Thursday, May 29, 2014
I am stupid proud that I was asked to participate in the inaugural Miss Spoken live lady lit show last night at Bucktown's Gallery Cabaret. For those of you who missed it, here's what I read. Keep an eye out for Miss Spoken shows in the future- it was fucking hilarious. And Samantha Irby is my ladycrush foreverrrr.
A brief history of the most amazing titties in the world. (Mine, duh.)
I was about 10 when I first learned that the little pink knobs a few inches above my belly button were something slightly more special than just appendages that resembled Chutes and Ladders game pieces. My memory for my childhood is shit, but I remember this instance unfortunately all too clearly. I was in my room, putting together a killer ensemble that consisted of jorts and a white tank top with lace edges. It’s not important to the story, but I was definitely chewing some stolen Bubbalicious as well, because...REBEL. I was headed out for an exciting dad-daughter adventure, a trip to the hardware store for some miscellaneous light bulbs. Dad came upstairs to the door of my room, took one look at my thin white tank top, and kindly asked me to please change my shirt. I knew...I knew that you could see my nipples, but I just didn’t realize that it was a big deal until I was asked to change. I nonchalantly agreed to change, but felt that first rush of body-induced shame. I mean, you can’t blame my father for not wanting to take his 10 year-old burgeoning daughter to a hardware store in Northeast Ohio looking like a drunk sorority girl. But yeah. The incident certainly didn’t do any favors for my emerging daddy issues, either. To this day when I want to be shamefully naughty, I’ll dig out a good old white tank top and strut around braless. (Again - Rose wouldn’t let me tonight.)
The next 10 or so years, my breasts essentially languished. I have very few memories of my teen breasts, oddly, but I think this is largely due to the fact that they weren’t all that prominent until my early adulthood. I’m not sure if they grew slowly, or I just didn’t show them off at all - or likely a combination. I just remember that my breasts were always laughably unimpressive in my high school years. Really, most of my teen body was. I remember walking by the soccer team one day after lunch and hearing a unanimously audible “eh.” Despite the fact that deep down, I wanted to be a teen sexpot, I also found my non-boobs amusing. So much so that I authored several zine articles about their lacklusterness in 10th and 11th grade. (My zine was off the hook, incidentally.) I made the classic jokes about the concavity of my tit-ular cavities, and the inability of my male classmates to figure out where my breasts actually were during obviously short-lived romances. Me and my tiny titties, we were cool.
So now we are getting into the bragging years. At some point in my early 20s, my breasts became ... amazing. The only scientific reason I can think of for the rapid development of my breasts from my late teens to early 20s is the countless calories ingested while shotgunning Natty Ice in college. In addition, I discovered hormonal birth control, available at the student center for 4 bucks a month. All told, I gained a good cup size in my college years and thus am eternally grateful to both beer and unnatural amounts of estrogen. The advent of camera phones came along shortly after, and I embraced this technology to garner mutual admiration for my breasts. I’ve made plenty of unsuspecting males and females take a gander. I’m that girl, and if you know me for more than 2 weeks, you’ll probably get a boob text. Twitter came along, and I would spend inordinate amounts of time crafting love poem tweets to my breasts. I was a walking infomercial for my boobs. They had been the underdogs for so long, I was ready for them to have their moment in the sun.
Like many women, I gained peak physical confidence in my late 20s and 30s. In early 2007, age 29, I joined the Windy City Rollers. At this point, my boobs really blew up (No pun intended). In derby, politically correct or not, our bodies become communally shared property. If I could guess the number of times I’ve been felt up by a fellow skater, I’d guess that number to be somewhere in the low hundreds. Truthfully. In derby, we are always, always touching each other. We tangibly admire each other’s meat legs, face bruises, and yes- erogenous zones. By the time I joined the league, I had developed a large amount of tittie pride, so it was a match made in heaven. Playing a female-centric sport gave me an altered sense of body confidence. Women with a myriad of body types played derby, and we were all mutually lauded for both the athleticism and sexuality of our parts. Thick legs, big asses are desirable: these are functionally beautiful in the world of contact sports. A common drill in roller derby is a paceline. Skaters (usually 10-20) form a single-file line, and do a variety of drills - jumps, maneuvering, sprints, etc over the course of 5 to 20 minutes. The paceline is where a lot of body love happens. Countless times, the skater behind me in a paceline not only verbally admired the growing strength of my booty, but also gave me a reach-around nipple squeeze. A lotta love.
In 2009, so much of the Windy City Rollers family had seen and touched my breasts that I actually won a league award for having the best breasts. The Golden Tickets Award. Concrete proof that my girls are punk rock as fuck. I could not have been more proud than if I had won an award based on actual athletic talent.
I began to use my breasts as a bartering tool. One of my best friends, Mariah, is a talented photographer and was a fellow skater. She has a particular admiration for my breasts. One year I was dissatisfied with my roller derby promo headshot (because my teeth looked extra horsey), so I begged her to shoot a new one for me. In return, I promised to let her do a photoshoot of my boobs. A photo of me topless with a taxidermied turkey still hangs in her living room. And I got a killer headshot.
In 2012 my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. Kind of a buzzkill. In addition to her diagnosis, her mother had also died of breast cancer when she was 11. The year of my mom’s cancer treatment was a tough one, but after a double mastectomy and a round of chemo, she is cancer free, thank god. It was highly recommended by her physicians that I also begin to see a specialist and start the tornado of diagnostic testing. In the past couple of years, I’ve become intimately familiar with mammograms, breast MRIs, breast ultrasounds, and biopsies. I could wax about these experiences for a while, particularly how a mammogram feels like a night in a frat house...but those are stories for another day.
I think a lot about the future of my breasts. Through medical math magic, my breast specialist has informed me that my chances of developing breast cancer (based on family history, lifestyle, and other risk factors) are about 3 times that of the average woman. Which is not insignificant. However, that still puts my risk at somewhere in the low to mid 30 percent range. I’m still more likely, technically, to not get cancer. Unfortunately, despite being a statistician by trade, I’m first and foremost a pessimist. Deep down I know that at some point, I’m gonna lose these sweet beautiful porcelain titties. And it’s gonna be shitty as hell. I’ve based a lot of my identity around my breasts, and the loss of them will literally and figuratively take away a big piece of me.
You’d think that this information gained in the past year or so would’ve made me more humble, more respectful of my breasts.
But it’s made me so much worse. I’m maintain a rigorous schedule of daily breast selfies. With newfound knowledge of the potential impermanence of my breasts, I feel that it’s my noble duty to share what I’ve been given with the world while I still can. Although I hold pride in other achievements, like being an accomplished researcher at one of the best universities in the world, and skating with a nationally ranked athletic league….I mean let’s face it, these melons are the fucking pinnacle. I’m totally ok with my legacy being based solely on my mammary glands. We’re all just trying to make the world a better place, 2 nipples at a time.
Thank you. (And you’re welcome.)
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Framed as a ‘sustainability study,’ a recent NASA-funded project report reads more like a Walking Dead prequel. Although NASA is now distancing itself from the study, the findings have successfully rooted themselves deep in the brains of all literate paranoid-neurotics.
It boils down to this: If Western civilization doesn’t make drastic changes to its use of resources (read: by essentially instituting Communism), we’re royally fucked to the extent of total collapse in the next few decades. While one might appreciate a good scare-tactic as motivating tool, the researchers have significantly underestimated the apathy of the good Westernized people. We will be much more inclined to go out with a bang. And obviously, do our best to ignore the cognitively stressing steps that we could take to prevent our imminent demise. Too much workkkk.
Which leads us to this: The important next step of planning your Civilization-Is-Doomed Keg Party.
Tips for Throwing your End-of-Civilization Kegger
1. Buy some kegs. Depending on your social circle’s size and level of self-involvement, you could have a lot of mouths. Skip the Keystone Light and go for the good stuff - society is ending! (You may also want to take this opportunity to stock up on those giant bottles of water. Just saying.)
2. Get killer food. As civilization deteriorates, gaining access to quality, pure foodstuffs will look like a scene from Running Man. Also, other research shows us that fun foods like seafood, honey, and almonds will soon be nonexistent anyway so get while the getting is good. Let’s go with a menu like crab legs, organic butter. Pure cacao. Heirloom tomatoes with virgin olive oil and fresh herbs.
And don’t, for the love of god, compost any of your partyfood trash. Why bother now? Just dump it on my front lawn like those GODDAMN TEENAGERS WITH THEIR FLAMING HOT CHEETOS.
3. Invest in desirable party favors. Cigarettes (and any other tobacco products) are obviously going to be at a premium with our new-fangled Communist overlords. Your party guests will greatly appreciate a carton of Marlboros when they arrive at your shindig. Those Marlboros will trade on the street for a minor internal organ, like a spleen or gallbladder, in about 15 years. Throw in a couple of prescription painkiller pills and your guests will leave feeling like they got access to an Oscars grab bag.
4. Most of all: HAVE FUN! It’s likely the last time you will see the un-maimed faces of several of your closest friends. Embrace, dance to Pharrell, and go ahead and stay up til the sun comes out.
(The number of times we will get to see the sun rise is declining rapidly anyway.)
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Which genocidal autocrat is your spirit animal?
Which Disney Princess’s anus are you? *
How long would you last in Phil Spector’s bedroom?
Where you should you put your next dreamcatcher tattoo?
Which benzodiazepine will you OD on?
What slaughterhouse by-product are you?**
Which closeted 18th century writer would you deflower?
Which city should you try to start your inevitably-failing modeling career in?
Which Jane Austen character should you do meth in a public restroom with?
Which genital-shaped fungus are you?
Which one of your friend’s boyfriends should you seduce?
Which 1990s car should you have lost your virginity in?
What celebrity nudity are you?***
Whose Downton Abbey chamberpot would you be?****
How many dead kittens can you fit in your mouth at once?
Which Silence of the Lambs Buffalo Bill victim are you?
Which illegal sex fetish should you experiment with in your 20s?
Which breakfast cereal will give you colorful poops tomorrow?
When will you realize your solo album is never going to take off?
Which food-based innuendo is your vagina?
Which eating disorder should you REALLY have?
Which one of your friend’s babies is going to eventually murder them in their sleep?
Which corrupt politician would jizz on your jumper?
*Snow White was a bleacher.
**Horse glue, SWEEEET.
***I wanted Eva Mendes’ bush but got Michael Fassbender’s schlong. :(
**** Aw nuts, Lady Edith.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
Hot bitches don’t make “resolutions.” Hot bitches SELF-COMMAND.
Eat more meals in the bathtub. A tub sandwich is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Plus the mayo drippings condition my skin. Hashtag #tubsandwich copyright Melanie LaForce 2014.
Avoid live music. It’s just the worst. I am always bored after 2 songs. If it’s a band that was completely formative to my life and I’m totally in love with, like Violent Femmes or the Beastie Boys, they might hold my attention for up to 20 minutes. If I’m also eating cheese fries.
Cultivate a sexier leisure wardrobe. My cut-off fleece snowman pants will no longer get me laid. I want sexy clothes that are French words like NEGLIGEE and POUTINE.
Increase portfolio of humiliative takedowns. Nothing boosts my self-esteem like being a bully. PWN more people. (Can I still pwn? Is pwning still something?) I will post countless inflammatory comments on YouTube, heckle sweating amateurs at open mics, and slowly chip away at my subordinates’ feelings of accomplishment. I will make barely audible passive-aggressive comments about the fashion choices of passersby. I WILL JUDGE YOU FOR READING NICHOLAS SPARKS ON THE TRAIN.
Figure out what this whole Macklemore thing is. Is it an edible Northern Pacific fish? A Transformer?
Create my own line of fortune cookie fortunes. Fortunes that don’t make me throw my cookie across the room. Life guidelines do not equal fortunes, dumbasses. My last fortune told me I had a beautiful smile. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT? I mean, accurate, sure, but functionally useless.
Stop reading internet bullshit. I will stop reading articles titled “How to be nice to your fat albino Eskimo friend” or “Why my abortion saved my dog’s life.” I will stop taking inane quizzes that identify which frozen vegetable/Pixar character/extinct Pleistocene hominid I am because they are grossly inaccurate and non-scientific. Dear Buzzfeed - I am NOT Mulan, I am Snow fucking White, you bastards.
Stop making lists. No. Can’t. Will never stop.
Monday, December 23, 2013
*Extremely non-scientific assessment.
Events and Activities to AVOID until April, at least:
1). Watching Walking Dead. You’ve got the undead, betrayal, beheadings, and mosquitos. And how the hell are Maggie and Glen not getting repeated urinary tract infections from their dirty prison sex? And why hasn’t Daryl Dixon been given more air time?? It is all SO STRESSFUL. Thank god for mid-season break. Watch reruns this summer instead, when you can better cope with the Appalachian-biter nightmares.
2). Having unprotected sex. In case you weren’t freaking out enough, go ahead and add a pregnancy or STD scare. I mean WHY NOT?
3). Taking public transportation at rush hour. Winter transit on the train is a smorgasbord for your panic disorder. Not only are you lumped together, but everyone is twice as large, doubling their Midwestern girth with North Face and cheap faux fur. You’ll be hallucinatory sweaty, because despite the fact that everyone is layered in fowl by-products, the train heat is set to 82 degrees. At best, you’ll get unintentionally dry-humped by an elderly Polish woman wearing dirty mittens. Just wait til after the rush. Working late: worth it.
4). Donating blood. I know, I’m a jerk. But don’t do it, because I know you. You will get nervous, you will watch the needle entering your frightened vein...and then you will faint. And I heard they don’t even give cookies to fainters. Double up your donations when your head is right again.
5). Meeting new people. Sorry...(and I know you know this) but you kind of suck right now. You’re a downer at parties, because you can only obsessively think about how you might pass out if you can’t flee to hide in a bathtub in the next 20 seconds. You’re no fun really anywhere, because all you want to do is stay home and eat smoked gouda and watch Bob’s Burgers where it’s safe. (On a good night. On a bad night you catch yourself wondering if any of your parents’ friends have a holdover bomb shelter could just “hangout in” for a couple months.) There will be time for social excitement, and that time is called July.
6). Sexting. It just doesn’t work right now. Sample:
Attractive person: Hey baby heeeey.
You: I am 95% sure I’m currently having a brain aneurysm. (pause.) ...I mean, what’s up?
The hotties of the world don’t need to hear your uncontrolled, irrational death fantasies. It’s a bit of a boner-killer, I hear.
7). Trying anything remotely new, whatsoever. Now is not the time to attempt those high-waisted jeans all the kids are wearing because WHAT IF THE CIRCULATION ACROSS YOUR INTESTINE GETS CUT OFF? Maybe also don’t have sushi at the new joint on the block because CLEARLY THEIR HEALTH CODE ADHERENCE COULD NOT YET HAVE BEEN PROPERLY VETTED.
Just go ahead and give up. Crawl into that dusty corner of your closet and hunker down. We’ll meet for sushi ‘bout June.