Tuesday, January 17, 2012

you're just like a sister to me!

issue seven. at the gynecologist a couple weeks ago i learned, from an abandoned magazine left behind in the waiting room, how to turn my bathroom into a mini vacation. did you know that just by purchasing a whimsical toothbrush and throwing a teal mat on the floor that you can transform that tiny room you don't have space to take a relaxing shit in into what feels like a weekend getaway? that a jazzy soap dish and citrus room spray can put you in a beachy state of mind? yeah, ME NEITHER. like most mental patients, everything in my bathroom is white so that i might give all of the butt germs lying around a liberal splash of bleach without fear of non color-safe consequence. more importantly, i also learned that i'm ovulating normally. and i got the warning speech about my old-ass rotten eggs. so if you want to get me pregnant you better hurry up and do so, because there's a good chance that alien hellspawn might see the cold light of day.

january magazines are my absolute favorite. they're so shiny and perfect and filled with the promise of an amazing new year. you know you want to lose some weight, GURL. you know you need a fucking makeover! and you really do believe that shit will come true while standing in line at walgreens clutching your gift receipt waiting to return that jean nate body wash set your clueless cubicle-mate gave you for christmas, you really do believe that this is the year you're going to freshen up that hairstyle and stop wearing sweatpants to dinner. resolutions are nothing but a laundry list of your inherent flaws that starts mocking you two days after you write them, but reinventing yourself (with the aid of a few helpful ladymags) seems like a totally plausible undertaking.

so you buy them. self because, despite the fact that you have the USDA's nutritional guidelines and weight watchers' complicated points system committed to memory, you need yet another step-by-step guide detailing how to eat mini meals and filling snacks to lose that fifteen pounds of mashed potato you put on over the holidays. even though you ALREADY KNOW that four grapes and two peanuts is your morning snack and a sliver of avocado and nine sugarfree jellybeans is supposed to somehow get your ass through an entire afternoon, you still drop five bucks to read about that shit some more. this time, though, you're going to stick with it. and omg SO AM I. this year is going to be the one we actually take our lunches to work and make ziploc bags of tasteless air-popped popcorn and dried apricots every morning to keep in our desk drawers! this year we're measuring peanut butter instead of eating it from the jar! this year we're turning the oven on for the first time in the five years we've lived in this apartment to bake lean pieces of fish!

because if and when we do, that glamour we bought is totally going to come in handy. it's time for a new haircut, and i'm not sure whether or not high-waisted slacks are still in. and since my diet of egg whites, bread crusts, mineral water, and three m+ms at a time has been so successful, i'm going to need some new clothes. do the kids still wear sweaters? how are the models feeling about pants this year? are sleeves still in style? what about orange, are people still rocking orange? is it still okay to wear shoes?! it's exhausting. and by the time i've figured it all out and saved enough pizza money to update my wardrobe the trends have all changed again. which is okay, i guess, because that "half a banana, sip of juice, and three bites of a peach" diet was over by january 10th. BITCHES GOTTA EAT.

you're too awesome for me to want to have sex with you.
what is this obsession magazines have with women becoming really good friends with dudes? one of these days, after i finish working on all the other books i'm halfway finished writing, i am going to write a book called, male friends: worth the heartbreak? this month's cover features none other than the vampire, one of my very best male friends, and the blog debut of my mighty skin beard. "being friends with dudes" is a clear example of things that sound better in your head than they will ever actually be in real life. like "taking a spin class" or "eating a bowl of peas when you have a really bad craving for pizza." once you try to put it into practice you quickly find out that the effort is hardly worth it. especially when you're friends and you don't necessarily want to be. you got guilted into the shit. or you never found the right time to tell him you've had a crush on him for years and that watching him go on dates is like twisting a hunting knife in your heart. more often than not, unless you've decided to put him in the friend zone, the shit sucks.

i know, sister. 1 sometimes you get bro'd and that shit comes right out of nowhere. one minute you're holding hands and staring into the eyes of that sensitive dude who you are convinced is just too shy to make a move on you, and the next he's telling you about what a great friend you are and he'll always have your back and, by the way, does that girl meghan you sit next to in latin american studies have a boyfriend? (what?!) or 2 maybe you've had sex before and, for whatever reason most commonly known as "someone goddamned else," he decides he doesn't want to do that anymore. but you're so cool and smart and great! do you think we could still be friends? ie, do you want to sit on the sidelines and provide emotional support without receiving the benefits of my penis? (WHAT?!) and occasionally 3 there's a dude who keeps hanging around to help you move or fix that weird noise your radiator is making despite the fact that you don't want to have sex with him. and he says he's okay with having been relegated to the friend zone, but we all really know he's just waiting for you to get drunk and forget how much his ear hair grosses you out. (um, this one totally works for me.)

there are, of course, some organic male-female relationships that are strictly platonic. i know, because they always seem to happen to my ass. i make jokes and listen to rap music, so dudes are always asking to be my goddamned friend. that's how the vampire and i started out. he sent me an email and we went to dinner and halfway through the meal this dude was like, "so my girlfriend thinks...." and i was like, YAWN. and now we're buddies. pals, even. and i always say yes when a man offers up his friendship, because i need to get a new air conditioner in a couple months and i do not plan on carrying that shit upstairs myself. and once you get over the implicit soul-crushing rejection you'll find that dudefriends come in handy for a variety of things, especially decoding the behavior of that weirdo in the acid wash jeans who actually wants to fuck you. but it's still a bit of a letdown, you know? there's not a woman alive who SIMPLY CANNOT WAIT to listen to all the problems you're having with that bitch you're sleeping with instead of her. sometimes we want to hear how pretty we look today.

your strategy for surviving male friendship:
1 you have to understand that he doesn't want to sleep with you. will he? absolutely. but does he want to? NO HE DOES NOT. or else he would've already. so stop embarrassing yourself throwing that ass at him all the time. it's gross. if you're going to be a friend you need to actually be this dude's friend. seriously. you have to go into it prepared to offer everything you do to your girlfriends. that shit is hard, and if you can't sit still and provide a compassionate ear and sensible sounding board to a dude you sometimes masturbate to? admit that shit and save yourself some agony.

2 perfect your poker face, babygirl. you need to sit in front of a mirror and put "million dollar baby" on the old television machine and dare yourself to cry. you got it? dry-eyed even at the end when they're in the hospital room?! OKAY THEN. you are now ready to have a platonic lunch across from a hot piece of smoked sausage who is going to regale you with stories of this girl with a banging body who is limber enough to tuck her heels behind her ears. because you're like his sister, except better than his sister because he can talk to you about raunchy sex stuff and ask for advice about girls. and don't try sabotaging that dude because you think it'll give you an advantage. that shit doesn't work. trust me, i've tried.

3 stop trying to bang his friends. i know it's tempting, because he just has so many of them! and they're all so fucking cute! but they know why he isn't banging you, and even if they might think about it, it's unlikely that they ever will. so it just makes you look desperate and shady. it really can be nice to have guy friends, but only when they know they can relax and be friendly to you without your reading into shit. i used to be the worst about this, because it feels really good when someone is nice and showing you attention, but that dude and his friends are off-limits. especially if you don't want to look trashy. or you're going to need a rebuilt carburetor or some furniture moved in the near future.

4 use him as much as humanly possible. if there is a man in your life, he should be carrying your shit around. and driving you places. and escorting you to events. you're not going to torment me with all that moony rhapsodizing about that girl you met last week while i carry cat litter on the bus, my man. YOU ARE PICKING THAT SHIT UP. that's my payment for giving you "the female perspective" or whatever dumb reason you back burnered my ass. i'm not going to another wedding, funeral, block party, or store opening by myself, because it is the job of my manfriend to go to that shit with me and be silent while giving everyone the impression that we might be a couple.

oprah's richer than god, and that's why she gets to be famous and fat. "celebrity diet secrets: how they eat and stay so skeleton-thin!" bitches love that whole "stars are just like us" gag, myself included. nothing brings joy to my heart like a picture of ali larter in a ball cap with no makeup on paying a parking meter! or drake sipping a latte while texting at a red light! ben affleck holding his daughter's hand while crossing the street! stars love starbucks! and break traffic laws!! and try to keep their young children from becoming roadkill!!! omg, CELEBRITIES ARE JUST LIKE ME.

i want to know what lady gaga eats, i really do. and i want to know that halle berry gobbles down rare steaks with butter melting down the sides. i always think to myself, "self, if you weren't such a total pig asshole and could limit yourself to four kale smoothies a day the way vogue says charlize theron does you wouldn't be so fucking ugly." but i probably still would, because that bitch gets to spend an hour meditating and swim five hours a day while i have to boss around people who don't listen to me and take four advil at a time because my boss is causing me to have tension headaches. famous people don't stress eat, ho. that's just us regular folk who need a spoonful of cookie dough just to open the electric bill.

magazines are always trying to pretend that a bitch can eat whatever rihanna had for breakfast and look just like her by dinnertime. sure, i can buy an organic banana and spread some flaxseed oil on a piece of ezekiel bread and eat that while drinking a coconut water while standing in my kitchen, but the minute i walk into work and my paycheck is late and fistfights are breaking out and shit is a mess and people are yelling at me i am going to solve my motherfucking problems with a croissant. you know, the ones with the almond paste inside and the slivered almonds on top? those ones. with a full fat latte. and, maybe in an hour, i'll probably have some cheese.

you could be skinny RIGHT THIS MINUTE if you quit your job, shipped your kids off to boarding school, and devoted your entire day to looking perfect. by all means, let eva longoria work with these animals all goddamned day. let's see what her diet looks like then. two 7-eleven yogurts, nine diet cokes, half a lean cuisine, a couple of those expensive chocolates that pharmaceutical rep dropped off, six excedrin, a spoonful of the peanut butter she hides in the bottom drawer, a turkey sandwich from the deli even though that lean cuisine was supposed to be her whole lunch, and that snickers bar that's supposed to be for emergencies only? yeah, ME TOO.

my vagina stinks. how come i'm the only one who knows when i need to go to the gynecologist? every month there's some sort of "beware down there" cautionary story with a checklist of clues to know when your dirty snatch needs medical attention. i know that if my underwear smells like gyro meat at the end of the day that i need to make an appointment to have my little girl checked out. what are the rest of you doing? self-diagnosing?! you know that doesn't work! you are going to fuck around and get a kidney infection, ho. that burning pee means something! i was in the hospital this weekend because CROHNS DISEASE IS AN ASSHOLE, and all i could think was "thank goodness i didn't let this go." it's not the same, of course, but i never have to flip through a cosmo to see if three out of the five major signs of broken vagina are happening inside my pants. get your pap smeared, girlfriend.

my taco armpits are obviously the result of this natural deodorant i insist upon using. these hippies have won the war, friends. they've got me using tea tree oil on my scalp and rubbing herbs under my arms and catching my period in a piece of natural sea sponge all in an attempt to make up for the years i spent driving a car that couldn't pass an emissions test, i guess. i don't know, if you listen to enough bitches in the parking lot of whole foods they start to get to you after a while. i'm pouring vinegar down the tub drain and cleaning my dishes with baking soda and shit, and i swear on mother earth that if i die of alzheimers or whatever cancer it is i'm trying to avoid by smelling like an ox and standing in my kitchen twice a month mixing borax and fels-naptha to MAKE MY OWN FUCKING LAUNDRY SOAP i am going to claw my way out of the grave and snatch you by your white-person dreadlocks.

gross winter skin. every january i set three reasonable goals for the coming year. this year's included the following: 1 go grocery shopping 2 find someone hot and manly to have sex with and 3 wash my face every night before bed. the month isn't even halfway over and two of these lofty goals have already been achieved, and i would've conquered all three if i didn't seem doomed to falling asleep fully-clothed with all of the lights on every goddamned night only to wake up with mascara sealing my eyes shut.

magazines love talking about the dreaded winter dryness, and the solution is a simple one: butter yourself up like a turkey and bundle up in thick socks and long sleeves. black children are not allowed to walk around with dry skin. one time when i was a kid i was walking through the basement of our church after sunday school on my way to shoot dice in the parking lot before service, and right before I BURST INTO FUCKING FLAMES this old lady named augustine grabbed me by the arm and swatted me hard on the bottom. annoyed, yet strangely sexually aroused, i was all, "goddamn, what was that for?" and she pointed at my knees and said, "girl, you ashy!" i looked down and, eep!, I TOTALLY WAS. which came as an utter shock considering that my mother had just finished her morning routine of slathering me in cocoa butter and bacon grease right before i'd left the house.

it's a crime to be black and ashy, isn't it? this morning on the train this woman was literally spackling her small child with a thick layer of vaseline. the white man next to her looked on, horrified, but the rest of us just nodded in approval. i even asked her to wipe a little bit on the webbing between my forefinger and thumb. (i hate that part! that shit is a dead giveaway that your black ass has not properly moisturized.) my friend michelle uses coconut oil head to toe, and my boy ron swears by olive oil. on his face and everything. my hippie ass uses glycerin and this moisturizer from lush that is basically solidified lard that melts as you rub it in and smells like cloves. the cosmetics industry has declared war on white women, and it's high time you girls fight back: one bottle of palmer's at a time.

fuck expensive creams. during the winter months, i want you broads to buy your beauty products from the black section of the drugstore. you know, that one dusty bottom shelf with all the fake kente cloth prints and little brown people on the packaging. it's okay, we won't bite you as you squeeze past where we're browsing the olive oil hairspray and ambi fade cream to grab some baby oil, GURL. it's so crazy to me, the money you'd spend on bullshit lotions that are 98% water or whatever. get some jojoba oil and rub that shit on your knees and elbows and pat a little around your eyes before you go to bed. you'll wake up looking like a sophomore in high school. have you ever seen an old black lady? we look 42 at 85, and it's not just because chicken is so delicious. moisturize your situation.

computer love.
sexting combines my two most favorite things: talking dirty sex talk and not having to communicate with a real live human being sitting in the same room. also, you can do it at work! or on the bus! while getting a haircut! OR SHOPPING FOR GROCERIES!

sitting in your room by yourself is the best. sometimes it's fun to have someone over and talk to them and see if they laugh at the parts on 30 rock you think are hilarious, but mostly don't you just want to not worry about dozing off in front of a motherfucker and drooling on his shit? this is why phone sex is the best, because it's sexier than actual sex and way less messy. like, i don't have to tell you that helen is taking a shit in the next room during phone sex, but it you're at my house that's the kind of thing that can really destroy the mood. and that asshole shits like clockwork. dude arrives, helen greets him, i take my pants off, helen drops an atom bomb in the other room. HUGE BONERKILLER.

but people don't use the phone to make calls anymore. watch television shows? check. play video games? check check. stream cubano music on pandora all day long? check check check. everything other than dialing a number and having a conversation, unless you count ordering pizza and placing bets with your bookmaker. so the perverts among us have had to evolve and participate in sexting, which is mostly boring. because i don't know what the problem is, but even though they have their cell phones in hand 98% of their waking hours, dudes never fucking text you back right away. so even if you've sent a picture of your tits in the hottest bra you own and you've said written some nasty, slutty shit that would make your mother smh OMG, are you really supposed to wait an hour and a half for the response?! GTFOWTBS.

and i know i'm supposed to keep the romance and mystery alive, redbook, but when is it appropriate to introduce sexting into your relationship? i mean, how many weeks of "i just ate lunch :)" and "what R U doing l8r?" before you can type, "I WANT YOUR BALLS IN MY JAWS jk. no srsly." i have a swoony crush on this hot georgia peach named drew. i text drew all the time. i <3 him and i want to :-* him. but so far i have been very respectful. hard to believe, i know. sooner or later, though, i'm going to send him something disgusting. it's just the natural progression of things, right? plus, it's cute when girls do it, isn't it? he'll want to give me ((())) because i'm such an O:-) or, if i send him some tits, he'll want to, um, whatever the emoticon for making your fingers into an O shape and poking the index finger on your other hand through it over and over again.

the problem is that you run the risk of turning a dude off. remember that dude who sent me some phone porn before he even knew my last name? (yeah, i know: WHICH ONE?) that was awful, and it made me not want to see it in real life. also, you run the even bigger risk of someone facebooking your boobs, and i'm all tattooed and shit and could never believeably deny that the picture was me. or live down the fact that my shower curtain came from the "kids furnishings" section at target. don't make fun of me, that shit is totally cute. LOL

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

you need to stop fucking dudes who don't read.

happy new year, bitches. it's finally 2012, and i fully expect to be as salty and miserable as i was last goddamned year. life only gets worse, right? i'm about to turn 32 in a month and i have no idea what in the fuck a "kreayshawn" is. i also don't know how to use spotify. i have a desktop computer. i listen to cassettes sometimes. i put orthotics in my gym shoes. i still say "gym shoes." i take potassium supplements. i enjoy how effortless it is to eat lukewarm soup. i own compression socks. mtv is mostly irritating to me. everything, everywhere is too fucking loud. i bristle at the sound of laughing children. i put things in my bra for safekeeping. i clip coupons. i sleep at every available opportunity. i am the last person on earth who still gets netflix dvds IN THE GODDAMNED MAIL.

in other words, i'm getting old as hell. and so are you fools. i have friends who are, like, forty-seven and shit. and every passing year just becomes more of a reminder that i have no fucking idea what's cool anymore. and even if, like i do, you go on all the websites and read all the blogs you're still going to be standing on the train platform next to a motherfucker half your age who's twice as informed as you are. every day i live in fear that i'm going to be that asshole inappropriately dressed in some young shit while the kids make fun of me and hide my regularity medication. am i immature? ABSOLUTELY. i'm still sexting hot dudes and buying lunchables and diet coke instead of nutrient-rich dark green, leafy vegetables at the grocery store. i need to not go out every single night of the week and try harder to get to work on time. i shouldn't start all my sentences with "dude." but there's a difference between "emotionally stunted" and "hip."

i don't make resolutions because fuck that. my general operating system is "i'm perfect. why change?" and so far i've been pretty successful staying the goddamned same and getting rid of anything or anyone who finds himself unhappy with who that person happens to be. and at first that shit sounds unreasonable, but it really is the most realistic way to get through life. FOR ALL OF US. if you're a toxic fucking asshole, chances are that's how you'll remain unless a deathbed conversion forces you to get with the goddamned program. and that's fine, because there are plenty of damaged bitches with low self-esteem who hate themselves enough to keep your shitty ass around. and that works for the rest of us, too. change is hard, so instead of trying to be nice or thin or smart if the shit doesn't come naturally to you then fuck that. be mean and fat and dumb and find some motherfuckers who can deal with that shit.

that said, i most certainly DO make resolutions for the types of dudes i want to have sex with. keeping in mind that it is mostly impossible to meet an unsavory person and mold him or her to fit our demands and expectations, i have to look for motherfuckers who have some of my necessary criteria already intact. seriously, dudes, if i don't have the patience to train a dog i most certainly can't be bothered with trying to get a hard-headed dude to do what the fuck i want. so i have to buy him from the store pre-assembled and hopefully meeting all of my classifications. there totally needs to be a DUDE IKEA. someplace you can get this one's personality and that one's dick moves and that other one's generosity and sloppily cobble them together with an allen wrench for less than you'd pay for a venti americano to make the perfect mid-priced college dorm room first real apartment boyfriend. but since life is totally stupid that will never fucking happen, and i figured since this is our last year on earth i might as well update the man list so that we might be able to at least cut our teeth on choicer cuts of meat before the planet implodes and burns us all to a goddamned crisp.


1 BE MASCULINE AS FUCK. i'm sick and tired of whiny dudes eating salad while wearing girl jeans trying to talk to me about their motherfucking feelings. can we be done with that already? SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH THAT SOFT SHIT. i eat broken glass for breakfast, son. i have the heart of a lion and it pumps lava through my veins. it is simply NOT POSSIBLE for me to have enjoyable sex with a dude in his little sister's t-shirt who has shampoo blood and takes diet pills. i need some calloused hands against my backside, friends. if 2011 was the year of the baby-faced emo drinking his similac while rubbing his wilted penis into your thigh and calling you mommy, PLEASE OH PLEASE let 2012 be the year that men grow some fucking facial hair and and locate their motherfucking testicles AND FUCK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU IN A BED HE CHOPPED DOWN A TREE TO MAKE WITH HIS BARE HANDS. i want to know that a man with a deep voice who slaughters his own meat is not going to put up with any of my goddamned shit. i want to know that a bossy dude with a dick like a beer can isn't going to cry while getting a goddamned blowjob. we need some dudes who put their fucking foot down and are not going to tolerate any of that backtalk, little girl.

where all the real men at?! where are the motherfuckers who smell like whiskey and gasoline? where are the motherfuckers who climb up on the roof to fix shit? where are the motherfuckers who will shake a bitch when she gets mouthy? i don't want to fuck a dude who has a "hairstyle." i don't want to fuck a dude who has "emotions." i want a grizzly bear with a near-constant erection to boss me around and pay for shit while LOOKING LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING MAN. you want a skinny dude who weeps while listening to morrissey? i can't hate. but i'm not one of these broads that enjoys telling a man what to do. i want you to get your grown man on and already know what the fuck you need to do. where did all this moisture come from? single mothers deifying their now-intolerable husband-sons?! I'M OVER IT. get a mentor or join the boys and girls club and man the fuck up. then go build a fire, guzzle a scotch, eat a steak, and TELL ME WHAT I CAN DO WITH THIS SASSY LITTLE MOUTH.

2 read some goddamned books. not a sports page, not a magazine, A FUCKING BOOK. or some smart blogs. or a newspaper that isn't free. there are two important things to consider about books: 1 you have to have, at the very least, some basic level of intelligence to read a book from start to finish. comprehension doesn't come naturally to everyone, and if you know this asshole can follow a plot and invest in some characters then chances are he's not as stupid as he might look. if he can engage in a thoughtful, animated discussion about a book then you should slap a leash on that bald eagle and marry him before he has a chance to object. 2 i can't fuck with a dude who doesn't know how to occupy and entertain himself, and i've finally reached the age that "i watch television" just isn't enough. even if it's all masterpiece theater and nature documentaries, if a man can't sit his ass down somewhere and read some shit i don't want his penis near me.

people who read books have better imaginations and tend to have more intellectual curiosity than those who don't, and after that heady first few months of fucking without ever having a conversation and maybe getting some tacos once in a while you're eventually going to want to wake up next to a dude who can challenge your opinion on that jonathan franzen piece in the new mcsweeney's. men are boring. and six months from now you and that dude are going to be sitting across from one another at brunch without a motherfucking thing to talk about. and that's cool, but if he reaches for his game boy as you pull out your brand new copy of "the marriage plot" then, i'm sorry to break it to you, BUT YOU CAN'T HAVE SEX WITH THAT GENTLEMAN ANYMORE. video games in general don't bother me because i'm a big fan of "keeping quiet" and "leaving me the fuck alone while i'm talking to anna on the phone," and who can argue with the benefits of rapid-fire hand-eye coordination? but if he can't make it through a real book he and his xbox have to kick rocks. he doesn't even have to read good books; even the trash in the magazine aisle at walgreens will suffice. AS LONG AS HE READS IT.

3 he cannot live with his mother...
as elaborate and compelling as it may initially seem, the excuse he gives you for currently sleeping in the twin bed leftover from his youth is never really as good as you want it to be. i mean, if you can verify that she is an invalid and that he spends his every waking moment at her bedside tending to her care, maybe that's a good enough excuse. i said maybe. the likelier story is that he's comfortable. and his mama cooks for him and throws his laundry in the wash right after she finishes straightening his room. and she doesn't mind having him on her unlimited texting family plan. and, i know, he's saving money. pfffft. that "money he's saving" is going right into that bmw he can only afford BECAUSE HE LIVES AT HOME. the flashiest dudes i know can only afford to be that way because all the big bills come in mommy's name. and that is the opposite of sexy. i'd rather have sex on a milk crate bed next to a window with an old bedsheet and the lining of a winter coat in place of a curtain than ALWAYS GO BACK TO MY PLACE because, you know, "ma be going to bed all early and shit."

4 or go by a childhood nickname or rap alias. if your rap career hasn't taken off by now trust me, IT ISN'T GOING TO. this might just be black people, but have you ever introduced yourself to someone only to have him respond in kind with a name that sounds like a cartoon character or some shit? i'm sorry, sir, but what in the fuck is a "don swagga?" or a "little poo?" i went to a hip hop show a few weeks ago at which a dude who called himself "big boom" insisted upon paying for my whiskey. this motherfucker was easily old enough to be my father, but definitely not old enough for that shit to be charming. at first i thought he was joking, but he repeated himself three times. "they call be big boom," he said, and i just wanted to be like, "who is they? prison mates?" i talked to him for just as long as it took me to finish my drink, then WALKED THE FUCK AWAY. i want to call you what your mother calls you, please. or some derivative thereof. sincerely, samantha.

5 he must take his ass to the fucking doctor. the sexiest thing a man could ever say to me is "my doctor wants me to..." or "i was talking to my therapist yesterday." this is one of those basics that should go without saying, yet don't you find yourself always saying this shit?! some things just can't be treated with nyquil, dude. get those weird bumps checked out. have somebody take a look at that foot you continue to limp on. 47 advil a day is not normal, son. TAKE YOUR ASS TO THE GODDAMNED MINUTE CLINIC.

6 and have a passport and a cell phone with a contract. you're 36 years old and you haven't yet been out of the country? COME ON, MAN. not even to jamaica?! look, i hate hot and dirty places too, and this isn't really as much about seeing the world as it is about only having sex with A GROWN-ASS GODDAMNED MAN. and i guess everything on this list pretty much boils down to "let's stop banging manchildren." seriously, you only speak one language and you don't have a bank account and you have to go "put minutes on your phone" and i'm supposed to let you fuck me in the ass?! yeah, right. we aren't doing that anymore. i'm serious, jerks. if he can't commit to a cell phone provider, then he is most certainly not going to commit to YOU. either that or he has some sort of nefarious criminal background, because my credit looks worse than afghanistan and i have a motherfucking cell plan. AND CABLE. after a certain age it is simply unacceptable to no longer have a bank account. that "living off the grid" shit is just another way of saying "mentally, i'm seventeen." and that's just gross. you need a lease with your name on it, a com ed bill with your name on it, a passport with your name on it, a phone bill with your name on it, and a drivers license with your name on it. if you don't, kindly put your dick away and come back when you've procured those things.

7 he should not hesitate to lick your fucking butthole. oh, i know: that shit is gross. and, well, probably. but you need to know that he's willing to do it. i'm not sleeping with anymore dudes who have specific requirements. we need to take back the night, sisters. dudes are the ones who need to be good at sex. that's right, I SAID IT. a monkey could bring a man to orgasm, real talk. women are complicated below the belt, so much so that if i was in bed with a woman i'm not sure i could get her off in under an hour and I HAVE THE SAME GODDAMNED PARTS. seriously. my vagina is a goddamned labyrinth, and finding your way around to all of the good places is difficult. and knowing what to do once you've gotten there is increasingly moreso. also? TITS. a man's job is to kiss you, gaze lovingly into your eyes, fuck you, eat you out, do whatever boob shit you're into, stroke your hair, talk you into anal, bite you, slap you, tickle you, punch you, kick your teeth into your stomach, dislocate your jaw, stab you, electrocute you, and make you come seventeen times ALL WHILE NOT GETTING YOU ACCIDENTALLY PREGNANT OR LOSING HIS ERECTION, so how come my motherfucking ass is expected to be the one with an arsenal of motherfucking tricks?! what are there, like, three ways to handle a penis? get out of here with that bullshit.

so in 2012 imma need to know what the fuck you plan to do to ME. i'm going into every sexual encounter for the rest of my life saying "i have two and a half sex tricks that may or may not be successful. NOW WHAT HAVE YOU DONE FOR ME LATELY?"

8 and hopefully isn't on facebook and shit. facebook is for girls. i mean, posting every five minutes, commenting on every single fucking thing, uploading all 6,227 pictures you took on your trip to the dells last weekend: GIRL SHIT. when a dude posts his every meal and "checks in" at home and gets in comment wars all i can think is, "this shit is moist. he should probably be somewhere reading a book and trying to grow some motherfucking chest hair." it's totally suspicious and weird when someone says "i'm not on facebook," especially because EVEN YOUR GRANDMOTHER HAS A FUCKING FACEBOOK. what the fuck are you hiding?! in reality, though, that's a welcome goddamned change. facebook stalking and twitter interpreting is totally fucking exhausting. and pointless. i've said before that staying up all night squinting at your smartphone trying to figure out the subtext of a bunch of out-of-context comments and tweets is totally fucking dumb. but we do it anyway, because WHO THE FUCK IS THAT BITCH WITH THE BLONDE HAIR WHO KEEPS MAKING SEXY COMMENTS ON ALL HIS SHIT?! "decoding facebook comments" should be my part-time goddamned job. and manspeak email translation?! i'm a veritable expert.

fucking dudes was way less complicated back when bitches had voicemail pagers and payphones. i want to get back to that simpler time, when i could exist in blissful ignorance in the assumption that whomever i was banging was at home daydreaming about the next chance he'd get to see me. not like nowadays, when i have to text ginger to look at some asshole's current status and tell me whether or not that bitch with her tits out is really trying to fuck him or if i've just got a bad case of the ladybrains. this is mostly about how psychotic it is to be a woman in the digital age. my blood pressure can't take this shit anymore. damn you, zuckerberg.

"why didn't he comment on that link i posted?!"
"does he think my status is funny?!"
"is he getting the wrong idea because that dude i haven't spoken to since sophomore fucking year won't stop putting heart emoticons all over my page?!"
"when is he going to change his relationship status?!"
"he really 'likes' katy perry?!"
"how can i politely tell him to change his profile picture so i won't be embarrassed to tell my friends who i'm dating?!"
"didn't he get my 'words with friends' invite?!"
"why isn't he on chat?!"
"why is he ignoring my chat request?!"
"did he notice how cute my cover photo is?!"
"he spends so much time on facebook."
"did he get what i was saying subliminally in my status about 'disrepect?!'"

no thanks, son. i can't be going through all that. in the meantime, i gotta go check and see if the dude i tagged in my last post understands that i was basically saying "let's fuck."

this shit goes double for lesbians, too. if she doesn't read, DON'T SCISSOR THAT BITCH.