ooh, all the pretty flowers in bloom! spring is a good time to begin growing and digging for your garden, although preparation and planning can take place way before the snow melts. gardeners spend most of the spring watering, weeding, and watching young plants grow. similarly, women spend most of the springtime waxing and plucking and stripping and varnishing the 90% of our bodies that we started ignoring the second the temperature dipped low enough to put a sweater on them back in november, only to wake up one morning in early may with pollen in our lashes and six months' worth of gnarled, matted leg growth. time to get out our formal shorts.
THIS IS MY REAL $37 IKEA DRESSER. housed inside my expansive walk-in closet, if you can believe that. that's right, this glimpse into my real life is just like an episode of cribs. i'm sure that the people upstairs are using this space i've filled with dozens of identical black tissue thin t-shirts and multiple pairs of velcro new balances as a stop on the underground railroad or some other philanthropic shit, but i'm frivolous, bro. normally ye olde barely put-together malm is not piled precariously high with every single ladyproduct in my apartment, but for once my goddamned laundry was put away and i could find all of my lipsticks and concealers amid the clutter of prescription bottles and discarded pantiliner wrappers. i'm writing this on the amtrak just outside of pontiac, illinois. there is a woman flossing her teeth in the seat in front of mine. f, i hate everything. let's get beautiful.
roots. my feet look better in the winter than they do any other time of the year. you know why? because i'm your fucking grandmother, and i spend every pitch black morning choking on the dry radiator heat with a goddamned nosebleed while slathering my feet with this abbey brown shea butter that i get at the logan square farmer's market. that shit is a miracle. if you live in chicago you can also get it at the french market next to the stand with the almond macarons. i am partial to the "woods" scent, so buy that and then smell yourself and it'll be just like we're having sex. then i put on the softest slipper socks and these puffy north face boots that look like they were made for jumping around on the surface of the goddamned moon and basically my feet look like they belong to a fetus.
but i am a dirty, flip flop wearing suburban girl at my core, so the second the snow melts i toss aside my closed-toes shoes and don't touch them again until thanksgiving. and that means my feet are absolutely fucking disgusting 75% of the year. a few weeks ago i bought a metal scrape-y foot file thing that looks like a torture instrument from one of the saw movies, and THAT THING IS AMAZING. i was scared of it at first, because i'm clumsy and didn't want to risk amputating one of my goddamned toes, but my gross hippie feet need a cheese grater, not a novelty pumice stone. in between scrapings i use bliss hot salt scrub on my feet and calves. but be careful, sister: YOU CAN BUST YOUR GODDAMNED TEETH OUT FUCKING WITH THIS SHIT. it's slippery as hell and will turn your bathtub into an oil wrestling salt pit. seriously, every time i use it i remind myself that next time i should just put it on my elbows, since I ALMOST BROKE MY NOSE ON THE CORNER OF THE SINK THAT ONE TIME.
also: icy hot and tiger balm. lots of it. i am officially an adult.
stems. stop buying fancy lady shavers. i know they're pretty, and that the model on the package has the smoothest legs you have ever fucking seen, but the shit is a waste. i used to believe the hype, that the handle was ergonomically contoured to perfectly fit my delicate female hand and that i need two thick hunks of vitamin E moisture bars to hydrate my sensitive ladyskin, but then i housesat for a man with barbasol and $3 disposable razors in his closet and MY LIFE WAS TOTALLY CHANGED. smoothest, cheapest shave in the history of ever. now, i need to fully disclose that this first time involved only the shaving of the weird patch of neckbeard that i wake up with every morning, but the next week i went and bought my own and shaved my meaty gams with one foot balanced on the toilet while watching clips of aziz ansari on the old youtube and it was incredible. those venus blades never get close enough, and the slimy moisture chunks leave my legs feeling like there's enough grease residue on them to fry a chicken. then, once they shrivel up and die before the razor is even dull, they fall off and melt all down the drain and leave you feeling cheated. barbasol is cheap and thick and you won't slip and cut any major arteries because it's running all down your goddamned legs.
branches. my skin is so weird lately. and i keep reading terrifying articles about my rapidly-changing early- to mid-30s skin. i usually use oils to moisturize because blackness, but ain't nobody got time to be sizzling like a kielbasa under the hot summer sun. so i bought this vaseline intensive rescue repairing lotion because who the fuck wants to have gnarly, untouchable skin? i don't even know if it's working, but i am diligently using it. gold bond makes fancy powder now for bitches who are too embarrassed to buy the regular shit, i guess. gold bond comfort with aloe is good for some thigh meat tenderizing before you slip that sundress over your head, but you have to keep a tube of that monistat chafe gel in your purse to keep your external vulva from bursting into flames every time you walk across a room.
i recently switched deodorants because i am trying to keep my relationship with my armpits spicy and exciting, and i started using secret outlast and olay smooth solid because 1 it's supposed to last for 48 whole hours! and 2 i was snooping through rachel's medicine cabinet and she had that shit so i wanted it, too. i'm not gonna lie: it's kind of gross. it has those holes at the top that soft serve deodorant oozes up through and you have to spread it around and what, working twelve hours a day isn't enough? i gotta spend ten more minutes working to get anti-perspirant evenly spread?! FUCK MY LIFE. but i bought three tubes of it because i'm a spendthrift asshole so check in with me in a couple months and i'll tell you what i switched to.
kiehl's musk or coriander liquid body cleanser is my jam, as are all of the kiss my face shower gels. but i mostly use dove men+care bar soap when it's hot because my labia starts to smell like hot dog water when it's over eighty degrees and fuck that. and ladysoap doesn't always get my bacteria smelling like i like it. i have a thing about smelling good, and if you are lucky enough to put your face in my neck crease you will probably fall in love with me on the spot. I SMELL INCREDIBLE. you know i love a good roller of frankincense oil from the african spot down the block from mi casa, but in the summer i rotate between these three: kiehl's musk at night (even though they put it in the men's section have no shame and BUY THAT SHIT, so good); tocca florence in the daytime if i don't get up too late; and jo malone french lime blossom if someone sexy and worth it is going to buy me dinner, because it is approximately $1,364 a fucking bottle at saks so i keep it in the refrigerator and use that shit sparingly.
bark. i'm not sure that i am happy with my face routine because i keep reading about serums and acids for women over thirty and i don't use any of that shit so i feel like i am fucking it up somehow, but here is what i use anyway: philosophy purity made simple, philosophy microdelivery peel, and aveeno smart essentials night cream. these are the best things ever. and i should know, because i have tried ALL OF THE OTHER THINGS. i wear benefit you rebel tinted SPF 15 moisturizer during the day, and i put that shit on with a brush because i hate leaving brown handprints all over my towels. i still like a neon doll cheek, and i still use benefit's posie and cha cha tints, but my main jams are revlon photoready cream blush in flushed and coral reef. BEST EVER. if they stop making them i will die. i also have fourteen different mac blushes, but in the summer that shit can look chalky. especially if you put it on while hungover in the dark. SO I HEAR, ahem.
i am officially too goddamned old for eyeshadow. past a certain age you just have to let that shit go, madam. the last time i wore it i had bronze sparkles settling into my eye creases, and yeah right, son. i threw everything out that fucking afternoon. i'm going to go out on a limb here and say past the age of 32 all you need a browbone highlighter (i like benefit sunbeam), a black pencil + powder to create a smoky eye, fake lashes if you know how to apply them perfectly like a kardashian, and a banging mascara (benefit they're real is the shit of all shits). throw everything else out, you old hookers. or don't, who cares.
i used to think that concealer was just for white people and guess what, I WAS RIGHT. it always looks fucked up on black skin. always always always. but, if you have one of those subcutaneous monsters trying to eat through your face and you have an important board meeting or some juicy skype sex on the docket, l'oreal true match is kinda aight. i mean, beyonce uses it, right? it has to be good! BAHAHAHAHAHA RIGHT AHAHAHAHAHA.
foundation is a tricky game in the summertime. you never want to look like a fucking barbie doll that someone put in the microwave for thirty seconds, but i understand that ain't nobody got time to be out in public with her acne scars and blackheads on display. nars sheer glow is the only liquid foundation i like, but honestly i rarely use that shit. too much fucking work, and i hate feeling like a geisha. but sometimes, when i want to feel like a fancy lady, i will sit down on the toilet and blendblendblend that business around my nose and in the T zone or wherever, and it looks downright lovely. but you really have to WASH YOUR FUCKING FACE after you use that shit, for real. i keep a pack of yes to cucumbers facial cleansing wipes on top of helen's crate (aka my bedside table) because they smell good and they get your pores clean without making your face feel all tight and gross. my everyday base is MAC studio fix, because it takes this greasy meatface and neckbeard and turns them into a smooth, even visage from heaven. for real, bro. i don't drink enough water or get enough sleep, yet i walk around all day looking like real-life instagram. i also have the blot powder and the pressed powder, but that's because i had a really aggressive salesgirl and i am defenseless against the hard sell.
petals. my lipstick game is crazy. matte red lips are my thing, and the ones from nars are the absolute jam. the matte pencils in dragon lady and cruella are my #1 and #2, followed closely by the skinny matte lipstick in mascate. hourglass cosmetics makes a fucking ridiculous red matte liquid called icon that is expensive enough to make you balk and storm out of sephora cursing my goddamned name, but shit's worth it. and i know what you're saying: MATTE LIPS ARE A SUMMERTIME NO-NO. well, i'm a rebel and i do want i want. also, no one is ever going to walk up to you at pitchfork and say, "those dark red lips are out of place here." so who cares? BUT, if you hate red or want to switch it up: dior makes the best sparkly glosses; clinique makes the best gloss balms; bobbi brown makes the best adult with a real job in the daytime lipsticks and black girl nudes; MAC up the amp and ruby woo are my party staples; maybelline vivids are HANDS DOWN THE BEST NEONS EVER not kidding, and you can get them at walgreens with your diet cokes and tampons.
leaves. my hair regimen is so specific that it isn't even worth writing about, but just in case any of you natural black girls with a curly little mohawk and an intermittently itchy scalp were searching for some new shit: I GOT YOU. at whole foods i buy this jason tea tree oil normalizing shampoo and it is the move. but a couple times a week i have to use head and shoulders dry scalp care because i get scaly as a motherfucker and f that shit in the b. i know we aren't supposed to wash this glorious african crown more than a couple times a week, but my hair is short, son. BITCHES CAN SEE MY SCALP. eco styler is the best gel, but you probably already knew that. be careful, the olive oil kind smells like a dude. but sometimes i hate the crunch, and paul mitchell the conditioner is still my ace styling product. it's so good. kathleen bought me a bottle of bumble and bumble curl conscious cream for coarse hair, and that stuff is just okay. not enough definition for your girl, but i like my shit crispy. if you want what's left of this bottle, holler at me. this little bottle was 29 clams, b. i refuse to throw it out. i will walk around with a dusty fro just on principle.
this would've been much more fun if you could've just come over to my apartment and looked through all this shit yourselves. we could make a frozen pizza, braid each other's hair, watch steel magnolias, all that sweet vagina shit. next time, maybe? you bring the skinny girl pinot grigio, i'll bring a half used bottle of hair cream. and that gnarly deodorant.
here's my spring playlist, HYPERLINKED: SPRING JAMZ.
welcome to my secret shame. i eat these delicious rosemary and olive oil triscuits, one by one, with a tiny sliver of prosciutto and a hefty grating of fresh parmesan. in my underwear. accompanied by an entire bottle of wine. i am disgusting. they kind of taste a little bit like stuffing? so sometimes i eat them with ripped up pieces of smoked deli turkey with a couple dried cranberries on top and i call it orphan thanksgiving.
why is the television always pretending that single people aren't standing over their sinks eating from a jar of nutella for dinner most nights? why do magazines insist on perpetuating the fraud that i am upright at home with my bra still on whipping up a gourmet meal for one after 12 motherfucking hours of nerve-grinding deathwork?! who punches the clock, slides down her dinosaur, then spends 3,267 minutes commuting home only to begin another grueling two hours of slave labor in an attempt to prepare a sensible single gal supper? NOT ME, BRO. i am reading my mail while taking off my bra in the elevator, kicking my shoes off in the hallway, and in bed with a jar of salsa and a bag of stale onion pitas approximately 3 minutes after i walked into my building. and then i watch game of thrones on my phone until i fall asleep at 730 because i worked all goddamned day and BITCH, I'M TIRED.
your instagram is making me feel bad about my fucking self. are you really making beef tenderloin in your real kitchen on a motherfucking tuesday night? DAMN, GIRL. and, if you are, do you need a motherfucking foot rub? can i please come live with you?! i don't "make food" on a weeknight, i "cut the rotten parts off the bread and spread chunky peanut butter on what's left." i would toss your figurative salad every single fucking night that i came home to a literal one. NOT KIDDING. ain't nobody got time or energy to be shopping for fresh produce! plus all 7-eleven has are old dried up apples and i'm not trying to catch salmonella off of them, barf. i haven't purchased fresh vegetables in so long that i am probably dying of scurvy, but no one can diagnose that shit because 1 i'm not a fucking pirate and 2 I LIVE IN A FIRST-WORLD COUNTRY AND THESE DOCTORS HAVE NEVER SEEN THAT SHIT BEFORE.
now, before you get crazy and start assuming that i subsist on a diet made up solely of junk foods, i want you to know that i had a salad on tuesday. and not just any salad, a white people salad that had all sorts of exotic lettuces and herbs and shit in it. let's start a race war, okay? black people salad: iceberg lettuce, pre-shredded carrots, maybe some purple cabbage, RANCH. white people salad: spinach, belgian endive, arugula, radicchio, frisee, rocket, watercress, sprouts, fennel, hearts of palm, dandelion greens, shallots, snap peas, green beans, chilled asparagus, radishes, walnuts, hazelnuts, raspberries, blood oranges, roquefort, fresh black pepper, and lemon juice, topped with a fixed-gear bicycle. ALL LOCALLY-SOURCED AND ORGANICALLY-GROWN. oh, just kidding. besides, everybody already knows that black people salad = chicken with the skin off.
most nights i go out to dinner, because i have limitless disposable income and don't give a shit about saving for my future. okay, that's not real. most nights i go out to dinner, because i need to eat my feelings after a long miserable day on the plantation and i don't know how to make truffle gnocchi as deliciously as the chef at trencherman does. on the rest of the nights, when i'm left to fend for myself in the ghost town that is my abandoned refrigerator, also known as "the place i hide my ice cream behind a bag of frozen whole foods corn," i stand impatiently in my underwear next to the stove dancing from foot to foot waiting in vain for my pasta water to come to a rolling boil. why does that shit take so goddamned long? and, conversely, if you walk away for even a second to take a little poop or check your text messages, why does it boil so quickly that you instantly lose three inches of water from the fucking pot?! life is excruciating, truly.
my darling friend and comedy genius nikki posted a photograph of herself on my facebook the other night holding a box of triscuits accompanied by the following homemade recipe: i found these delicious (and appropriately product-placed) tomato & sweet basil brown rice triscuits at my local grocer’s freezer. if you love pizza (DON’T WE ALL!), but don’t want the digestive problems and shame that come with eating an entire frozen (or delivered) (or digiorno) pizza, then follow this simple summer recipe!
1 cut a square of previously sliced mozzarella into four tiny squares. (be careful if you are young or super old, and are using a sharp knife; and make sure to be properly supervised, if so. otherwise, your parents or caretakers will be super pissed if you cut yourself and they have to clean up the mess while you are crying and whining about your finger bleeding.)
2 place one tiny square on one triscuit, so it looks like a personal-pan lunchable.
3 eat that tiny, cheese-topped triscuit!
DO YOU TASTE IT?! it almost tastes like you’re eating pizza! AND…if you consume almost a whole box of them and about 6-8 ounces of cheese, you’ll experience the same digestive problems and shame as eating REAL PIZZA! it’s a lose-lose!
fucking delicious, sister. little did she know that at the same exact time she was plastering that gourmet-type shit on my faceborg i was standing in my hot kitchen barefoot and naked except for a too-small robe shoveling triscuits and parmesan into my face hole while scrolling through pictures of naked fat chicks on my phone. coincidence?! I THINK NOT. my heart soared at the realization that i am not the only fully-functioning adult who chooses to eat kid-friendly finger food rather than scrub a motherfucking saute pan at 10pm on a thursday. because, DUH, i made a stir-fry on monday and let the shit soak and now it stinks in here and blaming the smell on the cat makes me feel guilty. anyway, fuck cooking. here is a list of all my gross shame meals:
spaghetti, bacon bits, lesueur peas: cook spaghetti, sprinkle a little olive oil on it; drain peas, add them. shake bits on top. SO GOOD. also, somehow vegan.
no one ever tells you that canned fish is a single person's miracle food. benefits: glowing skin, shiny hair, and even panhandlers can afford it. i could write a book (wink, wink) filled with recipes for canned tuna ALONE. i'ma call it "glamorous sex foods for sassy spinsters." okay, so tuna crostini: drain a can of tuna, squeeze a lemon over it (if the gas station or liquor store has them and that don't look too busted), eat atop single potato chips, all delicate-like. you need a fresh bag of hearty chips, like krunchers, that can support the weight of the tuna. add capers if you're fancy. add mayo if you want, but i'm fat already so i try not to push it.
grits and salmon croquettes, kind of: drain most of the liquid out of a can of pink salmon and pick out any large bones. or don't, you won't die. pour the dregs of whatever cereal you have lying around into a bowl, dump salmon in. pour some egg beaters over it, just enough to make it damp, and cut up an onion and add half of it. OR skip the cereal and the onion all together and crush some funyuns into that shit like i did last night. JAMMMMM. form into little balls. spray a pan with PAM (single gal pantry staple, amirite ladies?!), brown both sides, eat hot from the pan off the spatula, burn mouth and scream. fancy it up: i always keep a canister of grits in the house because 1 they never go bad and 2 add sugar for breakfast or add salt for dinner: MAGICALFOOD. so, when i'm feeling particularly extravagant, i make some grits to eat with my croquettes and then read cat on a hot tin roof aloud in a shitty southern accent while i eat it.
dry imitation rice krispies eaten absentmindedly from the box while watching SVU and writing jokes in bed: SELF-EXPLANATORY.
let's take back the (week)night, fellow eaters of saltines for dinner! no more hiding in our apartments, huddled with shame as we lick cashew butter off a butter knife 37 times in a row. no more humiliation as we sprinkle cinnamon on a piece of white toast thinking we're doing something remarkable when really that ain't shit! other people grill their own dinner, dummy. and i'm over her feeling special because i substituted greek yogurt for sour cream on top of that can of chili i poured over a bag of fritos and baked? well whatever. f them and their stand mixers in the b. some of us are JUST FINE posting pictures of the slice of bologna we fried and topped with some old shredded cheese we picked the green shit off of, hmph.
boner appétit.
i am 33 years old and i am never going to give birth to a baby. i might adopt the shit out of one, but a seven pound bundle of joy caterwauling while clawing its way down my slimy birth canal? not going to happen, son. not ever. there was a time when i would have never admitted this to anyone, because everyone is all OMG NO ONE WILL EVER MARRY YOU IF YOU SAY THAT, but shit. no time like the present to start dropping truth bombs. why is it a bomb, though? there have to be fish in the potential mate sea who aren't clamoring for a school of tiny guppies to be swimming along in their bubbly wake? you know, the people who want to travel the globe and/or stay up until 3am on a tuesday just because? i'm sure it's not just me, right?! and i know some of you audibly gasped knowing that my single self risked turning off the droves of men who might otherwise be interested in planting a seed in my garden, but here's the thing: if i have to shit out a mewling ball of snot for him, he's probably not my man. and lying to him probably won't help.
babies have absolutely zero business forcing their way into the conversation of two drunk, sexy consenting adults prior to the 127th date, but bitches is old. i know half our eggs die by the time we're 27 or whatever, and the number of viable ones rapidly decreases with every subsequent year, blah blah blah fertility dance blah. and for those of you who are going to grow one, i totally understand why you introduce yourself to a first date slash prospective partner as, "katefrommatch.com myclockistickingdoyouwantkidsorwhat?" and dudes have clocks, too! most commonly in the form of nagging mothers and concern-trolling sisters/aunts! which is why i gotta let them know right up front: yes we could maybe have a kid but no it probably won't look like you. and we'll likely have to undergo a background check while the stork checks our urine for party drugs.
you know how i feel about shame. it's a useless emotion, sister. especially when some asshole is trying to force that shit ON YOU. feeling guilty is lame, which is why i won't be doing any of that. you know how many times people i 1 am not having sex with 2 am not in a relationship with 3 only know from facebook 4 wasn't hatched by TRY TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD for not what, trolling craigslist for donor sperm? stealing an infant from a hospital nursery? making a really unwise choice for a woman who routinely spends her last ten dollars on bourbon and magazines? god, SHUT UP.
biology. man i had no goddamned idea there were so many motherfucking gynecologists walking around disguising themselves as the bitch who works at the bank and the fine dude who i met at the recycling center that one time. want to know how to figure out who they are when they're out in public sans lab coat? MENTION THAT YOU HAVE ZERO PLANS TO PROCREATE. brings those sneaky bastards right out of the woodwork! one minute you're at dominick's buying a box of strawberry gogurt because you are too lazy to eat your probiotics the conventional way, and the next minute you're being diagnosed by the gynecologist at the register who just decided that despite your dead ovaries you need a baby so that you don't have to be ashamed of buying children's snacks for yourself. why thank you, latasha. can't believe i spent all that time wasting my co-pay when i should've been buying more wheat chex. i know how my body works. and how it doesn't.
physiology. now that i'm off birth control, i don't get my period regularly. another party favor? copious amounts of chin hair. also still happening: crohns disease ravaging my intestines. letting a tiny terrorist hijack the space next to THE MOST NECROTIC AND DISGUSTING TISSUE IN MY BODY hardly seems like a good idea, amirite? so how come i have to explain that to strangers who press me about why i'm pushing a (stolen) ice cream cart rather than a stroller down the street? i had to tell a woman at the laundromat "listen, if i had a kid i'd be on welfare and disability so stop asking and let me fold my giant panties in peace" to get her the fuck out of my face. i have to walk around with a list of my ailments to keep bitches out of my uterus now? seriously, SHUT UP ALREADY.
lifespan. this meatbag of a pre-corpse has been slowly decomposing for over thirty-three years now and, frankly, i don't have the time or energy to spend ten whole months incubating an alien spawn that might not even love me even if i give it cookies for breakfast. i'm planning to live hard and be dead by forty-seven. stop messing with my destiny. and shut the fuck up.
don't let these breeders fool you; raising children is hard. i fucking love babies. but here's why i'm glad i don't own one:
1 you can watch whatever you want on television. i watched that ass-eating episode of GIRLS in real time at full volume. you know why? because i didn't have to wait for my seven-year-old to stop faking like he was asleep before sneaking out of his room to watch his mom look at some titties.
2 kid shit is expensive. did you know that children's shirts cost as much as real human shirts?! i can buy 137 heather grey layering tees at old navy for approximately $9 total. RIGHT THIS MINUTE there is a chambray romper at baby gap that costs $26.95, and there is a printed tie-waist dress at person gap that costs $29.99. the dress that little meatbag junior will wear for approximately five hours before she shits in it while simultaneously growing out of that 1/4 yard of fabric costs almost as much as the dress your drunk ass is going to wear to brunch, to your friend's graduation, to that sorority dinner you grudgingly accepted an invite to, to the bars, to pierce's boat party, to your cousin's wedding, and probably to work if you accidentally fall asleep in it at your hookup's place. this year and next. until i can dress my child in napkins, i'm cool.
3 you don't have to learn how to be a motherfucking hostage negotiator. have you ever watched some helpless parent trying to convince his kid to do something the kid is absolutely refusing to do? my FAVORITE THING EVER is watching some frazzled woman with a half-undone ponytail and mismatched socks trying to reason with the shrieking child belly flopping on the floor at her feet. children are unreasonable. they don't sit politely weighing your argument against whatever the fuck it is they've decided they want, they make their demands, and if you don't give them whatever the hell it is they want, immediately, their only recourse is to SHOUT AND SCREAM AND CRY. anecdote from the life of wee baby sam: my parents were not fucking playing with me. if i was being a bitch no one sat me down to let me air my considerable grievances with the establishment, i was given 1 a warning glare and, if i failed to heed it, 2 fingernails dug into the soft meat of my upper arm until my knees buckled. once my mother and i were in less-on drugstore and i decided i wanted an imitation barbie. my request was denied. i restated my case, more fervently this time, raising my voice just enough to let that woman know i meant business. "don't try me, bitch," my four-year-old tone implied. "i will THROW A FUCKING TANTRUM, on your ass." she continued to ignore me in her quest for bunion relief.
so i took a deep breath, relaxed my diaphragm, and i started fucking howling. i really let that shit rip, screaming and sobbing and piquing the curiosity of every other person in that store. a young woman rushed over to see if i'd stabbed myself on an old pill box or something, but my mom stiff-armed that broad and dropped her basket full of soft foam corn pads, tossed me over her shoulder, and threw me into the back seat of her yellow chevy caprice so hard that it knocked the wind out of me. i was shocked. when the other kids in preschool pulled that shit their mommies immediately caved and gave in to their outrageous demands, just to make the shrieking stop. but they obviously had nice mommies. this asshole wasn't going to bargain with me, she was going to beat me within an inch of my life. and we danced that dance four times a day every day, if not more. and fuck all of that.
4 i don't really know that much shit. the first time i figured out my mom was dumb was a real eye-opening experience for me. i asked her, a licensed practical nurse, why hair turned grey. seemed like a simple enough question. i mean, she did work with doctors all day. it wasn't like i was asking her to explain how a goddamned rocket ship was constructed. the blank stare i received in response is burned into my memory to this very day. i fucking hated school, and i know very few things that would be of use and/or interest to a small child. so unless my kid wants to talk about nipple hair and how to eat a burrito on the toilet without getting bathroom germs on it, i'm fucked. SIGH OF RELIEF, HEAVED.
5 you need a job. but when you have a kid you need a job job. i love my job. and maybe if i had an accountant and a money manager i could figure out how to raise a couple spoiled brats who will resent my inability to buy them iphones with my meager hourly wage, but who would that be fun for? i make really good money for a bitch who only went to high school, but let's be for real: THIS AIN'T MONTESSORI MONEY, BRO. my kid would not be able to:
-have fly, name brand clothing
-eat organic meats
-drink coconut water
-use cloth diapers
-do his homework on an ipad
-wear the new jordans
-take anything other than refined carbs for snack day
-have chuck e. cheese birthday jams
-text girls on his own cell phone
-not share a room with me
why? BECAUSE HIS BROKE MOM SUXXXXXX. also, how can i keep my gear crisp if i'm constantly buying $27 dresses and gluten-free snack cakes for my shorty? i have enough trouble trying to keep myself current, shit. the struggle is real out here. i almost had to get a fourth generation iphone, omg.
so don't feel bad, cuties. (not that you do, but everyone always assumes that you do while ignoring the fact that you backpacked alone through peru last year and did a lot of other cool childless person shit.) YOU ARE NOT ALONE, I AM HERE WITH YOU. besides, check your facebook feed: all of your friends are shitting out spawn. so babysit. teach those youngsters to swear and let them eat jelly beans all goddamned afternoon, then give those bitches back and go fuck some dirtbags and eat a hot pocket for dinner.
i'm celibate, bro. seven months and counting, with no plans to change that anytime soon. sex is boring and i want all the other shit. sure sure, prince charming is somewhere out there just waiting to clear the cobwebs out of this dank attic and tear through my regenerated hymen. but he is for real going to have to ride up to my doorstep on a unicorn with a cheeseburger in each pocket for me to even bother checking his texts. dude, FUCK SEX. but, since the rest of you insist on mashing your moist, slimy genitals together:
1 create some motherfucking ambiance. oh, i know. all you need is a half-inflated air mattress and a quiet corner of an abandoned warehouse to get your dick hard, sir. and that's cool, but i'm not seventeen anymore. i'ma need some soft lighting and a spotify mix called "bedroom jamz" or an old jodeci cd on repeat or some shit. i need clean sheets and a pillow to support my head. you kids can have sex on park benches and the folding table at the laundromat, but after a certain age the mood and the surroundings have to be right. want to know where i lost my virginity? ON A WASHING MACHINE IN THE BASEMENT OF MY SISTER'S APARTMENT BUILDING. twenty years ago that was an acceptable circumstance for me. but i have arthritis now, homie. i'ma need you to have a nightstand i can leave my water bottle, potassium supplements, icy hot, prune juice, orthotic inserts, reverse mortgage paperwork, reader's digest, worn cardigan sweater, and room temperature soup on.
2 let's make on-top-of-clothes sex a real thing finally. i'm so fucking lazy. if i ever have sex again the only position i ever want to do it in is this one i read in cosmo called "saucy spoons." erotic instructions: lie on your sides with him behind you so you’re both facing the same direction. push your butt toward him as he enters you. put your hand on his and show him how you want your clitoris to be touched. have him alternate between there and your breasts. THIS SOUNDS PERFECT. if a dude would agree to only fuck me this way while i 1 read my kindle and 2 just pull my nightgown up around my waist i will marry him. real talk. submit your applications, gentlemen.
3 we need to figure out if multiple orgasms are an actual thing or if you bitches are just lying to make the rest of us feel like shit. WHO IS HAVING MULTIPLE ORGASMS? please, tell me. can you call me on the phone so we can talk about it? overshare of the century: here is how my vagina experiences an orgasm: 1 SPLASH 2 shamefeelings because this premarital sex has disappointed baby jesus 3 swollen vulva so sensitive to the touch that if a breeze blows over it i double over in agony 4 zzZzZzz! i was obviously meant to have a penis.
my friend jessica taught me this new way to masturbate that involves sticking a skinny vibrator in either your babychute or your doodyhole while you use a giant vibrator on your clit to create THE GREATEST ORGASM ANYBODY EVER HAD. the minute she told me i shouted, "I AM GOING TO TRY TO COME TWICE IN ONE SITTING!" at the computer screen while clapping like a little girl. i walked home with a spring in my step, ready to give it a whirl. i was irritated immediately. first of all, the logistics of this shit: like i said, i am hella lazy, and i usually keep the hitachi plugged into the outlet in the bathroom so that i don't have to go looking for it when i finish peeing. gross, but true. and i didn't want to risk dropping that expensive-ass lelo in the goddamned toilet while trying to get situated, so then i had to figure out a good spot to do it, which made me feel like a total fucking creep. i was, like, testing surfaces and shit. okay, anyway, i decided that the corner of the bed would be the most practical. then i removed my pants.
i turned the lelo on and stuck it in my vagina, but it fell out immediately because my lazy pussyhole isn't a motherfucking team player. insert #2 went a little bit smoother, and i used every ounce of strength i had in me to tighten my kegels around that humming silicone shaft. but then i couldn't get my other vibrator working and as soon i starting fiddling with it i lost my concentration and the lelo clattered to the hardwood floor and rattled into the other room rattling like a fucking lawn mower. so then i wedged the lelo into my butthole, where it remained perfectly, but that prevented me from sitting. standing upright prevented my properly reaching my clitoris. so then, like a fucking asshole, i did a captain morgan one leg up pose on the corner of the bed. with a vibrator shoved in my asshole. trying to adjust the settings was as hilarious/humiliating as you can imagine. after four minutes of awkwardly hovering at the side of my bed with the dull roar of two vibrating sex toys jammed into my sex places i realized that i'd forgotten the porn and all i could imagine was watching my high school history teacher jerking off and that was too gross and inappropriate even for me. i sort of came once, but it was a weak one at best, and not the six times i had been hoping for. i need you girls to 1 TRY THIS AT HOME AND REPORT BACK and 2 skpye me in if you really are having 37 for real orgasms in one session. that shit has to look amazing.
4 i want to see a real couple show me how shower sex works. and when i say "real couple" i mean "fat people who have coffin-sized bathrooms." i was on the 66 bus the other day and this woman was shouting, on speakerphone, to her homegirl about the epic shower sex she and her boo had engaged in the night before. the gentleman across from me raised an eyebrow over the newspaper he was pretending to read and my look back said, "aw yeah, you fine piece of hot, smoldering sex. we should totally try that sometime." horrified, he blanched and jumped off the bus before it had even come to a complete stop. fine, i have terrible gaydar, whatever. ANYWAY, i have tried to have shower sex on three separate occasions with three different people, and every single time i either 1 ended up shivering like an asshole at the back of the shower with cold soap bubbles congealing in my crease meat or 2 abandoned the sex to really try to enjoy that motherfucking shower. the first time was in this swanky hotel that had a waterfall shower and bliss products on the sink! i lathered up that lemon and sage soapy sap and stood under that warm, steamy spray and was like, "PUT YOUR DICK AWAY, BRO." nothing like an erection to ruin my calgon moment. the first time was after that golden shower incident that went so terribly awry, and i was too busy trying not to vomit my own urine to bother with p in v.
and the third time dude slipped and broke his left arm during the fall and almost tore my right nipple off on the way down. i'ma need ol' girl to send me a copy of her sex tape. like, right now. seeing is believing.
5 butt plugs. GIMME SOME ASS. sorry in advance, future partners, but i have had all of the non-reciprocal anal sex i am ever going to have. sucks to be you, but you should've met me when i was in high school. those days are over, homey. if you want me to shit on your dick then you have to let me peg you or use a butt plug or something. i dated this really progressive (snort) dude a few years ago who begged for a little prostate action every single time we banged it out. like, dude would be on his knees before i could even get my powderless surgical glove on. i would lube up my pointer finger and curve it to the right and then BOOM GOES THE DYNAMITE. seriously. i had to wear protective goggles. it was like working near a goddamned geyser. i had to brace myself against the dresser every time he busted a nut, bro. anyway, after that i didn't even care what dude wanted from me. he could've poked my eye out and put his dick in the empty socket and i would've been like, "well, okay." and i know that shit is moist. i swear i do. but prostate milking is SO HOT that i almost forgot this dude also wore pink dress shirts and sometimes a fedora.
so if you're going to let someone dig around in your backyard, i found some internet sex help to keep you from catching e.coli or some other disgusting shit: unlike the vagina, the anus is not super-elastic or self-lubricating. therefore, to enjoy anal sex, you need to take it really slowly and use plenty of water-based lubricant. "enjoy" is a motherfucking stretch. try "tolerate." since your butt is not used to having objects inserted into it, the sphincter muscles, which encircle the anal opening, will automatically clench when you try to penetrate it. so, you have to learn to relax them. have your guy get you nice and worked up with your favorite form of foreplay and then delicately massage the outer rim of the opening. try not to shit on his hand. when you're ready, have him slowly slip his finger in, only as far as is comfortable. just stick with this for several sessions, until you are able to let his finger in with little resistance or tension. then, if you don't feel you're ready to jump from a finger to a penis, graduate to an in-between-sized sex toy specifically designed for up-the-butt action. the skinnier the plug, the better. and make sure it has a end piece so it doesn't get swallowed by your buttmouth and end up perforating your large bowel.
REMEMBER: anything that's been in the anus, your fingers/a penis/cucumber, needs to be washed with soap and water before putting it in the vagina to avoid spreading bacteria and causing an infection. if you used a condom, replace it with a new one. if you didn't use a motherfucking condom, GO GET AN HIV TEST. this isn't the fucking 70s, hooker. it's 2013. wrap that shit up, b.
buy my book, baby.
once upon a time, in an upscale shopping mall just outside of chicago, two friends decided to get moderately-priced drinks and apps at the local cheesecake factory. after parking six blocks away at the far end of the full lot, we fought through the crowd of suburbanites circling the trough for 3pm dinner to put our names in for a table. the teenage hostess, clearly mesmerized, eye-fucked my marginally handsome homeboy for thirty real seconds as i stood by, invisible, sweating uncomfortably into my coat while muttering curses under my breath. she led us to a table in the back, chattering nonstop the entire time about glitter and the sale rack at the limited (i have no idea what young people care about) while i trudged along silently behind them. as we approached the table she skipped ahead to pull out his chair and use her ponytail to wipe it clean. "your seat," she said, motioning to it with a deep curtsy. i slid into the booth side and ducked out of the way just in time to avoid the menu she carelessly flung at my head. "enjoy your dinner," she purrrrrrrred seductively at him. oh, barf.
our waitress was equally shameless. at one point while taking dude's order she clasped this motherfucker's hand between hers while she laughed uproariously at what was obviously THE GREATEST JOKE ANYBODY EVER TOLD while i watched, dumbfounded. and ate all of that free bread. i mean, i'm not being an oversensitive brat, this bitch sat down at the table with us to take his order. it was like i wasn't even there. and he wasn't trying to bone this hooker down in the middle of the fake marble table, he was just being charming and polite and babygirl was all "would you like a side of my vagina with your crispy crab wontons?" the whole thing made my butt hurt, especially since i had to repeat everything i wanted nineteen fucking times because ol' girl could hardly be bothered to tear her eyes away from your boyfriend's perfect teeth. and, i know: player hating cock blocker. but not really, bro! i was just wondering whose dick i had to suck to get a motherfucking navajo sandwich!
when the food finally came this bitch delicately set his plate in front of him before tucking his napkin into his shirt and gently massaging his back for a few seconds. she also might've given him a pedicure and done his taxes. i can't be sure, because i was too busy STARVING TO DEATH. she tossed my plate, frisbee-style, in the general direction of my face. french fries skittered across the table, leaving a trail of salty grease in their wake. i'm not a manager-getter, nor a comment card filler-outer, preferring the much more passive aggressive method of stewing in my hatred until it threatens to make my brain beat its way out of my skull, so i just sat there trying to collect the pieces of my bottom jaw that had shattered against the floor.
okay. i understand that when presented with the above situation your initial response was, "WHAT. tyler perry is making a buddy comedy about a surly lesbian and her wedding/corporate event/golf outing +1 beard?!" and yes asshole, we have a script currently in development. but here's what, tho: 1 the assumption that i am this hot dude's nanny or his grandmother is fucking insulting; 2 i can be charming and affable, too ho, plus i have a lot of black-people-don't-tip guilt and 20% is my goddamned minimum; 3 it took four tries to get me a club soda with a lime in it? FOUR MOTHERFUCKING TRIES?! but you got homeboy's skinnylicious margarita or whatever correct right out of the gate? man, fuck you.
sometimes i think about how much easier life would be if i had been born an attractive man: my dry cleaning would be hella cheap. i could decide to just "stop eating chips" and lose forty pounds in a goddamned week and a half. strangers on the street wouldn't stop me to ask why i haven't yet shit out a baby since i'm in my thirties and all my eggs are about to be dead. if i decided to run for public office no one would launch an investigation into how many jerks i'd banged when i was nineteen. genetically, males have thicker skin and more powerful muscle structure. i would be interested in knowing stuff about tanks. $12 haircuts. i would get mouthsex for the tiniest thoughtful or considerate act. three pairs of shoes would be sufficient. i could take my shirt off on a hot day without someone taking that as an invitation to bust a nut on my tits. sportscenter 24/7/365. gray hair and wrinkles = "refined." i would never be prostrate atop a crimson tide as my uterus eats itself from within. waitresses would trip over their feet to deliver my diet cocktails.
i have several super handsome male friends and they're always bitching about how hard life is when every broad wants to put her pussy on their strong, chiseled jaws. IT'S SO HARD BEING A GUY EVERYONE WANTS TO FUCK, MAN. what i wouldn't give for everyone to automatically assume that i am nice and well-intentioned just because i look dapper in my tailored tom ford suit and my dashing windsor knot. i would have all of the dynamite shrimp and mini corn dogs a person could dream of just by flashing a smile through my perfectly curated five o'clock shadow. i mean, seriously. all those women (and men) throwing their panties (and thongs) at me would be totally exhilarating. i'd have to carry a satchel (sickkkkkk purse, bro) just to keep track of them all. so what the fuck are you spoiled brats always whining about?
because it's so goddamned hard when motherfuckers are really fucking nice to you and cater to your every whim? remember when asshole jeff and i went to weight watchers? and they damn near rolled out the red carpet for that skinny predator while i almost stress-ate my shoes?! (37 flex points apiece) yeah, NEITHER DO I. i could've walked in with a tray of milkshakes and a dozen pizza boxes and i still wouldn't have been half as awesome as they assumed he was. all because those chicks were into the pectoral muscles outlined by that moist house sweater he only wore to appear nonthreatening. maximum hate. i would spend all day bowing at the waist if bitches were even half as nice to me as they are to these jerks. that face doesn't own any property, hooker. JUST SAYING.
because it's so goddamned terrible that motherfuckers make sure you're coming to shit so they can ogle you lustily from across the room? every time i organize some party shit my phone fills up with thirsty texts asking who is going to be there. and what they really mean is "is [insert handsome person] going to be there? because i might stay home if he ain't." wait a second, bitch. it's not enough that i invited you to my mariah carey-themed glitter sparkle party and rented a unicorn for you to ride to the club? you have to make sure this dude and his fashion-forward skinny tie will be in attendance? because what, my roller skate and short shorts (with knee pads!) homage to the fantasy (remix featuring ol' dirty bastard) do not provide sufficient reason for you to haul your lazy meat carcass out of bed on a saturday night?! he's not the one who is going to pop out of a cake in a silver bikini top and serenade you with "heartbreaker," dummy, MY ASS IS. both the jay-z and the missy elliott versions. i want someone to turn a cartwheel just because there's a rumor i'm coming to some shit! what a shot in the arm that must be! i'd fake RSVP all the motherfucking time, just to make you put an unnecessary spanx on.
because it's so goddamned horrendous that motherfuckers want to fuck you all the time? what was that you said, that it's such a pain in the dick being totally hot and desireable and you just wish all the people clamoring to piss in your butthole is a total goddamned drag? boo hoo, asshole. i have not had sex since september. i hope you fellas die in a fire. FROM THE FLAMES.
bitch, you missed my birthday. one more year closer to really needing some goddamned face surgery. my neck is already like, "ahem...?" and it's only a matter of time before the congealed bacon grease i've been substituting for eye cream melts down my face and settles into the deep valleys on either side of my mouth. 33 years of incessant scowling looks like shit in real life, and you kids can't stop taking high definition photos of my saddlebags the second i relax to take a breath and forget to hold my fucking stomach in. i'm not 24, jerks: GIVE ME A SECOND TO POSE. your mom and i fucking hate this digital age. is it too much to ask that you fire a warning shot so i can organize my jibs before you're instagramming pictures of my sweet undercarriage and the bulgy places the spanx doesn't cover? i hope the first thing the chinese take from us when they make their final payment on america are these digital cameras everyone is always embarrassing me with. let's bring back a little mystery with our slavery, yes?
i got a pretty rad mohawk, which is hilarious since the left side of my head is going grey at a comical clip, and i threw a big birthday party i could hardly stay awake during. i literally FELL ASLEEP ON THE TOILET AT A NIGHTCLUB at 11:30pm even though the theme was "dance jams of the 2000s" and the 12-year-old dj was snickering ironically through all of the ludacris songs my old-ass friends were dancing to in earnest. i should have been screaming along with missy elliott, not texting the latecomers asking them to sneak me in some espresso. later i was leaning on my walker at the bar trying to order a sazerac (your dad and i like those) to wash down my centrum silver with when these little miniskirted assholes pushed passed me asking each other who nelly is. i should've have turned them over my knee and spanked them. anyway, i picked up a bag of 3am birthday tacos on the way home, but when i got there all i had the strength to do was fill the humidifier and rub icy hot on my ankles and knees. you read that right: it is important to me to fill the humidifier before i go to bed. next year, my party is going to be at olive garden. AT FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON.
this is my motherfucking jesus year, bro. and to celebrate i just read that time magazine article about how 70% of survey respondents over the age of 40 claimed they were not truly happy until they reached 33. what the what? GET UP IN MY LIFE, HAPPINESS. “the age of 33 is enough time to have shaken off childhood naiveté and the wild scheming of teenaged years without losing the energy and enthusiasm of youth,” psychologist donna dawson said in the survey’s findings. “by this age innocence has been lost, but our sense of reality is mixed with a strong sense of hope, a ‘can do’ spirit, and a healthy belief in our own talents and abilities.”
I AM GROWING UP WRONG. how is it possible that i still am wildly scheming but have absolutely zero energy and enthusiasm of youth?! i lost my innocence in a laundry room with a handsome stranger twenty years ago, but where is this hope? why is my spirit so full of can't (and won't) do? why did the word "healthy" make me skip reading the rest of that last goddamned sentence?! i am regressing. and i'm not quite sure how or why it's happening, but it is. in my bag right now is a book i got at urban outfitters called "fuck i'm in my 20s." and it's chilling next to a pair of cushy teal headphones that i picked up off a nearby display. what am i, a freshman in community college? DID I JUST USE "CHILLING" AS A VERB?! blerg. i watch the hills like it's a real show. i have a subscription to nylon magazine. my fingernails are a color not found in nature. if you catch me on a skateboard or trying to shoehorn myself into a pair of neon purple skinny jeans, please call the principal. imma need some detention.
roses are red. valentine's day. so, how was yours? what did you do? how much cheap chocolate did you eat? i got a bunch of those sofia champagne cans and hung out with some single ladies and $67 dollars' worth of chinese takeout. it was the most relaxed, stress-free fun i've had in a long time, and it made me sad for people in relationships. wait, that is crazy talk. i refuse to feel bad for people who have a built-in person to drop off the dry cleaning or stop by walgreens for some gel insoles on the way home from work. i cannot take pity on someone who doesn't have to get up and get his own midnight drink of water.
but holy fucking shit, THE PRESSURE. one of my boo'd up friends was waxing rhapsodic about her valentine's day expectations, listing a dozen things she expected her man to do on or around that holiest of days, and i was like, "wait, what?" you get to give a dude vday homework? how come you bitches never told me?! i would've tried to get a february manfriend ages ago. shannon looked at me as one would a monkey who'd just strolled out of the jungle and asked for a gin and tonic. i snatched the paper from her to see what i've been missing: fill the house with flowers; serve me breakfast in bed; take me to next; diamond earrings; rotate the tires on my tru--WAIT, WHAT? if someone did even one of the things on that list for me i might be convinced to give a rigorous handjob under the table, but what kind of superhuman dude is this bitch fucking?! there were fourteen motherfucking things on that list. i don't know that i could successfully accomplish all that shit in a month. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET A TABLE AT NEXT, HO? if my lady handed me a list like that i wouldn't even know what to do. you mean this brownie bacon au gratin casserole is not going to be enough? can i throw in a back rub or some shit?! JUST BREAK UP WITH ME ALREADY. my stomach was hurting for that dude. i've known them for three years, and in all that time he has never struck me as the kind of person who could take the dog in for its vaccines during the same week he also made it to saks to buy her a bottle of creed.
i couldn't do it, and i'm relatively high functioning. if you gave me a list of things to do i would pick the most fun three and blow the rest out of my asshole. i'd be shivering on her doorstep valentine's morning with some walgreens chocolates and a bottle of jean naté, clutching the unfinished list in my good hand. and i would be broken up with on the spot, BECAUSE LOVE. i saw shanny at simone's last week and asked her how many things her butler, i mean boyfriend, had accomplished on her list. her answer was "none." because he broke up with her two days before. life is the worst. she should just do what i do and ask for a diet coke and the newspaper. aim low, friends.
i took my okcupid down. oh, internet. always making me feel hella fucking dumb just when my self-esteem was getting back on track. i'm taking a break from the silent rejection of millions of available singles online and letting my dick rest for a minute. why you no send me messages, chicagoans?! and my profile is the motherfucking trifecta: brief, hilarious, and pictures of my real tits. what the fuck else could you ask for? i read that oktrends article that was basically like, "online dating is pointless if you have a black vagina" and yeah, bro: I GOT THE MESSAGE. except i wasn't really getting any messages. like, ever. like, even when i wrote my wittiest, most well-composed messages to bearded dudes who like the same bands i do ever. my inbox would just sit there, full of crickets, gathering dust. thanks for making me feel less awesome, nerds. and it's not like i'm looking for a husband, i just want to talk shit and cupcake with somebody who likes going to au cheval. but even the ladies treated internet sam like shit. these tomboys were like "meh." the nerve.
from the article: men don’t write black women back. or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. essentially every race—including other blacks—singles them out for the cold shoulder. well, shit. what are my sistas doing, posting up in bars? taking classes at the local community center? making small talk with every single person who walks into your starbucks in the morning?! the internet's favorite places to meet eligible singles are: 1 coffeeshops 2 libraries 3 farmer's markets 4 supermarkets 5 at a friend's get together 6 museum 7 thrift store 8 laundromat 9 dog park 10 charity event.
BIG SIGH. 1 i must be at work during "meet soulmate o'clock" at the coffeeshop near me. i can barely place my order and tip the barista before some uptight soccer mom is literally shoving me out of the way to get her venti seven-shot three-shot-decaf one-and-a-half-pump amaretto two percent seven nutrasweet no whip extra chocolate extra sprinkles java chip frappuccino light blended coffee 2 maybe if i was in college? 3 too busy stacking my organic bok choy, son! 4 i would die if someone tried to talk to me while i was pushing around a cart with seventeen lean cuisines and a box of cupcakes in it 5 my asshole friends never throw parties that anyone fuckable attends 6 all the hot dudes at museums are there on field trips and I AM NOT TRYING TO GO TO JAIL 7 i have enough old dishes, thanks 8 in-building laundry! but, even when i didn't, my only prospects were entire mexican families; i should move to a neighborhood with sexy laundromats 9 fuck, i have this stupid cat 10 i spent $175 to go to some black tie dog rescue event once and here is who hit on me: a black labrador named foster. i should've adopted that motherfucker. then i wouldn't need to troll for dates on the internet.
sports. tits. a new car. that one thing on imgur he wanted to show his buddies. tits. jerking off. facebook. ESPN. cars. bloody steak. gym shoes. new tech gadgets. fresh shirts. video games. getting a haircut. whiskey. axe commercials. getting laid. getting bottle service at the paris club. beer. tits. there. that is what he is thinking about. he's never going to say "your feelings." stop asking.
motherfuckers don't write sonnets anymore?! here is what i need: a poem about how great i am, written by someone who is desperately in love with me and doesn't care that sometimes i put food in the fridge uncovered. wait, that's too much. i mean i want it, but that's a lot to ask.
seriously, though, some romance would be nice. just a little. this is going to be my new hope for 2013, that we finally get some MOTHERFUCKING ROMANCE in our miserable lives. can a bitch get some candlelight this year? SHIT. what about some goddamned courtship? i know a romantic getaway for two is out of the question, but what about a weekend at the champagne lodge? parenting.com (holy fuck, how old are we again?!) says that holding hands, flirty texts, lunch dates, and built-in cuddle time are easy ways to introduce romance back into our relationships. would it kill you to leave a surprise post-it with an anatomical vagina drawing on my computer, girl? is it so hard to add "i can't wait to tear that lining out later tonight" onto the grocery list, sir? just a little tenderness to let me know that the magic is still alive. send me a picture of your dick while you are taking a shit, please. i need to know you care. NOW GO ROTATE MY FUCKING TIRES.
i keep having the weirdest goddamned dreams. i keep waking up with a headache, in a cold sweat, because i spent half the night tormented by the succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that occur involuntarily in my mind and prominently feature a gentleman who stopped fucking me almost six months ago. every single night, as i lay me down to sleep, the minute my eyes close my head fills with weird, confusing pictures and sounds. i wish they were sex dreams. sex dreams i could totally fucking handle, but these are another animal entirely. they're, like, relationship dreams? i don't even know how to classify them, but i wake up feeling uncomfortable and exhausted every goddamned morning. the most recent involved my most recent filling his bedroom with dozens and dozens and dozens of bottles of garnier fructis shampoo (i can't be sure of the brand, but the bottles were kelly green and my dreambrain thought the room smelled soapy and fresh) and presenting them to me as a gift. i walked into his real house and up his real stairs, excited at the promise of a "really amazing surprise," said hello to his real dog, and then he pushed his real door open and stood back smiling in anticipation of my reaction. but all i could think was, "has this dude really not ever noticed that i use aveda scalp benefits?!" and then i woke up with the sadz. AND AN ITCHY SCALP.
am i out of my motherfucking mind? in dreams past he has: helped me untie a tricky shoelace (wtf?), brought me breakfast in bed that was really just an adorable bowl of live kittens who crawled all over me, inexplicably moved a bunch of heavy furniture that i didn't ask for into the middle of my apartment, asked me to videotape him synchronized swimming (not a real thing he ever did), and then this glut of moderately-priced hair detergent. WHO IN THE FUCK DREAMS ABOUT BULK PURCHASING SHAMPOO? here's what the internet says about that: to see or use shampoo in your dream indicates that you need clear out your old attitudes and old ways of thinking. you may also need to take a different approach toward some situation or relationship. alternatively, shampoo represents self-growth and you desire to present a new image of yourself to others. i can live with that, i suppose. i have been eating more.
next i searched "dude who wouldn't let you call him your boyfriend and went on vacation with another broad while banging you clears sam's club stock of all available bottles of pert plus on your behalf" and was told: sorry, there are no matches for your request. what the shit?! after that, i typed "ex lover is suspiciously concerned about my scalp care" to which dreammoods.com replied: for best results, narrow your search request to one or two words. fine then. YOU WIN, INTERNET. "ex boyfriend" (not my words, ex-romantic partner!) yielded these beauties, among others:
-if your ex-boyfriend hurts or ignores you, then the dream is telling you to move on with your life and stop thinking about your ex. what if he gets me kittens and antique hutches? should i really move on from a queen anne armoire?!
-to dream that you are kidnapped by your ex-boyfriend suggests that your ex still has some sort of emotional hold on you. what if he's just holding my breakfast emotionally hostage?
-to dream that you are being massaged by your ex-boyfriend suggests that you need to let go of some of that defensiveness that you have been putting forth as a result of a past relationship. SCALP MASSAGE.
-if you dream that your ex-boyfriend is dressed in a suit at a hospital, then it suggests that you have come to terms with that relationship and have completed the healing process. does a swim suit at my local YMCA count?
my diagnosis: LADYCRAZY. this is just like the time webmd correctly informed me that i had testicular cancer! thanks, al gore!
i don’t believe in all that bullshit. all that letting you feel like you’re the only batshit crazy idiot bullshit. if you and i are going to claw our way out of the miserable death pit that is life on planet earth then we are going to have to be honest with each other about the fucked up shit we are going through and help each other the fuck out. we are going to have to be honest about the dreams we can't stop having, like the one in which dude drove me to michigan on the handlebars of a bicycle. my life has no room for bitches who lie and pretend they have never eaten the entire contents of their freezers in an afternoon after getting text-dumped IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING NIGHT. that’s right, kittens, this one time i woke up to less than 160 characters of relationship finality, and then i spent the next hour disgustingly snotcrying into a gin and tonic while defrosting a pound of kielbasa with a hair dryer because i am too lazy to go get a microwave. then i ate it while listening to lauryn hill's song "ex-factor" on repeat on the stereo. for three straight days. i don’t just neatly put myself back together and seamlessly move on to the next thing, i fucking panic that i have to find some new motherfucker to hesitantly show my weird moles to. i hyperventilate at the thought of re-opening my match dot fucking com. my palms sweat at the thought of declining your invitation to set me up with your cardigan-wearing uncle who makes those wet mouth sounds that make me want to vomit. i stress eat while wondering if anyone else anywhere ever is going to find me physically attractive ever again hideous beast OH MY GOSH.
but we need to figure out what the threshold for clinical insanity is. when does preoccupation become fixation become obsession? at what point is this no longer a thing we can discuss over drinks and should instead unload onto a goddamned therapist? like, how much crying is too much? when do you have to stop detailing the same two dates and fourteen texts over and over again to your friends? where is the line between a healthy amount of polish sausage and so much stuffed pork that an authority needs to be called?! WE NEED REAL LIFE GRIEF RULES, FRIENDS. i hung out with a friend last weekend who spent the entire time watching videos this broad he dated for approximately five minutes posted online. i mean, for hours. that shit ain't healthy, son.
and i don't fucking judge anybody else, because real examples of my brokenhearted crazy ready set go: one of my exes left a canister of foot powder in my bathroom, and i used to sniff that shit when i was sad; i once scrolled through the entire twitter feed of a dude who stopped talking to me and read all of his @tweets even though the shit made no fucking sense to me whatsoever; i have a mixtape a girl made me that i still listen to at least once a week; so many pictures buried in random dresser drawers, so many old birthday cards and shit, so much reading of them when i am bummed to make my tortureporn complete; facebook stalking, which seems normal but let's talk about hours wasted; much sullen ani difranco listening; sitting outside a dude's house in my car (two different people, years apart) waiting to see god knows what; sleeping with shirts that don't belong to me, holding on to those shirts (and, once, a pair of ratty boxers) for way too long. right this very second there is a bottle of soap on my kitchen counter that is the same brand and scent introduced to my life by someone whose number has long since been deleted from my phone. LADYCRAZY.
i don't know anything. i am not a professional trained to deal with psychological problems. but i am a raving fucking lunatic currently possessed by dreams of eating a sensible lunch with a handsome ex-whateverwewerecalling it. i'm not kidding. one of the dreams involved nine pounds of salad and steamed vegetables from the whole foods hot bar. something is wrong with me.
1 clean your shit up. that's when i first start thinking i might be circling the shame drain, when i look at the mountain of recycling piled in the corner that threatens to topple over and maim the cat every time she skitters past it. when there is laundry to do and mail to sort and dishes to wash? do that shit! organize your spice drawer! sharpen your cutlery! alphabetize your dvds! take the dry cleaning in! chop up all that fruit you wanted to make into smoothies! pretend to get your fucking shit together! use those salty tears to melt the soap scum on your shower wall, grrrrrrrl. PUT THAT RAGE TO USE.
2 find a goddamned anthem. "enough" by tweet is my current jam. no one knows that you're listening to the same goddamned song while you are shivering at the bus stop, hooker. find yourself a song with a positive ladymessage and or a negative lovemessage (pick your poison) and play it as much as you need to. i'ma make us a mix. keep thine eyes peeled.*
3 take down your okcupid, damageface. i know, you want to get over someone by getting under someone else. and that would be cool if it actually fucking worked. IT DON'T, THO. and then you feel worse and internet rejected and convinced that your only future prospects are men who look like your grandfather. give your vagina (and your brain, feelings, heart, and every other fucking thing) a goddamned break for a minute.
4 unfriend him/her. i learned this one the hard way. because i thought i was cool, bro. i thought my skin was thick enough to handle it. so what if i check in at fancy places solely good in the hopes that not only will he notice that check-in (he will not) he will also writhe in jealousy that he is not in my company (he doesn't care)? you know who cares that you changed your profile picture twelve times and the latest one features you wrapped seductively around your straightest-looking gay friend? everyone but that motherfucking dude. and they're hip to your game, son. he's not getting those subliminal messages you're putting in your statuses because he doesn't give a shit. and now all your imaginary internet friends know that you can't handle getting the boot without a public meltdown. stop sharing those dumb pictures with the motivational catchphrases on them and BLOCK THAT ASSHOLE ALREADY.
5 work on yourself. read a book, get on the treadmill, wear red lipstick, eat a cheeseburger because you spent the last eight months pretending to be a vegetarian because your ex-girlfriend worked for peta, whatever the fuck you gotta do to full better. watch marathons of "girls" or "sex and the city" or "felicity" or whatever is appropriate for your age demographic. exorcize the demon of that ladycrazy out of your body. make all your friends tell you why you're awesome. write a list of everything about you that totally fucking rules. mantra it up. jog in place. bang your fists on your tits and scream like a maniac. read some self-help books and take a motherfucking yoga class. also, it helps to laugh.
it always helps to laugh. AND TO JAM.
*here is that playlist i promised earlier: http://open.spotify.com/user/122933388/playlist/4nD2rtvrdnV3Z8Pd87a4ia
.JPG)
