Friday, August 31, 2012

tiny bald aliens.

issue thirteen. my goddamned brain is melting. in july it turns to squashy goo, then in august it just starts pouring out of all my head holes: ears, eyes, and nose all leaking viscous cerebral fluid and chunks of spongy mind particles. it's the opposite of a party. by this goddamned point all of the outdoor concerts and sidewalk sales and street festivals that looked so promising a few months ago have shown themselves for what they really are: traffic-congesting clusterfucks teeming with oozing hot human toxic waste all doing that awful thing where they put their hands on you in an attempt to move you out of the way while simultaneously sliding their sweaty summer bodies against yours in an effort to beat you to the deep fried endangered panda on a stick tent.

bitches gotta eat less. while my general modus operandi is "fuck it, bitch, stay fat," every year the sight of so many swollen summer ankles reminds me that some of my drinking time would probably be better served somewhere on a goddamned treadmill. despite the undeniable attractiveness of my instagrammed meat beard at left, i am currently embroiled in a bitter battle of wills between my stomach-eyes and my vanity-brain, and this shit is downright exhausting. here's how stupid i am: instead of doing things like "cooking at home" and "getting up early enough to make a nutrient-rich breakfast," in the past i have attempted to take care of myself using the "lean cuisine and crystal light" diet. and that shit obviously doesn't work, because toxic chemicals aren't nearly as filling as a cheeseburger and pork fries.

a couple days ago i met with this ayurvedic healer dude to talk about switching to an anti-inflammatory, mostly vegetarian diet. that's right: I HAVE TO BUY VEGETABLES NOW. and stop drinking like a fucking frat boy. i already have an attitude about it. my problem is that i'm never prepared. like, never ever. and when i get home at eight-thirty on a tuesday the last thing i want to do is stay up for an hour steaming kale and soaking lentils. i want to have a can of spaghetti-Os with meatballs and fall asleep sitting up and still wearing my work clothes. but i'm going to do it, because when hippies say shit in that magical hippie way i really buy into it. i'm such a fucking sucker. seriously, every advertisement you can thing of was made just for me. that dude was just so positive and gentle and he showed me the best ways to stretch if you need to get a big poop out, and while i ordinarily would be like, "this dosha shit is totally boring," listening to his soothing, smoked-out tones and watching him shake his dreadlocks lulled me into stupidity. i was all dreamy-like, "yeah, dude, i could totally cook tempeh in virgin coconut oil every morning." little does he know that i once had a sandwich with four different meats on it. is there such a thing as an ayurvedic taco?! *welp* this is going to take some goddamned effort.

if i am not third-world skinny and deliriously motherfucking happy after a year of steamed asian mushrooms, hot ginger tea, and fish oil on everything i am going to KILL A SMALL CHILD AND EAT IT. i hope they are low in calories and good for my chakra alignment.

hot sex on a platter. the absolute worst thing about mashing two heavily perspiring bodies awkwardly together on a sticky 87 degree summer evening, aside from that smell of cooked hot dogs, is that moment you realize, when he puts your feet on his shoulders or you get up on your knees and glance down to see if your breasts have slipped off the mattress and are dragging the floor yet, that you have disgusting summer sandal feet. i have been pedicured more this summer than i have ever before in my entire life, and this morning in the shower i started washing my feet only to realize that somehow the blackness has become semi-permanent. can't the temperature just drop already so i can put some motherfucking shoes on?!

everyone i know is embroiled in some silly friends with/out benefits romance, and the undercurrent running through every single one of them is "what happened to the goddamned friendship?" have you ever noticed that your beneficial friends are usually the least goddamned friendly? a few weeks ago i went to a singles mixer with eve hosted by her church. i wore the most sensible sexy clothing i own and i put in my fake teeth and everything. i even adopted a positive attitude, which was really fucking hard. especially since i wasn't interested in having "bible study" with a dude wearing a cardigan as his real clothes who probably lives at home with his mom. five minutes in, right  some well-meaning gentleman asked me to "explain my satanic accoutrements," and it literally took me thirty seconds to realize that he was referring to my tattoed sleeve full of pistol-wielding grim reapers and not my amply sin-filled bosom.

eve met a dude that night while i was off in a corner somewhere trying to turn water into wine, and it only took two dates and a walk along the beach (gross) before he asked if he could fill her body with the holy spirit. and she hasn't heard from him since, even though they agreed to be friends. which isn't very christlike if you ask me. WWJD? call a ho back, amen?

reading rainbow. i don't know if anyone has already ruined the surprise for you, but: I AM WRITING A BOOK, NERDS. it will be out october 2013 and will consist entirely of new essays. that's right, i'm not just packaging a bunch of these old bullshit blogs in pretty paper and selling that shit to you when you can get it for free. would i do you like that?! NEVER. it's going to be jammed with new material, for cheap. and i promise to fart on one page in each book or something. now all you have to do is wait a goddamned year. FAIR TRADE, OBVIOUSLY.

it's too hot to be cute. here's something i forgot to mention in that beauty post: disposable feminine wipes. oh, i know. that moist, hot bacteria factory between your legs smells like fresh laundry dried in the sun after being outside for twelve hours on a ninety-degree day. LUCKY YOU. for the rest of us these things are a totaly fucking godsend. i use the always brand because they come in individual packets and have fake raised water droplets on the box and that is totally an indication of how fresh my taco will be feeling after i use it. man, i'm a sucker for advertising. every dumb ass ad you see that makes you think, "who the fuck would by that shit?" can be answered with the words SAMANTHA IRBY. every useless thing that comes in a bright and/or shiny package will make its way into my apartment. don't believe me? i bought one of those neon green brita filtration systems despite the fact that i am only one person and already own a brita simply because OMG YOU GUYS IT COMES IN GREEN NOW. i will also purchase anything that comes in miniature, even if it is ridiculous. all of those tiny cokes and baby water bottles?! they are my sex.

has your face melted off? has that patch of summer acne cleared up yet? just hang on for a few more weeks, then you can dig out all your heavy creams and cakey concealers and start looking like a normal person again. welcome back, mascara! good to see you again, matte lipstick! at sephora last week i bought some fancy new blood red lip lacquer, and every night before i go to sleep i caress it gently while praying for some partly cloudy mid-60s to GET BACK IN MY LIFE. all of my beautiful capes and coats are just waiting to go to the dry cleaner next week, and the bottles of body oil it's been too hot to even think about are just dyyyyying to be put to use. i pulled all my jeans out, bought my new north face moon boots from zappos, ordered a new crop of turtleneck sweaters from talbots. 'tis the season to start being attractive again.

MOMMIE DEAREST. you know what i'm totally ready for? the kind of attention bitches get when they are pregnant. and i don't mean all this negative rape-baby attention, i mean the other day i was in line at magnolia and watched a woman who appeared to be gestating a seven month old honda civic get hit on by a dude handsome enough to play the villain in a lifetime movie and I WANT THAT TO BE HAPPENING TO ME. a few weeks ago this smoking hot ups driver got out of his motherfucking truck to help a pregnant lady wrestle a laundry bag out of the trunk of her car, and WHEN IS IT MY GODDAMNED TURN? i have this excruciatingly beautiful merino wool wrap coat, and sometimes after a taco and nine beers i'll belt it right up under my tits and poke my belly out in the hopes of tricking some asshole out of a seat on the bus. but one of the handful of times that shit worked successfully i heard some bitch on her cell phone whisper, "oh my god, this pregnant lady smells drunk." so i stopped doing it as much as i used to.

EVERYWHERE THERE ARE THESE BABIES. and my facebook timeline is ready. my internet clock is ticking and all my fucking friends are posting nineteen flickr albums a week, so why not me? i mean, right?! i'm totally fucking qualified: i am a relatively young 32, i am mostly made of hate and refurbished titanium, i have absolutely zero patience, there is $51.93 in my ING savings account, my insurance is sorta like "meh" when it comes to covering expensive shit, and i have access to a high-speed internet connection five or six days a week. i'm about to be uploading my ass off. i faked being pregnant 1 to take an easy yoga class and 2 to get out of this weird jam back when i was studying graphic design. (it's a long story.) real babies keep you up all night; i just want the sweet, sweet perks: 1,274 likes on the photo of a tiny bald alien covered in bloody cottage cheese! people coming over to entertain me or hold my things so i can take a poop! six weeks away from this motherfucking job! now all i need is for someone to send me a realistic-looking sonogram for me to pretend is my own. the baby should be holding a taco.

Friday, August 24, 2012

miss manners.

i am going to a formal dinner. how do i know which utensil to use for which course?

HOT DAMN, YOU BITCHES IS FANCY. i am obviously going to the wrong goddamned parties, unless there is such a thing as a "dorito fork" or "miller high life" goblet. i have been to a handful of super formal dinners in my lifetime, and i was too preoccupied with trying not to wear the wrong shit to even give half a thought to table service. as a general rule, though, aren't you supposed to work your way from the outside in? or, failing that, just remember to use the small fork for salad. and that the big spoon is for soup. GAH, whoever wants to be eating public soup at a formal fucking dinner? scalding hot broth served in a flat bowl that is impolite to pick up and hold directly under your chin is easily the grossest shit ever. last night at dinner i ordered some lobster bisque, and after two embarrassingly loud slurps and an awkward spillage into my titty cleave i said fuck it and ladled that shit directly from the bowl into my facehole. maybe you should just stay home. dinner is so goddamned confusing.

how can i get my boyfriend to go down on me more often?

did you know that some dudes really think that eating a woman out is, like, a special treat or some shit? like, "that's how you know i really like you, because i ate your pussy." oh, word? GEE THANKS, SON. i always wanted a present that was totally useless even when i give it explicit instructions. hooray!

man, i do not like being eaten out. i get it, and i get why you broads like it, but i am not into that shit in the least bit. there are other places you could be putting your goddamned teeth, sir. BUT. i require that shit, because 1 i like to be in charge sometimes and 2 i deserve to lie back and laugh to myself while some dude throws his back out trying to turn his head and tongue into a hitachi magic wand. i'm not shy about how much i enjoy being bossed around, but the best feeling ever is directing some jerk who doesn't want to to put his mouth on your butthole. which is why you should just come right out and say, "DUDE, YOU NEED TO GO DOWN ON ME MORE OFTEN." how else do you expect to bust that face nut? silent mouths don't get fed, sister. you need to say what you want and refuse to do anything else until you get it. put on a chastity belt and tell him that saliva is the only way to remove that bad girl.

or you could just hide the television remote in there. he'll go looking for it eventually.

i know it's irrational, but i still sometimes envy my supermodel-like gorgeous best friend. how do i stop comparing myself?

is she stupid? because there's always that. this is why i surround myself with regular broads who have obvious flaws. who has time to be standing off to the side turning everyone who dares make eye contact with you into a pillar of salt while this tyra banks knockoff-looking motherfucker collects the phone numbers of every handsome dude in the goddamned room? FUCK THAT. i like bitches who look like they take the motherfucking bus: salty, tired assholes with saddlebags and shitty dispositions. if you see me roll into a spot accompanied by a hot girl you bet your sweet ass that PYT is a B-I-T-C-H. or she's dyslexic. that way, when a dude approaches her at the disco and she starts talking about coloring books and stickers while i just happen to be casually thumbing through the latest issue of the atlantic monthly and sipping on some shit this dummy can't pronounce. how could he resist?!

seriously, though, that girl probably has "call me maybe" on her ipod. i wouldn't sweat it. and if all else fails: battery acid. right in that gorgeous face. you're welcome.

do guys instinctively know whether a girl will take it in the pooper?

i'm a total party in bed. probably because i don't give a fuck about anything, which frees up a lot of inhibition. i tend to shy away from anything too messy or excruciatingly painful, but other than that? GAME ON. this is a ridiculous question, because unless you're that one girl who got a tattoo on her asshole, "instinctively" knowing something about someone's sexuality is not a real goddamned thing. also, it sounds a little rape-y. so what you're really asking is, "do i seem slutty to dudes when they first meet me?"

and the answer is: PROBABLY. but aren't we all?! every man i know has a different definition for how much fucking is too much fucking when it comes to a woman, which is why you totally shouldn't care. not even a little bit. and a man would fuck a dog in the asshole if he wasn't worried that if he did sarah mclachlan and the aspca were going to kick his door in threatening to put him wherever michael vick had to go. every single dude i have ever banged in the history of my sex life has done that thing where he sticks it in my asshole during sex and does the lean to the left to see if i'm crying or getting an attitude and, when i don't, continues to pound away while crying tears of joy into his beard. so if you take it up the ass and are worried about looking like a slut, don't. dudes just want to fuck you in the butt. they don't care how or why, they don't care when or where, they don't care if it's your 1st time or your 1001st time, they don't even care if you shit on their nuts a little bit, DUDES JUST WANT TO FUCK YOU IN THE BUTT.

i noticed a toothbrush in the guest bathroom at my boyfriend's house. should i ask him whose it is? or should i not bring it up?

OH MAN. i saw there was an article on the hairpin or the frisky today entitled something like, "dudes need to learn how to girl-proof their apartments," and i skipped it because this is the kind of thing that makes me so uncomfortable i want to die. here is my general rule: when you are at a dude's house, NEVER LOOK AT ANYTHING. seriously, i just try to look at my hands or my phone or a magazine or the television, anything other than letting your eyes linger on that stack of mail on the coffee table or that pile of junk on the dresser. i am 100% not a snooper, and i'm not just saying that so that i sound cool. whenever you go looking you are going to find something, and that something is going to be totally confusing and HURT YOUR GODDAMNED FEELINGS. so avert your goddamned gaze girl, and hope like hell he just thinks you're demure. i like to tell dudes that i have a lazy eye when they catch me standing in a corner staring down at my shoes. works like magic.

is there a way for me not to feel ashamed after masturbating?


i'm seventeen and i haven't had a boyfriend yet and all of my friends have. a guy hasn't even shown a slight interest in me. it makes me feel really bad about myself and i want to know why it's happened for all of them and not me.

when i was a kid, i thought no one would ever want to have sex with me. because i grew up in caucasia twenty years before there were all these fat, attractive bitches on tv who made it okay to have dumps like a truck truck truck. and these prepubescent white boys were not even having it with me. not even a little bit. but then i turned eighteen and moved away and decided to take control of my vagina. and my thighs like what what what. so wait a year. then do that.

what does it mean when your date does not kiss you goodnight but then asks you out on another date?

apparently, that he likes you. or something like that. guess what i recently found out about myself? I KISS TOO SOON. who even knew that was a thing?! after our first date a few months ago, which i was pretty sure was indeed A DATE and not A PLATONIC BRO HANG, i turned to homie and was like, "can i kiss you goodnight?" and then he said yes and i did. and we immediately made plans to go out again the next week. i thought i was batting a fucking thousand. then i got text-dumped, which was stupid and weird, and then kind of un-dumped. (are you following that? this is more confusing than the goddamned SAT.) anyway, we were poking each other with sticks and lighting each other's hair on fire and other fun things last weekend when he informed me that it had worried him that i was "moving too fast" because i kissed him that first night. which i'm pretty sure is not a real thing, but let's go with it. he obviously doesn't know any dirtbags, because all my whorey friends would get donkey punched on the first fucking date, so some closed-mouthed post-dinner smooching pretty much makes me a goddamned nun.

is this a sign of the chastening of america? are men really wanting a woman who will bat her eyelashes and swoon when what she really wants to do is force her tongue down his throat and into his stomach? but if we go this goddamned slow, HOW WILL WE EVER GET TO THE BUTTSEX?!!?!?!

Friday, August 17, 2012

the summer sexperiment.

1 formulate a question. is it possible to enjoy cosmo's summer sex tips with another human being without wanting to stab my motherfucking eyes out?

i was scrolling through cosmo's website friday while trying to come up with some sexy jokety jokes for this freelance piece i'm working on when i came across an article entitled, "how to have steamy summer sex." after squirming uncomfortably for a second at the thought of my oozing meatbag of a pre-corpse entangled in some sweat-soaked sheets i thought, "i'm trying these. COMEDY."

2 research.
i texted my handsome and manly lab partner: "hey, do you want to bang it out this weekend? i'm writing a comedy bit about how gross sex is in the summer and i have some tips i need to try. you can probably also put it in my butt." we made plans immediately for sunday. for me, this qualifies as adequate research. deciding that maybe that wasn't quite comprehensive enough, skimming the article, i called jeff and asked him whether or not he incorporated any seasonal sex tips to bring his "lust life to a boil."

"bitch, i am a GROWN FUCKING MAN. are you really calling me at work to ask me about this simple fucking bullshit? slow day at the zoo?!" one time, when i had been in the hospital for a week and a half and had an NG tube threaded up my nose and down the back of my throat and was hooked to an oxygen machine because i kept losing consciousness from the dilauded, jeff burst into my room in a panic, slamming into the wheelchair the PCT had left next to the door for my daily CT scan. if i hadn't been in an opiate-induced coma i might've been scared into a goddamned heart attack. he threw two garment bags at the foot of the hospital bed and grabbed the controller to prop me up. i motioned for the pitcher of ice chips. "later," he said, moving the table out of my desperate reach. "i have a date tonight, and i need you to tell me which suit to wear."

THIS MOTHERFUCKER RIGHT HERE. i reached for the remote with the call button and he snatched it away. "yeah right," he sneered. "no one can save you." jeff found my glasses and put them on my face, which is the worst feeling ever. spectacles askew, i tried vainly to remove the oxygen mask from my face as visions of my cobbled foot and reams of drugstore typing paper flashed through my mind. TAKE ME NOW, JESUS. between outfit changes the doctor came in to do his afternoon rounds. "nice suit, brother!" he exclaimed as jeff emerged from the bathroom for a second time, and they had a ten minute discussion about custom made men's suiting while i tried to shut the oxygen machine off and kill myself. was this really my life? was i really going to die while listening to two smug assholes swooning over a double-breasted lapel?! a single tear rolled from my right eye, only to get caught in the elastic of the mask. "help me," i whispered to no one in particular.

i was just about to remind him of all of the valuable time of mine that had been wasted when his voice cut through my reverie like a knife. "are you really just breathing on the other end of this line?! GET OFF MY PHONE!" he shouted. i hung up.

3 hypothesis.
attempting to incorporate these cosmopolitan's hot hints into a romantic interlude is going to leave me chafed and sweaty as fuck, plus i will probably hate them and only halfheartedly try.

4 sexyfunexperiment time!
HOT HINT 1: dress for the weather. t
o light up your guy’s libido, treat him to his very own wet tee shirt fantasy. put on a tissue-thin white tee or tank top and “accidentally” get wet (say, by getting sprayed by the garden hose) so that it clings alluringly to your body. wearing a damp top will not only cool you off, it’ll also drive him loco.

i wore a sheer tunic, probably the same one your mom wears when she has period bloat, and i spilled grape juice on it about thirty seconds into dinner. i glanced over to see if my guy's libido had lit up yet. NO DICE. twenty minutes later i awkwardly busted open one of those soy sauce packets that comes with takeout sushi and that shit squirted right on my tits. i rubbed it in, trying to create a sticky, salty wet fantasy treat. then i dropped some chicken chop suey on my pants. i posed alluringly, peeking to see if he'd been driven loco. "did you eat all the goddamned fortune cookies, sam?!" he demanded. I TOTALLY FUCKING HAD. i licked my shirt in defeat.

HOT HINT 2: turn off the AC. perspiration can have an invigorating effect on your sex life. sweating augments your own natural scent. “when you’re in love or even just in lust with somebody, there’s nothing more enticing than their smell, and the heat really amps it up,” says sexologist lisa douglass, coauthor of the sex you want.

"SEXOLOGIST?" for real, hooker?!

to tap into sweat’s seductive powers, let your bedroom’s temp get tropical, then send your man into a foreplay frenzy by massaging his body with your own.

after dinner and a dvd we went up to his laboratory. the door was closed and i heard no evidence of the groaning window unit, and i closed my eyes and pictured rubbing his palm tree with my coconuts. OPENING THAT DOOR WAS LIKE WALKING INTO SOMEONE ELSE'S YAWN. am i really supposed to have sex inside a dog's mouth?! i didn't even take my tunic/bib off. i walked around the bed and turned that air conditioner as high as it would fucking go, then stood in front of it with my arms raised. i wonder if foreplay frenzy is possible in a dirty chinese restaurant?

with that in mind, push your breasts hard up against your guy, rubbing them across his chest and then sliding down his body with your nipples grazing his torso. to intensify your touch, deliver some frisky nips to his neck, abdomen, and buns.

i pressed my breasts up hard against my guy, and he was like "your nipples are touching my ankles, dude. don't trip me." SIGH. i don't know how to "deliver a frisky nip," so i licked his balls instead and almost fainted under the motherfucking blanket. seriously, there was, like, sweat pooling in the small of my back. GAH, WHY IS SUMMER SO OPPRESSIVELY HOT? I TOTALLY HATE EVERYTHING. ps, the word buns is moist.

HOT HINT 4: blast your hot spots. the term cold shower may be a modern euphemism for “sex ain’t happening,” but icy spritzing on a small scale can actually prolong your pleasure. keep a spray bottle filled with ice water next to the bed, and give each other a strategic spritz to extend the encounter whenever things seem to be getting too hot. to trigger a more intense pleasure response, aim for the nerve-packed, thin-skinned areas on each other’s body, such as the nipples, the back of the neck, the inner thighs, the tailbone, or the backs of your knees.

i always try to keep a big bottle of water next to the bed because bitches be getting leg cramps in the night. but i forgot to bring the spray bottle i use to terrorize helen keller, and improvising this sort of thing is nearly impossible without a trip to the hardware store and shit. i could've put my bottle in the freezer and dripped ice water on his nipples, but how do you do that without dying of embarrassment first?!

HOT HINT 5: enjoy an arctic thrill. the perfect summer sex toy: a minty skin-tingling lube. “the unusual chilling sensation when your body is extra warm makes you hyperaware of your pleasure points, so the minute they’re touched, you feel an ultra-lusty rush,” says sex educator sari locker, author of the complete idiot’s guide to amazing sex. “the cooling sensation becomes more pronounced with each thrust, and it feels incredible on erogenous zones. it’s literally like your nerves are standing on end!”

the thought of cooling lube is scary to me. how do they make it cold? are those cancerous chemicals burning through my ladymeats? WHY IS SCIENCE SO FUCKING TERRIFYING?!

o indulge, pour a nickel-size amount into your palm. “then slowly spread the liquid over his penis, starting at the tip and working your way gradually down his shaft,” says locker. have him return the favor by smoothing some of the lube onto your privates.

i brought my own lube, this fancy kind made for ladies that is expensive as a motherfucker and doesn't cause gnarly yeast infections in your womanholes, and i handed the sex scientist the ziploc bag i'd packed it in. he held it upright under the light and watched the contents settle near the bottom. "not your first time using this one, hmm?" he asked suspiciously.


HOT HINT 6: feed the flames.
or some extremely tasty and tropics inspired sex, straddle him and move seductively as you feed each other popsicles or ripe summer fruit. “tasting that sticky sweetness while sexual pleasure charges through your bodies will really heighten your bliss,” says locker. “be sure to let your lips and bodies get all messy too, so you can ‘clean’ each other off with little licks and nibbles.”

looking down at his fresh white sheets i had two thoughts: 1 "popsicles and mango juice would fuck this bed UP," and 2 "man, i hate chinese food. i hope i don't shart during the night."

next, fire him up with an icy ambush. “start by sucking on a piece of ice and letting little droplets trickle onto his body,” says resnick. once your mouth is chilled, trace your tongue around his lips and then move in for a hard, wet ice-chip kiss. because his body is burning up and your mouth is refreshingly cold, your smooches will send shock waves through his system. “then switch and have him hold an ice chip in his teeth and use it to softly trace the curves of your body.” don’t worry, it won’t take long to melt…and neither will you.

i once let a dude put an ice cube inside my vagina and watch it melt, and that was totally fucking dumb. also, he started to bang me afterward and ran around screaming like a little girl because it hurt the tip of his penis. i thought about trying to hold some ice cubes between my painfully sore goddamned teeth which are now so sensitive to cold that i can't even have a conversation in an air-conditioned room without collapsing in a heap with my hand pressed to my fucking jaw. skipping this.

HOT HINT 7: hit the floor. if your summer sex session gets too steamy to bear (read: you’re panting like a couple of marathoners), take it to ground level and point a couple of fans toward you. “as the cool breeze plays over your sweat-soaked bodies and gently moves the little hairs on your skin, you’ll feel reinvigorated,” says locker. “the breeze will create a rush of new sensations that will add to the pleasure you’re feeling.” bonus: the novelty of switching your locale from in the sack to on the floor will also pump up your excitement level.

this reminds me that i waxed my pubes again, which is the only way i know how to say "thanks for not being totally fucking dumb" non-verbally. goddamn, this shit is itchy five days later. like, you-owe-me-a-steak itchy. this is why i play my sex game in the bush league, sister. i need a fucking benedryl. *scratches inconspicuously at crotch under desk* all week i've been asking people to ask me whether or not the carpet matches the drapes so i can giggle like a little girl and squeal, "no, i installed hardwood floors!" what a moron. also, i don't have sex on the floor. it takes me thirty-seven minutes to get up from a goddamned chair. bitch, i'm old.

HOT HINT 8: savor that post-O flush. when you finally collapse back onto the bed in a bliss coma…stay right where you are. don’t make a move for the AC. so lie back with your guy, close your eyes, and bask in the aftereffects of sultry summertime sex. just think: later on, you can have more of the same.

"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING," i said as my lab partner started packing up his petrie dishes and bunsen burners before i'd finished recording my data. "YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO COLLAPSE IN A BLISS COMA BEFORE I GET MY SULTRY AFTEREFFECTS." then we did the "i'm not done but you are" negotiation dance:

me: "just stick two fingers in."
him: (asleep)
me: "it'll take five minutes, max. just bite me right here."
him: (asleep)
me: "wake up and put your tongue over there. please?"
him: (asleep)
me: "okay, i really only need two minutes of kissing. roll over."
him: (asleep)
me: "want to watch me stick my whole fist up my ass?"
him: (asleep)
me: coaxed him out of some hand action. BLISS COMA ACHIEVED.

5 analysis. i compared our results. him: satisfied of course because i'm awesome, me: sweaty. and my hypothesis was supported, even though i refused to try the majority of the suggested tips and we mostly just had sex the way we always do which is great and doesn't need any help from women who use words like "tantalizing" as if they are real.

6 conclusion. I AM ALWAYS FUCKING RIGHT. and right about fucking. duh.

Monday, August 6, 2012

summer beauty tips for the sweaty and disheveled.

AND POOR AS FUCK. last summer i wrote a brilliantly hilarious, yet totally useful and informative, beauty post meant to help you beautiful girls survive these slimy dog days of summer. it is nearly impossible to look like a clean, crisp slice of gorgeous when the air outside is like boiled mucous. magazines try to fool you with cute trick words like "dewy" and "glowing," but we know there is nothing more infuriating than having your entire face slide off and land in a pile of gelatinous goo at your feet the minute you step outside to go to work. AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING. i have never "glistened" a day in my wretched goddamned life. i have looked "sweaty" and "gooey" and "sticky" and "disgusting as fuck," but never have i ever been standing on the corner waiting for the bus in the middle of august looking "summery" or "fresh." 

so i gathered all my little potions and creams and lined them up on the edge of my sink and wrote an exhaustive description worthy of a beauty feature in vogue (okay, a tear-off checklist in us weekly), and you know what i got for my troubles? a bunch of angry-ass bitches tweeting @me that $12 is too much for a bar of french soap! DAMN HOOKER, I DIDN'T KNOW. well, now i fucking do. and now that i am $3500 in debt to the loan shark who paid for my teeth, fancy french soaps are off my fucking list. so here is my summer beauty post: drugstore edition. for broke bitches like us. with pictures, because i hate a goddamned beauty blog with copy+pasted images and the manufacturer's description and a guess about how it might work. buy that shit, ho!

1 nothing makes me feel more healthy and beautiful than walking into a motherfucking whole foods. all of that fresh bok choy and kale just smells so vital and alive! who cares that i zip right past it while making a beeline toward those dark chocolate salted caramels? they come from whole foods = IT'S GOOD FOR YOU. also, the whole foods hot bar is what real love feels like when you are single and tragic. not kidding. whole foods is how sad people get to feel like they're having a lovingly homecooked meal every once in a goddamned while. don't believe me? stop by on a thursday night, around 630-7. all those tables are filled, friend. there's your annoying cousin, yelling into her cell phone while eating nine pounds of salad; over by the window is your old high school history teacher, scowling at an outdated issue of the new yorker and muttering into his soup; and here's my ass, stalking some dude on facebook while regretting the blackened fish to seasonal vegetable ratio on my plate. (when soccer moms are impatiently watching me, i pretend to like cabbage.) i have never been a big fan of pointless, unsweetened liquids. but we need them to live. 365 electrolyte enhanced water is a fancy way of saying "cheaper than smartwater, ho!" and that's what i buy to keep my hydration game up. i also drink a lot of vita coco, even though that shit tastes like drinking water out of a dirty glass or something. i also loves me some kiss my face products, and that olive and aloe hand cream makes jerking a hot dude off a breeze.

2 i have a cold right now, which means i am the opposite of beautiful. talk about adding insult to fucking injury. sneezing makes my teeth rattle inside my skull, and the shit dripping out of my recently-excavated face holes looks like death goo. i got some airborne tablets because vitamin c blah blah blah, but they taste like concentrated sunshine. seriously, so tart. the chick at walgreens recommended these robitussin nasal relief pills; another fail. here is what works: SUDAFED 12 HOUR COLD. (not pictured, because i'm busy making the ones i haven't taken into meth.) and i know, it's a pain to stand in the pharmacy line with all of those crazy diseased people, but it's worth it. that kleenex didn't need to be in the picture. DUMB.

3 revlon is giving me FEVER, lately. somebody must have finally told mass-market makeup manufacturers that bitches are a tired of spending all their rent money at MAC and b still trying to look like drag queens. so up stepped the game. i am obsessed with bright orange cheeks (TRY IT, DON'T BE SCARED) and they have fed my addiction with this new photoready cream blush in coral reef. the texture isn't all gross and won't melt in the sun  like typical cream blush, plus it costs eight fucking dollars. so just shut up and get it already. they also have these lip balm pencils that are totally not at all incredibly similar to clinique chubby sticks that are also a major jam. i'm into nudes lately, so i bought a nude one and an orange one. the technical name is just bitten kissable balm stain, but that's fruity. so instead i call them knockoff chubs, cuz that's gangsta. if you still like some heavy lip action even in the heat, their regular lipsticks are okay. not amazing, but okay. that orange one is called "siren" and makes me feel like a hooker. which is why i bought that shit.

4 now listen, jerks. let me level with you: i CANNOT LIVE without a handful of luxury items. i just can't do it. nothing makes me feel more special than frivolously wasting money i should be using to pay my eletric bill on some useless cosmetic i will probably never take out of the package. so deal with it. smashbox primer is made from angel tears and unicorn hair, and it doesn't feel so unjustifiably extravagant when you buy it in trial size. but you need it. especially because it will make your skin look good enough that you don't need foundation, because BITCH IT'S HOT. benefit brow-zing is amazing because i am too fucking lazy to go get my eyebrows waxed, and nobody can tell. perfume is expensive and makes my eyes water, so i wear oils. kiehls musk oil is a #1 pantydropper. i wear that, mixed with some other oils, and dudes literally bark at me on the street. woof.

5 psst, here's another secret: i have an itchy scalp. cry me a river, i know. i can't give advice to white women about hair. staring at the hair products section in target or ulta makes me hyperventilate. HOW DO YOU HOES DECIDE?! seriously, how does a woman with bone straight brown hair decide which shampoo to use? is it packaging? scent? whatever your friends use?! I REALLY WANT TO KNOW. i narrow my haircare product shopping down to two key factors: "public head scratching is vile" and "these curls can't look dusty as fuck." so, based on that, i use some form of head and shoulders dandruff control (see? i told you i was sexy!) and a leave-in curl definining moisturizing spiral gel cream hydrating oil rinse balm spray. GAH, shit for curly hair is always called something ridiculous that give you no fucking idea how well it will work. what the fuck is a "hair smoothie?" is it going to make my head a greasy pouf or a nest of adorable ringlets? YOU ARE NOT HELPING ME, PANTENE. lately i'm using paul mitchell the conditioner to tame this dusty slave hair which, despite it's pretentious name, you can get at drugstores in chicago.

6 my house is an aveeno house, obviously. my absolute jams: smart essentials nighttime moisture infusion, positively radiant daily mositurizer SPF 30 (yes, black people, EVEN YOU), daily moisturizing body lotion, and daily moisturizing body wash. i'm not a stickler for brand loyalty, but this cheap shit works. and yes, i only started using them a couple months ago for the sole purpose of writing this post, and as soon as i'm done i'm going back to my creme de corps and purity made simple. i really like bar soap, especially when it's hot out, because fussing around with body washes and scrubby poufs is really a winter activity. i like to just wash what stinks and go before i faint in a hot shower or freeze half to death in a cold one. so most days i use kiss my face olive soap. and same goes for all that bedtime face washing: who can be bothered? i keep those ponds face cleansing wipes by the bed and, if i'm not too hammered, drag one across my face before passing the fuck out. i don't shave my armpits, so i use dove deodorant, because it conditions my armpit hair. real talk.

7 i should've written all this stuff down, because even though i am squinting at this picture i can't see shit. for reals, i don't even know what some of that garbage is. and i'm getting tired. here's what i think is left:
-nail polish: l'oreal in hyde park, revlon gel in velvet rope and jungle?, and two essie polishes i cannot for the life of me remember the names of. ooh, and a bottle of seche vite, which is the GREATEST QUICK DRY TOPCOAT ON EARTH. seriously. even in the heat! and i use straight up acetone from target to take that shit off.
-face things: benefit benetints, because if i don't do anything else, i will put on some cheeks. MAC studiofix is my face jam. i can't buy base at walgreens and, unless your skin is exactly that of taupe pantyhose with no undertones whatsoever, NEITHER CAN YOU. i don't wear mascara or eyeshadow, but i will put a little vaseline on my eyelids at night. trust me, just try it.
-mouth: there are some lipsticks there but i don't have a clue what that shit is. is that a l'oreal gloss? maybe. probably? my mouth guard/false teeth business is in that blue case, though. and that is probably the only accessory i really need. except i hate wearing it. but OMG LOOK AT MY ORANGE CHEEKS.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

successful mating strategies for winners.

i just learned what a jumpoff is, and i seriously think i might be one. THIS IS WHY I FUCKING HATE LEARNING NEW THINGS. i was at brunch a few sundays ago with some people in their goddamned thirties who still manage to remain in touch with the cultural zeitgeist despite their rapidly graying pubic hair, and during our TOTALLY ESOTERIC analysis of "50 shades of grey" julia referred to the main character as christian grey's "jumpoff." and i, despite my valiant attempt to use context clues to figure that shit out, was forced to reveal how old and out of touch i am by asking her, "what the fuck does that mean?" OH GRANDMA, WHAT A BIG ROTARY PHONE YOU HAVE. pretty soon i'll be spending my days wandering around in flannel shirts and steel toe doc martens while muttering to myself about the underrecognized genius of eddie vedder and quoting lines from reality bites. allen reached over to cut up my pancakes for me while julia tucked a napkin into my shirt for a bib while she tried to explain it to me. oh no, I'M OLD.

according to my friend the internet, a jumpoff is:

1 a casual sexual partner or girlfriend.
-what is a "casual girlfriend?" isn't that an oxymoron? what woman, once christened with the title of "girlfriend," ever becomes more casual? on second thought, isn't that the phrase that best describes every romantic relationship i've been involved in since early 2005?!
2 a woman of dubious sexual practices.
-"of doubtful quality or propriety." checkmate.
3 anything new and/or hot; especially in reference to a party or material item.

and one might correctly use the word jumpoff in a sentence in any of the following ways:
1 "...after a full night of clubbin', we went to white castles and hooked up with this jumpoff who got it poppin'."
-first of all, i know a black person wrote this because we always make shit plural that isn't. second, what does "poppin'" mean?
2 "my jumpoff never has me going out of my way, and she don't want nothing on valentine's day."
-in my defense, i thought that not wanting anything on valentine's day made me the uncomplicated, low maintenance GIRLFRIEND OF YOUR DREAMS. apparently it really makes me a dumbfuck. le sigh.
3 "yo, your party was the jumpoff." or "go get me the new jordan 'jumpoffs' from foot locker."
-i just can't with these. i literally cannot make my mouth form these words. blame it on my teeth, i guess.

I'M TOTALLY DOING IT WRONG. i've only ever been someone's casual girlfriend, my sketchy sexual practices are totally questionable and probably evidence of some slight mental retardation, and no one has ever bought me any limited edition motherfucking shoes. what is this life? AM I EVEN REALLY LIVING?! over the last few weeks i've had, like, nine awkward interactions with your step-uncle and a handful of other grown-ass men and, thankfully, most of the dudes i know are doing it wrong, too. here's how:

1 the "for old times sake." i had lunch with one of my old boyfriends a couple saturdays ago. this rekindling of our storybook love affair started the way these fairytale romances often do: i got a lewd text from a number i didn't recognize, i texted back "who the fuck is this?!," i received another text a few minutes later along the lines of "oh, my bad, it's ____," i choked back vomit at his use of the phrase "my bad," and then promptly agreed to meet him for a lunch that was sure to be irritating and fruitless as a motherfucker: JUST LIKE CINDERELLA. 

once a relationship is chopped into a million mental pieces before being roasted over an open flame, i rarely have any interest in scraping off what little charred meat is left on the carcass and trying to fashion something edible out of that burnt ass gristle. intellectually, i understand the idea behind getting back together with someone who treated your heart like monkey meat. it's the same reason we have so many old sweaters and shoes; they are broken-in and comfortable, and "getting back out there" and "trying it again" is akin to torture. also, it is hilarious when you think about a hot dude putting his dick in your olshoes. emotionally, though, that shit is suicide.

mostly i was just annoyed. i already know everything there is to know about this dude, and he still thinks i'm the same person he bossed around when i was twenty-four. i want some heady courtship and breathless pursuit, and this was the EXACT FUCKING OPPOSITE of that. for example: i got drunk. like, SHITFACED. at two in the goddamned afternoon. because he was forty goddamned minutes late. why? reason given: i was held up in a meeting at work. real reason: I'VE HAD SEX WITH YOU BEFORE! i don't have to worry about being late, i've hit that already! i know what your asshole smells like! i've seen all three and a half of your sex tricks! i have to be on time for YOU?! pffft, you once licked nutella off my scrotum!

and it's true. I DID. and because i did, i'm no longer a mysterious reature of wonder worthy of his punctuality. the minute he got to the restaurant i was like, "you look the exact fucking same. i cannot believe i wore a jumpsuit." then he flagged the waitress by shouting, "hey, cutie!" across the room and pointing to my (third) cocktail glass while pantomiming a drinking motion. i nearly died. here's the thing about people you used to bang a long time ago: you are forever crystallized in their minds as the person they knew way back when. i don't even recognize that girl anymore. through a mouthful of onion strings and turkey burger he was rolling his eyes all, "oh please, book deal," he scoffed. chomp chomp belch fart chomp. "now what do you think about getting back together?"

i fumbled while setting my glass down and, deciding i was over my limit, he took it away from me and finished it while instructing me to drink some water and sober up. "i hate when i can see food mixing in your mouth," i said as he continued to talk without pausing to either breathe or swallow about the same fucking thing he was talking about six goddamned yeas ago. and then i left.

2 the "bro 2.0" i have way too many interpersonal relationships that blur the line between friendship and fuckship. your best friend's boyfriend is still leaving me voicemails at three a.m. talking about "what is the difference between a trappist beer and an IPA?" and i'm still almost totally convinced that nothing could ever really happen between us, that he just casually takes his shirt off when he's over because it's HOT, not because i'm supposed to be swooning while looking at his CHEST.

that DUDE WHO TOTALLY DOESN'T WANT TO BANG YOU has stepped his fucking game up, girlfriend. you hoes better watch your backs. this is not a game. no longer content to just clap my shoulder while whining about how much money his ladyfriend spent on shoes last week, the new and improved bro is asking about the overwhelming number of feelings i'm always having and offering to soak my mouthguard while straining tomatoes for soup that he is going to offer to spoon feed me. (dear god, MY FUCKING JAW.) "when is the last time that insensitive jerk called you?" he yells over his shoulder from where he stands at the counter doling out my afternoon dose of tylenol and amoxicillin wearing nothing but sweat and running shorts. meanwhile i'm mentally trying to figure out how to give him a blowjob without his dick puncturing my motherfucking eye socket.

but he's not here for that. we are JUST FRIENDS, remember? so even as he compliments the curve-hugging greasiness of my eating pants ("that's gravy!" i proudly announce, a hand over the gross side of my face) while lounging on my comfortable featherbed butt naked while jerking off to what appears to be a photograph of my face he's doodled hearts all over, it is my fault if i get the wrong idea. he didn't set me up by writing a song with my name as the lyrics, i'm the idiot who doesn't understand that having "top of clothes sex" isn't the same as "i want to be your boyfriend."

3 the "you still have this number?!" i am never flattered when some dude is "just thinking about me," especially if more than three days have lapsed from the last time i heard from his ass. in case you're new to the party, a refresher: i have, like, one real self-preservatory dating rule: if i don't hear from a dude i suspect has even a slight, passing romantic interest in me in three days, i delete his number from my phone and mentally move on. simple as that. and it's not about being a bitch. i think if a person is interested in me for real he'll holler at me more than once every couple of weeks. i'm not mad at him if he doesn't, i just understand that he isn't interested in me in that way. because if he was, he would holler. i mean, text me while you're taking a dump or something. everyone knows i don't even answer my phone, so it's not like we're going to have a conversation. but i text sometimes! and if i like you i'll try to text you all the time! except when something good is on tv!

after three days of no discernible interest i delete a dude's number to keep from making a total asshole of myself. i don't make a big announcement, i don't dangle a warning in the hopes that he will valiantly remember HOW MUCH HE TOTALLY LIKES ME, i just erase his contact info and keep it moving. not because i'm so smart and put together that i just effortlessly get over shit, but because I KNOW MYSELF. meaning that i cannot be trusted with a phone full of potential embarrassment on a lonely evening locked in my apartment. trust me, i have left that voicemail. ten of those voicemails. in rapid succession. you know you can't un-leave all that moist, crazy ladybrain you recorded for an hour on his machine. so just delete him already. don't worry, you'll get his number again.

when he calls you weeks/months/years later! and you'll be so disgusted by his audacity that you would never allow yourself to make that mistake ever again! and then you'll feel all proud of yourself and strong in your womanhood! while simultaneously being depressed that a dude who stopped calling three months ago still thinks he has a shot! you would never leave someone hanging that way! who the fuck does he think he is! doesn't he know that you've totally moved on! doesn't he know that you deleted him 1,843 days ago?!

4 the "i think i might be this dude's jumpoff." how can i know? HOW CAN I KNOW?! okay, i'm not dumb, i get it. my casual hot vagina party is doubtfully this dude's girlfriend. and it's mostly not fun. because everyone is so cagey and weird and noncommittal these days. i mean, 99% of us are allergic to the words "i have fun with you." so then we play out this awkward dance similar to the one i'm choreographing now, the routine in which i don't really know what i'm doing and i totally look like i have two left feet. so maybe i'm done with it, because dancing when you don't know the rhythm and can't hear the beat is fucking exhausting. good thing i haven't heard from him in three days.