Yesterday, I had Ben Johnson write about what it's like to walk around and not have people constantly trying to rape you. Today, guest contributor Lindsey Baker, gives her side.
I hated my roommates
in my first year of undergrad because they were literally all on either
Lithium, Wellbutrin, or some Prozac-type shit. These sad sacks of
shit were constantly sleeping, watching Seventh Heaven, or eating
troughs of mushed Hot Pockets and mac ’n’ cheese. They were phenomenally
bad at partying because if you’ve ever been on any of these sadness
medications, you’ll know that you’ll puke your face off after one round of
Asshole. I think this puke also has something to do with sucking at life,
but I’m pretty sure this is a real issue for the depressed, like
sadness-booze doesn’t work like normal-booze if you’re on this shit.
Lithium Girl had a
stupid boyfriend who was also on some sadness medicine that caused him to bring
his Play Station to our apartment for me to enjoy while he and Lithium Girl had
their loud five-minute fake orgasm sex followed by really intense
twelve-hour naps. I played the dogshit out of Grand Theft Auto
because I was poor and didn’t know anyone else besides my sadness roommates and
my boss who made me watch his cranky parrots every other weekend. Being the
daughter of an ex-boxer/amateur arm wrestling psycho who frequently dented the
family’s Thunderbird by slamming local teenagers into the hood when they
made fun of my Halloween costumes, I obviously loved the Grand Theft Auto
cheat codes because they allowed me to basically just beat the shit out of
anyone without performing any of the “missions.”
A few years later,
once I graduated from sadness college and started making friends with actual
humans that liked going out and were better skilled at combining prescription
drugs and booze, I found myself and my lady friends constantly getting
cat-called, like everywhere we went, day or night, regular hood or gentrified
hood, regardless of arm-pit hair, sweat pants, or normal lady clothes, constant
fucking cat-calls. Once while riding my bike, a gentleman slowed down his truck
so his passenger-buddy could lean out the window, yell, “hey, sexy,”
and slap my ass. Later after I cried a little bit, I discovered that my
ass even looks good even when it’s plopped down on my bike saddle. This trauma
caused me to begin barking, belching, fake farting, or just screaming, “fuck
your mother’s dick” at anyone that said anything to me or my friends’asses. For
some reason this trauma also caused me to get wasted and slap random
girls’ asses at parties and bars usually as I was leaving for the
night. On one occasion when I wasn’t leaving yet, some excitable booty-girl
tried to reply to my ass slap with a titty grab, a weird kiss-bite
thing, then later a make-out session in an alley with my ex who was
maybe not so good at the booze and sadness drugs combo. Whatever, life sucks,
that’s why they have sadness drugs, right?
All of this ass
slapping happened a few years ago around the time some cute nerd girl created
the game, Hey Baby, which is basically like using the
cheat codes in Grand Theft Auto and just shooting the shit out
of anyone who talks at you. Its fun for three minutes but like Grand
Theft Auto, I’m left just wanting to IRL stab the seemingly homeless,
toothless cock-bags that talk at my ass or my “expensive” tattoos. Yes, they
were “expensive” because I didn’t go to some fucking baby-mama’s name pop-up
shop in my cousin’s kitchen. Fuck You.
Last night/today, I
worked until 4AM in a grocery store because I have an MFA and I’m not sure
what else I’m supposed to do for money other than ride
the train home with a bunch of dudes in the middle of the night. This is
New York City, not some weird Arab country, so why am I literally the
only girl on any train besides the occasional party animal passed out in her
boo’s lap? It's basically horrifying to go anywhere, ever, without some retard
talking at my lady body.
Maybe its from those
lonely, angst filled evenings I spent shooting up hundreds of people
in Grand Theft Auto, or maybe its because anytime my booty is combined
with my girlfriend Kelly McClure’s booty, we create this free and natural bum
Viagra, but I want to kill. Its 90 degrees out and I’m grumpy and maybe
eugenics isn’t that fucked up. Maybe my girlfriend will have to call my parents
and ask them to dip into my sister’s dowry for my bail. Seriously though, what
if some bitch just lost it on these fuckers? I’m that bitch and my future
prison tats are gonna be “tight.” I’m totally getting the name of
the shit head I murder on my ass, (next to Kelly McClure’s
name of course.)
I had this other
shitty job in Philly a few years back. One lady coworker excused the at-work
booty compliments as just that, culturally justifiable compliments. She truly
believed that these pieces of somehow living shit “didn’t
know any better.”
Ok, retarded thug
babies of the world, I’m not trying to gentrify your life, I’m more in debt
than you are, but if you say anything about my ass or the beautiful booty
of Kelly McClure, I will in a real and physical way, rip your shit-stained
arms off of your urine soaked body because my girlfriend and I were just trying
to walk down the sidewalk to buy cat food and diet-friendly booze to combine
with our sadness for having such “pristine” asses. You want a booty. Here you go.
- Lindsey Baker
