Today I went through the turnstile into the subway just as a woman was trying to go through the turnstile out of the subway.
“Seriously?!” she exclaimed.
“YEA. Swiped my card first.” I plowed past her like a lawnmover. Ain’t nuttin gettin’ passed dis.
“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, YOU CRAZY BITCH?”
At the time, I was terribly offended. Instead of retorting something equally profane and just leaving it at that, I told her to calm ze fuck down and spent the entire train journey home fantasizing how Cardi B would’ve handled that encounter…
God. What is my problem?
So many things, my entire being whispered back to me.
When I tell people that I’m crazy, I don’t say so in the same way that women sometimes self-deprecate to mute their own honest, human emotions. No, I say so because it’s supported by data.
Case in point: I uh… I’m very devoted. To people who have no idea I exist.
On this episode of ‘The Broke Bitch,’ I take you through a long and decorated history of crazy stupid love.
Let’s take it back.
I was eight years old when Nsync debuted on the Disney Channel. I remember vividly how my mother abandoned her eight-year-old daughter at home, with the TV on, to walk my sister across the damn street to start her first day in middle school (literally, the middle school was across the street. My sister could’ve walked her own damn self). I mean, it was fine—whatever, joke’s on you woman because I found my sex drive that day—because lo and behold, I discovered Justin Timberlake and his baby-blue hand-me-downs from Biggy Smalls. Mind you, looking back, he looks like a CHILD, with badly bleached hair, but I won’t deny how then, as now, he gave me the feels. From that day on, my favorite color was baby blue (just like Justin’s), my favorite cereal was Apple Jacks (just like Justin’s), and I was only into blond-haired, blue-eyed white guys who looked—by default—like Justin (cuz, you know, all y’all look alike). But alas, my older sister and cousin caught wind of the band soon after and banned me from liking him anymore because Justin was now my cousin’s, and Lance Bass was my older sister’s. For some reason, back then, none of us were into JC Chasez, so I was left with either Chris Kirkpatrick or Joey Fatone… Remaining options were disappointing, especially with the 12+ year age difference. It was at least unanimous that none of us liked Britney Spears because we thought she was a man-stealing slut. I regret the slut-shaming, Britney, but you stole my man.
My greatest betrayal. I remember being dragged to see The Fellowship of The Ring by another older sister and her then-boyfriend. I thought, “Fuck it, I’ll just sleep through the movie, it’s fine.” I was wrong. I was so wrong. Because about 30% of the way in, I saw a long-haired angel do a fuh-LAW-less dismount off his horse upon arriving in Rivendell, and like a hungry dog my eyes followed him for the next ten years of my miserable fucking life. I saw The Fellowship of the Ring 6 times in theaters, The Two Towers 13 times, and The Return of the King [only] 3 times (honestly it had like 12 endings – I didn’t have much stamina left in me at that point). I went to midnight showings of those films plus the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, I bought a standing cardboard cutout of him as Legolas (with Gimli), my dad bought me a bow and arrow for Christmas, my friends and I would go to each other’s houses and make lembas bread and recite the script, and the first thong I ever owned was pastel yellow with a cartoon Legolas on it…BITCH I EVEN BOUGHT YOU A BIRTHDAY CAKE AND THREW YOU A PARTY IN MY MIDDLE SCHOOL GEOMETRY CLASS!! Yes, I got his face screened onto a cake and had a party on January 13, 2002, to celebrate his birthday. AND HOW DOES THIS BITCH REPAY ME?! He gets married to a fucking supermodel and has an adorable child, reprises his role as a (this time around) weirdo Legolas in The Hobbit films, starts a feud with Justin Bieber over fucking Selena Gomez, hits on my friend in Cabo San Lucas one New Years Eve, and now I hear that your well-endowed self is paddleboarding with your ding-dong in Katy Perry’s face?! THAT SHOULD’VE BEEN ME. I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING. BUT YOU’RE A DUMB FUCK AND NOW YOU MISSED OUT. YA DONE GOOFED, SNOWFLAKE.
30 SECONDS TO MARS
Only for Jared Leto. And only for senior year of high school. I didn’t have a teenage rebellion per se, but I did have an underground affection for emo music. Enter 30 Seconds to Mars. I wrote down the lyrics to every song and tried to retrofit them into my spiritual existence (“Oh my God, this totally speaks to me on so many levels!”). I almost died going to one of their shows at Soma in Chula Vista. He was the first celebrity crush that I got to speak to and touch (a handshake, relax): “You’re amazing,” I said, super coolly.
“Thank you,” all 5’9 of him replied.
Then the rumor mill of him having an entire salad bar of STDs due to his decades of sexcapades—plus that one stint of dating then-It Girl LiLo—eventually turned me off.
SURFERS/SNOWBOARDERS/ACTION SPORTS STARS
If I had a super power, it would be “appearing as non-threatening.” How else would I have gotten into as many party buses, afterparties, and backstageS of international competitions for extreme sports as I have? Because I’m relentless. And no one perceives me as a threat.
I volunteered in the athlete lounge of the US Open of Surfing for, like, four summers; I went to Norway for some snowboarding competitions and ended up partying with athletes; I was at X Games in LA; and I even made it to Pipeline a couple times. I must’ve spent thousands of dollars in expenses in my early adulthood just drinking Red Bulls & vodka and taking drunk selfies with athletes (I’m sure there’s some shameful video footage out there somewhere that would buzzkill my dreams of ever becoming a politician).
Though I vigorously exercised my have-no-shame muscle over that period, it must be said that I was never classified as a “pro-ho” because I never slept with anyone. Koala-beared people, yes, but never went to first/second/third base with anyone. Because unlike them, I am not an athlete, and therefore had no business stepping up to the plate like dat. ‘Twas good, though. Small victories.
It’s a miracle I’ve never been arrested. Honestly. And this is not at all to discredit my love for the beautiful game—I really do enjoy the sport very much. I also happen to enjoy the men who play it just as much. At one point in my obsession, my greatest professional ambition was to become a WAG. I was an ardent subscriber of kickette (pretty sure at one point it was my homepage), obsessed with players gossip (Sara “pastasauce” Carbonero, don’t let me catch you on the street). I got pretty close a couple times. I met the English NT when I was a media intern, I was once at arm’s length from Fernando Llorente and Gerard Pique in their Glasgow hotel, and, my crowning moment, I was once within earshot of Iker Casillas when Real Madrid played a friendly against LA Galaxy, and you bet your very-concerned ass he heard me scream his name [and was likely very, very terrified]. Sigh. Those were the days.
BARACK OBAMA, JUSTIN TRUDEAU, CORY BOOKER, AND THE FEMINIST A-TEAM
I think I know how twenty-somethings in JFK’s time felt. Maybe, you know, not the full weight of their social oppression, but the whole finding-your-president-dreamy thing. Proud fact: Obama was the first president I ever voted for back in 2008, and I voted for his reelection in 2012. And I would elect him for four more years, law permitting, just on the merit of his singing chops alone. I also led a half-assed social media campaign (probably like 1 tweet) for Sen. Cory Booker to join Hillary Clinton’s ticket as her running mate. He was short-listed, but she went for goofball Tim Caine. He amazeballs doe. And Justin Trudeau…HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?! You know, Justín, when you were boxing in Brooklyn, I almost Irish-exited work to go stalk you.
To all my Hill hunnies, I just wanna know:
To the chick on the subway, to answer your question: Pick one.