Wednesday, December 12, 2012

how to survive the goddamned holidays.

i only check my mail once every four to five days because i like feeling sought-after and important. i came home yesterday after having spent a week at cara's to find my box stuffed like the stocking of a child whose family could afford to do shit like "have a fireplace" and "fill novelty stockings with presents." annoyed, i flipped past the crate and barrel catalogs (buy one offset spatula in 2009, get catalogs full of bullshit IN PERPETUITY) and a bunch of coupons from all of the takeout places that know my voice by heart (the dude at apart pizza answers the phone, "hey sweetheart, 14-inch capriciosa and a tirolese?" every motherfucking time, god bless his soul) to find the first of many christmas cards to come this season. i ripped it open, expecting to find a glossy picture of my adorable friend and her marginally attractive husband and recently-adopted dog that i would stare at for the next hour while holding back tears and guzzling champagne straight from the bottle on the toilet, but instead found one of those "family holiday update" letters. BARF. her card was mucho boring, so i made one of my own madlibs-style using hers as a template.

dear friends,
happy holidays! what an amazing year this has been! i hope this
dumb ass blog finds you happy and healthy! this has been an incredible time for the still lonely and unmarried samantha irby family! first, we relocated to still living in the same junior one bedroom apartment in the ghetto, which was daunting and exciting all at once! then helen started his new job at unemployed housecat where he very much enjoys shitting in the laundry basket like a cunt and working on mergers while sleeping on top of my motherfucking air conditioner. we are so proud of him! and although i was ill during the first part of my pregnancy and had to quit my job, i discovered i can shit and vomit at the same fucking time in the shower because i am determined and that shit happened to my drunk ass at 3am last thursday. what an asshole! the baby will be here any day now, and we would love for you to visit us after please don't ever come to my goddamned house and everyone is settled in. our door is always open to seriously, i hate cleaning up and your family! merry christmas!
with hate and vitriol, sam and helen keller.

man, fuck that bitch.
i had one good christmas, in 1986. i was obsessed with barbie and the rockers, and the "hot rockin' van" was gigantic and pink and amazing and I HAD TO HAVE IT. i wrote santa 2,763 letters begging for that shit, pleading with him to ignore all of the times i'd fed my vegetables to the dog and lied about having brushed my teeth. that van was my 80s dream realized: the interior was neon turquoise, it was furnished with a sink and four-burner range (you know, for whipping up gourmet meals on the road) and there were bunk beds in the rear (for passionless groupie sex, duh), there was a storage closet for the band's many electric guitars. most importantly, it came with a little cassette deck on the roof into which one chubby little girl with no front teeth could insert the accompanying microphone and earnestly wail "on my own" by patti labelle with her eyes closed. no second grader should be screaming "this wasn't how it was supposed to end! i wish that we could do it all again!" at the top of her lungs alone in her bedroom. but my mom was old, man. you were dancing to madonna, i was weeping along with anita baker. anyway, i got it. and i filled that bad girl with barbie and dee dee and diva and i drove the shit out of that van, all while singing greatest love of all into that microphone and wearing a jem puffy paint sweatshirt and orange legwarmers on my arms. haven't had a worthwhile christmas since.

there are plenty of articles in real simple and good housekeeping for those of you who need to know last-minute christmas decorating ideas and perfect holiday playlists for children. i've seen them, i swear. "guilt-free christmas cookies!" and "should i give my gardeners and pool boy a christmas bonus?" and "how to save time wrapping a station wagon full of giant-ass toys!" so if you need that, go holler at them. this shit is for those of us grinches guaranteed to get stockings full of coal from the neighbors who can't hear the television over our audible fucking sobs.


1 eat whatever the fuck you want. get off that diet for a couple weeks, sister. i don't know about you, but my perfect christmas miracle involves a big pile of fluffy down comforters and a room-temperature gyro. january 1 you can run that shit off, but if you plan to weather four solid weeks of having every single one of your senses assaulted by christmas happiness and cheer, YOU ARE GOING TO NEED A WHOLE PIE. i don't have a loving mother and father to bake me gingerbread cookies and glare at my life choices disapprovingly while basting a neon pink ham on christmas morning. and most of the time, my dead parents are a reminder of why my life is pretty awesome. i can do what i want and not listen to any shit about it from people who keep their "you are a crushing disappointment" face at the ready every time i cross the threshold of my childhood home. the downside? ALL THOSE FAMILY CHRISTMAS COMMERCIALS. *welp*

i'm not saying you should eat yourself into a coma every december, but you most certainly should try. food is love, hooker. pick some easy things that aren't going to take all day and then get in your pajamas and pour some eggnog out for little baby jesus. here's what i'm making this year, courtesy of the homie martha stewart:

ginger cheesecake bars, WHAT.
first get this: 
vegetable-oil cooking spray
12 ounces store-bought gingersnaps (about 45 cookies)
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted
12 ounces cream cheese, room temperature
3/4 cup sugar
1 large egg
1 large egg yolk
3 tablespoons sour cream
3/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 tablespoons finely chopped crystallized ginger

then do this:
1st preheat oven to 350 degrees. coat a 9-by-13-inch rimmed baking sheet with cooking spray; set aside. place gingersnaps in a food processor; pulse to a powder. transfer to a small bowl, and stir in butter until well combined. press gingersnap mixture evenly into bottom of prepared baking sheet. bake crust until firm, about 12 minutes. let cool completely. (sam note: you can use your loneliness to pulverize those cookies to death if you ain't got no cuisinart.)

2nd meanwhile, put cream cheese in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment; mix on medium speed until softened. mix in sugar, egg, egg yolk, sour cream, and vanilla until well combined. mix in crystallized ginger. (sam note: you can use your sadness to beat the cream cheese soft if you ain't got no kitchenaid.)

3rd pour the cream cheese mixture onto crust, and spread evenly with a rubber spatula. bake, rotating sheet halfway through, until filling has puffed and feels slightly firm to the touch (do not let brown), 20 to 25 minutes. let cool completely on a wire rack. refrigerate, covered with plastic wrap, until set, about 1 hour. to serve, cut into bars. (sam note: to serve, eat lukewarm straight from the pan if you ain't got time to waste letting delicious treats cool completely and shit. ps, stop pretending you made this for other people.)

i also enjoy a good warm dip, because i hate chewing unnecessarily and also it is pretty cold outside. so i'm going to make myself some hot crab dip like a boss. i'll just wait over here while you make the obligatory HOT CRABS joke.
first get this: 3 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 medium shallots, minced
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
3/4 teaspoon old bay seasoning
1 1/2 teaspoon dry mustard
3/4 cup half-and-half
8 ounces cream cheese, cut into small pieces
4 ounces sharp white cheddar cheese, grated on the large holes of a box grater (about 1 3/4 cups)
3 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice
2 teaspoons worcestershire sauce
10 ounces lump crabmeat, picked over for cartilage (what?!)
1/2 cup chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
2 slices white bread, crusts removed, torn into 1/4-inch pieces
1/2 teaspoon paprika
toast points, for serving (*snort*)

then do this:

1st preheat oven to 400 degrees with a rack in the center. melt 2 tablespoons butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. add shallots and cook until soft, about 2 minutes. add 1 tablespoon water and simmer for 30 seconds. stir in the cayenne, old bay, and dry mustard until well combined. pour half-and-half into saucepan and bring to a simmer. slowly whisk in the cream cheese, a few pieces at a time. when the cream cheese is fully incorporated, whisk in the cheddar cheese, a handful at a time. stir the mixture for 2 minutes. remove from heat. add lemon juice and worcestershire sauce; stir to combine. stir in crabmeat and half of the parsley.

2nd transfer mixture to an ovenproof baking dish and sprinkle with bread pieces. dot top of bread pieces with remaining tablespoons butter; sprinkle with paprika. bake until bread pieces are golden and dip is hot, 18 to 22 minutes. garnish with remaining 1/4 cup parsley and serve with toast points.

toast points are for people who use a knife and fork to eat chicken wings. the rest of us will just scoop this up with some stale fritos or slop it onto that old garlic pita we just remembered has been in the freezer since last june.

2 don't ruin happy motherfuckers' holiday parties. i know, you selfish asshole: FUCK THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. i hate it, too! and i love ruining shit! especially since getting dressed for some fancy soiree in the middle of the fucking winter is the worst, because sequins and velvet are not flattering to anyone ever! but don't be a dick and drag your mean ass to the office holiday party just to shit all over everyone who had the GODDAMNED AUDACITY to cheerfully participate in the ugly holiday sweater contest. leave them alone! you could've stayed home with some hot crab dip and a skyfall bootleg. if you're going to go, be sparkly and nice and drink your mulled wine and shut the fuck up merry christmas high five.

3 buy yourself some fly shit. if wasting a little fun money isn't going to get your broke ass evicted, spend all your grocery money on some dumb shit that makes you feel good. most real people are too poor to buy you a good gift yet totally fucking weird about buying you something practical and useful. would it be so bad to drop a bag of feline pine at my doorstep? to send over a case of charmin extra strong? trust me, i am going to throw that novelty picture frame you got at the dollar store right in the trash. so don't waste your time embarrassing us both with your shitty, disposable present. just clap me on the back and bring some good tidings to me and my kin and get the fuck on. let me get myself something rad, and maybe i'll pretend you gave it to me for five minutes. on my list this year: an iphone, a bottle of diptyque do son, some high-waisted opaque spanx tights, and a piano. so go get something nice and stare at it and think about how you don't have to put a bunch of toys on layaway for six months leaving $15 and a starbucks gift card from your boss for you to enjoy. get a massage from a prostitute or something. TREAT YO SELF.

4 buy some dope shit for someone else. I AM THE BEST GIFT GIVER THAT EVER LIVED. here is the key to giving good gifts: pick 1-3 people you might want to bang someday and buy them something ridiculously awesome, then make them open that shit in front of you and let their smiling lit-up faces be your oxygen. it really does make you feel good. you know what else gives you the warm tinglies? give some money to goddamned charity. all year long i donate money to animal shelters and rescue groups and diarrhea organizations, and every year the postcards they send out serve as a reminder that despite my current mid-december miserableness i am a kind and benevolent person made of sunshine who took five minutes to give some money to a worthwhile cause over the internet. pay some shit forward. if there's a heaven, you need to have something wholesome to show saint peter because he totally knows about that sketchy guy you fucked and stole twenty dollars from that one time.

5 hug your motherfucking teddy bear and cry it out over a heartwarming television movie. here is what i did last weekend: sat on cara's couch in a black jumpsuit and puffy quilted slipper boots washing down saltines with the cheapest bourbon i could find at walgreens and sobbing over a christmas movie on lifetime vaginavision starring hilary duff's sister and a mannequin that came to life who time traveled to fall in love with a murderer. or something like that. listen, it was a marathon, and i was drunk, and all that shit starts to run together on you after a while. i think we spend a lot of time trying to avoid being sad, but that shit is inevitable. so just wallow in it for five minutes. cry and cry and think about everyone who shit on your heart over the past twelve months and forgive them and let it go. THIS SADNESS CANNOT BE AVOIDED. embrace the hell out of it. afterward you will probably feel tired, so go lie down for a minute. when you get up you will feel better.

6 get the fuck off facebook. everyone i know is fucking married and having babies and basically living a life that reminds me how my own is totally full of so much fail, so until they get divorced and their children get kicked out of public school or wind up cracked out on the news imma take a little hiatus from everyone's bright and shiny instagrammed joy for a couple weeks. you should, too. unless you're a masochist, in which case get your torture on.

7 have a plan. christmas day i am going to:
-sing that christmas song by alvin and the chimpmunks really fucking loud.
-get lit at brunch at a hotel downtown with some jewish girlz.
-roll my eyes at all those people who send mass texts who think i don't know what they're up to.
-take myself to the theater to watch the bloodiest guns and violence movie i can find.
bah humbug.

ps, santa claus is a judgmental asshole. i asked for the barbie and the rockers hot rockin' stage, too, and i didn't get that shit due to "too much smart-mouthed backtalk," according to the card he attached to the van. SONOFABITCH.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

how do you know if you're on a date with a lesbian or if you're just two pretty girls hanging out?

what is the gayest fucking thing you could ever imagine? two rainbow-striped unicorns banging their glittery dicks together while shooting stars from their assholes? a ymca/it's raining men mash-up playing on a continuous loop in the skinny jeans section of forever 21? eating a meatless salad for dinner?! WRONG. this is the gayest of all the possible things: going to a meshell ndegeocello concert, with a goddamned lesbian, that is being held in a motherfucking FOLK MUSIC SCHOOL. game set match, friends. and i've been in a bath house before. i know from gay.

i'm into love from wherever i can get it. i have been known to wear a pair of carhartt work boots in the winter, my fingers remain dexterous despite some early-onset peripheral arthritis, and i also find women in neckties incredibly attractive. i also also like luxuriating in some comfortable-ass surroundings, which men can hardly be bothered to create. i like to look around a hot lady's nicely appointed digs, seething like a jealous child, admiring all of the hung tapestries and framed photographs and put-away clothes while mentally scolding myself for being such a lazy teenage boy. why don't i have any motherfucking art? how come everything in my freezer is useless and expired? do i have a first aid kit? are my threadcounts high enough? WHY DON'T I HAVE A DECORATIVE TOILET PAPER HOLDER?! and, truth be told, i don't know how to do any of that shit. or where to buy it. which is why i keep sexting your older sister so hard. here is a list of the domesticated home things i am marginally good at:

1 cooking. bitches gotta eat, son. and this bitch right here can braise lamb shanks. and make a perfect quiche. i can roll my own dough. i will slow roast you a brisket. i own a goddamned cuisinart. my souffles rise, my chickens cook beautifully, my cookies are crisp around the edges and soft in the middle. i worked in a bakery for three years, and i can make you a cheesecake in a water bath! i can make you petit fours dipped in fondant! paper thin steak carpaccio! salmon ceviche with oranges! whatever you like, i got you.

2 disinfecting the bathroom. this is my most favorite of all of the chores, because you don't have to be careful when splashing every hard surface liberally with bleach and standing back to watch all of the cholera and measels and whatever else you dragged in on the soles of your feet rinse clean down the drain. i can't do any of that tedious cleaning, all that delicate dusting of knick knacks and shit? never. that's why my apartment is decorated like prison. NO FUCKING DUSTING.

3 killing those disgusting centipede things. holy jesus, those fucking things are gross. but i will kill them and not even squeal while their tiny smashed legs are still moving for a two seconds on my palm. 

4 remembering which of the 8,719 directv channels is which. 501 is hbo. 282 is animal planet. 242 is usa. 356 is msnbc. 264 is bbc america. 331 is mtv. 202 is cnn. 237 is bravo. 525 is starz. 206 is espn. 231 is food network. 419 is cnn in espanol. 253 is lifetime movie network. 248 is fx. 559 is independent film channel. 245 is tnt. 265 is a&e. i do not know which one is the science channel. or the oprah one. history, either. i also refuse to watch any channel under 100, because i don't pay $120/month to watch free fucking tv.

but i am also somehow incapable of doing any of the other shit. i can't change a flat tire. i don't know how to fix grout. i'm not sanding a vintage fucking dresser from the salvation army. i can't hammer things! i don't have a fucking screwdriver! i sprained my wrist trying to clean the humidifier! i still have to ask my gay boyfriends to come over and put my ikea furniture together while they also offer unsolicited advice about resuscitating that one dying ass plant i can't bring myself to throw away and criticize my mismatched dishtowels. that kind of shit is ridiculous to me, purchasing power tools and masking tape with money that could be otherwise spent on a new lipstick i am always going to be too lazy to put on myself. right now there is a lightbulb that needs changing but i am too chickenshit to stand on a chair and do it so i'm just waiting for the day someone comes over and i can trick him into doing it. that's right, HOW MANY DUMB ASSHOLES DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE A LIGHTBULB.

so this whole sapphic thing started innocently enough. emails + texting + hangouts = BFFs. there was some flirting, but everyone i know is a goddamned flirt. also, when you write about your vagina on the internet all the time people just drop the fucking pretense with you. example: i was in the bathroom before the concert and this woman came up to me and shouted, "bitches gotta eat! i love the way you say pussyhole!" in a full intermission-packed ladies' room. while surreal, and a little unsettling, that shit happens to me all the goddamned time. sidenote: we ran into our mutual lesbian friend denise who is amazing and great outside the bathroom and i saw two other women i know and there was so much fucking estrogen and so many ladies who fist other ladies in that building that my ovaries tried to reproduce asexually. hot damn. anyway, people just say gross shit to me all the goddamned time. i try not to read too much into it, even when it accompanies a cameraphone picture of some hot titties. WAIT A MINUTE HOLD UP.

the most terrifying thing about being on a maybe-date with a woman: OKAY. sometimes when i'm on a date with a dude and he is boring or stupid i will excuse myself to the bathroom and call caitlin and be like, "grrrrrrrrrl, could you please describe to me what is happening on the episode of the good wife that i am missing right now?!" we'll talk shit for a minute and laugh at that dumb asshole and i'll pull my spanx back up to my nipples, then i go back to the table refreshed and suffer through another twenty-minute dissertation on the new bond movie and it's all good.

when we got to the show i had the kind of diarrhea that makes you stop believing in slightly undercooked bacon on white bread and i was like, "i'm just going to go to the bathroom (before i have to sit in a hard seat clenching my sphincter for an hour, omg) before we get our seats" and she said, "i have to pee, too" and i was like "peace out, sister" before i fucking remembered that SHE HAS THE SAME PRIVATE PARTS AND WE ARE GOING INTO THE SAME BATHROOM AHAHAHAHA I HAVE TO SHITSPLASH TOO AND SHE WILL HEAR THAT IT'S NOT JUST A REALLY LONG PEE AND THAT IS SO SEXY. i was like, "um, okay?" and we walked into the bathroom together and i tried to choose a far stall but every black lesbian in chicago was at that concert and IN THAT BATHROOM and can an evening really get more mortifying than audible liquid fire shits in public?

here is what i was wearing because i know you want to know: black jeggings, black low cut shirt, black draped cardigan (shut up, i borrowed it from your mom), and knee-high black boots. that's right, jerks: i wore a pair of sex shoes. and yes, i put an insole in them because my back was hurting, so what? and yes yes, the last time i went out with a man i did wear orthopedic crocs flip flops. but i was really trying this time! romantic or not, bitches be noticing every goddamned thing you ever fucking do. as a matter of fact, i'd had dinner with her on wednesday with green nails, and the first thing she noticed was that on friday those same nails were motherfucking purple. HOW AM I GOING TO SURVIVE BEING A LESBIAN?! i'm so lazy and messy! because:

the second most terrifying thing about possibly courting a lady: they notice everything. i mean, EVERYTHING. if a man notices your fresh manicure it means he is moist. if a woman notices that shit it means she has eyes. the minute she pointed it out i was like a deer in fucking headlights. does she see that this zipper is messed up? and that my coat is a little snug because i spent the entirety of the last four months eating ham? fuck my life, i am wearing that weird-fitting bra. my eyebrows aren't waxed. there's mustard on these fucking pants! women will appraise your whole motherfucking life in the time it takes you to glance at the drink menu. we met for drinks before the show, and since i got there first i took a second to hyperventilate in a corner while shoving napkins in my armpits, and while i was adjusting the tummy-smoothing waistband of my pants it dawned on me that she totally knows that there is a thick layer of elasticized spandex under my clothes holding all my meat and cheese in so why should i even bother? SHIT FUCK DAMN HELL.

when dating, i rely way too much on the inherent disinterest and thoughtlessness of the average male to provide an air of mystery and intrigue to my otherwise fat and sweaty life. dudes don't really know that you don't get your period twenty days a month, do they? because this one time i was dating this dimwit basketball player and didn't feel like shaving or wearing anything other than meat pants for three weeks straight so i told him i had my period and he settled for, like, fourteen handjobs or something instead. do they know that sweater dresses are basically sausage casings unless you wear support hose stretched from your toes to your chin? do they understand what serious work my bra is doing? do they realize these maternity pants are pulled up to my boobs? PROBABLY NOT. but she knows enough to recognize my stretch marks. and that pms isn't really "deadly." and there i was at scofflaw, my favorite place on earth, with my right tit being stabbed by an exposed underwire waiting for a person who would likely notice that fact within thirty seconds of removing her coat.

oh, right. do i help her take her coat off? if it rains later, should i put mine over a puddle? who opens the door? do i pull her chair out? should i walk on the outside of the sidewalk? i'm supposed to order for her, yes? is it bad that i didn't ask her father's permission after she invited me out? WHY AM I SO BAD AT LOVING PEOPLE THE RIGHT WAY?! welp.

sometimes it's hard to know when you're on a date with a dude, too. i mean, the progression of this ladydate blossomed so naturally that i almost didn't have time to have a nervous breakdown about it. i was cool as a cucumber, girl. um, except for the whole is-this-or-isn't-this-why-have-we-only-discussed-the-parameters-of-this-in-a-joking-way-because-that-is-confusing-sweating-through-my-clothes part. men are so shameless most of the time that's it's pretty easy to figure it out. if a dude says, "sam bro, wanna get some beers and eat an entire bison while watching the NCAA championships?" i know it's not a fucking date. and even when it's "hey sam, let's go to [enter name of moderately upscale restaurant] on [date night] while [pushing your tits up and wearing the one thing you own from bloomingdales] and sit in the [dimly lit romantic atmosphere] and feed each other [expensive finger food that can be eaten sexily] while we also [coo at each other]" i can usually tell when he starts showing me his text messages from random women that even though he is paying this is not a motherfucking date, either.

but there are those rare occasions when homeboy scrubbed his balls and sprayed good cologne on his chest and he sits counting the stars in my eyes in the nicest restaurant a CTA bus driver can afford and in my head i'm all, "wait a minute...should i not have worn rubber mom shoes to this?!" and if he hasn't referenced his penis or made declarations on its behalf by the end of the meal i know he's just trying to meet one of my hot friends. but women are subtle. and most of us aren't just going to serve up our vaginas with the soup course. (VAGINA SOUP, YUM.) so here's what i was working with:

-hot girl thinks i'm funny (DATE)
-meshell ndegeocello (date)
-her friend came to the pregame drinks part (not a date)
-like an asshole i asked if it was a date and got a response that was like "meh" (not a date)
-we spent an hour on the phone last week (date)
-i texted her from the bathroom at the bar while i was shitting and it didn't weird her out (not date-like, but that's my fucking fault because i'm gross)
-i didn't get drunk (date, because if it ain't i don't care about not looking like an alcoholic)
-she cried during the last song (date? also, if i am going to fuck women i have to buy way more kleenex)

i don't know, man. imma just roll with it. make her a big macaroni hostess cupcake pizza loaf and rinse her soccer cleats in the sink and see what happens. i'm so motherfucking tired. and i'm basically happy to be around anyone cool, whether i have to learn how to use a dental dam or not. just so we're clear, tho: 
this means we're in a relationship now, right? good, because i just broke my goddamned lease.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

first world problems.

issue sixteen. IT'S PIE SEASON, omg. my white friends always forget a bitch is black until i'm all, "where that sweet potato pie at?!" i'm not trying to holler at that gross pumpkin pie with the shiny pool of condensation grease oil-slicking the top, son! i need that stringy orange lumpy shit made by somebody's houseshoe-wearing big mama. and greens with a hamhock in them. except i don't want to, like, sit at your aunt's house or wherever to get it. which means most holidays i spend in my tiny apartment trying to make the bowel disease version of whatever it is normal people eat. and the menu typically looks like this: dry piece of reheated store turkey, boiled potato mush, box stuffing mix with canned cranberry wobble, football game, asleep by seven, work on friday. i need a new life.

call me maybe. i don't give a shit about christmas. and birthdays only serve as a reminder that i should probably get face surgery. easter is for children. halloween is for people who think slutty nurses are hilarious. basically, the only holiday i get hot for is your phone is eligible for an upgrade!!! day. i check that shit like a kid keeping her ear open for reindeer hooves on the roof, my little stockinged feet pitter pattering over to the glowing laptop as i refresh and re-refresh sprint's website with visions of a samsung galaxy ($0 with a 2-year contract extension) dancing in my head. man, this evo and i have been through a lot together. we've laughed, we've cried, we've sent 3,726 ill-advised pictures of my tits, but it is 9:23 on saturday morning and this asshole says it's 3:14 on sunday afternoon. she is refusing to properly sync my gmail. she fucked up six of my words with friends games. i made a phone call an hour ago and it sounded like i was calling from inside the belly of a whale. i have to set two alarms at night and use a (just in case) paper calendar! what is the point of this fancy phone, again? give me another month with this thing and i'll be be forced to use carrier pigeons and send smoke signals.

so i need to get a new phone, y'all. and until i have to decide whether to get the fluke or the baby octopus at mk, this is THE TOUGHEST DECISION I'VE EVER BEEN FORCED TO MAKE. seriously, i've been known to waffle over a brunch menu (see what i did there?) but this phone thing is stressing me out. oh i know i know, first world problems. and that's a fair criticism from those impoverished and malnourished among you who took precious time away from farming impenetrable soil while fighting insurgents for control of your developing country's government to read this frivolous-ass fucking blog. in other words: SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH THAT. the other day at work i turned to laura and said, "today is going to be a challenge." and this crotchety goat, to whom i was not speaking, replied, in a horrible attempt to shame my ass, "18,000 people at hostess lost their jobs today." well then i suppose it sucks to be a bitch who makes twinkies. 

i didn't snark, "man i hate work" or "having a paying job is totes the worst" or "gee those ding dong makers are really living the dream" like some spoiled fucking brat. but even if i had, so the fuck what? what is this incessant shaming people are doing all the goddamned time? if you have a private jet, it is well within YOUR rights to vocally complain that fueling that motherfucker is hella expensive. it is also MY right to hope you and your loud mouth and your millions of dollars die in a fiery crash. but what i won't do is hold up a picture of a helpless puppy somebody kicked while giving you some bullshit speech about being grateful. if you try to shame people, you are a total asshole. bitch, you don't know my life. now go get me a new iphone so i can tweet about my $300 highlights and instagram my dinner at alinea.

you can find me in da club, wit a bottle full of bub. recently i made the mistake of thinking i am still young enough to unironically be in a nightclub. as i stood in my closet trying to figure out which of my dressy mom-shirts revealed the most cleavage helen lounged on the bathroom rug eyeing me scornfully. "bitches who take prevacid have no business out at the disco." and yes, that cat is right. but some things you have to just see for yourself. a hard head makes a soft ass, i guess.

here's what i hate now that i'm old:
-music too loud.
-rapper i came to see three hours late. AND COUNTING.
-so many promo fliers!
-young girls too naked-looking, provoking my mothering instinct.
-not enough seats for my hurting ass legs.
-who the fuck is flo rida? and why does he have so many similar-sounding songs?
-paying the bathroom lady just because she happens to be blocking the paper towels.
-not doing coke anymore makes things way less fun than i remember.
-watching people text on the dancefloor.
-going to the one place i don't know the bouncer and being hijacked out of a cover.
-did i mention the music is deafening?
-and that motherfucking talib kweli is now three and a half hours late?!
-posting up at the bar to see if anyone notices me or the gravy stain on my shirt.
-sadness upon realization that no such noticing is happening.
-counting the hours until i have to get up.
-cab fare, with which i could have bought lunch for a week.
-judgment from the cat, who is visibly annoyed that i've stumbled in and woken her up.

i quit. meet me at red lobster at 4pm for dinner. shit.

lipstick on his collar. i am obsessed with wearing red lipstick lately. like, all the time. you can't tell in this shitty saturday night cats on the prowl bathroom picture that caitlin and i took, but i'm wearing it here, too. jessi and i got makeovers on monday done by my beautiful friend larae at water tower MAC. makeup is so dumb sometimes. i somehow managed to look both older and younger at the same goddamned time. teenager on my lips and grandmother around the eyes. and not because she didn't do an amazing job, it's just that these baby crow feet are like eyeshadow depositories, and the shit just SITS IN THOSE CREVICES MOCKING ME. larae taught me how to do a smokey eye with browns/bronzes instead of grey/black, and it was gorgeous for approximately thirty-two seconds, at which point my extra virgin face oil started to turn that shit into two brown smears and all that sparkle powder started settling into those gutters at the corners of my eyes.

i'm not getting up at five in the morning to put a face on that will have melted into my neck meat by lunchtime. it was nice to have a lovely woman half an inch from my blackheads and chin whiskers, though. i bought nearly everything she used on me, because i haven't yet given up all hope. so if you see me out with large shimmery brown raccoon eyes and sloppily applied liquid liner that looks like someone attacked my face with a broken ink pen you better pretend that shit looks amazing. i mean, come on. if i use a lip pencil, lipstick, and contrasting gloss for dimension, i want a motherfucking award. or a pity smile. it's the least you can do.

caped crusader. i don't like wearing shit that makes me feel like ursula from the little mermaid. there, i said it. my closet is full of long black drapey shit that i never wear because i'd rather just put on a fucking hoodie, but my solution (as well as evidence that i really am your goddamned grandma) is the cinched, belted cape. magazines have convinced me, friends. you fat broads better get with it. MAKE SURE YOU PUT ON A BELT, THO. skinny girls look cute in voluminous bedsheet outerwear. your ass needs a goddamned belt. to make a waist. because that shit looks hella sexy. now run out and get one before it starts snowing out here and we all turn into homeless-looking blanket people.

fakesgiving. every november i try to compile a list of reasons i have not to jump off a building yet. then in december, when everyone around me is brimming with holiday cheer, i write a list of everything i absolutely hate and it's usually three times as long. i'm tired and i have an inflamed joint in my back that is pinching my sciatic nerve and i really am not feeling thankful for shit, but here is a mini-list. because manners.

1 i am grateful that i live in a first-world country. what? it's in poor taste to say that or something? I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME. i can't complain about my ridiculously expensive internet phone but i also can't give thanks for living in a place where even toddlers get to have them? make up your minds, jerks. i like knowing what kim kardashian ate for breakfast. and the tawdry details of that elmo puppet sex scandal. no one blew up the bus i took to work, i can walk outside with my titties out while burning an american flag, and if i want to i can marry a lady provided that i do that shit above the mason dixon line. this country gets so many things wrong, but if the halted production of a $2 snack cake makes front page news for days at a time i think we're all probably going to be okay. at least until we can hitch a ride to sweden and live the fucking dream.

2 i am grateful for pharmaceutical companies. the only people who hate big pharma are people who aren't chronically ill with some shit that makes life not worth living. their price-gouging and patent bullshit? you bet your dick i hate that. i tried to get some nexium last week and that shit was two hundred and thirty motherfucking dollars, and i am lucky enough to have adequate health coverage! that's outrageous! the pharmacist and i clutched our midsections, incredulous laughter shaking through our bodies. after we wiped our tearing eyes and tried to recover from astrazeneca's hilarious practical joke i puked on her, because acid reflux is a dirty whore bitch. then i bought some prilosec and decided to double the dose and hope that worked itself out. natural remedies are cute until they start talking about cutting your guts out. bring on those big blue pills. and the purple ones. the  tasty yellow ones, too. ooh and those good orange ones...

3 i am grateful for cable television. you bitches who just have computers or whatever are going to really have to sell me on that shit. i want all of the channels. what on earth rules harder than twelve hours of back to back SVU? or watching entire seasons of the real housewives in their various cities? nothing, that's what. maybe sunshine, and fresh air, but i am allergic to those.

3.5 i am grateful for my friend and pal girl vs. whale. she is the cutest. and the smartest. and she is helping me turn these fucking essays into something readable. while also being a constant reminder that everything is stupid but it's okay, WE'LL LIVE.

4 i am grateful for my internet friends. especially YOU. be safe out there. happy thanksgiving. then, dp.

Friday, November 9, 2012

book writing is hard as a motherfucker.

this is the outline of my book. this is some glamorous ass classy fucking shit, right? styrofoam takeout containers? empty bottles of imported (maybe, i can't tell) beer? ICE CUBES IN WINE?! you ain't about that life. fabulousness aside, i'm about to have a goddamned nervous breakdown. i am stressed out and anxious and too bad all those cigarettes on the table don't belong to me, because maybe if i smoked i might actually calm down and get some shit done. i didn't think this was going to be so hard. not, like, brain surgery difficult; but, like, "writing thirty-four essays about my crippling fear of loose change and that one time i shit a dude's bed and had to fucking wake him up and explain what happened" difficult. is this shit funny? is it boring? is it relevant? will people ask for their money back? my hot GI doctor suggested i start meditation when i explained to him that the knot of tension he felt in my belly was made of what if my book sucks?! but meditating is harder than writing this dumb book, especially since you can't do it while on gchat.

how do you get your overactive childbrain to calm down? every time i sit on the floor in my darkened room all i can think about is every goddamned motherfucking thing that is not finding my goddamned zen center: what am i missing on television? is there peanut butter in the cabinet? my butt hurts. i should swiffer up in here. i wonder what's happening on facebook right now. my dumb neighbor is totally lifting weights and grunting. when does that quentin tarantino movie come out? it's too hot. does helen think i look dumb right now? jesus, i haven't had sex in forever. *indistinguishable song lyrics that i can't get out of my fucking head* is someone texting me right now? MY BUTT HURTS. you know, sunchokes are surprisingly delicious. shit, i need to clean the bathroom. what should i wear tomorrow? the kitchen smells weird. man, i hate that one dude so fucking much. is keely home? meditating would be so much more fun if i could listen to music. is queen latifah gay? am I gay? i think i'm getting a leg cramp. art is totally boring and i don't understand most of it. i need to go on youtube and learn how to properly do the harlem shake. GODDAMN I REALLY SHOULD BE WORKING ON MY FUCKING BOOK.

i got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one: #1 my crohns is out of remission and holy hell i almost fucking forgot what absolutely horrible business this is. i can't drink a glass of water without shitting my fucking pants. the other day i looked at a piece of cheese and threw up. #2 this goddamned election was giving me an ulcer. i watch too much msnbc, and that turned me into a paranoid asshole. i wrote a piece for the machete a couple weeks ago about the third debate and, after i stopped stabbing my eyes out from boredom over the whole thing, i wrote, "i don't even care who wins, just please let this end so my shows can come on at their regularly scheduled times. ps, LET THEM SLAP BOX IN THE STREET." #3 my building has been sold twice in as many months, and this song i just wrote called "sam and helen are homeless and it's winter" is playing on a continuous loop in my head. two sales simply cannot be a good sign, am i right? also, can i please come live with you? #4 this season of sons of anarchy is not that good and i cannot believe they fucking killed OPIE. what, tig can't take a bat to the head?! *welp* #5 my fantasy team SUCKS.

#6 thru 99 all i want to do is look at pictures of kittens on the internet. and detailed recipes for food i will never make or eat. i'm liking the shit out of your facebook status, hoss. and scrolling through your instagram. and retweeting all your hilarious tweets. i have half a response email written to you, but i can't finish it because once i do i have to write that essay about how i haven't had sex with a white dude yet. suddenly i really need to take a walk, an impulse that has never previously occurred to me in almost thirty-three years of life on this earth. i will do anything to avoid this writing! i organized my sock drawer and folded the kitchen towels, cleaned the air conditioner and sterilized the humidifier. i recycled three bags of magazines, dragged my pillows and comforter to the laundromat, cut all of my goddamned hair off, and wrote a whole bunch of shit that isn't going in the book. i'm watching all of the gay porn i possibly can on tumblr. i am listening to a lot of 90s r&b compilations. i went to GEB and ate pig face. i am mentally trying on SO MANY CLOTHES on the kiyonna website. i have been wearing red lipstick a lot. i'm working fifty hours a week and going to bed too late. i watched all of last season's "the good wife" on netflix dvds while eating soup straight from a can. basically, i have been doing lots of things that aren't finishing these goddamned essays.

the shit's due in december, bro. and i've written a lot of it, but not a lot lot of it. so i'm getting off the internet. and pretty much moving into chandra's house because my own is too distracting. also, i tend to work better when there is someone downstairs who will ask, "oh, are you eating again, sam...?" really judgmentally every time i get up for a snack.

"wow, sam, another nap?"
"are you seriously crying through another outline?"
"why have you been staring at the same paragraph for an hour?"
"no, you don't need to go get a taco."
"is that the television i hear?"
"stop going back and forth to the bathroom just to wash your hands."
"turn your fucking phone off."

bitches gotta write. so i'm grounded from the information superhighway for a month. or two months. however long it takes to get this shit edited and finalized while sharting uncontrollably. i have some half-finished entries laying around that i might post, especially since i made so many of those cosmo covers and wasting that effort is goddamned criminal. keep the interwebs warm for me. email me some cat pictures. and half-naked celebrities. you know what i like. also, read the goddamned archives until i get back. SOME OF THAT OLD SHIT IS HILARIOUS. back in a flash, cuties.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

will guys date fat girls?

i'm a virgin with a non-virgin boyfriend and we love to make out + some groping. my question is, how far can i go without being considered a cock tease? i don't want to go below the belt yet, but i also don't want to give him blue balls every time we make out, either. that's not fair.

is blue balls really a real thing? like, a certifiably-proven thing? i mean, is there a medical term for what happens inside your testicles when you have an unresolved boner? i'm genuinely curious, but i don't feel like googling this shit and looking like a creep at work. i mean, i get angry red vagina every time a motherfucker doesn't call me back in a timely fashion, but i doubt you're going to find that shit in any science textbook. mostly because i just made it up.

jesus, you kids have some admirable restraint. i cannot sustain eye contact with a handsome dude for more than three seconds without turning red (YES THAT HAPPENS TO BLACK PEOPLE, you bigot) and immediately unbuttoning my pants. the other day this ladydude wearing a bowtie and suspenders was holding my gaze all intently like we were in a women's prison movie and my labia damn near burst into flames. i don't even know what it means to stop before causing testicular damage. the only time i've ever paused some sexing was when i had to push this dude out mid-thrust because i didn't want to spray him with diarrhea, and even then i rinsed my asshole in the shower and we were going at it like wild dogs in a matter of minutes. how do you possess such restraint?! even if i'm not feeling so hot and really not into it a few bites on the neck and i'm all, "aww, okay. just mute the tv and slide the crotch of my diaper to the left." color me impressed, young lady.

oh, just fuck him already. just in case blue balls is a real goddamned thing.

what can you do as a guy when your friend, who is also a guy, is crying?

dang, this is a tough one. OKAY: make sure he's seated on a low back couch or bed. start massaging his neck region; use both hands. take your fingers and apply pressure to each side of his neck, then move inward with circular motions until your fingers on both hands are touching. be sure that you apply pressure but you should not press hard enough to have the receiver cry harder than he already was. move downward towards the base of his neck. continue in a circular motion with only your fingertips. once you have reached the base of his neck, move outward until your fingers are on the sides again.

massage his shoulders next. use your fingers in a grabbing motion. continue to move back and forth over the entire muscle area until he is completely relaxed and his muscles are loose. spend five minutes on his head and face. begin by scratching his scalp with your nails. trace the folds of his ears, the contours of his cheekbones and nose. next, place your palms on the back of his head, as if you were holding a cantaloupe in cupped hands. where his neck meets the skull, you'll find little hollows in the bone. to give them their due, put your fingertips on them and gradually increase the intensity. then grasp his head at the jaw and pull it toward you gently, stretching his neck muscles.

take your tongue and gently outline the contour of his lips. no, slower than that. real slow. close your eyes and lean in for a kiss. gently, at first, then applying more pressure. open your mouth a little bit while pushing him back onto the bed. wipe his tears away while staring deep into his eyes. MOUNT HIM. grind a little bit, in slow motion like mama likes it. unzip his wait, what were we talking about again?!

will guys date fat girls?

OH BOY, WILL THEY. you might have to sift through a handful of mama's boys in cableknit sweaters and thumb through a dossier of recent parolees, but if you remain determined and keep hope alive you will undoubtedly find someone willing to dive headfirst between your mountainous slabs of room temperature cottage cheese.

where do you live, suburban connecticut? i mean, do you know any motherfucking black dudes?! is there a public housing project where you live? because GO TO THERE. i have approximately 8,364,219 bruhs in my phone who are currently having the time of their goddamned lives banging some meaty white broad who really wishes they wouldn't drop so many of their Ts and Gs. jungle fever is a plus-sized white woman's best friend. but racists need love, too, i guess: hmm, are white dudes into curvy women yet? doesn't mama june from that honey boo boo show have a man?! that bitch is my goddamned hero. nineteen chins and every single one of them getting loved on by a dude who probably can't even tie his own shoes! so there's hope for us all, yeah? i fucking hope so. my chins and i need to get asked out on a goddamned date. meanwhile, i'm going to stock up on flaming hot funyuns and big cans of arizona fruit punch. MANBAIT.

i have a bit of a philosophical question: do you believe you can meet the right person at the wrong time? i've met someone amazing, but this isn't a great time for either of us. how do i keep things open so that when things are better we can explore a relationship?

story of my miserable goddamned life. every amazing dude i know is married to some dumb asshole. or banging some dumb asshole. or just got divorced from some dumb asshole but is thinking about reconciling, you know, for the children. are you facebook friends? that's really your only hope, i think. stalk the shit out of that motherfucker, designate her a "close friend" so you get a little red alert if she so much as sneezes online, and occasionally comment on a status with something hilarious and articulate but not overly aggressive or desperate. hopefully you'll move on by the time she's ready to get with you, because this kind of shit is implausible in the worst way and the sooner you forget about her the better. life is not like "the notebook." internet stalking is going to have to be enough. 

how do you hug a tall, skinny guy without it being awkward? seriously, it's all armpits and no cuddles to hold on to.

speaking of fucking a fat bitch, 90% of the dudes i've dated are lanky beanpoles who could change lightbulbs without having to stand on a kitchen chair to do it. even that one time i was a lesbian homegirl weighed, like, fourteen fucking pounds. what is it with skinny dudes and big asses? THAT SHIT IS DANGEROUS, BRO. every time i bang one i have to kick him out right after because i can't afford to stay awake half the night trying to make sure i don't roll over and absorb this little motherfucker into one of my stomach folds. i'm tired, you anorexic sonofabitch! TAKE YOUR SKINNY ASS THE FUCK HOME.

with the africans i always understood that animal attraction. you know, this meat beard is pretty much THE physical representation of all the abundance that is to be found on american soil. so many scuffed-up church shoes and woven huarache sandals lined up at the foot of my bed belonging to some reedy, cab-driving neurophysicist whose pockets were full of singles (you know, to make change) and prepaid international phone cards. always trying to get me to eat jollof rice and stew with chicken claws in it and shit. sorry olatunde, in america we eat cheetos.

tall dude hugging strategy: JUST STAND THERE, DUMMY. let his tall ass figure it out. unless you're so teeny and he's so massive that the only way to hug this motherfucker is to wrap your tiny arms around his waist like a child (in which case you probably should not hug him unless it's to steady yourself during a beej), just stand still and let him decide how best to envelop you. or drape himself over you. or remove his lowest rib and fold his body in half and hug you normal. and just remember, even if you break your goddamned nose jabbing it into the musky armpit of some seven foot basketball center with vertebrae you can count through his shirt, that shit is still 700x better than throwing out your back while trying not to suffocate a short dude with your heaving bosom. silver lining, ho. ps, talley-smalleys are the gosh darned cutest.

does my man love me if he looks at porn while i'm in the room?

not only does he love you, that fine gentleman apparently also understands what "the season finale of  gossip girl is on tonight" means. a couple years ago i dated this dude who rode a skateboard and wore purple skinny jeans cinched with a belt just below his tiny man ass, and every time he came over and i was choking on my own snot while watching something on lifetime movie network he would just get out his laptop and comically large headphones and watch porn until i cried myself hoarse over some murdered cheerleader or stolen child. he wouldn't touch himself or anything, he just watched that shit the way you or i would watch a documentary. like he was checking out the fucking cinematography of some shit called anal creampies 6. that shit weirded me out at first, but then it dawned on me: "i can watch beaches uninterrupted and have this dude suck my toes?! WIN." count your blessings. this dude is a keeper. (unless he just stops calling you for no reason even though he left a pair of spotless vintage jordans in your hall closet. thanks, john!)

what would guys like to hear during and after they've lost an erection? would they like us to treat them nicely? would they like us to pretend it didn't it happen?

i always say, "it's okay, pumpkin!" in a really soothing voice while smoothing his hair as one would a teething baby to get it to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. i feel like further emasculation is precisely what the doctor ordered to wrest the momentum from his flaccid hands and shift the power dynamic in my favor. if i can get him to cry, even better. just kidding, bitch! that shit
doesn't ever happen to me! have you seen my amazing tits?!"

i wish i was prettier"
is my usual go-to apology when confronted with a deflated water balloon full of sex failure, said while pulling my shirt over my head with one hand and using the other to forage through the sweaty blankets for my phone to see if anyone put any hilarious cat memes on facebook since the last time i checked five minutes ago. i don't take it personally or get pissed off about that kind of thing. twenty years from now i'm going to make sparks shoot out of whatever penis tries to enter my bone dry hairy donut, so a bitch needs to pay that karma forward. plus my reflexive response to everything is, "self efface! make a joke!" which usually helps when shit is awkward. don't dwell, don't ask "is it something i did?!!?!" in your high-pitched hysterical ladysqueak, just get your dimpled ass out of that bed and ride out for some tacos. and a cock ring.

will my "friends with benefits" ever become something more? we used to date but he says he doesn't want to see anyone romantically, could he want me later on if i continue being friends with benefits and play it cool?

OKAY, LADIES. i am going to take this as an opportunity to remind us ways in which we need to be good to each other. my first response, which came straight from my saccharine-coated ladybrain, was OF COURSE IT WILL. because, like every other woman on the planet, i am harboring a dozen swoony unrequited crushes that deep in the soft parts of what's left of my heart i hope will turn into something someday. sadly, they will not. and lucky for me i have friends who are like, "oh, i know. he loves you. mm hmm. he is never ever getting divorced, hooker. put on your outside pants and let's go try on eyeshadows at MAC for three hours."

and lucky for YOU that you have ME. i have tried on so much sad eyeshadow! so many hours spent on those tiny ass uncomfortable chairs at sephora while some haughty queen with a raggedy weave tries to teach me how to airbrush chalky "medium-deep" (which NEVER LOOKS LIKE BLACK SKIN) kabuki makeup on my face like a stylish person! so many crumpled up wads of kleenex stained bloody with long-wearing matte lipstick! so many different colored trial nails! so many of those white cardboard strips soaked in kim kardashian perfume! so many moist towelettes! so many brush demonstrations! so many purse-sized samples!!! at the end of the day my bag becomes the graveyard of my broken heart. littered with toxic cosmetic waste and embarrassingly large receipts. and then i get home and wonder who the fuck is going to wear that purple lipstick and those false eyelashes.

but it's better than the alternative, sitting around wondering what the opposite of platonic is and when this asshole is going to figure out that's what he wants from me. friends with benefits pretty much equals friends without possibility. besides, playing it cool is overrated. unless you're up against a manic sephora cast member trying to talk you into a $120 face cream who is also convinced that metallic bright sky blue is "totally your COLOR, boo!" i am powerless against them. sigh.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

the best possible way to run into your ex! (other than with a truck!)

i love super fancy art shit. there is nothing better than pushing my tits up and slapping on some lipstick to stand around pretending i understand symbolism and chiaroscuro or whatever while checking out urban art patrons. ie, hip hop dudes in plaid shirts and grandpa cardigans with bowties and their "going out" gym shoes. my visual artistic ability is limited to stick figure drawings and collages pieced together from magazine clippings, and i really am TOTALLY IN AWE of people who can draw real humans and paint actual landscapes. i took a painting class a couple summers ago and basically resorted to making turkeys out of my handprint because i was so goddamned terrible at it. when i asked for a box of macaroni and some pipe cleaners to make necklaces the teacher kicked me right the fuck out.

caitlin and i went to a gallery opening friday night for hebru brantley, this super talented chicago artist who also happens to be FINE AS A MOTHERFUCKER. (i will wait here while you google him and touch yourself.) and the place was teeming with the kind of people i like to look at, all asymmetrical curly afros and large plastic glasses and ironical tattoos. (sound familiar?) it was one of those parties full of the hip and upwardly mobile, fendi bags and louboutins and indoor sunglasses at night swaying in time to wiz khalifa and lil wayne. my friend eric was there, so cait and i walked coolly (lulz) over to where he stood loitering near the bar while i secretly hoped someone hot and available would holler "bitches gotta eat!" as i walked past. alas, no one did, but i was approached by this beautiful black filmmaker who recognized me and came over for some artsy black on black womanlove and that is worth all of the things.

man, i hate wine. and idling in front of a sculpture i don't understand, getting purple teeth while listening to dumb people flirt is one of my least favorite social activities, especially when i'm wearing some shit that stains easily and am secretly irritated that no one is flirting with me. events like this are usually hella boring, because nobody knows shit about art and we're all just standing around holding our dicks while waiting for something exciting to happen. or for someone extra fabulous to walk in. lupe fiasco was there, but all i wanted to do was ask if he had read the big ghostfase review of his new record and whether or not it made him totally salty when the dj played that chief keef record. rob, my adorably suited and bespectacled manager pictured above, is also hebru's manager, and at the end of the night he handed me two tickets to see mos def do a fela tribute at the shrine. WUT. after the party is the after party and after the party is the hotel lobby and yes i know i'm old shut up.

so my last romantical thing ended a little over a month ago. and my heart was TOTALLY FUCKING BROKEN, DUDE. let's start here: one of these days i am going to learn to stop becoming involved with people who read the shit i write. (but i can't yet because literally NO OTHER PEOPLE are ever trying to holler at this ass.) also, i should probably have never agreed to an "open" relationship. not because i don't know how to relax and enjoy the company of whomever i please whenever i want with no repercussions, but because 1 we live in the facebook age and bitches is so goddamned messy with all of their picture-tagging and status-updating and 2 that shit only works to my advantage if i'm not the one home on a thursday night pouting into my lonesome beer while homeboy is out getting his dick sucked. additionally, unless it's at my suggestion that shit is totally fucking insulting. because "let's keep it open" is just a sort of polite way of saying, "i don't think you're good enough to commit to." isn't it, though? cuz: "i mean, you're awesome and everything and golly gee you're really smart but i just don't want to own you, you know? of course i'm not just using you to pass the time while i shop around for someone better! i'm just on that bohemian type shit, ya dig?" is just a flowery way of saying i already know i want to stick my penis in someone else in faux-sensitive testosteronese.

oh, i know. your open relationship is different, but this is how all of mine seem to go. i should've let the whole fucking thing go the minute i got that ambiguous dump in a text message. but i'm a dumb asshole, so when he was like, "that's not what i really meant, tho" i, with a hefty dose of side eye, said, "well. okay. i guess i'm not that busy. you can make me dinner again." i know it really means that he's tired of that other broad and/or totally forgot i was alive for three weeks and that's fine. i mean, i really wasn't that goddamned busy.

for half a second after caitlin parked i was like, "shit, i wish i had some vicodin" to counteract the tiny knot of anxiousness forming in the pit of my stomach because i just knew i was going to run into that dude and awkward public encounters are my least favorite of the awkward encounter kind. Every Fucking Time there's some artsy black hip hop shit in chicago guaranteed i run onto approximately 937 dudes who've seen my tiny nipples and that shit is getting old. OR, conversely, i was going to have some fiery diarrhea and my belly was just firing a few warning shots. dude i used to bang who said i wasn't good enough to bear his offspring or cream jeans; one or the other, i could just feel it. anyway, i took a celebrex instead BECAUSE I AM THAT WEIRD AUNT YOU NEVER CALL ANYMORE, YOUNG MAN *sniffle* and we skipped the line (rockstar) and went inside to meet rob and a handful of d-list celebrities in VIP (crazy amazing rockstar).

the play by play, finally:
we walked in and i groaned immediately because i somehow have a homing device for taints i've already licked and my eyes made a beeline for the back of this dude's head. i couldn't have avoided him if i'd wanted to, stupid visual accuracy. all the people and weed smoke in that goddamned club and still i nearly got whiplash from my neck snapping around so hard when my inner bloodhound caught a whiff of those pheromones. i elbowed caitlin and she was like, "bitch, i have a switchblade in my purse" and that is how we fucking party. after i slipped it into my bra for safekeeping just in case, i pulled out my scorecard.

1 i looked pretty fucking great. i clean up nice. a little powder and drugstore lipstick hastily applied while crammed into the passenger seat of a volkswagen golf goes a long way, baby. plus i picked all the cat hair off my fancy coat and everything. and he was wearing what appeared to be a blazer one's grandfather would wear to church. sam 1, that dude 0.

2 i didn't cry like some sappy teenage girl.
five or six years ago i broke up with this dude i thought i might be able to tolerate for the rest of my life. i didn't want to, but he was just the worst fucking boyfriend ever. it had gotten to the point that i was embarrassed to even talk about him like he was a real person. you know, when you know your man is THE GODDAMNED WORST and all your friends know that your man is just THE GODDAMNED WORST yet you still casually talk about how this motherfucker didn't text you back yesterday like it's some normal thing and they are looking at you like, "BITCH YOUR MAN IS TOTALLY THE WORST" and then you have to end that shit because, although he didn't slap you or anything, this dude is just fucking terrible. the first time i saw him afterward, in the middle of july at this street fair looking all happy and moved-on, i sat on a curb crying and made julia take me home. and that shit didn't happen, because this dude didn't want to be my boyfriend because i cannot have babies and stopped calling me with no explanation and people like that are unworthy of real human emotion. sam 2, not sam 0.

3 dude tried to hug me and got denied.
here are a couple highlights from this courtship that are bound to make you question whether or not you and i should still be friends: one remember this summer when my teeth broke? and i had to get my head cracked open and part of my missing jaw replaced? well homie and i were still hanging back then, um kind of?, except i hadn't heard from him in a couple weeks. that isn't strange, because bitches is busy, and i just assumed that he was done with me again and that the text hadn't gone through this time. or that he was in a coma. whatevs. lo and behold, i'm sitting in the recliner at cara's holding a tub of pineapple sherbet to my swollen, bruised face and scrolling through my facebook on the ipad when quel surprise! pictures of this dude in the bahamas or wherever with a girl who, when i squinted really hard with my face pressed to the screen, appeared to have semen in the corner of her mouth popped up in my newsfeed. and when he came back, and she cut him loose, i answered that call. UGH.

two labor day weekend was a jam. like, we had a lot of fun despite the whole "you can't have my babies" talk from the week before. and then i was in his kitchen, washing the dishes from the weekend because i am a really nice person despite whatever slanderous evidence you have to the contrary, and he came in and insisted on playing me a voicemail from some other broad. a breathy, sex-voiced message from some woman who wasn't stacking pots and pans on napkins because dudes have apparently never heard of dish drains. and two things dawned on me: 1 i am his bro, even though he ate me out one time and 2 he obviously hates my goddamned guts. because no one would do that to you if they actually cared about you, AMIRITE? i'm no feelings expert, but my surefire strategy to make a dude feel secure in my swoony feelings for him is to present a slideshow of all the random dicks in my phone. it's cool, man! because our relationship is open, right? i mean, LOOK AT THE AMAZING VEINS ON THAT OTHER MAN'S ERECTION!!!

what a fucking asshole. that's emotional warfare, homie; i should've junk punched him and dropped a soup pot on his head as he writhed on the floor in pain. anyway, when i walked past him at the club he actually STOPPED ME FOR A HUG, and the look i gave those open arms could've melted steel. because there's "yeah, we're just casual let's see other people," and then there's "i don't give a fuck about you, comedy robot. hey do you think this hot broad moaning into my voicemail sounds fertile?" oh, fuck you. sam 3, those open arms are kind of looking like a sad little zero 0.

4 i didn't let any tragic singledom escape from my mouth.
i have never been the kind of person who plays the "what could i have done differently?" game with some asshole who doesn't want to fuck me anymore. what, are we going to have a philosophical discussion about why my vagina bores you now? NO WE ARE NOT. i'm going to move on to someone with more reasonable standards who actually reads books with more words than pictures while that new broad cringes at your limited vocabulary. we ain't gotta rehash who said or who did or what had happened, let's just be dead to one another (ie, block each other on facebook) and agree that i get custody of all the hot parties in town.

what i usually like to say, depending on the length of time between running into a dude and the last time, ahem, THAT DUDE RAN UP INTO ME (ew), is "hope you've been to the clinic, son. i came down with that [insert graphic description of some raging strain of virulent std]." and then i walk away and leave him wondering if that's why his balls itch so much. but once i pulled that shit and no one at the bar wanted to sit too close to old fake vagina flu and i ended up cockblocking myself and that's lame. so even though i really wanted to shout "HERPES!" in his face and dip out i didn't. because i'm mature and stuff. actually, what i really wanted to say was, "did i leave this adorable black pintuck blouse with 3/4 length sleeve at your crib?!" i miss it. so fucking cute. sam 3, dude 1. because that shirt cost me $60 without a coupon. dang!

5 popping flaming vodka bottles in a roped-off section thisclose to mos yasiin def bey or whatever that motherfucker is calling himself these days. sam 4, pressed butts-to-nuts with all the regular people who paid fifty bucks to get in and couldn't see shit 0.

i'm taking that 1 back because a bitch can buy another goddamned shirt. i mean, I HAVE A BOOK COMING OUT, FAM. game/set/match.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012


sometimes bitches be talking too fucking much. man tells a story: who, what, possibly where, probably why, and maybe how if the game is not about to come on. WITH MOSTLY LIES IN BETWEEN. woman tells a story: who, what, when, where, why, how, which, will, AND WHOSE, all delivered in one breathless sentence after another while she demands your rapt attention to every minute detail. that shit is exhausting, girl: CUT TO THE MOTHERFUCKING CHASE. my outgoing cell phone message used to say, "start in the middle and stick to the facts," BEEP.

i used to tell dudes all my fucking business and all sorts of other dumb ass shit, because i was raised on romantic comedies that led me to believe that all my ideal boyfriend would ever want to do with every single minute of his time was listen to me prattle on about what kind of nail polish i was going to buy and who tom cruise had taken to the oscars. they don't really care about that shit and, sting as it might upon the initial realization that the man you're pouring your heart out to is asleep with his eyes open after having been lulled there by the drone of your voice, it's kind of a relief when you think about how you don't really want to hear anything he says, either. so many broads i know have "good listener" on their lists of prerequisites for a mate; i, conversely, list "good shutter upper and excellent goer awayer" on mine. not because i'm so advanced and unique, i'd just rather not fill every conversational void with all of my blah blah blahs. that's what the internet is for!

i get self-conscious when i feel like i'm talking too damn much. when a dude stops saying, "uh huh, yeah, okay, i get that, you're totally right" and just resorts to nodding occasionally and glancing up every so often from his phone you have to learn to wrap that shit up, b. maybe it's because i tend to attract men who don't really care about my ideas and feelings, *sob*, but i learned years ago that if your story has a point, that point needs to be in the first sentence. for instance, if you want him to know that you hate your coworker diane because she always "accidentally" microwaves and eats your super jamming lean cuisine leaving you with that gnarly-ass sante fe rice and beans one that she brought for herself; because she takes off too many sick days leaving all her paperwork behind for you to deal with; and because she dented your car in the parking lot but still hasn't said shit about the estimate you gave her from your mechanic and you know she got a sizeable bonus last month, you should start with, "hey boyfriend, i hate my coworker diane." and just leave that shit at that, because that dude doesn't give a FUCK about lean cuisines.

this is why i call bullshit on you jerks who claim you only have male friends because women just don't get you. yeah right, ho. BITCHES GOTTA TALK. who are you going to spend half an hour on the phone talking about essie base coat with? where are you going to get a good gynecologist referral? who is going to push her tits up and go bird-dogging for man candy with you?! jerrell is cool for fine-tuning your fantasy roster, but guaranteed that dude isn't trying to hear about what's on sale at macy's. also, he totally wants to stick his dick in you. i would prefer to spend 97% of my time in the company of women, with the other 3% divided equally between a dude for sexing/a dude for talking about WWE RAW/a dude for doing tall shit in my apartment.

my friend fatima and i were on the gchats a couple weeks ago, hours before she was about to go on a date with an excruciatingly hot dude. "i think i might sleep with him," she typed. "does that make me a slut?"

"SXT ME A PCITURE OF HOMIE'S DICKKKKK" i responded, because i am a goddamned dirtbag.

clickety clickety clack. "i had sex with his brother a couple years ago. do you think i should tell him?"

[three minute pause because i had to do some work shit, STUPID JOB INTERFERING WITH MY SEXY CHATZ] "whut?! bitch, are you stupid? no!!!" time for a cheat sheet.

do i have to tell this motherfucker:
that i've banged 472 dudes? if a person asks how many people you've had sex with, you know that asshole is off your list of acceptable people to date, AMIRITE? you don't have to dump your drink in his lap and storm out of the bar or whatever, but i need you to know that that is not your boyfriend. sorry, baby, but that jerk doesn't get to have sex with you. whether or not you answer is up to you. i always say something ridiculous, like "eleventy-twelve," but that's because that question doesn't even warrant an acknowledgement. as long as i passed my AIDS test homie right here ain't even gotta worry about how many gangbangs i've participated in. (for the record, the answer is: 37.) one is too many and ninety-seven isn't enough, and being judged by a dude who ordered an appletini is gross.

that i spend $36 a week on magazines? i try to never talk to a dude about money. i don't care about his, and i don't want him to think that i have any. 2012 was a fair-to-middling dating year for your girl. on the one hand, i went on some REALLY GOOD DATES. like, killer good. with dudes who wouldn't let me pay for anything and picked fancy restaurants and weren't totally goddamned boring. on the other hand, i have nothing to show for it. i mean, i got to explain my weird birthmarks and illustrate my strange sexual fetishes for a new audience, but i still got dumped and shit. that said, you probably shouldn't tell dude that you just got a giant bonus. or that your rent is overdue. or that you paid for your mansion in cash. or that your louboutins are borrowed from your sister. you can never be too discreet, sister. because even rick ross is rapping about birkin bags these days.

my waist-up lesbian activity? i sext the shit out of a handful of hot broads. i even have a picture folder entitled "TITTIES IN MY PHONE, WUT." 1 once at the bar at the wit i let this young boriqua give me a hickey on my neck 2 i had phone sex with your mom last tuesday 3 fingerbanged by this hot black stud, like, three different times and 4 so much kissing of women on the mouth. the minute you tell a testosterone-driven, sex-obsessed talking gorilla who just happens to be wearing pants about any of that kinda lesbian shit you and your friends do, he will spend the rest of the time you know him trying to get you to engage in that activity again. in front of him. WHILE HE HOLDS A CAMERA. think i'm kidding? here is a real life example from one of my friends who is totally not me i swear: one time she and her friend were out getting drunk and eating tacos and they totally decided to go into the bathroom and stick their fingers in each others pussy holes and taste what came out. man, what kind of inappropriate dirty sluts would engage in that kind of super sexy unsanitary and deplorable behavior? anyway, i told this dude about that, and he asked me about it every time i saw him. for three months. the worst.

about my broken butthole? i have to stop fucking dudes who read this stupid blog. every time i get an email that's like, "you're hilarious! can i buy you a beer?" i get excited because that means i won't have to spend three hours explaining myself to a new person who hopefully wants to see me with my shirt off someday, but the converse of that is i get to meet a person who has already decided everything he will ever need to know about me. AND THAT IS LAME. it hasn't happened so often that i wouldn't consider it again (SOLICIT ME, GENTLEMEN) but every time it does at some point i have to say, "if you want to fuck bitches gotta eat, go stick your dick in your laptop." because samantha doesn't really cuss this much. or talk in pink bubble letters. but it happens all the time. and i also get a lot of, "man, i would holler if you didn't have that blog." those dudes just happen to be skirt-wearing pussies. the rest of you? hold off until you can be reasonably sure he isn't going to use your dyslexia or your secret herpes or your INABILITY TO GIVE BIRTH TO A BABY against you later.

what's on my ipod? i have excellent taste in music. that said, "call me maybe" is my goddamned jam. wait until he says he
loves you before you let him borrow it for the weekend or whatever. just saying.

keep in mind that this is a work in progress. just the other day i used nineteen sentences in an email response to a dude who asked me one goddamned question. i'm learning, though. omg THIS BLOG IS TOO FUCKING LONG. blah blah talk talk ladywords blah.