It’s not the end of the world, you’re not dead, you have plenty of time and everything is gonna feel better as soon as you have a drink.
— Delicious Tacos (@Delicious_Tacos) May 2, 2013
It’s not the end of the world, you’re not dead, you have plenty of time and everything is gonna feel better as soon as you have a drink.
— Delicious Tacos (@Delicious_Tacos) May 2, 2013
Friday night’s birthday festivities lead to a really rough Saturday morning. Then Tim & I headed down to Fatburger so we could actualize our dream of eating 24 ounces of fat-dripping, peppery meat patties. My stomach still hurts today, and my earlier proclamations that I am always in the mood for a hamburger aren’t feeling as strong.
You know that thing where you’re watching sitcoms and you keep wondering if they’re just hanging out, watching your life and writing it all down? It happens to me only all the time. It could simply mean that my life is boring and predictable and just like every other single 33 year old woman’s life.
Anyway, Tim, you’ve been my best friend only forever now, and recently I was watching the Mindy Project because, yes, I like the Mindy Project. I do, after all, have a heart and ovaries and it’s an adorable show. Mindy was at this party and she assumed that these two people were a couple, and got upset when the guy asked her out. Turns out they’re just best friends. And I was making fun of it at first because these best friends were really over-doing it, like, all up in each other’s daily lives, frequently talking about how much they love each other, being affectionate. I mean, they’re just best friends, tv show! You don’t have to hit us over the head with it. Real best friends don’t- ohhhh. Yeah.
And we know that if we were the sitcom, the audience would be yelling at their television right now that we should just get together already. Hell, most of the men I’ve dated over the past few years have told me that we should just get together already. I even used you to get rid of one of them. He was convinced we were in love and wouldn’t shut up about it, so eventually I told him he’s right, I love you, and could never fall in love with him.
But I love what you had to say about it, the other night, before our Valentine’s Day date-night, when I was asking why it is that we aren’t together. Because, people ask me that and I never have any sort of good answer. You’re one of my favorite people, and sometimes I feel like I’d never make it through (through this world without having you) and all other manner of sappy 80s love lyric. We have fun together, you’re great to my kids, and I think you’re the most attractive man I have ever met. We both understand each other very well, and you’re brilliant. So, why aren’t we together?
“Because why would we screw up what we have?” As things stand, we already do everything a couple does, except for get in big, dumb fights. We have fake fights sometimes. Those are fun. And then there was that one time you punched me in the back of the head, you jerk. And last night I got mad at you because you made me find the HD PBS channel when I was content to just watch Downton Abbey in standard def. You were right, by the way.
But, seriously, once you put a name on a thing, once you stake the claim of boyfriend/girlfriend, things change fast. All of a sudden there’s more pressure on both of our sides to try and live up to things. Right now, when you disappoint me, it’s stuff like you decide at the last minute that you want to stay in and play X-Box when I’d rather go to parties. As my boyfriend, you’d be disappointing me every time you didn’t wash a dish, or chose to go to a burrito place even though I said I didn’t want a damn burrito. Right now, as friends, we get to see each other in that special spotlight reserved for people you love, where they look amazing from any angle. As my boyfriend, I’d be putting you under an interrogation lamp, assessing you constantly for flaws.
What we have is good, Tim. We should keep this up forever. Sure, in the sitcom, the best friends ended up confessing their love to each other and making out on a stoop. But this isn’t New York, and we’re aware of how we feel about each other, so there’s not going to be a passionate revealing moment of confession. Plus, everyone knows, if this were a sitcom, we wouldn’t end up together until the season finale.
Take Valentine’s Day and Shove It Right Up Your Stupid Ass
A smart person treats Valentine’s Day like an atheist treats that Shiite holiday where people slash their kids with machetes and put swordfish through their face. Stay indoors and don’t get involved.
Is there still a sucker out there suffering through this shit, in two thousand motherfucking twelve. Is there still a guy who called in December to book a restaurant that’s gonna be packed to the gills, overpaying for some bullshit prix fixe menu, ordering from harried miserable waitstaff working the longest shift of their lives. Is there a guy who bought a heart shaped box of chocolates. Is there a guy who Went to Motherfucking Jared™ and bought a god damn diamond that some Sierra Leonian kid had his arms hacked off for. Is there a man left on this planet who doesn’t know that romance only earns contempt, that the quickest way to a woman’s heart is to not give a fuck, that you’re only cementing your status as a tool as you lean back and accept your annual blowjob, every cell in her brain frantically trying to imagine it’s any cheese smelling dick but yours.
Is there still a woman out there who doesn’t know that your valentine hates this shit with every fiber of his being. That none of this is a gesture of his love for you. It’s just a sad and desperate attempt to not fuck up. To not piss you off. Like a wise man once said, it’s a DUI checkpoint. The best case scenario is you get to zero. But you better get out there and spend money and time and hustle, and this bullshit bouquet of roses isn’t gonna cut it. You can’t just do what everybody else is doing. You better do something original. You better do one of those engagement proposals that makes the front page of reddit, or she’s gonna be thinking about the guy who did. And then next year you better do even more. Look at this guy, he sent flowers to his wife every year from beyond the grave. Motherfucker, you better keep me happy after you’re dead. You better be Valentine’s Jesus, never once fucking up in life and then showering my ass with expensive and useless shit from your fucking tomb. Do it right and I’ll reward you with some sex. Every cell in your brain pretending it’s any cold yeasty blimp hangar of a pussy but mine.
Look, don’t listen to me. I’ll die alone, my bones gnawed by starving pets. I’m just jealous of your love. Why not have a day to celebrate. While we’re at it, why don’t we have an It’s Great To Be Rich Day where the Romneys take one of their G rides down their car elevator and parade around town flashing wads of cash. They could toss around those fake 20 dollar bills that say “if you think you need this money, you need THE LORD” on the back. The poor would be lined up on the sidewalk, forced to applaud. Why don’t we have an It’s Great To Be Good Looking Day where models on floats point and laugh at the leering ugly masses. Why don’t we have it’s great to have a big dick day. I’ll tell you why: there are 365 of them in the fucking year already. I don’t need my wounds salted by the likes of you. Take your loving relationships and your happiness and shove them right up your ass.
Almost everybody fucking hates Valentine’s Day. All men hate it because it’s a stupid scary obligation they don’t understand. All single women hate it because their hungry pets are just waiting for them to drop. Women in bad relationships hate it because it just reminds them of the hollow contemptuous loveless hell they suffer through. That leaves: women in good relationships. That’s who like Valentine’s Day. Women who have attained the prize they’re told their whole lives is the crown jewel of womanhood. Women who won. Let’s celebrate, put on your favorite Disney® Princess™ dress and let’s watch your special edition DVD of Nicholas Sparks Laughs All the Way to the Fucking Bank with the Money You Paid for His Retarded Fucking Emotional Porn starring The Guy Your Girlfriend Is Thinking about When She Asks You To Hit Her From Behind. You got what you wanted. Why the fuck do you need us to hurt so you can flaunt it.
Eat shit, princess. We all know Christmas is bullshit too, but we suffer through it for the children. At least they have an excuse.
Delicious Tacos is an unemployed drunk who lives alone, in an apartment that smells like old chicken. He will weep bitter tears into his cat’s fur while you are enjoying Valentine’s Day.
“Mom. Have you ever stolen a car?”
“Dude. No. Of course I haven’t. Do I seem like the sort who would steal a car?”
Silence for a few moments, then Tim speaks up.
“If I heard you’d stolen a car, I wouldn’t exactly find it shocking.”
Trast adds, “Yeah. I’d believe it.”
What the hell would shock someone?
And if I am, I don’t really care.
A few days ago I put out a call for submissions of writing, art, photography, all on the theme “Stuck In Bed”. Now, I get it. People have sex in beds (sometimes). And I have never been one to shy away from sexy talk. In fact, Molly Snyder’s poem put a smile on my face.
But, since then, the next six submissions I have gotten have been smut filled with all sorts of extremely explicit descriptions of sex acts. And, sometimes I actually read this stuff. You know, on erotica sites? Sometimes I google search certain types of erotica and I read it and I enjoy reading it. I have books of sexy stories, and those are either fun because they’re so silly or fun because they’re sexy.
But, COME THE FUCK ON. Since when has this web site been an erotica site? And are you guys so un-inspired, lacking creativity, that you can’t think to contribute anything on “Stuck In Bed” that isn’t sexual? Even my best fucking friend, who I respect for his ability to be a much better writer than I will ever be, insists on writing slash fiction for this.
And it’s just crap, you guys. Picture me like I’m Gordon Ramsey and this is my kitchen and you’ve just handed me risotto with a big dildo in it. I am yelling right now. Get out of my kitchen, you big donkeys.
I appreciate that you want to submit the stories you want to submit, but like I tell my writing students all the time, know your audience. And while a lot of the audience of this site are very open minded, sexy folks, there are also plenty of people, myself included, who don’t come here for the smut. And since I like working, and my work isn’t usually sex related, when people google my name and land on this site, it’d be nice to represent well.
Maybe I’m a prude. But, come on. You can be more creative than that.
I talk about Tim’s
rock solid abs writing all the time. I’m a Tim’s Writing pimp. I link to the guy, I go on about the brilliant things he says and does, and I mention him irl just as frequently. It’s a bit sick, really, because I’m running out of things to say when people ask why we’re not together. The best I’ve got is, “If you have to ask, you’ll never know.” and then I stick out my tongue. I was trying “I know you are but what am I?”, but that didn’t work as well.
Anyway, Tim Tim Tim Tim Tim! Do you hear me? So, this time, Tim did something pretty fantastic. This time, other than just tell me I’m not fat, tell me I’m brilliant, go to the beach with me, go to the movies with me, go to a strip club with me, or teach me his recipe for fried chicken, he linked.
On Delicious Tacos, Tim has a sidebar. I hadn’t noticed the sidebar before. You’d think my eyes would have been drawn directly to it. However, I was so taken by the beautiful writings about hipsters, Chuck Berry filming ladies making doo-doo, and Kenny Rogers that I never looked at his stupid sidebar.
So, yesterday, I’m catching up on his stuff, and I always read the comments, because there is where you find the groupies, throwing their blog panties at him, offering him pats on the back, or defending him. But within this, I found a comment from someone whose user name was “Unleash the Beef”. And this guy was sharp. This guy was funny. This guy could write a comment.
And I start to IM Tim.
me: Who is Unleash The Beef and when can I (CLEARLY I TYPED SOMETHING HERE THAT WAS WHOLESOME) him?
It’s a him, right?
Is he you?
(Then Tim takes FOREVER to NOT answer me)
me: I know you have a job, but this is important.
T: he is not me
add a comment on his site
let’s become a community
me: What’s his site?
T: he lives in Ohio
you could also find him in the sidebar of delicioustacos.com
me: He’s funny
T: right next to you
me: I don’t look at your stupid sidebar on your stupid motherfu-
there he is
and thanks for mentioning me on your site. I appreciate it, dicksuck
me: Well. I bet he’s ugly. He must be ugly. I mean, nobody who writes that well is good looking. Except for you.
T: there’s a pic
he has a killer bicep
his twitter is pretty funny
“Your daughter’s name is Jenna? That’ll go well the first time she Googles. At least she has her brother Adolf to look out for her. ”
“Just dealt with a hot Asian postal worker. The line between reality and reality porn has never been so blurry. ”
me: Very good stuff. And he isn’t ugly.
Commented on his site
T: good work
glad i could bring you two together
*i printed your stupid bank statements
want to just get them saturday morning or do you need them sooner?
me: Saturday is ok
i didnt even look at them
And it turns out, not only can this guy write a comment, this guy can just straight up write. At the top of the page was this fantastic post about a woman with unjustifiable road rage, and a parking lot confrontation that I wish I could have had. I never could. I’m not that witty and when it comes right down to it I am a total pussy and if someone says mean things to be I’m a huge baby about it. No, if I were approached in a parking lot by someone barreling forth with such cuntery, I’d have skittered under something and yelled apologies. (unless, of course, I was drunk, in which case, I would have punched her. But I don’t usually pre-drink when going to Target.)
So, I started to read more, and I really love this guy. He is everything I wanted Tucker Max to be. And by the way, yes, I get it that Tucker Max is supposed to be the enemy. But, that motherfucker is a lot more amusing than most people you’d talk to about their drunken womanizing. And, shit, pay attention. He’s not exactly making himself out to be a hero. But, the thing about Tucker is that all of his stories are about drinking and screwing. And that’s just fine when I want a good drinking and screwing story. (Which is maybe more frequently than you do. I don’t apologize for who I am.)
Unleash The Beef is endlessly amusing. (I don’t know if that’s true. Like, if the guy stopped writing or died or whatever, there would be an end. I just wanted to use a book review kind of term. Endlessly amusing.) Just today he managed to brilliantly sum up a thing I’d failed at saying during my days of answering emails for MTSS:
I’m not smart. I don’t know shit. But I’m at least smart enough to know that I don’t know shit. There’s way too much shit to know. Which makes my next point all the more frightening. Of the few excremental droppings I’m confident claiming knowledge over, one is this: I am smarter than every person I’ve ever received negative feedback from. Are there people far more intelligent than me that, if exposed to my ramblings, would react negatively? Without a doubt. But do you know why I’d never hear from them? Because they’re fucking smarter than me. Smart enough to not burn calories trying to enlighten the guy with the impaled face logo. They would do as any other rational being would and move the fuck on.
I’m not saying that I want to move to Ohio (ew) or wherever he’s from and make him pies every day, but I really love this guy. He’s an easy read, he’s really funny, and he’s just fucking honest. Who knows, I could find out that he’s some bored youth minister, and just a fantastic fiction writer exploring his alter ego. Either way, I know I’m going to keep reading.
*And by the way, yes. I had Tim print out my bank statements. I’m trying to show the doctors hard evidence that I can’t pay them. I will also be rubbing a bit of dirt on my nose and carrying a moldy crust of bread around with me.
I love it when people write about me. Especially when they do it well. Take a look at this wonderful, extremely descriptive post about the superbug.
P.S. During that time, my teenage son also had to change quite a few bandages and carry me to the bathroom. I think he’s more than paid me back for the stretch marks.
While I fancy myself a bit of a Seberg, on account of my close, personal ties with the Black Panthers, it is her portrayal of a mental patient that really made me feel close to the gal. I came across Lilith a few years back, when I went on a massive Warren Beatty viewing binge, having decided that I was kind of in love with the guy. Hopefully Warren Beatty googles his name frequently enough that he will stumble across this blog and we’ll be very happy together. I don’t even need him to get a divorce. Annette seems like a pretty cool lady. But, let’s get back to Jean, whose madness in this movie isn’t anything compared to the raw power of turning men’s knees and brains to mush. By the end of the film, Beatty, who’d gotten a job working at the mental hospital, loses his own damn mind.
“Dying is an art. Like everything. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say, I’ve a call.”
Sigh. Oh, Sylvia, from the moment my 13 year old eyeballs devoured that bit of literary awesome, I have loved you. And even though the movies tell us he was a jerk-face, I totally love Ted. I mean, yeah, he messed around. Yeah, he wasn’t always there for you. But you loved him, Sylvia. And you were no dummy.
What I love most about Sylvia and Ted Hughes is how much they loved each other’s writing. Basically, they’re like Tim and I. Yup. I just compared myself and my best friend to two literary geniuses. Because, duh, we totally are, and also, I once wrote a poem that was pretty good.
F. Scott loved that woman deeply, as she inspired every single one of his heroines once he met her. She was beautiful, and wild, and the two of them found each other in real life. That gives me hope that my own F. Scott may show up one day. It also gives me hope that if he does, I can be a flapper.
Man, Mabel is a goddam champ. All she wants is to make her husband happy, and she tries, but she’s too much of a wild card to fit in with all of these ridiculous ideas society keep foisting on her. Her stupid dingbat husband has her locked up, but then he gets a taste of what it’s like to be a housewife. Frrr-reallz, that shit would drive anyone over the edge.
I’ll admit it. I love Jean-Hugues Anglade even more than I love Warren Beatty or Ryan Gosling. If presented with the opportunity to make out with Beatty and Gosling or to merely lick one of Anglades deltoids, get him over here because my tongue is ready. And in the movie “Betty Blue”, you see Anglade (in the role of Zorg) naked naked naked so many times. Full on, weinie wagging in the wind, beautiful naked.
This is really one of the saddest films I have ever seen. When Zorg says the the name Betty when he’s happy, bringing her gifts and flowers, it’s like he’s laughing her name. But near the end, when he’s running up the stairs and yelling her name right before finding out that she done gone and popped out her own eyeball, well, I start sobbing every time.
Taken from my diary, and given some time so the subject of the entry remains anonymous
He said that he knew a friend, a girl, a real tough lesbian with all the tough lesbian things like a motor bike and big dogs and plenty of sleeveless tops. This girl, he said, this girl she was cool in every way a person could be, and there was only one thing she was an idiot over, and that, of course, that was love.
Sometimes I think I’m in love with you, because it’s easiest to think that way. In part I can use it as an excuse when some guy goes silly over me. I can pull the, “But I’m in love with someone else.” and they usually say that they kind of knew that all along. But, also it keeps me from needing that feeling with anyone else, because you and I know how the hell it goes with me when it comes down to getting excited about anyone else. I’ll call you up and I’ll start listing off all the great shit about some guy, and you’re cool enough to listen, and you’ll tease me a little and then in a few weeks I’m bummed because those fucktards either stopped being great, or they stopped calling. But with you, I can just keep loving you and getting drunk and eating hamburgers whenever I feel like it, and you always tell me I’m good looking. Always.
I’m a heart retard, though. I’ll get solidly into my cool again, and I don’t give a fuck or a damn or two shakes of my head, any eyes that I bat aren’t blinking in shock. I’ll be cruising through it, living wild and laughing it off. And then I’ll decide I’m hot for some guy, and I turn into a total pain in the ass, questioning how I should be wearing my hair and starving my guts of air until they call me.
I don’t know what I want to say tonight. I’ve been slowly melting into a thing that’s likely wrong, and allowing myself to start with the mushball momentum, and as I feel it start to happen, I like it and I hate it and I like it again. So, that’s why I’m laying here at 9 p.m. on clean sheets just in case he wants to come lay on them, knowing already that he’s not coming, trying to just get back to being cool, and wondering if I’m ever going to stop being a girl about this stuff.