Wednesday, June 29, 2011

butt sex, nba finals.

why do guys distance themselves when they are going through something? (eg, family issues, work stress) why do they disappear then resurface once everything is good?

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH WOMEN? i'm not just being an asshole; seriously, what is wrong with you? this, to me, sounds like the most perfect thing ever: a hot dude (i'm feeling generous today) who only wants fun times and goes the fuck away when he's got life drama going on?! sign me up, please. i'm guessing that this broad is from the school of "sharing problems will bond us and make us closer," and everyone knows that is bullshit. anytime i let a dude tell me his silly problems i 1 get majorly BUMMED OUT and 2 regret it almost immediately. first of all, i don't really get heartbroken about draft picks or video games, and those are pretty much the only things dudes ever really get upset about. and second, i'm a reciprocal kind of person, and i ALREADY KNOW a man's eyes are going to glaze over the minute i say any words other than, "butt sex," "NBA finals," or "the pizza man is here," so i am for sure NOT going to listen to him carry on about whatever is bothering HIM. i want to fuck a robot who can't talk and doesn't have any feelings. i mean, right?!

i want to get a pin up girl tattoo on my side. my friends all say it's a bad idea but i'm going to anyway, it's my choice. but they say guys won't want to date me because of it. would potential boyfriends be okay with it?

okay, so i have a shitload of dumb, aggressive-looking tattoos. a bunch of tribal garbage on one arm and my chest, and i'm 3/4 of the way done with a forearm sleeve full of cholo and biker shit: reapers and mean-ass black and grey death skulls, etc. by the end of the summer i'm adding to it this RIDICULOUS roaring lion and another flaming skull straight out of the tenth circle of hell, shading the empty spaces, and getting some california vato lettering. in other words: i'm tatted up like a dude who drives a budweiser truck, yet i occasionally enjoy having sex with men. CRAZY. which is why i buy leopard-print bras, i guess, and maybe why i'm wearing so many dresses this summer. i don't know, i feel like nowadays everyone including your grandmother has a goddamned tattoo, and any dude who wouldn't date you because of it isn't the kind of judgemental asshole you want to be fucking anyway. chicks with tattoos are foxy and dangerous. at least i hope so, otherwise i'm going to need a bunch of fucking skin grafts if i want to get laid ever again.

you know who gets shitty about tattoos? HATING-ASS BITCHES. i can't stand still for more than a minute without a dude appearing from out of thin air to ask, "hey, girl, who does your work?" while reaching for my arm and shit. it's women who typically turn their noses up and wonder aloud how i'm ever going to find a husband with all of this garish body art. assholes. so cover every inch of exposed flesh with whatever the fuck you want. just no goddamned tazmanian devils. them shits are a total bonerkiller.

why would a guy have sex and spend time with someone in his apartment but not ask her out for coffee, dinner, a movie, bowling, or SOMETHING?

because you banged him. simple as that. or he's broke. blame it on the economy, if you want, but if a dude knows he can get all in that ass without having to put a down payment on a chicken dinner, why would he go to the trouble of going to a restaurant and wasting his already late cell phone payment on your vagina? when you meet a new dude you have to hold out on banging him if you want him to buy you a latte or pay for your smelly rented shoes. i would fuck a dude five minutes after making his acquaintance because i'm 100% uninterested in a gentleman ruining any of my social or leisure activities, but if you really really REALLY want to explain the plot of inception to an erect hunk of sausage with a sub-human IQ in a dark movie theater, you can't let him see the inside of your goddamned apartment. i've run across a number of dudes of late who've tried to pitch the idea of an inside date to me: "cooking dinner at home" (ie, destroying my goddamned kitchen) before "watching a couple dvds" (ie, trying to put it in my butt). and my answer to that is no. that kind of shit is fucking boring if i've already known you for a while, but i have absolutely no interest in trying to get to know a dude while watching him get crumbs and outside dirt all over my duvet. and it's not about gold-digging; i make plenty of money and can buy my own drinks. it's just goddamned impossible to get a dude into pants with a zipper and out of the house unless you've already established that "in this relationship, WE GO PLACES." so this dude is a booty call, obviously. go to starbucks with your mother.

if a guy asks for advice on another girl, am i automatically in the friend zone?

oh, totally. that's usually how my stupid ass finds out, when some dude i have a crush on who i'm pretty convinced really likes me back for real is unexpectedly like, "hey sam, can i ask you something?" while staring deep into my slightly-crossed eyes smack in the middle of dinner. then my pulse quickens and my heart skips a beat and i sit up slightly taller in my chair. "of course you can," i say, trying to sound calm and sexy and not vomit with anticipation. i am probably also sweating, but i'm sure you already guessed. "nah, you're going to think it's dumb," he says, all bashful and cute. i move further to the edge of the chair, trying to remember the last time i brushed my teeth and hoping he won't be able to taste that i ate an entire bag of tortilla chips earlier when he inevitably kisses me after confessing his devotion. "I PROMISE I WON'T," i reassure him a little too aggressively, then dial my voice back. "you know you can tell me anything, silly." i think about placing my hand on his knee but reconsider; you know, THE SWEAT. he giggles shyly and i notice that he's blushing, "well, i'm not really sure how to say this, but..." by this point i'm panting and about to fall off the the chair. "yes...?" i gasp, trying to burn every detail of this monumental moment into my memory. i mean, the grandchildren will want to know the exact shade of blue he's wearing right now, WON'T THEY? is that cerulean or teal?! "this might be a little awkward, but, i was just wondering..." more shy hand-wringing and eye contact aversion, which i, of course, am interpreting as churning desire to be my boyfriend. OBVIOUSLY. "YES...?" i ask, with a touch more urgency in my voice, yet with enough restraint to not scare him off. he says, "would it bother you if i asked your friend out to dinner?" just as i'm shouting, "OH MY GOD I TOTALLY LOVE YOU, TOO!"
wait, what? "hold up, what did you s--" he starts as i cut him off, "OF COURSE YOU SHOULD. YOU GUYS WOULD BE MAGIC TOGETHER. I HEARD SHE LOVES GIVING BLOWJOBS," getting up quickly to try to hide the shame that's making my ears hot and play off that i just admitted to loving a dude who wants to fuck some dumb slut i met in 8th period biology sophomore year. "can i get you another beer?" and he'll say yes and never really ask me if i really meant what he thought he heard me say and we'll spend the rest of our lives pretending that whole messy thing never happened and being slightly uncomfortable around one another.

i am a terrible signal reader, so learn from my mistakes. if a dude really wants to bang you he'll try within minutes of meeting you, and the second he brings up another vagina to you your chances of anything other than a drunken pity fuck with him are zero. life sucks, and sometimes being friends with dudes is A TOTAL FUCKING DRAG. seriously, though, how do you know? i wish from jump people would just be honest about their intentions, like "hey girl, you're funny and everything but i don't want to touch your privates. want to go to a monster truck rally this weekend?" see, was that so fucking hard?! save me the trouble of asking my friends to decipher the tone of the seventeen texts you sent me this morning, okay FRIEND? sometimes friendship is already established, like we went to school together or i met him through some girl he was banging therefore he's off limits to me. but most of the time i don't figure out an overly friendly dude isn't into me until i find out he's into someone else, and i have to pretend to be enthusiastic about listening to him wax romantic over some dumb, unfunny asshole. there are advantages to the friend zone, though. MOVING HELP.

i met a guy, we hit it off, he asked for my number, and i never heard back. what is that? should i ask him out or am i wasting my time?

not to be a hater, but you're wasting your time. a couple weeks ago i was going through the initial texting/calling/emailing motions with this super hot dude and all of a sudden i stopped hearing from him, so i erased his number from my phone and guess what? he never called me again! back in the old days my benefit of the doubt would've prompted me to dial his number after two days AND CREATE AN EXCUSE FOR HIM, pathetic me on the voicemail: "hey there! i'm sure you're probably really busy and forgot how you said we should go get a beer sometime, so i'm just calling to see if you still maybe wanted to do that?", but now i just delete his shit and go back to whatever is on HBO. if you have to remind a dude you exist it doesn't make you feel good, especially when he calls back and still doesn't make concrete plans. here's how mine went: text text text call call text call promise to show up at my reading even though i hadn't asked him to NOTHING. deleted from phone. two days later a twenty-minute voicemail about how SORRY he is because he's so BUSY that my show SLIPPED HIS MIND and i'm just so important that i didn't bother to write down this thing i promised to do and omg i'm SO SORRY. if you start any sort of relationship on an apology, there's nowhere to go from there. c'mon, son. people are only as good as they behave in the very beginning, myself included. that first couple weeks i'm shaving my legs and making elegant rice-a-roni dinners, then the minute i think a dude might stick around for a while it's all pajamas and tacos and falling asleep in the middle of a blowjob.

any advice for a girl going to see her ex?

goddamn, this is treacherous territory. a veritable minefield of potential mistakes. last week i read at a spoken word set and this creepy dude i used to bang was there, but because 1 our ill-fated relationship ended a few years ago and 2 it wasn't a super-serious in love with you forever kind of soap opera drama i had no problem seeing his face and cordially saying hello. it also helps that he's unemployed and has no friends while i am currently THE TOAST OF THE MOTHERFUCKING INTERNET. (come on, play along.) if this is that kind of situation, ie one in which you're going to laugh in his face while you drop the ratty boxers and old tupac cassettes he left at your place when he moved out off at his mom's house because that's where he's staying now, then great. look totally amazing and remind him that he could still be putting his dick in you if he hadn't been such a dickbag about doing the laundry and taking out the recycling. but if you think you might 1 cry or 2 try to fuck him, just don't go. i only have one dude who could elicit such a response from me, and simultaneously AT THAT, so i don't see that dude ever. not ever. because i'm not a big fan of public tears. and i don't call him because abject phone humiliation is the absolute worst. i'm guessing that you're the DUMPED, because people who do the breaking up never sit around wondering how to act with the vulnerable shattered soul they know would still donate a kidney to them; they just arrange the meeting place and suggest the sex and imply the reconciliation. and then they break your little heart all over again when they feign innocence and say, "what do you mean get back together? i thought we were just having fun." this is your future, according to my crystal balls. so yeah, STAY HOME.

what are the chances of a serious relationship developing between a stoner and a straitlaced gal?

i guess it depends on how much you love eating doritos and doing nothing. most of my friends are potheads; they're nice to be around because they are affable and relaxed, and if you can pry them off the couch they'll usually go just about anywhere and be really sweet and laid-back wherever you go. especially if there's food there. bud is wasted on me, because if i smoke a bowl i will PASS THE FUCK OUT, but not before i've spent twenty minutes trying to convince myself that i'm not having a goddamned heart attack or that everyone i pass on the street can totally tell that i'm high. so i refrain. if you like not doing stuff and being late all the time, then go for it. date that dude with the crochet pants whoo giggles all the time! BUT. if you're going to be all, "rise and shine, smokey, get your butt up so we can be the first ones at the flea market!" you are going to be sorely disappointed. either you have to be happy sitting in semi-darkness and listening to whomever pitchfork says is hot right now on a record player for hours on end while discussing the linklater film that plays muted in the background, or you have to not fuck with a weed head. OMG all the circular talking! all of the bogus philosophizing! and they never have any money, EVER, yet they always manage to be high as fuck every time you see them. you can't take me to dinner, AGAIN, but you want to smoke me out and lay on my couch eating canned soup?! that shit is cute for approximately five minutes, then you remember that you actually enjoy putting shoes on and watching movies in an actual theater. oh, and having conversations with someone who can keep his goddamned eyes open.

how much of our problems can we unload to a guy?

NONE. they don't care. contrary to the misconception that all dudes require physical perfection, i think what we really need to recognize is that what the people you're fucking REALLY want is for you to be bullshit perfect, ie drama free. unless you're super smoking hot. everyone has problems and situations, for sure, and NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR ABOUT THAT SHIT. a dude would much rather deal with your cottage cheese thighs (maybe) than listen to yet another story about how things between you and your stepmother have been super tense ever since she re-did the kitchen and sent your little brother to boarding school. totally boring woman problems. your friends don't want to hear about that shit, either, but it's against girl rules to roll your eyes and yawn while your BFF is getting all emotional and shit, so you have to nod occasional and say, "omg!" or "for real?!" every time she pauses to inhale. i never tell a dude my problems, ever. and even if he pretends that he really wants to know how stressful your new job is, he doesn't. he just wants to make sure that you'll be done yapping on the phone to your sister by the time sprotscenter comes on. dumping all your problems on anyone other than a licensed therapist doesn't make you closer, it just makes a dude want to fuck some uncomplicated broad who knows how to keep her trap shut.

sometimes he likes me to be big spoon...weird.

spooning is a small person thing, yes? big people get hot, and tall people have too many limbs to contend with. in other words: GROSS. and touching without sex is pointless, right? god, i'm totally a dude. blarf.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

fuck it bitch, stay fat.

 cosmo is finally keeping shit real, hoes. much in the same way meteorologists are, women's magazines are FASCINATING to me. don't get me wrong, i am in love with them and everything, but it sort of feels like an abusive goddamned relationship in that they continue to make promises that i actually believe they are really going to keep this time. yet here i am, thirty-one years old and STILL having not quite figured out how to master a proper smoky eye. (for those of you who don't know, ie DUDES, there is a smoky eyeliner tutorial in literally every single issue of every single magazine every single month.) their continued publication is sort of predicated on the fact that nothing they tell you to do actually works, because they need you to buy next month's issue. and next month they'll teach you again how to do a smoky eye, but this time with METALLICS. seriously, they just sort of recycle the same handful of themes and repackage them in fresh glossy paper, which is why i spend easily fifty dollars a month at the newsstand, because i need to know if i can still wear the coral lip gloss i was instructed to buy a month ago. i like bright and shiny recycled information. just like weathermen who don't get fired when they predict a blizzard on what will eventually turn out to be a perfect 75-degree day, every month these bitches STILL gotta tell me the best way to strengthen and tone my earlobes and how many calories i'm saving by getting the char-broiled unicorn with dandelion greens instead of the smothered brontosaurus with macerated bacon while i'm out at dinner with my special guy. and that is information i desperately need. DUH.

on they let you create your own cover and headlines and shit, and i spent an ENTIRE afternoon uploading pictures of my head pasted on blake lively's body and coming up with headlines like "new ways to eat salad with just lemon!" and "sexy scintillating super sex games full of sex!" no, i didn't. i immediately found this terrible picture of myself getting drunk and looking like an asshole and thought, "what is the best way to fuck this shit UP?" and here you have it. if i wasn't so lazy i'd think about making a zine and getting sued for copyright infringement upon its release, but i am so now you get it here. come on, you weren't going to send me twelve dollars and a stamped return envelope AND YOU KNOW IT.

fuck it bitch, stay fat. i mean, isn't this what we really want to do anyway? because we already know how one loses weight: eat less and exercise more. or get gastric bypass. why are we still fucking around with the oreo cookie diet or the whole milk and unpasteurized cheese diet or the diet where you still get to eat a pound of pasta or whatever?! either you're ready to eat vegetables and get on a fucking treadmill or YOU AREN'T. i'm goddamned not. i just lost five pounds and here's how: i quit drinking and i quit eating dessert. omg fuck exercise in the butt; who has the time?! i just try to set reasonable goals, like: "don't order double proteins in one meal." dieting is crazy and turns most of you jerks into insufferable bitches: either 1 you're a crabby asshole on the verge of tears all day long because you want some goddamned cheetos or 2 you're on a high horse made of fewer than 1200 daily calories, glaring down your nose at me and pointing out how much saturated fat is in my unsweetened iced tea. gawd, don't you HATE a fat-skinny bitch more than ANYTHING ELSE ON EARTH?! you know who i mean, the broad who used to eat mayonnaise straight from the jar who recently lost ten pounds doing weight watchers because she was going through a midlife crisis and is now suddenly an expert on health and nutrition, totally qualified to rip the corn dog out of your greasy little clutches. HOLY SHIT SHUT UP, gurl, BITCHES GOTTA EAT. whooooo the fuck cares?! can't we just decide that if you're over the age of twenty-eight you don't have to worry about being skinny anymore? thin is a young woman's game, and i'm perfectly happy to sit on the bench this quarter with a chili dog and some jelly beans. and if i happen to burn a few calories while texting, then GREAT.

now let's not be crazy, should you work out? of course. but you don't need some twenty-year-old magazine intern clucking at you from behind the computer screen. it doesn't even have to be hard, just go to bally's a few times a week and trade a couple meals a day for a lean cuisine or some special k. and drink water. seriously, every goddamned woman in america is probably an expert on health and exercise based solely upon her subscription to self magazine. so do you really need another article about how important it is to eat a big breakfast to curb afternoon snacking? NO YOU DO NOT. you need bitches to write about how comfortable maternity jeans are for women who aren't really pregnant. and sexy ways to remove a bra that has four hooks. i'm always amused when they encourage you to eat "instead" foods, like eating an apple when you really want to rub bacon cheeseburger all over your titties is a fair substitute. why not instead list which ice creams have the least calories, BY THE PINT? oh sure, you can tell a broad just to run five miles and take up crafting when she gets dumped by some asshole and her friends won't call her back because they're tired of listening to her bullshit, but she'd much prefer knowing that an entire pint of ciao bella has fewer calories than an entire pintof haagen dazs. that's an instead a real bitch could go for.

handjob 101. i'm uninterested in giving handjobs, but it would be nice if someone could tell me the best way to do it and how long it's supposed to fucking take, so i can decide beforehand if there's enough time between the last segment of rachel maddow and the new episode of teen wolf to embark on that journey. seriously, if i knew ahead of time that it was only going to cost five minutes of my life, i'd be like, "point that thing over here" during the commercial break so he could roll over and go the fuck to sleep before my shit came on, because dudes ruin all television shows they have no interest in. i'm not having sex right now so all of these articles are just hilarious to me, but i do wonder if women really are trying to employ the "463 tips to make him tingle" in the middle of their bedroom activity. it's worth repeating that i would need my glasses, a book of post-its, a highlighter, two pencils, and several bookmarks to remember how to do any of that shit once i got someone's pants off, and that's a bonerkiller, isn't it? i can't be all, "hold on, honey, let me just figure out what page the ball-sucking is it near the back? fuck, a paper cut! hang tight, big guy, i think i found it..." i'd need a continuous loop of anal sex on the tv and a teenage fluffer just to keep him in the goddamned mood, only to confuse the directions and put my fingers in the wrong hole at the wrong angle at the wrong time. pfffft.

reading magazine articles about sex make me feel inadequate as a potential lover, because i also have no interest in keeping things spicy or fresh. which is why i also have zero problems with self-flagellation and pornography, because if i have to get up for work tomorrow there is NO WAY i'm trying that acrobatic shit you read about in marie claire while you were taking a shit in my bathroom earlier. i've never been with anyone long or consistently enough to have the "our sex has gotten boring" conversation, and i'm sure if i ever had to my response would be, "let me just get all of my pajamas out of the drawer you let me use for our occasional overnight booty calls here before you start cheating on me." and let me get my face wash and deodorant, too, while we're at it. i don't want the next bitch you fuck (you know, the one who does handstands while you bang her or whatever that magazine suggested) to use my goddamned proactiv. this is why i can't wait to be old(er), when all that's required of me is "staying awake" and "remembering to put his heart medicine next to the bed."

facebook stalking alert. well the cautionary tales are my absolute favorite. every month there's some bitch with a botched nose job or genital warts roasting her labia off warning the rest of us against the evils that can befall us right outside our doors. they've been date raped or child prostituted or initiated into a cult, and THANK GOD these magazines have found them so that they might enlighten the rest of us. i also really enjoy the hooker with a heart of gold who went to harvard (or homeless with a heart of gold who went to yale) occasional feel good story, too. but the SHOCKING EXPOSES and UNDERCOVER INVESTIGATIONS are my fucking favorite, because they're usually warning you against a some shit that isn't really that big of a threat or b some shit that isn't even happening anymore. i mean seriously, are you hoes still getting your identities stolen?! i didn't think so. i always read those articles and think "this only happens to dumb people," and usually i am 100% correct.

i want to learn real shit, like how to facebook stalk people you hate or the best way to get someone fired without his knowing it. i want to read about bitches who burned a cheating lover's house to the ground and got away with it. come on, vogue. i don't give a shit about a woman who swallowed tapeworms to lose weight, i want to know how to steal a booty call's american express while he's passed out without waking him up. GODDAMN I NEED SOME USEFUL ADVICE.

get drunk more! the motivational pieces are pretty hilarious, too! they're always so peppy and unrealistic. what do you mean "take control of your life!" or "have your best summer EVER!" i like positive reinforcement that i might actually be able to achieve. if sam published magazines (man, i totally should) i would inspire you girls with shit you actually want to do: fuck questionable dudes! skip your birth control! eat an entire pie! cancel your next therapy appointment! text that dude back even though he gave you herpes! get blackout drunk in public!

all that shit just reminds me of how miserable i am. i can't be sitting in my apartment making a list of what i want to watch on tv so i don't forget (i really do that) and then pick up a magazine with a giddy bitch laughing as she runs through a sprinkler with a headline that screams, "tips for summertime fun!" in 80-point type. i didn't even run through sprinklers when i was a CHILD. can we get a couple articles for misanthropic assholes who make bad decisions and hate to be outdoors, please? JUST ONCE i want to read, "how to mix adderall and diet coke so you can stay awake until the end of the party!" or "watching a CSI marathon on a sunny saturday afternoon with the blinds closed really doesn't make you a loser!" do you guys really try to incorporate those tips into your real life? promise me that you aren't outside eating popsicles and petting strange dogs and doing things like "frolicking." PLEASE.

mom jeans. as much as i appreciate that magazines sometimes have model-fat size eights posing in high fashion burlap sacks so they can advise the rest of us on how to appropriately dress our ample "curves," sometimes you just need to 1 see clothes on a real body (i mean a real body that eats pizza) or 2 be told that it REALLY IS OKAY to spend 95% of your time in giant underwear that comes all the way up to your bra. you're only supposed to wear tiny, uncomfortable underwear for an hour or two max and that's only if you know you're going to get BANGED, right? i know that there are lots of women fancier than i am, but why are you wearing a thong to WORK? really, tell me why. we've had a couple young tarts working at the hospital whose scrubs have sat low enough on their hips to reveal dental floss underwear, and that baffles me. everybody stinks and gets yeast infections, amirite? so why you gotta exacerbate that shit during a twelve hour work day? i hate when bitches pretend that i'm crazy, that it's totally fucking normal to be teetering around in skyscraper heels at 3pm on a tuesday. i'm not from mars, you jerks! i know what feels best on your feet! and i know what that thong smells like after a full day of ANIMALS. ew.

i like a full brief panty paired with a high-waisted pant and an orthopedic birkenstock sandal, and if that makes me your grandmother then oh well i guess i can live with that. i have another goddamned wedding to go to, and yesterday i was trolling the interwebs trying to find a fancy dress because the shit is OUTSIDE IN JULY and i don't really own clothes that work within those parameters, and i went to kiyonna because not only have they figured out how to master the casual wrap dress (you girls better learn), but they also have real people submit pictures of themselves wearing that shit. isn't that amazing?! i bought a blouse (omg) from talbots (OMG) once, and they make the same clothes in all sizes. so the petite and the apparel and the WOMAN all can buy a cowl neck poet blouse, but the bitch modeling it usually weighs around nineteen pounds. and good for her, but i need to know whether or not this shit is going to catch on a roll if i stand up too suddenly. and since we've decided to empower ourselves by staying fat and everything, imagine my pleasant surprise when i scrolled down the page featuring this adorable red dress i was considering paying $120 for only to see jackie from cleveland posing in her catwalk/driveway with the dress sort of wedged awkwardly in that back meat-booty shelf area. i've been jackie from cleveland, spending the whole party pulling the back of my dress out of the (control) top of my pantyhose, so let's just say i didn't purchase it.

i'm going to start a magazine called daytime pajamas while sexting some other bitch's boyfriend and eating cookie dough straight from the tube. i'll await your subscription request.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

i tried to fuck a midget.

my motivation for trying to fuck a midget was the same as it is for every other goddamned thing: I WRITE COMEDY. plus i was precariously close to having spent 48 hours in the same smelly pajamas when he called on sunday to see if i might like to join him for a drink, and that is pretty disgusting. and he was brown and bald and had a gigantic black beard.

so i have pretty indiscriminate tastes. life is too short to waste your time only trying to holler at gary dourdan lookalikes. but if i had to settle on one type, my type would be dudes with a smooth bald head and a neatly bushy beard. OMG I LOVE BEARDS. probably because i hate sensitive dudes and would really like to settle down with someone who looks like he could rip a deer in half with his bare hands before roasting it on a homemade spit for my dinner. and if some freak accident had rendered him mute since birth EVEN BETTER. grunting cromag neanderthal with a jesus beard? yes please.

so i met this little guy on the internet. which, in case you didn’t know, is this magical, glorious place where one might reinvent himself without fear of exposure by people who know how much shitting asshole he sucks in real life. and the place online where this lying most often occurs is on dating websites. i don’t lie on the internet because i would actually like to possibly have sex in real life, and i imagine that becomes incredibly difficult after i’ve shyly introduced my real self to a man who has heretofore seen only a third of the face, and in profile mind you, of a woman who checked the “athletic” body type box and described herself as having a cheerful and upbeat personality. pffft.

there are a lot of 5’7s out here masquerading as 5’9s and 5’10s, so when i received a charming and well-composed message from a dude who ACTUALLY LISTED HIS HEIGHT at 5’2, my first thought was “FINALLY, my opportunity to legally suck the dick of a person too small to ride a roller coaster.” because if 5’2 is what he’s willing to admit to the internet, GUARANTEED his actual height hovers somewhere around “webster stand-in.” but he had a full beard and ridiculous good taste in music, so i wrote back and we began a pretty interesting correspondence.

i’ve always wanted to be one half of a hilarious-looking couple. my brain danced with thoughts of all the fun we could be at parties, him balanced on my knee with my hand shoved awkwardly up his ass while he sang his helium-voiced rendition of “yankee doodle” as i drank a full glass of water to prove i wasn’t throwing my voice. WHAT FUN. we would be such a hit on the social circuit! and if that didn’t work i would be shrouded in the romance and excitement that comes with having regular sex with someone mysterious or socially unpalatable. it would be like having dinner with a dateline decoy.
and consider all of the practical benefits! movies are goddamned expensive, and i’d save a lot of money purchasing tickets for one adult and one bearded child. sure, we might be limited in what movies we’re allowed to see, but i, for one, found toy story quite charming and surprisingly emotionally mature. and kids’ menus these days have an astonishing variety of delicious options at half the cost of a regular human-sized meal. besides, who doesn’t like chicken fingers and grilled cheese?!

getting dressed to meet someone for the first time always poses a challenge, and that challenge typically involves trying to figure out how i will be able to breathe while wearing a spanx that i have stretched from my ankles to my clavicle. attempting to eat in one of those goddamned things is nearly impossible, yet pretending i have a smooth midsection is somehow totally worth the compromise of standing awkwardly still all night, unable to bend at the fucking waist. i decided to wear dark jeans and flat shoes, wondering if it was worth using that scrapey tool every woman keeps in her shower to try and scrub a couple inches of callous off my heels so that i might appear less tall. but i’m fucking lazy, so i decided instead to spend the entire night curtsying.

i like to get to the bar early so that once my date arrives i’ve already picked a spot near the exit and arranged myself in the best possible light, plus i like to have time to stop perspiring and maybe get a jump on a couple drinks. but i was late so i had to run for the train and then sweat my balls off walking to the bar. i stood outside once i got there and used a book to fan my cleavage and underarms dry. pointless, since he’d probably be too short to smell them, but in my mind it seemed like the most polite thing to do. once inside i found him at a table in the corner that had a clear view of the window i had just been FANNING MY ARMPITS IN FRONT OF, and i slid into the chair across from his to avoid one of those awkward head pressed into my nipples short-person hugs. but not before i noticed that while seated his toes DID NOT REACH THE FLOOR.

“i thought you’d be slimmer,” is what he said as i reached for the cocktail menu, and i promptly lifted my mental ban on hobbit jokes. i told myself i had to resist the urge to ask him to show me the bridge he lives under, and i promised to restrain myself from involuntarily reaching over to cut up his meat if we ordered dinner. but then i looked down to the floor where he just happened to be SWINGING HIS FEET LIKE A THIRD GRADER. “slimmer than WHAT?” i asked. "i don't lie to the internet." and that's the truth, man. i fucking don't. lying is fine if you plan to never leave the house so someone can see how fat you really are, but penpals can't buy you dinner and water your plants while you're in the hospital. i could be anyone i want to be if i was going to hide behind a computer screen, but i get tired of going to the movies alone so my shit is really me. full-length pictures that kill me to resist cropping my stomach out of. but i don't, because i only like to cheat when it's actually going to get me something.

instead of answering he offered to get our drinks at the bar and i agreed to let him, thankful for the opportunity to inconspicuously shove some napkins into my soaking wet bra and practice sucking in my gut. i did crane my neck to see if his head cleared the top of the bar, though, because i am an asshole. he came back with my club soda and a couple shots for himself. “can you believe i had to wait five minutes for him to find the macallan?! man, i always get the short end of the stick.” I FROZE.

one time i had awkward baby sex with this dude with an incredibly small penis. afterward, while he was still naked, he started joking around about his “fun-sized snickers bar.” thinking that i was in on the joke, i said, “yeah, i couldn’t tell if you were trying to fuck me or if you were giving me a thumbs up.” CRICKETS. i didn’t know that i wasn’t supposed to say anything, and he just stared at me with such disdain that i immediately put my pants on and got in my car and drove home. hesitant to repeat such an uncomfortable incident, i just sat there like a dog, blinking. and then my giant ass opened up and said, “well it’s busy in here and maybe they’re a little SHORT-handed?” wink, nudge. he glared at me.

he really loosened up after a couple drinks, and all i could think about was how quickly his tiny body had metabolized that alcohol. he invited me over to his place to watch television, and i agreed because PLEASE GIVE ME A GOOD REASON I SHOULD HAVE SAID NO. when he came back from paying the tab this little asshole leered and said “guess where i live?”

“oz?” i ventured, snickering, and he frowned briefly before swaying on his feet and motioning to the door. “should i drive?” i asked while he fumbled with the keys to a lexus suv parked across the street. i’d had three club sodas while this dude the size of a ten-year-old had consumed the adult equivalent of a handle of whiskey. “sure thing,” he slurred, tossing me the keys while i gave him a boost up and fastened him snugly into the carseat. “should we listen to veggie tales?” i asked as i steered the car onto lake shore drive, but he was already fast asleep.

thankfully mean tiny drunk people with no sense of direction do things like program “home” into their car’s GPS, so i followed the instructions of the mechanical voice as she guided me down the yellow brick road to a really nice townhouse in streeterville. i jabbed him in the ribs to wake him up and so he could let us into his beautiful house. “NO SHOES,” he commanded, kicking off a pair of men’s size fives in the front hall. i stepped out of mine, double in length. i wondered if he bought his clothes at baby gap. he offered to make us some snacks and i asked if he had any keebler's soft batch cookies or lucky charms. "what about a poison apple?" i stood barefoot on the heated tile floors a maid had obviously cleaned while he pulled out a teeny step ladder and grabbed a couple pears and some fancy cheese from the top shelf of the refrigerator. “where’s mr. drummond?” i asked, helping myself to a bag of pecans on the counter. “is willis coming home soon?”

you know a motherfucker is balling out of control when he has a couch in his bedroom, unless he lives in a studio or his couch IS his bedroom, and we sat on his boudoir couch watching dvds while he tried to explain to me why blu-ray is worth it. (i still don't get it, but whatever, i still listen to cassettes.) what happened next can only be described as HE CRAWLED INTO MY LAP. seriously, like a child would. and even though he was a grown man with a full beard, i looked down and saw those tiny hands struggling to undo his belt and i just couldn’t do it. i’m desperate and everything, but i don’t know that i could in good conscience make love to a human being the size of a My Buddy doll. also, he called me fat and not in a sexy way that made me want to eat more. sensing my repulsion he stopped. “i’m not a midget, and i have a normal-sized penis,” he said, and even after he pulled it out of his buzz lightyear underpants (it was veiny and normal) i still couldn’t bring myself to touch it. i just couldn’t imagine how it would work, logistically, with him being the size of one of my legs and all. he sighed and climbed down off me (OH MY FUCKING GOD) and got into bed. also, can people say the word "midget anymore in public? or is it one of those words like "mulatto" that makes everyone at the dinner table stare uncomfortably at their plates and make you feel like a shithead?

after a few minutes of sitting on the couch like an asshole i got up and laid next to him, and in the middle of the night i vaguely remember feeling his toes brush against my kneecaps. and that is gross. i woke up just before dawn and blinked, trying to figure out how i’d ended up in this enchanted cottage in which my feet hung over the edge of the bed. suddenly i had a craving for just right porridge. dude wasn’t next to me, so i imagined he was out somewhere whistling while he worked and opened the windows so the birds and chipmunks and other woodland creatures could come in and make the bed while i sang to them.

“you should probably go,” he called from the adjacent bathroom toilet when he heard me stirring in the bedroom. really? shitting with the door open already? REALLY?! he obviously didn't want to drift in and out of a fitful, dreamless sleep while lying stiffly next to me again. i grabbed my bag and thanked him for the $6 worth of club soda he paid for. “you did eat a lot of pecans,” was his sharp reply, and i blushed and hurried down the stairs in expensive nut shame, quickly throwing open the door hoping my carriage hadn’t yet turned back into a pumpkin. i stood on his stoop, vainly clicking my heels and wishing my way back to kansas. i had four bucks cash in my wallet and didn’t want to go searching for an ATM in an upscale neighborhood while wearing clothes off the sale rack at old navy. “get off my porch,” he called out of an upstairs window. “i can’t,” i called back. “could you lend me twenty bucks to get home? i’m a little, ahem, short on cash.” BOOM.