Tuesday, July 30, 2013

call me maybe.

shit, i'ma need to restock my business cards soon. i give those bitches out to errrrbody. i learned two key pieces of information from that mostly useless black woman's dating bootcamp class my white friend jill and i went to last year: 1 oxytocin is real and incredibly dangerous, rendering my tiny little womanbrain a helpless slave to biology; and 2 every woman should carry business cards bearing little more than a working email and an artfully-crafted pseudonym. i'm not sure of much else she told us (the only two women to sign up for her excruciating three-hour seminar), but i do remember this: try not to show more than two sexy body parts at one time (heaven forbid he get a glimpse of my sexy ass elbows) and never ever pick up your phone to call a man.

it's never the dude you want to call you who actually does. that sweaty asshole who kept breathing his hot mouth all over the side of your neck? that dude is going to call you before you even leave the goddamned bar. but the mellow dude with the slow smile and the large, calloused hands whose volunteer after school literacy slash program adorable abandoned puppy rescue that you actually would like to hear more about (because he's obviously sensitive and totally your soulmate and you would absolutely love to volunteer hosing down kennels to help him out sometime)? no, that dude is calling next week. or next month. or probably never. which is totally fine because you hate reading things and you didn't want to clean up puppy shit anyway. dick.

except it isn't fine, because GAH WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH PLEASE CALL ME AND VALIDATE MY HOLLOW EXISTENCE. or something like that. i went to a thing last week, the kind of grown up fancy shoe meet people at this thing kind of thing that i usually 100% avoid because there are no snacks, and while i was milling around bored with a glass of wine i couldn't tell you shit about pretending to be interested in art deco jewelry (i ain't, tho), this handsome piece of brisket sidled up to the mannequin i was trying to instagram a photo with and asked me if i needed some assistance. tangent: i fucking hate when a motherfucker interrupts my artfully-posed selfie. listen, bruh, there are 39 other people bored shitless in this gallery. if i needed someone to take my picture wrong (including all of my delicate meatbeard at its least flattering angle while neglecting to crop out the top part of my awkwardly grown-out mohawk which has been looking super gnarly lately), I WOULD HAVE ENLISTED THEIR HELP. resisting the urge to reply, "yeah homie, i could use a little ASS-sistance. wocka wocka," while elbowing him softly in the ribs and dancing a little softshoe, i instead pretended to be shy and embarrassed.

i don't really listen when a man speaks because most of the shit he's saying you can just find out from a glance at his linked in profile, so i just stared right at his mouth like a fucking weirdo and nodded every time he took a breath. he talked for fifteen solid minutes about banking and something called residual interest (snooze) and when it was finally my turn to talk i said, "the most excruciating thing in my life is impatiently waiting with my finger on the lid of the ramen cup for the two minutes it takes the hot water to cook it." I AM A MASTER OF CONVERSATION. who the fuck cares what i do for a living? i mean, do you really want to get tipsy at a jewelry show and talk about my job? we have one maybe two hours together, and you want to spend it talking about vector-borne diseases in dogs? f that s. i'm not buying any $475 earrings, so let's just crack jokes and talk about regular shit until it's time to go home. that noodle talk loosened my man right the fuck up. within no time at all he was talking about his scaly back eczema while i had moved on to why i hate tampons. KISMET.

i still don't give a shit about getting laid. dinner, though: jam. someone with a penis to go to these fall weddings i just got invitations to so i don't have to rent a car and drive myself: party. a dude to help me bring this new bed i'm getting into the elevator and up to my apartment: rock. (and also to help throw out the old one but that hopefully goes without specifying.) so when dude asked for my card and then upon looking it over asked me to write my number on the back i was excited in a "man, i hope you have a valid driver's license" way. and my vulva might have fluttered a little bit, but that was probably because i farted through them or something. ugh, burritos.

i didn't take his proffered card because i cannot be trusted not to embarrass myself on some hot dude's voicemail, so i instead shook his hand really firmly and waved for what would surely be a thirty dollar cab home from the west loop because i didn't want him to watch me limping down the block to the el. MY LIFE IS SO DUMB. in commercials and television movies it's always really sexy and exciting when some attractive gentleman in a suit watches a woman walk away after having just been blown away by her encyclopedic knowledge of WWE wrestlers, but real life is decidedly less so when that spellbinding woman is lurching along muttering obscenities under her breath. i don't really ever call anyone since texting became a thing. but if i need something or have something to say or really want to know if that dude has a tuxedo for this fancy wedding nothing on earth is worse than waiting for a goddamned phone call. and i refuse to wait for another phone to ring ever again. NOT DOING THAT. 

so gentlemen, the following is the sequence of events that takes place after a woman gives her telephone number to a prospective paramour who appears to have asked for it because he has at least a glimmer of sexual interest in her, whether she wants it to or not:

day one
 all her fucking friends know. ALL OF THEM. well, at least most. and they've heard what you were wearing and what kind of drink you were drinking and exactly how you introduced yourself. they've heard about "the ask" at least five times apiece. they giggle and squeal despite being filled with venomous jealous rage as she regales them, yet again, with the tale of how your eyes locked on hers as she got into the cab to go home.

day two she knows it's too early to really freak out, so she just casually checks her phone throughout the day. like, every half hour. "that's not really a lot, is it?" she asks herself while hooking up her charger because she's checked her voicemail so many goddamned times that the battery went dead. you know, because sometimes the little icon never shows up even though she totally has messages waiting. (no, that never happens. BUT IT TOTALLY COULD I HAVE SPRINT AND SOMETIMES THE TOWERS ARE WEIRD OKAY. i mean "she." she has sprint, tower weirdness, etc. pffffft.)

day three she's panicking a little. she calls her work phone from her cell phone to make sure it dials out. and, for good measure, she calls her cell phone from her work phone. because, you know, sometimes her ringer doesn't really work and it's totally possible that she missed your call despite the fact that she has been staring at that phone willing to ring for the past three goddamned days.

day four now she's panicking A LOT. but it's cool because she and the girls are getting together for drinks after work, and after three appletinis katie and kelsey totally convinced her that you're just shy. or scared. or you're swamped at work. or your dog got sick. or your grandmother died suddenly. see?! you still like her, you're just TOTALLY BUSY.

day five FULL ON CRAZY. not only is she checking her phone approximately every nineteen seconds, but she's thinking about dropping by the gallery where she met you just in case you lost her number and have been hanging out there waiting to run into her again. her confidence that you're just "waiting for the right time" because you "want the first phone call to be absolutely perfect" and you're "thinking of the right thing to say" has plummeted, and it's just now dawning on her that maybe you didn't really like her that much and only asked for her number because she was blocking the best spot at the bar. also, even if you do find her number at this point it's almost saturday and her friends told her it's unacceptable to make a date for the weekend any later than wednesday of the week preceding. i mean, what does she look like? A TOTAL SLUT?!

day six omg it's the weekend again. it's the weekend, and you haven't called. obviously you noticed her large pores and inadequate eyelashes in the near-pitch black of the disco and decided to go out with someone skinnier and prettier instead. god, why would anyone ever want to talk to someone with so much cellulite anyway? she totally should've started working out months ago. it doesn't matter anyway since she's so ugly and unloveable. ICE CREAM PAJAMA ROMANTIC COMEDY MARATHON TIME.

day seven what would happen if she wrapped a huge scoop of cookie dough in a slice of pepperoni pizza, dipped it in potato chips, and washed that down with a handle of bourbon?

years of staring at my phone for hours on end JUST IN CASE I MISS SOMETHING has taught me that after three days shit's pretty much dunzo, save for the occasional two-weeks-after-i-met-him-and-he-just-remembered-having-met-me-because-he-is-a-thoughtless-asshole-and-was-probably-banging-some-other-broad-anyway dude. and your self-esteem really has to be at a sub-basement level to fuck the two week dude. i'm not there. YET. and once this horrifying realization hits a girl she often goes through a vagina version of the kubler-ross five stages of grief model:

1 DENIAL "he probably lost my number, but it's cool. i could tell he had a pre-paid and that broke motherfucker probably ran out of minutes." "i didn't really want to date a dude who still uses a yahoo email address, anyway." 

2 ANGER "man, FUCK THAT GUY. i'm totally fucking hot. he's obviously an idiot." "life is so fucking unfair. if that dumb bitch i went to high school with can fill my facebook feed with that guy she's banging, shouldn't i be able to get some too?!" "i could tell from his shoes he's a high maintenance asshole. did he also say he was vegan? get out forever, thanks."

3 BARGAINING "i'm totally going to use that stretch mark cream i bought two years ago if he would just FUCKING CALL ME."

4 DEPRESSION "life sucks, dating is stupid. why even bother trying?" "i should start working out. wait, i should get surgery. no, i should work out and get surgery. god, i'm hideous." "no one is ever going to want to bang someone with this much armpit hair. i'm taking down my okcupid profile."

5 ACCEPTANCE "i'll be fine. seriously, i'm good. now pass me the fried milky way and double stuf oreo spicy chili tortilla chip kielbasa casserole. i'm also going to need some ranch to dip  in, thanks."

so he left me a voicemail yesterday? asking if i wanted to talk more about "a
 savings program for individuals to which yearly tax-deductible contributions up to a specified limit can be made?" in other words, THIS DUDE CALLED ME TO TALK ABOUT MY MOTHERFUCKING RETIREMENT PLAN. here's hoping that's a euphemism for his making a hefty deposit into my (p)assbook. probably not, tho. maybe i should call him and find out.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

hey, nice tits.

if we are attracted to each other and got into a steamy situation and you took off my bra and saw a HUGE birthmark on my whole left breast down to my ribs is it going to turn you off? even if it is just a one night stand? this thing bothers me a lot. i'm scared that no man could ever want to have sex with me.

if i was a man and you and i were in a steamy situation and you let me take your bra off i would think TITTIES TITTIES OMG BOOBS TITS BREASTS JUGS JUGS CANS TITTIES TRY NOT TO CUM TOO SOON BRO TITTIES IN MY MOUTH NOM NOM NOM BOOBS. have you ever seen a dog food commercial? those assholes don't come bounding over to the food bowl, skid to a cartoonish halt, then stop to read the label on the bag to make sure that shit is made from 100% organic venison meat with no artificial flavors or added preservatives. NO SIR THEY DO NOT. they instead start wagging and salivating and then those motherfuckers just start GOING OFF. kibbles and bits splattering everywhere. om nom nom gromph. i wish i could show you my weird, long national geographic tits without getting kicked off the fucking internet. basically, here's what they look like: three or four different shades of light to medium brown, speckled with moles and hair follicles, giant wrinkly areolas with the tiniest human nipples you've ever seen (seriously i have cat nipples), an old bite mark that never properly healed, and probably other weird stuff that i can't even see underneath them. THEY ARE SO GNARLY. and who the fuck ever wants to see gnarly fucking tits? i'll tell you who: anyone i've ever had sex with. maybe if i took my shirt off in the middle of target some dude might walk by and say, "bitch, you need surgery," but never in the history of ever has anyone confronted in a dark, sweaty room with my weird (read: perfectly goddamned normal) boobs run screaming for the exit. i have a giant red birthmark on my belly that i don't even bother to mention! and if anyone asks about it i say, "THAT'S AIDS" real loud and dare him to overreact. the hard part is over, sister. once he's naked in your bedroom the rest should be cake. CAKE IN A DOG BOWL.

my boobs are literally running away from each other! i'm a C cup and the space between them is like the freakin' grand canyon. i feel like a train could pass between them. my bf's never seen me naked and i'm really scared of his reaction (i also have stretch marks). i've always been insecure about my body, to the point of hating it.

i want to know how i can get away with never being naked in front of someone i'm dating. is that even a real thing?! i always end up with those dudes who are like, "NO T-SHIRT" when i show up at bedtime wearing my sex outfit: my cracked house glasses, a grease-spotted v-neck t-shirt that i am actively taste-testing old crumbs off of (when did i last have a gyro?), and the biggest panties i can fucking find. where are the "just slide your pajama pants to your knees and mute the real housewives for seven minutes" dudes? I'M HERE FOR YOU.

i'm 18 and only one guy has seen me naked. he made negative comments about my body and said that i have "boy tits." i recently met a new guy who i would like to be intimate with and although he compliments my body a lot, i can't help but start crying every time we try to do anything. my repulsive body is making it hard to change this. help?

oh man, being young is hard. SO FUCKING HARD. if i ever make enough money to do something for anyone other than myself i am going to start one of those "it gets better" campaigns for teenage girls. i don't want dan savage to sue me so i'ma have to call it some shit like "everyone is fucking disgusting" or whatever, but i'm doing it. when you're a kid you haven't seen enough weathered, scar-ravaged regular bodies to know that the beastly meat carcass you've had the misfortune of being saddled with is equally horrifying as everyone else's. that's right, when the only naked flesh you've ever seen has been on primetime television and in the pages of magazines some jagoff can say something like "boy tits" to you and ruin your entire fucking life. because you think everyone on earth is beautiful and perfect except you. seriously, i grew up thinking that me and roseanne were the only fat people in america. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. in ten years, after some dude has knocked his hairy, sweat slick belly and ankle-grazing testicles against your forehead while slamming his flaccid little tubesteak repeatedly into your mouth while trying to point out your back acne, you will have the last goddamned laugh. and it will sound like that boy tits guy whimpering in his doctor's office while begging  for viagra. insecure assholes engage in emotional terrorism like this; STOP CRYING AND PAY HIM NO ATTENTION. i hope that dude gets skull-fucked by a bear.

why do guys like playing with women’s breasts and nipples so much? i mean, they aren’t the ones feeling anything, the women are. i find it amazing, but other than pleasing me, what’s the appeal?

OTHER THAN PLEASING ME. FULL FUCKING STOP. what kind of selfish pieces of shit have we been letting prolapse our rectums and infect us with crabs?! now that i'm in my thirties and smart, i no longer bang dudes who don't ask me what my sex jam is and then do it until i push them off of me because catfish is about to come on. when i was a dumb kid i would let dudes get away with only having their favorite type of sex because i was terrified that they'd be like, "take what you can get, ugly." so then i'd end up spending two hours trying to arrange myself comfortably in a reverse cowgirl and pretending that shit felt good. NO MORE. now i'm just like, "you have to lick my asshole for as long as i want and then maybe i'll touch your balls for thirty seconds." and if that doesn't work GTFO. isn't it nice to have a man actually want to do things just for your benefit? follow up question: is it really so hard to believe that he might actually enjoy doing it just because?! IMAGINE THAT. i hate this sitcom idea that every woman is angrily conceding to give up her once a month blowjob and that every man is grudgingly eating us out every time we get a little bitchy. like giving head is akin to getting waterboarded or whatever. some people actually enjoy sucking a dick, okay?!

why don't guys listen to me? they always look at my breasts or my ass and its really REALLY annoying!

please help: how is a gentleman looking at your ass while you are carrying on a conversation with him? do conversation starters only come to you while bent over in doggystyle? or do you have one of those, as mos def referred to them, asses so fat that you can see it from the front? even if you do, i'm sure it's mostly hipmeat and side thigh. here's the thing, tho: you should probably try to be more interesting. GO READ SOME SHIT.

what will happen if a guy sucks a girl's tits? does the size of the boobs increase?

here's a secret: if i had to pick one and only one sex act to be on the receiving end of for the rest of my natural life THIS WOULD BE IT. some strapping, handsome pound of beef on his knees suckling my tits for a few minutes is hands-down my only necessary sex. I'M OVER PENETRATION. my soulmate, in addition to being understanding that having his own house that i don't ever have to clean is a total dream come true, will also understand that phone sex and nipple clamps are almost as good as actually being in the same room. actually, it will probably smell better and be way less whiny and annoying, especially if his sheets don't look that clean. i can't see your dirty bed linens through the phone, bro! now tell me which hole you want to put it in! i'm not a fucking scientist, but i'd say from personal experience that the only thing that increases from having your boobs in some hot stud's mouth is the size of your orgasm. i can't even write about this anymore, i'm getting too turned up. IT'S THE BEST. TAKE MY WORD FOR IT. BUY NEW BRAS IF YOUR TITS GROW. WORTH IT FOREVER.

can guys feel a girl's boobs when they hug? is that why guys are always giving me hugs? also, what's the deal with a side hug. those are awful.

the christian side hug solely exists so you don't feel a dude's boner pressed into your understomach when he hugs you because he can feel your tits. you know what a mess my life would be if i had a goddamned penis? if my dick got hard with the same frequency my pussy gets wet motherfuckers would throw my ass in prison for sure. and i would deserve it, because i would just be walking around the grocery store in yoga pants with a raging boner poking out the eyes of waist-high children. if a good-looking bus driver smiles at me for a second too long my vulva swell up like a pilsbury grand biscuit in a pre-heated oven by the time i reach my fucking seat. HOW THE FUCK DO YOU DUDES DO THIS. if a dude full frontal hugs me for more than ten seconds i have to excuse myself to soak up my engine's leaking motor oil with a fistful of paper towels, but at least no one can see that shit. if i was a dude i'd be on some kind of watch list. i would have zipper burn on my shaft 99.8% of the time. monday morning i woke up from this excruciatingly vivid dream in which i was thisclose to getting oral from chiwetel ejiofor and that shit fucked my whole day up. i apologize to anyone who had the misfortune of running into me yesterday, because no that was not a roasted salmon you were smelling. MY VAGINA WAS ON FIRE. but, because she's tucked inside, you couldn't see her. bullet, dodged.

how much should i try to be myself before i just give up and get some nice tits?

a couple months ago i was absentmindedly digging in my nose while sitting on a bench at the park adjacent to the beach just down the street from my apartment when i was approached by a reasonably attractive young man. it was six-thirty in the morning and i had just completed my leisurely mile walk around the bike path; i like to go for a little morning constitutional before spending the rest of the day lying under the air conditioner eating snacks. anyway, i was dressed like a stylish hobo who marginally cares about her physical fitness, not the kind of person you'd really stop and talk to while out exercising your purebred viszla puppies. especially not when she is extracting bloody mucus clots from her faceholes. i have allergies, man. IT CANNOT BE HELPED. anyway, i'm coughing up chunks of green shit when this dude walked past and smiled while making ALL OF THE EYE CONTACT. shameless, despite being covered in pink snot, i cleared my throat and said, "cute dogs." his smile broadened. "thank you!" he beamed, turning to walk away. after approximately an eighth of a second he glanced back at the bench where i was wrestling a particularly stubborn bat out of the cave. "hey, nice tits." DUDE, FUCK BEING INTERESTING. titties are everything.

Friday, July 12, 2013

man, i can't fucking wait to get married.

somebody bring me something borrowed, please. because, if these dummies i call my friends are to be believed, your wedding is the perfect opportunity to make a wishlist of all the fancy shit you've ever so much as glanced at in the housewares department at bloomingdale's and somehow never managed to buy even though you are FORTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD. then you get to send that shit to bitches you've known for eight months max with a straight fucking face? FUCK OUTTA HERE. your cousin invited me to her wedding in a few weeks, and here are my choices for what's left on the registry, all courtesy of our friends at tiffany.com (fuck this bitch oh my god): elsa peretti bone candlestick in crystal, $250 apiece; leaf platter in bone china, $175; the riedel ultra decanter, $240; lotus cake serving set, $335; jardin bread and butter plate in hand-painted limoges porcelain, $400. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. you read that right. four hundred dollars for a plate the size of my palm that you serve motherfucking butter on. i am obviously in the wrong business.

LAST TIME I ATE AT THIS BITCH'S HOUSE SHE SERVED ME A HOT DOG IN A PLASTIC CUP. bun and everything, because this trifling motherfucker didn't have a single usable bowl or so much as a goddamned paper towel to offer me. so now all of a sudden you need something called a “bread and butter plate?” and that goddamned plate is going to set some poor, unsuspecting well-wisher back four hundred goddamned dollars?! this is why i’m not nice. because nice people want to see you happy. nice people like to imagine the incandescent smile spreading across your glowing newlywed face as you lift the robin’s egg blue lid from the box containing your delicate plates, worth a staggering $1600 for a set of four, to gaze upon their lovely, hand-painted surfaces. nice people will be satisfied with that tiny scrap of cardboard you scribbled on and called a thank you note. but not me, because i am just not that nice. bitches like me need to be invited over the minute you crazy kids get back from bali or wherever you spent your honeymoon so i can watch you use that sferra duvet i had to spend two weeks selling my ass to be able to buy. bitches like me need to wipe our asses with toilet paper from that $135 chrome toilet paper holder we had shipped to your apartment from europe because we couldn't afford that and the plane tickets to your destination wedding in hawaii.

now don't get me wrong: I LOVE FANCY SHIT. i also love wasting money. so fucking much. and if i knew i could get somebody else to waste theirs buying me a bunch of dumb shit i would've married the first dude i ever slept with. and we would totally be divorced by now, but at least i'd have a $375 set of simon pearce dover flutes to keep me company in my custom italian bed linens. MARRY ME, SOMEONE. i need a car and a new computer and i'm tired of my towels. i need to make an appointment with the dentist to get a cavity filled (i can register somewhere for that, yes?) and a new piano. i have been holding out on getting internet at home but if i send you an email with the details you have to pay for it for me, correct? because after a long and arduous debate i've finally decided to start paying some cow for her curdled milk? that's worth a pair of orthotic inserts, easy. i have pretty bowls from anthropologie and four matching sets of silverware from CB2, so you ain't gotta worry about all that. i don't need a sterling silver cake server, nor do i have use for a tea press or a juice extractor. what i need you to do is order me a merry maid or pick up the bill at the laundry service.

i grew up poor, so all of my wedding fantasies were depressingly realistic. when i was a kid i wrote a short story about a prince charming whose only special characteristic was paying the goddamned light bill on time. my childhood was fucking bleak, bro. if i ever try to make a dating profile on the internet ever again that shit is going to say, "looking for: some who enjoys allagash black and isn't forced by poverty to mix water into the dregs of the handsoap bottle. also, BUYS HANDSOAP." ugh, can i just throw a wedding for myself? i'm still poor, my dude. sort of? basically whenever the thought of a wedding crosses my tiny little brain i am flooded with anxiety thinking about how bitches spend $20 a person on place settings alone and how there are 3,279 people i would be salty if i couldn't invite. my parents got married at the justice of the peace and then threw a tasteful dinner party afterward; couldn't i just make an amazon wishlist then have you dudes meet me at las cazuelas for a garden party taco and gift exchange? seriously, i promise to register at walgreens and target.

if i ever get married i am going to wear high-waisted relaxed fit pants and a pair of broken-in new balance 574s. and giant, giant underpants. big cotton panties that cover my whole ass and can be pulled all the way up to my tits and don’t rip my pubes out every time i take a motherfucking step. i’m going to wear all black, because i’m 33 now and not a virgin and there will be some sort of liquid cheese spread or dip at this motherfucking wedding and white stains too goddamned easily. i will not wear any sort of structural garment, because you can't fit cake in a motherfucking spanx. there will be a top shelf open bar, bags of chips on the table instead of centerpieces because all people want to do at a wedding is dance and fucking eat, and 90s JAMS ONLY. if you can't tell me who teddy riley is, you are not allowed to come to my fucking party. please deposit my $280 faux leather clothes hamper at the gift table then kindly see yourself out. THE REST OF US HAVE CHEESE SPREAD TO EAT.

i'ma have to be RUL RELAXED and ENJOY MYSELF at my vagina's retirement party. because i don't want to teeter around all night starving half to death with my stomach bound like chinese baby girl feet at a fancy soiree that cost me half a year's goddamned salary, and then spend the rest of my life teabagging the same salty pair of balls. i mean fine, whatever, it's what you have to do, but i just can't imagine doing it the day after i had to dip my chin(s) and smile for 742 corny staged photographs while all the rest of my friends got drunk and giggled. i'm not getting a photographer, and there will be no video. you hoes better do what you can trying to instagram this sweaty meatbeard, because i am going to have a hoodie on and i will be avoiding you. you can take a picture of this lobster roll as it enters my face, then put your fucking phone down and meet me on the  dance floor.

so i officiated my first wedding a few weeks ago, and it was amazing. amazing-ish, as i am a dumb ox who is incapable of properly holding a thing together or being prepared in the least fucking bit. as you can tell from the picture, the weather totally cooperated and i didn't do anything really fucking stupid like drop something and spill my tits all out of my dress while trying to pick it up. i also didn't almost ruin the whole thing by forgetting the fucking rings, nor did i struggle to figure out how to properly set the glass on the ground so ted didn't dislocate his fucking ankle while stomping on that shit for good luck, and i really really didn't write my speech the morning of and print it out at work so i could read it off totally conspicuous white copy paper. what a goddamned mess.

you can't be mad, though. okay first of all, in my defense, i was a little drunk. i had a small glass of old wine that had been sitting on my counter for a couple weeks to take the edge off before i left the house. then when we got to the place someone handed me a whiskey and refusing proffered alcohol is downright rude. second, i was really fucking nervous. because bitches is all, OUR ENTIRE MARRIED LIFE'S HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON THIS DAY BEING ABSOLUTELY PERFECT and that is a lot of goddamned stress for one idiotic person. and i couldn't eat because i didn't want to shit, so that booze went unfilitered right into my bloodstream. also, so much sweating in my overpriced formal dress. GAH, fuck summer in the butt.

and i know what you're thinking: someone let your salty, single ass officiate the most loving, joyful day in her life?! and i thought that shit, too. seriously, the first draft of my speech was like "hate hate jealous hate fuck you everyone goodnight." fortunately for them i decided not to go with that. in the end, here is a part of what i said, try not to keel over with lovefeelings: 

it is an honor to be here to serve these two amazing people in this capacity, and i am humbled at having been able to bear witness to love that exists in this way. we all are incredibly lucky to exist in the presence of such aspirational love. cara and ted have taught me both how to receive expansive, unconditional love and how to give it in a way that makes the recipient feel like the only star in the sky. the way they love me makes me want to be a better person, and the way they love each other makes me want to burn down the houses of every person i have ever dated. (HUGE, UPROARIOUS LAUGHTER AT THIS LINE) i’m totally serious. i have sent quite a few nasty text messages after listening to these dudes cooing at each other all day. if you think it’s an act, which i thought at first because i am a hater, i want you to know that i stay at their house for weeks at a time because my apartment is hot and i refuse to pay for wi-fi and these jerks really are writing love notes on the toilet paper and feeding each other salad and all sorts of other gross romantic shit. their love is generous, and accepting. it is formidable, yet yielding. their love is nurturing, and indelible. it is a warmth that envelops you from the first second you feel it. their love is passionate and sexy and all-encompassing. it is a joyful, beatific thing; an inspiration to anyone fortunate enough to be touched by it. their love is a house, and that house is a home. and once you’re in it, they keep you forever.

well look at me not being the most terrible little shithead. so sweet it makes your fucking teeth hurt, right? OH GOD I KNOW. and just in case you think i've gone all mushy and romantic, i need to reassure you that i am still a motherfucking G: even though they registered at target, I DIDN'T BUY THESE ASSHOLES SHIT.

Monday, July 8, 2013

regular shit that terrifies me.

1 people of the cta. did you know that any asshole with a fucking flip phone can catch you slipping on the train and, one blurry, pixelated photograph later, use that pre-paid piece of shit to embarrass you in front of the entire internet?! WELL THEY CAN. i didn't even know this was a thing until recently! that my fellow public transporters, innocuous-looking jittery crackheads though they may be, pose a threat to me other than leaving a fabric-covered seat soaked in homeless urine. the first one i ever saw was a dude in an ernie from sesame street costume riding the train while drinking a beer through the eyehole. i was like, "wow, that's hilarious," until i realized that someone he didn't know had taken said picture and uploaded that motherfucker without his knowledge. i immediately glanced up from my phone to make sure that none of the jerks on the purple line had noticed that my ill-fitting bra had created that weird quadra-boob effect and was documenting that shit for internet posterity. i scrolled through several dozen more photos, unsuspecting people caught on public transportation sleeping with their mouths open and wearing inappropriately tiny shorts. and commented on by hundreds of people. i don't have my shit together enough for this to be a thing. sometimes i am on the bus at 640am, dicks. i can't promise i won't fall asleep in a humiliating position or have fifty shades of grey pressed right up to my face, and am i allowed no dignity because of it? now i gotta get up fifteen minutes early to make sure my outfit looks good enough to get jostled next to hobos in?! I HATE THIS LIFE. i'm buying a car.

1a being one of those neck-down cautionary obesity tales unknowingly videotaped while walking through a crowd of average-sized people on a busy downtown street. 
i don't really watch the local news, because 1 i don't give a shit about glenbrook north's varsity football team and 2 the daily show. but i do sometimes catch the teasers for that shit while thoroughly engrossed in the voice, and nothing scares me harder than that loud, booming voice announcing, "DANGER. 1,247 REASONS NOT TO DRINK SODA," accompanied by some stock footage of a bunch of faceless fupas and cinnamon rolls lumbering down a moderately busy downtown street. how do they decide who makes the final cut? is there some special fatness barometer? THIS DRESS FITS WEIRD I SWEAR I'M REALLY TINY. this is why i surround myself with waifs at all times. because if your local investigative news team films this bitch from the neck down i want that shit to be CONFUSING AS FUCK. "wait a second, is this diet coke actually all that dangerous? i mean, those skinny broads look amazing. that fat one should really start drinking soda."

2 leaving my gross ass panties someplace. let me clarify that i don't mean my lacy black sex panties that i accidentally on purpose left behind in some dashing paramour's apartment. i mean getting on the elevator early one morning only to look down and discover that i'd dropped a pair of flag-sized period underwear in the corner while dragging around a mountainous load of laundry half asleep at 730 the night before, and for the twelve hours since my GIANT, RUST-STAINED UNDERPANTS have been riding up and down getting stepped on by all of the fratboys who live in my building. "hey chad, when did management put a doormat in the elevator? that was a fucking good idea, bro." and then these dudes are talking about the absorbency of my weekend panties and shit. THAT IS A TERRIFYING PROSPECT TO ME. you know what else paralyzes me with fear? some asshole in the laundry room pulling my wet clothes from the washer because i was thirty seconds too late getting there. i'm not sure how many units are in my mid-rise building, but there are three goddamned washing machines. THREE. THAT IS ALL. and usually i wash my clothes at dawn on mondays because the kids aren't up yet and mommy can drink her screwdriver and read the newspaper in peace, but sometimes i have to do an emergency load during the week because i only own one pair of nice pants. so on those days, the emergency pants days, i set a timer so that i can be hovering over the washbasin the second the spin cycle finishes. and another for the approximate time the dryer should be done. because standing frozen in the laundry room doorway watching someone struggle to pull the tangled mess of my cat hairy bras out of the dryer is what i imagine hell must feel like.

3 being that jerk with the most shit in the walgreens line. i went to walgreens on a date once. NOT FUCKING KIDDING. dude was like, "want to get a drink this week?" and i was like, "wouldn't you rather come with me to walgreens?" i fucking love walgreens. like, i love it for real. and you can learn so much about a person from his drugstore purchases. why palmolive and not dawn? why name brand hot dog buns but generic toothpaste? are you really looking at the t-shirts with "chicago" emblazoned across the front?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE FROM HERE. if we go to walgreens together, guaranteed i am watching what you put in your basket. and it better be a basket, and not a motherfucking cart, because i don't want to be the bitch with the most shit in line. what makes walgreens the goddamned jam is the same thing that makes it absolutely terrifying: you can go in for a pack of batteries and a bottle of tylenol OR you could spend an afternoon there furnishing your outdoor patio set and modeling snuggies and orthopedic sandals. IT IS A PLACE FULL OF MIRACLES. until you get to the checkout, because there's usually only one bitch old as methuselah who can't see shit and there's no room on the counter for all twelve bottles of motor oil, this month's issue of allure magazine, seventeen cheap-ass lip glosses you are never going to use, and a bag (okay two bags, but ONLY BECAUSE them shits are 2/$1) of peanut butter m&ms. then everyone behind you, all of the courteous people with cars who can buy their bulk toilet paper at target, are all huffing and sighing because grandma can't find the coupon for those extra large overnight maxi pads in the crumpled up sale paper she keeps next to her scanning chair. BITCH, GET SOME $9 MAGNIFYING GLASSES FROM AISLE SIX AND HURRY UP WITH MY SHIT. i am actively sweating right now, louise. i can feel poop starting to come out of my butt because twenty-seven people with better places to be are watching you fumbling around with that box of textured condoms i don't really need. please move it along, these people fucking hate me. and they should. because i am buying flip flops, a garden hose, and a window fan at 5pm on a tuesday and no one is answering your call for a relief cashier. and this dude behind me is never going to go out with me ever again.

4 not recognizing someone from facebook out in public. a few weeks ago i went to st. louis to watch my genius friend lara get her md/phd in neuroscience. THAT BITCH IS HELLA SMART. shit, i can't even correctly count my weight watchers points. remind me to tell you sometime how terrible it is to have incredibly successful friends. anyway, i took the amtrak, because it's cheap and reliable and did you know that they have wi-fi now?! AMAZE. i don't know that i'd spend nineteen days on it trying to get to the west coast (wtf is this shit, oregon trail? MOTHERFUCKING GRAPES OF WRATH?!), but five hours of half-dozing with my mouth open while nursing a stale, lukewarm diet coke isn't so bad for twenty-six measly bucks. i had to be at union station at six-thirty in the goddamned morning, and as i stood in line with my three pairs of underwear shoved next to the chargers in my bag and a starbucks as big as my head (i travel light), i noticed a woman a few feet away holding up her phone and looking from it to me. back to the phone, then back to me. i stood up a little straighter and glanced down to make sure i didn't have visible cameltoe that would soon be documented on the internet like so many shitty halloween costumes and unfortunately small shorts before it. i didn't, and as she slow motion walked over to me to say good morning my brain had this conversation with itself: high school? no, instagram? no, old job? no, current job? no, did i meet her at a party? NO. and then i decided that she was my friend max's little sister, so when she asked, "samantha?" i responded, "HI, SALLY," way too enthusiastically, only for her to correct me that HER NAME WAS LINDSEY and that WE HAD FUCKING MET BEFORE. also, WE ARE FRIENDS ON THE FACEBOOKS. i couldn't even, like, make words come out. nor could i walk away, because we were getting on the same motherfucking train. i just had to STAND THERE and wish to fuck that WE WERE GOING TO DIFFERENT DESTINATIONS because i am the person who will never stop apologizing for fucking your name up and not remembering your birthday and being unable to come up with the last time i saw you even though it was saturday. i am constantly wracked with unnecessary social guilt, and it makes me feel like i am going to throw up and shit myself all at the same goddamned time. i felt like i had been dropped into a boiling vat of oil as i stood there and listened to her tell me about her impending trip to springfield. i was just like, "i'm an asshole, i'm an asshole" over and over until she left. then i studied the shit out of my friends list until we got to joilet. not fucking kidding. this can never happen again.

5 getting the name of the wine wrong. i don't ever order wine; wine is for grownups. case in point: the other night caitlin and i went to this little bistro in north center called troquet. intimidated by the presence of a menu written mostly in french, i shut the fuck up and let her do all of the talking. because i'm stupid for real, i only ordered the things i knew i could pronounce: chicken wings. every time the waiter even so much as glanced my way i would give him a thumbs up and pantomime the signal for "yummy in my tummy" while caitlin was telling dude in french that the wine was the perfect temperature and she had visited the region it had come from several times when she was younger. man, fuck her. I SPEAK TACO.

6 moving walkways. when do you step onto that motherfucker?! like, do you get a running start and then jump on it? do you walk at your regular pace and just step on it all smooth-like? or do you, like me, stand hovering at the edge, clammy and drenched in sweat, anxiously tapping your toe on the moving surface like you're testing the temperature of your bath water, trying to get on that shit without falling and breaking your teeth and nearly missing your fucking flight in the process? i spent so much time negotiating the fucking walkway last time i flew to california that I MADE IT TO THE PLANE 30 SECONDS BEFORE THEY LOCKED THE DOOR. some business traveler finally came along and took my hand and practically dragged me onto the fucking thing, but even once i was on it i was too chickenshit to walk and just stood clutching the rail until i finally tripped and stumbled off. what a fucking mess. now i get to the airport early as hell, and i'm that dummy shuffling alongside the moving walkway while everyone else points and laughs. last time i just shouted, "I'M AMISH, YOU THOUGHTLESS PRICKS" and gave them the finger as i stopped to take a breath because goddamn my flights always leave from the furthest possible gate.

7 middle-aged black women in customer service. this is dangerously close to becoming my real life. every day i punch this clock i feel a little bit meaner, a little bit surlier. sooner or later, after suffering years of crushing disappointment in the form of asshole customers shitting on my positive outlook on a daily basis, my grouchy ass is going to be just like that mean-ass bitch at the bank. the bitch with the attitude at whole foods. the mean-ass bitch at the DMV. the bitch with attitude at petsmart. the mean-ass bitch at the doctor's office. the bitch with the attitude on the other end of the com ed helpline. the mean-ass bitch at directv. the bitch with the attitude in the emergency room. the mean-ass bitch at mcdonalds. the bitch with the attitude at the post office. the mean-ass bitch at the unemployment office. the bitch with the attitude at the 24-hour gas station. the mean-ass bitch at walgreens. I'M SORRY THAT YOUR LIFE DIDN'T TURN OUT THE WAY YOU WANTED IT TO, SHIRLEY. NOW STOP ROLLING YOUR MOTHERFUCKING EYES AND: COUNT MY TOLL CHANGE/STAMP THIS FORM I NEED/NOTARIZE THIS CERTIFICATE/RING UP MY ALCOHOL/GET ME A NEW SOCIAL SECURITY CARD/ENTER MY INFORMATION INTO THE EMERGENCY ROOM DATABASE/PROCESS THIS CLAIM FORM. or whatever it is your motherfucking job to be doing. please and thank you. have a nice day, ma'am.

8 being rejected by a small child. i went to a party last week, an intimate friendgathering in the kind of open loft space that made me crazy nostalgic for urge overkill cassette tapes and reality bites on VHS. i was relaxing in an overstuffed chair with a bulleit and a plate of assorted finger foods that would surely need to be supplemented by a trip through the drive-thru on the way home, when a tiny caucasian person crawled around the table i was sitting at and used the hem of my dress as a napkin. he motioned for me to pick him up, his dimpled midget fingers opening and closing, grasping to get his hands on some of this, and i paused. i love babies. and i have absolutely no problem picking one up. hugging a baby is one of the best feelings you could ever have, second only to that sweet, blissful moment of ecstasy you feel right after a really, really big fucking sneeze. but i didn't know this baby, and what if it was a trap? what if he'd only held his arms out so that he could wail like a motherfucking siren the moment i held him to my tits and buried my face in his baby-scented neck? and then i'm the fucking asshole, that bitch who picked up a stranger's child and MADE HIM FUCKING SCREAM. and you can't just throw the kid down and back away, because HE IS A MOTHERFUCKING BABY. you have to continue to HOLD HIM while he caterwauls in your ear everyone glares in your direction until someone comes and GETS HIM FROM YOU then secretly inspects him for scratch marks or bite wounds or whatever the fuck YOU JUST DID to make her baby cry. i obviously have been burned before. so i was like, "sorry, bro" and tried to pull my dress loose from his tiny, slimy fist but he would not let it the fuck go. i tried to reason with him, "i'm black, kid. they will stone my ass if you decide to set this shit off." but he was just so irresistibly cute. and persistent. already the kind of asshole who won't leave you alone at the club until you agree to dance with him. so i put my bourbon down and scooped that tiny person up, setting him in my lap while i waited for him to turn out just like my last blind date had: with tears. he grabbed a handful of my hair (WHITE PEOPLE) and immediately fell asleep, his warm weight curled up against my belly. i couldn't reach my drink or my snacks, and every time i tried to shift dude around so i could get at my crab cakes he cracked one eye open like, "don't try me, bitch. my mom is right over there at the cupcake table." fine, i'll sober up and starve, as long as you keep shutting the hell up. you is kind, you is smart, and you is important.

9 accidentally showing you the porn on my phone. i don't password protect my phone because 1 i'm fucking lazy and 2 i live alone and can send unlimited pictures of my tits to whoever the fuck i want. so if you ask to borrow my shit feel free. just know you're making that phone call with a side of booty meat and titties. and if you're lucky a shadowy picture of my scaredy cat.