Monthly Archives: July 2009

My Humble Act Ends with a Tap Routine


My new-ish neighbors are total assholes.  I hate to sound like a really unfeeling human being, but I don’t understand how the economy could be so bad that a young couple could move out of a comfortable first floor apartment next door, and a family of fifteen could move in.  These people are so goddamn skanky and loud.  There is almost always a crowd in the 4×4 strip of front yard they have, up to the wrought-iron fence by the sidewalk, and a grill, and a baby pool, and trash, and a fat man screaming for everyone to take off their shoes before they go in the fucking house.  Beyond the sidewalk is another strip of (public) grass, next to the street, where they have been depositing each turd lain by their three dogs in their enclosed lawn.  I know this because I have been noticing the stink on my way past on particularly hot days.  Finally, someone busted them for it, because I saw the landlady explaining to the fat patriarch that no, you don’t own that property by the street, and even if you did, you would be expected to pick up your dog’s shit and dispose of it.  And the fat man responded by playing totally dumb, “Oh, really?  Okay, yeah, because, I didn’t know that, okay, wow, uh huh.”

If I lived above or below these people I would be so pissed.  I just live Next Door and I don’t like it.

Am I just a cunt for expecting a reasonable level of quiet?  I must be old and crotchety because I can’t stand it when they leave the bathroom window vent open and I have to listen to the only words of “Single Ladies” that the neighbor girls know.  And they have this new punishment for the baby when it cries, which is to leave it sitting on the sidewalk in front of my building, where its “time out” spot has been designated, while they destroy the sidewalk in front of their building with gang signs and tributes to Michael Jackson in pastel sidewalk chalk.  So the little thing sits there in its filthy diaper, screaming in its frustration, and I’m at the point where I’d go out there and pick it up and play with it just to get some peace and quiet, as it sits directly in front of my open street level window.  Mind you, that would be a sticky endeavor, because the skankbaby looks like it has been rolled in melted candy and dirt, in that order, and even has dirt between its little baby fat rolls and under its tiny fingernails.  I would go over and ask if I could wash their baby for them, but then I’m sure they’d get uncomfortable as their shortcomings as parents were pointed out by a gringa, then come over and collect their baby, cooing and smiling, then in a couple of weeks they’d just start leaving it in front of the other neighbor’s house.

Do the Basil

I really, really don’t like it when people say they’re going to “do” food items, or when people use the proper names of places as verbs.

You know, as in, “Ummmm….um um um um ummmm…I think we wanna doooo the tomato?  And basil?  Yeah, let’s do the tomato and basil, and I’m gonna do the blackened salmon.”

“I’m gonna do the turkey burger.”

“We’re going to do the pinot.”

People usually say shit like this WAY LOUDER than they need to, and while they’re saying it, they’re pointing to a menu as if the waiter is going to need to read it, like even though their voice is LOUD, the menu must be utilized to illustrate exactly what they want.  Sometimes, and this is the worst, they look across the table and nod, big-eyed, at whomever they happen to be eating with, like, “Do we agree that we’re going to do green peppers on the pizza?  Did I get that right??”

Okay, but waaaay worse than this is reading on someone’s Facebook or hearing someone designate where they’re going to be by turning that place into a verb.  Such as:

“I’m probably going to Denver it in the fall.”

“I’ll get in touch with you when we Chicago it.”

“We Seattled it in March…why didn’t you come?!”

This is quite possibly one of the most douchebaggy things a person can do.

Speaking of Facebook, however, it’s also really awful and annoying when people refer to it in public, in loud, open conversations, as “FB.”  Now, I’m guilty of abbreviating it as such when I’m writing an email, but I swear to Christ that in my head I’m thinking the whole word.  A tub of shit walked past me yesterday at the Art Institute saying, “Well then she put that thing on my F.B.”  Just like that!  EFF BEE.  I emitted another, now famous, audible “yeuuugh.”

Once I was at a movie with Agent Ventura and, just after something funny happened in the movie, a girl in the midst of seven or eight friends just behind us said, “Oh my God I’m gonna post that on someone’s wall when we get home.”  Like it’s not enough to laugh at it and enjoy it AS IT IS.  We need to immediately plan to post it on “someone’s” wall.  It doesn’t matter who.  Just someone.  Just get it done.

(As I recall, we thought that was really annoying, and we had plastic theater cups that were 1/4 Sprite and 3/4 Smirnoff.  Then we went to the bar next door and had some beer and she told me she was going to New York, and we got all emotional and cried and stuff, then I went home and puked in the sink, then I went to work the next day feeling like someone had filled my head with nails.  But I STILL thought the Facebook thing was annoying.)

Pancake Boots

I have now been job searchin’ for three months.  I have not gotten so much as a phone call.  I am seriously confused about this, as I have experience in things, and am a smart girl, and at this point I am even applying to places like that one place, which will not be named, which sells those famous pancakey looking boots with sheep wool on the inside.  YEAH.  I applied THERE.

It’s nice, though, that libraries which have not even offered you an interview send you a nice rejection letter to let you know they went with another candidate.  Duh, assholes.  But thanks for making me feel like I was, briefly, a candidate.

I don’t know, I guess I’m like, an artist, or whatever…

What bothers me sometimes is that I talk to these guys who have like a thing that they do…you know, like they’re drummers or photographers or painters or something.  This is the problem with Chicago, it’s that every dude you meet is so far “into” something that he’s got his head twisted backwards and crammed up his ass.  His art is the most important thing in his life.  I mean, it’s typical for guys to basically be more focused on themselves and their stuff than they are on anything else, and for the most part, I think that’s the way it should be.  I LIKE people who have a passion and are in pursuit of it.  You’d be boring if you didn’t.  But what annoys me are boys who are so focused on climbing, both socially and artistically, that they just become really phony and shallow.  It’s really too bad.  I don’t believe you can be true to any sort of artistic vision and still be into all that “networking” shit.

Uh, anyway, what I meant to say is that I always get myself into these “talking to” positions with boys who do stuff, and I never seem to like it, and I always have to pretend that I do.  Don’t get me wrong, a lot of what these guys do is good, but it’s never exactly anything I find any interest in beyond appreciating what it is for that moment.  Most of them can do their craft pretty well, they’ve got the technique, but son of a bitch, since when are technique and talent the same fucking thing?

So I smile and nod and say “Oh you’re really very good at it!” which is true, usually.  But it always starts to wear on me, like, Ugh, if I end up dating this guy I am going to have to pretend for a million years to be really moved by whatever he does.  And I can never be honest.  It’s hard to ignore the lack of respect you have for someone’s thing.

I was once accused of having a “humble act.”

I was accused of this by a boy who I was face down, ass up in loooove with*.  He was reminding me of something I’d written that he’d read, he was listing its merits and forgiving the things that were wrong with it, just going on and on about how greeeeaaaat it was.  At the time, he had his hand on my upper thigh, and I don’t know about you but I don’t trust anything that comes out of someone’s mouth when their hand is that close to my lady bits.  So I said he should stop it, that I didn’t want to talk about it.

He removed his hand from Lady Bit Zone, grabbed his beer, and as he brought it to his lips he looked away and said, “Oh, fine, go on with your little humble act then.”

This bothered me for kind of a long time, because I was in LOVE with him, so his simple opinions had the ability to tie me to a tree by my ankles and gut me and leave me draining blood and swinging in the wind.  It bothers me sometimes to this day, a little bit, because I am often scared of being as fake as I see others being.  But not so much anymore, because I’ve seen a true humble act now, officially.  It has a lot to do with cultivating attention, which is what the most self-serving of “artists” needs in order to keep creating, which is why some people feel the need to be so goddamn loudmouthed and open and public about what they’re doing while they’re doing it.  What keeps them going isn’t the drive to do what they claim to have the drive to do, it’s the attention they get for it along the way.  It’s sickening to have someone’s half-assed crap shoved in your face before they’ve given it a second thought, or to be asked to follow the “development” of someone’s art project every step of the way, while assholes with no accomplishments except stupid tattoos and checkered scarf collections constanly fellate their comments section with stuff like “Dude this is looking so rad.”  And they, of course, respond politely, humbly, “Aw, thanks guys!”

THAT is sick.

When did people forget about the benefits of solitude? If you’d shut the fuck up about yourself I might be inclined to look at what you’ve done.

*This same boy sometimes wore a t-shirt that said “I’M WORKING ON MY NOVEL.”  What’s funny about that is that HE WAS.


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Friday Dance Party V

For real, though.

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Psychotic Level Orange

Me:  Do you ever have an extended period of time when you just feel like you’re on the edge of a total psychological meltdown?  Like you’re just teetering, like any second you’re going to be completely certifiably insane?

C:  Hahahahah!  Of COURSE!  How can you not?!  Hahahahah!  I feel like that all the time.

Me:  Ugh.

C:  It will go away.

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Bubonic technotronic

I Don’t Know Why…

…they always ask in a job interview “So why do you want this job?”  This is an eternally stupid question, especially if it’s a retail job, or a job at an establishment that serves 3 foods together in a paper rectangle which you order as a “basket.”  I mean, I haven’t sat through an interview for one of these jobs for a LOOOONG time (partly because I’ve been employed in retail ever since I can remember and vowed to cut my hands off before reaching the level of applying for a foodservice job ever again) so I imagine they’ve dropped this from the interview procedure.  Maybe not, because I’m pretty sure that The Company For Which I Currently Work still requires one to splop out something about loving sneakers, and enthusiasm, and winning, and, ugh, passion…and about really wanting to stick it to the Cambodians who have to make the shoes and deserve a life of torture, anywayyyy.

But when they ask you this question at an interview for, oh, say, an administrative assistant job, for, say, a moving company…what the fuck are you supposed to say?  “Oh, I just really feel alive when I’m administrative assistanting.”  I would find it delightfully refreshing to sit across from a girl who would say, “You know what?  I need the money.  And I am prepared to work for it.  So let’s get it on.”

Not that anyone has called me for any administrative assistant jobs, or any other of the five hundred million trillion jobs in Chicago and the suburbs I’ve applied for.  I’m convinced, though thorough testing and re-testing has proven otherwise, that when my resumé and cover letters are emailed, they translate into some freakish loser language, and the pages are stark white except for the words “Bloop, bloop, bloop!”

Would someone please call me and make sure my phone works?

I Don’t Know Why…

…I get some kind of pleasure out of watching Intervention.  I mean, it’s not funny to watch a fat bitch place bets on horse races while her four year old eats out of the trash can in the bathroom.  It’s not funny.  Come on.  It’s not.  Hey.

Aside from that, it’s just not entertaining to watch these jackoffs steal from their families, smoke crack, say stupid, boneheaded things into the camera, play some wacked-out songs on their guitars under a bridge somewhere, all for the last thirty seconds of the show, which only reveals a picture of their obese, sober ass fresh out of rehab, then a couple of lines about when they relapsed.  It’s usually like, thirty minutes after the camera crew left.

So whyyyy do I waaatch it helloooooooo?

I Don’t Know Why…


I Don’t Know Why…

…I can’t figure out which bills I forgot to pay this month, but I do know that yesterday in 1348 was the first day the bubonic plague showed up in England.  Hollerrrr!


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That shirt makes you look pretty ugly

There are a whole bunch of drink tickets on my kitchen table that I don’t want, so if anybody wants to swing by and pick ’em up, that’s cool.  I’ll leave ’em on my front step.

Last night’s alley firework battle was like being in Fallujah, or whichever city it is that’s right in the middle of all of the action.  There was a huge party of people in front of us, across the street, and a group of people behind us, in their part of the alley.  Every once and a while, the fireworks from either group would zoom into our little crowd, causing us to scream and scatter.  Or they’d just cross invisible boundaries on either side and set something off on the ground right behind us.  The boys did an excellent job.  And one of them had a starter pistol, which I got to fire (unfortunately after it was empty).  I think that’s the only gun I’ve ever fired, unfortunately.  I didn’t expect the trigger to be so heavy.  Are you supposed to do finger exercises when you’re a gun-shooting type of person?

Finger exercises…hahhahahah.

I think I may have a slight problem with rage.  Here are the two things that make me think this:

1. At the grocery store self-checkout the other day, I swiped my card and the entire fucking card reader popped off the base and clattered to the floor.  In pieces.  It was like it had exploded.  Everyone stared, of course, for a good hour or so, I bet, and all I could do was go, “Haaaaaa…” nervously, then grab my grocery bag, and bend down to the floor to press “OK” on the broken reader.  It printed my receipt and I stepped over it and left.  HOW did I rip that thing off the stand and SHATTER IT?!

At least it took my angry swipe on the first try.  Because I didn’t want to face the people who run the self-checkout lines.  One of them is this guy who looks like Grizzly Adams and rolls his eyes and stomps around a lot, like he pretty much hates his life.  The rest are annoyed overweight women who bark directions at you if you fuck up, and always say something like, “Naw, see?  You done messed it up now.  It’s messed up,” like by pressing “lemons” instead of “oranges” on the touch screen, you’ve started an irreversible chain reaction that ends with a plane crash into a puppy farm.

2. At work, everyone was talking about being tired, and how tired they all felt that day.  Someone said, “I just want a nap,” and I said, “I don’t want a nap, I want this, like, room?  Where I can go, you know?  And nobody else can get in it.  And there’s nothing in there, but the walls are sound proof.  And I can just, like, scream.  For hours.  Without anyone calling the police.”

Everyone just stared at me.

Well excuuuuuse me for thinking that was a common desire.  It’s MY desire, you jerks.

And here is a quote from a book I stopped reading because the high point was the top of a downward spiral into boredom.  But I like this:

Goodbye, goodbye! she called out in her head as she ran, imagining the other woman he would find.  She would be prettier than Jemma but stupider, and she would be the type of woman compelled to uncover the past lovers of her lovers.  When she heard the story of Jemma’s behavior she would be utterly unable to fathom it.

-Chris Adrian, The Children’s Hospital

I think he read my mind on that one.


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Friday Dance Party IV

Burn it up.

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Rachel Bilsonned.

I’ve only ever written one love letter, and the boy I gave it to responded by “coming clean” about the fact that he had a girlfriend, and had the entire time we knew each other, and had just asked her to marry him.  He confessed that his dalliance with me was a symptom of cold feet.*  Then he told me that he’d used bits of the love letter, and other correspondence from me, to serve as dialogue for a female character (with a man’s name) in the script for a television show pilot he’d just sold to Fox for $7,000.

(Some of you already know this story.  I know, I know.)

Do you know what it’s like to watch the new Fox show lineups on the off chance that this show is actually made, and some man-hating bartending actress ends up broadcasting my personal correspondence??

Now that guy was a stupid motherfucker.

I do not write love letters anymore.

*This is when I coined the term “Rachel Bilson” as a verb, as in “Don’t fucking Rachel Bilson me” and “Are you Rachel Bilsonning me right now?!” meaning, of course, don’t treat me like Zach Braff treats Rachel Bilson in that awful, awful, AWWFUL movie The Last Kiss, which is about pretty, successful, happy assholes who fuck around before they get married and make up for it with a Coldplay soundtrack.

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Well. Ouch.

What’s great is when someone has a crush on you, and they tell you every chance they get how great you are.

What sucks is when they suddenly STOP having a crush on you, and their friends start telling you how great they think someone else is.

It’s like a nice clean little bullet hole through the forehead, one that everyone at the party can see, one that they all want to put their finger in to make sure it’s real.

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Stop Looking At Me, Swan!

I don’t like it when inanimate objects tell me what to do.

I got a letter from Verizon Fucking Wireless yesterday that said “Open immediately.”  I did not like its tone!  So I opened it TEN MINUTES LATER, and it was just a notice confirming that I had removed a feature from my stupid account.  Oh, like some stranger got my password and wants to save me money on my bill.  You stupids.

I just grabbed a Stash tea bag at work, and it said on the wrapper “Steep for 1-3 minutes.”  I will steep for however long I please, thank you very much, you uptight tea bag!

What’s next, is mayonnaise going to tell me how I can and can’t enjoy it?!  Am I going to be told not to eat sour cream on my pizza?!?  FUCK OFF!!!

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Pat Minotaur

Blog Katamari

This week I got a fancy little surprise: Pinky Links said some very nice things about this here blog!

“Well, while sneakily and silently stalking Steven’s site (see what I did there? with all the S’s?), I came across this total gem. Cupcake Heartbreak.  I love reading new blogs, because at first it takes a little bit of time to figure out if they’re male/female, streyt/ghey, peoples of what color/country/background, liberal/conservative.  So, this is me welcoming Cupcake Heartbreak into our (Katamari!) neighborhood.  She’s so cunt-centric, I digs it.  She also has a mouth/keyboard like a sailor.”

It really made my day.  I didn’t have to talk about myself so much that day because other people did it for me.  Thank you, Pinky Links bloggers!!!

Also, -Z- mentioned Katamari, which is my most favorite game to play on PS2.  I even play it on my phone (a tiny, tiny, tiiiiny version called Rolling with Katamari! that is super fun and has made me miss my bus stop more than one time).  When you fail, the king says “Like a lollipop…YOU SUCK.”

I used to play that game so much that when I’d get in the car I’d want to just run over everything…and, uh, everyone.  I drove really fast.  And if my boyfriend was driving I’d be like “OHHH YEAHHH!” when people were ambling innocently over a crosswalk.  It was not very safe.

Here is some of my favorite Katamari-inspired stuff, plucked from the Web:

Katamari checks!  Do your best!

Katamari checks! Do your best!



I love how Jesus and the Apostles are like, "What...the fuck?"

I love how Jesus and the Apostles are like, "What...the fuck?"

Everything sticks to these shoooooes!!!

Everything sticks to these shoooooes!!!

I am sad today because I found the Katamari Dunks, and every asshole who had featured them on their blog made it sound like you could get a pair if you dropped enough money.  Unfortunately, I traced them to their source, which is just some dude and his Katamari-lovin’ wife who bought a white pair of Dunks and hand painted them for her.  So you can’t buy them, you stupid fucking jerks.  I should sue you for making me think I could.

Now watch this:


There are a couple of things that I think are really funny, and when I think of them during the day, I just crack up laughing and people look at me weird.  I’m not sure what triggers them, but they’re sort of always floating around in there and sometimes they just pop into my immediate consciousness.  Like, when you call my friend Agent Orange a fucker, he says “You fuck her, you brought her.”

And one time in high school, my best friend (who was a total troublemaker/smoker/school cutter/bad influence all around, so that’s why I said BEST friend) interrupted a biology class by grabbing a giant coconut out of this wildlife display cabinet the teacher had, held it high over her head, and yelled over everyone to him, “HEY MR. SMITH…WANNA BUST A NUT?”

HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!  Oh, I just laugh and laugh.  That’s funny stuff.  I should collect the funny stuff I’ve witnessed in a book or a blog.  It will be called Remember That One Time?

More from the Boy Swamp

I’m not surprised that it happens to me, but yeah, okay, it’s a little bit annoying when I’m just trying to have a good time.

I am no stranger to the fact that boys often bang up against each other to see who’s the top dick.  I’ve seen it happen tons of times, you just sort of stand back so you don’t get Axe body spray splattered all over you (it stains, you guys).  But every now and then, one of these dudes comes scraping out of the dude swamp and wants to play “I’m Smarter Than You, You Girl” with me.

It’s like I’m the minotaur, and they’re these boysies with wimpy-ass swords and dangling, tattered loincloths trying to hack and bullshit their way through the labyrinth.  There’s a damn pile of them outside my door.  It is getting hard to open my door!

Here is a little excerpt from an experience I wrote about in my old MySpace blog on Tuesday, July 24, 2007:

I was tired after, but we had started so early that it was only about ten when everyone was crashing.  It seemed a waste to go home and pass out when there was the St. Alfred’s party at Empire, and even though we’d all said we weren’t going to go, pretty much the entire Pumafia showed up.  I’m glad I took the time to freshen up and change out of my barbecue sauce-encrusted jacket, because that place was “going off,” in the way that those parties do when all of the boys put on their biggest hats and flashiest grills.

There wasn’t really any dancing room, it would have actually been very dangerous to try, since every time you moved, someone was trying to push past you in that really annoying way where they just hold their drink out in front of them so it gets spilled all over someone when they get pushed.  So we kind of stood there, nodding our heads, whatever, and eventually friends of friends were nearby, and some guy in that category was sitting right by where I was standing, and when I took notice of him, he reached up and tapped his glass against my bottle.  I nodded my acknowledgment.  Had the interaction ended there, I think everything would have been fine.

This dude stood up at some point, and he was a freaking giant.  Almost Andre the Giant.  Huge.  He could have touched the ceiling.  He was trying to communicate with this little spider monkey of a boy who I’ve been around before and have never really been impressed by.  One of those guys who just darts around everywhere, acting completely stupid in the hopes that someone will look at him.  And despite his obvious attempts to gain people’s attention, he seems to hate all of them.  I think he’s had a disgusted look on his face every time I’ve seen him.  So the Giant and the Monkey were speaking some language they taught each other, waving their drinks around, getting all excited, leaning across my friend and myself.  I suppose it was done in an effort to get closer to the Giant, to somehow cut across the limited space between us and stand where I was standing, but at some point in their conversation, the Monkey reached out, placed both tiny paws on my collarbone, and firmly pushed me backwards.

You can imagine how I felt about that.

I stepped forward just in time to see the Giant spatter some of his girly drink into my friend’s hair, and I immediately reached out to wipe some of the droplets away.  In doing so, I’m afraid I drew attention to the fact that the Giant had committed some sort of faux pas, and though I fully understand that these things happen all the time in crowded bars, I’m not the kind of girl who ignores drops of liquor on her friend’s head just to keep some dude from feeling bad.  A brief apology is in order, of course, even if it’s just a drunk-guy-in-a-bar type of apology, the kind they throw out, say, when they hit you in the mouth on their way to request Fergie’s “London Bridges.”  First of all, they don’t really mean it, and they say it just to keep from feeling bad, and they say it in a way that suggests maybe you shouldn’t have had your mouth in their way.  And besides, they just really want to hear “London Bridges.”  Still, they say it.

The Giant saw fit, instead, to ask me why I was such an asshole.  He reminded me, because I had forgotten, that I was not in a library.  Oh wait, I believe it was a fucking library that I was not in.  “This isn’t a fucking library, you know.”

True, Sir Giant.  This is not a fucking library.  I understand that fucking libraries are usually very quiet and full of books, which readers may borrow for brief periods of time.  If you would like, I could give you the address for the library in Logan Square, and you can see for yourself that it looks nothing like Empire Liquors, and we will both laugh and laugh when you realize just how silly it was to tell an intelligent person that a bar wasn’t a fucking library.  Haha!  Silly Giant!  And then maybe we will read something besides that worn-out copy of The Best of Vice you carry around with you.  I will try to find you something that has a few pictures of designer sneakers in it.  You know, to keep your interest.

So I ignored the guy.  I let it roll off, I was tired, and I’m never really sure how to answer that question.  I didn’t think you were supposed to.  I thought I’d just made an enemy out of some enormous hipster, who would forget all about me on his wobbly bike ride home.  Secretly, I hoped he would remember me just when his face grated against the pavement, and then forget me, but that was just wishful thinking.  Instead, he loomed around for the rest of the evening, and every time I looked up, he was staring at me, staring in that weird way that’s more just watching someone, where you can tell they’re still looking at your back when you turn away.  I didn’t even feel like dancing anymore when it cleared out a bit in there, because I’d look up and this fuckasaurus would be sitting like a retarded lump, giving me the most repulsed and confused look I’d ever seen.

So the Giant thought that maybe the best course of action would be to ask me again, later, why I was an asshole.  Again, he was met with polite indifference.  So he held out his hand, ten times the size of mine, and said “I’m ——-.”  I shook his hand, immediately forgot his name, nodded, and said hello.  That wasn’t enough for the Giant.

“No, see, that’s not how introductions work!  They’re supposed to be reciprocal.  This is how they go: I say hello, I tell you my name, then you do the same thing.”  Whilst Giant was yelling this into my face over the music, I do recall thinking it a little odd that talking to this dude was like being yelled at by my stepdad, which made me even more uncomfortable with the situation, if such a thing is possible.  I remember thinking how maybe this guy should consider himself lucky that I’d been drinking since five, and was falling asleep anyway, which meant I wasn’t in top form and not in any shape to actually tear into him.  I also found it very interesting, as he stood there completing his oratory on proper introductions, that the Giant obviously had a firm grasp on etiquette, so I wondered why he had prefaced our introduction, which was becoming more and more important to him by the minute, by referring to me as an asshole.

I also thought, wait a minute…I’ve never even talked to this guy.  Just how the hell did he know that I’m an asshole?!

So here’s this enormous guy, jabbing his finger in my face, spitting all over the place as he struggles to explain to me just how I should be behaving in a bar that’s not a fucking library, and he actually holds his hand out, pointed down at my chest, and says, “Now we’re going to try this again! My name’s ——-!”  As far as I understand, it’s a certain unalienable right to decide who you want to meet and who you don’t.  So I looked at his hand and said “No thank you.  I don’t want to meet you.”

Oh, I’m sure it would have been more acceptable, as far as relations between friends and friends of friends go, if I had just giggled and smiled and shaken his hand, told him my name, and then bitched about him all the way home.  But I’m not afraid of people like that, I can’t think of much he could do to me that hasn’t been done, so I wasn’t really surprised or shocked when he spent the rest of the night calling me a bitch, telling me I looked like a whore, asking my friends why I was such an asshole.  I wasn’t at all surprised when the Monkey joined in, actually sitting on the Giant’s lap (oh, it was perfect!) and started his yippy jeering in my direction because it meant that maybe someone would notice he was alive.  The Giant kept reaching around his monkey friend to say, “Truce?  Truce then?  Truce?” and hold out his big hand again.  And I said, “What’s the point?  I don’t want to know you.  Forget about me.  There is no us.”

I think it’s funny that I was wearing a shirt that said on the front, “I don’t have a gun,” and on the back, “but I can get one.”

Take Monday night, for example, at Agent Balboa‘s birthday party.  An old friendgirl we used to work with came and brought with her the foppiest, greasiest little punk rock prom queen I’ve seen in a long time.  He had that slicked back Dave Navarro hair that sort of flips forward and makes the wearer look like a Yorkshire terrier*, and the half-assed little skinny goatee that looked like it was glued onto his face with Elmer’s.  He wore tight jeans and pointy shoes, and a striped shirt rolled up at the elbows with extra little pieces of fabric that folded up over the rolled-up sleeve and attached to the button.  You know, in case he was going to be doing some serious lifting and sawing and hammering and wouldn’t want to be bothered with rolling his shirt sleeves up again and again.  While he was talking, I could only imagine him folding up those little button flaps, and, with his nimble, precious fingers, pulling the tiny pearly button through the hole.  Of course, the whole look was tied together with a skin-tight black vest, so I half expected to look up and find myself on a steam locomotive in 1924 with this asshole demanding to see my ticket.

I thought he looked stupid, sure, but it wasn’t until he opened his big dumb flappy mouth that I knew he’d be a pain in the ass.   At first it was just his two cents here and there during my portions of conversation, little peeps, little burps, like the bubbles that come up from the bottom of the toilet when the clog is about to recede.  I’d be talking about something, or answering someone, and he’d interrupt with his commentary on whatever I was saying, and what it meant about me.  “Oh so you’re like THIS” or “OHHHH so you’re THAT GIRL…Oh I see…”  That was my first clue that he was picking up on certain aspects of my personality and probably wanted to tie our wrists together for a knife fight in the alley.  He had a big fucking mouth and wanted me to slash it open wider so he could fit more cock in it.

So he tries to joke with me.  He sits next to me and tells me my cupcakes sucked.  “I was like, this is the worst cupcake I’ve ever eaten.  It’s crap.”  I told him I was happy my crappy little cupcake was about to get revenge on his ass and thighs.  Buttercream, mother fuckerrr.  I won’t sit here and recount the entire conversation, it just went back and forth like that for about twenty minutes, him trying to get my attention with his pathetic limp-dick insults, and me being as nice as possible about setting him gently in his place.  I was being very nice, because I love the friendgirl who had brought him along, and it was hard to tell what, if anything, their relationship was.  It was so HARD to reign it in, though, because it was like there was a big goddamn joke of a man in front of me, saying, “Oh, I seem to have dropped my ass…would you please hand it to me?  And feel free to mop the floor with it first.”

It went too far when he started to talk about his band.  And here is how he did it:

Pure silence.  Then, out of nowhere,

Him: “Sooo, I’m in a band, soooo…”

Me: “Oh yeah, cool.”

Him: “Yeah, we’re called ———–.  We’ve played a few shows so far, we were featured in the RedEye a few weeks ago.”

Me: “Mmm.”

Him: “Yeah, totally.  Do you remember the one about Christian Bale and Johnny Depp being here for a movie premiere?  Yeah, we were in that one.”

Me: “So you got overshadowed a bit.”

Him: “Yeah.  I mean, well, not really because it’s kind of a big deal to get into the music section.  Soooo that’s cool.”

Me: “Are you…advertising to me?”

Him: (Obviously angry and embarrassed about my disinterest) “No!  It’s not like this is costing you anything!  God!”

Me: “Uh, ‘advertising’ doesn’t necessarily mean that money changes hands…”

Him: “I know!  I know!  I’m just saying that like, you know, I’m in a band and you should check us out.”

Me: “Uh huh.  And what would that be called?”

Him: “…”

Me: “That’s what I thought.”

Him: “I heard you were kind of a bitch.”

Me: “I’ve been advertising.”

That twat.  He went off in a huff, and later, as we left, he said rather loudly to our friendgirl, “Your friend was hatin’ on me for telling her about my band.”

I said, “I wasn’t hating.  I just wasn’t listening.”

“She’s a bitch!” he pouted to our friendgirl.

She smiled and said, “I tooooold youuuu!”

This is an interesting theme that has emerged in my life.  Usually, stupid assholes who talk a bunch of shit hear that I’m an asshole and get a few drinks in them and want to wrassle.  When they fail and face public humiliation, they think that calling me a fucking bitch will redeem them.  I’ve had boys hurl all kinds of insults my way after situations like this.  They say “I was just joking with you!  I was just kidding!” and I say, “Well, me too, dude,” which they don’t understand because the girl is supposed to roll over and put her knees in the air and laugh like a dipshit at everything he says, the boy is supposed to be the funny one, the smarter one, the quick-witted one.  So they get mad, and they tell me that I’m the way I am because I “never get any,” I’m bitter, I’m bitchy, no one will eeeeever want me because I’m such a bitch.  It’s like a script that dumb boys follow.

Then there are boys who enjoy it, who don’t run off with their tails between their legs, but who I end up dating and getting in stupid dating fights with, and start crying or whining about something pointless, as one naturally does during a dating fight, and so disgusted are they with tears and frustration and anything other from the token lack of concern and laid-back sarcasm they’ve come to expect from me, that they say “I thought you were tough!  You’re not tough.  What was that, like, a tough act?”

I am fairly certain that people are only interested in other people who only have a single aspect to their personality.  You’re one way, or you’re the other.  Seems like it would be easier.  This shit just goes on and on, over and over.  Boys who talk to me are either one way, or they’re the other.  Do they know how fucking stupid they all are?

Unfortunately, my personality is like a katamari.

I’m sure this blog post could be filed under the category of tooting one’s own horn.  “She really thinks she’s something.  Look at her, talking about herself like that.  Well well well.”  I’ll have you know that this is nothing like horn-tooting, as I am against personal horn tooting.  Horns should be tooted by others, if at all.  It is more fun that way, duh.  What I’m trying to point out is the frequency with which boys come to me looking for a fight.  It’s not like I’m standing here grabbing at my dick every five seconds like I’m on the basketball team or something and I need to make sure everyone knows it’s still there.  SO SHUT UP.

*When I was a kid, my grandma had a Yorkshire terrier.  She named him Prince Toby and fed him from the table and took Polaroids of him, which she kept in a photo album and wrote things like “Stop feeding me ice cream or I’ll get fat, Mom!” next to them.  He returned the favor by pissing all over her house.  You would walk around in your socks and they’d be piss soaked.  You would lie down on the floor with a pillow to watch TV and roll over into a puddle.  She made a regular practice of letting the dog out into the yard to “go pee pee!” but he treated the yard with indifference and trotted back in with tangled hair to piss on the carpet.  Someone suggested to her that she have him neutered, and even though he was a full blooded dog with papers, and a mother with a name that was seven words long, she decided to do it.  She remarked that she’d “turn ‘im into a girl and start callin’ him Princess Toby if I have to!”  When I heard her say that, I got really scared that my grandma was so dumb that she thought it worked that way, that the dog would be a girl if she had him neutered.  It gave me anxiety.  I also hoped she didn’t believe that cutting a dog’s balls off made him stop pissing in the house.  I wanted to tell her that they only stop doing that if you tell them to with violence.  Anyway, Prince Toby never stopped pissing in the house, and when my grandma died, he lay down in a puddle of water and drowned himself.  THE END!


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