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.