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I smoked up topless last night. And it felt awesome.

It wasn’t premeditated, planned or anything like that. Just caught in-between a shower and halfway getting dressed. Reminds me that sometimes getting lost in the flow of life–instead of plotting and planning every move–is so randomly great.

Now, I am a plotter/planner control freak. This is why I will always have a clean towel for you when you come over. But  I’m thinking about what else I can do topless. Suggestions are welcome.

Why I am such a bitch

By this point, dearest reader,  you may be asking yourself: Why is this woman such a bitch? Let me take two to three minutes out of my day to answer that question.

Well, it started out, down a dirty road… No wait, that’s a Tom Petty song. Anyway, let’s go back to childhood, as I’ve learned all things fucked up can be directly traced back to those tender developmental years. I did indeed grow up on the edge of a dirt road, on a little farm, and though my mother balks at the word, I would say that yes, probably, the term White Trash could be applied. But, I mean, you know educated white trash—we read books and shit.

Anyway, we were poors—like government cheese was no stranger and it was the Farm Crisis and everything that Ronald Reagan seemed to do was like a donkey punch to us. So, anyway, being poors, I got made fun of—a lot. My sister was way older than me, so in the early ’80s when all the other little kids got to rock Lees and Wranglers, I was stuck wearing her striped, polyester, hand-me-down pants from the ’70s. I looked like one of those Czech brothers from Steve Martin/Dan Akroyd SNL skits. And the kids on the bus were fucking mean little bastards about it.

So, anyway, school was a drag, and I got beat up a lot at home. Aforementioned big sis? She was probably one of my biggest tormentors—we’d go swimming and she’d tackle me and hold my head not only underwater but make sure to shove my face in the sand for good measure.

Also, she blackmailed me to get on our pony, Princess, then fell on me, breaking my arm, which has manifested into a lifelong fear of horses for me.

Then junior high and high school—I guess I was the awkward, smart girl—which didn’t do me any favors either. Just picture a John Hughes dance going on and on and on, and this pretty much sums up my experience. It Sixteen Candles—I wasn’t a total geek and still managed to get some, just wasn’t the girl with the gazongas in the shower who nailed the Jake Ryans.

By the time I got my license to drive, I quit hanging out with my fellow high-schoolers and went a few towns over to hang out with the kids who ran drugs. The booze was free, they had lots of motorcycles/snowmobiles to play with and danger-through-association is a better way to spend time at 16 than renting Weekend at Bernie’s and ordering pizza, which is pretty much what other kids my age were doing. But when you find yourself carrying a tire iron into a party to avoid getting beat up? Well, yeah, you’ve lost a little innocence. So, this has all contributed to a nice little adult fascination with all things strange and bad and dangerous, which blossomed  into a wonderful little writing career where I live out my fantasies vicariously through the lives of those more fucked-up than me.

But, hey, at least I’m not stupid.

I would like to meet one real motherfucking man in this town

Dating in New York is hard. Just this morning, in fact, while walking to work, I saw an attractive-ish, late-40-something guy complaining in his cell phone outside a gallery about “how hard it is to meet women” in this town.

Buddy, I know how you feel.

I have to say, hands down, that this is the hardest town to get a decent fuck in. Now, notice that I used the word “decent” there, little cowboys and cowgirls. Because while anyone can stagger into a bar and get Tom from Fort Wayne, N.J., to go down on you (guys and girls apply), it’s much more difficult to find some quality ass.

And it’s not just the quality. It’s the time crunch. In other cities you probably have at least an hour or two to work someone over before deciding if you’re bringing them home or not. Not here. Getting laid is like closing your eyes and jumping into hyperspace in Star Wars. You hope for the best, but you really don’t know where you’re going, or what you could possibly bump into. But one thing’s certain—you’re not going to have anyone nearly as hot as Han Solo next to you when you open your eyes as the cruel light of morning comes poking through the bars of your garden apartment window. “Oh, yeah, hey….it’s you. Hey, you…Why don’t you get the hell out of my apartment now?”

In my life, this is the only town where I have been shot down for completely no-strings-attached sex. The first time I propositioned a young lad, he took off running down the street away from me. Seriously, there was motoring going on. A month or two later I ran into him at a party with his new girlfriend, a rotund woman with pumpkin-colored hair. And then I saw him with another one. “Ah, so that’s it,” I said to a friend. “He only dates girls who look like pumpkins.”

So that kinda made sense.

Mmm, what’s my point here besides a scorned-woman rant? Oh, yeah, it’s this. In my experience, unless you are a psycho or have a tumor the size of an orange growing out of your neck or haven’t bathed since last week, then odds are most guys will sleep with you. Hell, even if you haven’t taken a shower in a while, they’ll find a way to work around it. So, what is up, New York? What does a girl have to do to get a little action?

Here’s the other problem, and admittedly, it’s my own—I don’t find the guys who live here that attractive. They are, shall we say, on the small, fey, precious side. And while they’ll lecture you all night on the merits of Grizzly Bear, while pushing up their retro glasses and asking if you have any more cash to buy drinks because they are, uhum, poor and working for the man is for suckers and no, I don’t want to listen to Regina Spektor while you fingerbang me on your futon (again) because you are too drunk to get it up.

In short, New York men are not real men. They do not know how to change a tire. They do not know how to light a pilot light. They do not know when to shut the fuck up and take charge. They have no, as we women like to say, throw down.

Now, excuse me. I have to go find that guy with the cell phone.

Open-door shit

While I’m building my adventure file, I will dip into the archive from time to time of past what-the-fuck experiences. This is one such time.

I used to work at this horrible, horrible place with these awful, awful women. Well, one night after work, I ended up going out with this one chick who I worked with. She wasn’t very bright and her voice sounded exactly like Jennifer Tilly, which is either super adorable or super annoying, depending on your own personal interest in that actress.

Anyway, this girl was kind of a mess, but she lived in my neighborhood and had really good pot. So after drinking at the bar for a while, she asked me if I wanted to come back to her pad to smoke some of this awesome weed.

Of course I did.

We get to her place and smoke up. And man, was that some good weed. I was a little buzzed from the beer anyway, but this shit made me super giggly, and my brain was fuzzed-out and dizzy and man was I high. But we’re in Chicago and it’s like 10 degrees out in January—and there was this huge-ass blizzard the night before. I’m sitting in this nice warm apartment on the couch, and there is no way I’m gonna go back outside into that shit.

So, I’m sitting on the sofa, and maybe the weed paranoia is partly to blame, but I could feel this chick getting friendly…Like moving toward me on the couch and asking me stuff like, “Wow, did you ever move your tongue around like that when giving head?” and like accidentally bumping into my leg repeatedly and all that stuff. I’m getting strong vibes that she is angling to get a little lesbo pillow-fight action on. And while she was pretty cute, I have to say that her personality—combined with the fact that I knew that she was kinda insane—was a turnoff. I told her, “I’m gonna pass out.” And basically did.

The next morning, I woke up, feeling like shit and wanting to get the hell out of there. She wakes up and comes out of the bedroom.

“Do you want some coffee?” she squeaks in that voice (not attractive in the morning, I don’t care if you find Jennifer Tilly hot or not).

“Uh, sure,” I say.

So, she makes us these adorable little coffees, complete with steamed milk and little bits of sprinkled brown sugar on top. I’m sitting on the couch, thinking wow, what a lovely little cup of coffee. As I take a sip, she takes her coffee and goes into the bathroom, which is right off the small living room, like maybe seven feet from the couch.

She doesn’t close the door. I think, OK, a little weird. I take another sip. I hear her pee. And then she starts talking to me.

“I can’t believe that chick said that to us at the bar last night…” blah, blah, blah. I am not one for chit-chat first thing in the a.m. and was starting to feel  like I was being verbally skull-fucked by the Bride of Chucky.

Then I hear it. She tears into a big, old, day-after-drinking dump. And it’s loud. And she keeps talking over it, like nothing’s happening.

I’m frozen on the couch, looking around for my shoes, thinking, “Oh fuck, I gotta get the hell out of here.” She keeps right on shitting, door wide open, rambling away. This goes on for like another, oh, six to seven minutes.

Do you know how difficult it is to enjoy coffee with that going on?

Finally, I heard the toilet flush, and I have my coat on and a foot out the door.

“Um, thanks for the coffee,” I say. “I’ll see you on Monday.” And I tore out of there.

And that is how I witnessed the only open-door shit of my life. I don’t recommend it. A thing like that teaches a woman a thing or two about life–you’re either an open-door shitter. Or you’re not. It’s important to get that sussed out.

Someday I will (probably) kill you (Part II of what triggered this boredom to begin with)

Over-privileged, entitled, private-schooled, trust-funded, 20-something youth. Usually clad in some combination of leggings, headbands, neon or sparkly things. Greasy, too fat, too thin, gross—or as my roommate puts it, “sloppy.” The hipster.

In low doses, i.e., one or two randoms wandering the streets of South Brooklyn, they’re somewhat tolerable. Most of them are either lost and trying to find their way back to their Bushwick loft, likely the after-effect from 30-something’s night of slumming it.

When packed into a Red Hook backyard, drinking Pabst and High Life, dancing to Biggie and the Cars— “Name one album they recorded, motherfucker! One album!”—and what the fuck is the DJ wearing? Is that a trucker hat? Since when are they trying to bring it back?

Sorry, I got distracted.

And so I found myself surrounded by 20-something hipsters. Girls in plaid oversized shirts and shiny leggings cutting up lines of cocaine with Mommy and Daddy’s credit card; boys who look like that Mormon dude who swore he wasn’t gay but was really gay from the Real World Brooklyn; boys who roll out of bed in their sweat pants and T-shirts and backwards baseball hats who are already balding who used to work at sports bars. Really? A Boston-sports bar? How amazingly…boring. “You’re jaded,” he tells me. They have all just moved to the city for all its unchecked, slutty, glorious, unbridled action (read: drugs/sex…and repeat). I mean, how many times can you listen to Girl Talk and lick coke off of someone’s half-hard, five-inch dick before it gets boring? Two. Two times.

I go up to my friend’s friend’s friend. “So, do you get laid?” I ask him. He’s about 26, short, bearded, tubby with that roll of sloppy fat around his waist that sags over his too-tight jeans. He smells. I am amazed that guys like this pull so much ass here, but they do, completely, undeservedly so.

“Oh, yeah,” he tells me. “All the time.”

“Really?” I say in disbelief.

I know these kids think they’re being wild and breaking the rules. I know these boys and girls probably think that they’re pretty good in bed. I know that they think if they pull out fast enough they can’t get the herpes—or that’s what they tell those chicks from Oberlin and Brown anyway.

But now it’s getting personal. After that party, I have decided that no longer will I idly sit by and watch these unchecked youngsters, all pie-eyes, and their hope and dreams, their goals and aspirations go by unfettered. Instead, given any opportunity, I will down their cheap liquor, insult them to their faces and crap all over their stupid ideas for community-art projects, like baking cookies in the shape of fetuses and handing them out in Greenpoint.

I’d like to see you try that in the PJs, bitch.

New York, I Love You, But You’re Bringing Me Down (or what triggered this boredom to begin with)

There are many things I’ve done that I’m not proud of…watched Lifetime, listened to the Fray (more than once), enjoyed Applebee’s (eating good in the neighborhood!), made a guy go down on me without reciprocating…

“Ok,” he says, head up, looking all proud of himself. “It’s my turn.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, putting on my tights.

“What do you mean? I did you, so now you have to do me.”

“Nope. No, I don’t.”

“You’re making me feel inadequate,” he says.

“Well, you are.” Door slam, exit me.

But for the last couple years, I’ve been cleaning house—seeing a therapist, cutting out the bad stuff (i.e. drugs, not drinking as much, etc.), reading a lot of the Deepak Chopra to get in touch with my Up Guru, or the little woman inside me who knows what she really wants to do.

She still doesn’t know what she wants to do.

But after two and half years of this, I’ve been thinking, while this has been nice and all, there will always be a part of me that enjoys being bad. And it doesn’t take a whole lot to push me back into the self-destructive zone.

I met this guy. He seems like a nice-enough, funny, cool guy who lives in my neighborhood, perfect for a few beers from time to time. But he has a girlfriend, which is no problem for me. I have no impure intentions here.

Anyway, I meet guy at the diviest bar in my neighborhood—the Boat. The Boat is where you go when you want to get rip-roaring drunk, laid, do cocaine in the bathrooms—or all of the above in the bathrooms at Boat. In short, it is a wonderfully disgusting place with a great jukebox that features the Clash, Cash and Salt ’n Pepa.

“So, all that talk about blow,” he says later in the evening as we’re walking home. “Are you interested? ’Cause I have some.”

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh. Shit.

My gut reaction is no. It’s been over two years since I’ve touched that shit. And, after recently sitting on a jury panel, I learned that in New York, the dealers tend to cut it with rat poison.

But then I thought fuck it. “Just do one line,” he suggests. So he cuts it up on my little star of David coaster I got for Xmas one year, rolls up a $20, and up it goes.

Of course, this is just precursor to the post-bar 2 a.m. hit job. Lure ’em in with the coke, keep ’em around for the dicking. I basically tell him no way it’s going to happen, and he’s on his way out the door. But sitting there, not feeling too terrible about that albeit only one line I just did, I’m thinking…going out for drinks with dudes with girlfriends? Lines, really? Again? What the fuck?

Because life’s too short…and I ain’t going out like that.

Last night I did something I swore I’d never do again. In fact, I did a couple things I swore years ago that I’d never do again. And I kinda liked it.

It got me thinking. I could fall into the 30-something chick cliché of freaking out, going on the proposed man-hunt to parlay into the dreaded am-I-planning-to-procreate-or-not countdown to 40, all the while contemplating Botox and going on more intolerable dates with dudes I’m not really attracted to just so I won’t end up a lonely 43-year-old in a fifth-floor walk-up studio…That would just be sad.

Let’s face it. It’s still a man’s world and buying into that bullshit is like sitting down at the poker table saddled with twos and threes. You’re behind anyway, and there’s no way you’re gonna win that game—no matter how thin, attractive and awesome you are.

Then it hit me. There’s a book on my desk about the Mayan calendar and the world ending in 2012. Living in New York and quitting smoking, I’ve always considered that my last thought in a terrorist attack would be, “Why in the fuck did I quit smoking? I could’ve been smoking away, enjoying sweet, sweet nicotine this entire while?” Well, what if we all die in 2012? Am I really gonna spend the, admittedly possible, last two years of my life worrying about shit like this?

So instead of trying to work on my so-called career, build a nice little family, or save for a condo, I’m just going to do exactly what I want when I want—things stupid, meaningless and fun. As long as I can fuck 20-somethings and 40-somethings, go out all night and not feel like total shit the next day, bike through crazy mountains high, eat an entire bag of Doritos in one sitting, I’ll take adventure over the future.

Now the adventures will vary…Stuff I’ve always wanted to do. Stuff I’ve never wanted to do, but am putting in that “try it, you might like it” category. Stuff that just pops up randomly. And stuff that I get dared to do…by you, gentle reader.

Because 2012, if the crazies are right, is just two years away.