Sunday, August 2, 2015

callin myself out

Holy fuck, it's August.

The last time I posted anything it was June. Actually, the last time I posted anything it was just a few weeks ago, a bullshit upload of some of my YouTube videos in case prospective employers actually look at my blog, because nothing says "we'll get back to you" like clicking a link that leads you directly to


in letters as big and as black as Shaq's mightily powerful peen itself. Seriously, my Google+ page is just a gallery of posts about dicks and pictures of dicks and drawings of dicks. "Though I work well independently, I feel that my propensity toward collaborative endeavors would make me a welcome addition to any team!"

I haven't been writing much here because I've actually been writing a lot for work. I have two regular, paying writing jobs, and I don't have a lot of practice balancing real-life "pays the bills" day job with freelance "on the side" writing jobs, while still making room for "thing that makes me happy but is steadily becoming less and less of a priority." Day job work has been slow, which I've used as an opportunity to seek out more on the side jobs, and my obsessive, worst case scenario punishment brain has slipped into C.R.E.A.M. overdrive and all I can think about is moneymoneymoneymoneymoney. I constantly tell myself the same two lies:

1. I don't have time to write funny stuff
2. I have to make paid work my priority

As far as not having time, that's just bullshit speak for "i don't fucking feel like it." I have plenty of time. I have time for my flat Asian ass to do a hundred squats, and look at all the photos taking up space on my phone, and take a dozen Buzzfeed-type quizzes (not only am I a "Samantha," but based on only 6 questions, one might guess I'm between 35-55 years of age! And I should live in France! My love language is "quality time!" INTP! etc, etc...) I have time to kiss my dog's face for the duration of all the commercial breaks of all those episodes of Seinfeld I've already seen, I have time to sneak that same dog tiny bites of ice cream sandwiches, and as soon as she starts farting I have more than enough time to google "ice cream sandwiches+dog+poison." I have plenty of time, and not a lot of excuses.

And the getting paid stuff...the getting paid stuff is something I'm kind of navigating my way through, because being an adult who pays for shit in the world kind of forces this issue to remain a priority. I know a lot of writers who won't work for free after their career reaches a certain point as they feel it compromises the integrity of their paid work, and they feel it just kind of lowers the bar for anyone looking to sell their words and ideas and not just allow themselves to be exploited by editors who offer "a great opportunity to receive some exposure." (<--don't get me wrong, not shitting on this, dues are made to be paid.) But I know from experience that writing for free has actually led to the paid jobs I've been fortunate enough to acquire, and it's not like I'm actually at some point in my "career" where I can reasonably refer to myself as hot shit (once that day comes though you better believe I'm gonna be updating my Linked In to "works at Being HOT SHIT, 1982-present!") The truth is I haven't been motivated to write nearly as much in the last couple of years, and the stuff I've had published gaining the widest reach was from like FOUR FUCKING YEARS AGO so seriously---

I'm writing this because I need a reality check.

I have been holed up in my apartment, compulsively searching the internet for all types of writing jobs, emailing and cover lettering and sample essaying and grammar testing and word counting and all types of seemingly productive bullshit, but it's motivated by fear and urgency rather than fun and positivity and my brain tells me that if I do this perfectly then all my problems will be solved and it's been GOGOGOGOGOGO! No shit, I"ll be like sweaty and hungry and have had to pee for the last 3 hours and I just could not fucking stop obsessing. Then I met with this guy from my sketch writing class who was like "this cannot be the only thing that happens in your life, nothing is gonna come of you isolating in your apartment for 14 hours at a time," and I was like "oh yeah yeah, for sure," and I continued to keep doing the same shit for another 2 weeks. Finally, what he said to me began to sink in. I tend to do this thing where I think I can figure everything out on my own, by myself, and when it doesn't happen immediately I become discouraged and just hate everything and everyone and stew in jealousy and resentment. I don't give up, but instead place more pressure on myself or whatever thing I'm convinced will make me happy and

So there are some things I need to do to help me reach my goals and I wanna lay them out on here so I can have some amount of accountability to someone, even if it's just myself, because if there's anything more attractive to me than "eating ice cream sandwiches alone in the dark" it's being able to tell someone I did what I said I was gonna do, instead of having to be like "OH MY GOD, WHAT IS THAT?!" and then run away. Cuz I got bad knees you guys, and also I just fucking hate running a lot.

1. Find one more paid writing job by October. Just one. It doesn't even have to pay that well, just something to further my experience (<---hey cover letter, whaaat!!) while paying me some money, and allowing me to develop a relationship with one more editor.
2. Have one humor piece published by October. I used to pitch stuff around all the time, and now I just don't. I really want to start again. I will start again.
3. Gain 5 pounds by October. OK, if you're gonna shit all over it and judge me for this one then I would like to personally offer you an invitation to just shut the fuck up instead. We all have our insecurities so BYYYYYE bitch.

That's it! Ir's really not all that much when I lay it out like that, and make the goals small and manageable and not I HAVE TO BECOME A FULLY SELF SUPPORTING PROFESSIONAL HUMOR WRITER BY TOMORROW MORNING AT THE LATEST, SO HELP ME GOD (AND CRAIGSLIST.) <--- :(

So I'ma just leave this here and I'll check back in October. In the meantime I will be posting on here more, because I like it and I miss it and Ms. Woman already barfed like 4 times so now I have all those extra ice cream sandwiches minutes to burn instead.

generic-ass ice cream sandwiches-stealing dog
How does "day job" sound worse than "blow job" though, really?

Oh, wait! If you're in the NYC area and are feeling a little stuck somewhere along your creative path, consider buying this guy ---> Nick a coffee and you guys can talk aalllll bout it!

Thursday, July 16, 2015

New(ish) Skits with FANCY RESTAURANT!!!

I haven't posted in a minute. I've been juggling the adult world problems of working full-time, freelancing part-time, and making funny words and/or videos with the rest of my time, and it has not been easy, and it has served as a great excuse not to keep plans with people. I wanna make great work, which for now means less "but this is my passion!" work, and until I get a little more practice balancing it all, this humor business will just have to wait. I'll have a longer post about just that in a day or two (...3 weeks), but for now, enjoy these super short skits I filmed with Anna Halpern that I completely neglected to share with my non-Facebook/Twitter/Instagram minions out there who actually read written words and are not impressed by social media. Please tell me how you go about doing that. We are called Fancy Restaurant, we film everything on Anna's iPhone, edit with iMovie, and improvise most of it. Hope you like! If you don't, they're only like 60 seconds long, so just check your phone instead or whatever.




Anna is moving to Atlanta to live my fantasy life with Ludacris so I'll be forced to walk the Earth in search of a new partner in sketch. Hope to have one more before she goes. Will remember to share that one.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Shaq's dick

I am alone most of the time. Well, not alone, alone (points up to Jesus,) but I do mean quite literally, physically alone, for much of the day, most days. In addition to working with dogs during the daylight hours, I write for a few publications, meeting my deadlines in the evenings. With so much time and so little human contact, I find myself thinking a wide range of thoughts, from should I uproot my life and leave Queens to be closer to my boyfriend? to how does double dutch work? is it lasers? (it IS lasers!) Peppered amongst the truly insightful considerations I ponder daily, lies the one constant question we as humans have all asked, or at least, a question I have asked enough times for big is Shaq's dick? 

According to a recent study, the average adult human penis measures 5 and some-odd inches when erect, which means every guy everywhere is well above average with their identical 8 inches and haha





Nice try, but measuring from the base of the b...ottom of the thigh doesn't count.

The average height for an adult male in the US is approximately 5'10". Shaquille O'Neal towers over everyone, reaching Robocop proportions at an astounding 7'1". The aforementioned converted into centimeters comes to 177, to Shaq's 215. 215-177=38, meaning Shaq's dick is 38 times the size of the average dick, measuring in at 190 centimeters, or 6'2". Talk about HUGE!!!!! No wait, there's no physical way Shaq can only be 9 inches bigger than his own dick. Unless....

No. The numbers were terribly miscalculated.


Well since I equal parts don't know how/don't care to figure out how to convert penis inches to body percentages, I'll just speculate various objects I feel like could possibly be of similar size. At first I assumed Shaq's dick might easily resemble that of a whale or Woolly mammoth, but a quick "think about that for 2 seconds" reminded me that I am the most constant abuser of hyperbole out of anyone, anywhere in the entire history of the universe, forever. So I found some more realistic possibilities, and I feel like if you were to hold any of these items up to Shaq, it could maybe possibly seem like it might be about the size of his (definitely) gigantic dick.

a loaf of challah bread

a large to extra large eggplant

a box of tissues

one of those plastic skateboards from the 70's

a big-ass bottle of Dove Body Wash (with 33% more!)

I realize there are people physically larger than Shaq, but he is the largest person I can imagine, and when I think about it too long he takes on frightening yet magical proportions, akin to that of an ancient Greek myth. Regardless of whether Shaq's dick is closer in size to a plastic toy than a prehistoric animal, one thing is for sure: it would fucking kill me. There's no way that thing would fit anywhere inside me, mouth included. I'm not even sure both hands would be enough. In order for me to make Shaq reach anywhere near completion it would no doubt call for a complex system of cranks and levers and pulleys, and probably a spray bottle, as well as a few of those boxes of tissues from earlier. So basically this drawing depicting working conditions cicra the Industrial Revolution.

Finally, I would like to use this opportunity to invite anyone with even the most extremely basic photoshop skills to volunteer their services for future artistic collaborations. I can't pay you anything, but I will think of some other thing to offer you that I still, in all honestly, probably will not end up giving you. I will feel bad about that, though. Just, if you're bored or whatever, leave me a comment.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015


This is my impression of my whiny-ass relationship with New York City, as represented by the musical stylings of the most frequently played songs on my iTunes.

The crush.

song: Hey Lover
artist: Boyz 2 Men

Oh motherfuck YES! You just moved to NY. You're feeling excited and hopeful, and oh shit, is that a recently renovated 3 bedroom in Brooklyn with "my first apartment in NYC" written all over it? Of course it is, you just moved from upstate NY or possibly somewhere in the Midwest, or a suburb of Boston, gentrified Brooklyn is exactly where the fuck you find your first apartment but don't worry, it all looks hard on Facebook. You paid rent, got a month to find a job, there are three bodegas on the way to the train, and no one knows how lonely you are. You made it. You're here. I can't believe it, I ain't had a crush in years...(licks lips.)

Sexy sex. 

song: I'll Make Love to You
artist: Boyz 2 Men

You're slowly learning the unfamiliar MTA subway system. You found a job. It sucks, but the bi-weekly paycheck allows you to see improv, and have brunch, and sit in the park and eat dollar dumplings. You see limited-release movies. You see bands that haven't left Canada in years. You even have friends! Ok, you have one friend. But you feel alive, You see things on your walk to work most people only see on television. Shit, sometimes you even see people making things people are seeing on television. You get mail, officially making you a New Yorker, and by the end of the week you are grinding this city's dick so hard, you don't even care if it takes alllll niiiiiight. Well, not all night. You just started that job, and you will be God dammed if you have to move back home already! Either way, you're smiling like an idiot and you couldn't give a shit.

"Officially bf/gf."

song: Motownphilly
artist: Boyz 2 Men

You are now feeling pretty safe and secure in your status as a New Yorker, and have even made it Facebook official. Haha, no you changed that shit in the U-Haul down here, social media was made for making your life seem interesting. But you've now got the trains on lock, you don't even need to Google map that shit. Ridgewood to the Upper West Side: M to the L to the 1/2/3. Fort Greene to Flushing: G to the 7 to probably like 2 buses (maybe a little bit of mapping.) Sunset Park to Washington Heights: JUST RIDE THAT MOTHERFUCKING D ALL THE WAY. (not that D, come on Boyz 2 Men, grow up!)

Those last 7 months you know you should break up but your lease isn't up/you RSVP'd to a wedding last year/are too insecure to be alone/are too afraid to have failed again/are too lazy.

song: Water Runs Dry
artist: Boyz 2 Men

You're now running on the fumes of dollar slices and Chinese food. Fuck the weather. Fuck the MTA, Fuck my rent. Fuck tourists. Fuck 34th Street. Fuck Union Square. Fuck the one empty train car you accidentally walk onto even though YOU TOTALLY KNOW BETTER BY NOW, fuck! Fuck the 6 train. And the 7. And the G. Fuck 35 minute waits to eat. Fuck showtime. Fuck ever-expanding shin-deep slush puddles on every damn corner. Fuck the $1 charge for a new Metrocard. Fuck all the little things that used to be details but are finally starting to get to you in a very real way, every day. I mean not "real" real, it's just really annoying, I guess.

The break up. 

song: End of the Road
artist: Boyz 2 Men


"what was that, Krissy?"

"...not crying (sniffle)"

" one said you were..."

But yeah, it's over. Welcome back to Craigslist cuz someone's gotta move the fuck OUT.

More sadness. 

song: It's So Hard to Say Goodbye
artist: Boyz 2 Men

Am I really gonna leave? I feel like NY is such a huge part of my identity now, I don't know who I'd be without you, I mean "it." I love it in the summer, it's really not that bad in the summertime. Do they have cannoli everywhere else? I know I complain about the trains but I can't pay for car insurance, I don't even think my license is still good? Do they have churros everywhere?

Moving on. .
song: One Sweet Day
artist: Boyz 2 Men

(2 years later...)

"Oh my God, is it you? Wow! I mean, this is so crazy, well I mean, yeah I did return to the city but, wow just, really didn't expect this at all. You look great! Yeah, yeah she's good. How's things work out with your brother? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that...well, I should go. Yeah it's um...yeah."

walks away in opposite direction

turns head


NYC turns around

"You take care of yourself."

and then the whistling part for Guns N Roses Patience comes on over the credits. NO! That Alicia Keys song is like "Newww Yooorrrrk..." NO NO!! duh! this:

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Weegee's "list"

Whenever I start a new relationship I can't help but ask questions I really don't want to know the answer to. Maybe it's some sick sort of torture, or a manipulative method of self-sabotage, but I constantly think about who my partner was with before me, and I usually ask, then obsessively stalk, and spend hours and hours comparing and judging and just basically reinforcing the belief that I'm a huge piece of shit who could never pull off jean shorts and cowboy boots. If you aren't a jealous person, you should seriously thank whatever you believe in every day as soon as you wake up, because the shit that goes on in my head will sometimes not allow me to enjoy any decent thing that I've managed to manifest into my life.

Of course it's important that I accept my partner's past, as it allows him to be the person he is today, same as mine. As much as the delusional, controlling part of me would love to believe that I'm the only one you've ever liked, EVER!!!, I understand logically that everyone has a past.

Deep in thought one evening (ie-70 weeks back in his Instagram history, one evening), I started thinking about the failed relationships and sometimes brief encounters of my own past. I thought about the different types of guys I'd been with, the mistakes, the romances, the direct results of alcohol and Ambien hook-ups, and from there my brain logically meandered into "I wonder who Weegee was fucking before we met?"

Everyone has a past.

Weegee was adopted from a shelter near Jamaica, Queens. Not only did she have at least one previous owner, she had at least three previous dog dudes owning that puss-aaay OHHHH! (high five) Weegee's past involves backyard breeding, her role being that of baby-making machine extraordinaire! No one is quite sure how many puppies have been passed through her mighty birth canal, but by the looks of them nips I would say not less than...200?

Clearly Weegee has made some questionable life choices in her day (not really, she didn't choose that life, none of them do WE HAVE TO BE A VOICE FOR THE VOICELESS, please adopt!!)  Here are just a few of them.

Weegee's "list":

1. The high school boyfriend.

2. The over-qualified professor at the community college in her home town.

3. Her old weed connection.

4. The verbally abusive, insecure dick.

5-12. Tinder ass.

13. "me time".

Although I am clearly a major upgrade from any of those scrubby-ass dudes from Weegee's past, her past is just that: hers. If I want to experience true love with Weeg, that means accepting her for who she is, possible gangbangs and all! And I know that if she didn't share those times with others before me, she wouldn't have a system of values in place allowing her to determine what she does, and doesn't want (for example...them! I AM THE BEST! I AM THE BEST!) Jealousy is hard, but when I start to accept, I can eventually trust, and over time I do recognize that the jealous voice is a fucking liar. Weegee likes me, and I'm allowed to accept that too.

*if you are a dog walking client of mine and happen to be reading this, please know that for whatever fucked up reason, i have a really hard time not making sex jokes about dogs. i promise i am not having sex with your dogs, i don't even think about having sex with your dogs. they're totally not my type.

**last paragraph also applies to human boyfriends. totes samsies.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

The Other Night...

I hear we all have something like, 100 dreams in a night. We don't remember most of them. I hardly remember any of them. The ones I do remember typically involve me trying to murder someone with an unconventional weapon (mango seed), or are an obvious reflection of my deeply rooted fear of abandonment (my boyfriend doesn't know who I am.) 

The rest of the time my dreams are just unbelievably boring. 

The other night I had a dream that I was in the shower. I looked down and noticed that my toenails were painted pink. 

But I didn't remember doing that. 

I was equal parts surprised/relieved upon noticing this, as earlier that evening I realized that I really needed to paint my toenails. 

So that's a fucking relief. 

The other night I had a dream that I was shopping for a winter hat. 

But I didn't see one that I liked.

So I didn't buy one.

(I still don't have a winter hat)

The other night I had a dream that I was headed home from work, and remembered I needed hand soap for my kitchen. 

So I stopped at a store.

It all seemed really expensive for soap.

I thought to myself, "I can probably get it cheaper if I go back to Queens..." 

The other night I had a dream where I was, once again, in the shower. 

I started shampooing my hair. 

Right as I started lathering up I realized I had already shampooed and conditioned my hair.

So I had to do everything all over again.

It's not easy being a creative genius, you guys. It never stops.
There are just like, so many layers to me...

Thursday, November 13, 2014

happy ending (the penis kind)

My back is fucked. The first year I walked dogs I carried this heavy-ass backpack around all day and now my upper back is just busted. I've tried everything everyone always insists on suggesting: chiropractor, accupuncture, yoga, strength training, hot tub, YOU NAME IT, I've tried it, especially when it comes to massage. There are somewhere around fifty million (educated guess) massage places operating in the city I call home, and I've tried...a bunch of them (<---anti-climactic). Some are fancy places with heated oils infused with flowers, others are one large room containing several makeshift rooms constructed of towels hanging from clothespins (some of the best I've ever been to follow this model). The massage tactic is my favorite to implement as it is instantly gratifying, and I don't have to do any work. Also, cheap. And lollipops (or at least those fruity Thai mints). The last time I went in for a massage, however, may very well have been the last time I'll go in for a massage...EVER!

No, not really. I will totally go back. Because the only thing that seems to offer any amount of improvement with the back situation has been to do push-ups daily, and if there's anything I'm not willing to do, it's anything "daily". I just can't pull enough discipline together to make it happen. During my last experience with massage, I remembered a very important detail to consider when you willingly enter an establishment with the understanding that a complete stranger is going to be rubbing his or her bare hands all over your naked body:

i am ticklish as fuck. 

And I know this about myself. Every time I mention how ticklish I am to anyone they inevitably go "oh, you're ticklish, does this tic...," and before they can even get the words out of their stupid mouths I'm already there with an "I WILL FUCKING PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE IF YOU TOUCH ME." I HATE being tickled so much. It's so uncomfortable for me I swear it almost hurts, and I have definitely had third parties run into the room to see if everything was OK upon hearing me scream as if I were being actually physically assaulted. Why do I subject myself to 60 minutes of torture knowing what I know about myself? I guess because it feels good...? I mean, most of the time. Usually.

What should have been a relaxing hour at the end of a long week would end up being one of the more intense tests of willpower since "stop laughing at my grandfather's funeral." My brother kept saying his phone was dead, at which point we both started death metal vocalizing the word "dead" repeatedly, until one of us realized we were at a fucking funeral with a literal dead person in the room, and I just could not keep it together, SORRY I'M NOT SOME HUMORLESS ROBOT, GRANDMA. But the last time I went in the masseuse I was paired with had apparently just come from bench pressing hundreds of pounds with the tips of her fingers and my poor, poor achy-breaky body was forced to endure the most intense physical suffering I have ever paid anyone hard earned cash money to inflict upon me (<--- over-climactic.) The first few minutes were calm and relaxing, the weight of her hands firmly pushing into my tense back muscles from over the soft layer of a recently-warmed towel. Everything from gonna fold this towel back and oil your body up like I'm marinading chicken was a rapid decline into uncontrollable fits of hysterical laughter. And if there's one thing tiny Asian ladies hate more than anything, it is undoubtedly the sound of someone enjoying themself (just ask my mom.) She seemed equal parts confused and offended, while also remaining apologetic, yet determined.

The following is an account of my witnessing this woman experience all five stages of grief, as based on the Kubler-Ross model, while attempting to give me a 60 minute full body massage.

1. Denial. The first time I laughed she stopped for a moment, saying nothing, only to revisit the same spot (my side, under the armpit) REPEATEDLY. If insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, this lady was batshit fucking crazy because homegirl either could not, or would not, accept the reality that was my ticklish body.

2. Anger. This is where it got intense. I think she thought if she could just massage me hard and fast enough I could mind over matter that shit into a remotely enjoyable experience, and you better believe I did everything in my limited power to do just that, but it just ended up being a lot of teeth-gritting and fist-clenching and just like UNGHHH UGHHHHHH!! attempting to think about awful "sad things" on my end. So basically, me face-down trying my damndest not to enjoy anything about being alive in the world at that moment.

When she could feel me sweating through the gallons of oil she rubbed into my body she had no choice but to resign to stage three,

3. Bargaining. She attempted to reach the same spot from the other side of the table. Laughter. She stood near my head, then toward my feet, more laughter. She climbed onto my back, kneading her knuckles into my back. Dying of laughter. Elbows. OK, at this point I am fucking crying, like the first time you eat mushrooms-levels of laughing so hard I'm crying, all the while yelling "I'M SORRY!!!" every 2-4 seconds. She tried, no shit, upward of a dozen different positions and tactics, to no avail. As painful as this experience was, both physically and emotionally (for both of us), I feel like a more ambitious person now or something just following this lady's example...

(I would like to mention that throughout all of this there is an Asian-sounding string instrument Muzak version of that Take My Breath Away song playing ON REPEAT)

(this isn't the song, but it was the only one I could find and frankly, too good to provide the comedic value I was hoping for)

4. Depression. This is the part where she quite literally throws in the towel, like she covered me up with a steaming towel and proceeds to rub her hands in tiny circles on my back, between my shoulder blades, as if she were attempting to burp a small child, for 15 minutes. Previously mentioned song plays almost three times.

5. Acceptance! Finally! Actually what happened here was our time was up. The buzzer went off and we both silently shared a "thank fucking god", and she leaves me alone to contemplate my existence under a now lukewarm, damp towel, naked.

bew bew bew bew bewwww (song begins, again.)

So basically, my back still hurts a lot.