Tuesday, September 11, 2012

how not to die alone in your apartment.

i live in a building full of children. at first i thought i was just imagining things, convinced that all of the natural ice cans in the communal recycling bins obviously belonged to some distinguished gentleman on a tight budget who might be an alcoholic considering his considerable beer consumption, but every time i come home lately i have to fight through a throng of college sophomores just to get to my goddamned mailbox. this is one of the drawbacks of choosing to live in the insanely cheap housing to be found on what is basically the extended campus of the jesuit university within walking distance of my front door. your building is subject to become what is essentially an unsupervised dorm. my old landlord was this crazy hippie who smoked weed while she snaked the hair out of the drain in my tub, but a couple months ago she sold the building to one of those faceless management companies who do shit like "issue receipts" for paid rent.

the switch went over without incident. one day, insurance appraisers were standing in my kitchen asking about water pressure and the next i was signing a a lease that was NINE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE PAGES LONG. my old lease was written on the back of the vegan menu from heartland, and now i have to sign some shit that says if there's a hair clog in my sink i'll be charged a "maintenance fee" for some sweaty asshole with a visible ass crack to come get it out?! good thing i'm lazy, because otherwise i'd be sleeping on your couch right now. in addition to promising my new large and important MANAGEMENT COMPANY my firstborn child and several strands of my hair, the le
ase included an addendum in the form of a long letter informing tenants that the building was going to be smoke free, INSIDE and OUT. i have enough goddamned problems as it is without adding smoking to the list, and that shit is so motherfucking expensive i don't even know how real people do it. especially real people with a shitload of problems who probably smoke a lot. that's like if i bought three magazines a day. so smoking for me is out. so i breathed a sigh of relief because i do sometimes have mini panic attacks that the building is going to burn down one night with me inside it because some careless jerk dropped a lit cigarette in bed.

i'm totally fucking lying. my real fear is that there will be a fire in my building, at night, while i am home, and that i will wake up as the alarm goes off and realize that i am wearing some flimsy little nightgown that my dinner plate-sized areolas show through that is too short and covered in barbecue sauce and my glasses won't be on the floor next to my bed where i last saw them and i will be unable to locate a bra or my phone (because yes, i will look for those things) and i will be standing in the middle of my apartment perseverating over whether or not i have time to stuff the cat in a pillowcase and also find those yoga pants i could've sworn i balled up in the bathroom as the smoke and fire creeps closer and closer to my (one and only) door. THIS IS HOW I'M GOING TO DIE, burned to a crisp after trying to find matching shoes to escape a burning building in.

i just don't want to be that bitch on the news. you know the one, the one who breathlessly describes her daring escape to the television reporter with half her rollers in and crust around her mouth, eyes glued together with sleep. every time i see that shit i'm like, "you don't keep a hair brush on the night stand, sister?" i'd be the asshole trying to brush my teeth in the spray from the hydrant and asking the firemen to hold up a mirror so that i could tweeze my eyebrows before my debut on good morning america. this is the kind of shit i think about, whether or not to risk dying from smoke inhalation so that i can find my panties and some lip gloss before evacuating a burning building. remember that time i got trapped in the elevator and the fire department had to come rescue me? and the one thing i was worried about was whether or not they would be grossed out by how much i was sweating in that tiny sweltering coffin?! i didn't give a fuck about plunging to my death, i was busy freaking out that the hot firemen would be grossed out by my translucent t-shirt. DUMMY.

needless to say, odds are that i am going to die alone in my apartment. unless i buy a car, which means i am for sure going to die while texting and driving, because texting is my jam. and so will you, probably. anyway, here's how not to go out like a sucker. please don't let anyone find your ass dead:


1 with a dirty bathroom. listen, i'm the biggest slob pig there ever was. you know those people who can't go to bed with dishes piled high in the sink and food not put away? I AM NOT LIKE THOSE FUCKING PEOPLE. half my food goes bad sitting either on the counter or the stove because i was too lazy to get up and wrap some foil around it and throw it away. but my bathroom is clean, mostly because i'm mortified that once i lie murdered in my tiny apartment for three days and helen has started to chew on my dead face and the cops finally come to investigate the smell that one of them will have to pee and be mortified by the melted peanut butter splatter that i forgot to wipe from the underside of the seat. also, i want them to look at my neatly organized cosmetic products and think, "that beautiful woman didn't even need this stuff." also: fingernail clippings. these must be vacuumed regularly. barf.

2 in your period underwear. everytime i see a sexy nightgown or pajama set i always think, "i am not going to waste sixty dollars on some shit that no one else is going to see." then i think about how one of these days i'm going to fall over one of the piles of magazines littering the floor and just lie there until death overtakes me, then i purchase three of them. last night i put on this red leopard print babydoll thing and helen was like, "who the fuck is that for?!" and i defiantly pulled my nipples from where they grazed my navel and tucked my tits into the shelf that's not really a bra that doesn't really do anything other than make me wish i had a bra on and spat, "myself, you shitfaced little asshole." AND THE FIREMEN.

3 with your porn out. there is a hitachi magic wand hanging out on top of the dog crate helen sleeps in next to my bed. every morning i look at it and think about putting it away, but then i think about how it's so much easier to masturbate when you just leave all your fap accoutrements within arms reach and never put it away. but i'm not sure that monstrous electronic white cock (um, i mean, BACK AND NECK MASSAGER) is the first thing i want to coroner to see. is he going to smell it? will he have to take it to the CSI crime lab and see if it has any foreign alleles or petrie dish amoebas on it?! (that's right, i'm dumb. and fuck science!) can he tell that i was watching a squirt bukake clip on the internet while using it?!?!! (google that gross shit and GET YOUR LIFE.) so i compromised, and now i just delete my browsing history at night before i lapse into one of those masturbation comas. because no one needs to know my dirtbag ass watched a goddamned roman shower right before the heart attack that took me out.

4 with embarrassing groceries. if i ever found out i had an incurable disease i would, after destroying the happiness of every single stupid motherfucker who had ever stuck his dick in my life and burning all of my enemies alive with no remorse, go to fox and obel or treasure island and blow all of the money i'd solicited for the cancer fund i started online on really amazing shit to go in my pantry. so that people will think i'm fucking FANCY, and not the kind of motherfucker who makes kraft macaroni and cheese in the blue box with water due to lactose intolerance and sometimes cuts up hot dogs in it when she feels especially extravagant. I WANT TO LEAVE THIS EARTH WITH CASHEW BUTTER IN MY CABINETS, HO. no one celebrates the life of a bitch with a tombstone pizza and frozen sweet potatoes in her freezer! i need to die with some fresh lobster tails in my shit, on the real.

5 with a dirty cat box. man, i really want to give helen keller a fighting chance at being adopted by someone cool after she cuts my throat intentionally during the night. and there's no worse way to do that than letting that asshole's box look like a battlefield dotted with toxic poop mines. it's already the grossest because i use what looks like deconstructed breakfast cereal as litter, so i don't want to further ruin her chances at looking like an adorable new addition to a better home than the one her recently-deceased mother could provide. that's why i still brush her despite her repeated attempts to mangle my good hand, because the day i suffocate in my sleep when my head accidentally rolls into the dorito bag i fell asleep eating i want to make sure her coat is lustrous and sparkling when they take her picture at the anti-cruelty society. everyone knows that the only old, shithead cats who get adopted are the ones with pantene smooth hair. quit playing.

6 without an updated death list. shit changes. people grow and mature and evolve. it's all part of the adulthood process. and sometimes that means you have to kick a dumb bitch out of your motherfucking life and thus find someone else to entrust with the list of things you need to happen when you drown unexpectedly in two inches of water in the bathtub because you passed out in it while drunk. i mean, yeah. so, since i had to give the list and my spare keys to someone new, i decided to update it as follows:
a the song i want played at my funeral is "we are never ever getting back together" by taylor swift.

b cremate me, and make sure the ashes get dumped at _____   _________'s house and in _______   ____________'s car and put a tiny little bit in __________  _________'s dinner.
c burn those fake positive pregnancy tests i keep hidden in my sock drawer for "emergencies."
d cut all of the size tags out of my clothes.
e arrange my body attractively if you get to my apartment before the authorities do. make sure i'm dressed like i just had sex.
f cut up all of my unpaid bills so people think i died rich.
g take out the garbage. throw away anything that looks remotely like garbage. try to arrange a garbage pick-up. i'm really paranoid about my fucking garbage.
h don't get a new best friend for, like, four years. MOURN MY SHIT, BITCH. I'M GODDAMNED UNFORGETTABLE.