just say “f*ck teh H8erz”, bare’s…
this “self-location” paper would have BEEN done by now, or i’d at least be having a lot more fun LoLly-gagging my way through it. Srsly, B-racca. my sanity lies in you legalizing marijuana. everywhere. or, at least the places i go. ok? we cool? nice. i’ll see how things are coming along with that next week.
this snack looks equal parts meaningful and elegant.
I’ll cut to the chase. I would like to find a wealthy, closeted, Hip Hop artist, preferably one that is only semi-annoying (less Kanye West, and more Weezy) who is in need of a full-time, paid Beard…
Let me explain. A little birdie –a bitter, underpaid birdie to be more specific– let it slip that a certain wannabe singer, that also happens to be blowing a certain head of her record label, is the only person on payroll getting a $50,000 a month stipend, that doesn’t have an album out. I need this lifestyle. Basically, I want a similar arrangement, save for the whole selling my pussy and feigning a music career part –cause the dude i’d be hustling would be having sex with men. Okay, okay, the dude said chick is playing has sex with guys too, but I’m looking for someone that exclusively fucks men. And to be quite frank, I was born for this shit.
Here’s why I’m perfect for the job. I’ve been a bonified, unabashed fag-hag since the age of three. My mother managed/owned several boutiques, and worked in retail on and off my entire life, and my west coast set of Godparents (yes, I had a pair in Portland, and New York) were two dudes. I had my first gay in pre-school. His name was Kyle, and at my 4th birthday party he got his face painted like a princess, just like mine. From then on it’s been Kathy Griffin-status for me. Except, I’m pretty.
Secondly, I am not just some Will & Grace watching, exploitative bitch (except for wanting to extort money from you). In truth, I hope I live to see the day when NO ONE feels they have to be in the closet –publicly or non-publicly. However, I am an even bigger advocate for Mindyourgoddamnbusinessism. Our core belief is essentially, I don’t give a rat’s ass how or who two or more adults fuck/love each-other, as long as it doesn’t involve children, animals, the person I happen to be fucking/loving, or me. I fully support the notion of coming out by choice, and therefore on a moral level, though I’d be paid for my services (public appearances, starting sex-tape rumors, pregnancy scares, etc.) I’d feel what I was doing would be a bit of civic service, too.
I’m loyal like a motherfucker. References upon request, but you may need to leave a voicemail because they’ll most likely be busy having lots of hot kinky gay sex.
On the flip-side, I can also give T as well as I receive it. If that last sentence didn’t make sense, this ad isn’t intended for you. So, if you have any lovers who don’t want to let go, I can fight a queen!
You won’t have to worry about any public rumors of infidelity since I don’t date a lot anyway -without compensation. So, like, if I’m getting PAID to stay in, get stoned, and watch illegal streaming video of “Are You Afraid of the Dark” –please! When I do date, it will be with a nerd so completely void of swagger, and totally outside of any fame-whoring circle. So average, in fact, that no one would ever suspect me cheating on such a big, strong, masculine… tee hee hee, sorry. You get what I mean.
Let’s see… what else? Oh! Don’t be scared off by the I price quoted above. There will be a lot of marked differences between our future relaysh’ and the unnamed duo. For instance, I won’t have to worry about getting any STD’s from you or the prescriptions that come with them, pregnancy/subsequent abortions, having you beat the shit out of me on a trip to LA and then letting me go on a redemption shopping spree –whoops! Promise, i’ll be better at keeping your secrets. But, all in all, real talk –I’d be willing to drop down to a reasonable 10k per month plus airfare. What a deal!
Please contact me at (Imahedonista at gmail dot com) if you or someone you are doing A&R for would be interested in my services. Have a fierce day!
this is a text i sent to my bro –completely un-ironically, and painfully real-ish.
reminiscing the pre-obama presidency days. seems so long ago.
that is how i began the message i sent to my soul-mate today. i’m pretty sure i’m on the cusp of really fucking up my life. i won’t go into details because i think there’s some unwritten rule on the internet about being selectively explicit. like, twittering your lunch makes people feel like they’ve got some insight into your day to day grind, but recklessly blogging the details of your life that make you want to curl up into a ball and die is just pathetic. something like that. anyway, i’ve been pretty catatonic/apathetic abut things (“things” being oh, just every aspect of my entire existence) for awhile now.
self-sabotage is a bitch, let me tell you. i deal with my problems by behaving as though they simply don’t exist, or at least acting as if they aren’t time-sensitive. it’s basically like i’m shitting into a seriously clogged toilet, all the while being like “i’ll unplug it when the task sounds more appealing.” but it will never be appealing. it’s a toilet. and the longer i wait, the worse it’s getting, and the less i want to deal with it.
i come from a long line of addicts –alcoholics for the most part. dr. drew says what traps addicts in their cycle is the reward system. life is full of shit i don’t want to be bothered with, and things i especially don’t want to be bothered with. so there’s always an excuse to use. this is why i keep my distance with drugs. though they scare me, i’m pretty sure i’d love them.
ls & gs, photographic evidence of the “allegations.” allegations my ass hole, that needle-dick-jizzbeard was trying to fucking kill her! ring the alarm! i’m so heated, i’m ready to roll on a motherfucker for this shit. real talk. LET rihanna be in my family. cunt beard would, in the words of a ‘for the love of ray j’ contestant, “need a bag just to shit!” you know what happened anytime a dude ever tried to get crunk on any female in my family? he got all 11 of my mom’s sisters. fully equipped with baseball bats, frying pans, and pent up frustration from pulling double shifts all week.
i spent the latter end of my new years eve 2k9 zipping through the suburbs of atl in a bmw packed over capacity with my girls (and alex) to make sure [redacted]’s husband didn’t decide that it was the night that he would finally just kill her. when the po po arrived (who looked like the kind of retard0-jock that went home to beat his wife), he told us that since he JUST smashed her hand in a drawer and flipped the mattress (while she was on it) he probably wasn’t trying to kill her. i see. thats the general tone in these circumstances. they can’t do anything until they’re dead. because if they aren’t, they’ll just go back anyway.
the question is, will an extremely high profile pop star getting the living shit beaten out of her change this? unfortch- probs not. in fact, all i’ve really heard up UNTIL this point were people treating this shit like it was a legal proceeding. a fucking divorce, no less. to not even speak of the countless excuses that circulated prior to any statement regarding rihanna’s well being. everyone was fixated on what started the fight. does it really fucking matter? not only is the speculation unreliable, so much so i won’t even repeat it here –google the shit if you really want to know, but the inquiry is just ignorant. women in abusive relationships are hit, beaten, and killed, every day for lesser “offenses” than ANY rumor that has been passed around. you didn’t iron my clothes right. where the fuck is dinner? get the fuck out of here. i’m being really incoherent, stream of consciousness and whatnot, i suppose, but the bottom line is i don’t care WHAT rihanna did or didn’t do that night… she just didn’t deserve this. this is vile. and it really makes me sad to know that she probably doesn’t even want to leave him. although i myself have never had to handle being in an abusive relationship, on more than one occasion i’ve been the friend to someone who has. as a friend you want to say “are you fucking crazy? (s)he’s going to kill you!” and sometimes, you do. but ultimately it is them who has to get away and stay away. finding the words to demonstrate your loyalty as a friend regardless of their poor decisions regarding the abusive relationship, as well as the fact that you also care enough to drag them away from the burning building isn’t easy.
rihanna won’t read this blog, but if she did i’d tell her the same thing i’ve told my friends that have been in abusive relationships; cut your losses, and go right now. don’t go back to get your things, don’t call, don’t text, don’t think about saving face, don’t think about having to explain it, or his career, or yours, just GO.
(my spelling/grammar is atrocious. i did not edit. blah blah blah.)
*If you or someone you know is frightened about something in your relationship, please call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or TTY 1-800-787-3224.
these are the nights i aspire to.
why i go to school, so i can get a decent paying job, so i can continue to live in a city i can’t really afford to live in, so that after long commutes on bad trains, and long thankless hours of work, and feeling inferior, i can venture out into below freezing temperatures to hole-in-the-wall russian restaurants with plasma screen televisions playing 90’s b-movies, and drink gigantic glasses of inexpensive red wine, and pretend to be interested in an equally large bowl of chicken noodle soup whilst sitting across from my main bro as he fucking handles a plate of mozzarella sticks.
run on sentences.
…or tallie, maybe? whatever. joe biden used to be FINE.
he’s giving such clive owen swagger, no? needless to say i’d (have) hit it (in the 60’s). oddly enough, this sort of puts his fake teeth and hair plugs into perspective. now, i get less of a used car salesman vibe, and more of a portrait of a once hot dude that didn’t take to the notion of aging so well.
