Thursday, October 25, 2012

will guys date fat girls?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

will guys date fat girls?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, October 18, 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, October 10, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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