I have almost stopped talking altogether. For the last twenty-four hours I haven't uttered a word.I am reminded of my maternal grandfather who once decided to become mute because he could no longer tolerate the fights he had with his wife.
My grandfather was a tall, handsome man with very fine hands. When I was nine years old, I went to visit him. One morning I woke up at dawn, as he did, and I asked him to talk to me.He took me for a walk along a deserted railway line and talked for three hours straight. He fed me mangoes and then talked some more. He told me how he had driven buses all his life; how much he loved women; how he played cards for money. He told me I was good at making people talk, he said I should become a journalist.
I need to call Kat. I know she's been worried. I need to tell her I'm okay...and I will in a little while. I've been sitting in front of the T.V. all night and I've watched five films on HBO so far...I must look like a lunatic, lying in my beach chair staring at the screen,but I suppose that doesn't matter. The whole time I'm thinking about him..
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. The essential is invisible to the eye. So says the fox to the little prince in Antoine De Saint Exupery's classic tale. I bought the book not long ago at borders...reading always cheers my mood...I find most of my comfort in the words of my favorite authors...which is always where I've found my comfort in the past...
I feel like a dam about to be overwhelmed by the flood of tears I've been holding back. To steel myself, I dredge my mind for helpful memories. I flash back on a book I loved as a teenager, The Lonliness Of The Long-Distance Runner, about a race of endurance and the endless interior monologue that keeps the runner going..
Our individual lives are like waves produced from the great ocean of the universe. The emergence of a wave is life, and it's abatement is death. The rhythm repeats eternally. ok. My monologue has lasted long enough....to leave on a positive note...great news..Kat is having a boy..We went out and split a nonalcholic beer to celebrate...
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
WHISKEY AND CIGGARETTES
I was dancing when I first noticed my former paramour. He was standing alone, a glass of whiskey in his hand, surrounded by a joyful crowd. He watched my friend and me, abosorbed in our dance. He was facinated by our complicity.
He looked to me like an elegant extrterrestrial casting a delighted but somewhat perplexed glance at the earthly specimens. His body, bent slightly forward, as if he wanted to give us something, or perhaps catch something we might have.
Leaning against the wall, we discussed how people who leave their homeland also leave their frame of reference. And other global topics..He was an amusing mystery to me, and I entertained a desire to see him again..two weeks later he showed up on my doorsteps to bring me a book he thought I should read, shah oF shah's, by the polish journalist RYSZARD Kapuscinski, about the last shah of Iran and the events leading up to the 1977 Islamic revolution.
When he left I curled up with the book, and I became entranced. I had never read such orginal and vivid free-flowing journalism. That sonny so loved this book-and thought I would love it, too.-made me think. God, we really do have something in common. What it was I couldn't yet see. But it was strong..
From the very beginning of our relationship we wrote handwritten letters. And after I read the book..I reciprocated with a letter. I told him about the pope's visit to cuba, I wrote to him about the extradionary cost of meat in cuba, I discussed the rare gift Cubans have for savoring the present in spite of everything.(I had been reading a book on cuba.) I also told him I would like to see him again.
And so, We made a date!!
The following morning, at 8 o'clock, my door swung open to recieve sonny, He greeted me with a giant smile, then ran straight to the kitchen, where he extracted a bag of half dozen eggs, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, onions, a pair of red peppers, and spanish blood oranges. Hovering over the stove, Sonny was like a conducter directing a symphony. His hair stuck straight up from the effort and the heat. Still grinning, he handed me a plate, upon which he lay his steaming masterpiece. "here it is," he announced with a flourish of unbounded pride. My kitchen was in a state of chaos. Speechless, until then. I burst out laughing.
Early in our relationship, Sonny decided it was his duty to provide me the precious black nectar. He knew how much a good cup of coffee improved my mood. I discovered sonny love for keeping lists, he wrote all kinds of lists..like cool things to like about bombay India, Things to like about Germans..And so one day I discovered he had a list on me..My pride was singed. Did he need to be reminded what I was about? But he explained that if he kept adding to the list by the time we grew old, it would become a epic ode to the woman he loved..
I'm not entirely sure why I'm thinking much less writing about all this..maybe it's time for a little self reflection..but the rest of the story is my business not the New York Post's....!!!!
He looked to me like an elegant extrterrestrial casting a delighted but somewhat perplexed glance at the earthly specimens. His body, bent slightly forward, as if he wanted to give us something, or perhaps catch something we might have.
Leaning against the wall, we discussed how people who leave their homeland also leave their frame of reference. And other global topics..He was an amusing mystery to me, and I entertained a desire to see him again..two weeks later he showed up on my doorsteps to bring me a book he thought I should read, shah oF shah's, by the polish journalist RYSZARD Kapuscinski, about the last shah of Iran and the events leading up to the 1977 Islamic revolution.
When he left I curled up with the book, and I became entranced. I had never read such orginal and vivid free-flowing journalism. That sonny so loved this book-and thought I would love it, too.-made me think. God, we really do have something in common. What it was I couldn't yet see. But it was strong..
From the very beginning of our relationship we wrote handwritten letters. And after I read the book..I reciprocated with a letter. I told him about the pope's visit to cuba, I wrote to him about the extradionary cost of meat in cuba, I discussed the rare gift Cubans have for savoring the present in spite of everything.(I had been reading a book on cuba.) I also told him I would like to see him again.
And so, We made a date!!
The following morning, at 8 o'clock, my door swung open to recieve sonny, He greeted me with a giant smile, then ran straight to the kitchen, where he extracted a bag of half dozen eggs, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, onions, a pair of red peppers, and spanish blood oranges. Hovering over the stove, Sonny was like a conducter directing a symphony. His hair stuck straight up from the effort and the heat. Still grinning, he handed me a plate, upon which he lay his steaming masterpiece. "here it is," he announced with a flourish of unbounded pride. My kitchen was in a state of chaos. Speechless, until then. I burst out laughing.
Early in our relationship, Sonny decided it was his duty to provide me the precious black nectar. He knew how much a good cup of coffee improved my mood. I discovered sonny love for keeping lists, he wrote all kinds of lists..like cool things to like about bombay India, Things to like about Germans..And so one day I discovered he had a list on me..My pride was singed. Did he need to be reminded what I was about? But he explained that if he kept adding to the list by the time we grew old, it would become a epic ode to the woman he loved..
I'm not entirely sure why I'm thinking much less writing about all this..maybe it's time for a little self reflection..but the rest of the story is my business not the New York Post's....!!!!
Friday, April 16, 2010
WHEN I MEET JESUS!!!
What is that Walt Whitman quote...about when you die leaving a fertile patch of grass and a happy child..
I hope that when me and jesus have that date that I'll be dignified. I'd like to have some children and a good garden, and I'd like to grow really great hybrid roses and have dogs and cats..and get victoria magazine in the mail on a consistant basis..and have a goddamn nice house...
And I hope as I lay dying that all my loves pass across my eyes..and I hope that I'm surrounded by books..lots and lots of books...that which I'm sacred of...
If this occurs I think I can go quietly into that good night!
I hope that when me and jesus have that date that I'll be dignified. I'd like to have some children and a good garden, and I'd like to grow really great hybrid roses and have dogs and cats..and get victoria magazine in the mail on a consistant basis..and have a goddamn nice house...
And I hope as I lay dying that all my loves pass across my eyes..and I hope that I'm surrounded by books..lots and lots of books...that which I'm sacred of...
If this occurs I think I can go quietly into that good night!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
THE JOY OF PANTS!!!
I wear pants all the time. I mean, I almost always wear pants..I've gotten easier to be around, although my real marker for how angry I am is whether I'm wearing combat boots. I've been trying not to wear them at all, but I wore them yesterday and I swear it only made my anger worse..
I have a friend that recently commented to me, that she quit smoking and put on ten pounds so she said she's "had" to wear pants. Because none of her pants fit anymore..Actually. this entire topic pisses me off..It's hugely irritating issue in my world. Most of what is beautiful is dictated TO me. I get bombarded with that fucking waif and before that, junkies, and before that, skinny girls with breast jobs, and so on, and then I'm surprised I'm so angry.
So where was I? Talking about pants..Well, the good news is that it is much cooler with boss types to wear them to work than it ever used to be. Thanks to Katherine Hepburn,among other steely babes..
When I was a kid I climbed trees and I raced my bike with the other kids around the dirt track down the street and I had a fort and I played sports. And I got punched in the face and I got a bloody nose and I wiped out on my bike. And I can't imagine doing any of that shit with a skirt on, nor would I have wanted to.
I guess what it comes down to is that I love clothes that carry power. As my friend alisha said to me, "If they wouldn't let us wear pants for so long, there must be something really powerful and important about them." Wearing pants is definitely powerful in my mind. As a kid, I wore pants in order to do everything all the other kids in my neighborhood were doing, And today, I wear pants with my beloved army boots and it makes me feel powerful and safe and strong. I can stomp around listening to bands of hard women on my ipod and nobody gives me shit!!!
I have a friend that recently commented to me, that she quit smoking and put on ten pounds so she said she's "had" to wear pants. Because none of her pants fit anymore..Actually. this entire topic pisses me off..It's hugely irritating issue in my world. Most of what is beautiful is dictated TO me. I get bombarded with that fucking waif and before that, junkies, and before that, skinny girls with breast jobs, and so on, and then I'm surprised I'm so angry.
So where was I? Talking about pants..Well, the good news is that it is much cooler with boss types to wear them to work than it ever used to be. Thanks to Katherine Hepburn,among other steely babes..
When I was a kid I climbed trees and I raced my bike with the other kids around the dirt track down the street and I had a fort and I played sports. And I got punched in the face and I got a bloody nose and I wiped out on my bike. And I can't imagine doing any of that shit with a skirt on, nor would I have wanted to.
I guess what it comes down to is that I love clothes that carry power. As my friend alisha said to me, "If they wouldn't let us wear pants for so long, there must be something really powerful and important about them." Wearing pants is definitely powerful in my mind. As a kid, I wore pants in order to do everything all the other kids in my neighborhood were doing, And today, I wear pants with my beloved army boots and it makes me feel powerful and safe and strong. I can stomp around listening to bands of hard women on my ipod and nobody gives me shit!!!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
WAYWARD WARDEN'S WICKED WAR AGAINST WOMANHOOD
I wanted to be tough and I didn't want tits..I first resented my girlhood at age 11 when I became informed of " The Curse" that I would eventually have to deal with..I remember my mother informing me of this grim event outside of my public high school outlined by a clear, sunny day. My mother said it would be "our secret".
She said there would be blood and I should not be afraid. She said this could happen soon because the women on her side of the family were often early bloomers. She said there might be some pain called "cramps." I was terrified. I didn't understand why this would happen to me or why all women were "cursed."
My mother said it was a " woman's curse" because Eve ate the apple. In sunday school I was told it was "our sin" because some woman I had never met was dumb enough to share her forbidden fruit with some guy who obviously didn't appreciate it.
The conclusive result of this historical event caused "us" to be jettisoned promptly from the safe confines of the boring painless paradise called Eden. Hence the rotten apple that spoiled the bunch. I couldn't see how this treatment was fair or why God hated all women because of a fucking piece of produce. It was just an apple. Why didn't he want them to eat it?
What I especially could not comprehend was that he would still be pissed off about it and take it out on me. What a grudgefuck. How perplexing. At eleven, standing in the sunlight, I knew I would be screwed. I would not be one of the chosen. I would not be ordained the new and improved Virgin Mary. I was marked like a casino deck and ready to be dealt.
My mother told me when I got my period that I was to tell no one except her. I was forbidden to bring up the subject if men or boys were present. The reason she gave for this was that the period was an extremely private thing. To give it that certain neurotic paranoid afraid-of-your-own-sexuality flair she gave it a code name. I felt like an agent of espionage. The code name was Rosy. In this way I could communicate with my mother if others, especially males, were present. She said I should say something like " Rosy came to visit me today and boy was she a pain!" Even at my tender age I knew she was out of her mind. This info just did not compute.
When I was twelve I was in a gang of sorts with three other girls with views similar to my own(or so I thought at the time). My nickname was fingers #14. They called me this since I was an expert shoplifter(a very short lived career.) among other things I did well with my fingers. We sought out trouble whenever and wherever possible. We acted like assholes a good amount of time..part of growing up girl...
Now even though my cramps hurt more than having my arm torn open to the muscle I'm proud to be a woman. I would never turn my tits and cunt in for anything or anybody. Even if some green genie appeared before me offering to turn me into a man..I would plainly refuse. Only a fucking crazy loon would trade forty-five minute orgasms for a higher-paying job.
She said there would be blood and I should not be afraid. She said this could happen soon because the women on her side of the family were often early bloomers. She said there might be some pain called "cramps." I was terrified. I didn't understand why this would happen to me or why all women were "cursed."
My mother said it was a " woman's curse" because Eve ate the apple. In sunday school I was told it was "our sin" because some woman I had never met was dumb enough to share her forbidden fruit with some guy who obviously didn't appreciate it.
The conclusive result of this historical event caused "us" to be jettisoned promptly from the safe confines of the boring painless paradise called Eden. Hence the rotten apple that spoiled the bunch. I couldn't see how this treatment was fair or why God hated all women because of a fucking piece of produce. It was just an apple. Why didn't he want them to eat it?
What I especially could not comprehend was that he would still be pissed off about it and take it out on me. What a grudgefuck. How perplexing. At eleven, standing in the sunlight, I knew I would be screwed. I would not be one of the chosen. I would not be ordained the new and improved Virgin Mary. I was marked like a casino deck and ready to be dealt.
My mother told me when I got my period that I was to tell no one except her. I was forbidden to bring up the subject if men or boys were present. The reason she gave for this was that the period was an extremely private thing. To give it that certain neurotic paranoid afraid-of-your-own-sexuality flair she gave it a code name. I felt like an agent of espionage. The code name was Rosy. In this way I could communicate with my mother if others, especially males, were present. She said I should say something like " Rosy came to visit me today and boy was she a pain!" Even at my tender age I knew she was out of her mind. This info just did not compute.
When I was twelve I was in a gang of sorts with three other girls with views similar to my own(or so I thought at the time). My nickname was fingers #14. They called me this since I was an expert shoplifter(a very short lived career.) among other things I did well with my fingers. We sought out trouble whenever and wherever possible. We acted like assholes a good amount of time..part of growing up girl...
Now even though my cramps hurt more than having my arm torn open to the muscle I'm proud to be a woman. I would never turn my tits and cunt in for anything or anybody. Even if some green genie appeared before me offering to turn me into a man..I would plainly refuse. Only a fucking crazy loon would trade forty-five minute orgasms for a higher-paying job.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
MOMMY DEAREST
I should begin by admitting that this piece would read very differently if I were not thirty, single, and child-free. I'm obsessed, you see, and it's not about the lack of a soul mate, but rather, the absence of a teeny little playmate. I'm virtually a cliche-ohhh, her biological time clock is in overdrive, buyer beware! afraid I'll miss the boat.
The steady tick tock of my internal metronome instills the fear, rather than the Mystiqueen sense of opression it created for ye olde second waver. Wanting a baby is no longer considered a violation of feminist doctrine, but a show of feminist pride. Plus, the wonders of science have turned pregnancy into a booming business, giving my generation of mama-bes choices galore. All of this has got me thinking- about how far the notion of motherhood has come in the last century, about my dear mom, and of course, my own situation: when I will(or will I) be jumping on the baby bandwagon.
It's only recently that I have been able ro appreciate the pride my mother has in her lifework of being my mom. I'm facinated by how she managed to do it. My mother didn't have it easy, and yet, she made it feel effortless. We speak everyday and it's always the same conversation: ang, when you gonna have a baby? It's her thing, what can I do? She's my mom and she worries about me.
I regret any and every harsh word I've had with her, of course, that's kind of thing that comes with maturity. With looking forward, with wanting my own babies. I wonder what will be: Will I have children, will she be alive to see it? Every moment I have with my mom is precious to me, she's my mommie dearest, the woman I am closet to in body, mind, and heart. She is the woman I owe my life to, and who I will spend the rest of my life keeping safe and protected, as she once kept me. She is my number one gal.
The steady tick tock of my internal metronome instills the fear, rather than the Mystiqueen sense of opression it created for ye olde second waver. Wanting a baby is no longer considered a violation of feminist doctrine, but a show of feminist pride. Plus, the wonders of science have turned pregnancy into a booming business, giving my generation of mama-bes choices galore. All of this has got me thinking- about how far the notion of motherhood has come in the last century, about my dear mom, and of course, my own situation: when I will(or will I) be jumping on the baby bandwagon.
It's only recently that I have been able ro appreciate the pride my mother has in her lifework of being my mom. I'm facinated by how she managed to do it. My mother didn't have it easy, and yet, she made it feel effortless. We speak everyday and it's always the same conversation: ang, when you gonna have a baby? It's her thing, what can I do? She's my mom and she worries about me.
I regret any and every harsh word I've had with her, of course, that's kind of thing that comes with maturity. With looking forward, with wanting my own babies. I wonder what will be: Will I have children, will she be alive to see it? Every moment I have with my mom is precious to me, she's my mommie dearest, the woman I am closet to in body, mind, and heart. She is the woman I owe my life to, and who I will spend the rest of my life keeping safe and protected, as she once kept me. She is my number one gal.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
BABES IN BOYLAND!!
I'm here to say to the girls of our nation: ASK NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR CUNT,BUT ASK WHAT YOUR CUNT CAN DO FOR YOU!
Here ye, Hear me. It's time for your brief bustline of our feminine herstory. Once upon a time(actually,1792). Somewhere in England, Mary Wollstonecraft read The Rights Of Man, written by her buddy Thomas Paine and went, "What the fuck?". In response, Mother Mary wrote her version of the chick manifesto called A Vindication Of The Rights Of Woman, where she stated:
If woman be allowed to have an immortal soul, she must have, as the employment of life, and understanding to improve, and when she is incited by present gratification to forget her grand destination, nature is counteracted, or she was born only to procreate and rot. Yet if love be the supreme good, let woman only be educated to inspire it, and let every charm be polished to intoxicate the senses; but if they be moral beings, let them have a chance to become intelligent; and let love to man only be part of the glowing flame of universal love.
An instant best-seller it was not, but A vindication of the rights of woman was one of the first bricks in the foundation of feminisim. Ms. Mary blew the shofar for women's equality, for her right to work and to an education. In those days women were
meant to be seen not heard.
Naturally, all this activity in girlville made men nervous,and in many cases prompted them to ridicule, sneer, and jeer. The good gentlemen folk of a Philadelphia paper were so moved that they declared:
" A woman is nobody. A wife is everything. A pretty girl is equal to ten thousand men and a mother is next to god, all powerful..the ladies of philadelphia therefore, under the influence of the most serious sober second thoughts, are resolved to maintain their rights as Wives, Belles Virgins and mothers and not as Women."
Women were to remain subservient, cute, and mute.
We're at a point in time where we have the guts and the means to make choices, whether they are controversial or not. We're not afraid to analyze, dissect, and debate the minutiae of our love lives, our economic situation, nothing is too trivial or too political.
We've watched, listened, and learned. Now we do,do,do. We're bratty, we're angry, we're kool. There's room on our plates for all our goals, whatever they may be. Just take a ringside seat and witness the thrilla in Girlvilla:
As a wise woman once said; " If men could mensturate, Oh what a world this would be."
Just to leave this on a positive note: cause this is not a anti-man essay it's a pro-girl essay...but a word on boys...there are some amazing pro-girl guys out there, boys who are smarter than the average joe..these boys were typically raised by women..and they watched as little boys and took notes..mama said treat girls "right". make friends with girls..These enlightened boys are crush-worthy and more importantly us-worthy. And they deserve my recoginition...and so they have it!!!
Here ye, Hear me. It's time for your brief bustline of our feminine herstory. Once upon a time(actually,1792). Somewhere in England, Mary Wollstonecraft read The Rights Of Man, written by her buddy Thomas Paine and went, "What the fuck?". In response, Mother Mary wrote her version of the chick manifesto called A Vindication Of The Rights Of Woman, where she stated:
If woman be allowed to have an immortal soul, she must have, as the employment of life, and understanding to improve, and when she is incited by present gratification to forget her grand destination, nature is counteracted, or she was born only to procreate and rot. Yet if love be the supreme good, let woman only be educated to inspire it, and let every charm be polished to intoxicate the senses; but if they be moral beings, let them have a chance to become intelligent; and let love to man only be part of the glowing flame of universal love.
An instant best-seller it was not, but A vindication of the rights of woman was one of the first bricks in the foundation of feminisim. Ms. Mary blew the shofar for women's equality, for her right to work and to an education. In those days women were
meant to be seen not heard.
Naturally, all this activity in girlville made men nervous,and in many cases prompted them to ridicule, sneer, and jeer. The good gentlemen folk of a Philadelphia paper were so moved that they declared:
" A woman is nobody. A wife is everything. A pretty girl is equal to ten thousand men and a mother is next to god, all powerful..the ladies of philadelphia therefore, under the influence of the most serious sober second thoughts, are resolved to maintain their rights as Wives, Belles Virgins and mothers and not as Women."
Women were to remain subservient, cute, and mute.
We're at a point in time where we have the guts and the means to make choices, whether they are controversial or not. We're not afraid to analyze, dissect, and debate the minutiae of our love lives, our economic situation, nothing is too trivial or too political.
We've watched, listened, and learned. Now we do,do,do. We're bratty, we're angry, we're kool. There's room on our plates for all our goals, whatever they may be. Just take a ringside seat and witness the thrilla in Girlvilla:
As a wise woman once said; " If men could mensturate, Oh what a world this would be."
Just to leave this on a positive note: cause this is not a anti-man essay it's a pro-girl essay...but a word on boys...there are some amazing pro-girl guys out there, boys who are smarter than the average joe..these boys were typically raised by women..and they watched as little boys and took notes..mama said treat girls "right". make friends with girls..These enlightened boys are crush-worthy and more importantly us-worthy. And they deserve my recoginition...and so they have it!!!
Friday, April 2, 2010
MEN ARE MEN!!!!
Do you know that in the miriam dictionary the word manly is described as a complimentary adjective, and the word womanly is described as an insult?
They use sentences with the words in them, i.e., 'She took it like a man" or " you're behaving in a very womenly manner, stop it. It's in there RIGHT NOW!! That kind of thing is very subtle, but it's very important.
Language really traps us...
I'm like the spike lee of women. or something. Every where I look there's prejuidice..but you just see it...
My former paramour was one of the more liberal people I knew..and he was much more of a feminist than I could ever be..but one day I was at home and reading "backlash", the undeclared war on american women..and he goes "I hate it when you read those fucking feminist books. It was so funny..
But Men are men!! They do the work of men. They do men things! If they have bad taste in women..whatever! It's the curse of my life..what can I say? well fuck you, suck my dick! cause I can do this thing better and with ethics..than you. And with revolution..so fuck you..I created this thing for my own amusement not yours!!!!
Alright I'm done now...
p.s. I DO LIKE MEN ALOT...I'M JUST JADED....THAT'S ALL!
They use sentences with the words in them, i.e., 'She took it like a man" or " you're behaving in a very womenly manner, stop it. It's in there RIGHT NOW!! That kind of thing is very subtle, but it's very important.
Language really traps us...
I'm like the spike lee of women. or something. Every where I look there's prejuidice..but you just see it...
My former paramour was one of the more liberal people I knew..and he was much more of a feminist than I could ever be..but one day I was at home and reading "backlash", the undeclared war on american women..and he goes "I hate it when you read those fucking feminist books. It was so funny..
But Men are men!! They do the work of men. They do men things! If they have bad taste in women..whatever! It's the curse of my life..what can I say? well fuck you, suck my dick! cause I can do this thing better and with ethics..than you. And with revolution..so fuck you..I created this thing for my own amusement not yours!!!!
Alright I'm done now...
p.s. I DO LIKE MEN ALOT...I'M JUST JADED....THAT'S ALL!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
WE TAKE BATH'S NOT SHOWERS
I am generally mostly attracted to dickheads and fuckers. People that I really should like, that I wish I could like, guys who are really good and nice don't hold my interest.
Although my standards of fuckers are pretty high-they have to be really twisted bastards with IQ's to burn to pull it off. Cause I'm a little twisted myself. My former paramour was pure and totally sophisticated because of this. And my new Paramours have to be that too or beyond twisted.
My former paramour had many great qualities, but one very bad quality..which ultimately made us clash. He was a oblivion seeker. A fucking lotus eater.I never wanted that. I was the kind of drug taker that just wanted to be comfortable in my own skin..Escapasim in a blue moon, but it wasn't for me. He would just go until he dropped. And that wasn't fun.
Well it's made me a bit jaded. I've faced every situation for many years with a certain naivete and innocence. But I've somehow become a cynic. Cynicism is a good thing to have on the outside,but it's a terrible thing to have on the inside.
Although my standards of fuckers are pretty high-they have to be really twisted bastards with IQ's to burn to pull it off. Cause I'm a little twisted myself. My former paramour was pure and totally sophisticated because of this. And my new Paramours have to be that too or beyond twisted.
My former paramour had many great qualities, but one very bad quality..which ultimately made us clash. He was a oblivion seeker. A fucking lotus eater.I never wanted that. I was the kind of drug taker that just wanted to be comfortable in my own skin..Escapasim in a blue moon, but it wasn't for me. He would just go until he dropped. And that wasn't fun.
Well it's made me a bit jaded. I've faced every situation for many years with a certain naivete and innocence. But I've somehow become a cynic. Cynicism is a good thing to have on the outside,but it's a terrible thing to have on the inside.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
LOVE IS THE DRUG!!!!!
It's been an opera. It was more than a opera. It was gore theater and I was the leading lady. I became obsessed with angels and ballerina's, things of grace and beauty after sonny and I broke up. I would cry about every fifteen minutes. I was a makeup nightmare. I wanted to be the swan in swan lake and flutter, crumple, and disappear.
Imagine this: your peaking. your in your youth. At the prime of your life. You've finally met someone. and your in love with him. You have a best friend. You have a soul-fucking-mate. And he's the best fuck that ever walked. And he wants to have babies. and what you want is babies. You've wanted to have a baby forever.
And he understands everything you say. and he completes your sentences. And he's lazy but he's spirtual. And he's not embarrased about praying. and he's not embarrased about god, jesus, none of it. He fucking thinks it's all kool. he wants to be enlightened. everything.
And there's even room for you to fix him, which you like, cause your a fixer-upper. He's perfect in almost every fucking way. The only fucking happiness you've ever had. And then he starts slamdancing with Mr. brownstone(herion)..and it all gets taken away from you...
He was in a coma for twenty hours and I was hysterical throughout. I mean, they had two tubes in his nose, two in his mouth, things coming out of every avaiable artery. They had to put the glucose through his neck that night. All of his life functions including pissing were done by a machine.
I mean, I seen him get really fucked up before, but I've never seen him almost eat it like that. And I knew that night as I layed with him praying he wouldn't leave me that I could never see him like that again..and that this would be the end of our story..I've been a zombie for eleven months now. For so long in my relationship and afterward. I've been in isolation, oblivious to everything but my darkest hedonism and darkest hours.
I have to start feeling my heart again. I'm finally returning to the land of agoraphobia trying to purge myself of my vitriol for every man that has hurt me in the past..I did lady macbeth..all right..now it's time to get back with the living....
Imagine this: your peaking. your in your youth. At the prime of your life. You've finally met someone. and your in love with him. You have a best friend. You have a soul-fucking-mate. And he's the best fuck that ever walked. And he wants to have babies. and what you want is babies. You've wanted to have a baby forever.
And he understands everything you say. and he completes your sentences. And he's lazy but he's spirtual. And he's not embarrased about praying. and he's not embarrased about god, jesus, none of it. He fucking thinks it's all kool. he wants to be enlightened. everything.
And there's even room for you to fix him, which you like, cause your a fixer-upper. He's perfect in almost every fucking way. The only fucking happiness you've ever had. And then he starts slamdancing with Mr. brownstone(herion)..and it all gets taken away from you...
He was in a coma for twenty hours and I was hysterical throughout. I mean, they had two tubes in his nose, two in his mouth, things coming out of every avaiable artery. They had to put the glucose through his neck that night. All of his life functions including pissing were done by a machine.
I mean, I seen him get really fucked up before, but I've never seen him almost eat it like that. And I knew that night as I layed with him praying he wouldn't leave me that I could never see him like that again..and that this would be the end of our story..I've been a zombie for eleven months now. For so long in my relationship and afterward. I've been in isolation, oblivious to everything but my darkest hedonism and darkest hours.
I have to start feeling my heart again. I'm finally returning to the land of agoraphobia trying to purge myself of my vitriol for every man that has hurt me in the past..I did lady macbeth..all right..now it's time to get back with the living....
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
GARY GRAFF
When I was twelve I had to switch schools and I hated it. I didn't know anything about guys then, but I knew you were supposed to desire them and they were better than horses and kitties. I'd been at school for a week. There was this guy and his name was Gary graff and he was really nice to me and sweet and cool and funny, and followed me around and everything.
So we went out to this place where everyone smoked and he kissed me and gave me this hickey on my neck. So then these two incrediably popular girls asked me where I got my hickey, and I was really proud, and I said, " oh, this guy Gary Graff." and they started laughing and cracking up. The deal was that Gary Graff was the biggest geek in school and everybody made fun of him. I didn't that to happen to me, so I ignored him. I did that to him.
This was one of my first lessons on vanity. Don't know why I'm thinking about gary graff..but I am...
.
So we went out to this place where everyone smoked and he kissed me and gave me this hickey on my neck. So then these two incrediably popular girls asked me where I got my hickey, and I was really proud, and I said, " oh, this guy Gary Graff." and they started laughing and cracking up. The deal was that Gary Graff was the biggest geek in school and everybody made fun of him. I didn't that to happen to me, so I ignored him. I did that to him.
This was one of my first lessons on vanity. Don't know why I'm thinking about gary graff..but I am...
.
Monday, March 15, 2010
MISSING HIM
Sychler Cates was not terribly nice to me. None of that matter, though. To me, he was dark and handsome and dangerous. Needless to say I had an enormous debilitating crush on him. When I was in the sixth grade I fell in love with a boy. The boy nobody could break. A boy strong and shining among a crowd. I watched him lean against the wall and smoke a ciggarette. When he lifted his head his eyes would fill my heart.
The boy had blue eyes as do I. His were far more striking. He dressed with style. He didn't dress to show off his wealth or beauty, though he had both. He dressed to show who he was. I danced with him once, on a rooftop. It was drizzly and cold. We climbed up there to smoke. I sat shivering and smoking. We waltzed above the skyline stumbling and giggling.
" Wear that to my funeral." He whispered. "you look beautiful." I felt beautiful. I promised I would, never believing I would have to. I talked to the boy one night. It smelled like spring that night. I crouched behind my house smoking.
The boy I loved wraps leather around his arm. His body tightens. His lips curl. The rush flows from the needle. I can feel it dancing, sweating inside him. The river is sex, climax, and ciggarette. His eyes glaze and then smile. The boy I loved died. He died with a spike in his arm, injecting venom into his body. He died alone. He closed those blue eyes and died. Poison killed him. He loved that evil potion that made him fly free.
I dreamed of the boy I loved. I was wearing a ball gown, with flowers entertwined in my hair, walking on a spring morning. I walked too far and fell in a blue lake. I am beautiful in my dream. I fell into the blue water. I opened my eyes as I suffocated. If only I could have saved the boy. If only I could have set him free.
I have always wanted to be free. Soaring, alone, without inhibitions. I tried to fly away from his funeral. It was classic-raining, hailing maybe. I drove up the hill, the boys house looming ahead of me. His house with the father inside. He got those blue eyes from his father.
I pulled up girl music playing behind me. I started walking. The boy said I looked beautiful in these clothes, these shoes. I was wet and cold and not pretty. I sat down and smoked a soggy ciggarette. I walked three miles, before I went to his house and looked into those eyes, his eyes, the father's eyes.
Then, I was alone. Alone was bliss. Alone was power. Alone was self-loathing, hatred. I had forgotten how to be with people. The world was spinning. My eyes burned red.
Summer comes. The air was fresh, but somehow bitter. I walked with flowers entertwined in my hair. I don't think the hurt had actually faded. I think probably I just forgot how it felt to be normal. I felt guilty when I laughed. The boy I love will never laugh again. It was summer, but I was cold.
Those eyes, his eyes, the father's eyes still haunt me. I suspect they always will. Over too many glasses of champagne and a pack of a ciggerettes, I made a resolution . I will be happy. I will not forget the boy I love. I will allow him to become the boy I loved once, a memory.
The boy had blue eyes as do I. His were far more striking. He dressed with style. He didn't dress to show off his wealth or beauty, though he had both. He dressed to show who he was. I danced with him once, on a rooftop. It was drizzly and cold. We climbed up there to smoke. I sat shivering and smoking. We waltzed above the skyline stumbling and giggling.
" Wear that to my funeral." He whispered. "you look beautiful." I felt beautiful. I promised I would, never believing I would have to. I talked to the boy one night. It smelled like spring that night. I crouched behind my house smoking.
The boy I loved wraps leather around his arm. His body tightens. His lips curl. The rush flows from the needle. I can feel it dancing, sweating inside him. The river is sex, climax, and ciggarette. His eyes glaze and then smile. The boy I loved died. He died with a spike in his arm, injecting venom into his body. He died alone. He closed those blue eyes and died. Poison killed him. He loved that evil potion that made him fly free.
I dreamed of the boy I loved. I was wearing a ball gown, with flowers entertwined in my hair, walking on a spring morning. I walked too far and fell in a blue lake. I am beautiful in my dream. I fell into the blue water. I opened my eyes as I suffocated. If only I could have saved the boy. If only I could have set him free.
I have always wanted to be free. Soaring, alone, without inhibitions. I tried to fly away from his funeral. It was classic-raining, hailing maybe. I drove up the hill, the boys house looming ahead of me. His house with the father inside. He got those blue eyes from his father.
I pulled up girl music playing behind me. I started walking. The boy said I looked beautiful in these clothes, these shoes. I was wet and cold and not pretty. I sat down and smoked a soggy ciggarette. I walked three miles, before I went to his house and looked into those eyes, his eyes, the father's eyes.
Then, I was alone. Alone was bliss. Alone was power. Alone was self-loathing, hatred. I had forgotten how to be with people. The world was spinning. My eyes burned red.
Summer comes. The air was fresh, but somehow bitter. I walked with flowers entertwined in my hair. I don't think the hurt had actually faded. I think probably I just forgot how it felt to be normal. I felt guilty when I laughed. The boy I love will never laugh again. It was summer, but I was cold.
Those eyes, his eyes, the father's eyes still haunt me. I suspect they always will. Over too many glasses of champagne and a pack of a ciggerettes, I made a resolution . I will be happy. I will not forget the boy I love. I will allow him to become the boy I loved once, a memory.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
GROWING UP GIRL!!!
The meaning of "girl" has been given a much needed make-over. The truth that girlhood is more about insolence than innocence; that little girls are made more of piss and vinegar than sugar and spice is finally being told.
When I was growing up I tried to find my girl heroes wherever I could. I remember sitting on the floor of my dark bedroom every Sunday morning, watching old shirley temple movies. Hugging my knees to my chest, I'd be mesmerized by shirley as she tap-danced her way through one tragedy after another. The fact that her movies made me cry was all the better.
They fed my girlish desire to feel deep, sensitive, and a bit melodramatic. In books, I could find a few girl characters I could relate to, but mostly, stories with girls at the center were few and far between. There was certainly no female equivalent to huck finn.
My education of all things Girl began in 1991. I began listening to female led bands like l7, the breeders, p.j. harvey and the like. I began reading "sassy" magazine religiously..it was my bible. Sassy was every teenage girls bible for all things girl. It was full of attitude, you could practically hear the sound of gum-snapping emanating from it's pages. Sassy was a magazine like no other: unapolegitcally feminist, smart, funny, and irreverent. Sassy spoke to its readers in the language of girl. It was written in the way that we spoke to each other, and any girl who read sassy felt herself instantly transported to the world of girl..
As long as we keep telling the truth about what it's like to grow up in a girl's skin, we can show what the world of girls is all about. So I'm here to say to the girl's of our nation: ASK NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR CUNT, BUT ASK WHAT YOUR CUNT CAN DO FOR YOU!
When I was growing up I tried to find my girl heroes wherever I could. I remember sitting on the floor of my dark bedroom every Sunday morning, watching old shirley temple movies. Hugging my knees to my chest, I'd be mesmerized by shirley as she tap-danced her way through one tragedy after another. The fact that her movies made me cry was all the better.
They fed my girlish desire to feel deep, sensitive, and a bit melodramatic. In books, I could find a few girl characters I could relate to, but mostly, stories with girls at the center were few and far between. There was certainly no female equivalent to huck finn.
My education of all things Girl began in 1991. I began listening to female led bands like l7, the breeders, p.j. harvey and the like. I began reading "sassy" magazine religiously..it was my bible. Sassy was every teenage girls bible for all things girl. It was full of attitude, you could practically hear the sound of gum-snapping emanating from it's pages. Sassy was a magazine like no other: unapolegitcally feminist, smart, funny, and irreverent. Sassy spoke to its readers in the language of girl. It was written in the way that we spoke to each other, and any girl who read sassy felt herself instantly transported to the world of girl..
As long as we keep telling the truth about what it's like to grow up in a girl's skin, we can show what the world of girls is all about. So I'm here to say to the girl's of our nation: ASK NOT WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR CUNT, BUT ASK WHAT YOUR CUNT CAN DO FOR YOU!
Saturday, March 13, 2010
REVOLUTION GRRRL-STYLE NOW
The women of the new girl order are ready to go out and get what's cumming to us. Our mission is to seek out pleasure wherever we can find it. In other words, if it feels good, screw it. Were ready to fight the good fight.
It's time that we, the grande dames of the New Girl Order, defy the backlash with a proverbial middle finger and bust through the Reviving-data of Ophelia's low self-esteem, stop shoving our fingers down our throats, turn our back on skeletal standards, enjoy being the girl with the most cake and ask: Can I have some more?
Let's make our voices heard often, and as loudly as possible. speak up!
Be as loud as you wanna be. Be courteous, be nice, be polite- but do it in a way that doesn't infringe on the person you are. and if people tell you that you're too opinated or not "ladylike" enough, tell them to go fuck themselves.
It's time that we, the grande dames of the New Girl Order, defy the backlash with a proverbial middle finger and bust through the Reviving-data of Ophelia's low self-esteem, stop shoving our fingers down our throats, turn our back on skeletal standards, enjoy being the girl with the most cake and ask: Can I have some more?
Let's make our voices heard often, and as loudly as possible. speak up!
Be as loud as you wanna be. Be courteous, be nice, be polite- but do it in a way that doesn't infringe on the person you are. and if people tell you that you're too opinated or not "ladylike" enough, tell them to go fuck themselves.
Friday, March 12, 2010
A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF CUNT
The word is Cunt. So many hate it. I love the word CUNT. And find it so perfect. Cunt is taboo, and taboo things are scary and powerful. Cunt is different from bitch. Cunt is bitch's naughtier little sister. I figure it's so fucking dangerous, and it's so intimately about my anatomy, that it's going to be mine, too.
Cunt is direct, it's unafraid to be what it is. Bitch is more sanitized. Cunt is a word that you wouldn't say in front of your mother. There's nothing that frat boys can call me that I haven't thought of myself, before you. And I'm using it my own way, thanks so much.
There have been lots of divine cunts in history. I think of Catherine the Great, who used her literal cunt to great effect. Mae West was considered a cunt because she was funny and sexy but also because she insisted on directing her own movies and slept with whomever she wanted.
I have two final things to say about why I love cunt. First of all, the thing in itself. Cunt is in charge, take-no-prisoners, and brazen. Finally, cunt is about being an insider. Or making somebody one of you.
For fun and for mean, for expression and for irony, cunt is it!!
Cunt is direct, it's unafraid to be what it is. Bitch is more sanitized. Cunt is a word that you wouldn't say in front of your mother. There's nothing that frat boys can call me that I haven't thought of myself, before you. And I'm using it my own way, thanks so much.
There have been lots of divine cunts in history. I think of Catherine the Great, who used her literal cunt to great effect. Mae West was considered a cunt because she was funny and sexy but also because she insisted on directing her own movies and slept with whomever she wanted.
I have two final things to say about why I love cunt. First of all, the thing in itself. Cunt is in charge, take-no-prisoners, and brazen. Finally, cunt is about being an insider. Or making somebody one of you.
For fun and for mean, for expression and for irony, cunt is it!!
Thursday, March 11, 2010
MOTHER-TO-WANNABE
I know plenty of women who don't want kids, and I respect that. But if there's anything I must absolutely accomplish before I leave this planet, it's to give birth to a baby. I don't know exactly why, it just feels like an instinct that I can't intellectualize away. It's just there, like gravity or the tide. Every living thing on earth comes into existence, reproduces, dies. I am woman, I bleed. All I know is, life just won't feel complete until I am a breeder.
And don't tell me I can adopt. Fuck that. I want unconditional love, And I will have it even if I have to make it myself! It's not about the kid, it's about my kid. It's about fusing a piece of me and someone I love into total oneness(even if the only one I end up loving is my disparate self!) It's living breathing proof that there are things in me that are so good that they're worth repeating, and an excuse that I can't do a damn thing about my bad points, since they're biologically preprogrammed.
So here I sit, basically ready. It's not like I need to have the kid tomorrow, but I'm ready in an abstract kind of way. I've looked for liquor and love in enough bars to know that one doesn't lead to the other.
I was raised in a traditional family structure, and it left me with some mighty un-pc ideas of what a family is supposed to be. But I find beauty and comfort in making a man my best friend, sharing the rearing of our very own kids, growing up and growing old with all of us there to love and look after each other. I also find potential boredom and total castration of my self, which is probally why I'm not there yet. But I think deep down I do want it..
But just in case, I am chanting a regular mantra to myself that I do not need another half to be whole. I'm slowly coming to terms with the idea that I may not find my prince, or I may never be able to accept anything less than one..
Maybe I could handle single motherhood after all, or maybe time will teach me to embrace childlessness.stranger things have happen...
And don't tell me I can adopt. Fuck that. I want unconditional love, And I will have it even if I have to make it myself! It's not about the kid, it's about my kid. It's about fusing a piece of me and someone I love into total oneness(even if the only one I end up loving is my disparate self!) It's living breathing proof that there are things in me that are so good that they're worth repeating, and an excuse that I can't do a damn thing about my bad points, since they're biologically preprogrammed.
So here I sit, basically ready. It's not like I need to have the kid tomorrow, but I'm ready in an abstract kind of way. I've looked for liquor and love in enough bars to know that one doesn't lead to the other.
I was raised in a traditional family structure, and it left me with some mighty un-pc ideas of what a family is supposed to be. But I find beauty and comfort in making a man my best friend, sharing the rearing of our very own kids, growing up and growing old with all of us there to love and look after each other. I also find potential boredom and total castration of my self, which is probally why I'm not there yet. But I think deep down I do want it..
But just in case, I am chanting a regular mantra to myself that I do not need another half to be whole. I'm slowly coming to terms with the idea that I may not find my prince, or I may never be able to accept anything less than one..
Maybe I could handle single motherhood after all, or maybe time will teach me to embrace childlessness.stranger things have happen...
ANGRIEST GRRRL IN THE WORLD
When men get angry, their taken seriously. It's assumed they have a reason to be upset. But it seems whenever women have the gall to express anything other than effusive chipperness, were accused of being drama queens or pms-ing..Women it seems aren't allowed to be just plain pissed off.
I think alot of this comes from the fact that women are "supposed" to be feminine and docile. Anger doesn't fit into the idea of women as quiet and forever smiling.(stepford wives)anyone?
If we complain..were being rude or loud or obnoxious. If were angry their must be something wrong with us. Because "nice" girls don't get mad..When women are shown as mad or angry we become caricatures.
The pissed off man-hating feminist. The neurotic girlfriend. When in fact, women can love men..why else would we be in constant search for one..? and still be angry..believe or not we are complex creatures too..we can hold two thoughts in our head at once..imagine that boys??
I think alot of this comes from the fact that women are "supposed" to be feminine and docile. Anger doesn't fit into the idea of women as quiet and forever smiling.(stepford wives)anyone?
If we complain..were being rude or loud or obnoxious. If were angry their must be something wrong with us. Because "nice" girls don't get mad..When women are shown as mad or angry we become caricatures.
The pissed off man-hating feminist. The neurotic girlfriend. When in fact, women can love men..why else would we be in constant search for one..? and still be angry..believe or not we are complex creatures too..we can hold two thoughts in our head at once..imagine that boys??
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
ONE SICK PUPPY
Dogs give great head. But I digress.
when I was twelve, we had a small dog named Toby. He was irresistibly cute, a puppy pinup with as many neuroses and vices, namely an unquenchable thirst for attention and sex. He humped everything in the house: a little stuffed bunny, my dirty underpants, the loops in grandma's quilt. He repulsed me.
For one thing, dog penises are wet little aliens living inside man's best friend. They are not of this world. Either they look like a drippy corn dog or a melting creamsicle. Neither is attractive with a panting, hyper, buggy-eyed dog on the other end. To make matters worse, Toby was unscrupulous: any soft, smelly thing would do.
At twelve, my orgasms came at mysterious times. I didn't understand what caused the body-cramping rush between my legs and made my month when it happened. I didn't connect sex and the little "o", and I never connected sex with Toby. He was masturbating, but I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that our dog was a barking hormone, and that he was getting the coverted rush every time I saw him hump something.
Fast forward fourteen years. I'm sitting with a friend of my mine in a dark bar slurping free drinks and winks from the bartender, who ocasionally gives us a dollar for the jukebox. Sex and relationships, our favorite victims, were being torn apart as usual. Good head came up-no pun intended- and I slid into a drunken revelation of the best head I'd ever gotten. You know the punch line-my tireless Casanova was a foot-high dog. She screamed. Her best head was also a dog, although taller than mine; she always got the better looking guys.
Was this some disease of the suburbs spread by Wonder bread and Milk Bones? I started to wonder if maybe all my friends harbored secret dog fantasies. The bar seemed to grow smokier, the music muddled, and the crowd closer as we leaned into the lush details of our conversation.
I decided no secret this fun, and perhaps this common, should be kept from my boyfriend. He might be disgusted, but he might pick up some pointers. Reasons why dogs give better head than men;(1) they don't care when you took your last shower; (2) they would put the energizer bunny out of business; and (3) they don't have razor stubble. After listening to my story slack-jawed and short of breath, I don't think my boyfriend like the fact that I cooed about Toby's technique, but he knew the ace would always be in his hand (or mine) and he offered the best of both worlds; dog porn.
And that's the moral to my story; the big "O" doesn't have morals. If it feels good downstairs and no one gets hurt, girlfriend, fuck morals...
when I was twelve, we had a small dog named Toby. He was irresistibly cute, a puppy pinup with as many neuroses and vices, namely an unquenchable thirst for attention and sex. He humped everything in the house: a little stuffed bunny, my dirty underpants, the loops in grandma's quilt. He repulsed me.
For one thing, dog penises are wet little aliens living inside man's best friend. They are not of this world. Either they look like a drippy corn dog or a melting creamsicle. Neither is attractive with a panting, hyper, buggy-eyed dog on the other end. To make matters worse, Toby was unscrupulous: any soft, smelly thing would do.
At twelve, my orgasms came at mysterious times. I didn't understand what caused the body-cramping rush between my legs and made my month when it happened. I didn't connect sex and the little "o", and I never connected sex with Toby. He was masturbating, but I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that our dog was a barking hormone, and that he was getting the coverted rush every time I saw him hump something.
Fast forward fourteen years. I'm sitting with a friend of my mine in a dark bar slurping free drinks and winks from the bartender, who ocasionally gives us a dollar for the jukebox. Sex and relationships, our favorite victims, were being torn apart as usual. Good head came up-no pun intended- and I slid into a drunken revelation of the best head I'd ever gotten. You know the punch line-my tireless Casanova was a foot-high dog. She screamed. Her best head was also a dog, although taller than mine; she always got the better looking guys.
Was this some disease of the suburbs spread by Wonder bread and Milk Bones? I started to wonder if maybe all my friends harbored secret dog fantasies. The bar seemed to grow smokier, the music muddled, and the crowd closer as we leaned into the lush details of our conversation.
I decided no secret this fun, and perhaps this common, should be kept from my boyfriend. He might be disgusted, but he might pick up some pointers. Reasons why dogs give better head than men;(1) they don't care when you took your last shower; (2) they would put the energizer bunny out of business; and (3) they don't have razor stubble. After listening to my story slack-jawed and short of breath, I don't think my boyfriend like the fact that I cooed about Toby's technique, but he knew the ace would always be in his hand (or mine) and he offered the best of both worlds; dog porn.
And that's the moral to my story; the big "O" doesn't have morals. If it feels good downstairs and no one gets hurt, girlfriend, fuck morals...
ELECTRA GIRL AND WONDER BOY!!
I had known from the beginning all I wanted was to create something that was forever. From my earliest knee sock-wearing days, I had lusted to fall in love. Not just a tomorrow kind of love, but a tomorrow's- tomorrow-and-then-some kind of love. What made me different was I didn't just think about it alone at night. I consciously looked for it. I heard it's voice in opera and in Shakespeare. It was a sprightly nymph, a decadent myth that I sought.
Oh. Here's the deal on boyfriend boy. I had been indefatigably pursuing the legendary love-a little more than an abstract concept to my adolescent self. Suddenly, I rounded the corner at a dance club, and there it was-my ideal staring at me. Being full of youthful zeal, I pounced on the elusive sprite, closed my eyes, and kissed him. I kissed him and kissed him, and thought my heart might burst.
Two years later when I opened my eyes, I was shocked and appalled to discover, I had captured the wrong nymph.
You see, he looked an awful lot like my fantasy. But I had confused a jock for a fairy. It's funny how that happens sometimes. He tasted and cuddled and even smelled like love. But at second glance, I noticed his blood ran about ten degrees cooler than the life force that coursed through the veins of my self-envisioned hamlet. His blood was too cold, and his eyes too empty, and my lips too tired of saying the same thing. Frankly, I was bored.
My predicament reminded me a lot of that Barbara Streisand movie, where she spends her whole life convinced she's in love, until it suddenly hits her that she's only in love with wanting love. So we took a break, My mom reminded me how many damned fish were in the sea, but I felt too weak to swim, and almost wanted my old fish back. After all, he was on my speed dial.
The long months passed. I remembered I had a life and treading water isn't so bad. My long-awaited nymph was on vacation. I went on a date with a boy who wore sweatpants and wrote love songs, but I didn't take boyfriend boy off my speed dial. And a hundred parties and kisses later, I was alone.
Well, I don't know quite what became of starry-eyed Ophelia. Even now I sometimes secretly wish to run to his comfortably boring arms and just dive back in....
Oh. Here's the deal on boyfriend boy. I had been indefatigably pursuing the legendary love-a little more than an abstract concept to my adolescent self. Suddenly, I rounded the corner at a dance club, and there it was-my ideal staring at me. Being full of youthful zeal, I pounced on the elusive sprite, closed my eyes, and kissed him. I kissed him and kissed him, and thought my heart might burst.
Two years later when I opened my eyes, I was shocked and appalled to discover, I had captured the wrong nymph.
You see, he looked an awful lot like my fantasy. But I had confused a jock for a fairy. It's funny how that happens sometimes. He tasted and cuddled and even smelled like love. But at second glance, I noticed his blood ran about ten degrees cooler than the life force that coursed through the veins of my self-envisioned hamlet. His blood was too cold, and his eyes too empty, and my lips too tired of saying the same thing. Frankly, I was bored.
My predicament reminded me a lot of that Barbara Streisand movie, where she spends her whole life convinced she's in love, until it suddenly hits her that she's only in love with wanting love. So we took a break, My mom reminded me how many damned fish were in the sea, but I felt too weak to swim, and almost wanted my old fish back. After all, he was on my speed dial.
The long months passed. I remembered I had a life and treading water isn't so bad. My long-awaited nymph was on vacation. I went on a date with a boy who wore sweatpants and wrote love songs, but I didn't take boyfriend boy off my speed dial. And a hundred parties and kisses later, I was alone.
Well, I don't know quite what became of starry-eyed Ophelia. Even now I sometimes secretly wish to run to his comfortably boring arms and just dive back in....
Friday, March 5, 2010
INNOCENT ATTRACTIONS
While I am happy with my former "mature" relationships. I am remarkably nostalgic for those one-sided, silent affinities, those never-to-be realized romances. In junior high, one of my best friends had a remarkable ability to turn her terribly unrealistic crushes into actual flesh and blood boyfriends, but the real boyfriend-boy was never as much fun as the fantasy version.
I like the innocence of secret loves. Fantasies can be perfect. Reality is often unbearable. Crushes are fun. They allow us a momentary escape-like reading a page-turning book or crying during a movie. We are not giggling girls without grounding, but sometimes we do need a break from our often too harsh reality....
Sometimes nervous queasiness and sweaty palms can be our escape..
I like the innocence of secret loves. Fantasies can be perfect. Reality is often unbearable. Crushes are fun. They allow us a momentary escape-like reading a page-turning book or crying during a movie. We are not giggling girls without grounding, but sometimes we do need a break from our often too harsh reality....
Sometimes nervous queasiness and sweaty palms can be our escape..
BRING ME THE HEAD OF JESSICA SIMPSON
" Why pick on Jessica Simpson you might ask?", you might ask although you probally understand all too well). Is it because she is a subpar actress of limited ability, appeal, and intelligence? Is it because her personal life envinces a woman of coarse sensibilities and little sense. Or is it merely because she personifies all that women have been individually and collectively struggling against for the past three decades.
Certainly there are a number of celebrities congesting the pages of people magazine and our corridors of justice that are pratically crying out for my contempt. But there is something about Jessica Simpson's uniquely brazen vacuity that I find especially offensive.
That Jessica Simpson is neither really talented nor attractive is only part of the problem. She exudes not one iota of intelligence, strengths, or integrity, no matter what unlikely scenario script writers and directors have dreamed up for her.
While it's not terribly surprisingly that men would buy into this caricature of feminine sensuality hook(er), line, and sinker. Why are women colluding with this charade? Why is this skank being profiled in women's magazines, and being held up as a modern beauty career gal. when her entire being screams..sloppy seconds..Is it just Conde Nast, or has the entire world gone mad?
For me, Jessica epitomizes our society's predeliction for dressing up the skanky as sexy, the inane as art, and utter crap as none crap. So women of america join me in saying no to Jessica, Britney, and Paris and their whole mammary-augumented, stripper impersonating ilk. Worship women who, while they may dress like hookers don't necessarily always play hookers. And never ever plunk down another ten dollars to watch Jessica Simpson play another in that never ending parade of ditzy yet lovable trollops....
Certainly there are a number of celebrities congesting the pages of people magazine and our corridors of justice that are pratically crying out for my contempt. But there is something about Jessica Simpson's uniquely brazen vacuity that I find especially offensive.
That Jessica Simpson is neither really talented nor attractive is only part of the problem. She exudes not one iota of intelligence, strengths, or integrity, no matter what unlikely scenario script writers and directors have dreamed up for her.
While it's not terribly surprisingly that men would buy into this caricature of feminine sensuality hook(er), line, and sinker. Why are women colluding with this charade? Why is this skank being profiled in women's magazines, and being held up as a modern beauty career gal. when her entire being screams..sloppy seconds..Is it just Conde Nast, or has the entire world gone mad?
For me, Jessica epitomizes our society's predeliction for dressing up the skanky as sexy, the inane as art, and utter crap as none crap. So women of america join me in saying no to Jessica, Britney, and Paris and their whole mammary-augumented, stripper impersonating ilk. Worship women who, while they may dress like hookers don't necessarily always play hookers. And never ever plunk down another ten dollars to watch Jessica Simpson play another in that never ending parade of ditzy yet lovable trollops....
Thursday, February 25, 2010
BOY-DELLO!!
In my life men seem to be perpetually relegated to the status of "them" in the cosmic "them" and "us". It's as though my senses, through evolution, have been finely tuned to only seeing a few out of the masses of them, the same way my cat automatically, almost despite himself, chases after objects that are of a particular shape and speed. Their are only a few who break through the hazy field of "them", and to me those few are like a drug, like incense, they seem to be more than mortal, they are pure and enormous and powerful. Those are the few(the brave, the proud) who do not belong to either world of "them" or of "us."
I'm thirty years old and I've been doing this mating dance for almost half my life and you would think that men would start to make more sense to me, that they'd begin to seem less like aliens, but instead the opposite has happened. I am more confused by them now than I have ever been. They walk among us but they are not like us. It's little wonder with this kind of attitude it's hard for me to get dates..
When I was younger, boys held out the promise of so much love and fullfillment and excitement and adventure, but then my heart got broken, and it got broken again, and I cried and felt like a zombie for a week or a month or a year. I got optimistic again and got all into some guy and then got my heart broken again. and now I have this thrist for a boyfriend again. But I know it means that crying is going to have to come again and the fear and the stifling feeling of losing myself and feeling like a fool for loving the alien. I'm thirty and I'm just exhausted by it. after a while something happens to us, something changes, something just gives up..
And like a riot grrl or a girl who got her favorite toy taken away I want to put on combat boots and have a screaming, thrashing temper tantrum about all this disappointment and all this anger and sadness. I want to lash out at something, but there really is nothing to hit against, my fury is muffled by a soft, cushiony "acceptance", an attempt to grow older gracefully, without malice or hatred, because there are so many of them I'm angry with that to just start thinking of it makes me exhausted. But mostly my fury is tempered by my fear which seems to have made a more comfortable and permanant place for itself inside of me over the years.
I'm pissed off because this was all supposed to be so much fun. Being single and frolicking on the beach and drinking sunkist or having quick dark sex and walking home at dawn with your hair smelling of a stranger's semen, not having to be worried about being "tied down" by a husband or a kid. Boys would be there, romance would be there, it was all a given. After all, single people have more freedom and more sex and more romance, right?
Well, maybe boys do. All I know is that my girl friends and I gather together on a regular basis to mourn or laugh over the latest romantic fiasco or lack of one, while we get older, our biological clocks ticking, worrying about how we're ever gonna get the boy thing right in time to have a baby. and were getting more pessimsitic by the day. Suddenly we see out lives as a mysterious black hole, because we may not end up being part of a family portrait like we'd always expected, and may instead be hanging out and dating and eating doritos and worrying about our rent until we're ninety.
The loneliest thing about this is feeling like I'm the only one to be going through it, that all the rest of us did end up with the lives we were raised to believe we'd have. That there's something wrong with me for not being there. We are strong, independent, smart, thinking , laughing females and we'll always need to have our friends around to go out and play with.
I'm thirty years old and I've been doing this mating dance for almost half my life and you would think that men would start to make more sense to me, that they'd begin to seem less like aliens, but instead the opposite has happened. I am more confused by them now than I have ever been. They walk among us but they are not like us. It's little wonder with this kind of attitude it's hard for me to get dates..
When I was younger, boys held out the promise of so much love and fullfillment and excitement and adventure, but then my heart got broken, and it got broken again, and I cried and felt like a zombie for a week or a month or a year. I got optimistic again and got all into some guy and then got my heart broken again. and now I have this thrist for a boyfriend again. But I know it means that crying is going to have to come again and the fear and the stifling feeling of losing myself and feeling like a fool for loving the alien. I'm thirty and I'm just exhausted by it. after a while something happens to us, something changes, something just gives up..
And like a riot grrl or a girl who got her favorite toy taken away I want to put on combat boots and have a screaming, thrashing temper tantrum about all this disappointment and all this anger and sadness. I want to lash out at something, but there really is nothing to hit against, my fury is muffled by a soft, cushiony "acceptance", an attempt to grow older gracefully, without malice or hatred, because there are so many of them I'm angry with that to just start thinking of it makes me exhausted. But mostly my fury is tempered by my fear which seems to have made a more comfortable and permanant place for itself inside of me over the years.
I'm pissed off because this was all supposed to be so much fun. Being single and frolicking on the beach and drinking sunkist or having quick dark sex and walking home at dawn with your hair smelling of a stranger's semen, not having to be worried about being "tied down" by a husband or a kid. Boys would be there, romance would be there, it was all a given. After all, single people have more freedom and more sex and more romance, right?
Well, maybe boys do. All I know is that my girl friends and I gather together on a regular basis to mourn or laugh over the latest romantic fiasco or lack of one, while we get older, our biological clocks ticking, worrying about how we're ever gonna get the boy thing right in time to have a baby. and were getting more pessimsitic by the day. Suddenly we see out lives as a mysterious black hole, because we may not end up being part of a family portrait like we'd always expected, and may instead be hanging out and dating and eating doritos and worrying about our rent until we're ninety.
The loneliest thing about this is feeling like I'm the only one to be going through it, that all the rest of us did end up with the lives we were raised to believe we'd have. That there's something wrong with me for not being there. We are strong, independent, smart, thinking , laughing females and we'll always need to have our friends around to go out and play with.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
SPUN LIKE A TURNTABLE
He says next to nothing to you. But expects you to welcome his tongue in your mouth. Because his universe is infinite. Your's is controlled. a sign of his victory and your defeat.I don't know you very well but I'm satisfied. You seem a little kinder than myself. And I know this is all an illusion. I can see myself spinning in your tornado of elimination...but I sit there waiting for an automatic comfort and instant bond..it's not just you..it's the idea of you..the idea of love to rub my hands across your back. To kiss you, knowing what no one else knows about you. I am young, but I have old eyes..I steal souls, but viscerally speaking..
I'm different from you and it scares you..I have disrupted your neat order.
your common sense your geometric world.
I'm different from you and it scares you..I have disrupted your neat order.
your common sense your geometric world.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
LOVE
I think love is the most beautiful thing in the world, and I don't give a fuck because I have no orginal ideas. I've seen a man jack off to a gap window display, so don't tell me that love isn't important.And maybe you didn't get that series of lines, that's okay. Most of them are subtext designed to impress people who know too much about art. All you need to listen to is the twelve percent which contain words like "fuck".
They say cupid loved "my so called life" and when the show was cancelled cupid cried and cried and cried and decided he was going to fuck up all of humanity, and this is why China has trouble with the birthrate and Arkansas rhymes with date rape and iraq is iraq, and the fat lipo-sucked out of california could be it's own island.
But this isn't about geography this is about love, the bane of my exsistence, the reason I hate Valentine's day and Halloween, which is about ghosts and I think you know where I'm going here. I'm going to the land of boyfriends of halloweens past, and maybe I only got three ghosts in this land, but this doesn't mean they don't bring their friends, who are the ghosts of boys who have rejected me, because boys rarely travel alone in this land. Sychler is from this land.
I used to kiss him while listening to the cure's " Just Like Heaven," now I don't see him anymore, so that song makes me sad, why must we associate music with our love lives? I'm not trying to be profound here, I'm just saying that music really takes me back, way back, And I can't explain the memory process involved in that, because I'm not a pychology major.
It's not fair. And love is not fair. And war is not fair. And I don't care what anyone has to say about any of that, I feel unloved. I'm sorry I need people to tell me I'm cool. I'm just that way. Aren't you? Am I the only one? I know that I can't be that misunderstood.
But you don't want to understand me! This is not the direction I wanted to take this. Honestly I just want to be in the arms of my true love, in a house, in a room, in a wonderful perfect world with our two children, but maybe I shouldn't have said this, Woody Allen taught us that Marriage is a death trap.I don't have any answers and I'm looking for help from anyone, because love has got me fucked up and dying, because I feel retarded without anyone to hold me, and that's sentimental, but what's wrong with sentimental? I just need love.
to self: fuck you! I'm okay!
you see I can't even decide what I need much less understand what I'm saying.
They say cupid loved "my so called life" and when the show was cancelled cupid cried and cried and cried and decided he was going to fuck up all of humanity, and this is why China has trouble with the birthrate and Arkansas rhymes with date rape and iraq is iraq, and the fat lipo-sucked out of california could be it's own island.
But this isn't about geography this is about love, the bane of my exsistence, the reason I hate Valentine's day and Halloween, which is about ghosts and I think you know where I'm going here. I'm going to the land of boyfriends of halloweens past, and maybe I only got three ghosts in this land, but this doesn't mean they don't bring their friends, who are the ghosts of boys who have rejected me, because boys rarely travel alone in this land. Sychler is from this land.
I used to kiss him while listening to the cure's " Just Like Heaven," now I don't see him anymore, so that song makes me sad, why must we associate music with our love lives? I'm not trying to be profound here, I'm just saying that music really takes me back, way back, And I can't explain the memory process involved in that, because I'm not a pychology major.
It's not fair. And love is not fair. And war is not fair. And I don't care what anyone has to say about any of that, I feel unloved. I'm sorry I need people to tell me I'm cool. I'm just that way. Aren't you? Am I the only one? I know that I can't be that misunderstood.
But you don't want to understand me! This is not the direction I wanted to take this. Honestly I just want to be in the arms of my true love, in a house, in a room, in a wonderful perfect world with our two children, but maybe I shouldn't have said this, Woody Allen taught us that Marriage is a death trap.I don't have any answers and I'm looking for help from anyone, because love has got me fucked up and dying, because I feel retarded without anyone to hold me, and that's sentimental, but what's wrong with sentimental? I just need love.
to self: fuck you! I'm okay!
you see I can't even decide what I need much less understand what I'm saying.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
I MISS KURT
Well today would have been Kurt Cobain's 43rd(yes I said 43rd yikes I know)birthday.. I had to blog about this cause I still can remember how much his music meant to me, I really don't care if it meant anything to other people cause it meant a hell of alot to me at 15 years old and it still speaks to me at 30(yikes I know). That alone should make kurt wherever he is proud of his legacy, so screw all the naysayers...Kurt Rules...!!!!rest in sweet peace....and rock on!!!!
Friday, February 19, 2010
FEAR OF A BOY PLANET
Do men get it? To pharaphrase Simone de Beauvior: fist we must ask, what is man? Man is the appendage boy, the " x" factor, and the father spirit; he is the buddahafied beastie boy and the american gigolo; he is L.L. Cool J. and Will Smith; he is Kurt Cobain and James Dean, he is slick willie and Rambling Roger. He is Sugar Daddy and papa bear, Candy Man.He is a feminist and a misogynst, zeus and beezlebub, philander and monogamist, saint and sinner, anima and animus. He is a walking erection, a big spender, a lover, a husband, a partner, a child. He is all this and more, a heady package of myth and reality. Of good and bad that makes this luscious fuckable gender what they are.
Confusion abounds, "Manhood" needs to be redefined in a way that allows women equality and men pride. Our culture needs new ways to teach boys to be men. We could start our own girlie version of Network's battle cry. " I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore". Robert Bly, the iron jerk himself, seems to think that the second sex possess magical, mystical, albeit ultimately evil powers. Bly refers to women as a "force field" which depletes the male species of its Samson-like emotional and physical strength.
According to Simon Reynolds and Joy press in the Sex Revolts, Bly has this theory in which " a generation of young men-soft males have grown up confused and unhappy because women have sapped their energy and need a resurrection of male initiation rights to induct them completely into the instinctive male world. " This is exactly the Neanderthalesque mentality we must eradicate from the dialouges and behavior of men.
But all is not lost- there is some amazing progirl guys out there, boys who are smarter, better, than the average joe. These enlightened boys are crush-worthy, and more importantly, us worthy. When I think of my ideal guy(because there is no such thing as a perfect man): I think of what my father taught me: When boys are bad they need to be punished. They need to be taken to task for wrong doing. If a man hits you, report him. If a man is emotionally abusive toward you, leave him. If a man lies to you deal with him.It is our duty to challenge boys to be better human beings....
Confusion abounds, "Manhood" needs to be redefined in a way that allows women equality and men pride. Our culture needs new ways to teach boys to be men. We could start our own girlie version of Network's battle cry. " I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore". Robert Bly, the iron jerk himself, seems to think that the second sex possess magical, mystical, albeit ultimately evil powers. Bly refers to women as a "force field" which depletes the male species of its Samson-like emotional and physical strength.
According to Simon Reynolds and Joy press in the Sex Revolts, Bly has this theory in which " a generation of young men-soft males have grown up confused and unhappy because women have sapped their energy and need a resurrection of male initiation rights to induct them completely into the instinctive male world. " This is exactly the Neanderthalesque mentality we must eradicate from the dialouges and behavior of men.
But all is not lost- there is some amazing progirl guys out there, boys who are smarter, better, than the average joe. These enlightened boys are crush-worthy, and more importantly, us worthy. When I think of my ideal guy(because there is no such thing as a perfect man): I think of what my father taught me: When boys are bad they need to be punished. They need to be taken to task for wrong doing. If a man hits you, report him. If a man is emotionally abusive toward you, leave him. If a man lies to you deal with him.It is our duty to challenge boys to be better human beings....
Thursday, February 18, 2010
MEN ARE FROM URANUS
Men: alien species, genetic mutations animal,vegetable, mineral? The more I think about it, the less I seem to know. It's like a vast research project that I'll never finish. My brain teems with all the conflicting..my father, my brother, crush-worthy friends of the family, my supposed first boyfriend- the nasty, moody son of a Baptist minister-art fags, college buddies, men I hung out with in the goth/punk/new wave clubs I sometimes inhabitated, and all my male friends, foes, loves, acquaintances, past and present. I seem to have much unfinished business with men, and a need to figure them out. My nature is inquisitive, I just have to know and understand everything and men perplex me far more than women.
My friend told me an amusing quote she heard from a friend of a friend. This woman said, " men are like rubiks cubes, boring and frustrating, but you fuck with them anyway." We laughed. Most of the time I don't find them boring, sometimes very frustrating, but I fuck with them because I enjoy it. Sartre said that when we make assumptions about a whole group of people, when we say we know them, understand them, it is at that moment we stop truly precieving them. There was a time in my life that I let that happen. For a time I ceased to percieve men. Well I was sick of men I had endured enough damage and heartbreak at their hands, I used it as my ticket out of testosterone-land.
I now strive to view people as individuals, regardless of gender. Everyone is a mixed bag. Some men are evil and so are some women. People of both genders can be assholes and do rotten stuff. So I embarked on a rigorous research project. My subject: the other half of the species. Like a mad scientist, I'd get these rare flashes of brilliance, and feel so clever as I unearthed some likely hypothesis to explain them. It was at these moments that I became convinced I had them pegged: I knew what made them tick, I knew all the buttons to push, I knew how to turn them on and off, manipulate their self intrest, control them on the deftness of a seasoned dominatrix. I felt so smug and self-satisfied as I'd flex my bitch-goddess muscles.
I was just starting to sing" I know what boys like" at just about the moment I fell on my ass, knocked off my femme top pedestal by some maddeningly unpredictable behavior on the part of some man. Damn! Then I'd have to start all over again, feeling like some pathetic little slave girl who'd crawl on my hands and knees to worship at the secret shrine of black leather jackets, black jeans, combat boots, and sweat.
Their remoteness and ability to keep emotional distance confounds me and facinates me. I covet the cool, the edge, the detachment, and the icy silence that some men seem to possess, while I feel like a open book, some kind of transparency, with my heart on my sleeve. Anyway, I'll be continuing my, ahem, experiments. I'll probally never totally understand men, but I plan to have some fun gathering my research.
My friend told me an amusing quote she heard from a friend of a friend. This woman said, " men are like rubiks cubes, boring and frustrating, but you fuck with them anyway." We laughed. Most of the time I don't find them boring, sometimes very frustrating, but I fuck with them because I enjoy it. Sartre said that when we make assumptions about a whole group of people, when we say we know them, understand them, it is at that moment we stop truly precieving them. There was a time in my life that I let that happen. For a time I ceased to percieve men. Well I was sick of men I had endured enough damage and heartbreak at their hands, I used it as my ticket out of testosterone-land.
I now strive to view people as individuals, regardless of gender. Everyone is a mixed bag. Some men are evil and so are some women. People of both genders can be assholes and do rotten stuff. So I embarked on a rigorous research project. My subject: the other half of the species. Like a mad scientist, I'd get these rare flashes of brilliance, and feel so clever as I unearthed some likely hypothesis to explain them. It was at these moments that I became convinced I had them pegged: I knew what made them tick, I knew all the buttons to push, I knew how to turn them on and off, manipulate their self intrest, control them on the deftness of a seasoned dominatrix. I felt so smug and self-satisfied as I'd flex my bitch-goddess muscles.
I was just starting to sing" I know what boys like" at just about the moment I fell on my ass, knocked off my femme top pedestal by some maddeningly unpredictable behavior on the part of some man. Damn! Then I'd have to start all over again, feeling like some pathetic little slave girl who'd crawl on my hands and knees to worship at the secret shrine of black leather jackets, black jeans, combat boots, and sweat.
Their remoteness and ability to keep emotional distance confounds me and facinates me. I covet the cool, the edge, the detachment, and the icy silence that some men seem to possess, while I feel like a open book, some kind of transparency, with my heart on my sleeve. Anyway, I'll be continuing my, ahem, experiments. I'll probally never totally understand men, but I plan to have some fun gathering my research.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
DON'T'S FOR BOYS
In the beginning...before we even get to the "relationship" stage, everyone goes through that akward should-we-or-shouldn't-we phase. The key to this stage is honesty.If you remain honest about your feelings, noone gets hurt. Remember, honesty is the best policy..So these are my key don't's for boys...
1. If you like me, ask me out. Were not in high school anymore.
2. If were on a first date, and it doesn't go well. Leave gracefully.
3. If we fuck on a first date, it doesn't mean I'm waiting on a engagement ring to appear on the second date.
4.Don't use being "drunk" as an excuse for kissing me. If you kiss me, drunk or not, you have a big kiss to deal with.
5. Call when you say your gonna call otherwise it's just rude.
6.Don't call me if you haven't gotten over your last girlfriend. I am not a understudy for a psycho-romantic drama.
7. Don't lie I'm a big girl. I can take it.
8. Don't tell my friends you think I'm kool and special unless you really mean it.
9.Don't screen my calls. It's weird, creepy, and lame.
10. Don't pretend to like me in order to fuck me.
11. Don't kiss and tell. But, because I know you will, you slob, do me the favor of not degrading me.
12. Don't be afraid of falling in love with me, you big baby....
1. If you like me, ask me out. Were not in high school anymore.
2. If were on a first date, and it doesn't go well. Leave gracefully.
3. If we fuck on a first date, it doesn't mean I'm waiting on a engagement ring to appear on the second date.
4.Don't use being "drunk" as an excuse for kissing me. If you kiss me, drunk or not, you have a big kiss to deal with.
5. Call when you say your gonna call otherwise it's just rude.
6.Don't call me if you haven't gotten over your last girlfriend. I am not a understudy for a psycho-romantic drama.
7. Don't lie I'm a big girl. I can take it.
8. Don't tell my friends you think I'm kool and special unless you really mean it.
9.Don't screen my calls. It's weird, creepy, and lame.
10. Don't pretend to like me in order to fuck me.
11. Don't kiss and tell. But, because I know you will, you slob, do me the favor of not degrading me.
12. Don't be afraid of falling in love with me, you big baby....
EXILE IN GUYVILLE
" When Frued asked his classic question " What do women want?" he said it as though he thought it was some kind of top secret information that we chicks had, but just didn't feel like sharing. The problem is of course, that it is very difficult for us to know what we want. I mean, how could we? We are given so many conflicting messages about what is expected from us- what were supposed to look like(sexually agressive but sexually demure) what were supposed to do, and how often were supposed to do it.( a few fucks before marriage is okay as long as we really love the guy.)
When they say that women hit their sexual peak at thirty five, it's not hard to understand why. It takes us that long to figure out what the hell we want.
The message guys get is alot clearer. " I have a dick, therefore I fuck." is what most men are encouraged to believe. A male sex-advice columnist once remarked that " guys feel they have the right to whatever it is that gets them off," and it's true. Women on the other hand have a very hard time thinking this way. It's still the case that if you like having sex a lot, you're a whore, and if you don't, you're frigid.
To thing women are never encouraged to do is to focus on what actually makes us feel good....
When they say that women hit their sexual peak at thirty five, it's not hard to understand why. It takes us that long to figure out what the hell we want.
The message guys get is alot clearer. " I have a dick, therefore I fuck." is what most men are encouraged to believe. A male sex-advice columnist once remarked that " guys feel they have the right to whatever it is that gets them off," and it's true. Women on the other hand have a very hard time thinking this way. It's still the case that if you like having sex a lot, you're a whore, and if you don't, you're frigid.
To thing women are never encouraged to do is to focus on what actually makes us feel good....
SCOLIOSIS BOY: THE BOY WONDER
I went up to marylou's room. Looking up at the graffiti-covered shelf above her bed I wrote something scary about when the object of my affection, " Scoliosis boy", gets out of the hospital.
So what's to be done about my fatal attraction to Wonder Boy? He is still getting operated on. Maybe I'm in love with the idea of him. But I think he never loved the idea of me. I still like his squinty green eyes and his deep sort of voice, and his long unkempt brown hair...
This must be unfathomably boring to all of you. It's like a harlequin historical romance novel description, except scoliosis boy looks nothing like manly blonde warrior hero, roen, or Mysterious gaunt, dark-haired Delfonzo, the italian pirate.
I've had this stupid, stupid crush on Jason's friend for eight months now. And instead of replacing Wonder Boy, Jason just added reality to the whole sitiuation. I'm glad he did. I'm not expecting Jason to fall in love with me. But,Oh, how I miss my Scoliosis SweetTart..
I wasn't kidding when I told Jason and everyone that I like Boy Wonder. I like him: his crooked spine, his crooked teeth, his pale skin, his amazing sick, hilarious sense of humor. A humor exactly like mine except he's brilliant and a million times better at being funny.
The way he wonders around the room for no reason, his( pardon the adjective) manly nose and chin, his slacker philosophy,his profile, his faboulus ability to use profanity in a totally natural way. The way his voice softens when I oh-so infrequently talk with him.
I don't care about his teeth or his oily hair, or his tendency to drop things on the floor, then hit his head while reaching out to pick them up. I don't mind that some girls say he's a loser, whatever that means. Maybe he just won't ever care about me and my unrequited love for him.
Jason told me the latest news about Boy Wonder, he can bend over, walk and stretch and stuff. But he has to keep the metal rod in his spine til he stops growing.
Now my major question is: so what next, you idiot savant.( this is how I adress myself). Jason thinks I like him. I think I love my scoliosis buddy. I can't deal with Jason now. He's beautiful, but boring. I want my Scoliosis Boy, but he'll never be mine.But I can't be in love with him, because, believe me, that would scare him more than the decline anima in Western Civilization. This isn't what I had in mind, I didn't know I would fall head over hills in love with a comic book monger who has a severe case of scoliosis.
Oh, well, I'll get back to ranting later. To quote, another of my antiheroes: Death to the Weird.
In conclusion, I'm better off alone. At least until Monday...The Ominious End....
So what's to be done about my fatal attraction to Wonder Boy? He is still getting operated on. Maybe I'm in love with the idea of him. But I think he never loved the idea of me. I still like his squinty green eyes and his deep sort of voice, and his long unkempt brown hair...
This must be unfathomably boring to all of you. It's like a harlequin historical romance novel description, except scoliosis boy looks nothing like manly blonde warrior hero, roen, or Mysterious gaunt, dark-haired Delfonzo, the italian pirate.
I've had this stupid, stupid crush on Jason's friend for eight months now. And instead of replacing Wonder Boy, Jason just added reality to the whole sitiuation. I'm glad he did. I'm not expecting Jason to fall in love with me. But,Oh, how I miss my Scoliosis SweetTart..
I wasn't kidding when I told Jason and everyone that I like Boy Wonder. I like him: his crooked spine, his crooked teeth, his pale skin, his amazing sick, hilarious sense of humor. A humor exactly like mine except he's brilliant and a million times better at being funny.
The way he wonders around the room for no reason, his( pardon the adjective) manly nose and chin, his slacker philosophy,his profile, his faboulus ability to use profanity in a totally natural way. The way his voice softens when I oh-so infrequently talk with him.
I don't care about his teeth or his oily hair, or his tendency to drop things on the floor, then hit his head while reaching out to pick them up. I don't mind that some girls say he's a loser, whatever that means. Maybe he just won't ever care about me and my unrequited love for him.
Jason told me the latest news about Boy Wonder, he can bend over, walk and stretch and stuff. But he has to keep the metal rod in his spine til he stops growing.
Now my major question is: so what next, you idiot savant.( this is how I adress myself). Jason thinks I like him. I think I love my scoliosis buddy. I can't deal with Jason now. He's beautiful, but boring. I want my Scoliosis Boy, but he'll never be mine.But I can't be in love with him, because, believe me, that would scare him more than the decline anima in Western Civilization. This isn't what I had in mind, I didn't know I would fall head over hills in love with a comic book monger who has a severe case of scoliosis.
Oh, well, I'll get back to ranting later. To quote, another of my antiheroes: Death to the Weird.
In conclusion, I'm better off alone. At least until Monday...The Ominious End....
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