Thursday, July 2, 2015

"you comedy asshole."

can you tell me the proper etiquette for a man to clip his fingernails?

because i don't know shit about keeping testicles clean or folding pocket squares, i emailed/texted the least stupid of my old sex partners and asked each of them, "what is the proper etiquette when it comes to a man clipping his fingernails?" the responses were as follows:

1 "what kind of gay shit is this, samantha irby?"
2 "DON'T EVER EMAIL ME BITCH YOU TOLD A BAR FULL OF PEOPLE THAT I HAVE HERPES THAT SHIT AINT FUNNY YOU COMEDY ASSHOLE."
3 "Who the hell is this from?"
4 "I get manicures every other Saturday. In general, though, a man should trim his nails at least once a week. Why do you need to know?"
5 "I file my shit twice a week. i'm sure youre like "that's moist." What R U doing later?"
6 "BITCH I'M SERIOUS YOU OWE ME AN APOLOGY. WE NEVER EVEN HAD SEX. THAT BOGUS ASS SHIT HURT MY FEELINGS. I DONT CARE ABOUT ETIQUETTE, SAM. YOU SHOULD'VE HAD SOME FUCKING ETIQUETTE WHEN YOU TALKED ABOUT MY DICK IN PUBLIC."

here's the takeaway from that little experiment: a the sexual interstate i'm driving down is littered with idiots and jagbags, and b I AM A COMEDY ASSHOLE. on the off chance what you really were looking for was a technical manual: were you raised by wolves?! i was parented by the joint efforts of a barely-functioning television and our local DARE police. and even i know how to take care of my gross-ass hands. just in case, tho: clip your nails in the shower, let them dry, then file the jagged edges down so you don't look like goddamned wolverine. welcome to puberty.

ps please never do this in public. motherfuckers who clip their nails within earshot of other humans should be dragged.
pps don't be a jackass to someone who writes comedy about dicks.

why won't my girlfriend let me go down on her? women are supposed to love that. is something wrong with her?

two reasons, homie: 1 we live in a country that hates women so goddamned much that you might actually hear a "stinky fish pussy" joke on the evening news. and that's, of course, right after your eyes have been assaulted by no fewer than 137 feminine hygiene and maintenance advertisements that, while purporting to be pro-lady and supportive of our reproductive health, actually do little more than to reinforce the idea that our vaginas are wrong. they look wrong, they smell wrong, and without every single one of these waxes and wipes and depilatories and creams, no man worth any salt at all is going to want to put his handsome and clean-shaven face near that smelly jungle. because keeping your vagina squeaky clean isn't about a dude's penis, IT'S ABOUT HIS FUCKING FACE. men will stick their dicks in anything: corpses, livestock, fleshlights, apple pies. but it's where this motherfucker is willing to put his mouth that presents the real challenge, as some ladies have allowed lazy, selfish assholes to use "icky hair" and "funny smell" to get out of spending any quality time with their heads buried in our sand.

and 2 YOU'RE PROBABLY DOING IT WRONG. i have met every cunnilingus expert and orgasm specialist in the goddamned city of chicago. maybe it's this new "men wearing skinny jeans" sensitive era in which we currently live, but apropos of nothing dudes always want to tell you on the first goddamned date how good they are at mouth-to-lips resuscitation. and i'm all about getting naked with a progressive and forward-thinking stallion, but i went out with a dude once who simulated oral sex at the motherfucking dinner table, and what part of the game is THAT? because sure, it's nice to know that you have a tongue in your head, sir, and your ability to lick the outside of a wine glass really knocked my goddamned socks off, but my labia majora looks more like a medium rare roast beef sandwich with no mustard on rye bread. so if you're going to effectively simulate, we're going to need to close this bar tab and holler at a deli.

have you ever watched a dude eat a goddamned sandwich? meat chomping lettuce shoveling mayonnaise slurping crumbs in his beard revolting mastication? THAT SHIT IS DISGUSTING. if you saw me attacking a banana or an ice cream cone like a wild goddamned animal, teeth gnashing and grating and sending little bits of slimy chewed banana spewing every which way, would you invite me to have a go at a blowjob? no, you would not. you would muzzle me and insist on a handjob. that's the real reason i would try to get menfolk to go on food dates, because i could watch how dude handled an oozing, drippy taco and decide whether or not he could take a bite of mine.

getting eaten out is kind of boring. what's the worst thing about getting your dick sucked, fellas? inconsistency and pace interruption? WE HAVE THE SAME PROBLEM. just think of our machinery as an inside-out penis. if i tell you exactly what to do, and i will because i am bossy, just keep doing it. right there, the same way i just told you. wait, why are you getting creative? right there, that same motherfucking spot, over and over at that same pace until i'm finished. don't take a break, don't improvise, if you JUST KEEP DOING THAT I'LL BE DONE IN FORTY-FIVE MINUTES TOPS, I SWEAR TO GOD.

LOL IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH HER. um, yeah? her boyfriend is absolutely terrible.

how do i get out of spending thanksgiving with my girlfriend's family?

i'm sure there are some women reading this who just became instantly enraged upon reading this question, thinking about all of the times they've had to drag some kicking and screaming boyfriend to little joey's third birthday party or uncle jack's retirement celebration or gram and grampy's 700th anniversary dinner. women who have screamed, cried, yelled, begged, pleaded, threatened, cajoled, and otherwise worked themselves into a lather trying to get some asshole to drive six hours to aunt brenda's for turkey day, only to find that jerk sulking drunk on the couch with his jeans unzipped twenty minutes after dinner is served, texting some trashy girl who is less demanding.

here is the sweet shit about being a goddamned orphan: i really don't ever have to do anything i don't want to do, especially around the holidays. i killed my parents so i wouldn't have to deal with having to referee family arguments and pretending to have fun with people i sort of hate whom i happen to be related to IN THE SPIRIT OF THE HOLIDAY SEASON. my sisters and i were raised by the kind of people who didn't make construction paper hand turkeys or hang flint corn on the front door or LOVE US, OBVIOUSLY. we instead were subjected to my father's lengthy monologues about pilgrims and grave robbers and wampanoags; who wants to eat a dry-ass turkey leg after that?! i would just sit in my room and listen to lou rawls "merry christmas ho ho ho!" on cassette thanksgiving night, hoping the four-day weekend would hurry up and get over with so i could go back to school, a place where people actually cared about having fun and enjoying things. way to ruin my childhood, assholes.

anyway, i like to make my own frozen single-serving individual meal and stay home in my pajamas fading in and out of sleep while watching football on thanksgiving, not put on clothes with buttons and zippers and shoes i have to actually tie to sit in some stranger's living room eating food that will probably definitely land me in the emergency room. thanksgiving is a day to reflect on all the reasons i hate my life and all the things i would be thankful for if the universe would stop shitting down my goddamned throat. i like to spend thanksgiving musing over my failures and compiling a list of enemies and assholes that i'm going to try my best to totally fucking destroy in the oncoming year. what good health? what happy family?! i raise my glass to the many defeats that have befallen me and vow to rise from the ashes stronger and filled with more galvanizing hatred. I HATE EVERYTHING AND NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS TO ME, and the last thing i would like to do on the last thursday of november is sit in someone else's lovely home and marvel at all of the proof that if there even is a god he loves them and hates me.

and since i will never have the joy of subjecting any future partner to the withering scrutiny of my mean-ass, joy-killing, holiday-ruining parents, i am totally never going to let anyone do that shit to me. so, gentle sir, tell your girlfriend your parents are dead. and that being in the midst of a happy family celebration when you don't have one of your own is unbearable for you. she should eat it right up. people love the idea that their bickering siblings and lumpy brown gravy are a source of pain and jealousy for you. seriously, bitches are fueled by the knowledge that someone envies what we have. IT'S THE ONLY REASON I'M ON GODDAMNED INSTAGRAM. so shed a few tears as she's mixing grapes into the jell-o mold (vomit) then enjoy your quiet afternoon on your own couch. and if you cave and find yourself sticking to a plastic-covered couch, squashed between her brother who lives at home and her aunt who won't stop hitting on you, i'll be at home awaiting your text.

today at school, someone came up to me after social studies and asked me why i said mean things about her on facebook. then i found out that my best friend got into a fight online, and to fix things she hacked into my account and backed herself up. it got me into trouble with my friends, plus she lied to my face about it. should i forgive her or not?

facebook is a fucking life-ruiner. stupid assholes insistent upon tagging the most awful and wretchedly disgusting open-mouthed pictures of your flabby arms and sweaty skin beard; your nonstop stalking convincing you that that one dude you're obsessed with is banging all 37 girls that constantly comment on his statuses (EVEN THE DUMB ONES) and post pictures of their butt cleavage on his wall, forcing you to sit up all goddamned night trying to discern the nature of his online relationships from a stream of suggestive comments with zero fucking context or background; misinterpreted messages from your friends that read as bitchy or dismissive and you have no idea whether or not that jerk is mad at you for real, so just in case she is you respond with an equally terse, vague message for her to try to translate; spoiled attention whores littering your newsfeed with pictures of their labia all day long (or bombarding you with links to their stupid fucking blogs, i'm sorry); bitches you hated in high school flaunting their happy lives and handsome husbands and adorable children in your face every goddamned day while you post about tv shows and what the cat is doing: I'M SURPRISED WE HAVEN'T ALL COLLECTIVELY HEAVED OUR COMPUTERS OFF THE NEAREST CLIFF.

but then how would we know what restaurant you just checked into?!

i wish i never had to meet anyone in real life. I AM SO MUCH BETTER ON THE INTERNET. i'm so much smarter, so much funnier, and the cropped parts of my face and upper body are so much better looking in the thumbnails on my profile. it's amazing to have that level of control over how people you will never meet perceive you. on the internet no one has to know how much you don't have your shit together unless you want them to, and what kind of idiot would ever do that?! my real life is pretty stupid, but my internet life is fun and hilarious.

i love facebook. how else would i know so much about people without having to spend even a minute in their company?! i can decide, based on your religious and political beliefs and your taste in youtubes, whether or not you're the kind of person i could possibly tolerate in real life. i can determine, based on the kind of shit you post, whether or not you are an idiot. do you have awful friends? do you unironically post fake news articles that you actually believe are true? all these things are right there for me to click through and i never have to hear your voice or smell your breath or discover that you're a bad tipper. that's some magical shit right there.

but omg, i cannot even imagine what my life would have been like if facebook had been around when i was in school. it makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. seriously, i got stress diarrhea just reading this question. i'm not kidding, I AM IN PHYSICAL PAIN imagining what a nightmare my life would have been if the jerks i grew up with could add facebook to the arsenal of tools with which they tormented me. good luck being the ugly kid in these modern times. to go from school, which is a microcosm of everything that fucking sucks about real life, home to get on facebook, which is an even smaller distillation of everything that fucking sucks about school, must be ridiculous. it's like bullying, concentrated. the thought of even having had a cell phone when i was in high school gives me the meat sweats, all that texting nasty rumors about people and spreading camera phone pictures all over school. just think about it: awkward health class conversations, your jibs on display during swim class, exposed underpants in the locker room?! all opportunities to take a grainy cell phone video or picture likely to make some kid drop right the fuck out.

i'm too old for internet bickering. and even when i was a kid i was pretty docile and harmless, the least likely person to instigate a fight. i just wanted to read books and stay out of everyone's way. don't believe me? FAT KID MARCHING BAND. pretty much sums up everything you need to know about my high school experience. next time you see me, be sure to pull my underwear out of my pants or knock all my science textbooks out of my hands. i'll tape my glasses for the occasion. anyway, my fertile imagination is coming up with all sorts of sordid reasons your girl got into a comment war with some mean girl on the jv cheerleading squad. did they show up at homecoming wearing the same dress? choose the same project for physics class? develop crushes on the same soccer forward?! it is destroying mr not to know.

you kids need to learn how to junk punch a person the minute she picks up your laptop. i'd set this bitch on fire for messing up my e-lationships. but you probably shouldn't go searching for your dad's blowtorch just because i would. I HAVE NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. but you on the other hand are still young, this too shall pass, blah blah trite platitudes blah. also they put kids in real jail now so you probably shouldn't risk it. i feel like after a certain age you shouldn't be doing a whole lot you have to apologize for, and that most times someone offers an apology it's not really for the intent of that action (because people usually mean the fucked-up, horrible shit they do to you). it's mostly to make themselves feel better and to try to convince you to keep them around so they can cut your fucking throat and shit down your neck again. but you guys haven't even learned sine and cosine yet, have you? maybe you can let it go, before your bitter and unlovable years set in. (read: as soon as you have to worry about shit like some dick you hate on the job eating your lunch in the breakroom.) so yeah, forgive her. and change your fucking password.

Friday, June 19, 2015

lesbnb.

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, "...is 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.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

spring beauty tips for the gross and apprehensive.

i gotta stay the fuck off youtube. can we talk about how many LITERAL HOURS i have wasted transfixed by beautiful, expertly-glossed 23-year-olds in their softly-lit powder rooms, smiling with all of their teeth while putting on seven different layers of eyeshadow to achieve a "natural, everyday look?" makeup tutorials are like fucking hypnosis, man. i could be lulled into a stupor watching nicole guerriero and jaclyn hill talk about eyelash glue for days, yet i will never buy or apply any of my own because i'm really fucking impatient and allergic to almost everything that goes around your eyeballs. am i the only asshole sitting inside on a sunny day listening to a bitch talk about hydrating neck creams while everyone else is out enjoying being a person!? I CAN'T BE ALONE IN THIS. a month ago i had no idea youtube could be used for anything other than cat videos and drake songs, and now i'm subscribed to, like, twelve beauty channels. because i'd rather watch tiarra monet describe how to apply a sun-kissed glow (never doing that) than leave my apartment to actually get one (really never doing that). anyway, here's a list of super expensive shit i bought out of shame or desperation or some incorrect attempt at self-care that i will likely never use and definitely throw away in a fit of rage sometime in the near future. enjoy.

petals. 
my gross ass skin is going positively apeshit lately. it's red and peeling and awful and i want the glowing baby butt cheeks of my youth back, goddamn it. i used to think that "changing mature skin" was some sorcery dreamed up by the faceless demon overlords who run cosmetics companies, but there might actually be something to that horrible shit. i bought every single cerave cleanser and moisturizer i could find on drugstore.com because my friend jessie swears by them, but i really think i might be going through early menopause or something because my face is finicky and irritated and it's never been like that before, even when i was eating fritos every night for dinner and never drank water. I HAVE HAD BRUSSELS SPROUTS THREE TIMES THIS WEEK, SKIN. what the fuck. then i read about almond oil cleansing so now i'm doing that. basically you rub your face with almond oil (i bought this one from life flo but who cares), rinse with lukewarm water, swipe thayers cucumber witch hazel over your face and neck, then rub some more almond oil into your skin. i can't decide whether or not i hate it. i'll report back.

i fucking forgot that i even bought the philosophy purity made simple oil cleanser, but i'm going to give this almond business a couple weeks and see how it goes. i still like an occasional scrub, and i rotate between lush dark angels and lush herbalism depending on my mood. i'm also a big fan of disposable cleansing cloths, because i'm lazy and hate getting up to wash my face when i inevitably fall asleep with makeup on at 730 and wake up in a panic at midnight. my new jams are the ole henriksen grease relief oil-free pore refining cloths, which i keep right next to the bed because i am not kidding I AM NOT GETTING UP. they smell sort of oddly medicinal but these bitches workkkkkkk. i bought glamglow supermud because keila uses it and i wanna be her, and also because bitches talk about that shit like it gives you a whole new face. so i bought it and watched a tutorial (guys i need a hobby) and i used it but the whole time it was drying to an asphalt-like finish on my face while i sat very still trying not to ruin my shirt i was wishing i had just used some noxzema instead.

foundation feels like too much work, especially to a person who works with dogs and cats all day. but i enjoy feeling like a fancy lady sometimes, and what better way than slathering some off-colored greasepaint onto my oily, scratched up, rapidly aging visage? i learned from the internet that first you gotta spackle on some primer, and the cheap one i like best is the nyx pore filler and my fave expensive jawn is the make up for ever step 1 hydrating primer. let's be honest: i don't have a clue whether or not these actually work. but they feel nice on my skin and everyone says you need to use them so shut up and do it. i have hella walgreens points, so i used a ton of them to buy a bunch of liquid foundations to play with. i got l'oreal true match because that's the one beyonce wears duh; maybelline fit me matte poreless because you could for real dip your toes in the pores around my nose; and l'oreal infallible because, again, i'm a helpless sheep who sits nodding at my computer screen while writing down everything a twelve-year-old sitting in her bathroom with a video camera tells me to buy. i think i like the true match the best? but then again the infallible is smooth and velvety and seriously i don't know what the fuck i'm talking about. i let a sephora salesgirl pressure me into this bottle of nars sheer glow foundation back in september, and it's probably the wrong color and i bet i'm not even putting it on right but i'm using every last drop because it was forty-five real dollars and LOL THIS IS WHY I HAVE NO SAVINGS. the truth is that i don't really like any of these hoes and keep going back to my first wife mac studiofix because i hate looking like a wet, patchy wax figure and who are we kidding i put base on maybe once a week and that's only if some asshole is aiming an iphone camera in my general direction.

i am obsessed with anastasia liquid lipsticks. i know bone dry baby powder lips aren't for everyone (WHY THE FUCK NOT THEY LOOK AMAZING) but these anastasias are the holy grail of lips you can't drink or speak or eat a motherfucking thing in. my lips are starting to get all elderly and creased so the clock is ticking on how long i can get away with wearing these without looking like the joker, but i am in love with them. buy all of the colors. so fucking good. also amazing: too faced melted lipsticks. the polar opposite of that dry-ass shit i usually wear (ruby woo! flat out fabulous!), these are like wearing liquid vinyl on your lips. don't wear it if you are wearing white or have to engage in conversation, though, because you are going to look like a bloody savage if you say hello to someone. no bullshit, if you so much as smile your entire teeth will be covered in streaky redness. but, as is my way, i bought all this new shit and still either use 1 ruby woo or 2 nothing but chapstick. are there any financial advisers reading this shit who want to give me some real talk about what my savings portfolio could look like if i bought stocks instead of orange lipsticks i for real am never going to wear!? (whyyyyyy do i keep purchasing them!?) email me, i'm not kidding.

leaves. i have an awful lot of hair shit for someone with less than 1/2 an inch of it. (update: i recently shaved my head because it's about to be hot and my scalp is vile.) first on the agenda, BLACK GIRLS WITH GROSS SCALPS LISTEN UP, MY QUEENS: head and shoulders moisture care co-wash is now a thing. somebody's auntie must've gotten a promotion at procter and gamble, because finally these dudes came out with some shit for "textured hair." i was just about to reach for a bottle of my tried and true 2in1 dry scalp care while waiting for the pharmacist to fill my ativan at cvs when my eyes landed on a new player in the "what's that flaky stuff in your eyebrows?" game in the shampoo aisle. "HEY SISTA!" the glistening coconuts shouted to me from the bronze foil-embossed bottle that indicates a product is made specifically for african-americans. "WE UNDERSTAND YOUR COMPLICATED CURL PATTERN! WE, TOO, HAVE SICKLE-CELL TRAIT." i snatched it up immediately. but i like options when blindly groping around my shower at six in the morning and, as we have previously discussed, my quest for the perfect hair product is a dream that will never die. so i also keep a bottle of aveda shampure + conditioner around, as well as some jason dandruff relief because i'm a sucker for hippie shit and feel bad that i don't recycle as much as i could. 


so i rolled up in the salon a couple weeks ago with a scaly, oozing patch of skin on the side of my head like it wasn't a big deal and kiona, my barber, was like "no fucking way, you asshole." SIDEBAR: the salon where she works is really fucking fancy. like, let me take your coat and pour you a glass of champagne fancy. i never in life feel fatter or more cheese-scented than when i am there, surrounded by flaxen-haired pixies who wear high heels to get their hair done and pull up khloe kardashian's instagram to show the stylist their color inspiration. then here i come lurching in in my crocs and daytime pajamas and bad credit, scowling at everyone for being so fucking pretty. every time i walk in the horrified girl behind the desk is all, "sir? the homeless shelter is around the cor--" and i have to interrupt her like, "HOMEGIRL USED TO CUT MY HAIR IN HER KITCHEN, OKAY. I DIDN'T CHOOSE THIS. MAKE ME A KEURIG." anyway, kiki washed my hair with this kerastase bain exfoliant hydratant and it hooked my shit right on up. it smells luxurious and has little microbeads that whisper to your dandruff in french or whatever and i shame-purchased 6 ounces of this shit for 39 motherfucking dollars because i didn't want the dude charging me out to think i was poor. what an idiot.

you know i loves me a leave-in, and my faves right now are: oyin hair dew, mixed chicks leave-in conditioner, and paul mitchell the conditioner. i had a giant mohawk a couple months ago, then i had kiona give me a little baby one, and to define my curls i used eco styler styling gel (the clear one!) or proclaim professional care curl activator gel (i buy it at sally's for, like, three bucks). i've been natural for 19 years or so and i still have no fucking idea what my official hair type is. 3c? maybe 4b!? it grows out in spiral curls and is relatively easy to manage, and gel activators have long been my secret weapon in the fight against dry-ass dusty curls. i've tried carol's daughter hair milk and miss jessie's jelly soft curls and i keep coming back to inexpensive beauty supply activators because i like shiny, defined hair that doesn't look like a tumbleweed halfway through the goddamn workday. when my hair is short i just use a little pomade like aveda brilliant or moisturizing cream like lush r&b with a wave brush (YES, I AM YOUR DAD) or rub a little coconut oil on my head after i'm done greasing up my body.

stems. 
i was at merz apothecary last weekend after independent bookstore day and holy shit does that place drive me fucking nuts. BUT they have so much jam stuff like diptyque candles and marvis toothpaste that it's worth having a complete panicky meltdown to get at all that goodness. you have to be strategic, tho. here's how it usually works for me: attack the candle section first because it's so tiny; snatch up everything i like on the right side counter while trying to avoid everyone congregated in the middle section; begin hyperventilating because i've already been accidentally groped nine times and i've only been in there three motherfucking minutes; fight my way to the register to pay, +/- frustration tears; distressed squeezing through people to get to the front door while gazing longingly at the counter on the left that i never have the stamina to get to. this is why i'm on fucking klonopin. anyway, i'm always in the market for new ways to clean my stinky vagina, and i found this glorious nivea intimo natural feminine waschlotion and a packet of intimo natural fresh intimpflege-tuecher which is german for "sweet smelling disposable pussy wipes." boy do i love a squeaky clean booty in the springtime!

my crohn's has been relatively mellow lately? but before you throw me a parade, last week i had fiery torrents of diarrhea shooting out of me and that reminded me of my year round favorite: a healthy squirt of desitin multi-purpose ointment applied liberally to a chapped, sore butthole. it feels like a miracle, not kidding. and speaking of products made for cutie pie little guys that you can repurpose for your own disgusting adultbody use, johnson's baby oil shea and cocoa butter formula is still a goddamn champ. it smells v v nice and leaves your skin so silky and soft, plus you know it's safe for black people, because it has a brown cap! THANKS, OBAMA.

roots. i gotta get a pedicure, man. except i read that piece in the new york times about nail technicians sleeping in makeshift barracks and earning $10/day to clip snotty girls' cuticles so yeah i'm never doing that ever again. i don't know, i didn't think they had 401k's or whatever but goddamn that's some ruthless shit. three months of no pay only to make less than minimum wage when you finally do collect a check!? um, nawl. so i'ma keep using that amope pedi perfect i bought during the winter to grind the calluses off my heels and slathering shea butter from the african shop on my block on these dogs at night before i roll my compression stockings on. i get too fucking impatient to paint my damn nails, but if i do it'll be with one of these: deborah lippmann in weird science and walking on sunshine; orly polishes in passion fruit, beach cruiser, and melt your popsicle; and chanel tapage and holiday. but then i just read another thing about the chemicals in nail polish and while i'm not really THAT GUY (i often fall asleep with my head on my cell phone, for fuck's sake, and i take LOT of pills) i am really dumb and will probably throw all these bitches out. probably while drinking a liter of diet coke and eating a non-kosher hot dog.


BOY DO I LOVE BODY WASH, THO. i have at least a dozen, in varying states of used up-ness. my drugstore move is dove pistachio cream and magnolia which, if i'm being totally transparent, i bought because i thought it sounded like a most delicious pastry. when i'm sluggish in the morning i use bliss soapy suds in lemon+sage because it wakes my ass up for real for real. my homie akilah's shop kissed by a bee organics makes a banging head-to-toe wash that is perfect for lazy motherfuckers who can't be bothered to reach for more than one bottle (efficiency is sexy). and i just got this l'occitane almond shower oil that is just so goddamn good. and don't worry, i took one for the team and asked the saleslady at the mall if i was going to bust my fucking teeth out using an oil-based product in a wet bathtub, and she assured me that it turns into soap as soon as you squeeze it on your brightly-colored mesh thingy. i haven't broken my nose yet. go get you some, it's amazing.

dirt, bugs, etc. i have been spending a lot of time sitting at my desk staring at my computer and calling it "working on my book," and a bitch likes to create a little ambiance while writing these stupid butt jokes. it makes me feel real classy and stuff. i bought a sony iphone/ipod speaker dock because i have this 2nd generation ipod with a fucked up headphone jack and now i finally have access to all my 2007 jams! i like to burn candles while i work, and i'm obsessed with the tobacco barn scent from the southern firefly candle company. mavis found it at a little gourmet grocery in nashville and i already burned through the whole thing and had to order another. i'm also really into archipelago botanicals stonehenge candle, which makes my crib smell like a sexy old black dude. yes, that is a good thing. [insert uncle denzel meme]

click here for my spring jam mix, you gorgeous thing.

Friday, April 24, 2015

we used to be cool.

dave chappelle is a goddamn miracle. BUT FIRST, NASHVILLE. in the interest of having something heartfelt and engrossing to put in this goddamn book i'm tirelessly working on, i can't divulge all of the details of my trip in this dumb blog. listen, i'm an asshole on a deadline. if i could dream up other poignant, interesting shit to put in this book before my manuscript is due june 15th i'd tell you in explicit detail how i 1 mistakenly called some gnarly old perv's house in a fruitless attempt to locate my oldest brother 2 hung out with and got tattooed by a couple adorable slick-haired rockabilly dudes in west nashville who told us the best places to get drunk and eat chicken and 3 how, after sneaking onto a snooty golf course on easter sunday and waiting for the motherfucking wind to die down while anxiously checking over my shoulder to make sure the police weren't coming to arrest my trespassing ass, i picked what i thought was the perfect moment to tip the canister containing my father's ashes into the gently lapping waves of the river when a hateful breeze whipped around a corner and rewarded my efforts with a mouthful of my dead father's old incinerated skull and butthole. HALLELUJAH CHRIST IS RISEN.

i am no longer doing any more things. i am officially too old for concerts, shows, festivals, and special events. if you said to me, "hey sam, would you like to go see dave chappelle do stand up?" my answer would be "HELL YES, MY DUDE. ASK IF THEY HAVE DISCOUNTED HANDICAPPED SEATS." but if you were to instead say, "hey sam, would you like to put on a real shirt and actual pants to be herded like cattle in a single file line into a steamy theater with a malfunctioning bathroom where a gentleman wearing a bluetooth in all earnestness will shout threats about confiscating your phone if you so much as check the weather on it as he forces you to throw your leftover meatloaf sandwich into the trash, only to then be shown to an expensive-ass section of bare wooden church pew on which you must suffer the indignity of the call-and-response dj playing 50 cent asking 'where my 90s babies at?' (FUCKKKK I WAS A BONAFIDE ADULT WHEN IN DA CLUB CAME OUT MURDER ME PLS) while people who intentionally selected seats in the center of the row sprinkle half of their $9 budweisers in your lap as they squeeze past a dozen times coming to and from the bar to see ashy larry do his best impersonation of magic johnson's son while waiting for your comedy hero to grace the stage?" i'ma say "NO THANKS" and quietly delete your number out of my fucking phone. then i'ma use some scissors to cut the elastic waist on my inside pants and watch "killin' them softly" on the stolen hbo go on my ipad.

and oh, i hear you. stay the fuck home you bitter old herb. and you're right, i should. I WILL. i'm smart enough to know that the list of shit i hate is getting longer while the probability of any of those things being fixed is dwindling to nothing. is it too much to ask the people who are going to be up and down all goddamn night, awkwardly shimmying past bitches in their church clothes to choose seats at the end of the motherfucking row? i bore easily and have to shit all the time, so i always buy a goddamn aisle seat because i don't like it when people hate me. YOU KNOW IF YOU ARE A BEER DURING A SHOW GUY. i'm not, because even though i'm not cheap stadium prices are fucking staggering. and now i'm old and crabby enough to notice that the buzz from expensive-ass, lukewarm beers (or worse, expensive-ass, flat mixed drinks) < the blissed-out euphoria of an expensive cab ride home so you don't have to deal with rude drunks that you can actually afford since you didn't waste any money on expensive-ass, watered-down drinks. also i don't want to miss anything, and listening to the show over shitty speakers while shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in the pee line is the absolute worst.

i can faintly remember a time when everything wasn't so goddamn irritating. i was young once. i didn't always require 27 advil with a vicodin chaser to get through social events. one time in 2001 i went to a de la soul show that started at 11pm! I USED TO BE COOL. it used to not make me want to dig my eyeballs out of their sockets to be pressed butts to nuts with other drunk, sweaty concertgoers. nowadays if there isn't a waitress and a comfortable chair i'm not fucking going. mya and i saw bilal a few months ago and there was grown up stuff like table service and unnecessarily complicated flatbreads and a wine list and my swollen left ankle and i were like YES GAWD. we chased handfuls of aleve with expensive pinot grigio before blocking the exit row with our bulky walkers. living the fucking dream, man. you couldn't pay me to go to pitchfork. stand around glistening in the unobstructed heat watching bands i'm too old to have heard of? nope. i can't go to things that aren't temperature-controlled and accompanied by a sturdy chair anymore. remember when you reached that age in childhood when your mom was content to watch you on the swings from a shady bench on which she sat filing her nails while you "used your imagination" instead of wrinkling her high-waisted jc penney jeans chasing you up the slide and shit? THAT'S WHERE I'M AT, BRUH.

i want dave chappelle's rider next time i do a goddamn show. how fucking famous do you have to be to ensure that no one in the building has even the slimmest chance of taking a blurry iphone shot of your spotlighted cellulite and jowls!? that dude is not playing. some monster tweeted me a horrendous photograph of myself doing a reading in your grandmother's cardigan that she obviously snatched off google and i spent the entire afternoon rethinking every single one of my life choices. WHY DO YOU HATE ME, LISTENING AUDIENCE. jesus, it was one of those pictures that reminds you of every single calorie you ate the year you decided ice cream > therapy. fuckkkkkkk. anyway, if dave comes to your town you need to drag your old ass out to see him. i haven't laughed so hard since the first time i saw black bush (mars! red rocks!) or maybe at that one bit about how white people will never tell you who they're voting for. but keep your blood pressure meds handy, you old fuck. because despite the many posted signs, PA announcements, and warnings from various ushers and security-type personnel, some asshole is going to think that HE is the special snowflake who can check in on facebook so all his friends know how cool he is and then a security guard is going to roughly escort that crying young man out of the auditorium and eject him from the premises. and yes, grandma, you will laugh smugly to yourself for being such a law-abiding goody goody whose phone sits silently in airplane mode inside the purse at her feet, but yours will be a hollow victory as you watch 19 year old after 19 year old attempt to send one last snapchat as off-duty cops chug painfully up and down the stairs plucking them out of the crowd and tossing them into the street. without a refund.

at first the shit was hilarious. but after the fourth or fifth one i just started benjamin buttoning the fuck out: my skin melting like a candle as stiff porcupine needles sprouted from my craggy old chin. i started daydreaming about slipping out of my shoes and unhooking my bra, scrubbing my makeup off and liberally applying unscented aspercreme to every joint on my body before crawling into those creamy fresh hotel sheets in my scratched-up night glasses and my CPAP mask to read a few chapters of that nonfiction bestseller that NPR suggested people read so they can sound smart at parties before the opening comic had even come on stage. i longingly wondered what i was missing on the good wife. by the time dave ambled out i remembered that i'd left a box of fresh donuts in our room and i nudged k in the ribs and was like, "if we leave before he finishes are you cool? i'll pay for the uber." she tapped her arthritic rain-sensing knee and nodded, stifling a yawn. old ass bitches.

we were back at the hotel by 1045 from a show that started at 10 and i regret nothing. not glaring at the dude juggling six real beers who broke my second toe as he stepped on it trying to get back to his seat (I AM NOT AN ASSHOLE, I FUCKING STOOD UP);  not laughing on the inside as a girl had her fancy phone snatched by security like a kid with some forbidden candy; not even missing the last ten minutes of dave's set so that we could get the bathroom and elevator to ourselves and get first dibs on a cab. i am thirty-five and i now officially know my fucking limit. my feet need to be elevated by the time the evening news comes on, and i am not ashamed. i'm taking myself out of the game before it gets embarrassing. you kids enjoy your standing room only shows and your late night comedy. you know he's going to put out a dvd of the shit anyway; it'll be like we never left. and besides, like i said, we fucking had donuts.

Thursday, April 2, 2015

i'm taking my dead dad on vacation.

this is my dad. well not really, because my dad was this little chubby guy with a weird sense of humor who smelled like murray's pomade and wore paisley polyester shirts with exaggerated collars. this is a box containing his incinerated cremains, and they have sat in a bag in my closet for the last six years while i have avoided the subject of figuring out what the fuck to do with them. it took eleven years after he died for me to even summon the courage to pick them up from the funeral home, and even then i made my sister do it because i was too chickenshit. i was 18 when he died and 29 when my sister came to my job carrying a blue shopping bag with this dusty fake wood box in it and the first thing i thought after peeking inside was, "BITCH HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE THIS HOME ON THE MOTHERFUCKING TRAIN." she couldn't just swing by the crib? i gotta drag this heavy box of dust around yawning brooks brothers suits and teenagers twerking for change on the red line!?

when i die i want to be cremated and sprinkled on the breakfasts of my enemies. or whatever works for whoever is around. last thing i ever want to do is stress my homies out from the grave. i don't know whether or not SB had a death plan, but if he did he didn't tell that shit to me. the last time i spoke to him i was in my dorm room at northern illinois and he had just suffered a brain-frying stroke and was describing to me these hallucinations he was having that he truly believed were real. i'm not even sure he knew who he was talking to as he described riding a bicycle through the morgue to check on the dead bodies. LOLWUT. his funeral was heavily attended by evanston's finest assortment of drunks and degenerates, his closest friends, which means there were actual men in salvation army suits circa 1973 smoking kools and tipping out brown-bagged fifths of cheap vodka in remembrance of their fallen comrade onto the street in front of the funeral home minutes before his homegoing service. it was kind of exciting.

our family tree is so goddamn sparse that if you shake it you'd probably start a fire. my dad is from mississippi but spent his formative years in memphis where he fathered two sons before promptly abandoning them to move to chicago and eventually meet my mother, who already had three young girl children of her own. they were black people married for eleven years before finally deciding to do it the white way, and they celebrated by deciding to create a new human life using a dusty old egg and a doggy paddling fifty year old sperm. in case you can't really put together what that means today let me lay it out for you like this: ALL OF MY SIBLINGS ARE NEARING SIXTY AND EVERYONE ELSE IS DEAD. my sisters are going through motherfucking menopause. think about that next time yours is bugging you for twenty bucks or your netflix password or whatever.

i haven't seen or spoken to either of my brothers since they attended my mom's funeral in june of 1998. that's part of the reason i've never done anything with our old man, because it's just my luck that the minute i decide to dump this asshole in a barbecue grill or sprinkle him outside the shady men's hotel he lived in for a while one of them will turn up and be upset that i hadn't included him in the decision. my sisters don't give a shit; he was the kind of jerk stepfather who yelled a lot about nothing and nailed the windows shut after they'd snuck out of them at night to go meet their boyfriends. hell, he punched me in the face when i was in high school over a frying pan. he wasn't always the nicest person. carmen has our mother because she's the oldest and super responsible and she knew her the longest so cool. i ended up with SB on a technicality. the thought of transferring them to a nice container grosses me out, plus i ain't got no fireplace. where is he supposed to go? should i, like, display him? NOT DOING THAT. but isn't it wild disrespectful to just, um, throw him away? is there no discreet disposal service i could use? WHY DID THEY MAKE ME HIS GUARDIAN I HATE BEING IN CHARGE OF THINGS. i've had a million opportunities to do something with him, but if andre or cedric wanted to take part in getting covered in microscopic bits of our dead father as an inevitable breeze blows him back in our stupid faces who am i to deny them that experience?

THE PROBLEM THO: i can't fucking find them. these are not men who "facebook." once every couple of years i do some google sleuthing and call the first handful of phone numbers i come across, but so far they have all been dead ends. i have a couple addresses? but who the fuck knows if they live there anymore. the last time i was in memphis i was 15 and spent the entire time taking pictures of women in blue eyeshadow sobbing at graceland. i'm not sentimental; i don't save birthday cards or baby pictures or newspaper clippings, i have no real traditions, i throw everything away the minute it stops being shiny and new. this dusty box that's full of my dad's ground up bones and brain has been sitting in my coat closet between the cat carrier and a bag of hats + mittens for seven years and i am not moving it to another apartment ever again. it's time for this dude to get free, ie stop creeping me the fuck out every time i need a goddamn jacket.

so today mavis and i are renting a car and driving to tennessee where i am going to engage in two potentially dangerous things: 1 trying nashville hot chicken for the first time and 2 knocking on the doors of some unsuspecting strangers who probably wear gun holsters to ask if the residents within know either of my brothers. it'll be just like that book "are you my mommy?" with fewer teeth and more n-words. basically what i'm trying to say is that i'm probably about to get murdered. helen is enjoying a spa week at the kennel, i cleaned the stove and mopped the kitchen because that seems like a smart thing to do before leaving town, i made the craziest playlist ever in the hopes of staying awake on the road, yet i still have not: packed my clothes, gathered all of my medications, decided whether or not to take a full bottle of good shampoo or travel size bottles of a mediocre one, purchased road snacks, or PICKED A PLACE TO DUMP THESE STUPID ASHES. some ideas:

1 liquor store. we had those 12 step books all over our goddamned house. i'm not sure why, because even though he drained the family savings on three separate attempts at inpatient rehab, that dude just loved to drink. E&J, grain alcohol, nyquil: you name it, he drank it. most of the people in his professional life had no idea; he saved the shoe polish drinking for those of us he loved the absolute most. try as he might he could not shake that demon. i am a tenderheart when it comes to addiction. life is fucking terrible, and if you reach for a bottle of pinot gris or a cheeseburger when you feel bad i get it. shit, i am it. i don't judge, because you can look at my body and see just how awful times in my life have been. look, i'm happy for those of you who have no emotional attachment to food or booze or pills but fuck you if you can't cut the rest of us a fucking break. drink your water and eat your carrots and have some goddamn empathy.

2 someplace that sells lottery tickets. every christmas i would get a fistful of scratch off tickets. my dad would play $50-60 a day: 3-digit, 4-digit, dollar straight, dollar box. does anyone under the age of thirty know what the fuck those words even mean? he used to hang out at this place called ramy's and every fucking day would exchange thick wads of cash for a handful of flimsy tickets. and that motherfucker couldn't catch a cold. he never won shit. yet every day he dutifully played his numbers, a grown man whose wife had put him out and was so broke that he was living in a rooming house with a communal fucking bathroom at 60+ years old still found fifty bucks a day to spend on his birthday, my birthday, his anniversary, our old address, the last four digits of his first phone number, and so on.

3 a restaurant with pig feet on the menu. my dad ate, like, six things. TOTAL. kidney beans, potted meat, hot water cornbread, pigs feet, fried chicken wings, and black walnut ice cream. i lived with him my junior year of high school and i am not kidding, he never deviated from that super-nutritious diet. i would go to the store with him and gaze wistfully at all of the fresh vegetables and cheese while he loaded up our cart with vienna sausages and cornmeal, longing for the day he would let me at least smell the warm bread in the bakery. "but you live in the north now!" i would plead, shaking a box of tuna helper under his disapproving nose. "we like pizza here!" occasionally he would go to KFC and i could get some goddamn cole slaw and corn, but if i ate a vegetable in 1996 that motherfucker came from 1 school or 2 your mom's house.

4 at a dice game. once my father hit a dude in the head with a hammer on our front porch because, as legend has it, that gentleman tried to cheat the old man during a vicious game of click clack. A REAL HAMMER. can you believe that old country ass shit? how much could a bunch of broke motherfuckers possibly bet on craps that justifies a goddamn brain injury?! (ps, my dad was the best.) SB was also incredibly proficient at bid whist, a partnership trick-taking game that is very popular among african-americans. i told you this dude loved gambling more than he loved his children and/or pets, and one time he let me sit in on a spades hand and we got set because i overbid and he for real would not feed me dinner that night. I WAS NINE, FAM. he was for real, like, "goodnight, samantha" at four in the afternoon. i have little joker nightmares to this very day.

5 outside of al green's church. SB was not religious, but come on. how cool would that be!? i know the words to "my god is real!" that whole "livin' for you" album is a jam. that's how it works, right? instead of preaching he just sings a medley of his greatest god-related hits? my body is ready.

so i'ma try not to fall asleep on the road and order hella room service in this swanky hotel for a week and listen to some country music and work on my book which is due in two months holy fucking shit and maybe reunite with my brothers and watch that show nashville on hulu to be ironical and instagram some obnoxious meals and see dave chappelle at the ryman and probably drop SB in a river or something. and pour a little out for my homie.

Friday, March 20, 2015

the seven types of bitches you run into at the club.

1 the bitch whose feet are fucking killing her. THANK YOU, BASED GOD, FOR OLD NAVY ACTIVE COMPRESSION PANTS. i decided a long time ago that i would just patiently wait for high-waisted underpants and threadbare cardigans to come in style, and until they do i'm not really gonna try that goddamn hard. i never want to go anywhere or do anything, but it's kind of hard to be a person if you don't. i just want to eat ribs in my jammies and text my vote for that one girl on the voice 137 times, not spend my rent money on tequila and cabs while wearing uncomfortable shoes and pants that dig into my soft meat. which is why i fucking don't anymore. i went to the club this past weekend and, you know what? SHIT AIN'T CHANGED. dudes will still elbow you in the jaw to beat you to the 1/2 inch of empty space at the bar into which they must wedge themselves to order a drink, and ladies are still tiptoeing through the used condoms and discarded needles in too-small fake louboutins. not me, though. fuck a stiletto. i wear crocs and compression stockings because i'm one of those people who is good at learning from the mistakes of others. that's why i wear my pajamas to the disco, because i like to let my shit hang. my discomfort has never been appropriately rewarded. every fish i've ever dragged out of the sea was caught tangled up in a pair of support hose, because my ankles are swollen. BUT MY FEET FEEL FUCKING AMAZING.

2 the bitch who really did come for the food. this is me, at your company party: hovering suspiciously close to the crab dip with my belt unbuckled, nibbling directly from the assorted snack trays while trying to avoid getting locked into an excruciating conversation with someone boring. the nightlife landscape is changing: no longer are you forced to leave the party spot to hit up the tamale cart or dank shawarma hole to soak up all those appletinis you let someone's recently-widowed dad buy for you! never again will you have to eat a bowl of rice, six fig newtons, and half a peanut butter sandwich while doing your makeup trying to fill up your stomach before pouring a bunch of overpriced beers into it! i don't know how it is where you live, but chicago is fucking full of these places all of a sudden, and it's the goddamn best. especially if you're one of those people who like to look occupied so no one in the bar will suspect how lonely and terrible she is in real life. CAN'T TELL THAT THESE FEELINGS ARE SAD IF I'M BUSY EATING THEM CAN YOU, BRO. um, what. anyway, food is good. shit what am i even talking about anymore.

3 the instagram bitch. HOE IT'S DARK IN HERE. PUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PHONE AWAY.

4 the zooey deschanel bitch. i do not believe in whimsical humans. bjork? whimsical human. amelie? whimsical fictional human. YOU in a too-small cupcake printed modcloth dress and messy pigtails turning cartwheels in the middle of a disco? ANNOYING REGULAR PERSON WHO HAS WATCHED 500 DAYS OF SUMMER TOO MANY GODDAMN TIMES. you've seen her: the bitch with a live bird in her purse who skips through restaurants and signs for the fed ex delivery with a teeny little adorable heart. or the one with an entire potted plant in her hair doing public cartwheels with her shoes off while hurling confetti at passing cars. the baby voices and the ladybug cupcakes and the getting glitter all over the place: EXHAUSTING. and they're everywhere. k and i were at 3 dots a few months ago and, after approximately 37 banana daiquiris and a bunch of shrimp, i decided i had to pee aka vomit. and the one thing standing between me and the safety and comfort of a tiki-themed bathroom was an asshole with pastel fairy wings affixed to her back. and she was doing this arm-waving dance with her eyes closed that made it nearly impossible to get around her without accidentally getting an eye clawed out. she was whirling and swirling to a beat i couldn't hear; when i went left she swerved left, and when i tried right she pirouetted right. listen, i don't give a fuck if you want to wear pinafores with puppies printed on them. i really don't. but i for real peed a little bit in my one good pair of outside pants because a chick with white people dreads was pretending to be some sort of wood nymph in the middle of a goddamn disco. and i'm mad about it. everything is goddamned terrible.

5 the bitch who throws up. speaking of, i have vomited in so many amazing places! this is the unfortunate byproduct of all of those newfangled hotspots what with all of their complicated craft cocktails and elaborately-styled appetizers: hey bro, how the fuck am i supposed to resist both and plate of deviled eggs and a drink with no fewer than seventeen handpicked, locally sourced ingredients!? I AM ONLY HUMAN, OKAY. so let me get that venison hot dog with the asian pickled slaw on top and three, no i mean four, roman holidays. and yes i will take that shot of patron greg just bought for the table, thank you very much. what was that? you want me to dance real fucking hard and potentially dislocate a hip because this bearded hipster DJ in a librarian sweater just put "murder she wrote" on to be ironical? DON'T MIND IF I DO. nah, i don't need a water, just hand me that half-empty champagne flute i'm not really sure belongs to me. hold up they have ice cream brownie m&m caramel doughnut profiterole snickers cake here!? JAM.

6 the bitch who is spoiling for a fight. i have been in two bar fights in my life. #1 like the champion i am, i ripped my shirt off hulk hogan style over my rippling chest and muscular abs before proceeding to break the jaws of every single motherfucker in the room without so much as smudging my eyeliner. #2 SEE NUMBER ONE.
just kidding, my dude. the first time i wanted to show how tough i was by breaking a bottle of corona on the edge of the bar and threatening to stab this bitch who had just rudely yanked my friend from the adjacent barstool by her ponytail with the jagged remains, but what really happened was i busted that shit, sprayed my friend and only ally in the face with flying shrapnel and lukewarm beer, then opened my bloody hand to find a giant shard of glass embedded squarely in the middle of my palm. horrified by the sight of my life line cut neatly in half and the alcohol-thinned blood pooling rapidly around the wound, i put my head down on the bar while my girl tried to use her car key to dislodge it. the second attempt my homie and i were executing a perfectly synchronized reenactment of the kid and play dance from the first house party movie and i'm not even really sure how things devolved, but one of us might have ended the night trying to catch a cab with a black eye and someone else's shirt on. ahem.

7 the bitch who gave birth to you. hells yeah, baby: KAREN FINALLY GOT A MOTHERFUCKING DIVORCE.

partytime!