Sadly, this shit died after two issues. Check out its review: http://alphareader.blogspot.com.au/2012/09/heartbroken-and-horny-zine-by-zo-watt.html
Gross and Disappointing is an account of my dumb life and crazy ladybrain thoughts and you can get this shit in blog form right here or as a zine from Polyester Books, Sticky Institute and maybe some other places like the bus stop. It’ll probably be just like Heartbroken and Horny only without the excuse of a break-up to justify the stupid shit I do.
P.S. Ignore the dates. I had to fuck with them to get this shit in chronological order so read scrolling down.
I’m not going to reveal where I work but I will tell you that it’s a dead-end job that a monkey could do but wouldn’t because a monkey requires more mental stimulation. I have been here seven years. I have been here longer than most of the managers which I guess makes sense since they’re like half my age. The other day I served this girl from my high school and she was all “Oh my god, do you STILL work here?” And I was like “Yes, bitch. I do.” (Except without the ‘bitch’ part.) Anyway, jokes on her because she just got engaged to her boyfriend of four years and you know what’s really embarrassing? DIVORCE IN SIX YEARS. Hahahahahhahahaha! What? You know that shit’s true. So I’ve been telling myself and everyone else that the reason I’m still working this shit job (besides the fact that I get to spend it sitting on my ass reading comic books and stripper memoirs) is because in two months’ time I’ll have qualified for the payout they give to staff who’ve been here forever. But that’s a lie. The truth is I’m here because no one else is going to want to hire me. I have no skills and experience in nothing. I’m not even a dynamic team player. Just the thought of writing my resume makes me want to cry and throw up. Sigh. This was not the plan. I honestly thought I‘d have been discovered by now and on the cover of a Target catalogue. I shouldn’t complain though. Yes, my job might be soul-destroying and mind-numbing but it’s a job nonetheless. Some people don’t even have that much. Some people don’t even know where their next burrito is coming. Whenever I’m feeling shitty about my still being here, I think of two films: Biutiful and Whore’s Glory and I get myself some perspective. This usually lasts until my next shift. Anyway, if you’re a manager at a book store or a cafe and you need someone please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. I’m clumsy and a slow learner but I’m also super punctual and obviously fucking LOYAL so there’s that. Also, I have an interesting face.
I thought I’d talk about Simon for the six people who may be wondering what happened to him. Before I do though, I just want to quickly talk about my feet. I went to Europe last year for five weeks and being that I hate carrying luggage around I made sure to pack light. Really light. I took one pair of socks. Towards the end of my trip, my left foot started getting really itchy and scaly and red lumpy. At the time I shrugged it off as the effects of being in a different climate and maybe not washing my one pair of socks enough but now I’m actually worried because its been four months and my gangrenous foot is still gangrenous. Is it Tinea and if so, what is Tinea? Should I be washing my hands after scratching at it or can I stick them straight into my mouth? Also, if I don’t treat it, will it spread and will I have to get my foot amputated? You have my email people. I need answers. So for those of you who never read Heartbroken and Horny (sluts!), Simon was my beautiful boyfriend of five years. We broke up at the start of 2012 when he realised he was gay. Did I see it coming? Yes but it still hurt like a bitch. Anyway, the two of us are still best friends and manage to talk almost every day despite him having moved to London. Simon, if you’re reading this which you are, you’ve forever ruined straight guys for me by setting the bar incredibly high and for that I am forever grateful; shit dudes are shit. I hope you have an awesome birthday and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I promise I’ll be there for the next one…’cos you’ll be back in Australia by then, right? RIGHT? No, but seriously come home. MIFF isn’t the same without you. P.S. I’m really annoyed that you downloaded Queer as Folk because I was going to get you that for your birthday. Now I’m going to have to think of something else. You suck.
I really don’t want to talk about this. Okay, long story short David is this super hippy, super spiritual white dude I met two months ago in the street. We swapped numbers and pretty much started talking every day. Initially, I was into it. He’s a sweet dude and a nice change of pace from the arrogant wannabe rappers I spent 2012 seeking validation from but then…I dunno. Sometimes you just don’t want to spend six hours talking about religion and inner peace and the subjectivity of right and wrong and the limitations of duality thinking and societal pressures and Western conditioning and the journey of life. Sometimes you just want to get drunk, have sex and eat a burrito. Which we never did. We never even kissed which in hindsight is a good thing because now I feel like I’ve trapped myself into this “friendship” that for a lot of the time I can’t be bothered with. It’s not that I want him to fuck off per se, I just want to create some distance between us. I had thought not messaging him or answering his calls would do that but then today, after a week of avoiding him, he invited me to a screening of a documentary with his mates. And then because I felt bad for ignoring him all week I agreed to have lunch with him on Wednesday. Ugh, what am I doing? Parenthetically, when we first met I made the mistake of being nice thus giving him the impression I’m a nice person when really I’m a hateful bitch with a foul mouth and a dirty mind. Now whenever I slip and drop the f-bomb or say something rude and scathing or make some sweeping generalisation about some shit I know nothing about, he’ll shake his head all disappointed-like and ask whether that was necessary. Chang says “GAAAAAAYYYYY!” Today I made some joke on the phone about how after the screening we should all do shots of period blood which, OKAY, I can see how that sounds wrong out of context but he’d just been talking about the health benefits of drinking one’s own urine (told you he was hippy) and so then I’d mentioned the book Wetlands and how Germaine Greer thinks women should taste their own menstrual blood and ANYWAY the point is, instead of ensuing fits of laughter, there was a long pause and then…“Was that necessary?” Okay, so obviously I’m desperate for a reason to dislike the guy so I don’t feel so bad about being such a dick to him. I’m an awful person, I know, but sidenote: do you think I could get Guzman Y Gomez the Mexican food chain to sponsor this zine? It’s only page seven and I think I’ve mentioned burritos like four times! Must look into this.
It’s 2.47pm and I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth or changed my pad in like six hours. I have baked bean sauce all down the front of my pyjama top (and by ‘pyjama top’ I mean the t-shirt I slept in) and sweat stains down the side because it’s twenty-six degrees and I’m lying under a blanket. This is how I write. Others may get up early and after a hearty breakfast and a brisk walk around the neighbourhood, sit down in the study facing the garden and knock out two thousand words in a six hour session of solid writing but I’m a bit more bohemian. I tend to lie on the couch, festering in my own filth, jotting down a few choice words in between downloaded episodes of The Mindy Project and trips to the kitchen. Sometimes, if the words aren’t coming to me and I’m feeling anxious I might rub one out with the help of my good friend TubeGalore. Right now I’m into videos of Asians fornicating furtively on buses. I have no idea why but if you like your porn slightly censored with the genitals pixelated out (WHO DOESN’T?) then I recommend it. Ooh, it’s 3pm; the new episode of Girls should be on the net. Be right back.
This is going to be a long story. Really long. In fact if it were a Bollywood film they’d have to release this shit in parts. For that reason, I suggest you get some snacks (I’m thinking high protein bars), a bottle of water (you’re going to want to stay hydrated) and get comfy. There’ll be at least six tangents. Also, if you think there’s going to be a huge climatic payoff, you’re wrong. I’m like a Michel Haneke film. All my stories can essentially be boiled down to one sentence: “I don’t think he likes me”. And if overanalysing bullshit nothings doesn’t get you wet then you should leave now because this story is just going to be a whole lot of “And then, while he was waiting in line to buy us our drinks, I noticed he kinda shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and like I don’t want to read into that but it’s obviously because he TOTALLY FUCKING HATES ME.” You’ve been warned.
I met Quentin about two weeks ago (this shit is fresh ya’ll!). I was at work trying to maintain the minimum level of consciousness required to serve customers when this black gladiator in Calvin Klein strolled up to me. “I feel like I see you everywhere,” he grinned. Which was not a pick up line because I had in fact seen him everywhere, mostly at the clubs and then this one time at Max Brenner’s. Did I respond to his come on? Yes. Why? Because I live for random, spontaneous shit like this. Ask me for my number in a bar? You’re a pig, get away from me. Ask me while I’m at work or buying tampons? Here’s my number, my email, my home address, my work roster, my dietary requirements…I’m serious. Ask me to go rock climbing, I’ll be all “Exercise? Fuck that.” Ask me to go rock climbing at one in the morning and I’ll be like “HELLZ YES! Sign me up!” So we started chatting, mostly about work and in the end I took his number. Yes, I took his number despite him showing all the signs of being a dumbass player and me having sworn never to get involved with one again. I took his number and I texted him that night. Fuck “playing it cool” and waiting a few days. If a dude wants to cameo in my life, I want to know what his deal is and I want to know it NOW. Out and about? I messaged him. He replied: Yes I am actually what you doin At his lazy spelling and flippant lack of punctuation, my heart sank. Also, ‘What you doin’??? You sound like Rocky. Get outta here. It was only out of sheer boredom that I continued to text this clown but when he later asked me if I was free to catch up I didn’t reply. Could I really be bothered hanging out with this loser, I asked myself. After a night’s sleep I decided I could. For the story. I would hang out with this jerkface for the story. Just call me Mother Teresa. The next day…
Quentin: I see you fell asleep on me lol
Me: No, I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to commit to hanging out. Much as I love the spontaneity of it all, most guys are stupid and boring on a level that is astounding and I don’t have the energy for that. Know what I mean :P [Tongue-face to alleviate the total bitchiness.]
Quentin: Oh god lol stupid and boring? Well swing as you’ve agreed I must have passed the first test lol gosh I’m not sure if I wanna be judged by you now!! Lol [TWO exclamation marks!? Why??? It’s ONE or THREE, pal. Never two! And do we really need that many ‘lol’s? No one’s laughing out loud.]
Me: You didn’t pass anything lol [That’s an ironic ‘lol’ there.] but I figure so long as I get a burrito out of it ;) Life is too short to spend it with dudes who don’t read books.
Me (again): All I’m saying is that if I’m going to be stroking some guy’s ego, he better be awesome.
Then he wrote some shit and then I wrote some shit and then we agreed to meet up on Tuesday at St Kilda beach. There are two tangents I want to go on here. One about this monologue Pierce gives at the end of season two in Community and another one about hating the beach as a place to first hang out with a guy. I’m not going to go on either. Instead I’m going to tell you that even though I’m bitter and jaded and think all guys are shit-eating assholes, a small part of me still harbours the hope that the NEXT guy will be different, that the NEXT guy will be smart and funny and sweet and not gay and will want to get to know my mind before wanting to get into my pants. Because of this, before meeting with a guy I’ll usually google funky bars and cool, underground eateries. That way on the zero chance he turns out to be that NEXT guy and wants to spend the night with me having crazy Nick and Norah adventures, I’ll have places to take him. What? Don’t act like you don’t do crazy shit like this. We all do. There’s even a term for it.
So we met at the beach and the first thing that struck me about Quentin was that he was definitely gay. No surprise there though; I’ve been attracting gay guys and falling in love with them since 1998. The most telling sign for me was not his effeminate mannerisms or questionable interests but the fact that our “catch-up” spanned fourteen hours. See, straight guys can’t tolerate me. I’m too full-on for them. Gay guys however, love my drama. To them I’m a fucking riot and they can’t get enough. “I’m not gay,” Quentin said shaking his head. I guess he proved that later when he spent two of those fourteen hours fucking me in the back seat of his car. Sorry, did I rush that? I’m not good at this. Four pages on the nothing part leading up to the date, nothing on the date itself and then a glib reference to us copulating in his car. Remind me to never write a screenplay. Actually, don’t do that because I have a really good idea for a horror film. It’s like a western suburbs Funny Games meets with Blue Valentine. Where was I again? Oh, the date. Do you even want to hear about it or do you just want me to describe the sex? This is why I need my own radio station so you peeps can just call in. Truthfully, I can’t be bothered describing a fourteen hour date so for the four people who want to know how it went down, here are some moodboard words: Beach – talking – music – food – skinny dipping – sexual tension – Chapel St – Lucky Coq – pizzas – stand-up comedy – kissing – deserted park – back seat – making out – the incredibly snap and foolish decision to have sex without a condom – sex – talking – more talking – home. Now for the sex. (To be read in the voice of a judge giving feedback on a talent show.) On a whole it was good. The energy was high. It was fun and sweaty and intense. Quentin was great, he gave me lots of energy and enthusiasm plus he has a dick like a Coke can which is always nice. The actual sex itself i.e. the penetration of my vagina was just okay. His penis wasn’t hitting any of my pleasure spots and for a long time I was holding in the need to fart and pee so that kinda made everything hurt. Also, putting a damper on things was the fact that he pulled out just as he was coming so I’m probably pregnant. If not pregnant, then STIs. Ugh, this is some lame shit. I don’t wanna talk about this. At least not until the next issue. This week Zo Watt: Gets an abortion. Now, I know abortion humour isn’t for everyone but if you like John Waters and can appreciate the genius that is “I finally realised having babies is for retards” or “Let’s go pro-choice a baby out of a bitch!” or an all-girl 80s band at an abortion concert singing Every girl should get an abooortion then you’ll love this seven minute cartoon. Youtube ‘JIZ: The Abortion Episode’ and thank me later.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch I still haven’t finished my story. I can wait if you want to go top up on snacks or like, kill yourself. I did warn you. Long story short, we decided to be friends with benefits. This is not to be confused with fuck buddies because there’s a big difference and we’re not fuck buddies. See, fuck buddies aren’t friends whereas friends with benefits aren’t friends but they pretend to be so that the person pushing the FWB label doesn’t feel so shit about the whole thing. Obviously, I’m the one in denial here. denial here and Quentin’s cool enough to play along. He’ll text me asking if I’m free to “hang out” so that I only feel shit when he picks me up at 10pm and I realise that “hanging out” means having sex in his car and not like, grabbing a burrito and playing pool. He also messages me every day, like pointless random shit so that it’s not like he only messages me for sex. Anyway, three days ago while he was on his way over to “hang out” I got my period. Being that he’s not an ass and it’s a twenty minute drive, Quentin still picked me up and we drove to a football field where we then proceeded to spend the next 4 hours talking shit and laughing in the back seat of his car. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention—although you should have gleaned this from the 14 hour date—that Quentin is actually a really cool dude which is why during all of this talking and laughing and arm stroking and eye-gazing, and hair-playing and non-sex having I kinda maybe, uh, started to…uh…like him? (Further evidence that he is gay!) It’s so funny though because as I write this, Quentin right now is with his other fuck buddy, Danielle who I just bet is this super tall, slim limber bitch with shiny fruit-smelling, hair and shaved legs. Whatever. I’m not bothered by that. It’s more the fact that I’ve broken the only rule there is to being fuck buddies. Ugh, I’m such a cliché.
Burrito Boy. He works at the place where I buy my burritos. He’s 32, terribly handsome and has been to the Greek Islands. That’s all I’ve gleaned in the six months I’ve been going there to get my work-break burrito. He always greets me with a smile (I know you’re thinking that’s his job to but its a pretty big smile, in fact it’s more of a grin) and twice now he’s upgraded my burrito for free. Despite the overwhelming evidence, I don’t actually think he likes me because one time, on my way to a party, I stopped by to get my fix and he barely even looked at me and I looked amaze.
The Plumber. Is the company plumber. We’ve exchanged words. Like “Do you need to speak to the manager?” and “Can I grab the contractor’s book to sign in?” I know nothing about him except that he has kind Jesus eyes and the floppiest blonde hair. Whenever he comes in I always hold his gaze longer than necessary so he knows I’m interested. He’s never done anything about it though so he obviously isn’t.
Lena Dunham and Samantha Irby. Quentin, the gay dudes, those two jokers up there – they’re all just silly playground crushes. My heart belongs to these two broads and as soon as they learn of my existence, we’re going to shack up Big Love-style and spend the rest of our writerly lives being fantastic and hilarious. For reals.
Rubbed thrush cream on my foot last night. Also googled ‘Tinea’ and learned that it’s a fungal skin infection. Don’t know any more than that because I didn’t click on any of the links. I don’t need to know that if left untreated this shit’ll lead to face cancer or something. My life’s depressing enough.
Yesterday my cousin came over with her boyfriend and a shitload of clothes she was getting rid of. “In case you get tired of this whole…” she waved a hand at my ripped black jeans, black t-shirt and combat boots, “…this whole look you’ve got going on here.”
“What’s wrong with my look?” I laughed.
“No, nothing. The dyke look is very cool. I just figure there might come an occasion where the dress code isn’t battling the apocalypse and you’ll need something to wear.”
Funnily enough she’s right. I have a wedding in a few weeks and my question is: how do you dress up combat boots?
“So, boy goss,” Monique grinned. “What’s the latest?”
I felt sorry for her boyfriend. Jay had no choice but to sit there and listen as I told Mo all about Quentin and how we met and how I think he might be gay and how I think I might like him but I don’t think he likes me which is fine because we’re just friends with benefits but also it’s not fine because why doesn’t he like me???
“What do you want?” Jay suddenly interjected.
I looked up from the striped dress I was inspecting. “What do you mean?”
“This fuck buddy, what do you want from him?”
“Oh, see that’s the thing. I don’t even want a lot. Like I don’t want a boyfriend. I just want someone who thinks I’m awesome and who wants to hang out and have sex but for it to not be about the sex. It doesn’t need to be exclusive or anything. He can hook up with whoever he wants but I want him to only want to fuck me.”
Jay stared at me. “So you want a boyfriend.”
“What? No! You’re not listening! I said I don’t want a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, you do. What you described? That’s a boyfriend.”
“No, because with a boyfriend you have to meet his mother and I don’t want to meet his mother.”
He shrugged. “That’s just a boyfriend whose mother you don’t meet.”
I looked desperately over at Mo. “You know what I’m saying, right?”
“Of course I do! You want an exclusive friends with benefits situation.”
“Yes!” I cried. “Thank you!”
Jay shook his head. “You want a boyfriend.”