HATE

I hate boys in bands, skinny girls with high metabolisms, sketchers, vegans who are not vegan by any stretch of the imagination, tattoo Barbie, Zima, bros, last call, socks with sandals, Tori Amos, not being chased, bananas, flannel sheets, platform flip flops, working for a living, red headed ginger milky skinned freaks, dudes that have girls names like Brooke or Debbie....

what has become of me

Kinda bummed. Why didn't I think of this first?

my body hates me.....

so does my wonky ass computer with no shift key so bare with me and my lack of punctuation and capitalization. i will make do exclamation point.
some days i wake up and my body and i are battling. is she punishing me for drinking 10 vodka gibson's, followed by a jameson on the rocks, followed by a box of jalapeno poppers question mark. indeed she is. around the time when i rub my little eyes and curse the sun my guts begin a rumbling. i run to the potty to number 2. 'what the fuck exclamation point.' my poop smells like cocktail onions. take that suzanne with you hedonistic ways, exclaims my body. hours later parched and twitching i swear i will never do her, my body, wrong again. it never works out that way

why my body hates me part two. my period. ahhh my period is often brought on in the most embarrassing way. sex. sex with new ones. ones that you want to look like venus for. 'oh excuse me, did you just kill something with your penis question mark.' no that was just my body puking blood all over you and ruining my coitus.
so if you are reading this body. [which you are, you are actually typing this, good job body exclamation point] i hate you right back. i will continue to eat butter out of the fridge and drink whiskey out of the bottle. huzzah exclamation point.

more and now does not apply to having children

Sometimes instead of a shit sandwich, God gives me my period. This means I am not pregnant, and that I can save the constant mid-level panic of producing another human being for another 28 days or so (mommy loves you Clementine!). The bitch of the matter is that my back is now fucking killing me, and I am too scared to take any sort of painkiller due to my new meds (Wellbutrin. Skinny: here I come!) and their tendency to give you seizures when you take anything else with them, ie booze, smokes, other pills, etc. Boring! Apparently being bulimic and taking Wellbutrin also makes you have seizures, and my doctor asked me about 1,000 times if I have ever been bulimic before I snatched the prescription out of her grubby paw. I mean, do I look like a barfer to you? (don't answer that) Scarfing and barfing, like having threesomes, is better left, for me anyway, to the late nineties/early 2000's. I mean, we all went to college, didn't we?

America's Next Top Model

Scene: 

Living room couch, 3936 Illinois St, San Diego. Early evening. Empty champagne bottles, vinyl lps, and polaroids of skinny, dirty, tattooed boys in tighty-whities litter the hardwood floors. One of these boys may or may not be sleeping in an adjacent bedroom. A cat cries plaintively at the screen door. 

Characters:

Suzanne: early-mid 20's, small, brunette, tattooed, more than likely hungover, but drinking anyway

Kara: early-mid 20's, small, blonde, tattooed, more than likely hungover, but drinking anyway

Act One:

Both girls are curled up on a small Ikea couch, idly flipping through fashion magazines, while the television blares in the background.

Kara: half motions to the TV, while thoughtfully dragging on her cigarette. "You know Suzanne, if we were taller, we could be models."

Suzanne: glances up from magazine, sips from her Miller Lite, pauses briefly. "Yes, and if we had penises, we could be men."

End Scene.

Fin.