About a month ago I interviewed Carrie Brownstein on the telephone and she was a 100 percent crotch. I should have known that this was going to be the case, because when you mention her name to almost anyone, it seems like their eyes light up and they get a burst of energy, as though they have been waiting for years to get the chance to say that yes, they have spoken to her as well, and she is in fact a crusty, crabby, crotch face. The major difference between those people and myself, however, is that I don’t care. I like, NAY, I value and respect people who are crotches, because it’s honest and true. The majority of people I’m friends with are crotches, and I myself am a member of the crotch club. Sure sure, I’ll smile a crooked smile at you and steal your heart like the fucking Dillion Panthers, but in my mind I am wishing and praying that I could go through life never having to talk to anyone, ever, most of all you (chances are that this applies to whoever “you” are, unless you’re funny and hot, (like Carrie Brownstein) or are offering me a snack or a tasty beverage).
The good thing about learning that your crush of a lifetime isn’t so nice is that it eliminates all of that best behavior crap that people put themselves through when they’re trying to get into someone’s pants and soul. Now when Carrie and I go on dates at Applebees I don’t have to pretend to care about what kind of holistic lavender travel pillow calms her nerves on tour. I can just sit there watching her succulent, bitchy lips move and think things like, “Lady, you think you can kick some high kicks now, well wait until I get my hands on those ankles. Ever had a guitar up your ass? Well you’re about to. And not in a violent way, in a sexy sex way. Ooops. You dropped your mic stand. Better pick it up.” Yeah, I know that’s a long inner monologue to type out, but you just know she’d be blabbering on about free trade coffee beans and shit forever, so you’d have time to think things through.
Wanna know a secret that’s not a secret? People tell me all the time that I look like Carrie Brownstein, but with a gap. It’s true. This makes a lot of sense, but also confuses me and makes me realize that my main intent in dating is fucking myself, which is probably also true. Although the one time I was in a long-term relationship with a girl who was like me in almost every way (looks, background, humor, etc.) I grew to hate the sight of her. The hate culminated into a heated fight in our shared living room where I threw a handful of crumbs in her face.
What I’ve been meaning to say this whole while is that Carrie Brownstein, I love you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings by not being audibly charmed by me when we spoke for 45 minutes on the phone. Even though I was excited for the entire three weeks leading up to our chat, brushed my teeth and then smoked five cigarettes and brushed them again, walked across the street to my place of business so I could have the luxury of a land line to call you from, and was extra careful to only make ONE Portlandia joke and ZERO Sleater Kinney references, I understand how you perhaps forgot to take your medication that day, which led to us not surfing the brain waves of infatuation together. It’s fine. You are a smoking hot lady (even though you make effed up faces when you sing) and you’re a racehorse, Carrie. Yeah, I can see that. You’re a little racehorse. Aren’t you? AREN’T you??!?!? Well guess what, Carrie? GUESS WHAT?? YOU BET WROOOOOOOOOOOOOOONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
Haha. Shit. I’m just joshing you. CALL ME! Really though. You’re not nice. (CALL ME!)
Previously - Laurie Henzel