Wednesday, December 24, 2014

christmas is the pits.

HOLD UP, DON'T CHASE THAT HANDFUL OF NORCO WITH A VODKA SODA YET. why not wait until after you've scrolled through nine hundred perfect instagram christmases before you slice your wrists open the long way? (jk don't do either of those things.) christmas is the motherfucking worst. is hanukkah bad? PROBABLY. eight consecutive nights of not getting what you want because life is horrible and nobody loves you!? OY GEVALT. somehow we've wound up at the end of another shitty year, and i don’t know that i am any more depressed december 24-jan 3 than i am on march 8 or july 17 or october 29, but this is definitely the time of year more people text and call reminding me why i fucking should be. “HEY SAM INSTEAD OF COMMITTING SUICIDE WANNA COME TO MY HOUSE AND EAT SOME HAM CUZ YOU AIN’T MARRIED AND YOUR P’S ARE DEAD?” well now that you put it that way, let me put down this noose i was working on and practice smiling while saying, “hi i’m samantha, ____ and i are just friends and i’m totally okay with that” until it sounds like i fucking mean it. jk i’ma for real spend christmas just maxing this cinnabon and watching homeland and trying to wrestle this holiday sweater onto the goddamn cat. because the only thing worse than what’s left of my family is your family. your uncle’s racist jokes make me want to punch that motherfucker in the throat and i don’t understand why there are cornflakes on top of the tuna casserole. i fucking hate that i had to put pants with a zipper on them and take a fifteen-dollar cab to sit in this drafty house and participate in the lie that this grated cauliflower tastes anything like a mashed potato. SIR, I KNOW A POTATO WHEN I SMEAR I CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER ON ONE.

i’m old enough now that people i sat next to while they peed themselves are sending out unironical holiday update letters, and boy does that make me want to die. it’s goddamn adorable when your madre sends me a list of vacations she and her third husband spent drinking wine this past year, but if you cheated off my chemistry final i’m not really trying to read some trite christmas bullshit you wrote in the third person. WHY BECAUSE I AM JEALOUS. oh no, i’m not. if i wanted a toddler, i could’ve made one with jon our freshman year of high school. i want to know how many kids your kid bit in daycare and how bad your hemorrhoids got this year. can we please start doing that? i’ll send you photos of me and helen acting out old episodes of sex and the city (SHE IS SUCH A MIRANDA) and you nerds tell me how your marriage is a sham. in the meantime, christmas newsletter madlibs:


we hope your year has been filled with death and destruction. chicago continues to agree with me and helen; we thought life would slow down as we got older, but perhaps we’re just not capable of any less activity! sam did slow down a bit for a couple weekends and took the dirty-ass amtrak to southwestern michigan, spending long days with a delightful friend in a borrowed lake house because soul-crushing poverty. lounging, reading, exploring, and just being with good friends was a special treat.  too bad about her indentured servitude, otherwise she might be able to get used to this! we hope that life will go on without dying in a fire or hurling ourselves off a cliff in despair. we know that is a challenge at this time in our lives, but we are truly grateful for the terrible fortune and horrible friends that we have and the chance to live in misery most of our days. may your days be as hashtag blessed. please have a painfully average holiday season and a very negative and disappointing 2015!


1 buy yourself some goddamn presents. let’s talk about what we really miss about the holidays of our youths: tumbling out of bed and scampering in your jammies into the warm, tree-lit living room. the tree, which maybe had two or three small boxes under it when you’d gone to bed, is now bursting forth with gifts. mom is smoking a newport over the wafflemaker and you can hear the sizzle and pop of bacon between the strains of all the black christmas songs playing on v103. there are parades to be watched, toys to be inventoried, forgotten batteries to be fetched from the store before it closed at three. then passing out on a heap of wrapping paper before the sun even goes down. 
there was nothing on earth better than ripping the packaging off my new abject poverty barbie and her husband incarceration ken then scripting their fights about money while bathed in the warm, candy-colored glow of the twinkling tree lights. 

the reason christmas sucks as an adult is because motherfuckers are broke or cheap and no one ever buys you a goddamn thing you ever fucking want. i do not understand, in this age of amazon in which we currently live, giving someone a shitty gift. what your thumbs were too tired, my guy? GET AT THAT ITUNES CARD. i would never expect someone to buy me anything i want in real life, because i like overpriced bullshit. but i also like magazines. and cocktails. skip that shitty 3-piece white diamonds gift set you copped in the checkout line at walgreens (perfume!? and lotion!?!? and shower gel!?!?!?!?! WHAT AM I THE PRINCE OF ZAMUNDA!?) and get my bourbon next time i'm falling asleep next to you at the bar. or buy me a big gulp and the sunday times. a double espresso and some nail polish remover. you know, shit i will actually use. next time you're at target grab me a bag of kotex overnights, in jesus name.

my christmas list:

1 a marimekko unikko duvet and shams.
2 a pair of superretrofuture ciccio eyeglasses. 
3 geno's old fancy as fuck tv that he's selling me at a discount.
4 some NEST reed diffusers because i just got one and holy shit my crib smells amazing.
and because i'm my own santa, i ain't gotta justify the price or find it on sale or only get one because that's the polite thing to do. i'ma spend my christmas bonus on seafood and fancy eye cream because that's what oprah would fucking do.

2 get some luxurious motherfucking jammies. i am 34 years old and i just got my very first robe. it’s long and black and made of jersey and is the most glamorous thing i’ve ever owned. seriously, it’s all i wear now. i am a big believer in the power of pajamas. i don’t need to meditate, i just need to put on these soft pants with the busted elastic waistband and this fleece hoodie and bury myself under the duvet for twelve hours. i like asos playsuits and cuddl duds and those slipper socks your boss gives you every christmas because he’s awkward and has no imagination. and the shit doesn’t have to be expensive, all of my inside clothes look like i foraged them from a fucking dumpster.

I HATE LINGERIE. nothing worse than getting trussed up like a pig just to have everything ripped off ten minutes after you struggle to get the shit on. so that's not what i'm talking about. self-care is one of those phrases everyone and their mother is going on about, so let's do that for real. i'ma go to king spa and get, like, four layers of skin sloughed off after sleeping for an hour in the sauna, eat a bunch of kimchi and soondoobu, then slather myself in neutrogena sesame oil. overfeed the cat, snuggle up in my robe, and try not to move until january 3.

3 eat some fatty fucking snacks. gorge on whatever the fuck you want, cutie: cakes, pies, cookies, cakes, muffins, cheeseburgers, more cake. jesus didn't die for you to spend half an hour tabulating calories on his birthday. my girl rosamund and i were having a deep philosophical discussion a couple weeks ago about our favorite lazyperson foods, and dips were the clear motherfucking winner. WHO THE FUCK DOESN’T LIKE DIP.

buffalo chicken dip.

8 ounces cream cheese
1/2 c finely chopped celery
1/2 c hot sauce
1 rotisserie chicken, shredded
1 c crumbled blue cheese

preheat the oven to 425. in a medium saucepan over moderate heat, melt the cream cheese until smooth, about 3 minutes. add the celery, hot sauce, and chicken. mix it up. transfer the mixture to a 9" pie plate and sprinkle the crumbled blue cheese on top. bake until hot and bubbly, about 25 minutes. serve with crackers, bread, or carrot sticks.


white bean dip with herbs.
1/4 c plus 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 garlic cloves, very finely chopped
1 tsp finely chopped sage
1/2 tsp finely chopped rosemary
two 19 ounce cans cannellini beans, drained
2 tbsp water
cayenne pepper

in a medium skillet, heat 1/4 cup of the olive oil until simmering. add the garlic, sage, and rosemary and cook over moderately high heat, stirring, until it smells good as hell and the garlic is just beginning to brown, about 1 minute. (waltz around the kitchen for a few seconds, feeling like a real fucking cook.) add the beans and toss to coat.

transfer the beans to a food processor. (or a blender, if you ain't got one? but really my dude, EVEN I have a cuisinart mini prep. get it together. we grown.) add the water, season with salt and cayenne, then process to a smooth-ish puree. put the dip in a small serving bowl if you're fancy like that, drizzle the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil on top and serve with pita chips.

taco dip because duh.

1 lb ground beef
16 ounce can refried beans
1/2 cup taco sauce
1 tbsp chili powder
1 tsp ground cumin
1 c sour cream
1/4 c chopped onion
1/4 c chopped tomatoes
1/4 c black olives (sliced and OPTIONAL, vomit. )
1/4 c jalapeƱo chilies (rings)
1 + 1/2 c shredded cheddar cheese

preheat oven to 350. in a large skillet, brown ground beef and drain. (gross, i know, but worse if you don't.) add refried beans, spicy taco sauce, chili powder, and cumin. Spread the mixture into a 9" x 13" baking dish. spread sour cream over meat mixture. layer onions, tomatoes, olives (OR NOT), and jalapeƱos over the sour cream. top with the cheese. bake at 350 for 30 minutes. serve with tortilla chips or just suck it off your fingerscoops, you savage. eat until you puke.

4 GET THE FUCK OFF THE MOTHERFUCKING INTERNET. i just got a spam email from a fat people dating website which i opened to find your cousin terrell informing me that he "can handle [my] love handles.” why yes, kind gentlefellow, let us get married posthaste. i gotta get the fuck off the internet, b. at least until all of the nuclear family gathered under the tree unexpected marriage proposal lose your first ten pounds for free ads are safely off my timeline and you kids stop filling my newsfeed with your 2014 retrospectives. I'M NOT CLICKING THAT SHIT. besides, i already know what you did this year: posted some boring articles, took a couple buzzfeed quizzes when that was still a thing, and changed your profile picture 137 times. bring on the new year.

the internet is a beast, man. and if you are a lonely little poinsettia this time of year you have to get off it for a few days or you will hurt yourself. first off, everyone is dumb. second, we are living in spectacularly shitty times, which makes the internet NOT FUN AT ALL. and that would be okay if everyone we knew on facebook was a measured individual of reasonable intelligence. BUT THEY ARE NOT. easier said than done, for sure, but that's why i have a plan:
-read some good shit. so i have a bunch of shit lined up to read over the next couple weeks. HOLIDAY BOOK CLUB, WHAT:
"boy, snow, bird" by helen oyeyemi.
"tigerman" by nick harkaway.
"a brief history of seven killings" by marlon james.
three is a reasonable enough number, yeah? i hate being mocked when i aim too high and fail.

-relax while listening to some tunes. i like to make a playlist to listen to while lying around pretending i never have to go back to work. i hate christmas movies, always have. if i want to bawl my eyes out i'll go over my bank statements, thanks. christmas eve i like to put fresh sheets on the bed then lie splayed across the whole thing while dozing on painkillers and brooding to some smooth emo jams. click here for this year's winter mixtape.

-marathon the shit out of some television programs. now that serial is over (GET AT ME, ADNAN) and sons of anarchy is gone forever (welp) i have a little free time to devote to becoming wholly consumed with some new shit. maybe damages? orphan black!? help me, netflix!

-WRITE A FUCKING BOOK. did you read meaty? if not, what the fuck are you waiting for!? have you just been rul busy? OR DO YOU FUCKING HATE ME. go get it. anyway, i'm writing another book. and the shit is due to my editor june 15. which is kind of really soon. not really but really. january will drag on, so i can probably get a lot done then, but i spend the entire month of february celebrating my birthday so that's gonna fly by. (party at red lobster, details forthcoming.) what happens in march, college basketball? snooze, so i guess i can write then. april will be warm enough to make excuses not to be in the house, and even though i hate being outside i hate doing work even more. may flowers, gotta smell 'em, then boom: JUNE BOOK DEADLINE. you guys will have to wait a year for book two, though. in the meantime, stuff your stocking with the first one.
5 donate some money or time. but probably money. oh, i know. helping people is v v boring. I HATE IT, TOO. but you know what’s an easy way to be a decent person? donating some of your movie popcorn money to places that do good work. listen, i used to volunteer and maybe if you’re not the kind of person who cries all the time you can too, but i cannot put on another mesh bonnet to use an ice cream scoop to feed adult persons meatless spaghetti ever again in my life. one can only do so much useless sobbing. at first i thought it was gonna rage, that i would be infused with the spirit of loving kindness and float away from that church basement on a cloud of goodwill. but in reality i had to be scrubbed down and sanitized then covered in plastic to shovel slabs of cornbread dressing until my back hurt while pretending not to be worried about where i’d last seen my purse. so now i just give money. it absolves me of some guilt while also being easy on my knees and lower back. last week i fucking gave half my paycheck to the aspca because they have a new commercial featuring sad ass kittens and pitbulls left to starve out in the goddamn cold. i could barely give the woman on the phone my debit card number i was crying so much, and she reassured me in her kindest dealing with an unstable human voice that my generous donations were going to help so many unfortunate little animals. then i got to hang up without getting bitten or shit on. and that's worth 18 cents a day for real.

GOOD LUCK, EVERYBODY. if you're having a rough time just think about how many assholes have to choke down their mother-in-law's gross jello mold while sitting on a plastic-covered sofa, then look around your empty studio and know that you've made the better choice. you're in your soft clothes, warm taco dip is churning through your guts at a breakneck pace, and you haven't incurred any monumental credit card debt trying to appease children who are either going to murder you in your sleep or make a living sliding down a stripper pole in ten years anyway. bah humbug, you herbs.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

winter beauty tips for the slovenly and unkempt.

head. when i was a kid, my "lipstick" was a reddish-brown eye pencil my mother, who dyed her hair fire engine red every four weeks without fail, used to draw on the eyebrows that had fallen out never to return when she was pregnant. i would trace my lips with the pencil and fill them in as much as i could without wearing it down so much that she would notice, then dab a little vaseline on to make it shiny. i would also pat some of her heavily perfumed oil of olay cream on my cheeks and eyelids because listen, i'm motherfucking luxurious, b.

i'm not going to go into a whole thing about how growing up poor turns you into a ravenous, insatiable hoarder of nice things once you get enough money for an apartment and the occasional double cheeseburger. BUT IT'S TRUE. my very first paycheck was probably 70% rent and 30% mac lipglass. winter is a rough time of year to try and be cute. maybe if you live in malibu it's possible for you? but those of us in the heartland just resign to bundling up and dragging our chapped lips and ashy hands out to olive garden  for some fancy spaghetti every once in a while until the tundra thaws out enough to put an open-toed shoe on. when it's balls cold outside this is how we dress: warm tights, socks, giant boots, pants, base layer shirt, thin sweater over that, gross outside hoodie over that, puffy warm coat that is too hot to even put on in your steamy, radiator-heated apartment, hat, scarf, mitts: it's like wearing a motherfucking space suit in real life. i'm surprised anyone can stand upright while trying to get the bus to work. so i'm not gonna be worried about getting my lipstick right when the avalanche i gotta walk through will just rinse the shit off my face. but i do have to keep a job.

i have Very Specific Hair. which is not to say that my hair is more moody and petulant than anyone else’s, it’s just the kind of hair that when bitches on the train is like, “girl, what do you use!?” i gotta sigh and be all, “HOW MUCH TIME YOU GOT.” so, if you are a yeasty little beast and have gross, scaly seborrhea crawling from under your bangs down into your unruly eyebrows, i rotate jason tea tree shampoo on my barefoot chai recycling plastic bottle days and head and shoulders dry scalp care with almond oil on my mcdonald’s drive thru styrofoam hummer days. and once a week i wide tooth comb some 99 cent suave conditioner through my hair to get the big knots out? ugh i’m lying. once a month, maybe. i have read all of the curly hair blogs about co-washing and sulphate-free shampoos and conditioners and i tried all that shit but i am scaly and itchy and FUCK THAT. last week i did my yearly under the bathroom sink purge, and found no fewer than 827 bottles of styling creams and 592 tubes of various curl-defining gels. and this is the part of caring for natural hair that becomes a giant toilet into which you flush all of your disposable income: THE SEARCH FOR A STYLING PRODUCT THAT IS JUST A TINY BIT BETTER THAN THE ONE YOU'RE ALREADY USING. because even if you've found a good one, and your curls are lengthened yet defined yet supple yet not crunchy, you are never fully convinced that you are using the very best product you could be. it is the curly hair curse, this neverending quest to find the one product that does everything your hair needs just a little bit better than every fucking thing else. the one product i have stayed married to despite several fleeting affairs (miss jessies! mixed chicks! aveda pomade!) is paul mitchell the conditioner. it's frothy blue elixir from the gods, and if you've seen my hair in real life YOU ALREADY KNOW. also, you can use the shit as body lotion. quit playing.

because i'm your elderly abuelita i use pond's cold cream and moisturizer pretty much every goddamned morning in the winter, because they make your skin feel like gorgeous fried chicken. i wipe the cucumber cold cream all over, dangerously shave my lip hairs in the dark, then wipe it all off with a warm washcloth and slather on the moisture. then i dance around for a minute because you for real cannot let your face touch your shirt with that greasy shit on it. but trust me: after you fight through the congested commuter train out into the throng of hot dads in their biker shorts and clicky shoes blocking the condiment island at starbucks before finally stumbling ten minutes late into work your skin will be the goddamned wave. no ashy spots, so bleeding cracks, just glistening, supple babybutt skin.

i'm going to spend as little time as possible dwelling on the sickness i have when it comes to lipsticks and blushes. in my defense, i do not wear: eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, bronzer, highlighter, luminizer, concealer, face powder, primer, false eyelashes, or liquid foundation. so i promise i will not bore you to death with any of those. yes, i probably have $300 in yves saint laurent lip stains but THEY ARE THE BEST AND I NEED THEM. see also: 1 occ matte lip tar. my jam shades: anime, nylon, hoochie, rollergirl; messy as shit but worth it if you like neon pink lips, except you have to use a brush so ugh. 2 bite beauty high pigment pencil. my jam shades: pomegranate, grapevine, violet; super bright and creamy! i like my shit bone dry, though, so i gotta have 2a bite beauty cashmere lip cream. my jam shades: moscato, sancerre, rioja, port; good color payoff, starts out liquid and dries to a powder finish that doesn't move never ever. THE BIG DOGS: i probably have tried every 3 mac matte lipstick ever produced, and they are almost the perfect ratio of vivid to dry. my jam shades: ruby woo, flat out fabulous, all fired up, dangerous. but the best of the best of the best, my #1 lover, is 4 NARS velvet matte lip pencil. it's bright as shit and dry as fuck and if you see me on the street please know that i have more dragon girl pencils on my person than i do dollars and/or credit cards and/or money in general. like i said, it's a sickness. send help.

shoulders. i’m not going to talk to you about drinking water. i fucking hate that shit, when all you wanna do is read about a bitch’s skincare routine and she’s all, “i just drink eight glasses of water a day and sleep eight hours a night and tee hee lots of sunscreen.” FUCK YOU, BITCH. i could drink 37 glasses of water before lunch and still wake up the next morning with cystic period chin and a nose sprinkled liberally with blackheads. to achieve my picture perfect complexion i rely heavily on three crucial elements: 1 daily exfoliation 2 organic coconut oil and 3 motherfucking instagram. and mac studio fix in C6 if i am feeling like a person who tries. i am supremely lazy. and usually i am already in my pajamas with some incense lit and my night wine, ten pages into whatever i most recently added on goodreads before i remember that i wore a pound and a half of blush to work that day. so i keep a pack of alba good and clean towelettes by the bed because i hate ruining my pillowcases and these have a smooth side and a rough, nubbly side because i’m one of those idiots that feels like if it doesn’t sting or scrape or catch fire then it’s not really working. i keep several exfoliating cleansers in the shower: philosophy microdelivery peel, lush dark angels, and my broke shit: st. ives blackhead clearing green tea scrub. yeah i know they never  go the fuck away, and if you are not a sufferer of the blackhead wrath go kiss your mother on the mouth, because this shit is a nightmare. it’s like the curly hair thing: you already know that what you’re already doing is probably as good as it’s going to goddamned get, yet strolling through the aisles at target you can just hear the new products calling out to you from the shelves, all of the pore strips and the clay masques and the extraction tools. and i get it, man. i’ll be all the way in the cheese section and hear that new motions leave-in calling my name and then before you can say "economy sized box of oreos" i am in the hair aisle contemplating spending $137 on the newest pudding/elixir/lotion/creme to turn these dusty slave knots into silky ringlets. and why do we believe them, these disingenuous candy-colored tubs and tubes!? because that's the real american dream, that if you just work hard and pray, someone will invent a non-sticky gel that stretches a curl and doesn't flake by two in the afternoon.

knees. i'm not going to talk to you about eating better, either. the best skin i have ever had was when i was living on a steady diet of half-thawed toaster strudels and packets of lipton rice mix with approximately 4000mg of sodium apiece; i've had three bushels of kale since monday and my shit is as dull and dry as all of these orangey red leaves strewn all over the sidewalk. COME ON, VITAMINS. i don't fuck with body scrubs because i haven't gotten any handicapped bars installed in my shower yet and i haven't yet tried one that doesn't turn my bathtub into an oil slick. but i would take a cheese grater to my backside if i could. IT MAKES ME FEEL SO CLEAN. so, i improvise. i stand on the bath mat and lather up with bliss hot salt scrub and then rinse off my individual parts without playing slip and slide in the goddamn shower. my broke shit: yes to coconut polishing body scrub. smells like you're in hawaii, which is fine because it's the closest i'll ever get to the beach.

have you ever wondered why there are so many goddamned kinds of lotion? i've decided it's because none of them really works. i'm a sucker for scientific drawings of microscopic lotion drops piercing six layers of epidermis as much as the next guy, but i have never been not ashy after using regular-ass jergens in the dead of winter. i switched to oils a couple years ago, and basically i look like a motherfucking ten year old. my friend michelle uses organic coconut oil, so now my ass uses organic coconut oil. i buy big jars of kelapo from amazon (sorry factory workers) and i use it all over. added benefit: if you have a disgusting scalp, coconut oil will hook you up. and i am the fucking grossest, i'm talking flaky eyebrows and a constellation of grody dermatitis stretched along my hairline, and a dab every morning has cured me. i also use neutrogena sesame formula and regular johnson's baby oil. shaving is for jerks but sometimes i do it, and barbasol soothing aloe costs maybe fourteen cents and lasts forever. angie gave me some lush charity pot lotion which i keep on my desk along with a container of their lemony flutter cuticle butter because sometimes i'll be writing and look down at my hands and get grossed the fuck out at my lack of self care.

toes. I FUCKING LOVE INFOMERCIALS. i'm not sure if it's the delirium caused by being awake at two in the morning or if the promise of a product that is too good to be true is just too goddamned hard to resist, but if a man with big white teeth makes me a promise for $29.99 plus shipping who am i not to believe his claim? i've tried: several snuggies, a nutribullet, a pair of pajama jeans, proactiv, oxiclean, and the slap chop. I REGRET NOTHING. my most recent bleary-eyed infomercial purchase? the amope pedi perfect. it's pretty much a rolling scraper with a motor, and it is by far the best beauty tool i have ever purchased. and i bought that cindy crawford skincare! in less than a minute it ground my callouses to dust and left my gross december feet super smooth. i'm going to level with you: come wintertime, i really let a lot of shit go. i'm not peeling off nine layers of waterproof clothing to contort myself in a goddamn pedicure chair for twenty minutes, i'm really not. but if this marg can last until april it will be nice to not rip holes in my socks with my razor sharp heels. it sells itself. ask your mom for one for christmas.

i don't paint my fingers or toes regularly because shiftless, but i do enjoy purchasing nail polish. look, whatever keeps me from walking out into traffic, okay? my fave kinds are marc jacobs and deborah lippman and rescue beauty lounge. i use $5 scented frankincense and musk oils from the african dude on my block (along with clumps of black soap and tubs of raw shea butter), but sometimes i order fancy ones from the long winter soap company to switch it up. perfume makes me sneeze, but beauty is suffering and i keep a bottle of jo malone french lime blossom around anyway and as soon as i get paid i am treating myself to some tom ford black orchid. I'VE BEEN SO GOOD, SANTA. umm i am a certifiable maniac for blush, not kidding, and my absolute favorite is cha cha tint by benefit. i love a bright orange cheek and i wear that shit every fucking day. don't be scared, babies. GIVE IN TO THE MANGO FACE. if i ever go out at night which (come on i am almost thirty-five i don't fucking go anywhere ever) is rare i use mac powder blush. my jam shades: frankly scarlet, modern mandarin, and dollymix. like i said, i don't fuck around. crazy doll cheeks all the goddamn time. try it so we can be on some grey gardens shit together.

so now that you know i basically sit in my apartment writing jokes with lipstick on while watching family feud, holler at me if there's some new shit i need to know about. also: please note that this is why a bitch doesn't have any savings before you yell at me about my fancy taste and irresponsible choices. also also: i don't have life insurance, but i do have a backup plan in case i ever get fired and have to survive on lipstick from the grocery store. best cheap gloss: maybelline color elixir is really so fucking good. best cheap matte: maybelline color sensational creamy matte is almost good enough to compete with my boyfriend nars. best HELLA CHEAP stain: nyx soft matte lip cream is six motherfucking dollars. also also also: i swear to god i am going to open a savings account. i might have a new car's worth of beauty products in my work bag right now. ugh, god. just remember that i used to use a dollar store eye pencil as pretend makeup, okay? i've earned these sumptuous ruby red lips.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

yo i am obsessed with serial.

i am usually approximately three years behind the cultural zeitgeist. i started watching game of thrones in the middle of the third season, i stopped watching mad men when peggy still had a baby (remember that!?), and i have never watched: the wire, true detective, american horror story, homeland, bob's burgers, the walking dead, or breaking bad. that's right, my dude: I HAVE NEVER SEEN A SINGLE EPISODE OF THE BEST SHOW(S) EVER MADE. see also: all star wars, indiana jones, the princess bride, goonies, etc. but since the advent of the twitter machine it's harder and harder to ignore the shit everyone else is into if you want to have any idea what the fuck everyone on your timeline is fucking talking about. which is why i had to spend part of last summer catching up on scandal, because i was sick of spending thursday nights dumbfounded by my goddamned facebook feed. i almost had to quit twitter. i had no idea what the fuck you bitches were talking about. WHAT THE HELL IS A FITZ.

so a few weeks ago mya texted me on some ALL CAPS muy importante shit like, BITCH ARE YOU LISTENING TO SERIAL and (six hours later when i checked my texts) i was like, “wait, what the fuck is that?” as usual, some cultural phenomenon is sweeping the goddamned nation and i’m too busy watching episodes of family feud from 2010 to notice. i'm not too behind in the podcast game, tho. i listen to black girls talking and black girl nerds and basically every other iteration of african-american woman with laptop and/or microphone. my girl and i were headed up to south haven for a super long weekend and i downloaded all seven of the available episodes, because only assholes go to fucking the goddamn beach on a weekend meteorologists have predicted a minimum of 37 inches of motherfucking snow. we obviously weren't leaving the crib and would have plenty of time for eating dinner in bed in our jammies while huddled around the radio.

i was instantly hooked. the kind of hooked that made me fucking crazy because the whole point of the thing is that the story unfolds, week after week, and you don't get to find out what happens until after however many weeks and they decide to tell you what the fuck happens. that shit is maddening. we finished the first seven episodes within the first couple days and i was like, WHAT IS MY LIFE NOW. i immediately looked for other ways to get my fix (without finding out what happens in the end, mind you) and started downloading podcasts about the fucking podcast. serial is obviously my heroin. i was pacing the room scratching at my neck and everything.

okay, so here's the deal for those of you who don't know: it's baltimore, 1999. hae min lee, a popular high-school senior, disappears after school one day. six weeks later detectives arrest her classmate and ex-boyfriend, adnan syed, for her murder. he says he's innocent, though he can't exactly remember what he was doing on that january afternoon. but someone can. a classmate at woodlawn high school says she knows where adnan was. the trouble is, she’s nowhere to be found. TELL ME THAT'S NOT COMPELLING AS FUCK. and the description of episode two is even juicier: their relationship began like a storybook high-school romance: a prom date, love notes, sneaking off to be alone. but unlike other kids at school, they had to keep their dating secret, because their parents disapproved. both of them, but especially adnan, were under special pressure at home, and the stress of that spilled over into their relationship. eventually hae broke up with adnan. and then, depending on who you ask, adnan was either understandably sad and moping around, or full of rage and plotting to kill her.

FUCKING SWOON, MAN. no disrespect, but i wanted nothing more when i was a little bucktoothed kid than to have a licentious secret romance with some unpalatable lothario from the wrong side of the tracks. add to that fantasy the possibility of my demise at some jealous lover's strapping young hands and you'd have the makings of a modern-day romeo and juliet. this was before, of course, i realized that i am the goddamned dirtbag from the wrong side of the tracks, and the likelihood that i'd end up an ihop waitress in some dusty faraway town i'd fled to after shooting my deadbeat husband with a rifle is the fucking opposite of romantic. romeo and juliet aren't real, but adnan and hae are and their story is totally gripping. some observations:

adnan sounds kind of fine. oh man, i am so fucking dumb. because the first thing i thought when i first heard my man on the prison phone pleading his case was THIS DUDE SOUNDS KIND OF FINE. you're lying if you didn't think that shit, too. ugh why do potential murdering sociopaths gotta be so sexy. also striking is his 1 charisma/vocabulary and 2 seeming lack of acid-soaked vitriol. fifteen years is a long fucking time, but i couldn't be in jail for fifteen minutes before i started spitting on the name of everyone i used to love who couldn't save me from the penitentiary. HOW IS MY DUDE SO CALM. and, like, laughing and shit!? if you called me while i was locked away in jail serving a bogus life sentence it would sound like wolverine was on the other end of the goddamned phone, all gnashing teeth and visceral growling. homeboy just sounds so goddamned smooth and relaxed. it makes my heart race. every time he speaks i'm like, "i wonder if his fine ass could use a pen pal?"

my blackness really wants jay to be innocent, tho. but if not adnan, then who? well jay, DUH. but i don't want jay to be guilty. i mean, not more guilty than he's already admitted to being. maybe you have to be black to understand, but every time some fucked up shit happens and one of our own is even peripherally involved the first thing we think is PLEASE DON'T LET IT BE MY COUSIN. because we're all cousins. every time they say jay's name i cringe and say a little prayer that there was a crazy serial killer or something on the loose in 1999 and he was too stupid or too scared to defend himself and copped to it because he didn't watch enough law and order to fucking know better. i'm no lawyer, but even i know not to confess until somebody shows me some mitochondrial DNA. (sounds like i know what i'm talking about, amirite? thought so. come at me, detectives.)

sarah koenig’s voice is hella fucking soothing. the first night we tried to listen to the shit i fell asleep halfway through it. that NPR flow just gets me, bro. that's why i don't know shit about world events, because every time i try to listen to morning edition it knocks me right out. i don't know how you people listen to that shit in your cars. i would drive through the front of a building. hot damn those gentle inside voices are all i need to lapse right into a coma. it took me four tries to get through the first episode. zzZzzZz

podcasts about the podcast. this is how i knew it was a fucking sickness. after a handful of episodes i texted mya BITCH YOU RUINED MY LIFE WITH THIS SHIT and she replied with a link to the slate podcast that is basically a couple nerds sitting around speculating about the serial podcast. WHAT. WHY IS THIS NOT MY LIFE. all i ever want to do now is creepily ask people if they’re listening to serial then ply them for opinions if they are or immediately walk away shoulders slumped under the weight of crushing disappointment if they aren't. some friends of mine throw a weekly party thursday nights during which they eat cereal while discussing serial and that shit is so meta i can't even stand it. i hate leaving my apartment so i can't go to it, but for real if you want to text me at 7am thursday morning to talk about the newest episodes i am 100% down for real.

could i be a murderer!? i don’t know why other people find the shit so compelling, but 99.9% of the reason i am like a basehead about this shit can be explained in the first five minutes of the first episode when sarah asks us, the listeners, can you remember everything you did last wednesday? and of course i paused and was like, "YES I DO. i took the train to work and got a giant starbucks and i was wearing my blue jacket and did i eat breakfast? umm, i dunno. did i notice which barista was working? ehh, maybe the dark haired guy?" so what if, while just living your life, some terrible crime happens and someone points the finger at you and, without the help of cell phone records or facebook posts, you have to reconstruct a day six weeks in your past? i can't stop thinking about that, that a crime could be occurring around me at any time and if you were to ask my whereabouts a month from now i wouldn't even be able to tell you if i fucking ate lunch that day. who the fuck are we kidding, I ALWAYS EAT LUNCH. but not always at the same time! what if the day you get killed i at my sandwich at 2 instead of 1!? then the cops think i did it plus i live alone so no one can account for where the hell i was all night and then BLAMMO. in jail for life on some bullshit. i'm just saying, it could happen. (this show is fucking me up.)

if this shit does not come to some sort of satisfying conclusion i might kill myself. i'm not even kidding, my dude. i'm too chickenshit to look up how many episodes serial is supposed to run, but if at the end of this my complete emotional investment is rewarded with some shrugged shoulders and a "meh, we tried," i am going to cry real tears and bitch all over the internet. I AM NOT PLAYING. if ol' girl doesn't get on the mic and announce that it was professor plum in the kitchen with a lead pipe then i am going to freak the fuck out. i'm not even kidding. i will unravel.

so get into it. i need bitches to talk about serial with who won't judge me for wanting to put some money on adnan's books. also, season two should be an investigation into why my iphone looks like garbage. look at that raggedy fucking shit. shattered like my heart is.

buy my book so i can get a new phone.