Tag Archives: cunts

March 8, 2012 · 5:51 pm

Burn It In A Trashcan Bad

Troll 2

If you have some kind of vitamin deficiency, your thumbnail will grow a little bump.  That bump will annoy  you to death because you’ll constantly be rubbing your index fingernail up and down it.  So you’ll Google to find out why you have a bumpy nail and what you’re supposed to do about it.  “Oh!” Google says, “Just file it down!”  Google, you are fucking full of good ass ideas.

So you file your nail bump down, and about five minutes into the filing operation, you think “This is making my thumb kinda sore.”  You look down, wipe away the nail file powder, and to your horror, REALIZE THAT YOU HAVE FUCKING FILED A HOLE THROUGH YOUR NAIL AND EXPOSED YOUR NAIL BED.  Fucking shit.  Then you realize that you’re me and you’re amazingly bad at doing your nails and fixing your hair and accessorizing and wearing the right shoes with the right belts because you’re just really bad at all the stuff girls know how to do when they’re born.  (But I’ve seen Bourne Ultimatum about five thousand times so I’m fairly certain I could kill a guy with a book, a towel, and a candlestick if I had to.)

Yeah. So. The nail with the hole in it FUCKING FELL OFF and now I have a tiny sliver of half-nail at the bottom of my thumb and exposed nail bed all across the top.  It hurts like hell and it’s ugly and it eeks everyone out, you probably skipped over most of the story up there ^^ or maybe winced to yourself and started rubbing your thumbnail.  I bet you did.  The Pants calls it “the troll nail” and can’t stand to hold that hand right now and looks away while I try to cover it with one of those horrible Sally Hansen stick-on nails, which is an adventure in fake ladyness in itself.

Lord almighty.  I am ready to just have my arms cut off and replaced with robot arms now.

Unnecessary.

Check out this motherfucker of all ATMs.

Wanna see this sombitch in action?  There’s a fucking VIDEO in which some Beverly Hills assholes talk about why–or something that…you know what? Sorry.  I am just getting used to living in a world where cupcakes come out of a machine if the cupcake store is not open and you forgot to buy confectioner’s sugar for frosting.  I couldn’t actually pay attention to the words being said in the video.

Holy big bad diabetes!  We’re all gonna die and it’s gonna taste unreal.

Now eat your potatoes.

Therapy is weird. It’s just WEIRD. To quote Stephanie, “It’s such a weird thing to confess all these things to a stranger and cry in front of them and then there’s a cash transaction!”  And really, there’s no other way to put it.  We sat down and made all these agreements about money and health insurance and missed appointment charges and overhead, and then I had to sign a thing saying I understood that if she thought I was going to kill someone she had the right to tell the cops or whatever, and then I had to agree that I’d pay her and shit.  Then we got down to biznass.  Then time was up, and it was like, Well, bye.  No hug or anything!

Yesterday was my second visit to Our Lady of Psychotherapy’s tiny alcove office, and during this visit she pretty much only wanted to know about my relationship with The Pants.  She wants to establish my current environment and what’s working/not working, but I sat there thinking I hope she knows I’ve got a whoooole bag of shit with her name on it rolling around in here.  Anyway.  She wanted to talk about all of our relationship problems that have ever possibly existed, and it was hard for me not to start cracking up and tell her about the fact that things are just DIFFERENT once you’ve both just started blasting each other with farts.  Different good, but also different like something’s gone missing after you’ve marinated your boyfriend in your gas.  I find myself sometimes nostalgic about the days when we would pretend we never farted.  But there is also something really comforting about it.  Aaaaand there’s also something really disgusting about it.  Like the other night when I farted at the dinner table.  I couldn’t believe I had let myself go that far.  I’m sitting there eating potatoes and I lean over and just rip a loud one.  And the response was kind of like, Wow, that was really horrifyingly disgusting.  Now eat your potatoes.

Anyway.  I did NOT talk to my therapist about farting.

She asked me why I don’t write anymore and I didn’t know what to say, but really it comes down to this: If I write something, and it sucks, I might die.  Really!  I might!  Because I would never be happy living a life without writing, without writing that was good and made some kind of a difference, no matter how small, in a single solitary person.  But there is a very large chance that I could write something and it could just suck balls all the way to the sewers in the racist part of Hell and back, suck worse than anything I’ve ever read that sucks, and that realization would probably kill me.  Because:

No one can advise or help you — no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

–Rainer Maria Rilke, 17 February 1903

I would have to die if I were forbidden to write, and the forbidder would be myself, so bad work would be, for me, suicide.

The other possibility would be that I wrote some kind of really horrible popcorn drivel, and a whole lot of stupid people loved it.  Then I’d be in the same boat on a river of poop because I hate stupid people and I know popcorn drivel when I see it and I’d really rather not add any to the canon.  Everybody would be like “oohhhhh it’s goooood…” but they’d look off to the left when they said it and wouldn’t make eye contact and MTV Books would print copies of it that came with a CD soundtrack taped in the back and the characters would just be Polaroid representations of random people I’ve seen on the street, the main character would be a spiced up representation of myself, including addictions to all the drugs I’m too scared to take and a better set of tits and nicer teeth.  God, that would be awful.  I’d be invited to writing studios to give people my insights on writing and characters and place and mood, I’d be invited to bookstores to read sections of my book to a small gathering of family and friends and whatever other weirdos read about it in the local paper and thought it might be a good way for a random weirdo to spend an evening in the middle of January.  Photos of the event would make it look like there were a lot more people there than there actually were.  Dipshits on Amazon who can barely be bothered to spell their own name or their state correctly will rave about how it’s the best book they’ve ever bought on clearance at an Urban Outfitters before.

Then there’s this: what if the answer is No, you would not die if you were forbidden to write.  Well, then I’d just want to die out of sheer boredom with myself.  There’s got to be more to my existence than this.

The fears about my capacity to produce a horrible novel are completely valid and feasible and so are my fears about what would happen with that horrible novel.  Know how I know?  Well, I’ll tell you.

There’s this person, who went to my undergrad and wrote two completely popcorny and Polaroidy novels, and has ever since been lauded as a literary success in certain circles (ahem, Amazon, ahem, undergrad university fiction department) because she’s been, to a degree, a financial success due to her literary efforts.  Now she spends her days blogging about writing and about how haaard it is and about how people just love her ideas and her agent is all about publishing more…and bunches of tips on “how to be a writer” that they used to stuff our heads with in undergrad and at that horrible writing studio where I worked, how to stay focused!  Software for staying organized!  Drink coffee!  Fun writing exercises and prompts!  WRITER STEREOTYPES!  Hahah you know how us writers love our coffee and Tazo teas and chocolate and wine!  Oh I just never could have written this shitty book I’ve worked on for a million years without my Godiva samplers?  Amirite, other writers?!?!

#2 on the list of things that bug the hell out of me has got to be writers talking about writing.  SHUDDER.  Nothing else makes me want to beat my head against the desk as much as this does.  And that’s exactly what I did after I went home the night I had to make a name card to put on a table where this particular writer would sit the next morning in the middle of the studio where I worked to talk to other writers about writing.  I banged my head against the table until I felt better.

On this blog, we’ve got that self-designated musical-definition label thing I HATE, “I’m a punk rock girl from the Midwest.”  So, check.  Who the fuck told you you were “punk rock”?  Who told you that you were “indie rock”?  Who goes around saying these kinds of things?  Or did you just decide for yourself that, based on your hair color and style of dress, you’re This Type of Person?  Sweet Jesus, on the list of things that bug the hell out of me, this has got to be #4 or 5.

Here’s what the Amazon crowd has to say:

This was one cool book. I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone is probably on of the most down-to-earth books I have ever read. It isn’t full of fairytales and other. Stephanie did a great job of making the book very realistic. The plot was also great, sometimes something would happen that I never suspected but then there were times when something would happen that I knew was going to happen. Which in some books I don’t’ like figuring out what is going to happen but I didn’t mind it at all in this book. The characters in this book were stupendous; they all had their flaws, which is great because in life everyone has flaws. I also enjoyed how big of a part music plays in the story. Which is probably because I am a big fan of rock but I think every one who reads this book will be able to envision Emily rocking out on the stage, like I did. I also introduced to some great rock bands while reading the wonderful story. I recommend this book to every teen out there, especially if you like listening to rock bands. Also some adults might enjoy the story too.

I don’t even know where to begin. Nothing I could say would do this book justice. It’s one of the most raw, heartbreaking, and touching novels I’ve read. Ever. Yikes. The thing I admire the most is that I think the author really wrote from her heart. You can tell just by the way the story is told that she cared deeply about what she was writing about which is the key to any good book; an author who is connected to her story. What’s amazing is that this is Stephanie Kuehnert’s first novel. How someone can write something this fantastic on her first attempt in the published world is…can I use the word amazing again? The characters are deep, detailed, and flawed.

For Emily Black, music is everything. It’s what made her parents fall in love way back when. It’s what her mother Louisa was following when she left baby Emily. It’s what Emily has to stay in control of her life. Music draws her from her dreary life in Carlisle, Wisconsin to River’s Edge, an abandoned warehouse where rock bands play. River’s Edge is where Emily got her fill of sex, drinking, and rock `n’ roll, and where her dreams of being a punk rock goddess began. So she and her best friend Regan form a punk band named She Laughs, and Emily can’t help but hope that by playing music, she’ll bring her mother home.
Soon, her band is swept up in the dangerous world of rock music. Her band has a lot of talent, but so many ups and downs in Emily’s life lead her away from the music. There are the bad boyfriends, the death of her grandparents, the involvement with drugs and self-medication, and a year wasted searching for her mother. But eventually Emily finds her way back on track, and her friends are still waiting for her to come back and pick up her guitar. And so she does, because music is all she has.

And just to cleanse your palate and offer some perspective, here’s what the Goodreads crowd has on their minds:

“Not since high school dating have I felt so tricked and empty. The main character combines the collective whining powers of Twilight’s Bella and My So-Called Life’s Angela…..and then proceeds to try and trick the reader into believing it’s “punk”, when really, it’s a V.C. Andrews novel minus the incest (and the plot suffers because of that glaring omission, by the way.) I was suckered in by the Joey Ramone name drop, the Sleater-Kinney lyrical reference, the Doc Martens on the book cover. I admit it. I chose the glittery vampire, and I’m ashamed of it. Since I couldn’t find a hair shirt and kneeling on lentils is just a waste of good legumes, I read it all the way to the end, periodically stopping to shove a spork into my ear in hopes of creating the brain damage necessary to enjoy the “plot twists” and reminding myself to never ever stop submitting my own writing because, hey, if she can get a book deal, anyone can. So in that sense, it did serve a purpose, as motivation, but it also was penitential, because I was, in fact, paying for the sin of choosing the book based on its alleged “hipness” (which, like long haired boys in high school…….I never learned my lesson from.)
Oh plot, you ask? Only that a girl who’s been abandoned by her mom in the middle of bumfuck, Midwest becomes the biggest punk band since Nirvana, gets on the cover of Rolling Stone, survives domestic abuse and drug addiction, discovers a ZOMG FUCKING DARK RAPE SECRET that means her mom didn’t abandon her, she left to protect her! ……a cross-country motel search ensues. Oh, and she reunites with the long-lost mom who’s been gone her whole life in the middle of Penn Station. Of course she does. Did I mention her “punk band” is called “She Laughs”? Oh. Yeah. There was probably a reason I forgot to mention that.
“Favorite” bit of dialogue: (I would like to remind you that the author would like us to believe this is a street punk talking, by the way)
“His brilliant aquamarine mohawk….” I will spare you the rest. Anyone who has ever in their life met a punk knows that those words can’t, don’t and shouldn’t ever happen together.

I actually relate to Joey Ramone more after reading this book… he suffered through cancer, I suffered through this book.

So. So bad. Like, I want to burn it in trashcan bad.

terrible. rang completely untrue and cliche. i wanted to like it – i grew up in a shitty little wisconsin town close to the illinois border and went to punk shows in rural vfw halls and crap run-down buildings, just like the main character, but i really didn’t see anything authentic, realistic or even very likable about this book. really bad writing. so thinly-veiled (i love the diatribe about why the main character is living in the burbs, all defensive and “but the train is so close!” – and then you read in the author’s extensive bio that she lives in the chicago suburbs, too! you don’t say). the thank-you chapter is so barfily self-congratulatory. makes me angry that i didn’t go get an MFA, because apparently you can get published through connections alone.

OK.  Props for use of the not-word “barfily.”  Why does it make me feel so much better to read these negative reviews?  Well, partially because they’re so well written and witty when compared to positive reviews.  Though it’s not hard to outdo a review that’s more like a quick recap of all of the events and then a statement about how it “totally resonates with me!” because I totally went to high school and shit.

I guess it makes me feel better because I know there will always be people there who aren’t afraid to call me on my shit.  I can see how someone who attended the same fiction writing program I did would have a hard time believing any negative reviews.  The way it worked there was you basically pay them money and they fill your butthole with smoke and encourage you do to your MFA there so they can have more money and fill your butthole with more smoke.  Then you write some smoked-out manuscript and they have the writer-in-residence (ahem, Irvine Welsh, who also lent his brief blurb to this stunning piece of steaming turd written by the son of the professor emerita of the program) and it gets picked up by MTV Books and people tell you it’s crap and you’re like–wait, I think you’re mistaken.  Everyone else likes it.

I won’t do that.  I find it extremely easy to believe every negative thing people say about me and let it stop me from doing things.  Ha!

Oh, anyway.  I fear sometimes when I write a sentence that I’ll end up like the above described wang princess: lost in shit and in love with myself, thanking every writer who ever visited my school as a personal savior in my acknowledgements, and basically being the figurehead of a pile of crap that I will represent for the rest of my life.  And then I stop writing.

If you want to get down to it, there’s also this character, who, if  you’ll remember, I got into a discussion with attempted to get into a discussion with on a blog post she wrote.  You probably remember the idiotic shit that ensued to cover up the fact that her “writing” is really just verbal diarrhea meant to make her look like a Certain Type of Chick and entertain that part of one’s brain that responds well to stereotypes (if you don’t remember, it’s here and here).  This person came back into my attention today when she was suggested as a friend I might want to get to know on Facebook, because of our mutual friendships.  I clicked on her page and lo and behold, it appears that my criticism was one of the most important events in her entire life.  She’s referred to it on her Timeline!!!  Behold:

I write profanity laced articles about funny things. Once, this resulted in someone writing a number of “hate blogs” about me.

I wrote “a number” (two, if you’re counting, now 3?) of blogs discussing the poor quality of writing that hides behind a stereotype and reports the attitudes and opinions that the stereotype is supposed to represent.  I wrote about how it’s a fucking sham, and part of what bothers me about it is that there are people who toooooootally buy into that sham, and just eat that bullshit up. There are people out there who think this self-obsessed dummy is a good writer.  Because all she does is sit there and type cutesy bullshit all day about indie rock and current events and thinks it’s edgy for a girl to cuss (hence her specifically calling your attention to the “profanity laced” side of her writing repertoire).  And in the end, she’s a total fucking pussy when it comes to having a conversation about her work, or standing up for what she writes, and can only engage in a dialogue if she’s represented as the victim (as evidenced by the above Life Event, and her frantic Twitter feed on the day of my comments, the fact that my comments are worthy enough to define her experience in this particular blogging job speaks volumes to me).  “Hate blogs.”  Honey, you ain’t nothin til you’re hate blogged.  And I’m afraid what you got was just the tip of an Annoyed Blog.  (Yeah, just the tip.)  Wait a tick….all of this kind of begs the question: are my words really that powerful?

It’s people like Suburban Punk Queen and Indienet Pussy Blogger that make me just never want to pick up a pen or type anything ever again.  Someone asked me why the worst writers are always the most prolific, and I said it’s because they have no idea of the darkness of self-doubt, they’re too stupid to imagine that what they’ve produced is the worst thing anyone could imagine, is actually detrimental to the craft, to the reader, to the world at large. They think themselves a great contribution to the planet, instead of what they really are: white noise in stereo reverberating off the metal walls of the fucking flaming trashcan.  What more people need is mental illness, crippling self-doubt, a tsunami of fear each time they even think about expressing any stupid little thought that farts through their brain.  That would do it.

And what I need is way more bravery, way less worry about being as completely ass crappy as my contemporaries.  So does that come in a pill or what?

Anyway, now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about some different kinds of shit, shall we?

The women who use this bathroom are terrible.

I should know, because I’m forced to use it after they leave.  Based on the aftermath I have seen in the bathroom on this floor, the following is what women are doing in there:

1. Removing tampons and swinging them around by the string, splattering threads of menstrual mucus all over the walls of the stalls.

2. Taking giant shits, standing up, walking away (no flush attempt).

3. Using the toilet, flushing, then turning around and shaking their heads vigorously over the toilet seat, covering it with long, loose hairs.

4. Squatting to piss and practicing hula hooping techniques in the process.

5. Inserting tampon, dropping wrapper and applicator on the floor, walking away.

6. Removing completely soiled and soaked pad and leaving it on the top of the toilet paper dispenser, at exact nose-level with the next unfortunate person to use that toilet (That next unfortunate person happened to be me.).

7. Removing sandals and washing each foot, one at a time, in the sink (Witnessed this.).

8. Leaning over the sink to hoark a giant wad of phlegm, walking away without so much as an attempt to rinse it away (Witnessed this, too.).

9. Playing mischievous cat games with the toilet paper, i.e., unrolling stacks of it onto the floor and leaving it there.

10. Sleeping. We got an email the other day that there would be regular hourly “bathroom checks” on this floor because it’s become socially acceptable between these twats to go into the stall, lock the door, sit on the toilet without dropping pants and SLEEPING.

11. The kicker: somehow they are sharting all over the wall.  Sharting.  All over. The. Wall.

How do they do it?  I don’t know.  I DON’T KNOW.  But I have some photographic evidence for you. BEHOLD:

Really brings new meaning to the word "overflow," huh?

This monstrosity of menstruation occurred within a few hours.  Only a few hours–I KNOW!  It seems impossible that a few women could bleed that much!  I guess you could attribute part of it to the fact that there seems to be a “favorite stall” in the bathroom, the first one on the far right.  I don’t know why it’s a favorite stall, but in an otherwise empty bathroom, it’s the only one that’s always occupied.  So this is where all the period garbage ends up.  This is where it overflows in a matter of hours.  (Someone should really do some kind of scientific study on why everyone wants to bleed in that particular stall.  Someone who is not me.)

Sure, just wipe your hands there. No one will ever know.

Aaaaand here we have an example of period blood smear that’s been on the lower wall of the first stall on the right for about as long as I can remember.  I bet that dirty bitch goes back in there from time to time to visit with it.  Maybe it tells fortunes? Maybe it’s just fucking gross.  Probably it’s just fucking gross.

Well, here’s an example of a wall shart:

This is to the right of the toilet. How did it get there?!?!

And THIS is the horror that awaited me as I was writing this very post and attaching these very pictures, when I had to stop for a moment and go pee.  THIS is what was staring back at me when I went into the stalls of which I write:

Hon, you missed.

So uhh, this is what I do when I get bored at work.  I become a bathroom ethnographer.  And I have concluded in this field report that WOMEN ARE FUCKING FILTHY.

I was going to talk about a chocolaty caramel-y cupcake I made last weekend, but upon further consideration, I think I’ll find another time to post pictures of that.

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November 10, 2011 · 6:14 pm

Laundromat of Souls

I’m in a laundromat right now.  So I can say for certain that Way #1 to get rid of lewd stares, nasty comments, tailing, and general feelings of uneasiness from creepy men on the streets and in various establishments is: push out a hacking, disgustingly sick-sounding cough, OR rip a giant fart.  I can usually produce a cough more reliably than a good fart, but sometimes I manage a twofer which is actually a foolproof way to get a weirdo to leave you alone and stop following you and talking about all the things he and his 4-foot 5-inch frame are gonna do to you, giiiiirl.

This morning I met this awful girl, and the moment she walked up to our group to say hi to the person in the group she knew, I got this nasty feeling like not only did I not want to meet her, and hope that she didn’t reach out and introduce herself, but I also wanted to get as far away from her as possible in that very moment and never see her again.  For almost no reason whatsoever!  I mean, she hadn’t even had a chance to DO anything stupid, she just walked toward us and my entire being went ARRRRGGHHHHBLERRRF!

Her name is Sally.  She has straight blonde Barbie hair down to her shoulder blades.  She was wearing black sunglasses and just about enough foundation and powder to make her face look like an art experiment or a crime scene that had been thoroughly dusted for the rapist’s prints.  Her voice was crusty and deep like she’d heard someone make fun of a deep voice once and and just re-created it constantly to be funny, but it wasn’t funny anymore!  Not to me, anyway!  She was over-layered in leggings, some kind of stocking that went over her ankles, ankle boots with snappies and clips all over them, a skirt, a long shirt, a coat, a hooded thing under the coat, a scarf, and fucking black leather bike gloves.  When she reached out to shake my hand, “HIIIIII I’m SAAAAALLYYY,” her tone condescending somehow, quickly looking away from me and to the next person in the middle of my introduction of MYSELF, I cringed because I had to touch her bike-gloved hand.  And I thought, “Well, of COURSE you’re wearing a bike glove you don’t need to be wearing.  Fuckhead.”

I found out she’s this art student from the most expensive and notoriously snobby art school in this city, a school this city is just about known for.  I’ve never met anyone from that school that I’ve been able to stand for more than two seconds, who hasn’t managed to make my skin crawl with their thick stink of pretention.  I mean, there’s this guy, who I ripped to shreds in the comments because I couldn’t fucking STAND that there are people in the world who get paid to regurgitate the pile of steaming shit this guy’s spraying (comments have since been deleted, THANKS INTERNET POLICE).  Then there’s this guy who read a story I published and proclaimed it shitty and proceeded to try to hit on me by telling me I owed him a meet-up since he was pretty sure it was based on his life, then changed his story and called me an idiot and reminded me the story was crappy, all because I called him on his ass crap.  Now we’ve got fucking Deep Throat Sally who, I’ve heard, submitted as her master’s thesis an art installation that was only 8 screens lined up, the same girl getting fucked in different pornographic ways on each.  That’s fucking art.  No, really, it’s fucking, and it’s also art, WHATEVER YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND BECAUSE IT’S SO VISCERAL.  We’re 0 for 3, shitty art school.  Things aren’t looking too good for you.

I’m totally over the fact that people pay any fucking attention to these ass fucks.  Author dude gets a STUPID amount of pussy.  I mean, every time I turn around, some chick I know is just slobbering out her hoo-ha, trying to get in his bed.  And Deep Throat is one of those girls that nobody seems to like and everybody says that nobody likes but their excuse for paying ANY attention to anything that comes farting out of her stupid face is “Yo, you don’t want to tell that girl you don’t like her, she is fucking CRAZY, man.”

Let’s remember, for a moment, that people usually think a woman is crazy if she talks, at all, about anything.  So naturally Deep Throat, who cannot shut her stupid mouth about how “visceral” things are, naturally fits that category, possibly through no fault of her own.  But I wish we lived in a world where people would fucking be honest with these stupid assholes.  Stop fucking them and stop listening to their fucking bullshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

Walt Dick-me

I stayed home on Saturday night and heated up the ol’ TV TUBE because I was behind on about a million years of housework.  How lame is that?  Anyway, I have been staying over with The Pants for just about three weeks so every time I’ve dropped by my place I’ve just dumped shit on the couch or the floor, or just opened the front door for long enough to toss stuff inside.  Umbrellas, jackets, half-slips, bags of Cherry Sours.  It was time for a major cleanup.

So I turn on the TV and holler like my neighbor does when there’s some kind of sports on TV, because TBS is showing Disney’s Beauty and the Fucking Beast!  YES.  This delights me to no end because I only watched it about 60 million times as a kid so I know every word and distinctly remember every single cell of animation.  So I’m running around vacuuming the drapes and spreading potpourri in the drawers and other stuff that fancy ladies do, and I’m singing along to the chirpy giggle-pated Disney melodies.  Then I’m stricken by a very Adult Thought.

Okay, know how all the ladies in town are all about Gaston, and he’s clearly a piece of crap on his inside parts, where the feelings are?  Imagine how jealous they were after the horrendous, ferocious Beast gets turned into a hot dude?  Because he hasn’t been a normal dude for a long time, he’s been basically a gigantic wolf/lion/dog man.  Superhuman strength and all that.  And judging by the fact that he can stand immediately after his transformation, his muscles haven’t atrophied or been harmed in any other way during his human-to beast-back to human metamorphosis.  So he’s probably got some pretty good strength and muscle tone, amirite?

Look, what I’m getting at here is how awesome it must have been to get your bones jumped by a supermodel who was very recently a full-time werewolf.  Just think about it for a few minutes.  If you need a Kleenex or two to ball up under your bathroom area, go and get them now.  I’ll wait.

Man.  Belle really got the nice end of the deal.  Hot beast on-all-fours lovin’ with Disney’s version of Alcide from True Blood, and a whole library of her own.  The kind with rolling ladders.  GIVEN TO HER.  Like, this is your library.  One can only hope that the royal collection policy from back in the day included some good YA and that Belle didn’t pay for the library in beastly urinary tract infections.

Could I trouble you for a more accurate description of a stillbirth?

When I was in college I had this creative writing class with a girl who was like Narcissus when it came to her own writing.  She was pretty much convinced it was the greatest poetry anyone had ever written and she COULD NOT BELIEVE it came out of her.  Here’s how the class went: either 3 poems or 1 short story were passed around to the class every week.  The next week, we’d all be ready with positive feedback, as well as any constructive criticism we had for the story/poem.  So we’d go around the room and everyone would talk about what they liked (which was sometimes so painful, “I really loved the cover page you made for this!  It’s so SNAZZY!  Do you use Corel WordPerfect?”).  Then we’d go around the room and everyone would pretend that they didn’t have anything negative to say about a short story called “The Pool” or “The Fountain” or “The Pool by the Fountain” that basically consisted only of a girl who died of cancer and a guy who vowed to never marry another person…you know, the kind of story Boyz II Men would write if they just put their lyrics into paragraphs instead of stanzas.  So the instructor would start us off on that part every week by offering some really polite criticism that could be taken or left and usually ended with “didn’t work for me but maybe it worked for someone else.”  Then we’d all meekly take turns with our gentle, easily ignored, well-masked non-criticisms.

So about halfway through the course, the cellar doors got blown way the fuck off this little organization and the shit pretty much hit the fan when this girl brought in her poetry.  She had made it clear that she’d been writing poetry for a really long time and reading e.e. cummings pretty much all her life and so she was actually a PRETTY good poet so if we could just skip to the compliments part, please.  She gives us the customary reading aloud of her work, the week after it had been given to us to take home.  Then she sat there almost pooping her pants with excitement, wriggling in her seat, pushing her hair behind her ears compulsively, clicking her pen, waiting in dire ecstasy for each next polite little gem of attention to trickle out of someone’s mouth.

As for the poetry, it wasn’t that good.  It just wasn’t.  The ones that weren’t straight-up parodies on the cummings style were just failed attempts at really deep, aching love poetry that just swirled down the toilet of cheesiness the moment she brought her boyfriend into them.  That’s because her boyfriend was this wheezing, zit-encrusted sack of dung who delivered pizzas for Domino’s and she chronicled their love affair by making silly little plays on words and cutesy references to him as her “knight with white pizza boxes.”  I mean, the poems were just hilariously bad.  And it was sad because I think if she hadn’t taken herself so assfucking seriously, they could have been really good.  Fuck yeah, write a poem about a guy who delivers Domino’s pizza and has zits.  I’d read the hell out of that.  But there was something about it, her demand to be placed instantly on the level of Walt Whitman & Co., that was just really off-putting.  It all stunk of little effort and great expectations.

(I also wrote some really horrible shit in that class.  Partially because I was also taking myself very seriously, and I thought I was hot shit because I wasn’t as bad as Narcissa, Queen of Pizza.  So on my week I submitted a story I’d written in 3 hours, a fact I thought was a testament to my excellent ability as a writer, in the week before I’d started my period, when I was experiencing some of the weepiest, whiniest, most sentimental pre-menstrual syndrome I’ve ever experienced in my life.  Anyway, my story was about this girl who got knocked up by her boyfriend and her mother wanted to force her to have an abortion and she wouldn’t, so she ran away (waaaaah!) and hid from her evil mother, and her mother made her think her boyfriend didn’t love her anymore (aaaaaaaagh!) and then he came to rescue her and then she gave birth to a stillborn and they hugged it and later got married.  The End.  I would like to say I have never written anything that crappy again—as I deserve to be punched in both eyes for making people read that schlarbage*).

So after the initial round of friendly “I like the, ummm….title!” comments, during which everyone took what you were going to say so you didn’t want to puss out and be like “Oh I agree with everything that’s been said, ” we started in on the negative.  Nobody really needed a prompt, but we got one from the instructor.  I don’t have the copies of this girl’s poems (which I kept because I kept everyone’s work because I keep everything), but I remember that one from that week went something like this:

I am

in the garden

r-e-s-t-r-i-n-g-i-n-g

my mother’s purple necklace

that she gave

to me

…and so forth, and so on.  So the instructor was like, “I just don’t really feel like you’re using your own voice, and that’s a shame because you have such a strong voice,” and of the other poem, which was the famous pizza delivery lover one, she said “It just feels at the end of the poem like it’s more of a limerick.”  To Narcissa’s horror, people agreed with this sentiment.  That it seemed like a cutesy little fart about a relationship that would probably better fit in a prime time sitcom.  Of course, she told us why every last one of us was wrong for feeling the way we did.  She basically said we just didn’t get good poetry.  It was just so far over our heads, we couldn’t understand a word of it.  Her poetry was going to stay that way and that was THAT.  And the next week she emailed us all a poem she’d written about our criticism, a meta-poem, which basically re-iterated everything she’d spat at us in class that day, but this time, it rhymed!  Also, she made a point to say something truly crappy to each of us on our review day, just because.  (On my big day, she said “And I don’t know if anyone’s bothered to like, tell you this?  Or if you even bothered to do any research?  But your description of a dead baby is way off.  That is SO NOT what a dead baby looks like.  My mom’s had two stillbirths, so I know about this.”)  So that was the end of the polite orchestration.

Maybe that was for the better, as it was my last taste of honest criticism.  I went on to get a writing degree at an arts school where I hated everyone (save 1 or 2 women) and just about broke my teeth from grinding them every single day, surrounded by people who were just like Narcissa Princess of Pizza in that they thought they were great, their parents thought they were great, and then they came to school every day at this open enrollment arts institution and they were told, yes, in fact, you are great, possibly even the greatest that ever lived.  So they’d just walk around shitting out of their mouths and writing down every goddamn thought that ever crossed their minds and you’d have to sit in a class and listen to them being filled with sweet-smelling smoke, purchased with tuition dollars and pumped right up their fancy little b-holes.  It was during this time of my life that I came to be really uncomfortable with praise.  There were absolute clowns in my classes who were just fallen all over and assured that they were THE shit.  Like this guy Patrick: he couldn’t be bothered to spell his name correctly, and wrote “paTRtiCk” in pen on the tops of all of his short stories.  He complained about things like how he’d been telling his mom all morning that he was going to puke, and she kept saying he wasn’t going to puke, and then he PUKED!  So the teacher would nod politely and then tell him how impressed she was with his work (which was about a girl who got cancer so her boyfriend brought her a stuffed cat and his mom threw it at him, the end), then she’d tell all the rest of us how much she loved our work.  I mean, how could anyone trust that logic?

I started to really want someone to rip into me.  I felt like I was ready for it.  Tell  me I’m crap.  Tell me what doesn’t work.  Tell me who I’m trying to be when I write this!  Make me find my voice!  THROW THE STUFFED CAT AT ME FOR CHRISSAKES.

Where was I going with all this?  Oh yes.

I mentioned my own idiocy in commenting on a blog post last week, which I knew was a bad idea because the post was written in this glib, flippant tone, a tone that just suggested to me that this person didn’t want to discuss, just be agreed with.  It was a tone I should have recognized since I’ve read so many of Narcissa Pizza Princess’s poems!  JUST NOD AND THINK I’M COOL FOR THE WORDS I SAY GODDAMMIT.  But I offered my two cents, which were that marriages that end are not all failures, and that when we’re sad about things that happen to others, it usually means we’re sad about something we fear for ourselves.  That’s all.  So my reply spiraled into, I think, the writer taking offense with me even bothering to suggest that, so she followed up with this post, which was meant, I think, to express that you’re a dummy if you think she gives a shit about anything that comes out of her own head:

I didn’t think it’d be necessary to say this but here it goes… Sometimes, when I write about something, it’s because it’s a noteworthy occurrence. This doesn’t mean I necessarily care about the item at hand.

That annoyed me.  Sorry to bother you by prompting a discussion on your post!  I didn’t realize you didn’t give a shit.  Just tell me that, then!  In the comments!  Where I’m trying to talk to you!  “Oh, actually? This was all some crap I wrote but don’t really, like, CARE about.”  Why start a whole new dramatic post and tell the wooorld?  Then I looked over the rest of the site.  I saw a lot of that thing I don’t like, that thing my old supervisor Turdburger used to do: he’d say things like “Well I’m rockabilly so I like this and that” or “I’m rockabilly so I’m totally not into that.”  He’d call himself out as part of a group and tell you to your face that his personal style, which he’d absconded from masses of other people with the exact same personal style, dictated his choices in music, movies, cell phone carrier, and every other goddamn thing you could possibly think of.  So here I saw a lot of the same thing: indie this, indie that, hipster, indie, hipster blerrrrrrf.  Band name, music style, band name band name band name, music style.  One of the tags for the post was even “unpopular opinions in indie,” which is pointless because what does “indie” have to do with anything?  Nothing!  It’ s a buzz word.  There’s also lots of self deprecation (“I’m a slut!”), and lots of talk about how much drinking, etc. the writer does.  Oddly enough, the exact same shit I used to write back when I was 3 years younger and single and just drinking and fucking around and writing about it in grand detail just to titillate and tease and attract and push the envelope and be this carefree, don’t-give-a-fuck, hardcore, badass version of myself that I now realize probably annoyed the bejeezus out of a lot of people.  I mean, to the letter I wrote this stuff.  (Except the “I don’t actually care about what I write about” part.)

Now I could probably write a paper about the phenomenon that is Young People Who Feel The Need To Discuss Their Use Of Alcohol and Sexual Experiences, Completely Unprompted By Others.  And I’d be the first one to submit data to my own study: if you could read my old blog and somehow not know my favorite kind of beer and how much vodka I’d consumed on a particular night, and how badass that made me, woo doggies, you must not have read my blog.  You must have just looked at all the pitchers of me in tight clothes!

Are we all destined to be forced to watch copies of our younger selves flap around in the same ways we did?  In five years, will I read something like this that someone else has written and be like, “Oh, you stupid twat.”  It’s like getting a Delia’s catalog when you’re 35, I’m sure.  What the hell is all of this polyester crap and why did I ever buy it?

Also, on another note, if there’s one thing I can’t stand more than people who label themselves, it’s librarians who label themselves.  I don’t know how many times I’ve seen “punk rock librarian” or “super nerd librarian” or “hot librarian” or “snarky librarian” blah blah blah used as a personal description for speakers in conference flyers, About Me’s on professional blogs, or every fucking where else some younger generation dipshit librarian is told to describe him/herself.  Then you meet these people who fancy themselves the hot one that everybody wants to fuck and also have intellectual conversations with, and they have mustaches and wear Twilight t-shirts with pit stains and kilts (for the irony, not for the heritage) and they stay at home every night petting their cats and blogging about the ice cream they made and how it was the bomb.  And because they are a stark contrast to the older generation of librarians, who have mustaches and wear sweaters with apples and schoolhouses and candy appliques and stay at home every night petting their cats and reading, they are suddenly, immediately cool, and they christen themselves “Indie Librarian.”

There’s this one librarian who refers to herself as “punk rock,” and she’s quoted on just about every librarian’s blog, and she’s totally smart and knows what she’s doing, but what rubs me the wrong way is that she tries to come off like she’s Iggy fucking Pop or something.  Then I met her once in the real-worldosphere, outside of the blogosphere, and she’s fucking bald and 6000 pounds and wearing a pilled, saggy dress shirt with a scooped front and snowflakes embroidered around the waist (in March), and it goes so low in the front that one of her wide, flat tits is hanging out of it.  She was just this big slob who spent more time writing about the image she wanted you to have of her than she did just being her whip-smart fucking self.

Oh, it’s just a mirror image of real life, isn’t it?  If  someone cannot stop talking about how cool and different they are, they’re just pissing themselves inside, just all over their insides, because they’re boring even their own brain.  And it just goes to show you that you should not trust an internet presence, especially when a person has a lot of things to write about what they’re like and what they think of themselves.**

*schlock + garbage

**Case in point: I am a cyborg.

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November 4, 2011 · 1:13 pm

Back Door Has Fisis Behind It

I’m annoyed by burlesque.  I’m annoyed by the shellacked, rubberized, pink, squishy, edge-of-raunch, hand-over-mouth-like-Bettie-Davis burlesque.  My sister used to say it’s just “stripping for fat girls.”  And that’s  pretty much what it is!  If you’re too chubby to be objectified by men in the more-nekkid way, you might as well strap on some vintage underwear and embrace the good old-fashioned way, when women with bigger butts and wider hips were the norm.

Nothing against fat girls or sexy vintage underwear.  That’s cool.  I personally have a gigantic 60’s ass.  And even in the 60’s they would have thought it was  a big ass, probably.  They would have said “She’s a lobster…all the meat’s in the tail!  Hot-cha cha cha chaaaaa!”

I do have a problem with burlesque girls looking at chicks who dance at the Admiral Club or Diamond City and go “Ewww what a whore.”  It’s all the same thing.  Maybe you’re covered up about 27% more than she is at the end of the night, and you and your burlesque troupe friends have to split the door price instead of getting your own tips, but come on.  It’s all just dancing around in panties, isn’t it?  And for some reason, the girls who do burlesque just always happen to get on my very last goddamn nerve.  It’s an annoyance that’s separate from my hatred of burlesque, they’re a dipshit first, an old-timey stripper second.  I just can’t say I’m surprised when some bitch that has annoyed me to no end for all the time I’ve known her tosses out there “Oh, here’s a flier for my burlesque troupe, we’re doing a show this Friday night.”  You don’t say.

Halloween is the day when girls wear skanked-out lycra straps over their nipples and call it a costume.  Burlesque is the nonstop Halloween for the jiggly-fleshed girl, because “It’s not skanky because it’s art, okay?”

I think it’s really exciting and interesting. It seems (with) this revival, women are embracing this style and want to have fun with it and they want to embrace their inner bombshell and get really..you know  have fun with dressing up and feeling their own ..like..confidence and sexual power.  They are seeing a different version of sexy other than a blonde bikini babe, tan, and natural running down a beach in slow motion.  You know, this is a different kind of sexy and I think there is a lot of women who can relate to this style. . .”–Dita Von Teese, aka Heather Renee Sweet, to Katie Couric, who you know does not give a shit.

ick.

Oh, tell it to the fucking Pussycat Dolls.

Anyway.  I had this boss once when I worked in retail who was a tooootal cocksucker.  No, really, she sucked a lot of cock.  And it was weird that she did that because she also hung out around groups of boys and did the whole “Hey, hey dudes: I’m a lesbian.  What do you think of that?  Does that turn you on, that I’m a lesbian?  Because I’m SUCH a lesbian.  WINK WINK!”  Meanwhile, her girlfriend, a Filipino art student who was like 6 years younger, stayed at home all day babysitting her son for her.  I always felt sorry for that girl, but not too sorry, because hey, you chose to do that to yourself.  I had a friend who called my fake lesbian boss the Faux Lesbeaux, which, over time, translated itself into the name everyone used for her eventually: the Flezboss.

This woman was stupid.  I’d wager she still is.

The Puma store where I worked had a back alley, where The Homeless liked to congregate at night.  This alley had a dumpster that was strategically placed to hide the back door from street view.  There, in the shadow of the dumpster, The Homeless would unleash their bowels.  It just so happened to be right in front of our back door.  So, the Flezboss created a Support Ticket! to have someone come clean the alley.  On it, she wrote, in her cutesy “Aren’t I just a little airhead? Hee hee hee!” way, “Back door has fisis behind it.”  Fisis.  Because in her mind, it’s cute when you spell things majorly wrong.  She then took that piece of paper around to everyone and said “Look!  Look how silly and stupid I am!!!  Is this how you spell feces?  Hey, does anyone know how to spell feces?  Teehee!”

She pretty much hated women, but her lezzy cover-up served to dispel that rumor, because “I love women!  They’re totally hot and they turn me on and I go down on them.  Does that, uhhh…do anything for you??”  She constantly made bitchy comments under her breath about women customers or coworkers.  If a male visitor, customer, or coworker talked to anyone but her, she squeezed herself into the conversation, flipping her hair and batting her eyelashes and mentioning her sexual orientation as casually as possible.  Her only attempts to socialize or connect with her female coworkers was to feign idiocy over her menstrual cycle every month.  She’d announce that she had to go to the bathroom because of “Girl issues!”  She’d ask us for tampons, all the while shoving the tampons she’d bought that morning deeper into her purse so we wouldn’t see them.  It was so we could bond, you know?  Like women bond over their periods in shitty movies and brainless burps of television.

She tried her damnedest to get myself and like four other women fired for arbitrary shit like “Your tone this morning was negative” or “I could tell from your facial expression while you were reading the week’s numbers that you were being negative.”  One day I came in, she brought me into the office, sat me down, and handed me a piece of paper to sign.   The piece of paper said that she had been the only witness to me saying something derogatory, to myself, in another room, about a manager.  And that since she witnessed this (through a wall), I was on my Final Warning.  I think, on that day, I just kind of wept at the futility of it all, how fucking stupid it was that fake lesbians with fat asses had the power to yank my crappy ass retail job out from under me.  She was just an asshole.  Why in God’s name would you fire ANYONE from a shitty job in a basement of a Puma store?  Isn’t there something else you could be doing?  This comment she told HR she overheard never happened.  I’d shout it from the rooftops right now if I’d said it.  And I didn’t.

I’m pretty sure she just didn’t like that I was smart, and I could see through her bullshit.  People haaaate to be around someone like that, someone who knows when you’re being a stupid asshole on purpose.  That’s probably why she had another piece of paper sent down from Retail HR On High to tell my favorite manager and friend that she was “being too clique-y” with the staff.  This was like a day and a half after she tried to win cool points with the staff by going around with her bad-assery badge on her sleeve, saying that just the night before she and another member of the staff had driven around in her car with open PBR tall boys.

Here’s some old blog posts about her, which I wrote under my own name and threw out there on the interwebs for all to see, too young and stupid to realize that she’d find them and my work life would be even more hellish than I ever thought possible:

So when the Flezboss stopped me, at 5:01, from clocking out and running directly into traffic so that she could lean into my face and stage-whisper “DO YOU HAVE A TAMPON?!?” like it was the first time she’d ever asked me that question, it was actually very hard not to just lean into her face and scream my fucking head off.

I wish I had exploding tampons with nails wrapped around them. I’d give her one of those. Because she asks me every fucking month–and I think I’ve blogged this before–if she can have one of my tampons. Like she’s completely taken by surprise by the fact that she needs them at the same predictable time every fucking month, the fat fool. I guess they do use double the amount over at the Lezzie Borden she calls an apartment, and maybe it’s harder to stay stocked up, but Jeeeezus Christ on a cracker. Buy the big box, you fucking asshole. You and that oily little catfish you call a girlfriend couldn’t use that many in a month.

Anyway, I’m going to start drawing up plans for exploding tampons. Then I’ll give one to her and if she’s smart she won’t ask for one again.

And of course I have a giant box of them in my locker, but I always give her the same doofy look she’s giving me, shrug, and say, “Nope!”

Then one day she got a new job:

You know what also lifts a girl’s spirits?

When the fucking white-trash skank whore thorn in her side gets loosed and falls out. That’s right: the Flezzboss, the famous, hated, shitty excuse for a leader is being banished to an outlet in Florida, where she will rot for all eternity beneath piles of rejected Made in Vietnam shoes. By August 1st, she’ll be gone, jettisoned from Chicago just as fast as the plane’s fuel can carry her fat ass.

I keep having to take a moment for a deep breath and a wave of calm realization that the bitch is almost wiped out of my life for good. Ugh.

Now I can buy cute scarves and jeans and not have to worry about someone going out and buying the same one, then wearing it the next day, and then pointing out that she bought the same scarf or pair of jeans as me.

Of course, she just went out and got her hair cut like mine, after telling me she was going to. But she can have whatever haircut she fucking wants, as long as she stays in fucking Florida and gets eaten by the monster we call A High Volume Outlet.

And I won’t have to worry about getting written up every time I breathe wrong, and I won’t have to worry about whether or not my fatty boss is comfortable with my facial expression during the morning meeting, and I won’t have to listen to her screeky voice ever again while she talks shit about everyone on the phone. It’s like I had a giant tumor of fakeness in my life, and it’s being removed.

And here’s a little clip of her being a total suicide pig:

I totally agree that I'm a good person. I just wanted to talk real quick about how amazing I am now that someone is dead.

Sometimes when I think about her, I get really angry.  I get mad that I was under the direction of a person like that, who basically had carte blanche to do whatever the hell she wanted to me.  When people like that are in power, even if it’s just a management job in a shoe store, you basically have to sit there and smile stupidly and stay out of their way and never EVER let them think for a second you might be the slightest bit offended by their racist/sexist jokes, which they tell with their eyes blinking stupidly, pretending not to know that what they just said is totally inappropriate.  You’re supposed to laugh along and be just as much of an asshole as they are because people like that are fucking bullies, and if you stand up to a bully who manages a shoe store, get ready to be fired from A FUCKING SHOE STORE.

I swear there’s a point to all of this.

The point is this: recently my anger and annoyance, deeply rooted in the past and lying sideways somewhere under my liver like a little rock, flared up a little bit.  See, I go all over the interwebs looking for pictures of cupcakes and cupcake recipes and fun stuff that makes me feel good, which usually means that I do lots of Google searches for things including the word “cupcake.”  It’s unfortunate that Safe Search would never have protected me from what I found not too long ago.  It appears that, aside from getting arrested, my former boss has been spending her time having her photo taken in such a way that darkens the word “cupcake” and all its positive connotations forever:

No...please stop...

Ohmygod.

These images come to us courtesy of “Cupcake Pinups,” a photography studio that is so serious about its love of sugar, rockabilly, tattoos, and strappy underwear, that it’s actually invested in a real Facebook page to promote its business.

Upon seeing these, I wanted to douse my brain in lighter fluid and set it on fire.  And don’t even think I take any satisfaction in the death imagery above: I don’t wish this woman dead and that wouldn’t make me happy.  What would make me happy is if everyone quit talking to her, forever and ever.  All I see here is a tubby bitch lolling around in a fake cemetery with her mouth open like she’s saying “HEYYYYYY How do you spell feces?!?!  HAHAHA LOL!”

And why…whyyyy did they have to use a cupcake for this asscrappery?  That’s what made it possible for this cunt from the fake graveyard of Hell to haunt me, years later and now that I no doubt make a better salary than she ever did in the shoe store management circuit.  She has reached across  time and the deep web to torment me with this horrifying example of Rockabilly-burlesque fusion with a cherry on top.

And yes, that is a fake cupcake tattoo splotched on her arm.  For the sake of the art, you know.

Happy Fucking Halloween, indeed.

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March 8, 2010 · 3:13 pm

Bullshitty Crap

The Bird Cage

So the guy with the unfortunate task of being on the office birthday celebration list opposite the program director accidentally slept in this morning.  He arrived late to work empty-handed and sat dopily at his computer for half an hour before realizing why the buzzards were sloooowly slinking past his office door, giving him the eye.  It finally dawned on him that they were going to spread mayonnaise packets from the break room condiment slush bucket all over his ass and eat him for breakfast if he didn’t do something, and quick.  He ran out and bought four entire cases (CASES) of donuts from the bakery down the street, and two boxes of cupcakes.  He spread them on a table in the library, assuming there would be no students or resource needs for the entire morning, I guess.  The birds settled in and began picking at the boxes of sugary dough wads, laughing and yapping noisily as they joked about having seconds, hahaha, wouldn’t that be funny if I had a second?  But I won’t, oh no, I won’t…wait, are you going to?  I will if you will hahahahhahahahahaha.  But really…

No sooner had the birds flapped away than the power turned off, and the wolves descended.  Literally moments after my screen went dark, the shadows of the ten-ton bitches from Admissions darkened the doorway.  Guess who wanted to sit in the library and talk about minivans and eat donuts?  One of them even looked at me and said, “We’re looking for the food…is the food here?  We heard it was here.”  I pointed toward the darkened corner where the trays of donuts lay, a fatty dream: to eat a globule of shimmering fried dough in the dark.  They sat and sat and talked and snacked and joked about seconds and ate seconds and thirds and the moment the lights came on, they were gone like those black pterodactyls in that space movie about how it’s not safe to be in the dark because your ass’ll get eaten by black pterodactyls.

The allure of the donuts was lost on me, they smelled weird and looked like they’d been sprayed with glue and raped by everyone in the entire building.  So I picked up a chocolate cupcake with white frosting and crumbled up Oreos all over the top.  I struggled to bite through the chalky outer surface of the cuprock only to discover that the inside cake wasn’t halfway worth the effort, it was just as dry and crumbly as if they’d put a turd in a toaster oven for thirty-five minutes.  So basically what I had in my hands and all over my face was one of those horrible, poorly-baked pieces of shitty cake with a really fancy topper, made yesterday and left overnight in a bakery case and called a cupcake.  For shame.  I mean, does the coroner go around putting fancy hats on people who get splattered all over the road in traffic accidents?  Well, maybe he does, I don’t know, but he shouldn’t, because they’re still dead and splattered and nobody should have to look at them.

Well what if the poop looks like a cupcake, hmmmm?

I hate *everything* lately.

….everything.

But that doesn’t mean that the things I hate haven’t been worth hating.

For instance, I do realize that I’m hard to get along with.  I totally understand that I’m not the easiest person to be around.  For real.  That’s because I am very open about it when I don’t want to be a person that people be around.  And I’m hard to get along with because I hate crap, and I see no reason why I should keep my mouth shut and sit around and withstand bullshitty crap because that’s the friendly thing to do.  Well, who said I wanted to be friendly?  You suck.  Go away from me.  Let’s not be friends.

It’s just the worst when you’re around someone who cannot stop using your attention as their sounding board for who they think they are.  Someone who not only talks about themselves constantly, but who obviously spends hours every day reading celebrity gossip news, announcements of new works of fiction, film, and theater, every article on Wikipedia, and also has their ear to the ground on whatever it is that you’re interested in, and not only knows more than you do, but can’t wait to tell you just how much more.  And why it’s stupid that you’re into it.

I hate being interrupted.  I hate being one-upped and talked over and eye-rolled because I like something or don’t like something else.  It got to the point recently where I just have to go completely blank: I refuse not only to look this person in the eye, but also to state anything that could be relatively construed as anything resembling an opinion.  I tried not to make it sound like I knew anything at all about anything ever, because if I did, well oh boy, I’d be stuck in a corner with this asshole barfing everything he knew all over my face.  And it’s not as if I’d be stupid enough to come out swinging and challenge someone like this on anything they think.  It’s the simple act of breathing that sometimes sets it off.

Ick.  And it’s totally the type of person who listens solely to a very streamlined and specific group of musical artists, and knows eeeeeeverythiiiing about those artists, and carries around their fucking CDs, for chrissakes.  Who carries CDs?  The last time I saw someone carrying CDs, it was this forlorn, overweight, Nirvana-identified pre-Goth kid in high school who was desperate for everyone to know he’d just purchased that gaywad mini box set that the Smashing Pumpkins released with their singles in it.  He carried that goddamn thing like a purse.  Now I have to put up with this son of a bitch who actually knows SO MUCH about MP3 players that he has decided they’re a useless technology and is going to stick with compact discs.

Really, I’d like to make a game out of it.  I’d like to sit this person down with a panel of people who know what’s up.  You get points for getting him to talk about certain things.  Not like that’s hard, but it gets interesting when you get to the point in the argument (for every conversation with him becomes an argument) when he starts citing fake sources to support whatever claim he’s making (opposite of yours).  And holy mother of Christ, whoever wants to challenge him to a battle of early 90s music knowledge wins the fucking trophy.  Game over.  Now just try and shut him up.

I’ve always wanted to ask a certain five people I know if they realize just how much of a character they are.  I mean, you know that all of the characters from The Office are based on real people, right?  How does that make you feel, you shitbag?  You do realize that you are that annoying, yeah?

The bottom line is that some people are all around users: they’ll use your tab for some drinks, your coat pocket for some cigarettes, your car for rides, and worst of all, your ear and feigned attention for their sense of self.  And what’s worse is when they do all of the above and you’re expected to suck their dick for it, and if you decline, well, you’re the asshole.

So maybe I don’t hate everything.  Maybe I’m fucking exhausted and I need a sabbatical from people and how fucking…overwhelmingly…constant they are.

Maybe if I turn off my phone and pull the covers over my head for the rest of the day and night, I’ll be able to bite the inside of my cheek enough to hold onto a fake smile for fifteen seconds the next time I’m being told why my favorite author isn’t that great, actually.

Things That Are Currently Making Me Want To Have My Head Smashed Like a Berry Between Two Massive, Sharp Rocks

Volume 1

I went to undergrad with her and endured her listless slumping about in the hallways, her outdated, comical green chunks of hair, ironic nose ring, and overall punk rock prom queen attitude, and now I have to look at her books on the shelf at Barnes & Noble and read her horrible blog.

When one of our classmates died, she waited for his birthday to come around to post this on his MySpace:

Happy birthday. I got the advance copies of my book yesterday and would have loved to give you one as a birthday present. You really didn’t have enough birthdays. I’ll have a drink in your honor tonight. Miss you much.

Well.

How…thoughtful.  “You’re dead.  Let’s talk about me, though.”

Commence the smashing, please.

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February 4, 2010 · 12:45 pm

Queef it again, Sam.

My Final Semester of Grad School

(also titled I Am Going to Shoot You With  A Gun Now), starring Myself.

Have you heard of this thing called the Internet?  It is the word we use for a bunch of computers that are connected.  These connections allow people to rapidly move ideas and things back and forth.  Here is what the internet looks like:

Electric spaghetti = the Internet

The Internet allows us access to something referred to “e-mail” (the widely-used abbreviation for the term “electronic mail”).  Electronic mail is, for most people, a very confusing concept.  You know, people who are more comfortable with skinning a sheep, preparing a square of vellum, crushing berries and deer bones for ink, and then rolling the whole business up and sealing it with wax so that it doesn’t come loose when the courier takes it over the rocky hills into the neighboring fiefdom.  The problem is that e-mail is annoyingly quick and involves hardly any prep work, or walking, for that matter.  In light of this, most people do not like it.  Take the elderly receptionist across the hall, who doesn’t understand the concept of “forwarding” an e-mail.  She likes to ask me questions by forwarding an e-mail to me, any e-mail, from whenever, from whoever, appending her questions somewhere within the many responses attached to that e-mail.  The questions have nothing to do with anything that any parties involved in the original e-mail chain are discussing.  What’s great is that if I reply, she sends this reply back to me, as well as to everyone else involved in the original e-mail.

This type of situation calls for a fresh e-mail, a new e-mail, one unfettered by irrelevant banter or business.  However, my coworker is under the impression that the Internet is under ration, and that we must carefully preserve every sheet of digital paper we have, lest we run out.  Can you imagine??  What if you clicked Compose and your Computermatronic Machine barked back, “YOU HAVE USED ALL OF YOUR E-MAILS.  PLEASE RECYCLE.”

He will eat you if you don't.

(This same receptionist believes in saving newspapers.  They are removed from the shelf near my desk every week, and found stuffed around her CPU under her desk, in true A&E “Hoarders” style, which probably has something to do with the facts that 1. her desk smells, and 2. her computer has caught fire before.  Of course, the smell could be the clinically depressed fish in their tepid water, which she stirs with her fingers to “wake ’em up”, the rotting food given to her by her “connection” in the cafe downstairs at the end of the day, stockpiled in her file cabinet, or the 14 large fountain drink cups filled with Pepsi from God-knows-when sitting in her overhead shelf.  But I’m pretty sure that the newspaper hoarding caused the fire.)

Anyway.  This information is neither here nor there.  But it sure is stinky!

I expect this sort of reaction to technology when dealing with someone who’s almost seventy and is too lazy to write on anything but cartoon animal Post-Its, or write with anything that doesn’t have a plastic ice cream cone or fuzzy Santa head on the end of it.  I do not, however, expect this kind of absolute fear and aversion to technology from the people who work in the Graduate Admissions Program Evaluations office at the institute of higher learning to which I pay lots of money (to be spent on things like Internet connections and e-mail programs).

When I say “pay lots of money,” I mean that in a few short months I will be paying out the ass and bleeding out the eyes because tuition loans will come knocking like Jesus on your nasty old heart, and I most likely will not just be handed a job as easily as they hand me a piece of paper saying I’m qualified to do a job.  So, it’s a little frustrating when they make it harder to GET that piece of paper by burying a million forms in the big yucky backyard I like to call “my school’s website,” and expect me to first know how many there are, that I need to go dig them up, then to actually go and dig them all up.

Not only are the forms outdated, containing references to permission numbers and systems no longer used by the university, they are also written for students who actually physically attend the university.  I mean, hey, if you’re going to have a blossoming online program, why take the extra half hour it might require to update a couple of things so that people who rely entirely on the website will know what the fuck they’re doing?  No.  Instead, directions are as follows:

Want to graduate?  Follow these steps carefully, and DO NOT CALL US.

1.  Go to this website.  Turn up speakers and listen carefully to instructions.  DO NOT CALL US.

2.  Open all 12 pdf forms, then close them again.

3.  Open all odd-numbered forms beginning with vowels only and save to your desktop.  Be sure that your desktop background is a picture of a waterfall or a kitten, as the forms will not work otherwise.

4.  Re-name form A yourlastname_yourfirstname_streetyougrewupon.pdf.  Rename form E yourlastname_biddlenuts_wtf.pdf.  Re-name remaining forms I, O, and U with this naming convention, except substitute your last name with the maiden names of maternal and paternal grandmothers, and for the third form just make some crap up.  For the first name, use the name of imaginary nuts (be sure to follow up imaginary nut name with “nuts”).  In the third field, use the names of the three architects of the tomb of Henry VII in alphabetical order respective to the form.

5.  Fill out all forms, print them, pee on them, then scan, save, and re-name following the filename conventions CLEARLY outlined in Step 4.

6.  Send to your grad advisor in an email with the subject line reading I DON’T LIKE YOU, EITHER in all caps.  Find your grad advisor’s e-mail address here.

7.  Failure to complete all of these steps exactly and fill out all forms correctly results in late graduation or no graduation at all.

8.  Please do not begin step 1 until you have filed the Permission to Fill Out Graduation Forms with the Forms Permission Office located behind the dog factory in Dongguan Province, China.  **This form must be hand-delivered.  Please bring 8 forms of I.D., excluding passports, state issued I.D.’s, and pieces of registered mail.  Please allow 18 months for approval of this form, during which you must establish legal residency in China.**

9.  DO NOT CALL US.  NOBODY WILL BE AVAILABLE TO TAKE YOUR CALL.  WE DO NOT LIKE PHONES OR CALLS THAT ARE ON THEM.

It’s probably like this because, in order to make any changes, there are 1,520 other forms to fill out in order to secure permissions, publishing rights, and rights to wipe one’s ass or take a coffee break while editing old forms.  So, might as well just leave them the way they are for full-time, on-campus students, scatter them in the web wind for the online students, and set a rigid schedule of deadlines for the completion of each form.  Didn’t get that Permission to Fuck Yourself form in on time?  Well, guess what, you don’t get to graduate.  So, you know, permission granted, you poor asshole.  Enjoy your Ramen, because you’re coming back to pay us this summer.

So, yeah.  When my school attempted to tell me via a mass e-mail that I wouldn’t be graduating until next fall, I decided to pick up the phone and call them, even though they haaaate that.  After about an hour on hold, I spoke with a woman who sounded like she was sitting in a La-Z-Boy with her jeans unbuttoned, and answering my question was keeping her from reaching for that 2-liter of grape soda on her side table.  You know, lots of heavy sighs and “let me seeeeeeee here” and crackly, spitty mouth sounds on her end of the phone.  She informed me that I couldn’t take the final course I needed to graduate because I hadn’t submitted my permission form that is apparently required for admission to the course.  I told her I’d send it that very second.  She proceeded to tell me that since the form takes 4 months to be approved by everyone who needed to sign off on it, I would have to either send it 4 months ago or send it now and wait four months.

“So,” I said, “Let me get this straight.”  Then I went into this scary lawyer mode, repeated everything she said, only in a way that made it sound just like the bullshit it was.  “You people can’t be bothered to move that form through your office to fast enough get five signatures in under four months?  EVER HEARD OF E-MAIL?  DO YOU HATE IT AS MUCH AS PHONE CALLS???”

That’s pretty much where my explanation of e-mail, discussed at the beginning of this blog post, came in.  While explaining the concept, I demonstrated it by e-mailing the form to her.  “See how quick that was?  Now just bang that through to all 5 people who need to sign it, and we’re done.”

If you do enough bitching and make people feel dumb enough, you get what you want.  Normally, I hate that approach, having spent so much time in retail, but as a retail employee, I never said, “Aw, you know what?  My handbook, written by Moses, clearly states that before you can buy those pants, you have to stand on your head and queef the Star Spangled Banner.”

So, guess who got into the final class she needs to graaaaaduaaaate on tiiiiime?

It’s me.  I threw in a little something about how I’d sue the all-fired shit out of them if they tried to make me pay for another semester of courses just because of a pissfuck form.

3 more months of school.

9,341 more 2-liters of grape soda.

Remaining forms to fill out: endless.

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November 19, 2009 · 4:53 pm

Banana Cream Panties

I hate it.

I don’t know why the hell George Lopez is so important, or how he got to be where he is today, or who put him there.  I don’t get it.  I’ve only ever seen him yell things, like “WHO’S READY TO PARTY” and “LATE NIGHT IS FUN AGAIN” and “GEORGE IS HOME.”  Where the shit did he come from?  Why won’t he go back?  How do people get their own sitcoms when you’ve never heard of them?  And when that sitcom fails, how do they get ANOTHER show named after them?

You are not fooling me, George Lopez.

Oh, wipe that shit eating face off your head.

He always looks like someone colored him with crayons.  The bad crayons.  The ones at the bottom of the coffee can they pass around at youth group in the church basement…the broken ones in peach and orange that have been used to color over black and brown so they’re all smudgy.

Speaking of George Lopez, why does Keira Knightley always talk like she’s got a load of tobacco in her mouth?  Is her underbite that serious that she can’t speak properly?  If so, how the fuck did she get to be an actress?  Why do they pay her the big money to stand around and make that underbite face?

Exshhcuushe me?

Has anyone ever realized that in the movie Beethoven, the bad guy basically plans and plots for months just to fool a family into giving him their St. Bernard so he can shoot it in the head.  So that he can test a new kind of bullet.  To see like, what it does to a dog brain.

Sometimes I wonder why it couldn’t be ANY type of large dog.  Or why it couldn’t be ANY St. Bernard.  Why did it HAAAVE to be Beethoven?

I mean, you could argue that it’s because Beethoven got away from him when he was a puppy.  You could argue that, but that would be stupid.  How would anyone know which dog it was when the dog was full grown?

So anyway, obviously it HAD to be Beethoven.  Crazy Mad Scientist Bad Guy did not want to test the brain-exploders on any other dog.  So he spends several months, at least (because Beethoven’s all grown up when he comes collectin’) getting shit together to get Beethoven’s family to hand him over.  He masquerades as a veterinarian and somehow gets set up with his own vet’s office.

Another thing that bothers me is when people who are near pregnant women just CANNOT STOP bringing up the fact that there is a fetus in the room.

My Polish office-mate is knocked up, and hates it, and says to me every day “Theenk ov dis bevore you lie down wiz a man” before puking in her trash can.  She’s so negative and weird, and apart from the projectile vomit, I couldn’t ask for a better person to share my office.

So anyway, she’s been working on this project with this whore from Alumni Relations.  This fiftysomething cunt comes down to our office every single day and talks to her really loud, like she’s deaf because she’s Polish.  And then there’s the pregnancy thing.  She brings it up every chance she gets.  “Oh, if there’s wine at the event, I’ll need to have a glass or two!  But YOU CAN’T HAVE ANY, CAN YOU!?  NO, you CAN’T!”  Or she’ll take a stack of papers out of my office-mate’s hands and say “This is WAY too heavy for a pregnant lady!”

She uses entirely too much hair spray.  Her hair looks like some kind of fuzzy hat, like she takes it off a stand and screws it into a hole in her skull every morning.  She wears pantsuits in neutral colors with smart button down shirts and a little understated cross necklace.

Today she announced four times (the amount of times different people entered and exited our office) that she was going to remove the jacket segment of Sensible Neutral-Colored Pantsuit because she was “burning up.”  Every time she said this, she went on to say “It’ll happen to you someday!  It will!  I won’t go into detail!”  Most women chuckle out of politeness, but when she directed this at me I played stupid.  No, really.  I mean, you want to talk about every fucking stage of the life cycle of human female sexuality so bad, go ahead.  Tell me everything, you goddamn creep.  Want to do a demonstration on douching next?

She also sits at the study carrel in front of my desk and talks to the computer while she uses it.

“Now that’s not what I want!”

“OOOOH I didn’t mean to click there!”

“Wait…where is the…hmmm…OH!  Found it!  Hahahhaaha!”

If I needed a safe-sex reminder before putting my knees in the air, it would be this bitch.  If I got knocked up, she’d be in my face every day, trying to poison me with a cloud of aerosol hair products so she could slice me open with her raptor talon and eat my unborn child.

I like it, sort of.

Speaking of safe sex, Species and Species II are probably the best movies ever made.  Probably, but then again, probably not.  There are probably better movies, for better reasons.  Actually, nevermind.  You should watch them, though, if your boyfriend falls asleep and you’re in an uncomfortable position but you don’t want to wake him up by getting up to get the remote.  Yeah, in that case, watch them both, back to back, then watch a little bit of the beginning of the first one again.

Now that we’re on the subject of the things I do like, the things that are worth my time, we should talk about Yoplait.  Are you aware of how good it is?  Do you understand how they make yogurt taste like some kind of pie dessert, only it’s yogurt?  I don’t get it, but it’s good.  Pineapple Upside Down Cake?  Pina Colada?  Boston Cream Pie?  Are you shitting me?

Dear Yoplait,

Banana cream pie makes me banana cream my panties.

Love,

Bananacreamery

It’s just good, y’all.  You should try it.  Plus it’s LIGHT so you don’t have to worry about all those extra calories.

(Not that I do…yesterday at about this time I was dipping a shard of Crunch bar into a Mr. Pibb on a dare.)

(I dared myself.)

Okay, I also think that this is pretty fabulous:

It is a customizable cupcake go-kart.  You even get a hat to wear while you drive it, which is the top of the cupcake.  And Neiman Marcus is only charging $25,000 for it.  I’m starting a collection so I can afford one.  Not so much an official “collection” as a jar on my desk with a sign on it alluding to the fact that my 97 year old grandmother can’t afford the chemo she so desperately needs.  And a really sad look on my face.  Even though my granny ain’t 97 and she don’t got cancer, and when she dies it won’t be from anything but the piss and vinegar mixture she drinks every morning.

Pussy Crisis

There is a crazy receptionist on my floor.  She works across the hall from me and is older than shit and somehow finds something to cry about every single day.  Nobody puts up with her crap anymore, so anytime there’s a new person in the office who’s not used to her bullshit, who hasn’t yet had the chance to report her to HR,  she preys on their attention like it’s free hot bacon or something.  Because that new person doesn’t know any better and is usually trying to fit in.  She gets one whiff of someone who’s just trying to be polite and goes apeshit for it.

Oh, and by the way, she’s totally the type who fills garbage bags with any kind of free food left lying around for everyone to enjoy, to bring it home to her fatass husband.

She’s also the type who probably pushed her children down the stairs when they were little, or put mashed up heart medication in their food so they’d end up in the emergency room, and she’d get to sit at the nurse’s station and feed on everyone’s sympathy.

Anyway.

She called in on Monday.  As if that wasn’t enough, as if everyone would miss her SO BADLY and be SO WORRIED about her absence that they couldn’t carry on with their day, she had an email sent around to let everyone know that she wasn’ t sick, she was out because her cat needed to be put to sleep.

On Tuesday, someone in her department, someone who had worked there for a mere 3 years, resigned to work for PBR.  (HR at PBR…PBRHR?)

So since I am that unfortunate new person who still has to prove to her that I won’t take her bullshit, she shuffled over to my desk in her tiny little witch boots when she got the news on Tuesday afternoon.  “Did you hear?” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.  “Did you hear about Kaitlyn?”

I did.

“Oh, I’m just beside myself,” she sobbed.  “First my cat, now this?”

Uh huh.

“Well,” she sniffed, drying it up.  “When I’m feeling a bit more…you know, stable…do you think you could show me how to use my Blackberry?”

This, this right here, is what I refer to as a “suicide pig.”  It’s anyone who gets some kind of thrill out of sadness or loss or a big change.  Anyone who uses it as a chance to advertise themselves and their feelings to the entire world.

I came up with this phrase when I still worked at the fucktard writing studio.  A woman had, unfortunately, shared a story she wrote about her brother’s suicide, or a story that in some way mentioned her brother’s suicide.  Before the next class meeting, I overheard this other tubby cunt going over and over with the instructor the fact that she had been “inspired” by the story shared last week, and had changed her ideas, and then sat down and wrote an entire story about, what the fuck do you know, suicide!  “And I just, you know, I don’t want to be insensitive, I don’t want to, you know, like, make Diana uncomfortable, so I mean, could you just read my story and let me know if it’s acceptable?”  She was so excited, she could hardly get her poorly-chosen words to flap out of her big wet fish mouth fast enough.  The instructor assured her that whatever she’d written would be fine.  “Okay, because I think, you know, that maybe the three of us, you, me, and Diana, should maybe sit down together and discuss how I don’t mean to hurt her feelings by writing about a suicide…”

Then on the class break, the original Suicide Pig cornered Diana by the teapot and struck up another conversation about it.  “OH I was just so nerrrrvous that you’d be offended!  I really hope you didn’t take my story the wrong way!”  Diana assured her that it was nothing to be worried about, her brother’s suicide had happened a long time ago and she didn’t have any problem talking about suicide.  “Oh thank goodness!  Well, do you, um, mind if I ask what happened exactly?”  Diana shared that her brother had hung himself.  “Oh gosh!  That must have been so awwwful!”  And the look on her face, the candy-sweetness in her voice, her giant wet mouth…one of the most gruesomely sick things I’ve ever seen.  If you’d told her there was fresh blood dripping from the ceiling she would have looked up and opened her mouth as wide as she could.

I am so tired of people’s plastic emotions, worn around the arm like Gucci purses.  I’m so tired of people processing death and sadness like it’s a fucking McGriddle.

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August 6, 2009 · 1:14 pm

Twat Stamp

I am sitting outside my place of biznass (soon to be former place of biznass), leaning against the wall and stealing internets from the restaurant next door. I have to do this because there is no wireless connection at my work place because they are afraid we will contact someone in cyberspace and ask for help.

So I come out here and every fucking day this girl walks by in platform shoes with this giant smile on her face. I have no idea why she is smiling, ever, about anything and everything. I would call this a “shit-eating grin,” because that’s what it is.

The other day, I was sitting here and some girls in jewel-toned lycra-blend knit sun dresses pulled up in an SUV and climbed out with their sparkly handbags, ready for a day of shopping. When they realized that the parking meter accepted credit cards, the one in the shortest dress walked back to the SUV, which was in the parking spot directly in front of me. She opened the door, then stood on the curb and bent at the waist to lean across the seats for the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. Her dress was very short. She was not wearing ANY underwear, not tiny underwear, or a trace of underwear, NON-EXISTENT underwear.

I saw her vagina.

In full view.

On my lunch break.

It was really weird and scraggly and I thought someone (or everyone) should know.

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July 22, 2009 · 8:58 pm

Face Punching Contest

I sometimes wonder what exactly it is that firemen and policemen do all day long.  I’m happy we have them when they’re putting out fires and stopping crimes, but today marked the second day in less than a week when I have seen hordes of fire trucks and emergency vehicles and cop cars lined up and down both sides of busy streets downtown, lights flashing, traffic sitting, people boiling in the heat of the sun and the sizzle of their own frustration with the dead traffic.  Today every one of them had their lights flashing full on, up and down two entire blocks of Michigan Avenue, which did nothing but whip the shopping tourists into an unholy frenzy.  If there are flashing lights and emergency vehicles, of course, it can’t be anything but a terrorist attack.  So they figured the best thing to do would be to crowd on the corners and stare, gape-mouthed, at the fire trucks stationed there.  The vehicles did seem to be concentrated on one area, and walking by, I figured I would be re-routed to another side of the street.  Oh, no, apparently the disaster that was huge enough to stop all downtown movement of non-service vehicles was not necessarily a threat to the sidewalks.  The cops and firemen were, of course, standing around, sipping Starbucks frappuccinos, leaning against the doors of shops and chatting with each other.

The other day, I had to take a cab home to make it in time to show my apartment.  The Red Line was entirely blocked off at Clark and Division, and three surrounding blocks were lined with emergency vehicles, sirens wailing, lights flashing, police line tied between them blocking off sidewalks, a giant fan attachment sucking black smoke out of the entrance to one of the tunnels.  Still, cops stood around and shot the shit with surrounding crowds of crackheads and drug dealers, who seemed to say nothing but “shit, son,” and it seemed like this big futile emergency that everyone forgot to care about.

Both days, I went home and watched the news to see what the hell happened, and both days, the news (online and on the shitbox) said nothing.  I thought maybe it was some kind of exercise.

Then maybe I thought the entire city was the cast of extras in this movie that was being filmed, and nobody had told me about it.  Everybody was doing their best at acting hot and tired and pissed off and inconvenienced, and the fire trucks and cop cars were just spares, and everyone was in on it but me.

It was creepy.

bitch tongues

I have seen this same teacher every week, on the same night, for the past three weeks.  I have been forced to listen to her fake fucking high pitched voice boring through the walls each night, giving the EXACT SAME 3 hour long speech ABOUT HERSELF and HER NOVEL to four different groups of students there for four different classes.  Somehow, she has managed to do without changing her material once to fit the subject matter.

Fuck her.  Fuck her and her goddamn writing grants and her kid and her poet husband, both of whom she cannot stop talking about.

She is horrible.  And she has a big, fat ass.  And she hates me, I can tell, or is at least wary of me, because I do not talk much in her presence, and when I do, she shoots me down.  Tonight, for instance, she was going on and on to her class about how she can’t wait for Lorrie Moore’s new book.  So when I finished making copies of Lorrie Moore’s new story in The New Yorker, I handed them to her and said, “Everyone seems pretty excited about Lorrie Moore’s new story.”

What does this fucking cunt say?

“Wellllllll I guess it’s not actually a storyyy?  It’s actually an excerpt of her new novel.  Sooo.”

Honestly, people don’t know how lucky they are to still have their bitch tongues in their heads.

So I shutup. I’m not going to eat this bitch out.  I looked back at my computer screen.

“But yes, I suppose it comes out in, ohhh, September?”

I looked up, smiled, and nodded.  As in, That’s great.  Go away.

But the second I looked back down at my screen, she fucking says “Do you know?  Do you know when it comes out?”

That was a funny question coming from someone who I just overheard, moments before this conversation, when she didn’t know I was listening, telling her students the exact date when the book fucking comes out.  And she wants to stand here and play this fucking game with me, dancing around in her superior writer panties, mashing her writing-grant cooch in my face.

So what do I do?  Instead of just saying, No, I don’t know…I revert to the third grade tactic of completely bullshitting my way under her skin, and I say “Actually, I think it was delayed until November…Lorrie Moore is so weird!”

She turned on her heel and walked away quickly, threw over her shoulder something about how she never knows “what’s going on in publishing” because it distracts her from “this greater purpose of a body of work.”

Fucking….what?  I hate her.

Ugh.  I can’t imagine being one of those people who chomps at the bit for certain books to come out.  Like Lorrie Moore is a goddamn prophet or something.  At this point, I guess she could poop on a fifty cent notebook from Staples and call it her new novel.

Uh huh, uh huh.

I feel like the biggest asshole in the world, because every time he would go on and on about how much he loved Mary Gaitskill, and how she was the best writer everrrr, and how she “really captured the female voice,” and how she was “unafraid to write about the dark side of sex,” I would smile and be like, Yeah, uh huh.

I did that awful thing, AGAIN, that thing you do when you like a boy, so you try to ignore the fact that he’s kind of a dildo in a lot of ways.  You suspend your disbelief.  You try to appreciate, on some level, all the dildoey things he likes.

I cannot stand Mary Gaitskill.

She’s on the cover of Poets & Writers, staring blankly up and out.  She’s an idiot.  I’ve never read or seen anything about her wherein she did not mention her time spent as a prostitute, in the most nonchalant, dry way possible.  That’s like walking around downtown without pants on and being like, “I don’t know what the big deal is.”  That’s like the girl who sat on the picnic tables by the basketball courts at lunch in junior high, wiping her pink sunglasses on her shirt and saying loudly, “Yeah, I mean, I’ve given tons and tons of blowjobs for bags of Funyuns, so what?” pretending not to notice the crowd of pubescent boys gathering, digging in their pockets for a quarter.

That’s all Mary Gaitskill is.  I’m tired of hearing about prostitution like it’s no big deal, tired of getting illicit sex slammed into my head and being treated like an idiot for thinking it should at least have something to do with the story.*
So every time I see or hear about Mary Gaitskill, I want to punch myself in the face for letting that motherfucker get away with saying all that dumb stuff about how good her shit is.  Don’t fucking tell me who captured the female voice until you’ve had the female voice.  And don’t fucking talk about “the dark side of sex” when all you’ve ever done is explore the dom/sub relationship within a thirty-second rear-entry scene in your student film.  YAWN.
I think I might officially hate men.  Even the cool ones think they know goddamn skullfucking EVERYTHING.
*Why do dudes always do this?  Mary Gaitskill is sort of like a dude in this respect.  I don’t know how many times guys have gotten into the sex story part of the program with me, and countered with an irresponsible, disgusting, stupid, and shocking sex story of their own, then call me some kind of poser for reacting the way they wanted me to.  Or they call me a “big talker” after I show my honest, however openminded, reaction.  Being sex positive doesn’t mean you’ve fucking seen it all, or would even do it all, you dipshit.  I’m still allowed to think things are not my thing.
That’s like inviting someone to join you in a face-punching contest and calling them gay for getting a black eye.  Idiots.

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