My Hair Smells Like Brisket

Y’all, here’s what I realized tonight.  First, I am cute.  So, fuck y’all if you don’t want me.  I am cute and I am nice and I am smart and what I’ve got going for me over all your overly made up thin beautiful put together women is that I’m alive.  I mean it, really alive.  And I don’t take an hour and a half in the bathroom in the morning.

Any of you motherfuckers would be lucky to have me.  If you don’t know that, fuck you.  I’m fun.  I have a good time whatever I’m doing and I’m loyal like a dog and I’m wicked and smart.  And my hair smells like brisket.  Which smells damn good.  You’re lucky to know me.  You’d better start acting like it.

Sarcastro, stop your stupid fucking boycott, right this minute.  Yes, you’re a fucking oaf, so what?  There truly is a middle ground between ‘I’ll say whatever mean ass thing I can think of’ and ‘I’ll treat B. like a porcelain doll.’  Find it and stick to it.  If you want to pamper me in some way, come over and rub my feet.  Otherwise, just be nice to me.  Like medium-gentle.

Knucklehead, I want some god damned poetry in my comments every once in a while, again.   You used to write me poems all the time and now?  I’ve got no poetry in my comments.

Lee, continue to crack me up with off the wall comments about when you wear mascara.  I suspect that you’re going to surprise me.  I don’t know how, but I’ve got my eye on you.

Boy Scout, keep on keeping on.

Bridgett, you are the smartest person I know.  That’s not an order, but only because I can’t think of what to order you around about.

Peg, keep the beer cold for me.

Ceeelcee, I’m ready for you to be home.

Amanda, get a god damned blog already.  You’re cheating us.

Here’s the thing.  I went to appetisers and dinner with the Shill and her awesome friend and the Professor and Tiny the Wonder Fetus and god damn.  It was so awesome.  We talked about cooters and blow jobs and men who make sure that you come first and what the definition of “multiple” orgasms is and who has a surprisingly narrow penis and whether or not you can cure lonely.  And I realized that I’m damn lucky too.  I know such awesome people who churn up my soul and plant tiny seeds there and nurture the things that I find precious.

I love you guys.  I love beer, too.  But you knew that.

My point is… I don’t have a point.  I just mean to say that I am one lucky girl to have friends who are so smart and funny and thoughtful and I am always grateful, always, to know you.

Some of you don’t appreciate that, but that’s because you’re big old cowards.   Fine, I’m a coward, too.  But let’s be up-front about what’s going on.

Only not right now, because right now I’m going to bed.  We can sort through this stuff in the morning.

12 thoughts on “My Hair Smells Like Brisket

  1. You are friggin’ inspirational, you know that. If we could get girls to think this way why they are going through the insecurities of life and puberty and such, women could possibly take over the world.I heart beer as well, cute and delightful, Aunt B.

  2. I’m flattered, but I think I’m merely well-read passing for smart. My mom’s the native genius. However, to repay this compliment (or to prove it utterly false!), I promise to explain the legal history of rape when we meet-up. There’s a long backstory about why victims are held culpable having to do with changing scientific notions of conception(can women conceive without orgasm?), property (whose has been taken?), proof (what kind of evidence will do and how is it to be obtained?), who has been outraged (the state? the father? the woman herself?) and type of procedure/who conducts (criminal or civil). The upshot is that while the formal laws and procedures have changed relatively recently, the informal legal economy isn’t changing as fast. Just as well you didn’t order me to do something. My father always said that I "didn’t boss worth a damn."

  3. I’ve got Blue Moon in the fridge and will make you deep dish pizza, and we will eat it outside while we look at cows roam by. (How are you feeling this morning?)

  4. Ha, look at that! When I get drunk, I start spelling things like Coble!I’m feeling pretty okay, happily.I am looking for an excuse to use the phrase "you don’t boss worth a damn." Maybe on the Butcher.

  5. Awww, I wish I could have drank with you. Or at least in honor of. Working on Sundays suck. And let’s keep that whole mascara thing on the DL… don’t want no rumors to get started.

  6. Oh Aunt B! What a freaking awesome weekend! We ate crappy "Italian" food, shopped at the Super Wal-Fart (hee…hee..), shopped again at Ernest Tubbs & chatted w/ Gary (bless his heart), ate fucking awesome food and drank beer at Judge Bean’s, and shared yet another awesome meal at the Hermitage. You just can’t beat pecan pie for breakfast, man! All the while your support as the Shill & Tiny & I ran our hot pants off was never ending! I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.More importantly though we talked about our lives, our orgasms, relationships, careers, why one should make it a priority to void their bowels before running 13.1 miles, the absolute ridiculous-ness of the human body, fucked up "doctors", why we need to start a revolution against blatantly ignorant & mistakenly entitled people (namely those who think their do-gooders at the expense of others), life lessons learned from farting contests with four year olds, why we’re all so fucked up, and why that makes us awesome. It was such a nurturing weekend! Thanks again! Send my greetings and best wishes to those in your life I met this weekend who were awesome, especially Ms. Wigglebottoms.

  7. I saw you were posting again, but I didn’t know if you were back. But I’m glad to hear that you are.

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