Friday, January 30, 2015

revenge of the nerd.

ay i'm about to fucking kill somebody. a few months ago i was sitting at home, changing my sheets while listening to rachel maddow recount the highlights of the some senate committee meeting, when i heard the worst sound i have ever heard in my life except for that one time a dude audibly cried while i was generously giving him a blowjob: the sound of my kitchen ceiling splitting painfully in half, followed by a deluge of water crashing thunderously to the counter, sink, and floor below. before i could even grasp what was happening, before i could even unfold the useless martha stewart for target dishtowel i would attempt to throw helplessly atop the tide pool, i heard the pitter patter of raindrops echoing from the adjacent bedroom i'd just left. horrified, i rounded the corner to see water streaming down the same wall this motherfucker upstairs ruined the last time he nonchalantly decided to ruin my goddamned life. two seconds later it was raining in my bedroom, too. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, A PLAGUE. helen, who keeps a packed suitcase by the door at all times in case i act up, was like, "bitch, i'm going to laura's."

i know you don't get to decide how the people around you live. i have had my own place since i was 18, and i figured out early on that i had absolutely zero say in the choices my building's cohabitants made, despite how counterintuitive they might appear to me and my own life decisions. for instance, the gentleman who rented the apartment next to mine on ravenswood who would string his sopping wet laundry from our "porch." which, if you've ever been to chicago, you understand to mean "square foot section of threadbare plywood threatening to plummet you to your death if you so much as drink a beer while standing on it." the back of our building overlooked a paved alley littered with abandoned car parts, jagged rocks, and shards of broken glass. fighting my way through the tangle of dishwater grey underpants that smelled like burnt fish grease and car exhaust was the worst part of of my day, but unless i married that dude i couldn't say shit about it. and maybe he didn't like the way i spent every evening quietly sobbing to stereolab records while eating hundreds of calories' worth of my feelings, but oh yeah it never affected him because i didn't hang my snot rags and cheese-eating pants outside where he might trip over them on his way out with the trash.

i wouldn't want anyone to dictate my goddamned choices, which is why i refuse to ever buy a condo. (see also: extreme poverty.) the idea of regular-ass people fine tooth combing over my credit history while i shift awkwardly in a puddle of sweat as they decide whether or not my criminal record is white collar enough for me to move my collection of old sassy magazines into the square foot windowless box next to the one the live in. you can't tell at a glance that the woman across the hall will regularly f                                                     ight with her boyfriend and force him to sleep in the hallway outside your door, and the first morning i discovered him i was like, "FUCK I JUST SIGNED THIS GODDAMNED LEASE." then i learned that if you run a cool-mist humidifier on the highest setting 24 hours a day and blast kanye's "graduation" through your noise-canceling headphones not only will you feel like you live inside a fancy spa but you will also drown out 98% of the arguments wrought between furious macy and her ever-penitential kevin. my nasal passages have never been so clear!

so the kid upstairs. when it happened the first time he bravely came bounding down the stairs and knocked on my door, wagging his tail while offering to "help with a mop" as my mattress and my macbook pro floated past us down the hallway. i even felt kind of bad for him? BECAUSE HE'S OBVIOUSLY NOT VERY SMART. but then it happened again, a deluge of swamp water streaming horror movie-style down the new walls that had just begun to dry from the last motherfucking time, followed over the course of the next several weeks by some missing package deliveries and his newfound interest in a muffled cacophony that can only be described as "making shitty hip hop beats." i'm done with this fool. it's time to get his ass back.

first i was thinking i might release a bag of spiders under his door. bugs don't gross me out or scare me. did you know that there are millions of microscopic bugs living in your eyebrows and shit? EIGHT-LEGGED DEMODEX MONSTERS. face mites are real and spend their entire life cycles tucked away inside our hair follicles, plotting evil from within. that means everything they do: mating, laying eggs, eating oil and dead skin cells, happens in your goddamned face. so i'ma be worried about a bag full of crickets strategically placed outside his crib? NAH, BRO. there are tiny arachnids shitting and fucking in my hair follicles. are bed bugs commercially available? i know they could potentially ruin my life as much if not more than his, but that's a risk i'm willing to take. do i know any roach dealers? IF SO, GET AT ME.

or maybe i could just buy a barking dog cd and play that shit on repeat? i would be risking eviction as ours is a cat-only residence, but it might kind of totally be worth it. a few years ago one of my friends moved to this pretty sweet studio in logan whose only drawback was a dog across the courtyard with an untreated case of separation anxiety that resulted in obnoxious barking from eight in the morning until whenever its owner arrived home in the evening. reason 5,874,239 i will never own a dog: that asshole could get me kicked out of my goddamn house due to an imaginary joke disease that i would have to become a recluse to cure. the only thing more eardrum-shredding than a crying baby is a barking dog, especially one not close enough to throw your shoe at. (oh settle down, i would never throw a shoe at someone's dog.)

ooh! what if i stopped his mail!? i'm pretty sure that he signed for the giant box of topricin cream and joint supplements ups delivered to my building the other day, but i can't be totally sure because THAT SHIT NEVER MADE IT TO MY MOTHERFUCKING DOOR. what kind of asswipe steals someone's arthritis medicine? especially the topical kind!? i mean, come the hell on. pills i can understand, but unscented homeopathic mobility cream? shame on you, my dude. fucking with the mail is a felony blah blah blah but listen, there are only so many joke pizzas i can send to this dude's crib. he probably wouldn't even be mad, as every time we have awkwardly shared an elevator ride his eyelids have been at half mast. that'll teach him, all his comic books and shit sent to some unsuspecting jerk on the other side of town. except who the fuck even gets mail anymore? i'm the only asshole rushing straight home from work to check for the latest issue of glamour in the post. it would probably be a relief for homeboy's electric bill to end up somewhere in minnesota. meanwhile money i owe from ten years ago has followed me to four consecutive apartments. just my fucking luck. 

here's a thought: i could start a motherfucking heavy metal band. but a kind of moist one since i can only play the fruity piano and the clarinet. anyone wanna start a liturgical quartet!? i guess my only recourse is to move into the apartment above his and do work. somebody bring over a goddamn bassoon. TURN DOWN FOR WHAT.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

forest whitaker, perfect human.

dear forest whitaker, aka the love of my (sort of) young life, on the eve of your breakout performance in the third and final installment of the taken trilogy aka the greatest cinematic achievement of the 21st century: i'm not 100% sure when the spark of my undying love for you was lit, but i'm pretty confident it was about 2/3 of the way through the movie "panic room," which i saw in the goddamned theater even though my boyfriend at the time had a bootleg copy fourteen motherfucking dollars you're welcome, during the scene in the kitchen when it becomes clear that burnham isn't really a bad guy, he's just there to steal that money so he can buy baby diapers. or medicine for his grandma. i had seen you in movies before, of course, but nothing ignited my passion like watching your tortured soul balance the instinct to protect that little sassy-mouthed diabetic kristen stewart against jared leto's promise of a fortune hidden beneath that metal floor. oh, the gut-clenching drama. my heart was beating in my throat the entire time and when you made it out of the house alive (SPOILER ALERT IF YOU HAPPEN TO STILL BE LIVING IN 2002) it was rock solid proof that you are a good person, because i don't understand how to distinguish an actor from the character he plays on television or in a movie. i cried, my dude. then walked home from the movies listening to poe on a motherfucking walkman. fuck youth. AND TECHNOLOGY.

how do i love thee? let me count the ways.

listen, i saw fast times. but that movie is for white people and i was probably too young to understand half the shit that was going on. but i for sure watched you as herman in the "bully for arnold" episode of diff'rent strokes. am i the only one who had a serious thing for willis? oh i know, CRACKHEAD. but for real, in the early 80s there were very few young black men available for schoolgirl crushes so willis was goddamned it. 1986 platoon and 1987 good morning, vietnam. i am generally uninterested in war movies for two reasons: 1 there's too much shit happening and too many people dressed in the same goddamn clothes for me to figure out exactly what the fuck is going on and 2 NO MOTHERFUCKING LOVE STORY. i'ma need to see some dudes kissing if i am going to give up 2+ hours to a bunch of brain-rattling gunfire and indistinguishable shouting. but i watched them, despite myself, for you.

i didn't see bird until a couple months ago? but HOLY SHIT, DUDE. fucking amazing. downtown is the most hilarious buddy cop movie not named turner and hooch, which reminds me that i need to put it in my queue so i can steal the shit from netflix. i missed a lot of your movies in the 90s, probably because i had a lot of homework to do. also i spent a shitload of time reading sassy and YM and, correct me if i'm wrong, they didn't really do a whole lot of features on dudes like you. ugh i went through this gross matt dillon phase after he was in seventeen and if i could have those hours of my life back i could probably have a fucking PhD, shit. back on the horse with ghost dog, though. and then light it up because omg rosario. which really means BECAUSE OMG USHER. but also you! because you're perfect!

if i ever get to awkwardly corner you at a party the first thing i'm going to do after i recover from hyperventilating and stop myself from gently stroking your face while i openly weep, i am going to get my shit together and talk to you about what a jam waiting to exhale was. i was definitely too young to understand the intricacies of what i was watching, but angela bassett torching that convertible full of [mr. darnell from lean on me]'s possessions made my heart soar. YOU ARE AN ANGEL.

omg here is a list of bullshit movies i paid actual money to see just because you were in them:
phone booth.
the air i breathe.
the great debaters.
vantage point. (which was so awful, come on!)
street kings. yes it was kind of dumb but common + keanu + samantha irby at 28 years old = OF COURSE I SAW THIS IN T HE THEATER, MY DUDE.
repo men.
our family wedding.
black nativity.
out of the furnace.
and i even saw the goddamn butler, even though my blackness does not like it when i watch slave shit or servant shit. i risked pissing off my ancestors to watch terrence howard simulate sex with oprah. that's gotta mean something, b.

we almost met once! a few years ago i put on my party clothes because i somehow wrangled a ticket to gaze upon that sweet, sweet face when you won some fancy chicago award that of course i don't fucking remember. i'll tell you what i do remember: 1 i wore a dress from bloomingdale's that was lovely but had this itchy net overlay so i basically stood at the back of the cocktail reception eating mini crab cakes and scratching my butt the whole time 2 you were so gentle and soft-spoken and i just wanted to shove you in my bra and nuzzle you like a tiny kitten 3 the asshole seated in front of me during the Q&A portion of the ceremony kept baller blocking my attempts to ask for your hand in marriage and by the time i thought to reach down and pull his underwear up from the back of his pants robin robinson, the lovely host and living chicago legend, had already moved on the supercut video of your most riveting performances 4 i brought a sign that i spent all afternoon making that read "hey forest, i'm into buttsex" that i decorated with glitter and puff paint but at the last second got too chickenshit to bring it in because i didn't realize it was gonna be some bougie black shit where everyone was wearing shiny nude pumps and talking about the white party last night at ______.

here are some facts i learned from the internet that make me want to wash your feet with my hair. you went to college on a sports scholarship. you are a big man, both in height and width, and it takes little to imagine you terrorizing opponents on a football field. *bites lip* you speak so serenely and calmly that it's no surprise to learn that you came to film through music: you played the trumpet and trombone before singing in musicals at high school. plus you have good politics. i think? i mean, i guess so!? what the fuck do i know, i only went to high school. ANYWAY HERE IS A QUOTE: "i'm now on the president's committee for arts and humanities. i'm not policy making, but i'm interested in political engagement. i have a foundation called PeaceEarth and we are currently working in the sudan, where we are training youths in conflict resolution and peace. we are about to start work in mexico."

singing and tromboning and international peace-making are all panty-dampening activities, but i don't even want to be gross like that with you. seriously, that bashful thing you do in your interviews is intoxicating and if you wanted to i would probably let you walk me like a dog on a leash, but you're so nice that you probably wouldn't even fucking want to. i'm sure of it. and even though your smile makes me glad i'm trying out those new always super-absorbent pantiliners at work today, i'm not even gonna come at you all disrespectful and shit. i'm not going to tell you that there's a 76% chance i would shave my armpits for the first time in four years if you texted me on the bootycall side of 11pm, but that is for real a possible thing. probably not because it would take fucking forever BUT i would put lotion on my heels and that's real. do you really have barack obama's phone number? it would be so sexy if you did. but like i was saying i'ma keep this strictly profesh.

listen, i'm not sure how things are going with you and keisha but i assume they're good. you guys aren't the type to be throwing hot chicken grease on each other in the middle of the street. and i'm here for black love, i really am. but if you ever get tired of looking at her pantyhose hanging over the shower rod or whatever other boring shit bores married couples into the arms of their internet stalkers, feel free to email me and see if i'm still a lesbian. you can come over and i'll put on the otis redding pandora station and cook the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs. you look like a motherfucker i gotta make greens for. in the meantime i already fandango'd my tickets to see TAK3N several times this weekend, even though this dude at the laundromat offered to sell me a chinese copy for three dollars and a pair of my unwashed panties. THAT'S LOVE, OKAY. and deserving of at least five minutes of you making out with liam neeson in a prison cell. fingers crossed!

yours forever and ever,