Friday, June 28, 2013

how to be rejected by someone you weren't even interested in fucking in the first motherfucking place.

i've had quite a number of imaginary boyfriends. when i worked downtown my boyfriend was this excruciatingly handsome dude who caught the 147 bus i intentionally started taking after the first time i saw him on it. his name was ham sandwich. because every morning dude would get on the bus and eat a goddamned ham sandwich. i was smitten immediately. i made sure i got the 6:55a bus every single day, and i would spend our entire commute trying to think of a casual way to introduce myself. what i knew about him: 1 fond of charcoal gray suits and tortoiseshell glasses 2 lived somewhere in the vicinity of sheridan and granville 3 loved the shit out of a ham breakfast sandwich. what he knew about the creeper staring at him from the back of the bus: NOT A GODDAMNED THING. homie had no idea whatsoever that i was standing in front of my closet for fifteen minutes every morning deciding what to wear that might get his attention. or that i made myself a mixtape of really earnest love songs to listen to every morning while i gazed at his lovely face. or that i totally knew where i was going to hide his body after i'd murdered him and made love to his corpse.

see also: mechanic boyfriend, who replaced my clutch three times before he figured out that i had some sick variation of munchausen syndrome and was essentially fucking my car up just to see him; reggae singer boyfriend, whose marginally-interesting band's shows cost me approximately $2,763,984 a month in bar tabs; DHL boyfriend, who made dozens of deliveries without ever showing me his, ahem, package; liquor store boyfriend, who remained surprisingly not-alarmed at the frequency with which i purchased bourbon and champagne. not to mention taqueria boyfriend, starbucks boyfriend, best buy boyfriend, peapod delivery boyfriend, cab driver boyfriend, my boyfriend at the dry cleaner, my boyfriend at directv, my boyfriend who DJs at slick's every tuesday night, my boyfriend from the fourth floor with the green laundry basket, my multiple boyfriends working out at the gym. I FALL IN LOVE FAIRLY EASILY, OKAY.

did any of my brainfriends know that he was in love with me? OF COURSE NOT. that ruins the fucking fun of it. brainfriends are a harmless distraction from the mundanities of every day life. am i ever going to speak to any of them for real? ask if he's ever noticed in the nine months i've been ordering my americanos from him how nice my shoes are? probably not. but sometimes it takes a reason outside of myself to hike my tits up and throw a dress on to go out and face the outside world. and if that outside world contains that adorably chubby bearded gentleman who works the express lane at whole foods during the lunch rush, then i'm going to face it with two handfuls of exposed cleavage and smile real hard while that young man weighs my nine pound container of "salad."

THIS IS HOW I PREFER IT. i'd rather sit in my dark apartment in my cheese pants for weeks at a time, emerging only to limp to the corner store for scratch-off lottery tickets, ice cream, and overpriced fancy beers, than navigate the tricky, complicated universe of dating other human beings. ten months celibate and it's still fine. but i am not unsusceptible to the overabundance of attention and affection that could possibly signal romance. try though i might, i have not yet developed an immunity to hormones. and it is through this little crack in my armor, the tiny sliver of light in my cold dead heart, that a new breed of emotional terrorist has slipped through to lay waste to my tender, precious feelings: the total fucking asshole who pretends to want to have sex with you when he really just wants to be friends or whatever. what a dick. here's a handy guide to how you, too, can experience this love miracle.

1 be a person. the animal kingdom has it a little bit easier than we do. there's no cat-and-mouse who should text who first bullshit; no "how many dinners does he have to buy before i let him see my apartment?" nonsense; no hopeful "call me!" shouted to the shadowy retreating figure tiptoeing out of your apartment the morning after you brought that asshole home from the bar. if i was a dog i could just mount whoever smelled good to me and that would be the end of it. but because i'm a people i gotta do lame shit like negotiate sex acts and drive myself crazy trying to decipher the intent of someone who communicates solely in emojis.

2 have a working email address and/or facebook. this step is crucial in the "i didn't like you until i thought you liked me" game. when i meet a motherfucker in person, i can tell instantly whether or not he wants to put his hands down the front of my pants for real or if he's just gassing me up because i'm funny and all my goddamned friends are cute. oh yeah, you're into the asian one? COOL STORY, BRO. thanks for not wasting a single one of my anytime minutes. but these new jerks will send you a message on facebook and shit, one that toes the line between sexual interest and "let's just eat pizza together!" so hard that you have to forward it to, like, six of your smartest ladyfriends. i got one a few weeks ago that basically read like this:

dearest sam,

sex sex sex blowjob! finger you, sex sex boyfriend cunnilingus? 
no wait, best friends. friends forever. totally just going to talk to you about other women.
but sex? boyfriend boyfriend hot dripping wet sex! sex sex!
dick pics, sex sex sex, cum. 
but on the other hand, BFFs. friend friend hangout friend things not a date. buddies hanging, friend friend like a sister!
on second thought, FUCK ME. fuck suck eat you out blow me, okay? maybe week after next? fuck fest dick stroke anal? SEXY SEX. sext me at 312-xxx-x46x
we should get a pizza sometime. you're amazing, girl. like the best friend i always wanted. and wanted to fuck in the eyesocket. but like a buddy only. love, your new sexpenis.

how am i supposed to respond to this? seriously, what the fuck should i have said? what kind of answer is warranted by a sort of hot, kind of ambivalent hastily written email?! so, after thinking about it for a few minutes, i did what any normal person would do and wrote back: WHAT. (but i have to admit, i was a little intrigued. dude was kind of fine.)

3 be receptive to meeting new people and making new friends. as much as i want to be a cold block of too cool for school ice, more often than not i am a slippery pat of melted butter when it comes to opening myself up to allow new people into my life. because i don't want to be that bitter asshole who's all, "NO CAPACITY" every time someone interesting wants to be my friend. or my more than friend. or my text person. or my email pen pal. i like having people in my life. i don't want to be one of those babies in romanian orphanages who are starved for some human touch. i don't want to be a feral barn cat that you can't get near with a ten foot pole. people who need people are the (un)luckiest people.

4 make unclassifiable plans. is starbucks on a weekday a date? what about a morning matinee on a sunday? is drinks a date? dinner is definitely a date. unless he expects me to pay for my half, which means he totally doesn't want to fuck me. but is dinner always a date? is it a date if we go dancing? what about a free concert at millenium park? if i just hang with him at the arcade playing foosball is that shit a date? is running together a date? what about hanging out at the bookstore? if he takes me to great america but doesn't win me a teddy bear, should i consider that a date? we did karaoke, like, three different times: we're dating, right? but he paid for my drinks! does he just have a lot of disposable income so he doesn't care about buying two bottles of wine for a woman he has no interest in sleeping with? who wants to spend three hours at the MCA with dude who doesn't want to kiss her? can i wear my meat pants and a gravy shirt out to lunch since we're just buddies? why did he invite me on a road trip if we aren't really a couple? WHO THE FUCK GOES TO A MOTHERFUCKING WINE TASTING WITH A BITCH HE ISN'T EVER GOING TO GO DOWN ON?! 

5 get the wrong fucking idea. this is a weird stage in the clumsy, disconcerting are we or aren't we? game. SO MANY UNCLASSIFIED DATES. SO MANY INDETERMINATELY FLIRTATIOUS TEXTS. SO MUCH CASUAL PLACING OF HANDS ON MY BODY PARTS. i am only a monkey of fair to middling intelligence, friends. i can't possibly be expected to discern potential malice from swooning lust when they look and sound like the same goddamned thing. why come people are so afraid to just say what it is they actually want? for instance, if i am hungry, i will say, "bitch, let's get some tacos." and if i want to have sex with you, i will ask, "can i please have sex with you?" if the answer is no, that's fine. but what i won't do is pretend i want to have sex with you when what i really want is for you to look over my taxes one time and maybe go to see tame impala with me next week. i do not understand assholes who lead people on in this way. subhuman intelligence or not, i think most of us are capable of being a friend without the dangled carrot of possible sex. which is why when you hang it there, right up in my face, where i can clearly see its hard, smooth surface, I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO PUT IT IN MY MOUTH. because i didn't really like you but then i thought you liked me so i kind of changed my mind and now barf. jerk.

6 be cool during the inevitable AWKWARD MOMENT OF REJECTION TRUTH. here is my favorite one: i went to a birthday party once with a dude i was pretty sure i was dating. we had kissed only once, but it was cool because HE REALLY WANTED TO KNOW MY MIND AND NOT JUST MY BODY, YOU GUYS. he was one of these progressive, sensitive cats who used the word "energy" a lot and referred to his penis as his manhood. we were hanging out four or five nights a week; really, um according to him, vibing on each other's flow. (work with me here.) anyway the party was fine, at some stupid lounge on the south side, the kind of place that is thick with incense and dreadlocks and wood bracelets. i felt out of place immediately. desperate to connect with other people with natural hair, i struck up a conversation with this beautiful afroed woman at the bar about co-washing and herbal supplements. ten minutes into our discussion homeboy rolls up on me with his arm circled around the waist of a woman who was wearing what appeared to be a tablecloth as a dress. a woman he introduced as his girlfriend. well, of course! so nice to meet you! don't mind me, i've just been working on my astrology chart and cooking vegetarian meals (really) with your boyfriend EVERY SINGLE NIGHT SINCE MARCH, but of course you are his goddamned girlfriend! i left when no one was paying attention, and ignored every subsequent message asking if i might be interested in aligning our chakras.

oh, and the well-meaning gentleman who sent that misleading-ass sexnote? VANISHED INTO THIN AIR. that's right, i haven't heard a damn thing. it's just as well, bro. i fucking hate eating ambiguous pizza. shit always leaves me hella salty.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

the desperate slut's comprehensive guide to SPORTZ.

my playoff beard is full as fuck, bro. the blackhawks are in the stanley cup final, and a couple hours before the start of the first game i received the following text from eve: "asshole. put some outside pants on and let's go birddog frat boys at gingerman. i need to get laid." an unappealing proposition on a regular night, i scanned the newspaper to confirm my suspicion that it was, in fact, the first night of hockey's championship series. i replied: "can't. it's white people christmas. staying indoors." undeterred, she continued to nag at me until i relented, agreeing to hang out for one shot and one beer. and maybe another shot. okay fine, two beers and two possibly three shots but that's it, i swear. i mean, come on. give me a break. IT'S A CELEBRATION, BITCH.

from the cab i could tell that everyone in the bar was already fucking drunk. my idiot homegirl was teetering on sky high heels on the corner, trying to look cool while smoking what i assumed was a panhandled cigarette. a gentleman in a bruins jersey fell out of the front door, vomiting down his front and then again onto a parked car. "you think my husband's in there?" i asked her sarcastically, with the kind of false, saccharine enthusiasm that clearly means "FUCK YOU." alas, our husbands were not at the bar that night. nor were they on clark street after the end of 3OTs, pissing into garbage cans in plain sight or playfully punching each other in the dicks. i can't front, though, THAT GAME WAS EXCITING AS SHIT. especially at the end, when all of those weary combatants were basically skating a lazy swan lake around the ice while collectively clenching what had to be colons packed full of stool. that's the kind of shit i worry about, that no one was allowed to poop during that long-ass game. even though some dude wrote his number on the back of eve's hand (but for why, tho? we have cellular telephones!) our mission, and i use that phrase loosely, proved mostly unsuccessful. you know why? because some girls just never learn that competitive professional sports and trying to talk to a dude about that amazing article in the atlantic that you read (true story, i was sitting there) while the game is on a nearby television don't fucking mix. 

so now i'm sitting at home in my glamorous black jumpsuit listening to game two on my 12-inch wide child-sized television, squinting at the screen while glaring alternately between an abacus and my stupid iphone trying to figure out how many weight watchers points are in this chicken soup i ate straight from the can. actually, i don't care. but i need to know if i have enough motherfucking points left today to dip this broccoli in a glob of melted cheese. thankfully, at home in my inside clothes rather than sitting in a bar eating communal pretzels and watching my friend try to engage a man who made a special point to loosen his belt and show us his blackhawks boxer shorts in reasonably intelligent adult conversation. a man who continued to shout, "GET IT OUT OF THE FUCKING ZONE!" at the top of his lungs every time i politely asked which lincoln park bar he likes to date rape at the most. "GOOD SAVE, GOALIE!" shut up ugh.

HOCKEY, in three relatively easy sentences. 1 ice hockey is a team sport played on ice in which skaters use sticks to shoot a hard rubber hockey puck into their opponent's net to score points. 2 five members of each team skate up and down the ice trying to take the puck and score a goal against the opposing team; each team has a goaltender who tries to stop the puck from going into the goal. 3 they fistfight each other and shit.

alternative to watching that shit: now i’m gonna be real with you: i don’t really fuck with hockey that much. 1 the puck is too goddamned small for normal, rapidly-deteriorating almost middle-aged eyeholes. 2 the blood and missing teeth. 3 i don’t speak french so i can't pronounce half the names and all that backwards skating, while impressive, is kind of moist. i know this because i used to figure skate before i retired at age 9 to instead make terrible relationship choices and eat truckloads of simple carbohydrates. which, if you follow my boring, infrequent instagramming, you already fucking know. i'm reaching here, but i imagine that the height of hockey playoff season is probably a good time for the rest of us to go to home depot and look at riding lawnmowers? shop for golf accessories? try on boat shoes?! WHAT DO WHITE MEN DO ALL DAY.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? HARDLY. you are not getting high-sticked tonight, my love. you are going to sulk in a corner with a lukewarm drink while dudes with the composition of softened cream cheese that has been sprinkled with coarse hair bellow drunkenly into one another's faces while howling "c'mon, hjalmarsson! where's the fucking penalty?!" at one of the 137 mounted television screens.

BASKETBALL, in four relatively easy sentences. 1 basketball is a sport played by two teams of five players on a rectangular court; the objective is to shoot a ball through a hoop mounted to a backboard at each end. 2 the ball can be advanced on the court by bouncing it while walking or running or throwing it to a team mate; it is a violation to move without dribbling the ball, to carry it, or to hold the ball with both hands then resume dribbling. 3 baby mama drama and shitty tattoos.

alternative to watching that shit. when are basketball games on, every single night of the week? and when is basketball season? like, all the fucking time?! if you can figure it out, go where black people aren't. but only if it's a good game. ain't nobody staying home to watch charlotte or sacramento, son.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? NOT A CHANCE. where do black men congregate, jail? OH I'M JUST KIDDING, SENSITIVE FACE. they're all in college! anyway, jamal and them are all watching the game at the barber shop. or in his ma duke's basement, on that 1,276" television he's renting to own. you and the other wannabe video vixens will be standing around sucking in your bellies and adjusting your rainbow-colored lacefronts at buffalo wild wings all by your lonesomes.

BASEBALL, in three relatively easy sentences. 1 baseball is a bat-and-ball game played between two teams of nine players who take turns batting and baserunning. 2 the offense attempts to score more runs than its opponents by hitting a ball thrown by the pitcher with a bat and moving counter-clockwise around a series of four bases. 3 SHIT IS MAD BORING, BRO.

alternative to watching that shit: anything indoors and not "summer-themed." 

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? NEVER. i always see old sad dudes sitting in bars watching baseball and sucking down old style. because no other productive memebers of society have nine consecutive hours to spend watching the boringest game on earth.

FOOTBALL, in four relatively easy sentences: 1 american football, known in the united states as football, is a sport played by two teams of eleven players on a rectangular field with goalposts at each end. 2 the offense attempts to advance an oval ball down the field by running with or passing it. 3 they must advance it at least ten yards in four downs to receive a new set of four downs and continue the drive; if not, they turn over the ball to the opposing team. 4 sexy fat dudes in tight, shiny pants and tom brady. WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER.

alternative to watching that shit: football season is a good time for you and all of the lipstick lesbians in your life to try EVERY SINGLE BRUNCH SPOT IN THE CITY. bitches want to roll out of bed at 1130 on a sunday morning with a balmy breeze wafting through the open window across the room while they slip on maxidresses and giant, face-obscuring sunglasses then sit for three motherfucking hours on the patio at southport grocery. while i stand there waiting for them. because it's busy. BECAUSE IT'S SPRINGTIME. bitches love eating quiche outside on seventy-degree sunday afternoons. what they don't love is slogging through a foot of grey slush to try the breakfast punch at carriage house. every hotspot in the city that has a three hour goddamned wait in early may has a three minute wait in the middle of december. so go to there. eat all of the fancy things. it's fucking cold here, man. you're not going to meet shit.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? ABSOLUTELY NOT, unless you are a woefully underdressed, comically large-breasted female server whose massive tits are propped up with the help of a tray of hot wings and pints of cold beer and the source of all her motherfucking tips.

SOCCER, in three relatively easy sentences: come again? what’s that now?

alternative to watching that shit: ANYTHING ELSE YOU COULD EVER POSSIBLY DO. in 2010, when the fifa world cup was in south africa and in a weird surge of homeland pride black people in america pretended to give a fuck about soccer for five minutes, i went to a bar with my manfriend at the time to take in a match. what? i'm receptive! i'm into new and exciting experiences! i like going places with bass on draft!!! anyway, after ten minutes of watching sweat-slicked brazilians slamming themselves into the burly dutch dude was like, "put your book away, we're going to a movie." now was that closed-minded gorilla just being an uncultured neanderthal? of course he was. but was i really trying to see inception for the fourth glorious time? you bet your sweet little dick i was. besides, i'm dumb. AND I'M FROM AMERICA. if there isn't a talking dog on it or it isn't made from fresh creamery butter we're not interested, thank you very much.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? PROBABLY. who the fuck watches soccer?!