SELFABSORBED.ME

Saturday nights are what I call a “blood bath” …it is a war scene with every man out for himself…the last Saturday I spent out in the city I was greeted by a long line of people. A line? People apparently didn't know this was Murray Hill and not fucking Studio 54. Then inside it was so crowded that trying to walk to the back of the bar was more like passing through the receiving line at a wedding; you stand there, moving slowly, passing people nodding and smiling, sometimes bowing like a small Chinese man. And without fail one of your friends somehow gets lost in the crowd or falls behind the ranks, you leave them and don’t stop to look back….you can never stop to look back! You wait until everyone is back outside the bar and then figure out who is going to go back in and retrieve the man-down. Whoever is “the chosen one” ventures back into the bar like a soldier going back onto the combat grounds…. her purse flinging everywhere, chest puffed out, hands pushing away people on all sides, stilettos crushing rolling beer bottles like tiny land mines.



During this time, the friends waiting outside have their own heroic duties to perform. They are put into high-texting mode. This involves everyone texting simultaneously, “Where are you?” to the girl left behind. If she does not respond within a calculated minute and a half, then there is another, more angry text sent out. “You better get outside before we leave without you...” In this text sometimes CAPS are put into use… because as we all know CAPS MEANS BUSINESS. If the mission becomes too much for one person to handle, a 3rd girl be sent in to retrieve both Girl A and Girl B. This is done only under severe circumstances …and by “severe” I do mean,one of the girls waiting outside has to pee.

I have this small problem. I have a tattoo, one I got a long time ago, in fact I don’t even remember when I got it, probably amidst some drunken night back freshman when things like ‘going to times square’ were cool. The tattoo is imprinted directly on my forehead and reads ‘I Love Douchebags’. Now I know what you’re thinking ‘Kim why would you want such a tattoo put on your forehead’. And to be honest folks, I don’t ever remember it being there in the first place, but without fail every time I go out, I attract assholes better than free lube night on Fire Island.

ahh Mel, such a brave warrior

This morning while getting dressed, fixing my hair, taming the lion in my bed, I caught a glimpse of the Today Show on NBC. Now I know what you’re thinking ‘ it’s because Matt Lauer wears those hot high waisted dad-jeans, but alas no, I already have that as my screen saver so no need to worry….
Matt's jeans flatter his body to no end, I look at this picture and think 'damn'
I was horrified to find a woman on the program named Laura Ingraham speaking about how we are a porn-tastic country where the media and news replay shots of people like Britney Spears writhing around in her underwear simply because sex sells. She went on to mention something about us all taking action and stopping the overt sexuality that is all over TV…make our young children put on clothes…feed the homeless blah blah blah.

that's a man baby, dont look directly at her or your pupils will set on fire

What kind of malarkey was this woman saying? Cover up? Our bodies? With clothes? Lady listen to me, they don’t call us Amer-I-Ca-take-your-clothes-off for nothing, ok? Clearly being that she was born during the era of dinosaurs I could see how women showing some ankle maybe even a calf could be disturbing for this lady. I mean she was wearing some shiteous pink or floral or ancient smock, probably made by the ancient Greeks, I don’t know. The point is, stop trying to take naked-ness away from me! If women like Britney didn’t show up naked how else would I feel good about myself? Self-Esteem, Shmaelf-Esteem…I want to be naked, hell I can barely keep my clothes on at the gym as is, the fitness manager has to tap me on the shoulder sometimes and let me know that naked squats over the ballet bar are not appropriate at Jesus-Gyms-R-US.

Laura has her own fashion line, I believe it is sold in a fancy store called 'Muslim Chic'
Miss Ingraham needs to jump off her conservative horse for a moment and consider this, how the hell am I supposed to find a husband if I don’t walk around with my ya-ya-sisterhood hanging out all day? You tell me that Laura! ...with dignity and class? PUH-LEASE

There is a time in every young woman’s life when she learns skills passed on from generations. Skills like cooking a turkey, changing a tire, finding a strange man’s bathroom in the dark
half-cocked running through a hallway in your bra top…essentially the usual…But beyond, cooking and cleaning and using a Swiss army knife for… well for whatever you use those things for I don’t know...one skill I would like to pass on to a younger generation is ‘The Freeze’. ‘The Freeze’ may help you survive in the wild jungle world, where men are allowed to roam free and are not tied up inside metal cages, such as they do in civil places with funny names like, “Alabama”.

Is this so wrong...Or so very very right

‘The Freeze’ consists of stopping all dancing mid-motion to advert the guy into thinking neither you, nor the dancing, ever existed. It is just like in Jurassic Park, when the scientist told the little kids, "if you don't move, the Dinosaur can't see you…." You must to warn all your girlfriends, let them know Mr. Black jeans is headed your way, create a hand signal, for you must all freeze at once, act like you were never dancing, like you never even existed. As soon as you freeze, the guy will too. Don’t blink. Don’t cough. Don’t move. Just stand. Arms in the air if you must. Hips to the side, about to do the ‘Humpty-Hump’… but just-don’t-move.

No no, that is actually not me, I am sorry for any confusion that might cause

She was bikini clad, covered in oil, tanner then a Mexican laying on a piece of tinfoil and staring down at me with her 36 DD’s.

Instead of articles on the predicted jock-itch, pictures of naked people dancing and Crayola drawings of superman and penises…there were actual words... words that contains letters... and these ‘words’ sometimes formed into sentences…were men actual human beings? Humans who bled? And felt things? And cared about actual things…such as, people? I couldn’t believe it! I can’t believe it! I shant believe it!

Being that I am ridiculously good looking as well as vastly intelligent and incredibly humble, I have come to the idea that it is inevitable the I am going to soon be married and popping out kids. Now I know what you are thinking, “but Kim, what does this have to do with you being the next supermodel of the world” and nothing except that when I become a model I will rename the ‘super model’ into the ‘uber model’..and oh wait, what? I am sorry, what were we talking about? … Oh right, so when I have kids I have decided to make a list of the first things I am going to tell my son when he is born, and being that he will be a child of mine I assume he will be speaking English, Spanish, Portuguese, punting field goals and doing math equations with square roots times infinity.. all by the age 3 months…so a little life lesson at age 1 week will not be to tough for him…hence I continue on to my life lessons for my son:

- There are no cool ‘guy sunglasses’, they do not exist, ‘tiss the way of the world, your sunglasses will either make you look like you’re going skiing or flying an airplane plane

- Your little impression of ‘driving a toy truck’ will never impress me, I don’t care that you can push around a Tonka truck, if you can turn that Tonka truck into a pile of diamonds, then we’ll talk

I only respond to diamonds, they make good friends

and who needs real love when you can have the love

of something shiny

- Don’t try and talk to girls unless you have something interesting to say, no one will care that you “are hungry” or “need a break from sewing mommy’s dresses”…no one.. and you certainly wont impress other girls with that

- Crying is never appropriate, when you are hurt or sad, you take it like a man and go punch yourself in the balls… or whatever it is that men do when their sad

- Be a man at the gym, I don’t care that you are “12 days old” and “can’t keep up with mommy on the StairMaster” you better strap on that diaper real tight and start steppin!