Wednesday, December 14, 2011

christmas is not for pussies.

the hellidays are the motherfucking worst. no bigger reminder of what an unloved orphan you are than the most wonderful time of the goddamned year. seriously, from november through fucking march i walk around like a raw wound trying to deflect the salt of happiness being tossed at me from every direction. seriously, it's fucking impossible to brood and mourn when everyone is constantly reminding you why you should go get your jingle bells on, and those are often the very same reasons you sometimes can't get out of bed in the fucking morning. i write a lot of jokes and shit, and i understand how that can be pretty deceptive. generally it's my policy to try to squeeze whatever bit of humor i can from being perpetually alone and getting shit on and eviscerated by dudes and watching my peers skyrocket past me in their adulthood and battling this vicious crohns disease every single day of my stupid life, especially since i get a handful of emails and internet notes every week from people who relate and don't take the chronicling of this struggle for granted. and you jerks know i be spilling all my guts and tragedy all over these keys so we can learn from it and laugh at it together. sometimes, though, bitches treat me like a goddamned comedy robot. like i'm standing under the AVALANCHE OF BAD SHIT laughing my dick off before the first snow even touches me. here's how that shit really works: avalanche begins, of which i am unaware; figure out avalanche has begun once i'm up to my ankles in it, and freezing half to death; until finally i can laugh at that shit a month later once the snow plow has rolled through and i'm safe and warm in some clean fucking socks. then you get the jokes. anyway, my life sucks. here's why:

1 every day of my life since i was thirteen: i've had no parents. and no family of which to speak. and trust me, i don't care how many episodes of party of five you've seen, unless this has happened to you, you have no idea what that shit is like. my sisters and i exist in this sort of fragmented place where we are aware of the existence of each other, but we don't connect. we don't love each other. last week there was a pretty spectacular fight between the four of us which ended basically on some, "see you at your funeral" kind of shit. which is really awesome this time of year. now let's be for real, i thoroughly enjoy not having to buy any gifts or feed my dad cut-up christmas ham, but all of these nuclear families opening their christmas lexuses makes me a little sad.

2 those godforsaken jewelry commercials are meant to destroy you, right? are that many motherfuckers getting engaged on christmas day? really, i gotta sit through seventeen different romantical advertisements during one motherfucking show?! okay, so maybe you aren't crying yourself to sleep every night, but all this happy couple imagery is inescapable come christmastime. and makes you feel worthless. i don't know, man. maybe we are unworthy of human affection? because all this "you're so great" starts to feel like lies without some real validation. because what does it mean when someone who fucks someone else tells you that? or when your BFF extols your virtue? that bitch isn't buying you a fucking house. awesomeness is not the currency of meaningful human relationships, obviously. so i'm going to stop kidding myself. there is obviously something here that no one wants. that theory has been tested and proven, and i reserve the right to skip your holiday party as a result.

3 and this is an email i just had to write and send, like a loser: angry isn't a word i'd use. i'm fucking heartbroken. i'm sad that someone i like doesn't like me back. i'm sad for what that says about my dating future. i'm sad that i was in a competition i had no idea existed and that I FUCKING LOST. because you win either way. i fucking lost, and i had no goddamned idea i even had a dog in the fight. turn the tables. if there was some phantom other that i was choosing instead of you, despite the fact that i've assured you how awesome and amazing and talented you are, imagine for a minute what that feels like. in your heart. that you're awesome and great but not awesome enough to be with. you are the architect of this sadness. and i'll live, i'll get over it.

um, yeah. so that happened. like, an hour ago. and if you're smart you can use your context clues to fill in the who and the how and the what i found in my inbox this morning. sad avalanche.

this time of year is motherfucking brutal and i want to die. so i'm going to take some time off to process this piece of rotting sewer shit that is samantha irby's disastrous existence. and here's my plan of attack, ie the shit i always do when i'm bummed the fuck out, OMG:

-whiskey shots x1,000,000,000.
-read a fuckton of books.
-hella carbohydrates. seriously, i'm going to eat SO MUCH BREAD.
-impromptu dance parties.
-distract myself with 12 hour workdays.
-swim at the Y with your sexy granddad.
-write my blog with ian (click here, laugh robustly).
-blow money on fancy drugs.
-try to remember that, despite all this, i'm mostly awesome. and amazing. and worthy of good things in my life, despite the fact that they appear to keep passing me over in favor of those who seem less deserving. eventually someone else will recognize that. or i'll get hit by a bus. one or the other.

imma see you kids in 2012 if i don't get hit by an asteroid in the meantime. happy holidays, prosperous new year, and don't thelma and louise it off a cliff unless you take me with you.

Friday, December 2, 2011

scrawny dudes with no chest hair.

issue six. i need a motherfucking break. oh, i know i know, "FROM WHAT, ASSHOLE?" and you're probably right, why do i deserve a goddamned vacation? the truth is, i'm not even tired. and i probably don't work that hard. let's be for real, i'm not in a factory putting chevrolets together, i have a motherfucking desk. that said, i work fifty hours a week, and spend another ten hours standing in the dark, frigid cold waiting for buses and trains and shit during my wretched commute. and then i have to find time for things like "having fun" and "maintaining my friendships." writing this goddamned blog. scouring craigslist ads. posting hot dudes on my facebooks. keeping track of your baby's first steps. figuring out who is on top in the republican primary this week. listening to the best music. knowing all the hot internet memes. omg, FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS. seriously, though, it's hard goddamned work to fucking know shit and be cool. don't believe me? how many unfunny, boring assholes do you know?! that's what i fucking thought.

does your broke ass need a vacation? does any of you want to go on an apple vacation with me? i'm not kidding. five hundred bucks can equal you + me + jamaica. i'm fucking serious. it doesn't have to be a whole big thing, let's just go and spend a weekend drinking pina coladas and digging sand out of our buttholes! what's the matter, you hate bob marley? FINE THEN. i have a passport, i'll go wherever. i just need a weekend away from the cat and my desk and the internet and my job. taking into account my penchant for melodrama and hyperbole, my life is trying to kill me. real magazines are always saying you should get away to keep the romance alive, and i would like to spend four fucking days eating delicious buffet and sucking down rum punch so that i can come back home rejuvenated, refreshed, and ready to start putting it in my life's butt again. i still love my life, it's just that the magic has died. my life used to excite me; it used to be so fun and unpredictable. remember the beginning, when my life would offer me something fresh and new every single day to show me how much it cared? well, it doesn't do that shit anymore. it's mostly just boring, sitting in its underwear eating chips while i try to coax it off the couch. if i could just get away from it, for even a weekend, i would come back and appreciate this lazy bitch so much more.

it's cool, i can take a hint, YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAMAICA WITH ME. so i'll just do what other assholes in my position do: call all of my friends who live in other places and invite myself to visit them. see how happy i look in that picture? standing on that california cliff, the pacific ocean behind me, enveloped in salty air?! i should look like that all the fucking time. that's not a bitch who has a nagging-ass boss or a $300 cell phone bill. no, that is a bitch on motherfucking vacation. that's a bitch who woke up in nina's guest room and emerged to a full breakfast i didn't have to make and clean laundry i didn't have to wash after having spent the night before at a party being thrown in my honor. i'm going to seattle and new york and california in the next few months to get away from my life for a minute and TOTALLY IMPOSE ON MY GODDAMNED FRIENDS. i feel better alfuckingready. and between those trips i'm going to spend as many weekends as i can holed up downtown in a fancy hotel pretending i'm madeline. or maybe kanye west. that'll show YOU, stupid life. i'm fucking fancy.

touchdown! i'm not into this whole "women don't watch sports" nonsense. i mean, i TOTALLY GIVE THE SIDE-EYE to those over-exuberant girls who try to get all into sports as a means to fuck dudes, but i'm calling fucking bullshit on all of this batting your lashes while pretending not to understand what a fucking touchdown is. children play that shit. so sit the fuck down with that. i watch sports because i had what one might call an inside childhood, which means that while the other kids in my neighborhood were racing bikes and climbing trees and jumping out of tire swings i was in our apartment with the blinds closed reading books and creating elaborate story lines for my massive barbie collection. my sister made me learn to ride a bike so that, at the very least, my muscles wouldn't atrophy, but for the most part i spent my summers INSIDE WITH MY MOTHER. i was one of those weirdo fucking kids who could carry on a grownup conversation because the only people i talked to all day were motherfucking adults. adults fucking love that kid; other children FUCKING HATE THAT KID. i remember saying the word "consternation" in the FOURTH GODDAMNED GRADE, and this bitch named allyson dumped my lunch tray on the floor in response. which resulted in my running to tell the teacher (whom i could call by her first name since we spent so much time making crafts after school), but only after i'd told her that "her visceral and aggressive response to my towering command of vocabulary simply wasn't warranted."

you totally would've beat me up. anyway, when you sit inside on saturday and sunday afternoons the only thing there is to watch on television (or, as i like to call him, "my brother"), is sports. baseball in the summer, football and basketball in the winter, and whatever obscure sports get national television coverage in the spring and fall. channel 9 used to have cubs games on EVERY SINGLE AFTERNOON, and they would often serve as the backdrop to barbie and ken's ferocious lovemaking. i would just absorb all that shit; i was like a walking sports section. i could rattle off the statistics of the entire cubs lineup. which, again, is a thing that only impresses adults who think a precocious eight-year-old who knows what "base on balls percentage" means is totally fucking adorable. that isn't a whole lot of people, just in case you wanted to know.

it's insulting to me when lady rags are all "put on a cropped jersey and give him a lapdance during the commercial breaks!" ugh, WHY?! why would you ever want to do that?!  commercials are for peeing, and there's a lot of really important shit to be heard during the halftime break. how else will i stay on top of how the assholes on my fantasy squad are doing this week?! well, i mostly mean YOU JERKS, because this nerd has a motherfucking satellite dish. BOOM. listen, i'm typing this with manicured nails, so i know good and well that there's other shit you bitches can be out doing rather than asking your manfriend what a goddamned touchback is. don't you like brunch? isn't there a jennifer aniston movie playing somegoddamnedwhere?! why on earth do you have to prance around in a bears cheerleader outfit blocking the motherfucking screen while we're trying to focus on the GAME? it's like if a dude came to your hair appointment and quizzed you about coloring your gray or whatever. if he was fucking juggling shampoo bottles and butting into the boyfriend drama
gossip between you and julio, the queen who talked you out of that stupid shag haircut you almost got.

these are the same idiots who will sit and watch a dude play video games and ask him who he's shooting and how many points he got and which character is this and HOLY FUCKING SHIT ISN'T THERE AN SVU MARATHON YOU CAN GO WATCH IN THE OTHER ROOM?! hey gurl, sporting events and video games and boxing matches competetive beer drinking are the cheap plastic prize in the cracker jack box that is your relationship with a human male, and you need to start thinking of them as such. ie, he's occupied, he's not occupied in someone else's vagina, and you can rest reasonably assured that he isn't going to fuck anything up while you're out. so you can feel free to go to the botanical gardens and shop for eyeliner and eat salad or whatever else it is you like doing that he ABSOLUTELY HATES. and when you get home there will probably be leftover chips.

ask a guy. you know i don't believe in asking a man a goddamned thing. but i most certainly am not in favor of the way these magazines do it. seriously, bitch? you're going to ask a shirtless, waxed chested college sophomore whether or not i should shave my fucking pubic hair?! you need to be asking that motherfucker about cocaine and xbox, not whether or not having a baby at my advanced age is a wise decision. mouth agape, every single month, i scour these vapid man on the street interviews in total bewilderment. first of all, where did you find these fucking dudes? and why do so many of them have their motherfucking shirts off?! what, you couldn't find someone other than a dude playing ultimate frisbee to quiz about perfumes? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. let's ask some grown men a few goddamned questions. and not about my stupid ladyparts.

why don't you have any toilet paper in your apartment?
do you really need so many pairs of the same gym shoe?
sports jerseys as real clothes, eh?
why a chinstrap beard of all the possible ones you could choose from?
do all of these cords actually belong to anything?
ramen again?
can i just lie back and be serviced for a change?
did you fart in here?
who are you emailing during dinner?
why can't you text in complete sentences?
you didn't honestlythink i wanted a AAA membership for my birthday, did you?
those jeans again?
how can one person eat so much cereal?
do you know how to separate your laundry?
cartoon network, REALLY?!

inquiring goddamned minds, jerks.

glossy shiny pretty hair, omg. women should support each other. we need to listen to one another and build each other up, even when some of us say dumb shit all the time and let a man get away with the kind of bullshit that ruins him for every subsequent woman who will ever cross his path. seriously, we need to love each other. that said, it is perfectly normal and 100% acceptable to be frothing at the mouth in a jealous rage if a woman has:

shinier hair than yours.
a smarter, nicer, more successful boyfriend than yours.
health insurance that's better than yours.
a car that seats more people than yours.

bitches fucking need leg room, okay? we can't all be cramming ourselves into the back of your kia, bitch. you're thirty-nine, GET A GODDAMNED SEDAN. anyway, the other day my boss asked me, "what do you think motivates men?" and i, of course, replied, "sex, DUH." i mean, really, isn't that the only reason dudes brush their teeth and shit, so they can maybe get laid? no man would have a car or an apartment or matching socks if he could get laid by a hot broad without them. women, on the other hand, are most often motivated by JEALOUSY. don't act like it's just me; the only reason you joined the gym is because the bitch in the cubicle across from yours lost five pounds going to jazzercise. and that's okay! healthy, even. i never want to do anything cool until i see someone else doing it first and, in a jealous rage, decide that i want to do that shit, too. AND DOMINATE HER AT IT.

you think i would have this blog if some other bitch hadn't had one that filled me with seething envy first? YEAH, RIGHT. i would be sitting at home double-fisting tacos and working my way through a fucking keg every night. fuck the internet, dude, i'd be in pajamas all day testing out my jokes on the goddamned cat. i have absolutely zero motivation to trailblaze. but the minute someone else is like, "look how amazing i am at this new thing i tried!" i think, "OH MAN, I SHOULD TOTALLY BE DOING THAT. BUT BETTER." i would never try to bang dudes if someone i know wasn't already doing it. not kidding, if i didn't have to hear about how awesome and wonderful your boyfriend is i would never even consider trying to come up with one of my own. god, so much work! i'd be content to masturbate to phone porn and eat indian takeout for the rest of my miserable life.

so let's start celebrating jealousy. don't tuck it away like something to be ashamed of, let's embrace that hateful shit. i'll start: i love your shoes. and the circumference of your tiny waist makes me want to stop eating all food groups that don't begin with "vegetables." your grownup apartment makes me want to kill myself. if i could beat you to death, eat your internal organs, and assume your identity while wearing your skin as a coat i totally would. it is because of you that i'm going to work out for six minutes on the elliptical as soon as i finish smashing this mcrib. thanks, girl.

prince charming is total fucking bullshit. after a certain age these magazines need to start keeping it goddamned real with a bitch. how old are we, 137? everyone i know is still holding out for some cartoon character version of an adult male, and we need to stop that. smart, breathing, jokes. seriously, that's kind of all you need. generous and compassionate if you can get them, but if you can't? don't kill yourselves: NEITHER CAN ANYONE ELSE. i have some friends who have the craziest fucking prerequisites for banging a dude you have ever heard in your motherfucking life. and i just want to be like, "seriously?! bitch, you have saddlebags!" maybe the nineteen-year-olds for whom these magazines are intended have a chance at finding true love with a dude who loves dogs and cooks four-course meals on a tuesday, but the rest of us are going to have to work with a motherfucker. by the time we turn thirty we're all banged up and fucked over a totally goddamned damaged, and that's just what you have to deal with to have an interpersonal relationship with another human being. PERFECT PEOPLE DON'T EXIST, and magazines need to tell you that. and reinforce it. and remind you again two pages later.

one of my friends didn't make a second date with a dude because he tucked in his goddamned shirt, and i was like, "what planet do you live on?! eligiblemania? THERE ARE, LIKE, FIVE AWESOME DUDES OUT HERE TO DATE. you better work with that asshole!" for serious, doesn't he get a point for at least wearing a shirt? remember the time i went out with that vegetarian who couldn't even be bothered to put on real clothes? (click here if you don't.) yeah, that was fucking terrible. and even that dude got a polite phone call explaining that i would be joining a monastery and regrettably could no longer enjoy his exquisite company. i'm not saying that you should nest with some shit-sucking scumbag who can't read and won't go down on you, but maaaaaaaaaybe holding out for that jon hamm lookalike with a fifteen inch dick is something you need to get the fuck over already. aren't you regular? then why are you too good for a regular dude?! seriously, girls, aim realistically. it's less heartbreaking. and that is coming from a bitch with a UNICORN LIST. which, upon careful consideration, you'll realize is just a long list of regular shit losers can't be bothered to do. there's no real magic involved in "being nice" and "reading books."

now get back out there and give that skinny wino panhandling outside your local starbucks a second look. i hear that dude is single. rawr.