Sunday, June 27, 2010

Following the Rant

I'll make this brief. But following my recent meltdown a few interesting developments have surfaced. And I figured, why stop there? Let's explore this self-loathing. Let's see where it takes us.

Sooo... The writer who fawned over the 24-year-old Parisian
ingénue in Bazaar? The one who is flown around the world to interview society's elite? The one whose career I wish I had? Yeah, that guy. He just put this out into the world: "My #polo dates are having a disagreement: Tom Guinness says Nacho is his real name, and @ByrdieBell thinks its short for something. Anyone?"

If I have to explain why I'm upset, then you don't deserve to know. However, I'm thrilled the mastheads of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, V and Interview (FOR FUCK'S SAKE!) call him their own. He can make The New York Times best-sellers list, and I can barely afford to feed my dog? Right.


The ex, the love, the one?

Thanks to the miracles of the internet and the demise of our ability to escape people (I swear to God, Facebook, one day I will ruin you), I found out on Friday he's on a serene tropical vacation. With the girl he was fucking on the side.

The one he took to the New Year's Eve party this year -- before texting me at 10 am the next morning to tell me how much he loves me. The one I thought could only be a meaningless fling, indiscretion, mistake. The reason I cut him out of my life, hoping he would realize how utterly beneath him she was.

Nope, she's the one who after only six months gets to travel halfway across the Pacific with him. Not the one who nurtured and edified him for three years. Not the one who was kept in the dark on a string and pulled out whenever his ego needed stroking. No, no, no. The one who I'm 99 percent sure is tittering off which sunless tanning cream is her, like, omg, fave. She's the one he chose.

**End note: Thank you to the few who have encouraged my need to vent and share. I don't feel less of an asshole, but I do feel relieved.**

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Impromptu Rant

Okay, so we conceived this blog to be a centralized vent-station of all things bitchy. And I just realized we never actually do just that. (Well, except for that whole "the skanks our exes date after us" one that got the better of our conscience...) We claim to be entirely unapologetic, yet we're too afraid to speak our minds, to be cathartic, to live through this -- ahem -- anonymous platform.

So what the hell's our problem? Well, it just dawned on me (W) how much I obsess over these posts, and therefore never in fact complete any. I'm bat-shit terrified that they won't be any good, that they won't have perfect sentence structure or the exact comedic effect that I think will somehow magically land me a staff position at SNL... cause that's totally plausible, right?

Fuck. It takes me far longer to write/edit/rewrite/edit (some more) than this dumbass thing is even worth
, and it's a sad, sad disgrace for something people find the inspiration to do daily. It's a blog -- isn't that the point? That it's supposed to be fast and free? I don't know if I'm necessarily built for that.

But today? Today, I am in a god-awful-ass shitty mood. And I want to fucking wallow in it.

So if this post isn't beautifully crafted, fine. And if no one reads it, piff. And even if people do actually read it and are like, "What in god's name is this? She's a melodramatic, ungrateful princess," whatever. If you don't like it, don't read it.
I'm throwing my shit to the wind and free writing, mother fuckers. Deal with it, potential book editors and make-believe people who actually care enough to criticize. You've been warned.

LifeSucks Realization: Part 1
I am a 26-year-old assistant.

Nope, I didn't get a master's degree or take a couple years to work for the Peace Corps (which was a close second to moving to New York... a decision I still regret). I have four years experience in my field. Good experience. Credentials and contacts that should have me far higher than I am. But instead, I'm back to a position I was toasted I would never have to do again. My former INTERNS have better titles than me. Several of them. At top-tier mags. Time, Conde, Hearst, you name it. I've imparted my wisdom and let them surpass me in kicking ass in the industry.

Yes, I adore my current office environment. I have the most loving, amazing boss you could ask for (I'm not blowing smoke -- she's the best), but as much as I respect her, I'm still making her coffee, rescheduling her doctor's appointments, answering her phone and faxing her children's summer camp forms. Sure, I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into. But the goddamn recession and a couple of nasty cunts forced me from my last post, hence the drop in title (and salary) to simply get back in the game. And up until a few weeks ago I was relatively okay with it.

Then something cracked. Subconsciously I stopped eating. I started sleeping through my weekends and staring into the subway abyss during my commute. I hit a wall, head on. But I have absolutely nothing to complain about -- I work for a woman people pay to meet, a product grown women positive squeal over, a job "a million girls would kill for." But I can't help being unhappy. It eats me alive to know I'm not as far ahead as I'd like, of not being as successful as I should. And it somehow decided to manifest itself to me this week. Just cause.

So naturally it's all I can think about now. And it's building and seething and making me a crazy person. I thought I'd slit my wrists today when I saw an article in Bazaar praising a 24-year-old Parisian for being so chic, so successful, so trendsetting. Oh, she's from a long line of jewelry tycoons? And she has a closet full of her mother's vintage YSL and Celine? Right. While I (also today) dropped ketchup on a dress my mother sent me from Wal-Mart. No wonder I'm fabulously unemployeable in the fashion industry.

LIfeSucks Realization: Part 2

I just hit the two-week "I don't think he's actually going to call" mark.

Surprise! My love life is a train wreck! You totally didn't see that coming, I know. She's miserable in her job, no one loves her, wah wah wah. Again, I warned you -- this is for me, not you. And if you've never writhed in self-pity, you're either a robot or a liar.

So yeah, dicks. The rebound-from-the-rebound guy (who I only saw a few times but I thought I genuinely hit it off with) gave the classic "I'll call you" goodbye after our last date. Annnnnd cue crickets.

Now, let's get something straight here. I am not the girl to wait by the phone. Ever. But when these scathingly smooth douchebags know how to work a bitch, I can't help it. There's a certain breed of them that knows exactly how to hook me. I end up excusing their superficial flaws because I am "inexplicably" drawn to their personality. They build me up, get the attention they need and drop me without a word otherwise. One after the other after the other. This has happened in more instances than I would like to admit, yet it astounds me every fucking time. How do I not see this coming? Why do I continue to allow this to happen? I am now certain it is my fault in some way.

But in the end I don't actually care that they're not around anymore. Because I never really cared about them to begin with. What I care about is someone breaking me down again. About someone having the upper hand on my emotions again, always. About further emptying the heart that never fully recovered.

I'm in a constant state of trying to bury the ex, the love, the one. I am desperate to get him out of my head. But try as I might, reality sets in, or perhaps delusion, the absurdity -- that all I really ache for is to meet him beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, curl up to Annie Hall (like that perfect New Year's Eve of 2007) and hear him say...

And now I'm sobbing uncontrollably. And frightening my dog. And it's on the internet.

Maybe this whole free writing thing wasn't the best idea...

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Life Ate Us: Latin American Edition

Forty-three days later...

Blogging is hard. And life is insane. The bitches would like to formally apologize for their absence. Although they are indeed self-proclaimed inactive douchebags, B and W have had, to their credit, a tumultuous last couple of months. And one unfortunate adventure in particular. Here is an edited version of the shit you missed, so we can all move on with our lives. Okay? Okay.
  • B endures a national media meltdown at her job. W is charged with writing nearly an entire magazine in the matter of weeks.
  • After many a sleepless nights spent slaving for work, the time for B and W's highly-anticipated and highly-deserved tropical vacation has come.
  • B realizes the bitches' destination-of-choice requires a travel visa to enter the country. And they depart in less than a week. Have they applied for one? Please.
  • By the grace of baby Jebuz in a t-shirt tuxedo, the visas make it in time, and B and W fly 4,800 miles to an unnamed South American country... only to then get caught in the worst storm the country has seen in half a century.
  • After unsurprisingly losing their travel guide book on the plane, hence causing B (the consummate planner) to suffer a minor heart attack, W (the indelible spazz) butters up a stranger in their hostel to let them borrow his. Stranger K turns out to be a perfectly lovely travel companion, albeit slightly man-whoreish... and with the emotional outpouring of a '90s teen pop star.
  • During a night out at the local bars, K drunkenly professes his lust for B. Then accidentally admits to having an 18-year-old daughter. Ouch. Mayyybe a dealbreaker.
  • Also that night, W is held bar-hostage by an overtly aggressive (code word for Latin) native. The more she asserts "tranquilo," the harder he combats "no tranquilo!!" In an effort to later escape from Horny Boy Wonder, B and W practically leap from a moving taxi into the monsoon rain and run for the hostel. Flip-flops in hand, they barrel through the floods when suddenly B steps off a curb of ankle-deep water into -- oh yes -- knee-deep water. As she pauses to drop her head in defeat, none other than an enormous commercial truck drives by, arching water over her entire body.
  • B and W realize they have no need for said travel guide book, because the city is in fact paralyzed by the floods. Rather than hang gliding and hiking to waterfalls as originally planned, B and W die a slow death of 90210 reruns, various cheerleader movies and made-for-TV Cruel Intentions sequels.
  • The bitches spend the remainder of their trip drowning their sorrows in fried cheese balls, hot ham sandwiches and a plethora of calorie-coma-inducing juices (sadly the highlight of the week).
  • The sun miraculously appears on the eighth, and final, day of their vacation. B and W flee the confines of their hostel and hope to make up for lost laying-out time, which naturally inflicts multiple-degree damage on the entirety of their sad, American skin.
  • Later that night when walking through the airport at a robotic gait, as to minimize the movement of her sunburn, W feels a wave of dizziness creep on. She enters the international security line and lumbers past the metal detectors in a style only similar to that of Will Ferrell palming the kid in Old School. She sees a bench. She sees a trash can. She projectile vomits all over said bench and trash can.
  • B and W power through a miserable overnight flight, complete with torturous vacation-themed movies (read: Couples Retreat) and a lack of sleep (read: inability to move their blistering limbs). But ultimately they arrive safely back in New York.
Life. To be continued.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

HOBG: The Introduction

Preface on Interracial Lovin'
Before we launch into Mr. HOBG's story, we would like to begin with a word on cross-cultural relations. (And don't worry, we're working on an entire series of "Adventures in Interracial Dating." It's just too glorious to release so soon. Until then, we tease with HOBG.)

So we're sure you've already suspected, but we use the word "dating" loosely here. Honestly, they don't call it
Jungle Fever for nothing. Knowhaimsayin? And while plenty of healthy relationships result from mixed-skin hookin' it, we're fairly certain it never starts with the thought, 'Wow, this person has so many interesting things to say.' At least we're not all that interested in talking.

Now, for those of you who are already offended and reeling with rebuttals involving the words "wild generalizations," we present this universal truth: Black guys love them some ample white bitches, and hyper-educated white dudes die for...well, really any kind of Asian ass. Stereotypical, yes; incorrect, no. Just try and argue us.

We're sure you've ALSO suspected, but we're fairly experienced in this. And no we're not the Asians.

So there's that. B and W openly support a love of the darkness. Not in the trashy-white-girls-trying-too-hard-to-be-ghetto-therefore-exclusively-date-black-guys kind of way but in the super-awkward-white-girls-that-thankfully-realize-black-guys-are-amazing-in-bed-DUHHHH kind of way.

Enter HOBG: Hot Office Black Guy
Again, before you get all politically correct on our ass, please recognize that these are all truths. This man is indeed hot and indeed black. And due to the face that W works for a major media company overrun—like all major media companies these days—with boring white women, the moment she first laid eyes on HOBG in all his Tyrese-but-professional yumminess she declared him Hot Office Black Guy.

W encounters HOBG on pretty much an hourly basis each workday. But rarely if ever does she hold a conversation. Unfortunately she just so happens to sit right next to a main printer in her office, and he just so happens to print entirely too much. EVERY fucking day she nervously pretend to type as a chocolate Adonis clad in turquoise sweaters strides past. It's more than a girl can handle.

First Actual Conversation

It's a typically brutal January morning in New York, yet W gets her ritualistic Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. (Shut up. It's delicious and she would rather suffer arctic hypothermia than start a day without it.) Well, this particular morning, the newbie at DD hasn't quite learned her precise amount of desired milk, so W stops by the office kitchen for a splash more. As she approaches she sees HOBG casually leaned against the counter top, stirring his own coffee. Slowly his clean-shaved head lifts to reveal an abso-fucking-lutely brilliant white smile. W loses any and all bodily fluid at this point.

He lets out a faint chuckle and says, "Iced coffee? Bold."

W pours her milk and half speaks into the refrigerator, "Yeah, I just really like iced coffee." (Trust us, this conversation was in fact as boring in person as it is here.)

"You don't get weird looks on the street?" he continues. (Again, enthralling.)

"Oh sure, all the time." She pauses, then says the following before even remotely thinking ahead of herself, "But sometimes I see someone else with an iced coffee, and we both nod and acknowledge each other. It's like our street cred."





Laughter explodes out of HOBG, and he exits the kitchen, shaking his head in amusement. W faints into the refrigerator in embarrassment. And the rest is to be continued later.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Drunken Oscar Ramblings

Cheap white wine, Chinese-run Mexican takeout, holey sweatpants and Seacrest. This. Is. The Oscars. Strap in for the next eight hours, fuckers.

6:09 pm: Anna Kendrick and her small head are here. And she's wearing a flesh-colored dress. "Pink it is!" she tells Seacrest. Wait, her head might be smaller than Seacrest himself.

6:11 pm: Heyyyyy Monique. B: God, I love a big, black woman. W: Ew, but she just referened Soul Plane. Please redeem yourself soon.

6:19 pm: We have no words for Mariah Carey. She literally rendered us speechless. No, here's a word - moo. Wow, did she eat Nick Cannon? If so, it went all to her neck(s). Nope, there he is! HE JUST GRABBED HER BOOB. Can someone please call Child Protective Services?

6:25 pm: Zoe Saldana, we've loved you since Center Stage. We always knew you'd beat that blonde bitch with "bad feet".

6:27 pm: Why does Nicole Richie look like the landlord's wife from Three's Company?!

6:35 pm: Vera Formagggiwhatsyourname? Zzzzzzz...

6:38 pm: Damn that Ryan Reynolds is a tall drink of Canadian moonshine. Mlamlamlamla.

6:42 pm: B: IS THAT KEANU REEVES??!?!?! W: No, that's Tom Ford, dumbass.

6:49 pm: We want to look half as hot as Siggy Weave now, let alone at 60 or however old she is.

6:50 pm: W: Ew, Tarantino's girlfriend is atrocious! B: THAT'S KRUGER! (roles, reversed)

Apologies for the break. Needed to inhale Chinese Mexican food. Here's a quick recap of what happened while we scarfed: Sandy, we are obsessed with you and your husband and the fact that your dog's name is Cinnabun (oh right, and that he was found, but mostly for its name).

7:04 pm: Seyfriend, we're disgusted, and you just compared your dress to cellophane. Thank you for writing that for us.

7:05 pm: McGraw, there's a reason you always wear sunglasses. Take a hint.

7:08 pm: Did Seacrest just say the word "taint" around Gyylleennhhaaaall? Easy, tiger.

7:13 pm: Miley, stop trying to show your collarbones. Trust us, they're there.

7:15 pm: COLLECTIVE GAAAAAAASP. Holy fucking shit, SJP, we LOVE YOUUUUUU! Everyone, stop what you're doing and LOOK AT HER! The bun, the makeup, THE DRESS! Amazing. Unreal. Perfect.

7:17 pm: Sneak shot at Clooney getting out of that a mullet we see?!

7:18 pm: Kathryn Bigelow, director of Hurt Locker. Bigelow is right - she is towering over the Sea! Lourve it.

7:20 pm: WHAT IS THERON WEARING OVER HER BOOOOBS?! Did someone take a bridesmaid dress and hot-glued rosettes to the lady-parts? And red lipstick with purple satin? We love that you take risks, but no j'adore, mi amor.

Bottle #1 down. The next wine was purchased solely because it's called "King Shag". You're welcome.

7:26 pm: B just glazed her seat. Enter Matt Damon.

7:28 pm: And now Firth? W is officially incapacitated. Wait, now Bateman?! STOP THE MADNESS.

7:29 pm: Shankman might be a fourth of Latif's size. B: Why is she here? Did she do something for Precious? W: Why, because she's black? B: Uh, yeah. Not even accidentally racist.

7:34 pm: Of course, J-Ho is here. And of course, she's wearing a dress the size of Yankee Stadium. Pretty sure she could swaddle Marc Anthony in that a bebe.

7:38 pm: Keanue Reeves seriously needs to tell his publicist to stand the FUCK out of the shot! That horribes checkered coat and manila envelope are distracting us.

7:41 pm: Did Seacrest just ask for a "wide angle" when Sibide walked up????

7:42 pm: RDJ is ROCKING that blue bowtie. We have nothing funny to say, just that we adore him.

7:49 pm: We literally just fell asleep listening to Gerard Butler. NEXT.


7:51 pm: Sandy's dress is one-shoulder?!?!?! Stop making us love you.

Editorial Side Note: We're sorely disappointed in the lack of creativity and color on the red carpet. SO VANILLA. All we see is red, blue and monochromes. SNORE. Can a sister get a statement necklace or something? Where are Jolie's emeralds when we need them?

8:00 pm: Annnnnd now to ABC.

8:02 pm: Kathy Ireland? Really?! What dumbfuck network exec thought that that'd be a good idea?

8:09 pm: HD cameras are not a girl's best friend.

8:11 pm: OUR EARS ARE BLEEDING. Someone please tackle Ireland.

8:16 pm: First time either of us have seen trailer for Remember Me. Pants, gelled.

8:19 pm: Whoopi for Poise? EW.

8:28 pm: So happy the ABC preshow is over. That was ROUUUUUGHHHH.

8:30 pm: Snnnnnnooozy show opener. Where are Baldwin and Martin? Our daddy issues do NOT like to wait!

8:31 pm: DOOOOOOOOOOOOGIE! And a kick line? Fuck, we're dying!

8:32 pm: Wait, Baldwin and Martin aren't a part of the musical number? Wahhhh. We're bored. Billy Crystal and Hugh Jackman would have never allowed this.

8:39 pm: Yessssss a reference to The Jerk! Okay Martin, you're back...for now.

8:44 pm: Not sure what to think of that opener. Mildly amusing but disappointing.

8:45 pm: Goddamn, we want to bone Penelope Cruz. Liiiiike now.

8:48 pm: REYNOLDSSSSS. Isn't it in his contract to be shirtless in all public appearances? Isn't it? WHY AREN'T YOU SHIRTLESS?

8:56 pm: Diaz, you so crazy (and drunk).

8:58 pm: Awwwww, Ed Asner. Thanks for reminding us that old people are adorable. We tend to forget.

9:00 pm: I'm sorry, is it JUNIOR PROM?! Cyrus with Seyfriend need to go.

9:04 pm: Go T Bone, it's your birthday.

9:18 pm: MOLLY RINGWALD?!?!?!

9:20 pm: Wow, Ringwald is tweaking. No really, she's on drugs. Look at Broderick's face! He's scared. And so are we.

9:23 pm: HUGHES MONTAGE!!!!!!!!!!!!! We have no words. Except that our hearts were just ripped to shreads. Seriously, it's hard to shut us up. And it just happened.

9:26 pm: Followed by a flash to Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman? Huh? "They call me...Kitty Cat." (Sorry, we couldn't help ourselves.)

9:30 pm: Remind us of the point of short films?

9:35 pm: That random woman is totally Kanye-ing Prudence's moment. Aaaawkward.

9:36 pm: Announcer: This is the first Oscar nomination for (can't remember his name). B: Of course it is. He directed a short. It's not like he's a real director. Eat my shorts.

9:39 pm: Wait, we just realized the Blunt is not present! Where are you Blunt?!?!

9:41 pm: W: Mmmm...Quinto in Spock ears. Yes, please. (Is that gross? Have we just divulged too much?)

9:57 pm: Hooray Monique!

9:59 pm: B: Tyler Perry is at the Oscars? House of PAYYYYYNE. W: Madea Goes To JAIL!

It is becoming increasingly hard to type. And distractions like Javier Bardem, Madea and the prospect of SJP after the break, are making us weary. Too drunk to function.

10:09 pm: Tom Ford and SJP together?! OUR BRAINS JUST EXPLODED.

10:11 pm: Costume designer - bitch. We were raving about you owning that dress until you opened your fucking mouth.

10:20 pm: K.Stew, we simply haven't the energy to expend on you.

10:22 pm: Wow, montages are killing tonight. Haha, get it? Horror movie montage? Killer?

Bottle #2 just clinked in the trash. Moving on to Porsecco!

10:28 pm: W desperately thinking of a way to make fun of Elizabeth Banks when it flashes to video of the scientific awards. B: Aww look how cute and Asian they are!

10:36 pm: James Cameron's wife looks so malnourished. And can people stop kissing his ass? Please and thanks. Bigelow will prevail!

10:37 pm: Demi enters stage left. B: Goddamn, you femmebot. You're not aging at all! And you're boning Ashton. You win at life. Demi: Blah blah, something about shooting from behind. W: You said behind.

10:38 pm: Moment of silence.

10:45 pm: This random Avator hottie has to stand like four feet from J-Ho. Her dress is taking over!

10:47 pm: DANCE NUMBER!

10:48 pm: Sweet Jesus, we love a good musical interlude. Seriously we were bitching earlier about this broadcast having no Beyonce-sung nominated songs, but this totally makes up for it.

10:52 pm: W: Dude, Clooney is wasted. I totally want to fuck him. (significant pause) B: Against a wall.

10:54 pm: Cooper in a tux! And I jiiiiizzzz in ma pants. Sing it with us.

11:02 pm: DAMON AGAIN! B is literally losing her mind. B: I would let him do terrible things to me. Illegal things. I would let him fuck me in the armpit. Twice.

11:06 pm: Tyler Perry (still) in da house!! B: Is he gay? W: Ummm...look at him. He's smizing.

11:07 pm: Tyler Perry WILL NOT STOP. B: What a bossy mother fucker. He's talking to us like we don't know what a film editor is. W: Exactly. Don't act like your above us. I can do bad all by myself.

11:10 pm: They should just call this The Hurt Locker and Avatar 82.

11:10 pm: B: KEANU UHHHHH. I love you in Speed annnnd Sweet November!

11:22 pm: Super random toilet paper commercial comes on. B: Are you a top or a bottom? W nearly spits Prosecco everywhere. B: No really, are you an over or an under?

11:25 pm: Tim Robbins, we don't care if your last wife is 75. You're single now and we waaaaaannnnnt it.

11:28 pm: Close shot to Clooney. And he's totally reminiscing of nailing Farmiga. You know it happened.

11:31 pm: B: Farrell is perma-90s. Get your fucking hair cut, you weirdo. You're so Nirvana, all the time. STOP IT.

11:35 pm: WE LOVE YOU, BRIDGES! W: You said "groovy." B: Cause he's The Dude!

11:41 pm: Forest Whitaker directed Hope Floats?! HOW DID WE NOT KNOW THAT?

11:49 pm: Sandy, you're so fucking gracious. We will always love you...and your crazy crying chopper husband.

11:55 pm: EAT IT, CAMERON!!! You dump a bitch, and she will HAUNT your ass!

12:00 am: Bigelow! Locker! SUCK IT, AVATAR!

Annnnnnd they ended it with the score from FAME. Night complete.

Hookers On Ice

An actual IM conversation on Thursday between The Bitches, B and W.

B has been dating G for three months, and while she continues to see him, she's not entirely convinced if she likes him or not. A perfect summary, as told by B Friday morning: "G was super annoying last night, and I was thinking to myself how much I dislike him. But then he gets all snuggly, and I'm like, dammit, I'm a whore."

B: Okay, so I maaaaay or may not have a date with a boy who is not G tomorrow night.
(Scarlet Letter)
B: No, I feel bad.
W: Don't feel bad. I mean, you guys haven't exactly had the "exclusive" talk right? Regardless of whatever creepy things he says to you.
B: No, but I feel like it's unsaid, and I'm a cheetah.
W: Meh, I say get yours.
B: OMG, I'm a cheating douche bag. :-( :-( EV-IL.
W: I seriously don't think so. Your heart is not with G.
B: It's with him a little bit. I do really like G. I just can't NOT explore.
W: I think you have to do this to know at the very least.
B: ALSO. This new guy wants to go ice-skating (Obviously it's a first date, and he doesn't know I have the energy of a house cat) OUTDOORS. What if there's a run-in cheaters-style? I'm scurrred.
W: Risk it, bitch!
B: Wait. To make it worse I'm staying at G's tonight so I can't even shower before the date, and I'll have my overnight bag WITH ME. Bruuuuuuuts.
W: .....
B: I know. I feel like I should cancel.
W: Hahaha, I kinda love it.
B: Really? You honestly don't think I should cancel. When I'll be all shack-ridden from the night before. I mean, let's be real. It's a little gross.
W: It's a little hilarious.
B: Ugh. I guess that's why the beauty overlords created dry shampoo…and Mexican showers.
W: How often do you stay at G's? And vice versa?
B: Sweet baby Jesus, strawberry cheesecake yogurt is delectable. Sorry, what? Oh, I stay there a couple times a week and usually a weekend night (whore).
W: Hmmm....
B: Yeah. See? We're dating.
W: Eh, I'm never all that committed, so I'm like go for it!
B: Me neither, and clearly I'm not good at it. Nasty hookers x 2.
W: JUST DO IT for fuck's sake.
B: Ugh, will the ice-skate lockers have room for my whorey overnight bag? Probably not. These are the things I think about. OMG, I have visions of like birth control falling out of my bag, and G just showing up and running onto the ice. WHY CAN'T WE JUST GET DRUNK INDOORS?
W: Suck it up and enjoy a new boy.
B: Yeah, I don't know why I'm worried. I'm basically a professional sketchball when it comes to this crap. Ever since I was a youngin.
W: That's the B I know and love.
B: I've been hookin it on the down low since I was 16. Why stop now?
W: Ex-fucking-actly.

Text message follow-up.

Friday, 8:42 pm
B: Been sitting outside waiting in the cold for half an hour. FYL.

Saturday, 10:48 am
W: iiiiiimgonna need a recap asap.

Saturday, 11:42 am
B: Haaa he finally showed up. But I’m sticking with G for now, I think.

Was new boy inordinately lame? Or do we have honest-to-God beating hearts? We'll never tell...

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Hello, World. We Hate You.

Let's get some things straight before we start this.

We did not choose this. We did not willingly agree to become angry, scathing, acerbic assholes. It just happened. New York happened. And boys happened. And work happened. And getting royally shit on everyday happened.

And therefore, we cannot be held responsible for our actions.

They say Manhattan is the center of the world.
Well, the world is harsh fucking place. So it naturally follows suit that this gem of an epicenter lives up to the regularly acting like a trashy little cunt. She's that girl at the bar: an enigma in sequins, equal parts alluring and dangerous. She's gorgeous, thrilling and definitely worth plowing through your paycheck on $15 cocktails. But then you get her home and realize she's a spitter.

Yep. That's our home. Our home is a spitter.

So as two
young(ish) ladies brought together by Craigslist and bonded for life by near eviction, we have our fair share of anger bubbling up inside us. What was once lost on erratic workday IMs can now be found here for all to read and love and share and who are we kidding, no one gives two shits about us.

But in case anyone gives even one shit, we will be here. Our constant stream of disasters are simply too ridiculous not to post, and we only hope there are fellow assholes out there who feel our rage...or at the very least feel pity.

We'll take what we can get.