Someday the door is going to hit you in the ass
Someday all your bullshit will catch up with you
Someday you will be alone.

I hope one day you realize
that your cruelty has a price
that in the end
you wasted what was good
and it’s far too late to mend the ruin
of your own doing.

I won’t be there anymore

and you’ll be sorry

for the way things went

and you’ll know what you pissed away

but I will be long gone.

And I will not look back over my shoulder

at you lying in the rubble of your own doing

You burnt your bridges

might as well lie in the bed you made

You might think you shut me out.

But you shut yourself in.

is this love

that has swelled my heart

to a bursting size

My ribs can barely contain

this big red heart

beating our song

shouting your name.

————————————————————————————–

Here’s another pack of jackoffs who ought to be strangled in front of their children. People who pay for inexpensive items with a credit card. You know? Folks, take my word for this, Raisinetts is NOT a major purchase. Get some fucking cash together. No one should be paying the bank eighteen percent interest on Tic-Tacs. And you’re holding up the fucking line, too. Some dorky looking prick with a fanny pack waiting to be approved for a bag of Cheese Doodles. I need this like I need an infected scrotum. Get some fucking money. Next guy in front of me that pays for Newsweek with a credit card is getting stabbed in the eyes!

I don’t think you should outlaw fantasizing about someone else’s wife. Otherwise, what’s a guy gonna think about when he’s waxing his carrot?

Here’s something you never hear a guy say: “Stop sucking my dick, or I’ll call the police!”\

I don’t have pet peeves; I have major psychotic fucking hatreds, okay. And it makes the world a lot easier to sort out.

I’m thinking of opening up a motel and calling it “The Sleep and Fuck”. Wouldn’t that be a good, honest name for a motel, who needs this “Shady Pines”-bull shit? “The Sleep and Fuck”-motel. Get me one of them big neon signs: “Sleep”, “Fuck”, “Sleep”, “Fuck”.

“Oh, don’t act disgusted! Don’t act disgusted! Half of you are gonna go home and go down on each other tonight, remember? If you’re willing to swallow cum, let’s not make believe that something I said was disgusting!”

“Imagine your grandmother in hell baking pies…Without an oven”

We don’t do it often

but when we do

my pulse beats like splattering rain

my heart shrivels

like soldered ashes

and everything is dark and bad

but when we fight

I realize how much there is to lose

that whatever the argument,

this love is stronger

and that the real fight

is the one in me

never giving up on you

on us.

Like a box of parts

that doesn’t make anything

that don’t go with anything else

that don’t match or fit eachother

Missing a piece,

required to be useful

Needing a piece

to be whole again

Needing that piece

to have a purpose

Wanting to be useful

but without being used.

            Now, I did not say that it is difficult to get action, I’m a female. This is simply not the case. The problem is I’ve become selective. After spending time in a relationship, you become less likely to snap back into your freshman hookup phase, in which you hooked up with one of your close friends because you knew each other and you lived on the same quad. You start to want the person you hook up with to be more worth your effort. At least they should have half a brain right? I don’t want to listen to some idiot rattle on about his high school football team, or stand in front of me flexing and grunting in some prehistoric form of foreplay. So despite the fact that selectivity narrows the playing field, it also makes the game more enjoyable to play.

            So when you get down to it, you find a consensual, reasonably attractive, and at least semi-interesting person how much effort do you put forth? If you throw down all your best moves they might freak out. “Where did she learn this? I didn’t know you could bend that way!” What if your dirty talk is too dirty?  Then there’s always the fact that you’ve been out of commission. What if you try to pull the upside-down reverse cowgirl and throw out your back? That’ll be fun to explain to an EMT. But then again if you don’t work it enough they might get bored. They might have expected more and now what? You just blew it with a hookup.

            Oh and what about your stuff? You never had to worry about losing stuff before? But now because some girl wore a tanktop out on a Friday night in January she made off with your favorite hoodie Saturday morning. And you aren’t getting it back. Or how about accessories? Your jewelry collection begins to diminish at an alarming rate. I have a friend who lost her favorite pair of earrings in a hookup gone so wrong that she will never, ever go back to get them.

            Say you found something that works, you end up hooking up with same person a few times, but they start to worry that you’re trying to rebound. They think “whooaa shit, I’m the next victim.” It’s hard to explain that no, really this is just purely convenient for both of us, but in the particularly in the case of men it is in their nature to run away screaming. And who can blame them? Most girls are looking to throw the old lasso around that steer and drag him to the ground, beating him over the head with how “good we’ll be together.” You bitches are ruining it for those of us who just want a piece of weekend ass. But I’d be unfair if I didn’t mention those guys that get too attached too soon. You “emo” motherfuckers. Guys who think a type of music is a lifestyle. The male version of a girl who perpetually menstruates. Moody, irritable, sad, cold. God I hate you. What are you searching for? A fucking soulmate? Get real! Turn off Dashboard Confessional, take off your tight squeaky jeans and wash your hair for Christ’s sake! No one wants to cry with you.

            Now that you’re single you realize that you have no alibi to those who pursue you despite the fact that you’d rather go Chris Porco on them than have a conversation. You got way too accustomed to brushing people off with: “Sorry, I have a boyfriend/girlfriend.” “Hey baby can I holla at you?” “Sorry, gotta a boyfriend.”, “Hi, lol, I’m in your psych class, lol.” “Sorry, I have a gf”, “Would you like rice with that?” “Sorry, gotta boyfriend.” Now every time someone makes  a play you squirm awkwardly and try to think of a polite way to refuse. You might give them a fake number, you might tell them your cell phone is broken (and as you lie “Buttons” begins to mysteriously play from your purse), you might ignore their calls, you might just come up with a different relative that just happens to “die” every weekend.

            Lastly, I’ve noticed a lot lately that most people are completely full of shit when it comes to compliments. I have not received an original compliment in so long it’s fucking sad.  I hate forced, bullshit flattery more than Mel Gibson hates the Jews.  I am NOT the hottest girl in Albany. Don’t fucking lie to me. I am cute, and at times, sexy. I may have been hot on a few occasions. But barring electrocution or some new sort of genocide in which I am burned alive, it is extremely probable that I will never be the hottest anything. I can deal with that. I think being the “hottest” would be a lot of pressure. And how would you ever get anything done, wading through the admirers, stalkers, and freaks at your feet?

Anyway, if you’re still reading this, thank you.

            When 9:30 rolls around we make our way over to our old Freshman-year stamping ground, the
Long Branch. On the way we see frat guys beating the shit out of each other in the snow and sorority girls who are dumb enough to wear heels with their little Greek lettered outfits tripping over themselves. At the Branch, there is a line wrapped around the corner, but we are too drunk to care. A blow-up doll is being passed up and down the line. A kid staggers outside of the bar into the street, his shirt is ripped and his eyes are lolling around in his head. He starts to walk toward Washington Ave and his pants fall down. A friend comes to his rescue and pulls his pants up for him. The kid tries to light the wrong end of a cigarette. Everyone in the line is laughing hysterically at him. Someone yells out: “Kegs n’ Eggs: It’ll get ya drunk!”  As we wait in line I try to gauge my drunkenness against that of other people. I see girls wearing designer clothing and laugh to myself, that shit is getting wrecked today. Behind us there is a girl who has gone tanning so much she no longer looks like a human being. Craig turns to me and says, “That bitch looks like a carrot.” The orange girl definitely hears him. I wedge myself into the middle of the line and manage to cut about 20 times without anyone noticing or complaining. I hand over ten bucks and seal my ID into a Ziplock bag and enter the madness.

            As soon as I step in the doorway beer hits me in the face. People are already soaked and there is about three inches of beer on the floor. A group of guys at the front of the bar have their shirts ripped in shreds and they are slapping each other making pink marks on each other’s chests and backs. Some sort of homoerotic Neanderthal ritual I suppose. Some people are wearing green party hats; others are drinking beer from the hats. I move up to the bar and wedge in to get a pitcher. As I reach for it someone pours a cold beer down the back of my neck, “AH! Dammit!” I yell, the beer sliding down my back and sending chills all over me. I turn around to see my friend Jesse, and I hurl my pitcher of beer into his face. We’re both laughing hysterically and I ask the bartender to fill me up again.

            Every kind of debauchery seems to be occurring. The toilets are overflowing; someone has puked in the corner. Gropers are having a field day as the bar is packed and they can fondle away anonymously. I feel a hand on my ass and can’t turn around to see whose it is, whatever, I guess that’s a compliment. Friends and strangers alike are coating each other with Busch Light. The beer is stinging the shit out of my eyes; I guess I should have left my contacts at home. I can smell weed and wonder who had the balls to bring that in here, and how are they keeping it dry? People are sliding on their stomachs in the beer on the floor. Irish jig music is playing and people are laughing and dancing and pouring beer into each others’ ears, eyes, down their shirts, into their pants; there is not a dry patch on anyone.   Every now and then an older hit song comes on and the drunks belt it out in unison: “NO SLEEP ‘TIL
BROOKLYN!” The bouncers seem pretty relaxed amid the absolute chaos around them. I spot a couple making out like it’s their last day on earth and point them out to my friends. We collectively throw beer on them, just because.

            There are people drinking beer from everywhere you can imagine. A girl asks me to wring the beer out of my hair into her cup, “Are you fucking serious?” I ask. A kid with a tongue ring is licking the beer off of the bar. The bartender is laughing in disbelief. Guys are sucking it off the necks of random girls. You would think it was some kind of ambrosia rather than watery tap beer. Some dude is wearing a hat that says “Show me your tits” and a few girls are actually complying….