Friday, June 19, 2015


the idea of spending the night at other people's houses is totally revolting. i'm not talking about rolling up on some hobo's refrigerator box posted up on lower wacker and asking him to scoot over a little, i mean your house. the place where you live. i don't want to have awkward conversations about where you keep your extra toilet paper rolls or worry about you getting grossed out by the drool marks and slime i left on your navy blue pillowcases. (why do people have dark bed linens ever.) i would rather risk catching bedbugs at a shady hotel than try to pick my pubic hairs out of your bar soap while freezing at the back of the shower, thanks.

new york city always makes me feel like a goddamned hillbilly. which is hilarious, because i live in a sprawling metropolis and i regularly get plebeian items like advil delivered to me. I ONCE WENT TO A RESTAURANT WITH A SALT AND BUTTER FLIGHT, OKAY. cosmopolitan as fuck. but the minute i get off the plane i'm fucking thunderstruck, gazing in awe at flaxen-haired models sipping $14 green juice and scowling at my customized orthopedic shoes from behind oversized black sunglasses. it's all so painfully glamorous. i had to go to finally meet my editor and charm her into forgiving that i haven't turned a full manuscript while also buying me dinner, and to hang with my rad city friends and also fancy brunch duh.

omg the nightmare i just lived through. so i still don't know shit about new york. and when, at the suggestion of many many white people i no longer consider to be my friends, i booked a reasonably-priced airbnb for my recent trip to nyc, i had no goddamn idea that there are easily HALF A DOZEN MOTHERFUCKING BROOKLYNS. so when i found a listing for a 1 bedroom luxe apartment in brooklyn close to the subway, i assumed it was that cute shit: 27-course tasting menus featuring sunchoke purees and coconut semifreddos; overpriced boutiques filled with carefully selected doll-sized clothing for human adults; bulging curbside sacks of artisanal street trash. "he even supplies shampoo!?" i thought giddily to myself as i clicked a link to book the newly renovated one bedroom private, clean, open-concept apartment. THIS IS TOO FUCKING GOOD TO BE TRUE. why had i previously been glaring down my snooty nose at the magical opportunity to stay in some regular-ass person's dirty-ass real apartment? was i nuts!? luxurious accomodations included: air conditioning, wireless internet, and a carbon monoxide detector!? i would never have to stay in a fancy hotel ever again!

mavis and i stepped out of laguardia into the yawning dog mouth that was new york city last friday and my heart immediately sank. i always forget how much i hate being a person until confronted with the fried bologna smell of chafed inner thigh meat on a sweltering summer day. i texted our host to let him know we'd landed and received radio silence in response. thank the 2014 toyota corolla gods that our uber was air conditioned, and i reached out to homeboy again from the refrigerated confines of the cushy back seat: hey we're on the highway en route to your crib. still okay to meet you to get the keys? again nothing. twenty more minutes of dodging bikes and old ladies in housecoats and the car eased to a stop in front of a row of crumbling brownstones in varying states of disrepair. rusted iron gates jutted from the cracked sidewalk like crooked teeth; a mangy dog limped past with a human limb dangling from its mouth. "i'm sorry," i said, extending my phone with an episode of the cosby show paused on the screen over the seat, "but we were supposed to go to brooklyn. where are all the cheese shops?" he heaved a long, exasperated sigh.

mavis, brimming with the clueless enthusiasm of every horror movie white person bludgeoned to death by the ax-wielding maniac after jumping head first into some bullshit, bounded like a puppy from the car to go check things out while i stood sweating on the curb with the one t-shirt and handful of underwear i packed for a fucking business trip. our host emerged from a car down the block where he'd been watching our tragicomedy play out on the street while ignoring my texts and let mavis drop the bags inside, then we were whisked off to manhattan where one bored, surly waitress after another would make me feel like a total asshole for trying to order a cocktail with some goddamned bubbles in it.

after having been vigorously frisked between my thigh meats by the TSA before dawn and spending $4,762 in uber rides and ordering drinks served by a bitch who was pissed off i don't know what the fuck peychaud bitters are and a beautiful dinner with a lovely woman tasked with the unfortunate job of having to inform me that "in the book we're going to have to be strategic about the use of caps lock" (WHY DO YOU HATE ME, GOD) all i wanted to do was crawl into in the back of a cab and pass the fuck out for the duration of the long-ass ride back to Not Cute, Brooklyn. "we're here, we're queer!" i shouted, waving a rainbow flag as we crossed the threshold into a steamy railroad apartment that had clearly been strategically photographed. the "bed," twin cots that had been bound together and placed atop feeble-looking plastic risers, was directly opposite the front door; connected to the room the bed was in (but was definitely NOT a bedroom) was a dining but maybe living room?, complete with a makeshift table + chairs and a luxurious pleather settee. i flipped a switch and the ancient window unit grumbled to life, groaning ominously as it tried to cool an entire apartment roughly the same temperature as hell.

mavis called out something about the bedsheets from across the room, but i was too busy trying to wedge myself into the six inches of space between the dull roar of the air conditioner and the sticky plastic couch that ripped the skin off my thighbacks to fully comprehend what she was saying. but i figured it out twenty minutes later when i groped blindly through the dark, muggy apartment and ran my hands over what felt like soggy muppet fur atop the glorified prison cots on which we were supposed to get a comfortable night's sleep. "what the fuck is this," i demanded, nudging mavis in her visible ribs. my hand felt so gross, like i could feel the last person's shed skin cells crawling all over it. "i was trying to tell you," she groaned. "this dude wrapped a dirty fleece blanket around these beds instead of a fitted sheet."

WHAT. now i'm sure you dudes are all "fuck you, sam. shoulda read the goddamn reviews." but the thing is, I MOTHERFUCKING DID. stacey from canada wrote, "the apartment was super clean, bright and airy. the temperature of the apartment was very cozy at all times and the bed was large and very comfortable!" WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR IDEA OF COZY, STACEY. sylvester from chicago raved, " located on a quiet secluded brooklyn block moments from the subway and seconds away from all the amenities new york city has to offer. the fresh shellacked floors added a sweet southern appeal that complements the color coordinated eclectic furniture choice. this home away from home is a must stay when passing through brooklyn." DO YOU KNOW WHAT ECLECTIC MEANS, SYLVESTER. denzel from florida "would stay again with out hesitation." how do these people live in real life? how could my idea of cozy (quilted shit, shit with cross-stitching on it, shit that is both quilted and covered in cross-stitching) differ so much from some random internet stranger's!? does stacey from canada live in a rundown sro? i promise i'm not a fucking asshole. THE WATER WAS WHITE WHEN IT CAME OUT OF THE FAUCET, YOU  GUYS.

speaking of mavis, get this shit. the other day i was in my happy place: folding freshly-washed laundry while watching old episodes of shark tank on my phone, stacking pair after pair of neatly folded panty squares on my kitchen counter. i reached blindly into the basket of warm clothes expecting to pull out yet another pair of flag-sized sassy cotton high-leg briefs when my fingers closed around something small and frilly and foreign. i opened my hand expecting to find a misplaced baby sock someone had abandoned in the dryer or a handkerchief i'd accidentally stolen from work only to be confronted with a pair of size 2 adult human panties that had obviously been snuck into my dirty clothes hamper the last time homegirl was at my crib. it's officially official: WE ARE TOTALLY LESBIANS.

nevermind that i've been eating her booty like groceries for the past year+ and that we share an expensive-ass amazon prime membership, all that shit is fun and games until there's a bunch of barbie clothes mocking me from the dank interior of the frontloading speed queen down at the old washeteria. one by one i extracted tiny crop tops and capris (I HAVE THE DECENCY NOT TO SHOW MY CALVES IN PUBLIC WTF) from a warm pile of what should have consisted of soft inside pants with faded nacho cheese splatters across the well-worn inner thighs, not moisture-wicking lulu lemon running bras the circumference of a beer can. so yeah fine, whatever, i have a ladyfriend. if you stalk my insta you already fucking know there's a skinny yacubian with solid boobs grinning in a whole bunch of my photos and that, my dudes, is my motherfucking scissor sister. except we don't actually scissor because that is some porn shit i'ma just keep letting your dad fantasize about. but of all the potential hiccups i anticipated (synced lunar cycles, clashes over styling products and/or lipsticks, arguments about channing tatum) i wasn't exactly ready for "feeling like a giant hideous beast due to new girlfriend's tiny halfpants." gross.

while i was busy ordering a plus sized strap-on harness and party packs of hitachi attachments slowly but surely this asshole has been sneaking her dirty activewear in with my lounging clothes and filling up what precious freezer space i save for diet hot pockets and old batteries with ziploc bags of chopped turmeric and organic frozen mixed berries. WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY MASON JARS ALL OF A SUDDEN. this is just like that episode of sex and the city when carrie tried to leave her hair dryer in mr. big's apartment. before i know it she'll be asking me to sign a wedding card with her or take her with me when i move to france for an unspecified period of time for my mysterious-sounding "job."

so being in a relationship with a woman is weird, and not just because we could accidentally show up to the same place wearing the exact same shit. first of all, i had to increase the number of anytime minutes on my fucking phone. omg i have to hear about what she does EVERY FUCKING DAY, even if it's the same fucking thing she did yesterday. i feel like a sitcom dad, hand stuck in my pants with the game on mute while i nod distractedly into the phone. "yes, honey. that pie recipe sounds delicious, honey. okay, honey. you and amy have fun at book club, honey. chia seeds are on sale for how much!? wow, honey! everything you say is so interesting!!!" i also had to learn how to get good at sex. the first time we got busy i was like, "DO I HAVE TO DO THE MAN STUFF BECAUSE MY UNDERPANTS ARE BIGGER OR WHAT." but lesbihonest: the best part of this goddamn relationship is that there is no motherfucking man stuff. no longer do we have to sit around held hostage by the predilection of a jiggly sack of flaccid dickmeat, chanting and rain dancing and praying to the gods of sex to grant us a long-lasting erection on which to writhe awkwardly up and down nor are we forced to withstand its sawing away at our delicates for twenty minutes as a dude with maybe $17 in his checking account actively drips sweat into the smalls of our backs. hip hip hooray for our double-ended dildo!

mavis was pawing at me trying to get the party started but i was like, "REALLY DUDE!? ON THIS HOT KERMIT FUR?" and shrugged her off. the next morning she woke me up early, banging around the kitchen making cafe bustelo from the bodega around the way, getting ready to go for a run in an effort to preserve her thigh gap. "don't get murdered," i warned and immediately rolled over (carefully avoiding the fault line between the two beds, of course) and went back to sleep. a few minutes (or a few hours, who the fuck knows i was asleep) she burst back into the apartment, red-faced and sweating and bordering on hysterical. apparently the door to the street (the same one that had sat open upon our arrival, the same one with no interior doorknob and a keypad entry system that looked like it had been broken off with a hammer) had swelled in the doorframe during the night and was now impossible to open. "THIS PLACE IS A FIRE TRAP!" she screamed, rifling through the near-empty kitchen drawer looking for a tool to help pry the door open. armed with a dollar store spatula she went back into the hallway and hacked at the door to no avail.

WE ARE GOING TO DIE IN AN APARTMENT THAT HAS ONLY ONE WASHCLOTH, i thought gloomily, not moving from the bed to help her in any way. i couldn't stop thinking of that beastie boys lyric off paul's boutique: "not like a roach or a piece of toast, i'm going out first class ain't going out coach." i was about to die like a roach in a balls hot apartment in No Cold Brew Pour Over Coffee, Brooklyn and i hadn't even made it to dylan's candy bar yet. mavis flung the spatula in the general direction of the kitchen and yanked open the window closest to where i lay praying for the angel of death to descend upon me and tried to climb the fuck out. then the window fell in on her goddamn back. "THIS IS SO COZY," i sneered, shoving the window back into the frame as mavis desperately tried to get the attention of passersby to come free us. "SAVE ME, I'M WHITE!" she cried (i think?), frantically waving her arms. a burly young man trotted up the stairs and first tried pushing the door open before attempting a running karate kick. it absolutely refused to budge. "take tiny sips of air to conserve oxygen!" he advised through the door, a single tear rolling down his cheek. finally the woman upstairs came down and used some sorcery to get the door open and i thanked her then immediately spent $9,243,537 booking a same-day hotel on my phone. WORTH IT. i should've done that shit in the first fucking place. then our flight back to chicago two days later was delayed. i mean, we actually had to get off the goddamned plane. and now i'm never leaving home again. if you ever want to see me again, you better come to my apartment. i will tell helen to make room for you on our pastel floral sheets.

when i told him i'm a lesbian my boy jay was like, BUT ALL YOU WRITE ABOUT IS DICK. *squints eyes* first of all, patently false. i write about 1 eating snacks 2 hating: new things/going outside/human garbage in general and 3 luxurious face creams. second, i can still absolutely do every single one of these things in between these extensive feelings talks mavis is always trying to have and listening to this dar williams playlist over and over and over while my bra burns. another of my friends was all, "are you worried you're going to lose your audience?" and really guys, i kind of am? but then i think if i can write "pussyhole motherfucker" 17 times in one post without alienating anybody cool then what's the fucking problem? i haven't dated a man in over three years, and before that i was fucking midgets and dudes who work at foot locker and shit, so it's not like anyone was hanging around here for heartwarming stories of heterosexual love anyway. if you hate it, kick rocks. you won't be missed. bitches gotta eat bitches out.