of bullshit, visited me in the hospital, lent me money, lent my friends money, fixed my computers, employed me since i was 19, paid for me to go to design school, sat through countless cubs games and episodes of seinfeld with me, photographed me, moved me from one apartment to another, given me credit cards, taken me everywhere, and put me in his fucking will. you know, THE THINGS A FATHER WOULD DO. watch out for all your play brothers and sisters, too. i don't know why people get comfortable saying big things they don't really mean, but the rest of us have to stop being suckered by the WORDS and start looking at the ACTIONS.

i'm the fucking worst at that, because i want to believe it when someone says something sweet to me. especially when that something sweet is i miss you. PFFFT. don't be fooled, friends. "i miss you" is really just code for "i finished whatever i was doing that made me stop calling you and i'm lonely now." i just went through this silly shit with a friend of mine who dropped out of my life for a goddamned DUDE. the minute she saw he'd taken her pictures down in his apartment i get a "hey, i haven't really talked to you in a year" phone call. you bitches can keep that shit. especially because i fell for it, only to have it happen AGAIN when his greener grass didn't work out for him. dudes always pull that shit, too, and we have to toughen the fuck UP. when he says, "i miss you," you should hear, "that girl i thought you didn't know about ended up being boring and wack." or "i'm broke and out of work and i remember how nice your apartment is." or "she won't let me put it in her butt like you do."

i read recently that the lie people tell the most is "i'm fine," but i'd like to submit a couple for consideration. what is it that you think will happen if you tell someone you didn't have a good time hanging with that you did not, in fact, have a good time? i had a good time is quite possibly the most counterproductive phrase you could ever use when you want to dismiss a person. maybe everyone is just a fucking sadist egomaniac who enjoys watching potential playmates wringing themselves out over them, but if you don't want to be bothered MAYBE YOU SHOULD SAY THAT. same goes for i'll call you, a statement that implies that not only did you enjoy yourself, but you'd like the opportunity to enjoy yourself in my company AGAIN. i'm not even talking specifically about romantic shit, either. EVERYBODY does this. that's why i never turn my goddamned ringer on and refuse to dial anyone's number, because bitches don't really want you to call them. they want you to think they want to talk to you, which means that deep down they're really not assholes, they've just been terribly busy. which will then give them the chance to MISS YOU.

excuses are MUCHO BORING, so we just have to learn to not invite anyone to anything ever. because i'm coming to your _______ is just too easy a lie for motherfuckers to tell, and we are going to save ourselves a world of hurt if we just stop believing it. i'm seriously at the point when i am going to stop planning anything and just make the most out of random occurences. unless you like making a game out of listening to whatever lame excuse some asshole is going to give you (what's he going to say this time? acute-onset brain cancer?!?!!), which i sometimes like to do, we should just start showing up at bars and restaurants and eating with whoever is there. chicago is small enough that your chances of running into someone you know at someplace you like to eat or drink are SUPER HIGH, even if you only know the person tangentially. so eat with that dude and save yourself the devastation of begging bitches to meet up. we should also stop throwing parties and doing shows, because bitches REALLY can't be bothered to holler at that shit. trust me, i know. so here's our new plan: make a party wherever you happen to be. sound good? awesome. now don't bother sending me an invitation, because i'll totally be busy doing something dumb.

ooh here's a killer: i never said that. now this one is tough because it can be translated a couple different ways. 1 i never made that promise or 2 i never said that nasty thing you heard. let's deal with the second one first. every time anyone tells me something fucked up a bitch has said about me, I ALWAYS BELIEVE IT. because bitches be talking shit, for reals, and it's usually true. and the tattletail might have changed the words up a little bit or left something too-mean or extra-salacious in an effort to protect your feelings (or maybe she made it sound worse to set off a fucking turf war), but 100% guaranteed that some version of what she's saying to you got said to HER. and instead of killing the messenger you oughta buy that bitch a drink then go confront old jabber jaws. and when he or she swears up and down that they didn't say that thing you know he or she said, COMMENCE THROAT-PUNCHING. these days we all need to start becoming better acquainted with whatever recording features our fancy telephones offer, because assholes think nothing of lying to your face about the things they mindlessly promise you. have you ever had someone try to rewrite history in your brain? it would be hilarious if it wasn't so goddamned insulting.

and finally, if no one ever told me that my next great romance is right around the corner or that old chestnut you'll find love the minute you stop looking for it i could die happy TODAY. no one wants condolences for not having someone to fuck on, number one, and the last time i ran into a bitch who tripped and fell over a hot dude in the middle of the pharmacy while trying to buy tampons, a copy of self magazine, and a handle of vodka on a random tuesday night was motherfucking NEVER. stop saying that shit, jerks. and the rest of us have to stop believing it. so keep trolling craigslist and trying to fuck all of the facebook friends you haven't yet, because there is no cupid aligning your romantical stars just waiting to shoot you in the ass with an arrow full of roofies. and you know what happens when you don't look for shit? YOU MISS IT. or it sees you at the gas station in your sweatpants with the crotch eaten out and your weave all fucked up.

the moral of the story, of course, is that everyone is a huge liar and you should never believe anything nice anyone ever says to you. by the way, you look SO CUTE in that shirt you're wearing.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

bottoms up!

the sex show was sunday night. jacob knabb co-hosted, and i'm not fucking kidding when i say that dude is probably THE SEXIEST DUDE I KNOW IN REAL LIFE. for serious. there was also a writer from the chicago examiner in attendance. her name is rachel curtis. here are excerpts from her five-star review of our little inbred hipster parade, interspersed with what i read.

Logan Square’s Sunday Night Sex Show is not for the delicate, the prim, or the faint of heart, and the most recent gathering the night of the 83rd Annual Academy Awards provided a rich literary foil to the pomp and glitz of Hollywood. The monthly gathering at The Burlington features readings from local writers who, almost as a requisite, bare the raw, intimate details of their most unsuccessful sexual encounters to a bar full of rapt listeners.

it is my relatively well-founded belief that deep within the heart of every red-blooded, flag-waving, god-fearing, meat-eating, gun-loving purebred american girl lies the secret, irrepressible longing to be "the chick who loves anal." not really, because buttholes involve farting and gross hair and poop, but in some abstract, tangential, theoretical way. because if you fuck dudes, it is 100% inevitable that one day in your near future one will politely ask for your permission to put his DICK in your BUTT.

so this deep-seated burning desire doesn’t materialize organically, it embeds itself deep within the crevices of our brains from an incredibly early age. seriously. similac, sesame street, and "you better learn to love a penis in your rectum." from the day a little female toddler has enough hand-eye coordination to roll over in her crib and flip through the copy of cosmo baby in her bassinet, baby girls are deluged with the assertion that we are TOTAL SHIT in bed. before a bitch is old enough to buy a tube of goddamned mascara the idea that we as a gender are terrible at fucking has been reinforced in her psyche a thousand times over. don’t believe me? "the naughty skill that you MUST learn," "4 traits that men find irresistible," "9 of our best oral sex tips," "12 dirty moves to try tonight," "17 things you didn’t know about your vagina," "27 ways to have better sex," "30 feisty foreplay tricks," "50 ways to seduce a man in a minute or less," and "75 crazy hot sex moves" are all magazine article titles currently on our nation’s newsstands. and for those of you who are unfamiliar, ie you gentlemen, we start reading all this shit at fucking NINE YEARS OLD. now i’m not one of these overzealous assholes who wants to pull this sexual propaganda off the shelves, because how the fuck else am i supposed to find out the latest trends in see-through baby crop tops and studded thongs?

February 27th's Sunday confessions ranged from a desperate search for sex involving even an iota of mutual attraction, to a first timer’s completely bare bikini wax, to a series of oral exploits triggered by the animated version of Transformers. Although heavily accented with ridicule and self-deprecation, what lay beneath the armor of expletives was a wide-open view of humans at their most vulnerable.

but for serious, who in the FUCK is trying to do seventy-five sex moves?! are there really even that many to DO? that’s the thing about this shit, they reinforce the ridiculous notion that you are not doing everything you possibly could to keep your man satisfied by blowing shit up to outrageous proportions and then expecting you to just go along with that shit without challenging it. if a dude asks me to do more than two and a half things during a single sexual encounter i get the fuck up and put my goddamned clothes on. i have television to watch, sir, i can’t be pulling my hair out trying to get you off; there are tacos to eat. so heaven help anyone who expects me to accomplish even five astounding feats in the span of one ten-minute lovemaking session. because i don’t fuck for a long time, either. it's hot and i'm tired and you should have left my apartment an hour ago. but let’s pretend for a second that i do. and let’s pretend that i even have more than a passing interest in trying 12 dirty moves on any given night. my dumb ass would have to bring a pencil, some flashcards, a notebook, two dog-eared copies of the magazine, and my fucking reading glasses in order to properly execute the goddamned thing. i have the retention of a small dog. can you even imagine that shit? stopping mid-coitus to flip through the magazine trying to figure out what the hell i’m supposed to be doing?! "hold on a second, lover, i can’t remember what comes after i attach the jumper cables to your nipples. hold this blowtorch while i turn the page; at what point do i drizzle hydrochloric acid over your testicles? i can’t find it!"

the desire to be the best person someone has ever had sexual intercourse with has never crossed my fucking mind. NEVER. not when i was young, not now that i am old, not ever. i don’t try hard in bed and i refuse to over-exert myself. generally, when it comes to fucking and pretty much anything else i ever attempt to do, i aim for "satisfactory." "adequate" is another word i like to use to describe any of my given skill sets. i’m not trying to be memorable or above average, i’m just trying to finish without dislocating my hip. i was like this in high school, too, which is why i fucking dropped out of college. seriously, i cannot be killing myself to try to get an A. especially when the course is subjective. at least in math you could point out where i’d made a mistake in my calculation as evidence for why i’d received an inferior score, but if some dude were to roll off me and say, while using the edge of my sheet to wipe the sticky shit off of his dick, "well, i’d give you a B+ for that performance," on what grounds could i stand to argue for a better grade?! disproving an opinion takes more effort than i’m willing to commit, so i’m supposed to walk around with a fucked-up sexual GPA because some asshole unreasonably expected a rim job too early in our courtship? for real, partner, i’m not licking your butt before you’ve paid for at least three steaks at someplace with cloth goddamned napkins. really, what the fuck is the barometer for sexual prowess? at the very least can a bitch get graded on a curve?!

It was a cathartic two-and-a-half hours. Via the veil of comedy, those present plugged into the fear and uncertainty inherent in early sexual encounters, as well as the sometimes unexplainable drive to embark on them.  Episodes of post-coital satisfaction and shame elicited nods of recognition throughout the room.

my idea of someone who is amazing in bed involves not saying anything fruity, not playing any fruity music during, and allowing me to keep one article of clothing on the entire time. so it’s pretty easy to graduate from the samantha irby school of banging with a degree in “fucks good.” but my vagina is obviously a state school, or maybe even a community college, especially since your degree is likely to be written on the back of whatever receipts are in my wallet at the time. but HOLY FUCKING SHIT, what the fuck are you supposed to do when you unknowingly enroll in the blowjob class at harvard?! MY underachieving ass would drop the fuck out the minute i realized the tests were essay questions instead of scantron, but what happens to the rest of you teachers pets? YOU start thinking about ANAL.remember back in the olden time when a fair-to-middling blowjob was enough to christen you a “fantastic lay?” i miss those days. now you have to fuck hanging upside down from some monkey bars, use your labia to detonate a bomb, then blow out the candles on a birthday cake with your pussy hole just to get a dude to want to bang you again. not me, though. i don’t do anything special, and i don’t pretend otherwise. you know those people who are all “yeah, i am SO GOOD at fucking?” i’m not one of those people. and this isn’t false modesty, i’m really not. my best trick in bed is STAYING AWAKE. we live in the age of celebrity sex tapes and homemade fetish porn available 24 hours a day instantly on your cell phone, and that has made it increasingly difficult to compete as well. how is my regular shit supposed to seem awesome when you just beat off to a woman with sparks shooting out of her asshole while she rode reverse cowgirl? and that is my excuse for not even trying. because my anus isn’t flame retardant.

Members of the audience have several windows through which they can opt to expose their own private thoughts to the scrutiny of the room. At any time during the show anyone present can scribble down a query for the hosts to read aloud and answer with audience feedback. Alternatively, the audience shouts answers to obscure trivia questions for small prizes (sex-shop party favors) during the Q&A sessions between readers. In order to claim the prize though, they must answer a “truth or dare” style question from their own experience.

unless you are the cougar that robbed him of his sacred virginity, at some point during the boring everyday sex you are having with your boyfriend he is going to insinuate either that A your sex is has become routine or B you’re not the best sex he’s ever had. i take that back, because even virgins have access to internet porn and will probably definitely one day ask you to emulate something he spent the entire afternoon watching on a continuous loop. probably while you were out making money to support his xbox habit. and it’s hard not to give a shit, especially if this is a person you actually like and wouldn’t mind spending some more time with. i’m not so callous that i wouldn’t want to please someone i’m lackluster banging, which is why i hold out eternal hope that i’ll eventually find a person who thinks a sleepy handjob given while i’m drinking a beer and eating a sandwich is special.

in my experience this dissatisfaction with the arduous task that has become our sex life can be solved, and the demise of our relationship temporarily staved off, with one tiny little concession on my part. the insertion of his erection into the place where my poop comes out. now what i lack in tenacity and voraciousness during sex i more than make up for in enthusiastic ambivalence. meaning that i don’t really mind whatever you want to do so long as i’m not responsible for dreaming it up and making it good. i have made a receptacle for penile insertion out of a variety of places on my body, from obvious ones like boobs and hands to the more obscure, like the ear and the nose. so the first time the butt came up in bedroom conversation i was like, “okay, whatever” and rolled over on my belly.

Co-founders Robyn Pennacchia and Allen Makere* never aimed to keep it clean, but they did insist that the tone remain respectful, body positive and non-judgmental. In doing so, they created a monthly expose of the human condition that is, if nothing else, remarkably refreshing and honest. *Although Makere made an appearance this Sunday, he has been exploring new projects in different cities and is now replaced by a rotating guest host. This month's was Jacob Knabb, host of the2ndhand's So You Think You Have Nerves of Steel.

at the time i was dating this sensitive dude who was more in touch with his feminine side than i would be comfortable with today (mo-oist!), but i surmised that he hadn’t yet figured out his latent homosexuality and was just going to use my asshole as the catalyst to figuring out that he really wanted to bang dudes. and that was fine by me, because he was pretty hot and didn’t object to my need to have sex in a pitch black room with a shirt, a bra, and socks on. i’ve had so many colonoscopies that i barely even notice anyone tinkering around down there anymore, and i work with adorable little cuddly animals, so the nose hair-singing smell of rank shit doesn’t freak me out AT ALL.

every dude you’ve ever banged and every one you ever will has one AMAZING ex-girlfriend or dirty hooker or former babysitter that ABSOLUTELY LOVED taking one up the dirt star. she begged for it, she screamed for it, it was her most favorite thing, and he can’t really believe why YOU don’t seem more excited at the prospect. he won’t be able to PROVE these things, of course, because he is not going to let you interview all of the devastated ladies whose hearts he’s broken (pffft), but that is what he’s going to SAY when you run out of cosmo tricks and he decides it’s time for a booty call. amanda and i took this sex toy class over the summer, and the one thing that resonated with me the most was the segment of the class that dealt with butt toys. not because i’m trying to spend fifty bucks on something i’m about to get e.coli on, but because one of the instructors was going ON and ON about how women enjoy butt play, too. physiologically, men have a damned good reason to want a little something driving up the exit ramp. that something is called a prostate. but this broad was INSISTENT upon convincing the seven of us who took this stupid class that women LOVE anal play, too. sitting there i was just thinking, “so THIS is that bitch,” over and over with a scowl on my face. you know, the one we’ve all been hearing so much about our entire sexual careers. the one who has been out there selling these dirty lies about how much we all love feeling like we’re going to shit some strange dude’s bed. FUCK THAT BITCH.

as soon as i felt cold air whistling between my butt cheeks that first time i clenched up and was like, “i have a bullet in the chamber. let’s shut this down,” and refused to go through with it. “but what are we going to do to spice things up?” he asked, FOR REAL AND IN ALL SERIOUSNESS, and i said, “go get the lawn mower and and a bottle of dish soap if you need something new. i’m putting my pants back on.” i know that my stories usually end with some horrific occurrence that makes you glad to be you and not me, but this time i’m totally glad not to be the butt of the joke.

thanks to everyone who came and DIXXX to everyone who didn't. assholes. i'm performing at nerves of steel in april, april 5th at the hungry brain to be precise, of which the virile and handsome jacob knabb is the host. it will be a good time, especially since i am likely to fall over onstage due to excessive swooning. that smart, hot dude is amazeballs, and his accent is divine. after that i'm taking a break from public reading. my public drinking has been feeling neglected.