SELFABSORBED.ME

Dear Tampon Man,

I know you are standing there. I see you. Even though your head is buried down into the neck of your Northface windbreaker. As you eye the Summer’s Eve and Playtex collections. I know you will see me and start looking around as though you are completely lost. Lost in a sea of tightly stuffed cotton as you start saying, “Um, condoms? ...condoms? This isn’t the condom aisle? This isn’t the EXTRA LARGE Trojan condom aisle?”

I get it Babydoll, you got a girl, and that girl, unbenounced to you, actually has a period. I know I know, I am a real life Nancy Drew.

And I know how the entire situation went down too. She was sitting on the couch, hoping that you don’t mind watching TLC’s a Baby Story while you were hoping that surviving 30 minutes of ‘Kate’s Triple Birth in a hot tub', gets you at least 10 minutes of her sucking your cock….and right before the camera guy gets a good pan-in of the birth canal, you lean in to kiss her and it’s as though she suddenly morphs into that horrible dragon from the sea movie that freaked you the fuck out when you were 7 years old. And as the fire and lava pours out of her fanged-mouth she bellows, “I HAVE MY PERIOD , GO BUY ME TAMPONS!" Because, as all women know, we can’t get our fat asses off the couch to grab another tub of caramel toffee popcorn, let alone hike it over 2 blocks to the 79th Street Duane Reade.

So you have to tear yourself away from TLC , curse out the day you ever bought this bitch a Malibu Baybreeze at Bombabalie’s Romper Room, and head out to the drugstore to try and figure out which piece of cotton looks the best to you.

So as I pass you in the aisle that day, Tampon Man, I look over, lean in and whisper right into your innocent sport-center watching ear, “…get the plastic Platex ones labeled super.”
And just as I pass by, I see you look up and bow your head at me, like a minion bowing to his king, and I watch you grab the shit-tastic purple flowered box and make a beeline for the register.

God bless you Tampon Man, as I watch you walk off into the sunset, carrying Platex Gentle Glides in hand.

Look at Jim here, he already got laid twice because of this article.

Oh the timeless art of buying a girl a drink. As ex-roommie and I sometimes joke, we can go out on the town with five dollars in our pockets and come home with twenty-five...oh wait, hmm, maybe that was a stripper joke I heard at Scores...regardless I think it still applies... It is the only advantage to being a women sometimes, besides being able to lactate, which I hear is extremely handy in providing nourishment to 'babies'... that can't be proven though, unlike my five-dollar theory, which is scientifically proven to be true.

Drink-buying, however, is also a much disputed over topic between men and women. I know plenty of men out there who actually refuse to buy a woman they don't know any drinks at a bar and will go out of their way to avoid the drink-buying game. I debated this question with a guy friend over the phone once;

“It is considered good manners to offer a girl a drink if you plan on chatting with her for the rest of the night, or if you are getting a drink for yourself,” I reasoned.

”Kim,” he said. “Buying random girls drinks is for sad, pathetic men who can’t get a girl anyway.”

“So you wouldn’t buy me a drink?”

“This is 2008 and women have have jobs now.”

“But my job doesn’t pay as much as your job does.”

“Well, then maybe you need to get a new job.”

Fuck me.

So why can’t we have jobs and get our free drinks too?

Not only is buying a woman drinks an art form, but actually avoiding the person who bought you the drink afterwards is, I believe, the true art. I tend to be polite, try and stay and chat for as long as I think the drink is worth it.. then I make some excuse about having to get back home to my sister who is recovering from a bad case of the black plague (Hey, I hear it's coming back around again).

I don't have enough time in the universe to comment on what is wrong with Tevas

In case you missed Lipstick Jungle last night, let me recall a quick summary for you.

There are three women claiming to be in their late 30’s/early 40’s, all of whom appear to be nearing early 60’s.

Hey Marge, where's your pad bitch? ...let's go get some wine and talk about sex.

They live in houses…no wait, those are…NYC apartments? Oh right, I am sorry I forgot for a moment that they live in fantasy land. Unless one of these bitches is the Queen of England, they are by no means representing the ‘average’ working-woman apartment. Let me tell you, I am waiting for the show when one of these Gucci clad women comes home to her 121st street East Harlem pad, kicks the homeless guy off her doorstep and steps inside to the shit show of mice and bad plumbing... then folks, we got a cable television show.

First off, the one bitch who is a “fashion designer” appears to make more money then Pete Doherty’s drug dealer, and is dating some guy who flies around in a jet. Honey listen, if you are single and forty, you are lucky if a guy pays for your Metropass on the 181 bus, let alone has a flying machine.

Even worse is the one whose name I can’t figure out, Windy? Winnie? Winley? I prefer to call her, Whatthefuck? Or WTF. Well, WTF apparently has phone conversations with Leonardo DiCaprio. Which prompts me to the biggest question of all…when did heads of a major movie companies live in NYC? The answer is...they don't..they live in LA. Puh-lease bitch. And to top it off, The Leo does not CALL anyone. The Leo has people who call people for him. The Leo does not touch dirty things like ‘phones’, he is too busy tanning on a hammock drinking water made with diamonds.

The worst tragedy of all of course is the blond one who is trying to sleep with some hot 20-year old. First off, in real life, that dude would just want a job…or some kind of job, at least. Second off, your ‘revenge’ to some prick who is trying to mess with your company is to ‘oversalt’ his food at the table. Oh SNAP! Don’t oversalt my food, please, no stop, I might, become…DEHYDRATED!

The final scene ends in them crying and hugging. While the fashion bitch tries to make a witty comment about her roof deck.

It was simply too much to handle.

There are many significant points in a person’s life; The day your first child is born…being proposed to…the first time you ever tasted Nips Nacho Cheesier Flavor…all these poignant life-changing moments come to mind. For me, a moment that will forever stand out in history as bringing both tears and laughter to my face is:

The time I almost died at the Jersey Shore.

Now for the three other ladies who were with me on this moment, they might read that line above and think I am EXAGGERATING. Well , let me tell you one thing, I do not exaggerate…yes I may wave my arms around and sometimes loudly proclaim myself to be the Queen of England…so lying yes…exaggeration, no.

This is how my moment of almost-death on the Jersey Shore went down:

My lady friends and I were partying at a place known to some as ‘D’Jais’, but to me , it is known as ‘The Gates of Heaven’. At D’Jais every meathead, overly tanned, steroid using, personal trainer could be seen surrounding the perimeter of the club. It was as though Jesus was standing right there, welcoming me into the gate of serenity and light. White Diesel T-Shirts and stone-washed Armani jeans covered every arm-hair-shaven boy around. As we exited the club that night, we made the first left we could down a pathway we presumed was the route back to our hotel. Turns out it was the route to death. (Well almost-death, but it was a damn un-well-constructed route at that, someone needs to start paving that shit).

We were walking for about fifteen minutes or so, when suddenly the groups of people heading home down the same path all started to disappear. And one by one the beach homes grew fewer and farther between and went from three-story white shudders, to one-story I-have-no-shudder. As the four of us walked into the dark, summer night, the sounds of the cars grew distance and we approached a huge grass area with an old fence.

As we were crossing over the old fence I proclaimed, “Where the fuck are we?”

“Just let’s start walking to the right, I think our hotel is to the right somewhere.” One of the girls said.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, speeding down the street beyond the fence was the worst thing I have seen in all my years of living….a yellow…1993…Pontiac 4-door...with white trim.

This is when I about knew my life was over.

The worst part about thinking you are going to die on the Jersey Shore is wondering if they will have to bury you there. Will the makeup lady cover my corpse in thick bronzer and hairspray? Will three meatheads who are weekend bouncers have to carry my casket? Will they lay me out in the shore’s finest gold and silver bikini complete with press on nails and a fake Gucci bag nail-glued to my right hand? Will the service consists of a lot of, “Yo yo yo, she was chillin” remembrances? Will the exiting song be the extended remix of ‘Pump It up’?

All these questions ran through my mind. So I did what any rational girl from New England would do. I grabbed ahold tight of my clinky clink bracelet and started booking it down the street, wobbling all the way in my Aldo pink teasers.

Then I heard it ... a voice, from the distance.

It was calling out, “Kim…Kim look to your right, do you see it... look to the right…and you will see the light!”

I turned my head, looked up and asked, “Jesus?...Is that you Jesus?”

A moment of silence.

Then I heard it..a female voice….Jesus was a woman?

“No asshole, it’s me ..Ellen, I’m walking right behind you, you whore…fucking look to your right, there is our hotel sign, see it?”

I looked up, and there it was. The Belmar Inn. Glowing from a distance. Suddenly it was as though I could feel a huge tanning-light bulb beaming down on me. And I knew we had been truly saved that night by the Jersey Shore Gods.And now every time I wake up on a summer morning, about to hit the beach, I think of the New Jersey Shore God’s and how they saved me, and to thank them, I stand, look at myself in the mirror for an extra ten more minutes then normal, then spray-tan the shit out of my legs until I feel they are satisfied with my offering.

The End.

Anorexia: because you're only attractive when you're close to death

‘What is it about those women that makes men like them so much?” I asked, sitting outside with a friend, staring at the amazing beauties before me.

”Because Kim." My friend said, "…they are MODELS.”

Hmmm , now that was an idea. So men actually like…models?…and if I was a 'model', I would attract more men?

Now this was certainly an interesting thought. But what would it take for me to become a model? And how long before I could actually start telling people I was a 'model'? Do I have to sleep with Johnny Depp and have an acid trip with Janice Dickenson before I get my modeling card? As I sat thinking over my friend’s comment that evening, watching Bring It on:In It To Win It…I thought...maybe I could do this. Think of all the things I have accomplished in my life, maybe modeling could be one of them.

So I wrote out a list of everything it would take for me to become a ‘model’.

After many hours and the demolition of two lead pencils, I finally had my list.

Step1- lose 20 pounds

Step 2- become tall

Step 1 is easy, losing weight is a simple game that everyone knows how to play and knows exactly what it takes to accomplish…become a coke feign. Problem solved. Coke is clearly the answer and I will be running my fingers along the outlines of my kidney and intestines in no time.

Now on to step 2. Become tall. This was seemingly easy at first…break kneecaps, trick blind doctor into inserting longer metal rod into my ACL... Bada bing bada boom, I am a few inches taller.

Finding a blind doctor however, seemed to be the hardest part, mostly because, assuming the doctor used a seeing eye dog and being that dogs are not allowed in hospitals, how would I know which doctors were blind? Then, in my quest for blind doctor, I came to find out that APPARENTLY you are not allowed to do coke before you go in for surgery. Which totally destroyed my 'being a coke feign' plan. What kind of tomfoolery is that?!

Regardles, now I am onto a new plan.

Plan B- Fuck modeling, write children’s books.

So I have been pondering recently ("pondering"...get it?! ... yeah, neither do I) what I am going to title my first non-fiction book...besides titling it the obvious 'No One Loves Me So I Blog', I thought maybe I needed something more.

I need something serious, yet thoughtful... exciting, yet provoking, challenging, yet...not challenging? I don't know, but I figure that is why I have you...my readers...to tell me how to live my life and what to title a bestseller...so please review the titles below and let me know what works for you, or if you have any ideas of your own...because sometimes, I think people who read my columns have actual thoughts in their brains...not always...but definitely sometimes.

Dear Single Grocery Girl,

I can see your items. Laid out flat like a dope carrying American at the Mexican border. Why I ask, single grocery girl, do you stand in front of me with oh so many yogurts? So many nonfat yogurts I think you could drown in a dairy filled scuba tank. And why so many Smart Ones? Not that I don’t enjoy a Smart One every now and then when I am craving preservatives in a frozen form, but could you try and appear less single perhaps? Maybe buy a pack of beer and some condoms just for my sake? Because as I stand behind you in line, waiting to buy my Vodka and Star Magazine, I know you see me. And I am doing exactly what you think I am doing my Dear.
Yes.
Judging you.

Of course I am judging you! Good God and sweet Jesus Eleanor what else would I be doing?! Thinking nice thoughts? Oh no no no. Of course I am thinking bad things about you sister Mary Kary let’s not live in lollypop and cotton candy world!

Single Grocery Girl, I wonder, how many rice cakes and single serving cracker packets can fit in that pantry of yours? How many ‘Lonely Girl’ frozen dinners can possible fit in that freezer? And most importantly, how many tissues can fit in your wallowing hole of despair? Ah but alas as single girl approaches to pay with her Ocean pictured MasterCard, I think, I hope actually, that she has important things in her life to keep her going…things like a loving family… good friends…. the new season of The Hills on DVD...

So until we meet again, I raise a Lean Cuisine to you Single Grocery Girl, in hopes that one day your cart is filled with chips and other shit food and beer… as I will know then, you will have finally found love!