Tuesday, January 20, 2015

No, I'm Not an Albino.

About a month ago I found myself in the corner store on the receiving end of what one damn-near-adorable gambling geriatric Italian man thought was a compliment:

"Jesus Christ, you're gorgeous -- are you an albino?"

Being the evolved Intergalactic Starseed Queen that I am, I respectfully engaged with the well-intended man.  Carefully avoiding all biological, medical, and anthropological details,  I exited stage right with a playful pucker and a wink, and quickly took my albino-frontin' ass upstairs.  

In the comfort of my own three-story walk-up treehouse, however, I proceeded to have a shit fit -- performing in obscenity-laden theatrics only for my cats -- and naturally, chose to dispose of this toxic emotional diarrhea via a Facebook rant:

"If one more motherfucker asks me of I'm an Albino this week I'm going to lose_my_fucking_shit.  Are you morons so fucking mentally hindered that you think it's appropriate (sober or not sober) to ask someone if they're suffering from a debilitating/progressive/degenerative eye disease -- better yet, like it's some kind of fucking compliment?  This is something I've been dealing with my entire life, though it's gotten increasingly more common/obnoxious within the last decade -- most likely due to inter-ethnic-procreation on all levels [of which I am enthusiastically about] and subsequently the fading out of my particular aesthetic in society. TO BE CLEAR: I am not at all offended by people assuming/perceiving me to be an Albino -- they are some of the most unique/beautiful people.  However, as someone who has Albino friends (no -- they're actually not some mythological character like the Chubacabra) I am OFFENDED FOR THEM, who have to contend with the very real physical and emotional ramifications of this disease.  Seriously, get a fucking clue, assholes:  would you approach someone with a twitch and be like, 'Hey -- is that MS or Parkinson's?' -- I am floored at how ignorant the general public is.  Maybe it bothers me more because I was tortured as a kid for looking the way I do; now I couldn't be more amped that I don't look like any of you.  Amen."

And now, fresh off another albino assumption delivered as ignorant praise, here I am again.  I have no problem admitting that I get a minor thrill in Market Basket when every Haitian in the place is gawking at me in the same way I once hypnotically stared at a blue-black man at the A&P when I was 18 months old and my mother quickly whisked me out of the check-out line knowing I was about to drop some whack toddler speak that would have taken a good five Oprah After School Specials and a UN meeting to rectify.  

Alas, shit gets old.   

People casually ask me if I'm an albino all the time -- in line at Starbucks,  at my job,  in Facebook emails [barfs] and I've developed quite a tolerance for most of these harmless, innocent inquiries.  In fact, I've resorted to self-'depreciating' jokes/catchphrases as a means of curbing/diffusing the non-malicious yet ignorant albino bomb when I feel like it's about to drop.  I can only describe this awkward social experience by comparing it to feeling your own face getting hot when you're embarrassed for someone else.

It's become so frequent recently, that on the chance a friend catches me mid-rant, they suggest that I stop getting so worked up about it and take it as the compliment X querent intended it to be.  Hey, this is all well and good, but where were you in the fifth grade when the intention of albinism branding had zero to do with building me up, and all to do with making me want to go home and off myself? 

Aside from my own sensitivities, it's just straight up ridiculous and rude to ask anyone if they're an albino, and the fact that people [of all age ranges] don't understand that, blows_my_fucking_mind.  I mean, I just can't seem to recall the last time I went up to a Dominican woman with facial melasma [likely due to pregnancy] and asked her nonchalantly if she had vitiligo.  

Though much aware of what the disease of albinism entailed from a superficial medical standpoint, I didn't have any albino friends until I was 26. I remember mentioning one night that people have mistaken me for an albino throughout my life, and Sandra looking at me in disbelief like I had ten non-albinism-affected heads.  The mere suggestion to her seemed ludicrous, much as it always did to me,  but it seemed especially so now.   It was then that I really began resenting the albinism questions, and not in the 'instant defense against something that has historically been used to purposefully hurt me' way that I was accustomed to.  It was no longer about me.  Albinism was [is] real, and it was someone else's reality -- a reality with greater implications than I had even given consideration to.  The insight and weight of all of that frustrated me in a different way, and it still does to this day. 

At the same time, we humans are funny little creatures, and we tend to act our silliest and most awkward around situations/people/experiences that are foreign/different to us - even if it's a mere block outside our comfort zone. Fortunately, I can sense when this is the case, and this kind of intuition has afforded me an opportunity to school some people on the subject, which is always a good thing.  And of coursesome of us humans are just straight-up, ignorant, shameless, insecure, emotionally-underdeveloped, sheltered, no-hope-havin' motherfucking dickbags -- and you can bet that my white ass be praying for theirs.

Friday, January 31, 2014

Run, Lola Run: Everyone you know is participating in a triathalon.

I've always referred to Facebook as the Human Best in Show. This site is a great catalyst for suicide if you are at all contending with life's downs, when it's apparent that everyone in your online energy field is on a major upswing.  

It has taken me some time to do so, but I've finally made peace with the onslaught of daily imagery clearly indicating that both you and your partner's reproductive systems are operating at optimal levels.  Believe me, no one has ever caught a seven-month old drooling at that angle before with such precision. And though I can appreciate these photographic landmarks now,  let me be the first to admit that some of the vacation shots are hard to digest.  As someone who used to travel/vacation frequently but is now suffering from a prolonged bout of BrokeHo-itis,  the days I wake up and see you and the object of your desire/impending divorce skipping along the sands of Antigua make me want to shoot you in the face point blank.  But far worse than any of this baby-making and Bahama-baking is the revolution of the fucking road race

When I say that everyone and their mother is now participating in some form of endurance running, I ain't shitting. From 5Ks to triathalons to mud races and color runs, good Lord are you people making me feel like a degenerate shit-bag.  

The best part is every_one is doing this shit.  People who I thought were still incarcerated are showing up on my newsfeed covered in mud mid-hurdle wearing a non-penitentiary issued number on their back.  Shit is amazing.  Most days I hop on my MacBook, check Facebook, and think I've been redirected to an American Gladiators tribute site.  When the Christ do you people have the time to engage in these Double Dare physical challenges? I'm lucky if I can catch a train, subject myself to combat pay, and get out with enough time to provide my cats with the appropriate means to shit in a fucking box.  

Pardon my ignorance, but is your life going so well you actually have time to not only participate in, but prepare and train for, these kinds of events?  And if this is in fact the case, would you perhaps consider a career as a life coach and can I be your first client? Most people I know are at odds with trying to pay their rent/mortgage, buy their kids Christmas presents in the face of poverty, get their loser ex to pay child support, keep their phone on for another 2 days, drive their car with 3 tires and a donut through a blizzard, and/or kill their mother-in-law while evading a homicide charge.  Then there's you people For a period of time I actually thought I was envious of everyone involved in this high energy lusting for life; now I realize that it was just agita.  Seriously though, these self-imposed endurance challenges seem like the cocktail hour before St. Peter high fives you into the pearly gates.  And some of you take this shit way too seriously. Not for nothing, no one wants to look at action shots of you covered in dirt making constipation-like faces as you tear up a literal adult playground in a purely recreational capacity and then act like you just came back from 'Nam. Over it.

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Why Facebook is Ruining Your Relationship And/Or Prolonging Your Break-Up

Most people will agree that Facebook is the worst thing that has happened to humanity, with the exception of bio-chemical warfare. Sure, Facebook is super cute when you're trying desperately to prove to the universe that someone loves you, even temporarily, as much as your mother does. That having been said,  I'm almost positive there is some kind of algorithm for determining the exact duration of your Facebook-documented relationship.  I think it's safe to say that around the time the second year Instagram pics of Thanksgiving dinner hit the internet, your relationship is on the fast track to world-wide, play-by-play dissolution.

We've seen you at Fenway. We've watched you drink craft beer. You've had some great dinners. Who appreciates nature as much as you two? No really, that WAS an amazing sunset. And those pics at Easter are proof that his sisters like you. 

If you've made it to the ninth month mark, we've seen you on a Swan boat;  two years in, you've probably posed on a gondola in France.  Wait -- are guys driving on Route 66!? The kicks are all ours. No one has ever worn the same t-shirt before -- holy shit, are you two trailblazers. And that pic of you guys grabbing the Charging Bull's balls in NYC is a riot -- you both reek of endless, original fun.  Seriously, marriage is clearly on the horizon here. Is that a cookie you're sharing? Oh_my_Gaaawd, you guys are too cute. 

Despite the artfully crafted image that you're having the best_relationship_ever, those of us at home, anxiously awaiting the next milestone of your failing relationship via Facebook's ironically titled 'Newsfeed,'  know the real score. In between uploads of couple shots with the '60s vintage' filter highlighting your mutual flair for retro fashion, we secretly know that you've already broken up 496 times. And we can't wait until break-up number 497 hits your profile, when the real shit-slinging status updates unfold.  For those of us who know you personally, this is far better than anything reality television has offered insatiable audiences during the last two decades.

The first 496 break-ups are probably intimately tied to someone's Facebook stalking tendencies.  If you're an amateur private investigator who is handicapped by his overwhelming personal insecurities, you've probably accused your girlfriend of hooking up with a guy who turned out to be her cousin. If you're particularly psychotic/smart, you know that the  'hey girl, long time no see! We have to get a drink sometime'  comment on some 'fat' chick's page directly translates to 'they're banging.'  

This very subject probably came up in the middle one of the amazing dinners that you documented on Instagram two months ago. Now you probably broke up before dessert was served, but another champagne cocktail found you giving head at 2 AM. Repeat varying interpretations of the aforementioned scenario. Ad nauseam. Now actually puke your brains out. Ok, you may find yourself in legitimate break-up territory at this point. 

Fast forward to the 'real' break-up. 

If you're pretending to break-up, you have remained Facebook 'friends.' Know that this is just another exercise in your mastery of dysfunctional relationships, or you have successfully deluded your partner into believing that you're both grown enough to handle an immediate friendship that entails looking at every meal your ex-partner will shit out from now until the apocalypse with less-than-cryptic captions on rack of pork entrees clearly directed towards you. 

Remaining Facebook 'friends' is a great tactic for keeping tabs on your ex, and 'justification' for sending random passive-aggressive texts calling him or her out on being the asshole you always 'knew' they really were. Typically these epiphanies/hate texts happen after you've popped a Xanax and killed a sixer of Red Stripe. Fuck getting the last word; with the advent of Facebook, breaking up means you can always have the last text.  If you're the ex of a compulsive checker-inner, your online friendship is now a convenient GPS for your unresolved relationship issues and festering hatred. This social-networking ankle bracelet is also a great way to 'accidentally' show up everywhere your ex is, and cause whatever drama you feel fit. Even better, having ass-loads of real world mutual friends may unfairly curb any perceived malicious intent, while allowing you to be the deranged_lunatic you really are. Ahh... technology.

Depending on the reason for your break-up, your partner may have been spared an orchestrated beatdown or 'random'  tire slashing. But thanks to the check-in feature on Facebook, it's doubtful he's been spared having to watch you and your drunk girlfriends parade into the bar he's at after you've starved yourself down 15 pounds and are now modeling Forever Slutty-One's skankiest fall fashions

Of course, if you're of the more demure variety, you'll never actually show up anywhere your ex is choosing to socialize. Oh no, you're far too sophisticated for that game, girlfriend. Truly refined intellects wage a Facebook war with their exes using internet memes. As an honorary internet psychologist, you'll opt to post memes that 'only you' will know truly showcase your ex's shortcomings. 

Insert picture of a pig wallowing in a trough of crap: 

'I got tired of you, so now that I'm working on improving my true divine Queen soul, some loser ghetto-ass ho-bag can deal with your shit.'  

If you're particularly bookish, you'll opt for posting famous quotes on your status updates instead:

'Dost there exist a man who hath truly revered the demi-god that is woman? He who cheateth on a lady of bountiful beauty who maketh the most superior feasts in all the land with a douche-bagged tart-let he doth engaged while dining on bratwurst in Fanueil Hall, will surely face the gates of Hades and pernicious wrath of Lucifer.'  -- Shakespeare

Again, all of this is better than prime time television. For this reason alone, part of me hates to even suggest that we stop airing out our dirty laundry on the status update clothesline, but it's certainly something to consider. Six months down the line when you've successfully snagged another dysfunctional relationship -- or perhaps a fully-operational one if you're lucky enough to start a freshy when the moon is in Venus -- you're going to look back on this electronic diary and realize how you and/or your ex should have been crowned Dickbag of the Year. Personally, I miss the days of the analog relationship.


Sunday, July 14, 2013

Pussy Whipped

If you're a woman who has ever felt inadequate after being branded a 'cat lady,' allow me to quickly break down the top ten reasons why you're actually in a better position than the majority of your child-bearing peers.

1. Cats don't breast feed.

Not having to allocate funds for a quality breast lift after your child has wreaked havoc on the physical assets that probably led to his conception in the first place, is a financial contribution even your 401K can't match. The next time you catch your cat drinking out of the toilet, take some time to admire the quality of your funbags in your bathroom mirror.

2. Cats don't wear diapers.

When it comes to the defecation game, cats are winning - paws down. Not only is cat litter significantly cheaper than diapers, potty-training is essentially non-existent. When you consider the labor-intensive process of getting your child to make nice with the porcelain throne, you've added years to your life. Sure, cats are capable of the occasional 'accident,' but this is usually a purposeful act to remind you that you're a dick. Hey, who doesn't need their ego checked periodically? Bottom line: the last time you had to bribe your cat with a Barbie to go shit in a box was never.

What the hell is a diaper?

3. Cats don't wear clothes. 

Unless your child suffers from dwarfism, their physical development loosely translates to a series of rapidly outgrown shopping sprees. If you think your checking account is getting raped during their formative years, wait until they reach tween status and they suddenly develop standards for their aesthetic. Cats aren't going to threaten you with emancipation if you don't buy them $200 sneakers.

4. Cats can't tell you that they hate you.

The day your child utters their first word is a time of intense joy for most parents. Fast forward eleven years to your kid locked in the bathroom screaming about how much of an asshole you are because you won't let her wear eyeliner to school. On my cat's worst day he's said 'meow.' Also to his credit, never having demanded Justin Bieber tickets.

5. Cats don't play soccer, dance ballet, or play piano. 

There will come a time in a parent's life where their entire existence revolves around a career they've come to loathe, and their child's extracurricular activities. Pay close attention to the aforementioned symbiotic relationship. Unless your child is a budding Pele, Pierina Legani, or Chopin, ultimately this is an enormous waste of till and time. My cats have nonchalantly walked across piano keys and produced better melodies than second year piano students. Not to mention, without any formal training, required equipment, or financial investment, cats will independently master their most favorite pastime: sleeping.

6. Cats don't do drugs.

Every parent fears that one day their beloved child will trade in their baseball for an 8 ball. Barring the possible experimentation with catnip, cat moms don't have to worry that their cat is going to trade in their favorite mouse for MDMA. This is a major victory in today's society. Drug use is rampant, and children who become drug addicts put their parents through unmitigated emotional and financial hell.

7. Cats don't expect you to buy them a car.

Not only will your cat never ask you to buy them a car -- or anything for that matter -- they fucking hate cars. Score.

8. Cats aren't going to embarrass you in the mall.

We've all had to bear unfortunate witness to someone's red-faced six year old pulling a shit fit at the Chanel counter while their mother is just trying to buy a bottle of overpriced anti-aging foundation to counteract the lines creeping up on her face; most likely the direct result of letting said shit-fitter exit her birth canal. Cats don't go to the mall. And when you do, they don't require a babysitter. 

     Chillaxin' while my Broke Ho is at the mall

9. Cats don't go to college.

Working three jobs to secure a college education for your ungrateful children is stressful. And after years of sacrificing luxury vehicles and vacations so you can diligently save your hard earned paycheck for little Johnny's law degree, there's no guarantee your kid isn't going to drop out of school and front a jam band. Of course, if your child has the decency to blow out before senior year, you should have some kind cash to play with. Even still, you can only hope it's enough to get you more than a shoddy, discount eye lift in Brazil. And let's be honest, going to Hedonism in Jamaica in your fifties is just fucking weird.

10. Cats won't blame you for their shitty life.

This may be the greatest advantage of all. At some point most people will hyper-analyzed their parents' child-rearing techniques in an attempt to justify why they're a fucking loser. It wasn't until a few years ago that I realized how unfair this is, and just how lucky I am. Even though I've fed my cats 9 Lives during financial lows, yelled at them for clawing the shit out of my furniture, subjected them to loser boyfriends, had their balls surgically removed, and abandoned them to go on vacations -- they understand that I'm doing the best that I can. And to my credit, neither of them are in therapy.


Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Diary of a Broke Ho: Tips For Paying NSTAR With Cold, Hard Excuses

The majority of 'how to' blogs that I read online are completely useless. If I reach a point in my life where I need bulleted instructions from a Middle-American housewife on how to make my own hair dryer with an old fan, stencils, and a coffee can, I'll hit up church on Sundays and pray to God that he gives me less time to be so fucking dumb.

Most people I know need instructions for handling real life problems; like how to have a beer in your living room with your lights on when your unpaid electric bill has hit two grand.

Well it's your lucky day. It has taken me years of financial negligence to fine-tune my lies to NSTAR representatives and determine what pathetic excuses really work on these heartless assholes. And now, I present this invaluable information to you free of charge, furthering my status as a Broke Ho.

The first mistake people make when they call NSTAR upon receiving a shut off notice (or post shut off) is believing that the people working in Customer Service are actually people. Do not be deceived: these drones on the phones are a robotic force of unwavering and unsympathetic hostility.

And damn, they're good.

Their rigorous insensitivity training has provided them with the skills needed to control these phone conversations early on - from a variety of angles - designed to leave you in the dark, literally.

Let's go over the basics. NSTAR cannot turn off your gas (if it provides heat) from October until April. During this time you can technically not pay your bill at all, but rest assured that the first day they can legally take a giant shit on your life, they will. If you're like me and pay your gas bill twice a year, the month of April sucks harder than daytime television. Once you rack up an insanely high bill and enter shut off territory, in order to continue (or restore) your service you need to come up with 80% of the total balance.  For me this usually equals I Don't Have it Dollars and Fuck My Life Cents.

Since my idea of financial planning is hoping I have finances and planning on being broke, I have had to learn to successfully negotiate with these piranhas. Unlike the seasonal protection that's granted during the winter for gas (or electric) heat, the air conditioner in your bedroom window has no guardian angel. This is bad news for people who let their electric bill slide for months before the summer arrives; they won't think twice about shutting your electricity off during a massive, swass-attack of a heatwave in August. In fact, I think they get off on it. This miserable scenario is especially problematic, if not tragic, for certain groups. People who use clinical strength deodorant, people who have food in their fridge (you ritzy bitch!), or anyone who prefers to not live like a pilgrim, are most at risk of becoming homicidal.

Heading off a homicide is where one of my most impressive talents comes into play: the delicate art of bullshitting. If you've ever majored in English, Music, or Liberal Arts, you already know that bullshitting your way through life isn't just a recreational talent -- it's a critical survival skill. Not everyone is a natural bullshit artist, but with a little desperation, and a full-length mirror in which to practice your new lies, anyone can ensure that their utilities are kept on year round.

If you're unfortunate enough to have your electricity shut off during the summer and you owe NSTAR your first born child plus any additional first born children that you can successfully kidnap, you're going to have to come up with something better than 'I was laid off this year' to get them to turn you back on for only a couple hundred bucks and a payment plan. If you owe a G, they're going to want $800. They will remain firm with this dollar amount, and will use any lulls in the conversation to passively suggest that you're a deadbeat loser so that you're shamed into coming up with $800 immediately.

The real trick in these situations is to come up with a story that you won't be forced to prove, but a time sensitive one that they can't take the risk of not 'buying.'

Ok, so maybe you started off with telling them that you got laid off this year and you're destitute, but that will get you nowhere fast. You may as well tell them you got laid this year, because they couldn't give less of a shit about why you didn't pay.

Enter your fictitious 87 year old grandmother who lives with you and needs daily oxygen treatments that require electricity. Once you drop this bomb, the service reps go from a 10 to a 5 automatically. Unfortunately, being at a 5 means they're still dickheads and the chances of them 'working with you' remain low. Don't be surprised if they suggest that you take granny to someone else's house until you can pay your bill. When they suggest this moronic idea, quickly launch into a bit about her compromised mobility, failing health, and paranoid schitzophrenia.

Girls: If you're blessed with the gift of spontaneous fake crying, now's your time to shine. Hyperventilating at this point is an added bonus because you will force the representative to look away from their computer screen and temporarily stop speaking to you in tele-prompted scripted statements. Every second your phone rep spends removed from their 'power source' weakens their ability to make you pay what you really owe. In between tears, pull the phone away and yell, 'It's OK, grandma -- everything is fine!'  You may start to feel like a complete lunatic at this point, especially if you happen to catch a glimpse of yourself fake crying and hyperventilating in the mirror.  Dear God, do you look like an asshole.  And the fact that this is what you have to do to get a little air conditioning and a few episodes of Seinfeld reruns in your life is absolutely fucking ridiculous. But what do you want? You're a broke ho.

Remember people, stay_in_character. If you're finding it difficult to maintain this phone charade at an Oscar-worthy level, remind yourself of the $800 you don't have, your distain for prostitution and/or stripping, and that field trip to Plymouth Plantation that you went on in the 5th grade -- that's right, having no electricity blows, people.

Guys: This is the part of the conversation where you toss out the idea of Nonexistent Nana potentially kicking the bucket if she's forced to endure these inhumane conditions. Make sure you clearly express the following equation:

no electricity + no oxygen = dead grandma

Congratulations, folks -- your NSTAR representative is now at 2. At this point they will put you on hold while they 'see what they can try and arrange.'  Don't let them Jedi Mind Trick you with this crap. I've seen better acting at an elementary school play. They already know that they're going to present you with a minuscule payment offer to reconnect or continue your service compared to the one they were initially demanding. They're just putting you on hold to make you suffer with panic and fear because you've made THEM an offer they can't refuse: a dead grandma.

Good work.

It's important to note that these phone reps aren't suddenly willing to help you out because you've found their 'soft' spot; they're just corporate zombies avoiding a potential dead grandma lawsuit. Remember -- they don't really give a fuck about your fake nana.

Plan to be on hold for longer than it took the NSTAR rep to get their GED. Now when they take you off hold and inform you of the 'good news,' it's always a great move to be overly appreciative of their 'offer' with a self-depreciating verbal blow job thanking them profusely for their willingness to help a broke, working-class, worthless dirtbag with a defective grandma like you. The phone reps love that shit because they're deranged sociopaths who power-trip on being able to reduce you to a third world standard of living. 

Now if you're a woman, you don't necessarilly have to go the ailing grandmother route. See, NSTAR may hate you, but they love babies. And households with children under two years old are protected from getting their utilities shut off. But slow your roll, broke, baby-less ho. You must provide the birth certificates of your children and actually 'enroll' in this protection program, so you're not pulling this move off unless you can commit to causing an Amber Alert.  As luck would have it, I've discovered a gray area that eliminates the need for adoption or kidnapping: good old-fashioned pregnancy.

I tried this one out on a whim once and it was surprisingly effective. With this approach, may I suggest 'painting a good pathetic picture.'  Don't just be knocked-up. Be a knocked-up waitress. Even better, be a knocked-up waitress who is 'going back to school.'  This quickly elevates your status from 'system-sucking skank' to 'someone who is about to take a hot shower.'

I immediately got results with this approach and had my gas turned back on with only a $48 payment on a $650 bill when they were demanding $550, and with zero proof of my fake baby.  The pregnancy angle is pretty flawless, and required no bargaining with the phone rep. They may even give you the names of community resources that you can contact to help you be poor with your new fake baby. Don't let this gesture and fleeting glimpse of humanity make you feel guilty about bullshitting these bastards. They're just reinforcing a negative social value that only in utero babies deserve to have utilities. Just make sure going forward that you pay on time. Three months down the road when you're still doing the limbo under the poverty line, it's going to be hard to explain that you had a miscarriage 2 months ago but remarkably you're 7 months pregnant now.  

Now that you know what works, let's briefly review what doesn't:

1. The recent death of a parent
2. Car accident victim who is unable to work
3. Veteran who has just returned from a tour of duty
4. Recent lay-off
5. Victim of identity theft

Don't waste your time with any of the above. What I've learned over the years is that NSTAR  doesn't deliver upon hearing a quality sob story. Sure, these may seem like great excuses, but sympathy isn't the motivator that's going to get you back to microwaving your Hot Pockets or flat ironing your hair. They only become amenable to stop ruining your quality of life when there's a chance that they could be held responsible for indirectly harming debilitated geriatrics or unborn children. 

Trust me on this one,  because if I had a dollar for every time NSTAR has shut me off during my run as a Broke Ho, I'd be able to pay my NSTAR bill.

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Stop, Drop, and Blow: If You're Not Giving Head, Prepare to Get Dumped

I cannot stress enough the importance of blow jobs to the heterosexual female community. If you only do ONE thing right in your relationship, it should be giving head. Everything else is just filler material for when he talks about you to his mom. Obviously gushing about your porntastic skill set isn't something he can kick it with her about.

Whether you like them or loathe them, blow jobs in a relationship -- for the duration of the relationship -- are NON-negotiable. I understand that this idea may scare some women who think that they only have to put in a few solid months of oral to lock their man down; but my dear, sweet reader: if you want your man to stick around beyond your child's third birthday, stop rubbing rosemary and thyme on that dead chicken and start seasoning his pájaro with your mouth.

The alarming reality is that most women are dropping the ball everywhere. Even more alarming: they don't even have any idea that they are light years away from satisfying the required blow job quota. Unfortunately, this puts women in a very vulnerable position. Men are roving pigs by nature; there's no need to give them any ammunition to cheat. Trust me, if you want to avoid being in this vulnerable position, get in the only position that matters -- on your knees, bitch.

Truly comprehending a man's need for blow jobs comes with familiarizing yourself with the pathetic and unsophisticated reality of how these fuckers operate. Men have the memory of a goldfish: the castle is a surprise every time. Remember that mind-blowing oral you gave him last night that had you seriously contemplating a career with Vivid Video? Well he doesn't.

The only way he IS going to remember is when you actually do it again, and there's no time like the present. No really, go on -- I'll wait.

[time lapse]

See? That wasn't awful. Think of it as job security.

Every day I see women delude themselves into thinking they've secured their relationship with their domestic prowess. The only problem with this false sense of security is that vacuumed rugs, clean countertops, tailored pants, and steak dinners don't suck penises. If you want to guarantee that you'll be dying alone, throw 'letting yourself go' into the mix.

Let's review some statistics. The number of men who have looked past their partner's 50 pound weight gain in light of a bitchin' meatloaf recipe is a staggering 'zero.' Do yourself a favor and practice deep-throating zucchini. That's a meal he'll Yelp about.

A simple equation can help you calculate how close you are to a break-up or divorce. Grab a pen. Write down the date of the last time you went down on your man. Add 3 weeks to that. This date is when he's breaking up with you. If you're still together after this date it's because he's banging his secretary on his desk at work right_now.  He is literally fucking the picture of you and him in Barbados off of the table. I know, it sucks. But you're the one who chose to watch Real Housewives instead of being one.

While the woman in the above scenario is killing a bottle of Absolut and crying on the phone with her best friend, let's go over the Rule of Blow Jobs. This is an imperative tool for staying on top of your game. For every one blow job that you think is 'enough,' add three more. At least 20 percent of your free time should be spent giving head. If you don't feel as though you could hold a seminar on the artistry of blow jobs, or at least upload a shitty YouTube tutorial on giving oral using a giant GMO carrot as a prop, you're not sucking enough dick -- bottom line. You'll know if you're meeting your oral obligations when you start thinking about blow jobs as much as they do, whether you want to or not. When you start tossing around 'Fellationella' as a potential baby name, you'll know your head is in the right place. And that place is a centimeter away from your man's penis.

This may sound over-the-top, but don't underestimate the necessity of going down. Remember ladies: without blow jobs, 'pretty, funny, and smart' is just annoying.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Candle-tastic Voyage

Greetings, earthlings. I’m taking a break from my unmitigated thrash rantings to kick out a semi-instructional blog about one of my favorite past times, good old fashioned candle making.  If you’re at all crafty/artsy-fartsy and have a quarter of an ounce of patience on retainer, whipping up your own candle creations can be a lovely de-stressor which rivals the effects of my trusty benzodiazapines; of which I’m trying to phase out of my life entirely.  If some crazy earth-rocking shit happens to transpire in the coming months, I want to be having a panic attack because I’m about to get a meteor off the dome, not because I’m in the midst of a natural disaster and am withdrawing from klonopin. 

As many of you already know, this year I’ve been fairly consumed with further escalating my spiritual side and ‘raising my vibration.’  This was catapulted by a close friend’s passing, and though I’ve always identified as an empath, I started seeing auras sometime in early April.  Part of my personal ritual practice (relatively undefined fusion of ‘religious/spiritual’ beliefs which I draw upon lacking both convention and doctrine, but centric to universal energy that happens to work enormously well for me) include candle ‘spells’ or candle ‘blessings.’  Candle spells are another subject entirely, but since I make candles for spell/ritual purposes, there will be some inclusion of these practices as I break down the relatively effortless art of candle making. Of course, there needn’t be any inclusion of religious ritual for basic candle making if you’re simply using them for ambiance, home decor, and/or practical purposes.

In my experience the best wax to use, with special consideration to candle blessings which should emanate from organic and natural supplies, are soy waxes and beeswaxes.  For the non pseudo-mystical witchy-poos out there, the benefit of both of these waxes is that they are natural substances and they burn cleaner; always a bonus, even if you’re not trying to channel a lottery win, a lover, or heightened clairvoyance. Beeswax is especially nice to use because it doesn’t require the addition of scent, as they naturally emit a mildly sweet honey fragrance that is fairly neutral and unoffensive to most people.  Soy candles typically require the addition of some kind of fragrance, which I restrict to essential oils [rose oil, eucalyptus, jasmine, tea tree oil, peppermint]; some body-grade oils, [sesame oil, rose oil, coconut oil]; and even vanilla or almond extract, though I don’t strongly recommend using scents which are heavy on the alcohol, especially alcohol based perfumes, because they can negatively alter the consistency of the candle and affect how it actually forms and burns [slow, fast, smokey, drippy, etc.]  As a rule, I stay away from paraffin wax because it just blows monkey balls. 

soy wax

You can purchase candle wax at craft stores, but if you’re not into financial rape with no lube, I’d suggest getting your wax online and in bulk to use over time, especially if you’ve committed to soy or beeswax candles (which you should!) 

Here’s what you’re going to actually need, without regard to the specific and often unnecessary bullshit they try to sell you in craft stores:

  1. soy wax or beesewax [usually sold by the pound]
  2. pre-based candle wicks [come in packs of 6/12/24 in stores/larger quantities found at online retailers]
  3. a double boiler**
  4. essential or body oils [if you want to fragrance your candles]
  5. dye blocks for color [available online at far better prices than craft stores] 
  6. crayons for color** [cheap and surprisingly effective when used in moderation]
  7. candle molds**
  8. parchment paper/foil
  9. appropriate herbs/dried flowers [if making spell candles]
  10. thermometer** [unnecessary if you’re at all sensory or have minor amounts of common sense]

The double boiler is created by filling a decent sized pot with about 3 inches of water, and placing inside that a ‘pouring pot’ (the ones they sell at Michael’s/A.C.Moore are overpriced crap that you don’t need) that you will actually melt your wax in.  I use my chicken fry pan filled with water, and an old medium sized pot (with a pour side) to melt the wax in. I have a gas stove, so I start by boiling the water in the shallow pan while the pouring pot is immersed in it.  Though some swear that this is a science, I’m not a slave to temperature.  Science and numbers aren’t my thing; I’m super right-brained and I employ intuition.  If you find yourself in a shit mess with shoddy candles after ‘winging it,’ break down and get the damn thermometer.  On the wax package, there will be instructions indicating what temp works for what kinds of wax.  Personally, I’m just not a fan of directions of any kind.  Even when I’m lost while driving, I try to smell my way to the desired location before I turn on my Garmin Nuvi. Hey, if I want some woman barking at me, I’ll call my mother. 

Once you get your water at a slight boil [medium heat] start adding a few handfuls of wax.  Again, this is a measurement-free zone. If I’m making 6 votives, I throw in a about 5 handfuls of the stuff and watch it begin to melt. This should happen rather rapidly, especially if your apartment is blessed with a glorified Easy Bake Oven of a gas stove (like mine) that makes it nearly impossible to get an accurate temp for anything you may be cooking (soup, stir-fry, cream sauce, pie filling, candles, crack cocaine, whatever.)

At this point your wax should be a little clumpy, but well on it’s way to becoming a smooth liquid.  Now you want to add your color, if that’s your plan. Again, beeswax doesn’t require color tinting either. Something to think about if you’re lazy as fuck, or particularly into that hippy shit. As I mentioned previously, you can color your candles by melting a couple of chunks of a standard candle dye color block, or, if you have Jew tendencies like me, you can take the used crayons that they give kids at my restaurant to draw with while their parents try to pound a beer in peace, and use those. Simply peel a crayon or two and break into even chunks. I usually break a crayon into 4 pieces, and depending on how many candles I’m bumping out and/or the intensity of color that I’m trying to achieve, I toss in 1 to 4 broken up crayons. If you retained any information that you obtained in Kindergarten about primary colors, this should be pretty easy. You can achieve most shades with red, yellow, blue, and green; i.e.;  if you’re making 5 pink votives, 4 good handfuls of [white] soy wax and 1 red crayon broken in fours will do the trick.  Some candle-creating enthusiasts completely denounce the use of crayons for tinting/coloring purposes, claiming that too much of the cheap wax crayons are made of will clog the wick. I have yet to experience this phenomenon, so don’t sweat it.

cheap ass mother fucking crayons

Now your pouring pot should look something like this:

Onto fragrance. If you’re using essential oil, I’d kick in about an ounce of the oil of your choice; remember, essential oils are not diluted, so the scent achieved can be fairly strong.  I’m a big fan of rose [yes, I’m a 75 year old geriatric woman trapped in a super-hot 33 year old broad’s slammin’ body], but if I want a more subtle smelling candle, I opt for rose body oil [available at CVS/Rite-Aid]. Interesting side note: when you use body quality oils as fragrance in conjunction with SOY candle wax, you can make a body massage oil candle that you can light and use the skin-friendly wax to massage the crap out of the object of desire before you launch into the missionary position after a couple glasses of absinthe on the rocks.  [Insert cat purr here.]
If you’re not creating a spell candle -- which involves the mixing in of appropriate dried herbs and flowers -- you’re now ready to pour your wax into your votive molds. Again, these molds are available at inflated prices at craft stores. Though I have many of these myself, I’ve also used shot glasses, muffin trays (non-stick, or spray with cooking spray prior to the pour), old glasses/jars in various sizes, beer cans with the tops sliced off, Pringle cans cut in half, etc.  Be creative, this isn’t rocket science. I make sure that I prepare the votives/wicks prior to anything else. If you have to put a small amount of Elmer’s glue on the base of the wick to keep it firmly in place in the center of the votive mold, go nuts. Again, I usually just press it down hard and hope for the best. Get a tray or plate or a metal toaster tray ready and line that bitch with parchment paper or foil. Then line up your votives on the tray to prepare for the pour. This way, if there’s any overflow, or you happen to go into an epileptic seizure while pouring the wax, your entire kitchen won’t be ruined. If you’re feeling cocky and wish to challenge my advice on properly prepping your workspace, hit me up for some suggestions for removing wax from all of your appliances, pans, and marble floors. It only takes about five hours, six 10 mg valiums, and two psychiatric shock-therapy sessions. 
adding some herbs to the mix

Now if you are using herbs for a blessing/spell candle, do some research and add compatible herbs/flowers that are in symbiotic cahoots for your proposed intention. The candles I made this evening are for a love and protection blessing, and the herbs I used to create this candle included Damiana (love and lust), Mandrake Root (aphrodisiac), Rosemary (protection), and Pink Peppercorns (love and passion). When adding herbs to the candle wax mixture, I typically mix them together in a pre-Saged crystal bowl as I meditate on my intention. I then add the herb mixture to the melted candle wax mix post coloring and scenting.  I’m also a big fan of smudging my candle molds with burning sage smoke before pouring the herbed wax mixture into them. This keeps everything clean, pure, and in my opinion, maximizes spell potential. Now your votives should look like this:

now toss them bitches in the fridge

At this point, I take my tray of candles and pop them in the fridge for an hour, checking in on them periodically. This is  good opportunity to reposition your wicks if necessary, before the wax becomes too hard. I then leave them in the fridge [not freezer] for another hour. After an hour or so has passed, I remove them and place them on the counter for about 12 hours so they have completely solidified. Popping them out of the molds is easy, but remember, if you’re not using conventional molds, spray them with cooking spray prior to the pour. This will alleviate the likelihood of you throwing them off the wall in frustration, or cursing me out.

coolin' out for 12 hours

Now that your candles are out of their molds, you can ‘shave’ any irregular sides with a paring knife to achieve a perfect shape [if necessary] and then let them sit for another 12 hours before lighting them. This is especially important if you have scented your candles because the time allowed for them to ‘sit’ will potentiate their fragrance. 

                             And voila, you're done :)

light 'em if you got 'em

Sunday, October 14, 2012

I Don't.

I am painfully tired of having to explain my stance on marriage to women who have been planning their weddings since they were five.  There are two sides to my own argument against it:  the practical ‘I’d rather bid on Michael Jackson memorabilia on eBay than buy a wedding dress’ side, and the ‘I haven’t spiritually plateaued enough to even consider legally binding myself to another human being’ side.  Listen ladies, this doesn’t mean that I hate you and your marriage.  Believe me, I’m far too self-absorbed to give a shit about how you choose to define your relationship, or which social models you use as a guide.  Marriage works for some people, and it certainly means different things to different people.  I get this. 

Furthermore, I am not unreasonable; I realize that not all marriages emanate from personal insecurity or social competition.  Of course those people who require this type of validation certainly exist.  They reveal themselves to me daily on my newsfeed via Facebook.  But overall, the idea of marriage isn’t really a bad thing. However, many of the executions I’ve witnessed -- both the weddings AND subsequent lifestyles -- are about as ridiculous as Michael Jackson recording 'Whatzupwitu' with Eddie Murphy and releasing a video for said 'banger'  featuring a parade of dancing elementary school boys amidst allegations of sexually abusing children.

Speaking only for myself, I can’t subscribe to something that I perceive to be both limiting and unnecessary.  Nor do I require justifying my emotions with legalities.  Better yet, I don’t force my ideas onto anyone else, or try to ‘convert’ marriage-seeking twenty-somethings sporting Vera Bradley bags who order skinny girl margaritas at bars in the hopes that the husband they haven’t met yet is going to buy their next one.  Realistically speaking, I can do everything you do in a marriage without the marriage. Well, except be gay.

Personally, I feel as though I have enough man-made bullshit to cater to, without throwing another complication in the mix.  As human beings entrenched in the third dimensional, highly physical world, we are constantly projecting physical attributes upon intangible concepts to make them palatable for us, i.e. ‘love.’  We’re uncomfortable with the abstract, and rely heavily on the forced physicalization of things we can’t wrap our head around otherwise, or successfully ‘own.’  Not to mention, life is cyclical; people grow and people CHANGE. It is inevitable. Much like a photograph, through marriage we try to capture the moment, the feeling, the emotion that we’re experiencing, and try to make it last forever. We spend less time actually enjoying people and more time figuring out how we can enslave them. We humans are such bastards.  

Doubtlessly, I’m not above consumerism. While you’re planning your $100,000 wedding, I’m closing out my 401K to bid on a piece of lint from one of Michael Jackson's socks. Clearly I'm not a beacon of fiscal savvy, but I’ve never understood the motivation behind all of these lavish weddings, much in the way I’ve never understood those over-the-top fundraisers where they target the wealthy to drop $10,000 on a table at an event where a percentage goes to said charity. Why don’t they just give all the money directly to the cause itself, if everyone’s being so damn philanthropic? Oh right, because people love to show off. 

Additionally, I’m far too flighty for marriage.  I can’t even commit to a gender. Hell, I can’t even commit to a deodorant. Don’t get me wrong, we all know marriage today is a big joke, and about as disposable as a used tampon, yet the implied permanence is rather alarming.  The way I see it, anyone who has ever meant anything to me, I’ve been married to.  My relationships are always intense.  I’m intense.  Is it necessary to get the court system involved?  If I’m dealing with the court, it better be because I’ve violated my probation again -- not because I’ve resigned my life to someone else. Yet every day, in a cubicle not so far away, lies a twenty-three year old -- fresh out the university -- who’s holding down an uninspiring 9-5, aggressively flipping through a 500 page Bride Today catalogue on her lunch break; completely undaunted by the fact that she doesn’t even have a boyfriend.

Lastly, the final reason I find marriage so utterly intolerable is because divorce is so damn expensive. As I write this, I can assure you I’m not at home burning my bra. Nor do I desire to throw a Molotov cocktail into your Japanese cross-over vehicle, or kidnap your children from their soccer practice and kill them. Ok, maybe I do a little.


A girl who believes that even if you’re cohabitating with the object of your desire, you should maintain separate rooms and separate beds.

Anticipate crowd response:

“Me and Jimmy have been married for three years, and we were only motivated by LOVE! And we didn’t spend anything close to $100,000 on our wedding. My hairdresser’s aunt’s dog hooked us up with the venue. Now we have two beautiful children who are probably going to fix the hole in the ozone layer.”

“You sound bitter. You probably can’t get a date.”

“Tax break.”

"You're a dick."


Thursday, February 23, 2012

A5s Be Wearin' Some Fucked Up Shit

As anyone who is not legally blind, or dealing with a current pepper spray situation, can attest to, A5s be wearing some fucked up shit. True, some great gems come from observing them in their natural habitat (the Asian gaming section of the RainMaker Casino @ Foxwoods), but some of the best displays of foo-wrong fashion are the random shots taken on the subway, at the food court in the Galleria, or in line at the bank (second to Jews, these guys LOVE their paper!). After scrolling through my phone and seeing way too many pictures of A5s wearing fucked up shit, I decided to dedicate a section of my blog to the phenomenon, and call it: A5s Be Wearin' Some Fucked Up Shit. 

I'm not gonna hit you with a barrage of imagery right now, nor will I include pictures of my family, but I'll start you off with this one prize -- the very first in my photo portfolio -- and post to this particular blog weekly. As it stands, I have enough material to get us through 2014. 

P.S.  This blog is my direct response to someone asking me to 'lay off' the A5 shit for a while. I can't help it; I love to watch people writhe in discomfort! Look for my next blog entry, I'm Not A Racist, I'm A Realist: Welcome To Reality, coming soon.

Konnichiwa, bitches!

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Dear Peaches...

Every once in a while I get emails from cute girls in leggings and tunic sweaters asking me if I would consider dishing advice on this blog; basically turning it into an Advice Column. Unfortunately, I don't have industrial levels of advice to dispense within this kind of platform. I mean really, would I be working at a bar and writing this blog if I had even half of the answers? Not to mention, I'm sure there would exist some kind of conflict of interest between my recent Psych Eval and attempting to guide others in the right direction. However, after receiving an email from one of my favorite A5s, l've been inspired to leave you with one suggestive blurb regarding women interacting with other women, coming from a woman** who has historically been hated on by other women.***  If you're like me, and sincerely trying to keep your Assault and Battery charges to a minimum this 2012 calendar year, take note of the following simple advice:

Be funny first, smart second, and pretty third.

When entering a room full of these piranhas, launch into a quick couple lines of self-depreciating humor. Give it about 20 to 30 seconds to allow their panties to soften and gradually release from their anal cavity.  Then watch in disbelief as their liquid eye liner becomes a little less taut

Hope this helps. And if it doesn't, just remember the order of operations: 1. Put hair up 2. Take earrings out 3. Remove heels.

Cheerio, bitches

** bad ass chick 
*** mentally under-developed ratchet UGG-sporting counts

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Year of the Dragon Resolutions

It's that time of year again. Time to start making lofty lists of things you probably won't accomplish in an effort to harness some kind of self-improvement in the face of one too many Lindor truffles. Since making lists of shit I will never do happens to be one of my guilty pleasures, here we go:

1. Stop giving complete assholes the time of day. No really, when the neighborhood junkie asks me if I know what time it is, I'm just going to keep walking.

2. Buy less wife beaters. Sometime in early October I realized I owned 9 of the same color pink Victoria's Secret beater. Like Steve Jobs, I have unconsciously created a uniform for myself. I spent 11 years in a uniform to satisfy the Archdiocese of Boston. This is either a symptom of PTSD, or sheer insanity. In any event, it must be stopped.

3. Love myself more than I love you, so I can eventually love you more than I love myself and I can practice loving me again next year. Hey, it's called 'anticipation.'

4. Go back to school for something that actually justifies the loans. Here's a hint for all of you recent high school grads: it's not English! But hell, if you decide to ignore this warning and commit yourself to 'your passion' as an undergrad, you better learn how to make a damn good martini. Oh, and bankruptcy doesn't get rid of your loans, just the flatscreen you charged in 2001.

5. Get Zuki down to twenty pounds.

6. Continue not penciling in my eyebrows. Doing the aforementioned is false advertising - no better than a padded bra - but you'd be amazed by the amount of social pressure and actual recommendations to do so by people I don't even know. Refuse and resist.

7. Figure out the difference between Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez.

8. Fix the Kanji symbol on my back that I was led to believe means 'the bull' (astrological reference) but probably means 'stupid round eye.'  I plan on 'feminizing' it with random peach blossoms since the options for artistic repair on this permanent aesthetic tragedy are fairly limited.

9. Finish my memoir, Growing Up Stuck: A Pit bull Ate My Panties and Other Tales

10. Avoid death via apocalypse at all costs.