The Frenemy.

 An Artist’s Depiction of My Organs

Sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion that I treat my body like shit. You know, because of all the booze and the creamy dairy cholesterol bombs I shove in the old mouth trap on the regular. I imagine if my liver could talk, it wouldn’t. It would just cry and whimper in the corner. However, I finally feel guilty enough to do it a solid and give it a break for a bit.

One week.

No booze. No cheese. No dairy. No processed foods. No caffeine. Kill me.

Starting the day off with this recipe: http://zoomyummy.com/2011/01/13/detox-smoothie/

Hopefully, this break will make me feel enlightened, peaceful, and anew. Then I can go back to all the gin and Sun Chips and the abuse. That being said, excuse me if my blog has a nicer tone to it for seven days. That’s just the rays of sunshine exploding off my glowy skin. Kidding. I have enough sarcastic ragin’ stored in me in my camel hump. Actually, there’s probably some wine in there, too.

People. I’m really going to need your support in this trying time. Help me?

Update: One super heavy Eggs Benedict brunch, a strong vodka tonic and a string cheese binge later… I’m ready to go. I also think I’m going to give up ‘meeting guys when drunk.’ For-hopefully-ever. More on that later…

I went out tonight and ate avocados and plantains and had absinthe rum cocktails with a good friend. We didn’t hit on anybody and we didn’t try to meet people. Instead, we just shoved our faces with arepas (which if you haven’t had them, go die until you have) and admired hot bartenders on a zebra print couch. This night really reminded me how important friends are to have, and this has inspired another drunken toast: 

To the friends who

•  allow you to eat like a slob. You can have guacamole pouring out of your mouth like Shrek slime and it only inspires a loving laugh. Even though you’re fucking disgusting and should never eat in public.
• encourage you to eat an amount that is twice the legal limit of stomach capacity. It’s pretty inspiring to be around somebody who believes that consuming a bag of Cape Cod potato chips and onion dip while watching a movie is a necessity and totally part of a ‘girl’s night.’
• have seen your I-Pod.
• let you tell your lame ass stories twice.
• want you to get so ripping drunk you admit terrible secrets, bum cigarettes off strangers, and produce the kind of laugh that makes dogs cringe and people run away in fear of Godzilla.
• make you buy that sixth drink because ‘you’re going through something.’ This could be anything from ‘breakup’ to ‘bored.’
• promise you there is something better out there and you believe them because they are so smart and pretty.
• insult the person who broke up with you in such an offensive, dirty c*nt way that you can’t repeat it to anybody else. But it’s TRUE. Ugh I hate him!
• let you be upset for weeks without getting like ‘oh ew get over that’ like some other bitch ass people might.
• allow you to say ‘this is absurd! I’m not upset!’ as you do that weird laugh while you’re crying because you didn’t expect to cry hysterically. And now you are. And they’re okay with it.
• let you wear their skirts and shirts because what, you’re going to buy a new wardrobe? Fuck that. I am friends with you, you give me nice dress for Friday.
• will let you say ‘i’ve never felt this way before’ before they rip apart the times you’ve said that and make you see the real situation at large.
• Did I say Situation? They forgive you for watching Jersey Shore.
• you can spend a whole day with making fun of other people and looking at internet things. Should we do something? you say. But we are!
• slip in how pretty you are because you really fucking love compliments and that’s nice to hear, but it’s not like you’re one of those girls that needs it LIKE YOU DON’T CARE. Am I pretty? Aw, thanks.
• call you immediately when you text ‘ugh can you talk?’ because you’re upset about some douchewad that is in a band and also should eat sewer water.
• will tell you you look awful in that outfit, because really, it’s unflattering. Honesty is the best policy, and this floral dress makes you look like an opium field full of thighs.
• will go to brunch with you. Brunch is like the meal of the sirens. It calls you with it’s delicious egg benedict pancake dishes, but destroys you with daylight, your screeching hangover, runny makeup and stained sweatpants. Friends who brunch are forever. It’s a lovely meal of ‘I don’t give a FUCK it’s SaturNOON.’
• will be your winglady.
• will eat so many wings with you.
• thinks that going to the gym ONE time and not procrastinating ONCE is a big accomplishment that should be commended.
• will listen to your boring work stories, boring thesis paper ideas, boring grocery store lists. You are being so boring! They will listen!
• will dance with you the same way you dance by yourself in your underwear like a rabid feral cat.
• will promise you they will rock with you on rocking chairs when you are old and you are cat ladies who knit throw pillows to forget.
• sleep in your bed but give you your space. If I wanted to spoon, I’d find a needy high school boyfriend.
• knows the kind of days you need a coffee break and the kind of days you need to day drink.
• make other people think you are weird creepy lesbian weirdos, which is so fucking dumb because if you are actually a lesbian you would just use your friends to complain about how much girls suck instead of guys suck. No difference! Don’t fuck your friends, you homophobic moron!
• have seen you without a bra or makeup and haven’t screamed.
• are there. Just always there. And for that, I thank you.

Last glass of wine for the night, I toast to you!

                                

I cannot express to you guys how much I hate text messaging. I hate knowing that relationships can blossom without any physical or verbal contact. I hate that my drunken antics become more recordable. I hate that I can be contacted wherever or whatever I’m doing. But mostly I hate the way that I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all. (I did it! I made the movie joke!)

There’s a silver lining in this. One of the only perks of text messaging is being able to lie easier. You can bullshit all sorts of wonderful ways with texts, and that is the only reason I still keep my phone around at all. Lying is thrilling! Anyway, I decided to do a bit of a phone translation for you, so you can keep track of the bullshit you’re sending…and the bullshit you may be receiving:

When somebody asks “What R U doin”

You say:  nothing much, you?/ Option Two: Just trying to stream that Banksy documentary online, thinking about maybe going for a run, cleaning up the house while listening to The National, and other examples of ‘not really cool but you think it’s cool given what you’re actually doing.’

You mean: At this second, I’m watching back episodes of Oprah and crying my eyes off at all of the love and things. I’m thinking about masturbating but that would require energy and I am a ball of sloth today. You can’t see me, but I’m eating a bowl of tortilla chip crumbs, shredded cheese, and salsa with a spoon. I call this my ‘nacho soup.’ I’m wearing sweatpants I’ve worn to bed for three days but I keep them on till 5pm and should consider washing them HA. Not sure, but also pretty sure I have an odor. If you caught me five minutes ago, I was parading my cat around the room like he was an airplane and then I scratched my armpits for six minutes.  Would you like to hear what Internet puppies I have found online? 

When somebody asks “What R U doin tonight”

You say: probably going to a party or hanging with some friends at bar……

You mean: The ellipses mean please invite me somewhere because of course I’m doing fucking nothing. My plans are usually ‘let me text bomb a bunch of people at 9pm being like oh what’s up guys feed me party! I don’t have time to make plans because I was napping all Saturday and thinking about not doing laundry. Also…I don’t even give a shit if I do anything. If I get all dolled up to a party I knew I was going to a week ago, I’d just try to make out with some guitarist who smells like PBR and has a pedophile mustache. And have a terrible time. Therefore, I’d also be okay with ‘eh I’m really tired, I’ll stay in tonight’ so I can trek it to the grocery. I’ll get a flask of whiskey and six pounds of chips candy there. Then I’ll gchat all night and somehow still fall asleep at 3am. Why.. what’s good?

When somebody asks “How’s your night?”

You say: lame it’s so boring

You mean: I’m willing to throw my fun funny friends under the bus because I want you to invite me over so we can do it now.

When somebody asks “???”

You say: Sorrrrry, was away from my phone

You mean: No I wasn’t you are boring me. Don’t take it too personally, I just find you boring AT THE MOMENT. The phone was right here, I had the phone in my mouth the whole time. Just..waiting for somebody hotter.

When somebody says “Yup”

You say: any response at all

You mean: DON’T YOU DARE WALK AWAY FROM ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU because I am very needy. Why don’t you like me? Seriously, don’t say K again or so help me God I will go over there and rip your brain out with my bare hands. Love you! I LOVE YOU.

You say: ! I mis u swoooooooooo mcucccch!! 

You mean: Usually I am a responsible female. I am aware of how spelling and grammar function. However, today I have had a little too much of the..let’s call it the sauce. The dancing juice. Three jameson and diet cokes. Given that info, it’s 2am. I have either looked through my phone to find some old friend I haven’t been in contact with because I want to get a text of love that FEELS GOOD. If you are a best friend of mine, just know I am upset at the fact that I cannot be there to grab your chest or take shots with you. And if you are somebody I sleep with, please understand that I am probably down to have sex with you at the moment. If you are kind of into that, you should ask me where I am now. I will sex you accordingly.

You say: Where r u?

FACT: 90% of text messages are sent drunk, horny or both. That’s not a fact, I’m not a fucking scientist. But after 11:30, you could say “hey dude, I just murdered a school bus of seals while running around with lobster claws and just generally being alive” and that probably means I want to bone you. 

The other reasons I send texts is because I’m bored, want to know your location or plans but hate the sound of your voice, or I’m being a needy possessive person trying to keep tabs on my significant other. However, most of them are about sex. Yay for passive-aggressive sex propositions!

Oh and maybe next week! That usually means…maybe fucking never. Just so you know.

Hey, you know what? I can read and write. Could this mean that I might one day be able to be a hard-hitting journalist for Cosmopolitan magazine? Maybe. But what if I’m two legs in a skirt who can eat gallons of ice creams, knows how to have sex, and watches the occasional Katherine Heigl movie? DING DING QUALIFIED. Anyway, in case if any Cosmo editors are readin’ the old blog (which I’m sure they totally are if like, Mean Girls 2 isn’t on) I’ve taken the liberty to suggest some future articles:

1. Could Your Diet Make You More Attractive? 
2. 401 K(inky): How To Only Have Sex With Stockbrokers
3. Forty Trendy Dresses That Show Off Your Vagina
4. How Not Having a Boyfriend Can Get You Murdered
5. Blowjob Tips To Get You Engaged or Employed!
6. Jobs: Let’s Focus On The Appropriate Skirt, Though
7. Are Less Attractive Friends the New Friends?
8. You’re Thirty, Here’s Why You Should Still Listen to Taylor Swift
9. Lesbians Until Graduation Are The Only Lesbians
10. Food and Men: Why You Love Them and They Hate You
11. Sexts or Chick Lit: What You Should Be Reading
12. Makeup Tips for Ugly Bitches featuring Gorgeous Models
13. We Asked 100 Guys On The Street: Do You Think I’m Pretty?
14. Watch How Many Times We Can Say Member Instead of Penis
15. BEACH BODY OR ELSE
16. 77 Sex Postions That Pull Your Leg Muscles
17. Are Your Breasts Fucking Weird? 
18. Poll: Handjobs or Personality on the First Date?
19. “I Had An Orgasm”: One Slut’s Shocking Story
20. The Benefits of Faking a Pregnancy
21. Egg Whites and Salmon
22. Sexy Sexy Sex: How to have sex while losing five pounds and having cocktails with your girlfriends
23. John Mayer and Dane Cook: Why We’ll Never Learn
24. Celebrity Hair and You’ll Never Have It
25. Snag A Guy Who Ignores You!
26. Should you murder your cat?
27. How To Reveal To Your Gyno You’re A Whore
28. Gold Eyeshadow, Chunky Necklaces, Belly-Flattening Tips, Skin Savers, Meeting Men At Bars: New Issue, Same Fucking Article.
29. Periods: God’s Way Of Punishing You For Being A Woman

Got any more?

I received an email from a reader this morning that filled me with the kind of somber understanding that usually comes only from watching drunk girls throwing up into a toilet. I’ve been there, sister! Stay strong!:

Why is it that everytime I shave AND wear my cute underwear I never end up hooking [up]? But on the days when I haven’t showered in days, my pits are hairy, and I smell like dollar draft night, I always end up bringing home Mr. Right Now?

Dear lady, do not fret, because you are only experiencing the natural laws of the universe. Oh, and screw you for getting dollar drafts, hooker! ANYWAY. There are important rules you need to understand for sex. Not just regular rules that are made to be broken like “don’t piss in the pool” and “don’t take kittens home that are not your kittens.” These are unbroken laws, laws as old and feared as sex itself. Don’t know them? I’ll explain:

LAWS OF SEX:

• You will never have sex the day of a shave. The moment you rub the razor on your delicate flower skin, the sex gods will damn you and send a curse of a thousand suns on your Skintimate Raspberry foamed legs. Instead, you must wait until you have the thorniest of hairs growing on yourself. No roses, just thorns. You are as coarse as coarsely chopped garlic. You are WEEDY. This curse represents the Prince Phillip fighting through the brush to get to Princess Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, because Taylor Swift said “today was a fairytale” and I believe her. If he loves you, he will stab his way through the sharpest, coarsest of hairs. Ew. 
• If you dress up, you also will never have sex. The laborious moments you spend doing your hair, trying the smoky eye, and slipping into the dress you spent 35 dollars on fuck you that’s a lot will mean nothing to the overlords of the sex world. They will laugh on their Zeus mountain and merely wait until you are wearing your ratty old bra and your hair is at your frizziest. You will have a pimple. You will have not waxed your face. And you will get laid. Contrary to popular understanding, this won’t make you feel ‘prettier’ or more natural or some shit, it’ll only make you scream louder when you see your morning after rat’s nest hair. Who resides in this lair you will scream and a dove with a condom will fly out of it.
• Wearing sexy underwear? Fuck you, you’ll sleep alone. Wearing Spanx? Too cliche, you’ll probably just dry hump somebody and that’ll be that. Wearing ratty old underwear you’ve had since high school and has at least three holes and some sort of saying on the ass? Welcome to sex world!
• You will go to the bathroom right before your sex romp and realize you smell kind of like some sort of cheese that is blue and moldy. Or you will notice a large patch of thigh hair that has not been taken care of for a while. Or you will notice a dry patch of skin. Or, and this is most likely, you will realize that the person you are about to intercourse with is a: mistake, an ex, a bad idea, a terrible idea, a gross idea in the morning. Now it’s too laaaateeee! Enjoy, fuckers!
• When you have intercourse, you will only make terrifying and disgusting noises with your mouth. There might be drool. There might be sweat on weird places like your shoulders. Point is, your body will not be kind to you. It will begin to do something cruel, like it has been mad at you for all these weeks and is now plotting the ultimate revenge. This evil revenge will be:
• THE SQUISH: You will squish. You will make squish sounds. I am not going to say where they will be because I’m no scientist and the fact is, you’ll never know where these loud little bastards will turn up. All I can tell you is never think you are safe and never think you are in the clear. Always be vigilant, always be aware. Watch the movie Red Dawn, and you might understand. If you haven’t seen that movie, it’s when a bunch of hot kids think they’re in the clear of America and then the Russians invade Ohio or whatever. Charlie Sheen’s in it. Replace Russians with gross noises, and we’ve got ourselves a metaphor! Not really.
• Doggy style no go smoothly. Why? Dogs don’t deserve to be brought into your world of sin.
• Fight for the climax. It’s never an easy fight. There’s going to be a whole lot of obstacles and a whole lot of battles to be had. If we’re going with the whole ‘so sex is like war movies,’ vein, liken this one to Saving Private Ryan. You know it’s alive and out there but it’s just going to be a hell of a fight to get to it! Also, thinking of Matt Damon sometimes helps. Really, he was so cute in 30 Rock! Anyway, the odds are against you, hate to say. You’re going to need the strength of a dragon and the mind of a whore. Fight the good fight, you deserve it!
• USE A FORM OF BIRTH CONTROL, ASSHOLE.
• You will never, ever look in the mirror after sex and say ‘damn.’ You will always say “FUUUUUUU” and if you say ‘damn’ you are a Tituba witch and I will find you and burn you and your restrained eyeliner.
• And like the elusive gold at the end of the rainbow, the chalice that Indiana Jones finds that Jesus drank out of, or the Peanut M&M without a peanut in it..when you find it? It’s damn good. 

Good luck out there, people. Good luck.

TAGLINE: From the director of a movie about a lovable whore….DAYS ARE A THING!

The Film: Valentine’s Day

Starring: So many famous people! Look at all these fucking stars shining bright! Valentines’ Day is a film with an ensemble cast, which basically means “Anne Hathaway is doing a scene with Queen Latifah? Holy Pluto, who woulda thunk it, magical wizards minds of Hollywood?!” An ensemble cast also means you can just ball up a sensible plot and throw it into a fiery trashbin, feeding the flames only with dignity death and Julia Roberts’ laugh. Anytime you might ask yourself why exactly this film was made, the director just chucks a George Lopez at you and you are distracted. Romantic songs! However, we must all remember that any plot is worth sacrificing to feed Topher Grace’s powerhouse comeback performance, and that is what we get with this ‘film.’

Premise: It’s Valentine’s Day! !!!!!!!!!!!! (that’s it)

The entire premise functions only on a particular belief of the most annoyingly optimistic college girls and pessimistic middle-aged divorcees: Valentine’s Day is really fucking important. It centers around 46 thin and sexy people (open an Us Weekly. Find a ‘hot bikini bod’ article. Somebody in that article will be in this movie) on the most yawn-inspiring and alienating holiday of the year. If Valentine’s Day could speak it would say “Hey you! Wanna get laid by somebody you’ve already slept with? Wanna eat some fucking chocolate? Come celebrate me! Single? Why don’t you go listen to Screaming Infidelities again you sad sack of shit!” Well, screw you, holiday..I will drink and cry alone whatever day I choose to. A lot of days. Anyway, so the writers decided a good film would be to have cold-cut turkey sandwich people stop their whole adult lives in order to express how this day is crucial to everybody’s happiness. All while looking pathetic yet attractive! These people are so boring. They are J. Crew ruffle-wearers, scrambled eggs at 7am eaters,  and your basic boring drywall characters. How indifferent I am to all their problems!

The thing is, Valentine’s Day stopped being important to me when I stopped having to get those little cardboard cards for everybody in my elementary school class. That always sucked because I also had to give one of my precious gifts to even the WEIRD kid. Don’t worry, my plan was to carefully choose the most boring card to bestow upon him. This usually meant some Disney side character like Simba’s mom, the ugliest kitten, or the BLUE Power Ranger. I never thought this would resonate with me as an adult. Okay, maybe I cared about Valentine’s Day when I was in high school and would listen to Kelly Clarkson and fantasize about the funny guy in my English class. Either way, I thought the importance of a holiday devoted to ‘ALONE IS LONELY’ would somehow fade with age. Shouldn’t you not put so much stock in finding a soulmate on on particular day if you are old enough to..understand simple life conflicts? Hold intelligent conversations? Read? Yet somehow, here is Anne “Catwoman” Hathaway thinking about how Valentine’s Day affects her life and self-worth. And here is Jennifer Garner making rash decisions about her romantic future because today is a day that happens! And here is my brain melting into a pot of pathetic stew.

The point is, it doesn’t matter what this movie is about. It’s really a bunch of rich celebrities getting richer and put into stupid situations that would never happen. It’s also about Taylor Swift getting a movie role and SERIOUSLY..Taylor Swift, do me a favor. You want me to like you? Go write a breakup song that goes “Fuck you your dick was small/bought a bottle of wine and fuckin’ drank it all/threw up on your picture and I texted an ex/hate your ugly ass guts now I’ll have rebound sex” and I’ll dig it. Write a romance song called “today was a fairytale/you bought me some gin/told me I was pretty before you got it in” and I will gladly take what you’re putting down. Until then, you’re just not my jam.

I digress. Spoiler alert: the people who suck end up single and the people who are portrayed as nice quirky dress-wearing characters end up with somebody to love. Moral? Single is BAD! Ashton Kutcher is GOOD! I find this terrible.

Rating: 5 out of 5 STARS

 I think I would recommend pouring some sort of gasoline on your skin and setting it to flame instead of watching this film. Personally, I’m anxiously awaiting the ensemble St Patrick’s Day, where we watch our favorite celebrities get sloshed and get arrested at 3pm for public intoxication! Choices!

TRIPPIN’ BALLZ, DUDE

I believe I had some intense moments of genius tonight, much like Grandmother Willow. ‘Oh yeah, Disney taught me all sorts of stuff like I should talk to fucking trees for advice.’ Here’s a sample of my brain of thought, in case you needed some more brain of your very own: 

1. LOL is dead to us all: 

Whenever somebody types LOL to me, I never believe them. I know the real story: you’re acknowledging that what I said was meant to be funny but you have as much interest in it as my dog has in me when I have no snackmeat. Don’t give NO shits. When I say something awesome like ‘did you think that Doogie Howser was the first openly gay character on television because that would be really awesome’ and I get an LOL back I’m like ‘bitch you don’t even care.’ It’s like the hahahaha’s sarcastic c*nty smug sister. I only trust it when you say the telling phrase that follows the LOL that proves you are really giggling out your mouth: LOL…I’m actually laughing at that. You have to fucking clarify. It means nothing! Death to LOL! And emoticons cuz really? You need to express your written feelings..with a picture of a face?

2. Fan Girl Syndrome should be in a psychology textbook.

It should be a diagnosable thing that makes you legitimately crazy because fan girls are something serious. They have no qualms in ripping you limb from limb because you don’t find Edward Cullen sexy when he glitters. Did Edward Cullen have sex with Ke$ha? That’s a joke that’s been made a million times, right? Anyway, fan girls are like teenaged werewolves without the fun of Michael J. Fox winning the basketball game. They’re like teenaged werewolves if Michael J. Fox ripped off the face of anybody who got a tweet back from Justin Bieber. They are Law and Order eps waiting to happen, and often the cause of all of this is Justin Bieber. Before all the birds dropped from the sky, Bieber was born and he is a sign of the end of days. Justin Bieber is like the bell to the Pavlov’s Dog Fan Girls. He starts singing, they start believing he loves them, and then they murder all those who stand in their way. And by ‘stand in their way’ I mean ‘has also never met Justin Bieber.’  Even posters are a weird concept. You’re putting up a giant enlarged face portrait of somebody you have never spoken to.  ”Bitch you don’t KNOW MY LIFE” comes to mind. I mean, sure, I know for a fact that at least two or three celebrities would totally want to marry me if they got to know me. That’s just my voodoo spells.

3. SNACKETIZERS: 

I think there’s some unwritten rule that snacks, unless leftovers, must never be microwaved. Snacks are chips and dip and cheese and old lo-mein. If you start microwaving frozen foods like pigs in a blanket or mini tacos or soy nuggets, you have entered appetizer territory. Mini hot foods are appetizers. Appetizers are for parties and they are the foreplay of Cheesecake Factory meals. You can’t just eat them WHENEVER because they are not anytime like snack! Well, I am a rebel at heart and I refuse to be restricted by these four walls. I know damn well I have some mini crab cakes in my fridge I’d like to mouth sex with. I know I have some curry stix and some quiche somethings in there, too. If somebody saw me with these microwaved dishes they’d be like “I’m freaking out right now. bro.” Screw the social norms! I will eat these foods when I want, even if it is not New Years or I ordered a veggie burger. Don’t hate the player.  

4. Nobody’s going to save you.

What’s with some people and all the ‘someone I love and date is going to swoop down and save me’ mentality? I hear this way too often from things like that song “Wonderwall.” I see this way too often in those hipster pictures of some braid girl being hunched over staring at the mountains, caption’s like THE STARZ ARE MY SAD WHERE ARE YOU? ALONE! And then it becomes totally okay to long for somebody to make you feel better because you are so sad when you are single. That’s bullshit! You’re sad when you’re fucking SAD. Love shouldn’t be equated with being weak and lonely until somebody kisses all the pain away. Nah. Somebody should come along and want to get sweaty on you and share your food and watch movies with you, not be your Peter Parker Psychiatrist. Instead of staring out into the great unknown thinking some person you can cling on is going to make you the strong iron monster you knew you could be, enjoy your own company. Or you know, get help until you feel better. I would say ‘save yourself’ but that’s cheesy as shit because you don’t need ‘saving’ unless you are hanging over some kind of ledge. So I’ll stay “stop fucking whining.” Nobody wants to date a crumpled pile of laundry, especially one that static clings to you like you are the one with all answers. 

..is the name of a Goosebumps book I read. Goosebumps books taught me a lot about life, like don’t buy a ventriloquist dummy or put a mask on your face or go to camp ever.

But this post isn’t about that because today is National Cheese Lovers Day. To say I’m a cheese lover is kind of like saying ‘oh hey, so do you love air?’ No, I don’t LOVE it I just cannot function without it. But also, I love it. To quote Mother Teresa,

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.

Anyway, I’ve been working on a potential ‘ode to cheese’ for a while, and I can’t think of a better day to list some of the reasons I love it. Although I was tempted to list “cheese can’t break up with you” as the first reason, I was like bitch, I eat whole blocks of cheese at one time it most certainly can leave you bloated and alone.

1. Makes Wine Binges Acceptable: It’s no secret that I love wine. It’s no secret that nothing makes me shit-happier than sitting down, corking open a bottle of 6 dollar fermented grape, and chugging down the whole thing in a glass that is probably not a wine glass. The only thing that makes this not a terrifying glimpse into some dark future of ‘housewife pill popping Mary Kay saleslady’ is a block of brie. If you have cheese and wine, whether by yourself or with friends, you’re not drunk. You’re French. And nobody wants to be French more than young urban females like myself. It’s why I have that striped shirt that makes my breasts look like dowdy softballs. Anyway, when people say “why are you drinking a jug of Carlos Rossi in a large HeartWalk t-shirt at 8am?” Just point to the cheese, say “Europe” and they will respect you. Europeans do loads of avant-garde, artistic shit us Americans don’t understand.

2. Makes any slut party classier: When I get together with my lady friends, we love talking about nasty sex things, gross hook up stories, and revealing gossip about everybody who isn’t in the room. The sound is not unlike clucking chickens if chickens just said “dick dick” instead. It’s crass, it’s graphic…did somebody say Boursin?! All of a sudden, we’re in a commercial for expensive crackers, Chicos, or Ikea. We’ve graduated from Charm School while remaining entirely on our knees. Rule: if you bring a cheese over seven dollars to a party, we’re not brassy doorknobs. We’re elegant ladies having an elegant time. 

3. Makes any sandwich better and then makes THE BEST SANDWICH: Cheese is to a sandwich like Joseph Gordon Levitt is to movies- it makes anything yummier, but by itself it’s also the best thing I’d like to shove in my mouth. I want to eat JGL and cheese. And sandwiches. What won’t I put in my mouth? Nothing short of a missile. Anyway, the rule of thumb is: If you make a sandwich with any ingredients you say ‘oh fuck it let me throw this piece of cheese on it’ and it’s better no matter what else you’ve done with it. Cheese makes nothing worse. Oh, and then..grilled cheese. The Grilled Cheese.  Sex in food is cheese butter and toast. And like sex, it’s done just as well drunk or sober and you moan a lot when you eat it. Fuck, there are so many metaphors in this.

4. THE TRIFECTA OF DELICIOUS FOOD:

a. Pizza: A handheld rainbow of joy. I would marry and make love and raise a family of pizzas if I could.

b. Mac and Cheese: has the range of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. At it’s lowest, it is street-hooker boxed mac with powdered cheese that is still pretty and delicious but let’s face it, a bit cheap. A heart of gold whore. Yet give it a couple of dollars and a fancy dress, it is a Chanel wearing, truffled lobster mac with gruyere and other names I can’t pronounce. Variety!

c. Nachos: A tortilla is an edible plate for cheese. Respect it.

5. There are SO MANY OPTIONS: Sure, you can be a fancy ass and eat your chevre and your Danish Blue. Or you can eat Velveeta and American Cheese Singles. I don’t give a shit about your judgement, Velveeta is like the satin sheets of food and it’s good. Regardless, there are millions of  cheeses, and I will try them all. #FOODKNOWLEDGE (?!?!)

And yeah, I don’t give a shit that it’s full of fat and calories or whatever. It has dairy, so it’s HEALTHY. I’m a girl and I love to eat cheese. I know that everybody wants us ladies to eat only salad air so we will be forever thin and hungry. But fuck you! Moderation? If I fucking feel like it. I run around sometimes. I eat the healthy Laughing Cow 35 calorie cheese on occasion. Sometimes I eat three blocks of the 3.00 Trader Joe’s Fontina in a month. Who gives a shit?  Cheese is fucking delicious, and eating as healthy as you can while also paying attention to what you crave is delicious too. Hell yeah.

                            

I understand that you’re usually a very strong ‘you go grrrrl’ type. I get that you look like you punch people if they cut you on the Target line. You’re a tough ass bitch, and you just got..screwed. Burned. Oofed. I want to tell you this: just like it’s okay to occasionally listen to pop music on your I-Pod when working out, it’s also okay to feel weaksad about the way somebody treats you. And maybe even kind of mope about it. Like a tiny little hamster in a little woodchip pile, you are allowed your sad little me time too. You know why? Sometimes people are incredibly shitty. And instead of chopping them into a million pieces and scattering them across various parts of the city, you can get all sniffly and acknowledge when someone is not fucking POLITE. To your feelings, sure, but also in the fast lane on the highway. It’s like, are you changing lanes or not, bro? MERGE. Speaking of, Changing Lanes is a pretty bad movie with Ben Affleck. Most times, I relate everything to Ben Affleck so I can make this segue: douchebags. I’m talking about douchebags.

Everybody kisses them once in a while. Everybody gets fooled by them, too. I’m not talking about the puka-necklace wearing, wrist cuffers whose favorite book is ‘anything by Dan Brown’ obvious douchebags. I’m talking about the tricky ones that seem pretty cool until they pull a shitty move like ‘hey so I’m going to be so rude to you now.’ And you’re like hot damn surprise, you tricksy! (Was that a Gollum reference? Welp, I’m gettin’ laid never.) 

Point is, you’re allowed to feel bad about this. It’s awful. Buy the decorations, ladies, because sometimes pity parties are okay. Did I say decorations? I don’t buy those. I tape one balloon to the wall and say fuck it, I have whiskey and hummus what else does a party need? Oh, shit. Music. Now I gotta make a stupid party mix. This is why I don’t like having friends!

PIty Party, right. I promise you, it won’t make you become one of..those girls. The ones who keep talking about their heart walls being built up and down every three days for whatever guy gives them a hug at the school formal. “I’m letting my walls down!” What kind of slow-ass wall breakers do you have? You taking it down a brick at a time? Side note, I have to put up a wall for my new apartment and that shit is costing me $895 dollars! Imagine if I had to do that every time I met some piece of Slimer in a Hanes t-shirt who liked the same kind of music I do? Broken bank, is what! Furthermore, I’m just going to put this out there: hearts don’t have walls. BOOM. Science lesson, straight from an former English major.

Forget walls. Your heart will pump blood and your brain will love and like and be fooled. Now’s the time to shove at least six burritos in your mouth and then decide to go on some sort of color coded diet for three days. Orange diet: Cheetos, squash, cheddar, beer (?), sherbert. Red diet: BLOODQUENCH. Go listen to one song 800 times because it makes you upset (Band of Horses: Nobody’s Gonna Love You is a good start). Go bother your friends. Relish in being upset for a second. It doesn’t make you weak, it makes you a feeling human who doesn’t want to get bashed in the face again with an asshole punch. Putting your energy into somebody takes a bit out of you, and I know that you’re picky and don’t do it often. It’s a blow, a ‘what do you mean 30 Rock isn’t new this week!?!?!?’  It takes a diva moment to get over it. Real tears, real talk. Fact: Two days of tears does not a Taylor Swift make! You’re still safe!

Finally, listen to your gut next time. You know when you feel something in your stomach like, DANGER DANGER and you’re like LOL and then two weeks later you’re like ‘circle moment, Oprah!’ and everything sucks? Yeah. Listen to yourself next time. Bitch knows.

In the meantime, sit in a ball and ask yourself..are cupcakes or pie better? Because cupcakes are like fucking balls of cake with frosting hats and pie slices are just triangles of fruit joy. I mean, the answer is clearly pie. But ….see what I did? I distracted you! Get distracted. Move on. You’re one strong bitch! Huzzah! 

Email Iamthefrenemy@gmail.com or drop in my ask box your:

• fancy snackies
• drunk munchies
• party recipes
• ugh, fine. drinks too.
• a hot ass nyc man chef  I can have on call. jah know???

or any simple cheap yummm recipes you think I might want to have. I need to assemble some sort of drunk recipe cookbook or something. Or just post recipes on saturday nights so I remember them when I get home.

I love to eat, but I hate saying ‘nom nom.’ OOF.

Recommendation #1: Me.

Eh, you know. Hooker’s gotta do what hooker’s gotta do.

http://www.tumblr.com/directory/recommend/humor/thefrenemy

Recommendation #2: For Enrique Iglesias:

Enrique. I get that you’ve went all Nelly ‘don’t want to sing sweet songs anymore’ Furtado and started singing dirty bumpin’ club hits instead. Mistake babies will be born from your music now, instead of actual babies of love and romance. You went from wanting to be my hero and kiss away my pain to becoming the singing equivalent of a diamond studded Ed Hardy T-shirt! The kind where a tiger is having sex with an eagle over a skull sword fleur-de-lis. Anything for a paycheck, I get it, but still gross. You know that other song you did? Where the Jersey Shore kids were in the video as they Narnia-journeyed their way to a whole pamphlet full of STDs? Whatever, it happend. But your new song? Overkill. I was looking over the lyrics and would like to tell you where you went wrong:

Radio Edit: Tonight (I’m Loving You). Real Version: Tonight (I’m Fucking You)

Where you went wrong: EVERYWHERE

Both of these are a little much. I don’t know how your Latin lover accent fares when meeting women while Pitbull or Trey Songz is bumping in your face, but telling a woman either of these things upon meeting them is terrifying. The whole song is based on the fact that the two of you don’t know each other at all but still want to do sex up once. Once. This isn’t Wuthering Heights. This is pump and dump. So saying that you’re going to love somebody tonight is like ‘oh hey maybe afterwards I could wear your face as a mask or shove you in this freezer I have.’ LOVE is not the word. Rule: You wanna fuck somebody? Don’t say you wanna love somebody. Other rule: You wanna fuck somebody? Don’t say you wanna fuck somebody. It’s a nasty ass word and it reminds all girls of how you want to rapidly move your genitals all over them. It’s gross. It kills the magic. I hate that word. Next time, say ‘perhaps now I’d like to take you home and ravage you’ or ‘tonight I’d like to get with you’ or something that isn’t the word fuck with the hard ‘f’ and when I used it as a kid I had soap shoved in my mouth. ACK.

Worst part: “Excuse me, I don’t want to be rude, but tonight I’m fucking you.” Enrique! INSECURE. Now is not the time to have low self-esteem! Who approaches somebody like that? “Excuse me, I don’t want to be rude” should be followed by “but your tea is a spot too hot,” not “dick dick dick dick.” Just say it directly, or don’t say it at all.

Better part: Ludacris coming in, guest-versing and sensing the awkwardness. I’ll say it before and I’ll say it forever: Ludacris makes everything better. Songs, moving bitches out of the way, lonely nights, whatever. And he comes in strong all calling me honey and being like “i’ll do whatever you want sex is a NICE thing Enrique you creepy asshole” but then he’s like “YOU STUCK WITH ME I STUCK WITH YOU” which is 7 words longer than “eh.” And then Enrique’s like ‘okay as you let that indifference sink in TONIGHT I’m fucking you.” Is your battle plan to leave every girl with terrible self esteem? Because that’s the only way this song functions.

Solution: Rewrite this song to “Tonight I’m Empowering You With Sex.” or “Tonight, I’m not THAT bad.” or “Tonight, I will buy you drinks.” Make it work HERO.

Here’s the vid, if you don’t believe me: 

http://vimeo.com/18092067

Listen, for the most part, single girls are a happy and confident bunch. We have our independent lady huzzah! moments where we dance in our underpants and the sun is shining and that Natasha Bedingfield song that was later in The Hills plays over our angelic heads. And it rains pizza! But you know, we have legitimate and lofty fears. I relay them here:

1. Cat hoarders. All of these damn television shows with women who wear sparkly Florida shirts with the fish and the gems on them and they have thousands of cats. They’re never married. They are also always wearing scrunchies. And the ladies tell their stories and they are all ‘oh you know I used to be young and single and beautiful and then I just became 65 with all these fossilized cat bones and instant soups and my army of cats here. Guess I shouldn’t have been so single!’ And you’re like ‘oh my god I have one cat and if I get one every year till I’m 65 I WILL BE LEADER OF CAT SPARTA’ And the cats are like ‘HELP ME’ and you’re like “HELP ME!!!”
2. Chocolate Commercials: There are these women sprawled out on the couch mouth banging these little squares of Snickers and all the words used about this chocolate are sexy words like  ’gooey sensational tempting.’ And the women close their eyes and they moan a bit and we see a strawberry slowly and dirtily lower itself in this pool of chocolate. And you know these women aren’t having sex with anybody because they are cat spraying all over the place. And you are drooling because you are not having sex either right now. So what, because I’m single I want to fuck a bar of chocolate? I don’t know these answers.
3. Celebrity Crushes: Okay, so I like Jesse Eisenberg, or that Top Chef contestant, or whoever is playing in a superhero movie at the moment. But you know, NOW I’m Googling them too much. I find out they like, you know, tacos. This makes me think “If I met them they’d probably like me.” Because I happen to love tacos, too, and they seem kind of neurotic like me in their late night interviews. Then I’m pretty sure they would love me. Then, I fly out to LA and wait by their side porch. I throw one of the feral cats I have met on the road, let’s call him Dr. Rocket, at their face. They get distracted, I throw a bag on their head, he’s in my basement and we’re having an engagement party with the cake I made out of pigs in a blanket and queso sauce. 
4. LIKING THE VIEW: NO JOY BEHAR I WILL NOT BOW DOWN.
5. Dying the way I live: Listen, if they find me in my tomb of sweatpants, string cheese wrappers, and all the old episodes of all the shows, know that I was very, very satisfied in the fact that I never had to shave my legs. I don’t smell it’s just not shower day!
6. Never Getting To Sandals Resort: That whole dying alone and old shit isn’t something I’m worried about. Old people kind of make me nervous because they are so angry and they dip their crackers into all sorts of beverages. So married or not I’m just going to avoid thinking I am old by drinking whiskey and screaming at my grandkids till I die. And if I’m 40 and single I’ll just join EHARMONY and meet some guy who only wears striped Old Navy sweaters and watches According to Jim. I’ll live a sad life of ‘wannaaaa go to Chil’s babe?’ Do relationships sound boring now? Anyway, getting married isn’t a worry, but never going to Sandals Resort with my boyfriend is. Wearing a white sundress and having the time of my life on a beach with daiquiris and running and eating large crab dishes? Well, that’s not a guarantee! My Sandals biological clock is ticking furiously and like the sands of time on their soft white beaches! That doesn’t make sense, but what will all my sun hats do in the closet? WHAT IF I NEVER SEE A DOLPHIN LAUGH?!
7. Murder: Oh, what? Just because I’m single means I can’t be afraid of murder?! 
8. NUMBER ONE FEAR: Get in a relationship, become a piece of shit. Forget how awesome it is to spend time by yourself. The simple joys of pasta by your lonesome, wearing a short dress and going out with friends, calling friends and bitching, wine out on a porch while you stare out and dramatic stare over at some mountains or some shit. The fear you might own too much cats keeps you grounded and logical. You read more! And a smart girl is a great girl. Single or not, of course.

LESSON: IF YOU ARE A BITCH YOU WILL DIE I GUESS

Lady, I see you giving me that bitchy side look in your belted mini-dresses when I say ‘excuse me’ as I politely walk past you in a crowded bar. I smell your hairspray, your Britney Spears perfume, and your evil demon aura from a mile away. You get into Jersey Shore drama as often as you get your fake nails done. “She said WHAT?!” you say. “Nobody cares!” we all say. You lamely slap your hands in faux party cat fights. You find it so hard to make lady friends because you are all ‘wah wah sob story let me cling onto my boyfriend now.’ You have two or three best friends who you go on girls nights out with but also tell vicious and ravenous soul-ripping lies about. You wear platform sandals in winter. I want to set you all on fire and I’m gonna stand there and watch you burn. (#Rihanna) Regardless, I have two important things for you to know about yourself: You find it hard to make girl friends because you are a giant bitch. A big ole pile of bitch sandwich, served with extra fries and a double decker stack of c*nt. Stop talking shit and whining all the time and you will make good girl friends, because girls aren’t bad…you are. 

I’m bringing this up not just because these ladies infect my good time all too often: the listless frosted lipstick at a party who rolls her eyes when you make a joke she doesn’t get, the hoop-earring shit princess who flips her hair like it’s a tic. The weak little kitten who curls up in a ball because they are vulnerable from all their hurt but will rip out your actual kidney if you look at them wrong. They’re everywhere, like skinny-ass cockroaches who eat sprinkles and whipped cream. But again, I’m really bringing this up because it made me, at one point, something I am not proud of. I used to be a girl hater. The kind of black-wearing ponytailer who said ‘oh I just get along so much easier with guys! Girls are so hard to get along with!’ I refused to have sleepovers or even paint my nails. Video games! Eventually, I realized that if you do not have at least 5 really good lady friends you will wither away and die. I have them now, and I flourish from their constant texting, their ‘let us sob together’ moments, and their interest in the tiniest details about my love life. Love life is a phrase that has NEVER made sense to me. But whatever, there was a time when I thought of girls as a whole I wanted to punch them all hard in their mouths. And the reason why? Those girls. You Medusas!

It took me a while but I finally realized I was a fucking idiot. Great girls are great. Shitty girls are terrible and awful and give the rest of us a bad name. I suggest you all eat a big old pile of nachos, pull the bedazzled stick out of your ass or your leopard-print hair straightener and have a bitch-skin shedding moment. Really, ladies, we’re all so fantastic and stuff!

The fact is, and this is something that took me years to learn and finally embrace, I love girls. Specific girls. I like the girls who will eat pounds of BBQ or bags of chip things when I am feeling bad about some assfuck with a beard. I like the girls who will drink whiskey drinks with me at 3pm while we stare at sexy pictures of (celeb of the week) and watch back episodes of TLC medical nightmares. I like the girls who tell me too much about their sex lives and also tell me ‘bitch, you being so stupid right now ’ instead of ‘he’s not calling you because he’s busy!’ I like the girls who read lots of literature but still giggle and get nervous at dating things. I like the girls who don’t hate other girls because they are lucky enough to have things they want. I like the girls who don’t complain all the time. I like the girls who curse and are loyal friends and eat chocolate but are still grounded. I like the lady friends I have who don’t think ‘grinding against each other at a a club’ is a fun night out. Why? My girl friends have seen me cry over dumb ass shit. They have gotten fro yo with me and eaten dip with me. They have told me how my butt looks in an outfit. They have analyzed text messages with me. They have done the twist with me in my living room. I could not and would not do without them. I like girl friends.

So the reason why you know, those girls don’t HAVE girl friends is because they are terrible, awful bitches. They might not even be in the foundation of their dragon scaly core, but they sure as hell act that way. BITCH. I said that before and I mean it so much. Stop being so nasty! Talking about somebody’s looks doesn’t make you prettier. It makes you uglier in the ass! That’s not true either. Talking about your friends behind their back will start fights with them because it’s mean. So don’t be surprised when they get mad and stop talking to you. Cheer the fuck up and have a beer. You bring the rest of us down, and give a lot of us a terrible reputation. Fuckoff. And remember:

Girls are great, it’s just you who sucks.

Well, it’s 2:45 am. Tonight, I went out wearing my classic but relevant leopard print skirt and drank lots of gin drinks but they didn’t have my favorite gin so I had to get Diet Coke and Rum. If you’re not familiar with that beverage, it’s the equivalent to punching yourself in the face cruelly and relentlessly when you’re in the middle of having a great time. IT’S MEAN. With rum, I constantly ask: am I in high school? Should I wear Jelly Shoez and Silly Bandz which are both probably made from the same material? Anyway, I realized quickly I was the kind of drunk where I would probably spend too much time winking at people and sending texts I would regret in the morning and it’s overboard. Thus, I’m preparing myself for a hangover in the morning so I feel it’s only fair to prepare you also, because I know you skanks got too drunk as well. And you’ll need to fetch water tomorrow, so I give you the secret recipe for it:

Ingredients:

• a shell of myself
• pain
• Why, God, why?!?

Directions:

• stumble home, barely brush teeth and fall asleep with minimal makeup removed and hair disarrayed.
• Have a bunch of insane and involved dreams that involve your friends, people you want to fuck, and llamas that eat children.
• Wake up at 2pm, sit in a headache for a moment, suddenly remember the night before and feel as embarrassed as a dog that has peed on the floor in front of its master..
• Check your phone with the pain of a thousand rocks on your chest, realize that your mom called 8 times and you sent dumb messages to everybody with too many exclamation points. You are not ready for this responsibility burden.
• Sadly look at your Facebook and E-mail, all the while feeling like perhaps the floor is moving with your heart attacks. Are you still drunk? Yes! Prepare for the moment that you are NOT drunk anymore and will throw up in toilet forever.
• Acknowledge the way you took off last night’s outfit is hilarious and sloppy. My skirt is balled up by my lamp! Fire Hazard!
• Deal with the secrets you know you shouldn’t have told other people but did last night…slowly dry heave. My stomach is made of bile and sad shame!
• Remember one particular moment of last night that makes you want to throw yourself in to a large ocean and drown. It probably has to do with hitting on somebody with a gut, probably trying to send a sexy text, microwaving something without covering it so you have to clean it in the morning. 
• Suddenly stop being disoriented and realize you are going to vomit all over yourself and would like to drink the water of all of the oceans in the world.
• Slide off of your bed not unlike a large slug that has a Forever 21 wardrobe instead of a slime trail.
• Catch yourself in a mirror. When did my face become an ashy blotchy roadmap? Restrain from screaming but scream a bit.
• Go to the kitchen and refuse to walk straight. Realize that your eyeliner from last night has actually traveled from your eyelids to your cheeks and a forever stain on the bottom of your lash line. 
• Stare at all the pasta and empty beer mess you have made. Feel yourself swaying and decide to clean it later.
• Crave eggs and coffee but realize you are terrified that these desires will make you projectile vomit.
• Take old glass not washed.
• Gulp about 40 gallons of water in a loud unsavory tone and gross tone.
• Take 6 Advil in the hopes that the vibrating shell of a person you are right now will go away.
• Sleep for another hour or six.
• Eat a fatty food that is probably a sandwich or omelette.
• Crawl back to bed and die.
• Get over the pain, forget this ever happened, and get drunk 12 hours later

Listen, I can already tell my morning is not going to be so savory. And it never stops me from having too much to drink on a Saturday night.

Serving Size: FOREVER