Friday, July 10, 2015

sex with leprechauns and dinosaurs and prison inmates.

There are two kinds of people in this world. Well I mean as far as dating and relationships go. Don’t get all politically correct and crazy. I also watched Pocahontas and know about the colors of the wind and multiculturalism and all that. Now change your diaper and simmer down.

There are people who thrive in and want to be in a relationship and there are people that lose their god damn mind and cannot mentally handle being in a relationship. You can probably guess which category I fall into. (Reminder: I have a blind cat and a 17 year-old dog.) The whole idea of being a “we” and having to consult with another human being about where I’m going, what I’m doing, how many new shoes I’ll be buying this month and if I had 3 or 33 drinks yesterday sort of makes me feel like all my insides are going to explode. Yes, that is a creative way of saying diarrhea.

I see my friends in relationships and sometimes it looks awesome. I wouldn’t mind having someone who is obligated to hang out with me all the time and to tell me I’m cute when I wake up in the morning with one eyebrow still on and my eye shadow on my chin and bring me ginger ale and a burrito when I’m hungover and leave the house for at least an hour when I have to poop after the burrito. I wouldn’t hate consistently getting laid and having date nights with bottles of wine and having someone co-parent my pets (aka clean the cat box when I’m too hungover and will barf or walk my dog when the thought of putting on pants would be worse than death). If that’s all it is, sure, I’m super down.

Then you realize that relationships are also pubes all over the bathroom and boy pee stains on the toilet seat and fights at 3 a.m. and jealousy and crying and cheating and a lot of fucked up shit man. Wine and sex can only fix so much. Why can’t it just be the good stuff? Why do people need the drama and the talking and the sharing of feelings and joint bank accounts and shared property and “our song” and the nonsensical bullshit?

I’m not saying that monogamy and marriage and commitment are dumb. Apparently (allegedly) it does work out for some people. But to be honest I’ve yet to see a long-term relationship work without one or both people compromising important aspects of what makes them, them.

I’ve had so many female friends that I adored because they were independent, confident, fearless, opinionated, bold and drank and cursed like sailors. My people. Then they meet a dude who’s pretty dull and bland and suddenly everything lovable about them is gone. It turns into “we don’t drink during the week” (what the fuck does that even MEAN!?) and the invites become third-wheel excursions always and suddenly I despise this person. I can’t even remember what I liked about her. Or the friends that only call you when their dude isn’t around but want to spend the whole time you’re with them texting him and bitching about him and being pissed off she’s not with him. Meanwhile I’m sitting their imagining myself shoving her phone down her throat or throwing my drink in her face and screaming “PROSTITUTE WHORE!!!” while attempting to flip the table that is clearly screwed into the floor because of people like me. I would rather be mauled and have each limb individually ripped off by a super cute polar bear than be this person. (Note: If I ever do become this person you have my permission to throw me into a polar bear exhibit at the zoo and taze anyone that tries to save me. This is a binding document.)

I’d like to believe that in the future, a dude will walk out of prison a free man, walk into a bar, put a song by The Kills on the jukebox, order a Moscow mule and will be my long-term one night stand. However, I also realize that he will likely ride to the bar on a unicorn with his pet Velociraptor and his leprechaun sidekick. But I’m going to hold out. I’m not going to stop cursing, drinking, offending white people in public, refusing to wear pants indoors and letting dishes pile up in my sink because I REALLY, REALLY hate doing dishes.

I’m not going to pretend I like your mom’s piece of shit little dog that tries to bite me, or let your weird aunt think I would ever let you put a baby in me, or stop talking about poop, or hang out with your lame ass friends that still play video games, or pretend it’s ok that you troll bars after I go to bed, or let you tell me I can’t keep the TV on all the time, or let you take the outside spot in bed, or pretend I like to cuddle because I for the love of god don’t want to be swaddled like a baby with your body.

If not being willing to compromise what makes me awesome doesn’t work for you, then I guess all I can say is PEACE OUT MOTHERFUCKER. Go park your U-Haul of bullshit in someone else’s asshole. (Seriously though, nothing goes in my asshole.) I’ve already come to terms with my cat lady future and all my silverware matches so as far as I’m concerned, I’m fucking NAILING IT. 

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Whoever says 30 is the new 20…please immediately walk into traffic. Cool, thanks.

I’ve learned a lot since I turned 30. I’ve learned that if you’re going to buy sangria at the grocery store, make sure it already has the brandy in it. I’ve learned that if you are polite to the transients and let them talk to your dog like he’s a person they (probably) will not rob or stab you. I’ve learned that when it’s humid outside your armpits will be constantly sticky, no matter how much deodorant you put on. I’ve learned that just because someone was your friend at one time, doesn’t mean they have to be your friend for always (bye Felicia). I’ve learned that a beard doesn’t fix everything (i.e. small penis, shitty personality, mommy issues), but being really great at oral can help. I’ve learned if someone is really god damn annoying it’s ok to block them on your iPhone, Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, Tinder, OkCupid, Myspace, AIM, AOL, life, etc. I’ve learned that it’s ok to forgive, but only if it comes with lots of free drinks, genuine sorrow and should probably involve Chanel sunglasses. I’ve learned that it’s also ok not to forgive and wish crabs, bed bugs and herpes of the eye on that son of a bitch. To get all sentimental up in this bitch, I’ve also learned that real friends text you just to see how your day went and keep asking questions when they know you’re lying. And I’ve learned that my family is fucking nuts but I appreciate and adore each one of them (especially my cutie baby niece who makes my heart hurt every time I see her) and I need them to keep me grounded and slightly less homicidal (thanks Mom for the muscle relaxers and wine).

The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that once you turn 30, people feel like they can ask you really fucked up questions and it’s totally normal. Like all of a sudden you’re ready to discuss your menstrual cycle, color of your cervix, and admit that your wine and pill relationship is merely to fill the void of not having a husband and a 3 month old ripping off your nipple after ripping open your favorite orifice. No one asked me these questions in my 20’s. Let’s do a little comparison between the questions asked at 20, and approximately 72 hours after you turn 30.

The Future/Financial Stability

In your 20’s:

Q: What are your plans after college?

In your 30’s:

Q: Are you saving up to buy a house? What kind of health insurance do you have? How’s your pension plan? When do you think you’ll be able to retire? But seriously, how much money do you have saved to buy a house?

Listen bitches. I’m still on the question about what my plans are after college. Yes, I realize I graduated college 7 years ago. However, due to the alcohol consumption and bad decisions made immediately afterwards, I like to pretend I just graduated a few years ago. And let’s be real, my only plan for the future is maybe don’t die. Also, fuck your house.  

Getting Wifed Up and Pooping Out a Baby

In your 20’s:

Q: Do you have a boyfriend? (And if the answer is no the response is always something positive like, “Good, stay single. There’s plenty of time for that!” or “Enjoy your 20’s. Fuck everyone. Literally.”, etc.)

In your 30’s:

Q: Are you married? How soon can you lock that shit down? Are you pregnant? How soon can you make that happen? How is your womb? Are you ovulating right now because I think that guy with the glass eye across the room is looking at you? Are you at least dating and trying to get a husband? Have you tried Have you tried standing on a street corner with a sign? How depressing is it being single in your 30’s?

Honestly, the fact that I haven’t offed myself yet should be considered an accomplishment. One year ago people were congratulating me on being single and married people yearned for my life. Now, people act like I have a terminal disease or a face tumor and married people look at me with sympathy and pretend they don’t want to smother their husband/wife with a pillow every night. What the shit is happening? Shouldn’t I receive a Nobel Peace Prize or something for not adding to the overpopulation of this country? Shouldn’t I be high fived for my independence and women’s rights and leaving all the shitty dudes there for you desperate bitches to have? Shouldn’t it be appreciated that my downstairs is immaculate and there’s still a solid border between my v hole and my b hole? So the answer to all the questions about marriage and babies is I’M MOTHER FUCKING BUSY. Go talk to that bitch on the corner with a sign “Free to good home.”

Miscellaneous Emotional Fuckery

In your 20’s:

Q: What bars are you hanging out in now? Did you hear your ex-boyfriend is dating a super gross 18 year-old? How are your parents/siblings doing? How’s Hercules?
In your 30’s:

Q: God you STILL hang out at that bar? Did you hear your ex-boyfriend is married to a super successful doctor and they hatched their beautiful baby from an egg so she didn’t have to ruin her perfect vagina? Are your parents still alive? How jealous are you that your brother has a really adorable baby? Holy shit that dog is still alive!?

Okay. First of all, I don’t go to church, I go to mimosas. Freedom of religion bitches. You sit in a pew, I sit on a barstool. Mind your business. Yes, you would be the 11th person to tell me how well that rancid turd is doing. Also that baby will realize it has a turd and a twat for parents so I still WIN. I swallow my potential accidents. Yup, I said it.

My parents are still alive. Because they are in their 50’s and I am ONLY 30 GOD DAMMIT. Also I realize that my older siblings are married, with houses, and doing great. You don’t need to bring that to my attention. I wake up in my studio in the ghetto every morning with a dog pressed up against my asshole and a cat screaming in my face for food. Life choices. Turns out if I decided to convince the dude with the glass eye at the bar that I’m ready to lose my virginity and try it bareback I could poop out a baby. However, I’m not sure if glass eyes are genetic and I’d rather just adore my baby niece and buy her shoes instead of food, diapers, etc. And lastly, my dog will outlive us all. See you at the end of days mother fuckers.

Next time you’re tempted to ask me, or any 30 year-old who’s nailing it in her own way, a question that would require actual words that would interrupt the flow of that margarita going down the throat, shut your mouth. Then go home and ponder not shanking your husband while I go home and drink wine on my couch without pants on. LIFE WIN.