Wednesday, September 21, 2011

let's just be lesbians.

issue four. here's why i refuse to worry about medicare and social security, despite the fact that i'll probably need both within the next five years: my end of life plan involves settling down in a progressive community with a retired wnba forward and maybe a small dog who doesn't require a whole lot of exercise or attention. SERIOUSLY. at this point, i'm not going the fuck back to school. as the gap between what i'm into and what "the kids" are into continues to widen, i become less and less convinced that one day i'm going to feel like dragging a desk across a linoleum floor to make a circle with a bunch of 19-year-olds so that we might hold hands and discuss the ilead. i already know that i want to spend my old age eating hot wings and sobbing through lifetime movies, and do i really need a college degree to do that? all of my suburban white friends are probably shaking their heads over their plates of wilted arugula and cold beet soup, but i have to be realistic up in here. i work fifty to sixty hours a week, and when i was going to community college in addition to this full time fucking job i would get home and literally fall asleep with my head in the algebra book after leaving the class that let out at nine. NINE IN THE EVENING. then i'd get up and try to figure out integers or some shit while riding the goddamned train to work at seven in the morning. homeless dudes would be standing over me rubbing their crusty testicles while correcting my work. "you forgot to carry the one, babygirl." KILL ME, PLZ.

i don't know how you bitches do it. magazines are always full of some uplifting trifle about a bitch with a crack addiction and nineteen fatherless children who lived in a paper bag while prostituting her way through princeton, and i'm always stunned. if i get a motherfucking hangnail i'm half an hour late to work and spend the whole day whining about how much it hurts, so i simply CANNOT COMPREHEND how these bootstrap broads pull it together and earn a masters degree while eating one can of soup a week and buying their bras from walgreens. and i guess that's why my 401k will forever have $37 in it, because the minute shit gets difficult and complicated i quit fucking doing it. i like to sleep a lot and go to big star twice a week, and if it takes remaining a goddamned idiot to do that, then that's what imma have to do.

HEY GIRL. every time i see a cialis commercial i think, "oh my fucking GOD, i bet the last thing that old broad wants to do is wait for that old dude to finish raking those leaves while his boner pill kicks in." isn't the sweet shit about getting old that you don't have to do that shit anymore?! you know she would rather be somewhere with a light pink sweater draped over her shoulders and a pair of magnifying glasses dangling from a chain to nestle in her bosom watching daytime television, not rolling down her knee-high beige stockings while waiting for arthur to turn off fox news long enough to remove his oxygen mask and bang her for 45 strong, hard seconds.

sooner or later every installment of your favorite vagina rag is going to have a section called, "have you gone gay yet?" or give you a step-by-step guide to transitioning off the penis. these dudes are just doing too much. you know i revel in other people's misery, and i've had SO MANY terrible conversations lately with my lady friends who are still climbing back into the dating ring after being TKO'd over and over and over again. ambiguity, assholery, dickballism, YUCK. and even the positive stories from the fucking frontlines are tempered with, "well he hasn't been an asshole...YET." being on the sidelines is just brutal because, despite this hardened exterior, I'M A SENSITIVE FUCKING PERSON. listening to these poor girls crying because a dude dumped her over breakfast cereal (true story men are shit die die DIE) makes me want to cry, too. women all over the country are sobbing on one another's padded shoulders about all of the dumb shit their men are unnecessarily putting them through. and it's inevitable, sooner or later all that commiseration is going to turn into a hand-holding trip to home depot. to pick out heated floor tiles.

i hate talking, though. i like emailing and texting, and if i could only express my love for a person through smiley and heart emoticons i could die happy. i'm not fucking kidding. and that's why i keep my penis hopes alive, because BITCHES GOTTA TALK.

when sarah and i were roommates i would come home every night and before i could even get my MOTHERFUCKING COAT OFF it was, "how was your day? are you tired? did you go anywhere? did you see anyone? how was work? how is everyone at work? did you do a lot of work? were you busy at work? why didn't you answer when i called you at work? are you hungry? do you want pasta? can i get you some advil? do you want a cocktail? what should we watch on tv tonight? is that what you wore to work? what happened to that red shirt? did you feed the cats this morning? is this milk in here spoiled? did you vacuum last weekend? why was your toothbrush in the sink when i got home? do you like this weather? did you put gas in the car? did you see that ginger snaps are on sale at dominicks? do you want me to get you some when i go there? why do you still have your shoes on? aren't you going to take your jacket off? when are you going to put those books away like i asked you to? why did you leave this laundry in the dining room? have you taken the recycling out? samantha irby, WHY DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR COAT ON IN THIS HOUSE?!"

and i would stand there in the hallway in stone silence, THOROUGHLY DEFEATED, thumbing through my mail that she already "accidentally" opened, getting bludgeoned over the head by questions i had no cognitive ability to answer. because i worked all goddamned day, bitch, and all i wanted to do was come the fuck home, sit in the goddamned bathtub for twenty minutes, and then EAT THE BIG PIECE OF CHICKEN. i wouldn't speak, i would just go sit in the bathroom while she talked at the back of my head. and before long i'd hear little padded footsteps outside the door. "well, since you're being so quiet, i'm just going to tell you about my day. traffic was terrible, dunkin donuts gave me a CORN muffin instead of a BLUEBERRY muffin and i was SO MAD when i got to work it totally ruined my day, none of the kids did their homework and they all failed the test, the salad i took for lunch was spoiled and i left the low-fat vinaigrette on the counter, my check engine light came on, and ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME WHILE I AM TALKING TO YOU?"

i'd silently take my bath to the soundtrack of what was on the car radio when she left school, brush my teeth while listening to how busy whole foods was and she only stopped there to get that quinoa salad because SAM LIKES IT and she could make me the same thing for half the money why do you have to be so picky, put on my pajamas while she explained, yet again, why i shouldn't soak the cast iron pans with dish soap and hasn't she already told me that five times and if i'm not going to do it right, why bother doing it at all?! and finally, two hours after walking into the house i pay half the money for, my supposed sanctuary, it's so late and my eardrums are so abused that i'm not hungry anymore, i'm not thirsty anymore, all i want to do is get the fuck away from the sound of this asshole's voice. because i love her to pieces and everything, but if she says one more motherfucking word to me I AM GOING TO CHOKE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS BITCH.

please tell me how you menfriends tolerate it. not that any of you deserves a medal, but i can't fathom putting up with all of that every day. sarah and i lived together for three years, but i at least could shut my door and throw myself across the bed and put my headphones on. it was like she spent all day thinking about ways to chap every bit of skin off my ass. i don't know how her students learned any biology, because i'm convinced she sat at her desk all day every day writing a list called "how sam is ruining my life." she'd get herself all lathered up during the commute home, and the minute she heard my key in the lock every evening she'd step away from whatever dinner she was making me (pro), and light into me about how i left a knife out and hadn't given the plants enough water (MOTHERFUCKING CON). and, by the way, do towels just put fold themselves?! holy fucking shit, GIVE A GUY A BREAK. they lure you in with a homecooked meal, and as soon as you take your shoes off, BAM. nag nag bitch bitch nag. we just had a fight a couple weeks ago during which she sent me TWELVE CONSECUTIVE TEXTS. TWELVE. EACH ONE CONTAINING THE MAXIMUM 160 CHARACTERS. and i responded to that onslaught with one word, to which she text-shouted "IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!" sigh. i don't know if i can do it, man. maybe i'll have to wait until after i go deaf. AND BLIND.

let's fuck while balancing on a tightrope over a volcano. here is a REAL LIFE example of the position of the day: THE PASSION PROPELLER. your man lies on top of you and enters you traditional missionary style, but then YOWZA! he starts doing a 360-degree spin, all the while keeping his penis deep inside you. as he's rotating and thrusting, help guide him around your body the way a propeller would spin around the top of a helicopter. make sure to lift his legs when they swing around over your head. omg, IF YOU COULD SEE MY FACE RIGHT NOW. you bitches are not doing this. are you?! because if you are it's obvious i have to retire my vagina as of yesterday. i never took physics in high school because i was too busy playing in the marching band and singing in the goddamned choir (jesus, i'm the most winningest winner), but i know some smart people who did. and i'm sure any one of those nerds could draw a diagram and shit to demonstrate how this is impossible for anyone without "jenna" or "jameson" in her name. first thing, dude needs to have a MONSTER PENIS. not even regular big, i'm talking firehose-length, beer can-width, unhinge your jaw enormous. and those horse dicks aren't worth the trouble, believe me. because 1 chafing 2 painfully rearranging my slowly digesting dinner 3 he'd never get into anything like this anyway, because those dudes are ALL convinced that all that is required of them is to SHOW UP. i'd rather let a dude with a tootsie roll midgie shove a lightbulb up my asshole than suffer through another fledgling wannabe porn star congratulating himself with every stroke. BORING.

okay. so you are on your back, helping to spin this dude's entire body weight atop yours. PROPELLING, as it were. even if his penis wasn't curving in an awkward direction and he didn't have a gut that was sweatily mashing against yours, unless you have kegel muscles built like fort knox, HE IS SLIPPING OUT. especially if you're wet, which you should be, because listening to this dude complain about his fantasy football roster over the entree you two just split at chili's was TOTALLY SEXY. so then it goes something like this: 1 you're sweating 2 he's sweating 3 your meat suite is slippery 4 you shouldn't have eaten so many beans at dinner, OMG 5 his slightly below average length penis is barely in to begin with, and after a quarter turn is out completely 6 was that the condom coming off? what is that on your leg?! 7 his butt is in your face 8 HE JUST KICKED YOU IN THE HEAD 9 he's too heavy to turn, you should really do some biceps curls 10 you're dry now 11 ouch! watch the elbow! 12 his knee is crushing your left breast 13 he's soft, and sportscenter is about to come on 14 you push him off and get up to catch your breath and wash off the lube that is now smeared everywhere but your sexy parts 15 he calls you a cab and gives you ten bucks, which makes you feel like a prostitute, but your salty because it takes twenty to get to your apartment 16 at home you order a pizza then masturbate to the first twilight movie while the cat sleeps next to you on the couch 17 life is totally fucking stupid.


thank god my sabre-tooth tiger coat is back in style. my favorite, FAVORITE magazine thing is the "we let a clueless celebrity pick out an outfit for you." or, even better, the ubiquitous celebrity STYLISTS, who are rapidly becoming more famous than the zombie mannequins they hang expensive clothes on. i was flipping through a glossy fashion spread nibbling on some bald eagle and trying to figure out what would go best with my panda skin leggings and sea turtle boots when i happened upon a feature put together by a stylist entitled (something like) "how to have style, without even trying!" last time i checked, wasn't NOT EVEN TRYING a style? i've been dressing that way for years! anyway, there was the usual spread of skinny jeans paired with fat sweaters, maxi dresses to hide your bloat while you're wearing a maxi pad, and there in the "curvy" section, was a goddamned shiny pink vinyl trenchcoat. "a fat bitch would look like a beanbag chair outside in that shit," i said to helen keller, who surveyed my inside pants with a sneer and said, "UPGRADE." what a little jerk.

seriously, though, i'm over this whole "everyone can dress like lady gaga" thing we're going through as a nation. can't we just wear pants and shirts and sometimes a dress if it's not so hot that your touching thighs will burst into flame? i like for celebrities to look like celebrities, and for poor people next to me on the bus not to think they're kim goddamned kardashian.

i have a phD in anal sex. i want to know where these sexperts got their degrees. for real, does the university of phoenix have a doctoral program in sucking dicks? seriously, i want to see proof of qualification for the title of SEXPERT. do you just have to bang a lot of dudes or whatever? successfully survive a round or two of chlamydia? not that you need a graduate degree to advise some jerk on how to fuck some dude standing up in a bathroom stall, but i always wonder "how do these bitches know?" and i know you're saying, "awfully rich coming from an assbag who has the nerve to write advice columns," and to that i say, SHUT UP. just kidding, whenever i don't know something i say so. i'm an expert in: tacos, kittens, and DIARRHEA. as a matter of fact, that's what my magazine is going to be called. good luck explaining that one to your overly judgmental letter carrier.

can i borrow your baby? i swear i'm not a pervert or anything, but all the cool people have them and i'm feeling a little bit left out, sitting on my towel in the grass while everyone else is out wading in the kiddie pool. so can i hang out with your baby, please? don't worry, i'm not going to do anything harmful like turn on spongebob or let him have a sip of my natural ice light, i just want to walk around the park pushing him in a stroller while flirting with all of the stay at home dads. by the way, do you maybe also have a dog i could borrow? dudes fucking love dogs. is that cool? AWESOME. okay, so i'm going to wake up around noon and roll through your place maybe 1ish? after you've fed the kid a couple times and changed all his shitty diapers i'm just going to slide through and whisk him off for the few hours of the afternoon that he's calm and happy and pretend he's mine and shit while i try to use him as manbait.

for real, sister. i know a lot of bitches with c-section scars getting banged by hot dudes they don't file a joint tax return with, and I WANT IN ON THAT. but i'm not shitting out any alien spawn, so i'll just borrow yours. except not when he's teething. or tired. or hungry. or at that stage in his life when he just asks "why?" all the time. fucking exhausting. you can go take a yoga class or whatever, or enjoy half an hour of uninterrupted sleep. imma just be over here making your daughter do a fake tapdance on the counter at starbucks and COLLECTING DIGITS. you know you need a shower, bitch. lend me your smiling eight-month-old for an afternoon, and you can take a shit and drink a beer and eat all the rare steak you want until i decide i'm tired of listening to this little asshole cry, which will probably be in ten or fifteen minutes. that's long enough to prove to some handsome passerby that i am caring and gentle and maternal, AM I RIGHT?

magazines always want to tell a bitch how to chart her ovulation, when the knowledge they really need to be dropping is how to look sexy while juggling your best friend's baby and trying to save a hot dude's number in your touchscreen phone. i refuse to believe i can't capitalize on the sexual activity of all of my friends. because how else do i know so many children with STEPfathers?! remember the days when having both "never married" and "childless" on your dating resume was THE MOST AMAZING SHIT EVER?! back then you could take your birth control IN PUBLIC and bitches would applaud you for it; now motherfuckers look at you like you have herpes or something. i'm not kidding, from the ages of 29-42 people are like, "what the fuck is wrong with you?" and move their goddamned chairs away when you tell them you haven't cracked your pelvis in half pushing an infant through it. my typical response is, "YOU SHOULD THANK ME FOR NOT GETTING KNOCKED UP. I WOULD TOTALLY BE SUCKING UP YOUR TAX MONEY ON WELFARE." god, i need to hurry the fuck up and turn 43. all of my friends are goddamned liberals.

so i'm working on this book (for serious) that is essentially about being INCREDIBLY AWESOME yet NOT GETTING FUCKING LAID EVER, and a male (read: idiot) friend of mine responded with this unsolicited response to my endeavor: "hey stupid, your problem is that you aren't warm enough and you make jokes all the time. men want to know that you are nurturing, they want to feel cared for. no one likes laughing that much. you need to go the extra mile to make a man feel wanted. cook for him, let him know he has your support." it's not enough that i had to go to the emergency room after some rhythmless neanderthal face-fucked me so hard once IT BROKE MY NOSE, true story, i also have to let him know that i'll kiss his boo boos and make him a pot roast just for having a penis? GROSS. thinking about that makes me stupid tired. can't we just have sex with murderers on craigslist? can't i just tell a couple jokes and not have to learn how to saute woolly mammoth burgers to make someone fall in love with me? CAN'T WE JUST BE LESBIANS?!