Hmm, perhaps I am a sick freak

"I know, right? What kind of a sick mind would think that a chain of butcher shops inspired by Ed Gein was a good idea?"

Actually, maybe the question should be, "What kind of a sick mind even thought to allude to Ed Gein as a caption for this contest?"

For those of you who aren't familiar, the above is the cartoon from this week's New Yorker caption contest. Every week on the last page of their issue, The New Yorker publishes a cartoon without a caption, and invites the readers to submit their own. The hundreds (dozens?) of contenders are competing for, well I don't really know, but I'm betting the prize The New Yorker awards to the winner pales in comparison to the fact that winners get to brag about their caption being chosen. I mean c'mon - if my caption were to ever be chosen (not that I've ever sent mine in...their all humorless bastards anyways...don't know a good caption when they see it! Their content to just let captions that people put their sweat and tears into flounder in the pile! Um, ahem), I'd totally eschew the year's supply of Rice-a-Roni to just carry around the issue my caption was published in and shove it in every passerby's face, declaring, "Look! The New Yorker, one of the most intelligent and intellectual magazines written today, deems ME as witty and clever!" (Rightfully, the passerby would then pummel me with his/her issue of Cat Fancy)

And I can't even be honored for being the first to think of writing an anti-caption. Seinfeld made fun of New Yorker cartoons back in 1998, and every week, Daniel Radosh features his own anti-caption contest on his blog.

But I was a bit taken aback when, as I first laid eyes on this week's New Yorker contest cartoon, I thought of alluding to Ed Gein. What kind of a sick freak am I? One of my first posts on this blog was about how The Aristocrats joke could serve as a Rorschach test, and now I'm thinking the same holds true for the New Yorker caption contest.

Then again, the cartoon takes place at a butcher shop, there appears to be dancing Rockettes sitting in the meat counter, and weirdly, there is a hacksaw hanging in the background. An allusion to Ed Gein - or any other demented serial killer - seems inevitable. Maybe a Patrick Bateman reference is more current?

So obviously I can't send my Ed Gein caption into The New Yorker - how about this one?

"Using the meat counter as advertising space brings in WAY more money than the ground chuck ever did."

Sigh. I'm never gonna win that caption contest.

I want to be a nude model

As some of you know, I recently started a new job. This past week was my first with the new company, and HO.LY. SHIT. The amount of information I have absorbed, and the fast-pace of this work environment, has me seriously contemplating if I have gotten in over my head.

Just to indicate how dire the situation is - I don't even know what this company does. Are you computing that? I was hired to help them compete in their industry and keep the company functioning at peak performance, and I don't even know what they do!!!! I'm learning the ropes, the terminology and jargon is slightly less greek to me than it was five days ago, but after waking up at 6:30 am, working for 12 hours straight, then stumbling back home around 9 pm, I'm barely able to digest and organize all the information that was thrown at me.

And it's even more than not thinking I can do the job - I don't know as if I want to do the job. Or any job that requires me to stay on top of 20 things at once, work 60+ hours a week, then feel like a zombie when I finally plop my ass on my couch.

This is why nude modeling has all of a sudden become an ideal profession to me.

My body isn't bad. I don't think it's Playboy ready, but I have the goods so that if I wanted to pose for Playboy, all I'd need to do is work out and tone up for a few months, and then Mr. Hefner might seriously consider putting me in his magazine. My boobs are already Playboy ready, not to sound like a raging narcissist, but every guy or girl who ever had the privilege of laying eyes on them has confessed that my breasts are beautiful. And on top of how gorgeous they are, they're natural. The genes I inherited made me struggle with acne (which has cleared up fairly well, BTW), but hey, I got a nice rack. Genes are very give and take.

Nude modeling - or any profession that required one to use their body as an object - always seemed below me. I eschewed the premise of not using my mind to earn a living because being intelligent and knowledgeable is the highest achievement anyone could pursue. Not to mention, intelligence is sustainable, whereas looks are not. It takes a lot of plastic surgery to nude model when you're 40.

But now I feel like a massive moron for not using what God gave me to bank some buck when my body was at the zenith of its suppleness. I have finally come to the conclusion that nude models are the most intelligent people in the world - they are hot AND they are geniuses. They realize that money means the difference between a good life and a bad life, and if you want a good life, why be proud? Why spout off about the integrity of intelligence and the goodness in bettering your mind, why bother to be an intellectual when it doesn't matter AT ALL how smart you are if you're living under an overpass and eating out of dumpsters?

And even beyond being smart - why force yourself to work 60+ hours a week for the good life when all you need do is take your clothes off and earn the same amount?

Well, most nude models probably don't make the same amount of money as say my boss, but they can earn enough to at least live comfortably - and all they have to do is stretch out on crushed velor blankets while naked! Jesus, I'd love to lay naked on crushed velor, but I can't afford crushed velor, and I don't have the time to lay naked on crushed velor! So to imagine doing so while getting paid for it - now that is the good life.

I used to think nude models, porn stars, and strippers were deluded and sad when they'd say things like, "I LOVE what I do for a living. It's the best job in the world!" But now I can see that I always thought like that so I could feel better about the path I chose, the path to be an intellectual instead of an object.

There's gotta be some downsides to earning a living as a sex symbol - I better see some in the comments before I decide to move to Cali and get a job as Maggie Gyllenhaal's titty double.

UPDATE: It is Sunday, and I have spent the past 7.5 hours working on this huge proposal my company has due tomorrow afternoon. And it's my first week. KILL ME PLEASE.

It's gettin, it's gettin, it's gettin kinda hectic

Thank you Jebus for making November 4th right around the corner, because I think when I say that I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS FUCKING ELECTION, I echo the sentiments of many. The Obama vs. McCain epic has soaked up everyone's energy, and the 2008 presidential election has been on most liberals minds ever since Bush got reelected in 2004. That's four years - four years of speculating, debating and praying that Americans be given the right candidate to fix all of Bush's fuck-ups.

Last week I became embroiled in a fairly volatile email exchange with some friends from back home (Ohio). Maybe I shouldn't have demonstrated my disgust for a mass anti-Obama email a pal sent out by cc'ing everyone on the list (many of whom I didn't know) and stating that McCain was a crazy old man and that everyone who voted for Bush in the last two elections owe Americans and the rest of the world big time for his fuck-ups. But if you're going to send out a political email one week before the election, particularly one that was full of inaccuracies as this anti-Obama email, then you have to be prepared for the backlash.

So I cc'd everyone on the list, and two receivers (of whom I attended high school with) decided to respond to me by accusing me of being an ignorant lazy socialist, and one of them (who used to babysit me, actually) went so far as to accuse me of being anti-American and suggested I move to another country.

I won't go into the details on how I layed the verbal smackdown on these two idiots, but just to demonstrate how badly the McCain campaign has it right now, I will say that one of them used a doctored photo to prove her point. Like, come on - this is what McCain supporters are forced to rely on to defend their candidate?

But the fact is, I got into a bitter argument with people I grew up with, and it went beyond the political - there were some harsh, personal attacks thrown back and forth, and I'll never be able to look at these girls the same again, as I'm sure they view me. Political debate should never get that dirty amongst friends, but it is especially inevitable in this election - there is so much on the line, and so much passion for those who really believe

So I am ready to bid you adieu, presidential election 2008. It was a fun, bumpy ride, one full of intrigue, disappointment, disbelief, rebelief and tears (yeah, I might have cried a few times, don't judge). But my mind has been sapped, and my energy is not infinite. The last bit I have left will be spent on Tuesday, when I'll be wringing my hands and checking the polls and grasping for every piece of political news and expert opinion I can. How it all ends will dictate my next big move - either streaking through the streets on a champagne-induced drunk, or starting the next American revolution.

Life update: Everything has changed!

ONCE AGAIN, I have been severely delinquent on my blogging. In the almost two weeks since my last post, a lot has changed, and my time has been monopolized with composing the new life on which I'm about to embark.

Previously I lamented the fact that my employer was going to cut back my hours to part-time, and since I could not survive working part-time, I had to find a new job. I was scared, folks, and worried out of my fucking skull. Given today's job market, and the fact that thousands in the NYC metro area are getting laid off (or about to be laid off), it seemed that finding other means of employment would be nil for a girl with less than two years of professional experience under her belt. And without a trust fund to fall back on, a month of no work would prove to be disastrous.

But I found a job, and though it's a corporate gig (therefore Satan incarnate, or so I've been told), it pays way better than my previous employer ever could have, plus I get health benefits, and the option to partake in the company's profit-sharing. How I found the job and procured it is amazing, because it really does have a lot to do with time and place and circumstance (and NOTHING to do with who I knew). In his essay Here is New York, E.B White confides to the reader that New York can be a dubious place to live and that "no one should come to New York to live unless they are willing to be lucky." That line resonates much more now after analyzing the way in which I found my new employer.

That's not to say that it was all dependent on luck; I had to go on three separate interviews for this gig! It is was gut-wrenching waiting to hear back from them, and every day without an answer was making me sick.

But now that weight is off - whew!

When I wasn't tearing my hair out and puking from anxiety, I was in the midst of moving into a new apartment! The bf and I found a great space with a backyard and jacuzzi bathtub, and it's actually cheaper than the apartment that I just moved out of. I'm not completely moved in yet, but it's getting there. Can I get the readers' opinions on this wallpaper sample - it might be a little too retro for the funk I'm going for in the living room (it'll go on just one wall, mind you!)

SO that is the life update - I now promise to get back to blogging about weird, over-sharey and inappropriate things on a regular basis.

Mrs. P, stop keeping me awake at night!

I have a fairly reliable long-term memory. In fact, one of my earliest memories is from when I was in diapers (and no, I'm not talking about that crazy time with the football team, the goat, and the box of Depends). It is brief, but I can conjure an image of myself in our living room with big white furniture, donning red footie pajamas and a fresh set of Huggies.

My excellent long-term memory is both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, when a debate arises about something that happened years ago, I deftly settle the score and get the record straight by recalling the incident with detailed accuracy. This pisses my mother off on a regular basis. She will bring up a story from my childhood, and even though I love her, she has no right to retell certain events so that she comes out of it looking like the paradigm of superb child-raising - so I call her out. One day a year or so ago, she was telling a friend how understanding and open she was when it came to my sister and I going to college. "I always told them, no they didn't have to go to college for all four years, but they had to give it at least one year to see if it was meant for them. They had to at least give it a chance."

When I overheard my mother say this, I interrupted, as rude as it might have been. "No you didn't!" I cried. "You never gave us that choice - we were going to graduate from college, and that was final in your book."

"Oh no, I distinctly told you and your sister that you only had to go for one year -"

"Na-uhhhhh!" And this is where I broke into a tiresome diatribe concerning all the minute aspects of every conversation she'd ever had with me about college.

Aside from the inane minutia about the past I like to throw up in people's faces, there are other negative symptoms incurred by my elephantitus brain. The injustices suffered at the hands of my ego-maniacal elementary school teachers constantly haunt me, ghosts from the past that probably most people forget, but I replay in my mind when it has nothing to do but think. So I am starting a recurring column where I expound a crime committed against me by one of my teachers. This, I think, will serve as a bit of therapy for me (though the readers might find it hard to relate to...oh well, one of the perks of writing a blog is that you can be as self-indulgent and boring as you want!) Conversely, feel free to use to comment section to bitch about that waddle-necked bitch you had in primary school who always found a way to make your life miserable.

The Perp: Mrs. P, my second-grade teacher

The Crime: Being a screechy bitch-vulture who taught bad penmanship

My second-grade classmates and I were learning cursive, and the letter of the day was T. As customary for primary school, we were working on wide-ruled, triple-lined paper, where the middle line bifurcates the space between the top and bottom lines with a level dash. This effectively makes the writing area vertically symmetrical.

As we all know, lower-case cursive t's are not only shorter than their upper-case counterparts, but the two lines that make-up the character are perpendicular like a cross, not a plus sign. Because Mrs. P was a bizzaro penmanship nazi, she insisted that we write our lower-case cursive t's so that they touched the top line, AND she wanted the middle line of the t to meet the middle dashed line (are you people following this? Even I'm starting to get cross-eyed from this description). Essentially, she demanded that we make them look like the retarded bastard cousin of what a real lower-case cursive t should look like.

We knew she was wrong. We ignorant second-graders knew this woman was giving into the demands of our wide-ruled baby paper, and we weren't having it. Several of us approached her desk. "But that's not what it looks like," we told her. "Look at what it looks like in our primer books." (Of course we didn't say "primer books," we were seven for chrissakes, but bear with me here)

"No!" she squawked. "Your writing has to match the paper! Do it the way I say!" (What gets me the most, with every complaint I have about my elementary school teachers, is that they felt totally entitled to scream, yell, bark, snarl and gnash at us kids, even when we approached them with subdued temperament. And yes, THAT is how it always went down - the calm children-Davids against the crazy frothing teacher-Goliaths. Remember, my long-term memory is magical and all-knowing, so OF COURSE these stories are being described to you with unfailing accuracy)

Despite the massive evidence we had against her theory - didn't she realize it was just lines on paper, not to mention a format of writing paper that we would never use again after the second grade? - we complied with her batshit penmanship demands. To this day, I lie awake at night wishing I'd known just the right words to say to lay the smack down on Mrs. P for this indiscretion. Though I eventually learned how to write a cursive t properly, I'll always feel the pain from the injustice I and my classmates were dealt that fateful day in second grade.

Why I've been MIA

In case you were all too busy mourning at the feet of the Pieta in light of the massive downturn our economy has taken, let me inform you that I haven't blogged for a week. A week!!!! That's kind of unlike me. Oddly, I feel some sense of duty to the handful of friends, acquaintances and strangers who read this blog, and a week of absence is like a tender promise being broken. I have failed you sorely.

Oh but then again, I found out last week that my hours are being cut back, and it sent me into a job-searching frenzy. So I guess I had the right to not give a shit about this blog OR the pseudo promise I was breaking. The readers are on the low end of the totem pole when it comes to my priorities (unless you can get me a job, and in that case, when can I start blowing you or painting your garage?)

With regards to the job front: It's not ALL that bad. Yet. My hours are only being cutback, so it's not like I'm going to be destitute. I've got a job interview on Tuesday, and I have a couple good leads, one of which I will be eating dinner with on Wednesday night. Also, there's the boyfriend, and the boyfriend knows I don't like to have sex when I'm hungry. So be assured that I'll stay well-fed.

But these are tough times, and it's an especially tough time to find a job in New York. Too easily this job hunt could turn into a futile, aggravating journey, a journey where the only thing I discover about myself is that I hate everyone and everything and have a penchant for drinking cheap whiskey from a brown paper bag while standing next to a burning oil drum.

Or maybe I'll find a SWEET job, one that pays better than my current employer ever did, and I'll make more money than I ever imagined, AND THEN this employer will open the door to the industry that I really want to work in, and because I didn't have any money in the stock market, I'll end up coming out better from this economic disaster than anyone else. Do you think? Could it be? Believe it and be it, believe it and be it! Ok, I believe; in order to prove to myself how much I believe, I'm going to rack up my credit card with a bunch of debt since surely I'll be a rich woman in 3 months time.

Sidenote: I realize that once before on this blog, I spelled Valium (as in the pills) like volume, as in how loud or soft you play your music. I just wanted to clarify that I am not a full-on idiot, I just have spurts of retardation where I misspell simple, everyday words. Don't even get me started on how often I misspell the word suttle.

It's starting to look a lot like Christmas because retailers are trying to sell us shit

I am not a doll designer...nor would I want to insult anyone who put their heart and soul into sculpting this little baby's face...but this thing looks like it is in the middle of taking a huge baby dump into it's cloth baby diaper. Cute?

Too bad the scan didn't come out sharper, because it doesn't quite capture the exquisite pain etched into this doll's face. I scanned it from an insert that fell out of my neighbor's Fingerhut catalog. As I was rifling through the mail it dropped onto the floor at my feet. Like any apathetic New Yorker, I was going to leave it there for someone else to clean up (hey! It didn't fall out of my catalog), but something about the baby's face caught my eye...it looked way too much like Damien, in fact that little green cap is probably hiding a 666 emblem. Thus, I had to share it with my readers. Hope you don't get nightmares!

The Heavenly Handfuls web site offers 4 different babies to choose from, and get this - they're only six inches long! That must be good because the web site is so proud to tell us that fact - only six inches long! Only $29.99 for six inches of plastic!!!!! WHEEEEEEEE!

Maybe my sarcastic enthusiasm is a bit overkill, but let us all note what it says on the baby's cap: "I Melt for No One." Well fuck you too, tiny baby dressed in green. Let's both sit on a radiator and see who melts quicker.

I = Sarah Palin? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Let's all get something straight: Tina Fey and Sarah Palin do not look a goddamn thing alike.

As soon as Palin's mug was broadcasted on tv screens across the nation, everyone just couldn't believe the uncanny resemblance Palin bore to Fey (or Fey to Palin? What's the chicken and egg in this instance? Oh god, nevermind, please don't waste brain cells considering that). "What a boon to Fey's SNL career!" everyone proclaimed. In fact, a Mr. Scott Sode of NYC took the time to write into TV Guide about the dopplegangers - he's quoted in the September 15 issue of the magazine, next to side-by-side photographs of the 4-eyed brunettes. "Separated at Birth?" TV Guide inquiries of the the ladies.

But I'm here to state - for the record - that Tina Fey and Sarah Palin look nothing alike! Sure, Fey is the most qualified to play Palin on SNL, but the mild likeness they share is not something people should be in awe over. Observe:

(Ok I know, Fey's is a recent pic while Palin's was taken when she was a baby fetus, but it was the only pic of Palin I could find where she wasn't wearing glasses and that is the crux of my argument)


Their jawlines are different. The shape of their eyes is different. The structure of their faces is really not all that similar, yet because they are attractive brunettes who happen to wear glasses, automatically they are twin sisters that has everyone wondering if they, too, have a mysterious lookalike hiding somewhere on the globe.





Put a pair of glasses of any of these lovely ladies, pile their hair on top of their heads, and bam - you've got Sarah Palin lookalikes.

Now why the reason for this petty bitching, you ask? (You are wondering that, right?) Because I have heard from three different people that, while wearing glasses with my hair pulled into a ratty bun, I look like Sarah Palin. And that's bullshit because I don't look like Sarah Palin, and furthermore, I don't wanna look like Sarah Palin!!!!!!!!!

I'm super self-conscious as of late to pull my hair up - which is my daily hairstyle - while brandishing my spectacles, which is currently a necessity because my contacts have been feeling like the devil's fiery tea saucers when sitting on my eyeballs. Palin is a household name now, so if three people think I resemble Palin, there's a good chance that every person I see, ever, is thinking the same thing. This is a heavy burden to endure, people! I don't want my looks to be synonymous with some babbling moose killer, an idiot who needs no mocking because her ridiculousness is so blatant. This is so goddamned unfair.

I'd love to wrap this post up with a cute little moral or expletive filled rant, but I need to find another day to day look that is nothing like Sarah Palin. What do you guys think - should I aim to look like Paris Hilton or Tila Tequila? I just need to look like less of an idiot than Sarah Palin, so either one of those ladies' styles should work.

UPDATE: An old college pal sent me this link after reading my blog - maybe I'm perceiving this likeness to Palin in the completely wrong way. I should be monopolizing on it, not hating it!

NEED SARAH PALIN LOOKALIKE ASAP (craigslist)

The highlight of my week

The highlight of my week happened last night when my roommate decided to demonstrate how Lindsay Lohan and her gf express their love for one another. It was totally unsolicited, yet he took his hands, parted his fingers on both as if he were making the sign of the Vulcan, then connected them at their bases and squished them together. Presumably, this is how Lindsay and her gf mash pussies.

Ugh.

And that, my friends, is just the tip of the crude, crude heap that I've had to deal with in the past two years of living with this guy. He's self-edited himself a lot more since the beginning (I told him to), but there's still a lot of inappropriate things that come out of his mouth. My femaleness has little to do with it - the stuff he says would be weird in any company, be it a gaggle of choir girls or cell block D at Pelican Bay.

But news break! The bf and I have found a new apartment. The bf is so eager to get out of his current living situation (he hates his roommate) that he's prepared to move in October 1st and shoulder the $1500 monthly rent on his own, or at least until January (I promised the roomie I'd stay through December). So it looks like I'm about to enter a new chapter of my life. The chapter of my life where I get to walk around the apartment naked all the time. What a great new thing to blog about!

So have a fun weekend folks - I'll be in Pittsburgh until Monday, rehashing college memories with some long-lost pals. If you are good maybe I'll post some pictures of the shitshow that is sure to ensue.

Who do you want to punch in the face?

I've been having trouble drumming up a topic to blog about, and I blame Will Smith for it. It's not the meltdown of Wall Street that has me troubled, it's not the specter of a McCain/Palin presidency that preoccupies my thoughts, it's that bothersome character who was plucked off the streets of Philadelphia and unleashed upon his rich aunt and uncle only to annoy the hell out of them - and me.

All I can think about (seriously, this has been on my mind for the past 4 days) is how much I fucking hate Will Smith's character on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I was watching it late the other night just before I drifted off into sleepy goodness, and it was unbelievable what a punk he was in that show. All I could do was lay there, my lip curled in disgust, and fantasize about punching him in the face.

Don't get me wrong - I like Will Smith just fine, and generally like him in other roles. Though The Pursuit of Happyness made me want to slit my wrists, Will Smith was well-deserving of his Oscar nod for that performance, and Men in Black will always hold a place in my heart on those Saturday afternoons when it's playing on cable and I'm hungover. But hay-zeus, what a mouthy, inappropriate little prick he is on Fresh Prince. If that were my household, his ass would have been in the juvenile delinquency center after the first week.

All this vitriol toward Fresh Prince era Will Smith got me to thinking about other television characters I'd like to punch in the face. Readers of this blog are familiar with my previous lists involving television - I detailed the Television "Friends" You Would Never be Friends with in Real Life, and The Top Six Kids Shows I Had No Right to Be Watching, so I thought maybe I'd do a post listing the Top TV Characters I Want to Punch in the Face. Fresh Prince Will Smith would be number one, with Carrie Bradshaw coming in at a close second...but that's all I got. This shouldn't be hard, television is practically my second mother, I've grown up with all kinds of horrible protagonists who the audience is supposed to relate to, but really all you want to do is shoot a harpoon gun through their eyeball.

Well you know what to do folks - what tv characters do you despise? Try not to make them "bad guy" characters either - you're supposed to hate those characters, they're written explicitly so you have a reason to root for the good guy. It's the loathed "good guys" that I'm looking for.

A tale of an annoying one-night stand

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was working two jobs - one as a waitress, and the other as a cashier at a franchise hardware store. I won't name what particular franchise it was, but I will say it is the worst job I have ever had. It was boring and demeaning and chock-full of anal rules that could cost you your job if broken. Not to mention that the people with the authority to boss me around were all pervy drug addicts only a few years older than me. Anytime you shop at a large retailer, take a look at the workers and be assured they are not happy - their workdays are made up of mundane tasks that serve not the customer, but the bureacratic overlords that crack the whip. The overlords want to break the employees' spirits, and that's not just hyperbole - they will do anything to brainwash workers into servile robots.

But I digress from my Marxist rant. At the beginning of this summer, I had no friends. Being a bitch in high school who hated the people I was forced to hang out with, I'd done little to retain the strained connections with my school chums. The only option was to go out with my mom, but there is only so much a 20 y/o and a 45 y/o can do together; partaking in ribald activities - my highest desire - was not on the calendar.

I continued my work at the hardware franchise with the desperation for a pal scrawled across my face - thus, horny-boy buzzards started to circle. They could smell how lonely and bored I was. A guy who acted like a 20 y/o but turned out to be 32 introduced himself to me my 4th week in. A few days later, he invited me out with himself and a bunch of other guys from the hardware store family - "Meet us at Q's, it's right near the store" - and with that it seemed my isolated days were over.

My demeanor can be deceiving. Though I don't think so, it seems I have the face of a cherub - people see me, not a trace of evil or hate in the way I carry myself, my chipmunk cheeks aglow - and assume I am a straight-edge innocent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ever since high school I've been drinking, smoking, and doing drugs (all in moderation, of course). Even today, if I light up a cigarette in front of a person I just met, they will reel from the fact that I partake in such a nasty habit. "I didn't know you smoked!" they exclaim.

"Well why should you?" I retort. "You just met me."

"I know, but...it just surprises me."

When I was 20, this perceived innocence was like a bad reputation I had to shed - I wanted the franchise boys to think I was tough, someone who could party it up like a rock star. No, not a "Girl Gone Wild" - a Keith Richards-esque hedonist who could drink beer like I invented the stuff, puke all over the bar, then rally up and repeat the process. So I joined them at Q's prepared to pound shots of Jager and chug pitchers of Budweiser.

The night was tamer than I expected, but when the bar closed at 2 am, I wasn't prepared to end the party - remember, I wanted to be a rock star. This is how I have gotten into every weird, shake-my-head-in-disbelief situation I've ever been in - when I'm not ready to call it a night, when there's something left to prove. So I accepted the invitation from one of the boys, Brian, to join him for a nightcap at his house.

I'm sure we shared some light getting-to-know-you banter and remarks about his Bob Marley posters (the ultimate in guy decor), but since I don't remember, I'll skip to the sexcapade. We were both wasted, losing balance as we twisted ourselves into an array of positions, not having sex to have fun, but having sex to be fun - this was my thinking, anyways. I'm sure he was having sex to bust a nut. The television blared in the background as we climbed all over each other like orangutans.

In the morning I woke up with a pounding headache and cotton-mouth. I stumbled into his bathroom and drank from the faucet, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror - to see my face smeared with eyeliner and the bad skin exposed would only exacerbate the stress felt from awaking in a stranger's bed.

As I searched for my clothes - had I worn a bra? - he woke up and pulled me back into the bed and got on top of me. "C'mon, morning sex," he said.

"No fucking way," I laughed. "I gotta go."

"Aww, you got time," he replied.

He tried to yank my limbs into a coital position, and I yanked back. "No, I'm done, I have to go home."

I giggled uncomfortably as he persisted, but when things started to get too rapey, the giggling stopped. "Get the fuck off of me," I told him; my legs were crossed, and my feet had found their way to his crotch.

He didn't realize the precarious predicament his ballsack was in - maybe his boner was the only thing he could feel - and as he attempted to access my breasts I gave a hard shove with my legs and hit pay dirt.

"OOF!" He careened back, arms akimbo, and sailed off the bed. I think his head cracked the tv stand as he thudded to the floor, and I got off the mattress, surprisingly calm. Nowadays I wouldn't give a shit about assaulting a guy in his family jewels, particularly after trying to force himself on me, but at this moment I felt a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.

He was too humiliated to be mad. "Fine," he aquieced, and he crawled back into his bed to sulk. As I picked my way through his piles of dirty laundry, he tried to smack my ass - I don't know if this was an attempt to be cute, but the fact that he missed and ended up slapping the bed was embarrassing to see.

One of the most annoying situations in the world is when you are a girl, trying to find the pieces of your wardrobe that were launched across the room the night before, and the entire time your hook-up is watching you. It's just plain rude on the guy's part. As I scanned the floor, I noticed I was wearing an old Beatles t-shirt; he noticed too.

"Hey, get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up," he said, just before snickering stupidly to himself.

I rolled my eyes but didn't respond to his lame joke that he ripped off from The Wedding Singer. I guess he assumed that I hadn't heard him, so he repeated it: "Get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up." He let out more retarded, satisfied giggles.

I should have explained to him why he was an idiot. In fact, my failure to do so is almost inhumane, a crime against the women who would endure his attempts at humor in the future. His stolen joke was inaccurate and borderline disrespectful, seeing as the Beatles broke up in the late 60's and two of the members WERE DEAD, yet he thought himself so clever (and conversely, he thought me so dumb) that he needed to say it again.

Without an ounce of help from Brian, I procured my clothes, pulled them on, and considered what directions to take home. Then I realized that I had no clue what town I was in. "Where the fuck am I?" I asked.

Maybe he could sense how aggravated I was by his predatory antics, because he stopped being a pouty brat and attempted to tell me how to get home. I ignored him; my brain was too muddled to remember what he said anyways.

Before he could consider a hug or kiss good-bye, I gave a flippant wave and dashed out the door. I climbed into the cab of the beat Ford I was driving, and on the way home I realized the tale of our debaucherous night would be heard by all the franchise boys. But in my youth, this notion was something I celebrated - I would just have to make sure it got back to the franchise boys that I had kicked their friend in the nutsack when he got too sure of himself.

These incidentals keep me from blogging! Waaaaaaa!

Is anyone still reading this blog? Well to the 2.5 of you that still are, let it be known that I have not been slacking all this time - in the past week, I have started three blog posts, and I can't find the heart to finish any of them. The first two were about the Palin fracas, which had all my obsession and interest for about 3 minutes last week. The third was about the Wall Street meltdown, but as I was writing it I realized that I have no fucking clue what I'm talking about, and I got all disgusted and flagellated myself with the bath mat.

Oh yeah, and I've also been laying around watching Mad Men. Tres cool show!

Though I'd like to write about a topic that is greatly affecting our nation, I've decided to wait for the next inane piece of "earth-shattering" news to come along - I will mercilessly analyze and dissect that with the rest of the internet. Until then, let us contemplate the fact that I am moving in roughly three months, and I need to decide what of my meager belongings I will either take with me or give to my roommate.

I don't have much, but some of what I have is worth keeping...or is it? An inventory and pointless assessment follows:

My computer: My mom bought this computer for me for $100 at a garage sale, and it is one of the best investments she has ever made. Though I had to replace the monitor a year ago, it is still speedy and serves my needs well. I'm kind of afraid of what my boyfriend's lack of computer skills will do to it after we move in together. I guess I should sit and have a talk with him about the memory-soaking dangers of downloading too much porn.

My Bed: Oh, if you only knew the pain and aggravation I had to go through because of this bed. Gldngirl knows all the petty details - in short, my college boyfriend gave it to me when he graduated because he didn't feel like hauling it back to his hometown (I still had a year of college left). We broke up about two months later. I said he could have the bed; he told me to keep it. A few months later he was calling my cell and stalking me on AIM demanding his bed. I said fine, come and get it; he told me to keep it. Fast-forward a few months, maybe a month before my own college graduation - and the douchebag started leaving me messages again about getting his bed back. At first I protested - who did he think he was? But after several people told me to just give it back, I told my ex, "fine, it's yours. I will haul it out to the stairwell for you to pick up. You won't see me, because I won't be around to see you." With the knowledge that I wouldn't be there for him to harrass and annoy in person, he said,"Naw, consider it a graduation present." And that was the end of that (well, the end of the harrassment over the bed anyways).

My boyfriend hates my bed. Though I have a Queen and his is just a Full, he'll refuse to give his up. I will inevitably toss mine. But this loss is actually a gain - now I'll feel entitled when I hang my Riot Grrls posters on the ceiling above our bed.

The Living Room Rug: This rug is kind of cool in an ugly kind of way. But my roomie's cat has used it as her own personal scratching post/litter box/kitten playground...meh, I'll just spray some Febreeze on it and it'll be good as new!

The Microwave: My bf has a microwave, but you know what? One of the things that my roommate does that INFINITELY pisses me off is the fact that he uses the microwave without a plate. He just tosses his food on the microwave's glass shield as if that was meant for hot dog roasting. Even worse, he doesn't clean the glass plate after using it! Ugh, and then I'll use a plate to warm up some Chinese, and I'll take the steaming noodles back to my bed, set the bowl on my comforter, then realize there is a big greasy stain soaking into my duvet because the grease from whatever my roomie cooked is on the bowl. MAJORLY ANNOYING.

So I'm going to take the microwave and throw it through the windshield of my roomie's car. THAT'LL TEACH HIM. Though this vindication might not feel so great from a jail cell...

Flatware and Silverware: I'll see what my boyfriend has, but if he has enough, the roommate can keep mine. So not worth the time to pack.

The Entertainment Center: I got the entertainment center from my mom, and my mom got it from a lady 8 years ago who was dragging it out to her lawn for the trashman. Verdict: The roommate can keep. Though I might be able to sell it to him by acting like I paid a lot of money for it.

My Air Conditioner: I did not bring my AC with me from Ohio, nor did I buy it while living in New York. It was a housewarming gift from my roommate's father - he bought one for each of us. Am I entitled to keep this? I feel kind of weird taking it, but since my bf only has one, it would be nice to keep...what do the readers think?

You know you've reached a new low when you're seeking advice from the internet.

Join me in my time machine: The first day of school!

This post probably should have gone up last week, that being the first week of school and all...oh well, I'm a lazy bum, what can I say?












Does anyone remember the ledger on the inside of their school books? If you were lucky enough to get a brand-spanking-new text that first day of school, complete with crisp, fragrant pages and a shiny cover, you would sign your name to it and declare its condition as "Brand New". You would cherish it with one final caress of your hand across its veneer, and then you'd toss it in your desk or locker for it to get buried by dirty gym clothes, melted chocolate bars, and your handgun.

But let's say that, due to "lack of funding" (i.e. the vice principal used the school's bank account to pay for his hooker and gambling addiction), the school wouldn't be getting new textbooks that year. Or for the next five years. And when you would be issued yours, a third of the pages were ripped or torn out, the people on the front cover had their teeth blacked out by pen and badly drawn penises aimed at their mouths, and the ledger was filled up, so you had to sign your name and the book's condition two or three lines below it. Bitter about the fact that you were receiving a severely out-dated and battered text, you'd label the book's condition as "Fucking Old."

The above scenario didn't happen to me exactly, but I do remember in 7th grade being given a school book that was published in 1979. I entered the seventh grade in 1996. Though most of the stories were still relevant ("The Tell-Tale Heart" was one we read that year), it was demoralizing to be given something meant to help you learn that was so broke down, so trashed, so disgusting, and nearly 20 YEARS OLD. Who was looking out for the children? Didn't anyone care to give us the best supplies to help us learn? On the upside, our teacher didn't really care if we treated our texts like coloring books. She would actually kind of encourage us to vandalize them - "Sure, go ahead, they're horrible anyways."

I hope you all enjoyed this little foray into the past - quite nostalgic, no? Though maybe no one reading this had to suffer through misappropraited tax dollars that directly affected your education. Does that make me more real, more hardcore? No I don't think so, but it probably left me better prepared for a career in triple-X hardcore.

Sidenote: I originally ended this post with a joke (albeit poorly written) about having a kidnapped junior high student locked in my spare room, the explanation as to why I have a middle school textbook in my possession. I deleted it because I thought it might be crass and ill-received. What do the readers think? Is kidnapping a 12 y/o appropriate joke fodder? That comment section ain't there for nothin, folks.

The horror, the pain...the facial

I write today of a story containing much woe and debilitating pain, a tale that will make you cringe as you read - it is also probably the most bourgeois complaint you will ever see on this blog.

It is the tale of the facial I received last Friday.

And perverts, let's get it straight from the get-go - it was a facial you get at a spa, not something that happens when 8 men profess their love to a woman in one of your XXX films.

But to be honest, after I stumbled home from the spa on Friday evening, I think I would have rather been on the receiving end of a bukkake than endured the assault on my face the facialist inflicted.

Early last week, I was looking at my face and running my fingertips along the t-zone - it was like a braille board, with dozens of tiny bumps festering under the skin. A summer of sweaty beach-going, camping, and blase skin care had left me with a face akin to the Yellowstone Caldera - about to blow at any minute with very, very bad results. Since I can't afford a dermatologist, a facial was in order.

I had never had a professional facial before, so I didn't know what was in store for me. I assumed that it would be a relaxing experience; the facialist would cleanse my face, rub some St. Ides scrub into my skin, and soothingly work out any clogs she came across (which would be many). My expectations were purported by clips I see on reality tv, like when the girls of The Hills, or Kate from John & Kate Plus 8, retreat to the spa for the ultimate in calm and rejuvention. I fully expected to come out of my facial with a new-found outlook on life.

It all started out fine enough. My facialist was eastern-European, which seemed totally appropriate, and after I told her it was my first time, she reassured me at every step. I undressed my torso and took off my shoes, laid on the spa bed, and allowed my body to de-tense as the facialist kneaded my shoulders and neck, and rubbed various ointments into my face. A sitar played from the speakers; the room was ensconced in low but warm lantern-light. This is nice, I thought, practically asleep. Why didn't I do this sooner? So what if it's an indulgence, I deserve an indulgence every now and then, don't feel guilty, just enjoy it, even if you COULD have given the money you're spending on this to charity, sshhh, sshhh, goddamnit would you just kick-back for once? Yes, this is how my mind works when I'm relaxed.

Just as I was about to drift-off into some warm, fuzzy nap state, my facialist said, "Ok, now ve vill begin vee ex-track-shun."

I didn't really respond, so she added, "Vis not so much fun."

"O-ohhh?" I was up, no longer lulled by the calming sensations of the room. Not fun? Like, when you're trapped in a boring college course not fun?

She placed a blindfold over my eyes. "How do you like ven you ex-track your blemishes at home?"

"Um, it's ok, I mean, I don't like it." I thought she was asking if I got my jollies by squeezing pus-filled whiteheads in front of my bathroom mirror. Indeed I do, but I didn't want her to think I was a freak.

"Vell, imagine vaht it feel like ven someone else do ex-track-shun."

Wait, what was going on? Why did she put a blindfold on me? The movie Hostel popped into my head.

"But don't vorry," she continued, as if there was an overhead projector connected to my brain that was displaying my fearful thoughts. "I use a needle to get out all vee hard stuff, and your face vill be smooth and beautiful."

A NEEDLE? But it was too late - the ex-track-shun had commenced.

She began with the nose, an uber-difficult place to push out blackheads if there ever was one. I tried not to squirm as she plied the cartilage, working the skin over the ridge of my nose, nearly breaking the fragile bone. At least she is starting with the nose, I thought. The nose is the most painful and frustrating area to pop zits - it should all be easy-peasy from here.

But I was wrong...I was so wrong. Imagine me saying that is a desperate, cracked whisper. I was so wrong. She moved to my problem area, my chin, and that bitch took the soft skin between her fingertips, gripped it like a vice, and squeezed that shit with all the mercy of Mussolini. Every muscle in my body tightened; the veins in my neck must have protruded two inches from the skin. Bullets of sweat sprang from my pits, and I'm not just saying this - I could literally feel pools of sweat cascade from my underarms. This was some serious pain.

And it only continued. With each new extraction, I prayed she would stop. My hands balled into fists and my toes curled like cheetos; my back had become a veritable swamp, since all the pain being inflicted on me had put my sweat glands into overdrive. Sure I was used to the brief sting of popping a zit, but the thing here was that she was extracting from bumps deep under the skin; many layers of epidermis had to be ripped open in order to deplete these potential blemishes. At one point she even said, "Your skin is so tight! Make for very difficult ex-track-shun."

Of course - only I would be someone with tight - yet clogged - pores.

Every millimeter of my face was pinched, and some areas had the pleasure of getting poked by her tiny needle. I think I now know what it feels like to receive Botox. It was so relentless, no time to breathe or recoup, just pain, grit grit git, GAH PAIN, grit grit grit, PAIIIIIIIN. People, I am not one easily provoked by the ache of the physical. I have always handled it well, and though I didn't scream out or tell her to stop at any time during our session, I have to say this was one of the most painful physical experiences of my life. Not the worst, but probably in my top five.

Throughout the facial, she kept talking to me. No, not idly chatting, but trying to engage me in conversation. She wanted to know about chemical peels I had had in the past and if they helped me or not because, wouldn't you know it? SHE had just taken a class on chemical peels and she wanted the perspective from someone who had actually had one... all this while she was facilitating fiery explosions from my face. I tried to be cordial, but all I could think was, bitch, shut-up! I really need to go to my happy place right now, and you are preventing that from happening.

And you know what made the whole thing even worse? I was having some stomach problems during the facial (translation: I had gas), and it was near impossible to not let one fly while I was writhing and gritting my teeth. The sheer fact that I did not A) cry like a baby or B) fart through it all puts me on the level of Superman.

Though it felt like a century, it was probably all done in 15 minutes. She applied a salve to my face then left the room as I reeled from the annihilation I'd just endured. Was it really over? Or was she about to return with a two-foot syringe in her hand and announce, "Oh you thought it vas OVER? You silly, silly American!"

But she didn't return for another 10 minutes or so, and when she finally did, she instructed me to get dressed. Ugh, gladly! I launched myself off the spa bed, got dressed, then spotted the wall mirror. I looked, but due to the low-lighting, I couldn't see the damage. Since my head felt like a hot, throbbing goiter, I knew it couldn't look good.

The walk home was hazy and a bit fevered; every inch of my face was prickly. I was happy for the darkness, since I didn't want passer-bys to be frightened by my boiling-red mug.

It is now a couple days later, and my face looks WORSE THAN EVER. It is dry and scabby. But the facialist did tell me it would look bad for a few days...le sigh.

So people, I tell you this story today so that the truth is known about facials - they are not enjoyable. They are not relaxing. They are, in fact, meant for masochists who enjoy the company of Easter-European broads. But as the old adage goes, no pain, no gain. It has yet to be shown if I gained the desired result, though - if my face turns out like the bottom of a newborn babe, then maybe I will visit my dominatrix-like facialist again in a few months. But I will do so after smoking two joints and imbibing a Volume.

David Duchovny, I wish you would fuck me (even now)

I don't know what to make of this whole Sarah Palin fiasco, particularly the baby conspiracy that is straight out of a VC Andrews novel. I don't just mean the fact that her 17 y/o daughter is pregnant - I'm talking about the theory that Palin's newborn, Trig, may in fact be the progeny of her eldest daughter, Bristol, and the pregnancy debacle occurring now is all meant to cover-up the REAL pregnancy that happened a few months ago. Yes, click the link, Cajun Boy explains it so much better and in-depth than I.

I'm done thinking about all this Palin baby-drama (though this has really upped the ante as far as politico-family scandals go, no?). Now we will move onto to an even more DEEELISH scandal that has me all aflutter.

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Oh what sexual sparks this pic alone awakens...

The first time I can remember laying eyes on David Duchovny - I was 11-years-old and spending a Friday evening at my grandmother's house. The television flickered pale blue against the walls, a background accompaniment to the board game my sister and I were playing. A commercial came on; I looked up from the game, maybe because of the eerie music playing from the set. There, on the television screen, were a woman and man looking earnest, running to something, or away from it. They were cloaked in trench coats; they were searching. The commercial bade me to stay tuned for the premiere of a new FOX series, The X-Files.

The man in particular captivated me. I was only 11, but something was stirring - my imagination? My loins? Probably both. I tuned into the premiere and learned that this man played the male lead in The X-Files, Fox Mulder. The actor playing Mulder was David Duchovny, and I was in love.

From that day out, I was an avid X-File fan, and a precocious Duchovny lover. While most of the girls my age were googly-eyed for boys like JTT and Andrew Keegan, I was tuning in every Friday night (then later, Sundays), and watching as Fox Mulder (a man) cavorted with Jersey Devils, clandestine informants, Satan-worshipers, and of course, little gray men. Mulder was in search of the truth, a truth that was constantly being hidden by the government. And goddamn did he look for it in the sexiest way possible!

During my time as an X-Phile, I procured a rather large and diverse collection of memorabilia. Shirts, books, magazines, buttons, pogs - if it had something to do with The X-Files and David Duchovny, I owned it. I would have been a nerd* if The X-Files wasn't beloved by everyone else in my class, too - but no one loved it and Duchovny as much as me.

At night as I drifted off to sleep, Mulder and I would search for the truth together. We would meet by surprise - we had known each other during our FBI training and had shared a brief, passionate tryst. Since Scully was sick from the flu, Mulder would need a savvy professional to assist him on his next investigation, and I would grudgingly pinch hit (grudgingly because that's what makes for the best sexual tension. Did I mention I was also a 5'10" redhead? My fantasies were vivid AND drunk). Though we would be on assignment, our lust would overcome us, and inevitably...well, inevitably I'd start making out with my pillow. But anyways, this foray into my childhood fantasies is to say ZOMG I fucking loved David Duchovny and he is the only celebrity I ever truly pined for.

But here we are in 2008. These days, I pine for my bf (really!) And though Duchovny has been married for the past decade, turns out he's pining for lots of internet pornography. Turns out he's a sex addict!

I'm kind of turned on by him again after this revelation. Yeah, I know that's kind of skanky to say, but compound this real-life sex addiction with the charisma of his Californication character, Hank Moody - it's making me nostalgic for the days when I was a horny adolescent.

I leave you with a video that I saw only a few days ago - it sums up how I (and I guess everyone else) felt about David Duchovny in the 90's.

* Ok, I was probably a raging nerd.

In the company of old, misogynist men

I like to consider myself a guy's girl. When in the company of men, I can hold my own; discussions about sports, boating, or tawdry sex do not bother me - in fact, I revel in the latter. When I'm talking about the lewd and crude, I've found my niche and am completely comfortable.

The bf and I went camping this weekend, and whadya know - I was the only chick there! Save for the female doggy that was limping around on a bum leg, I was the only creature with ovaries in the vicinity of our campground.

At first, this situation was fine. We're all human before we're our gender, am I right? So I smoked, drank, and in general caroused with the guys. While we imbibed Yeungling from a keg and toked our Parliaments, the conversation revolved around general "man" things (nary a discussion about lipsticks and nail polish was to be found. Not that they would have been had the group been comprised of mostly women, but you get my point). As dusk turned into night, the lot of us got drunker, and I took a small stroll around the lake with my dog. Upon my return, I was told by an older fellow that I needed to turn right back around - the conversation being had was not intended for a lady's ears. My boyfriend merely shrugged when I looked to him for instruction, and that was all he had to do - apparently he agreed that I should not be in the midst of whatever chauvinist, sexually-charged dialog they were having.

Being too drunk to produce a witty retort opposing my dismissal, I wandered away from the crowd, my dog in tow. My alcohol-addled mind began to debate what had just happened - I had just let a man talk down to me? I, Ms. Fuck-You-and-the-Misogynist-Horse-You-Rode-in-On, had allowed a dude to treat me like anything less than the autonomous, knowledgeable adult female that I am? Worse than that, my boyfriend didn't defend me, and I should have promptly commenced to making his life miserable for that infraction, yet I didn't! Well, these wrongs certainly had to be righted. I stumbled back over to the group.

"So what, are you guys talking about dirty sexual exploits over here?" My query was dead-on - yep, they were exchanging their most salacious bedroom stories. I knew immediately they were all just bullshitting each other. "Tell me some," I demanded.

"Oh we couldn't," one of the dudes said.

"Why not? I bet I've done filthier, more dastardedly things."

They all guffawed and exchanged curious looks. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I can't share my stories with him around." I jutted a thumb at my bf. "He couldn't handle hearing them." My bf's eyebrows lifted, then furrowed.

"Well he should leave, then!" All the guys were eager for my bf to take a hike. The bf gave me a look that said are you serious? "You should probably go somewhere else for a while," I told him. Taken aback, he did as I and the other dudes told him. That'll teach him not to have my back.

Well now I had to live up to my promise of delivering a sex story so demented it would make Caligula blush. I regaled them with a tale that involved multiple sex partners, but overall the story was a massive fail. They were all so disappointed in my tale and accused me of building up their hopes, but their attitude toward me had shifted - no longer was I a lady in their eyes; I had devolved to their gross male standards, and in this devolution, I found acceptance. Dare I say I had found a home?

Uh, no I do not dare. Because even though my refusal to be silenced (gosh I make telling sex stories sound so righteous!) had allowed me a spot in their male-centric circle, the lewd but fun conversation eventually spiraled into an out-and-out misogynist rant on one guy's part. Not only was it misogynist, but it was downright weird. The booze has fuzzed my memory, but somehow I found myself having a discussion with a man in his 60's, and this man could not keep his mouth shut about how much both of his sisters weighed. He was practically frothing at the mouth because his sisters, according to him, were "fat pigs." When and where is it ever normal to talk to total strangers about your sibling's weight?

At the beginning of the conversation, I thought maybe I could sympathize - maybe his sisters were dangerously obese and he was scared for their health. I asked him how tall they were, and how much they weighed.

"Oh, they're both about 5'11" and weigh like 180." I almost fell over upon hearing this revelation, because if what he said was true (and who knows? He might have been exagerrating their weight so I'd agree with him), this would give his sisters a BMI of 25.1, which is not problematic when you consider that a healthy BMI is between 18.5 and 24.9. Not to mention, his sisters have given birth to two children each!

Why was this douche's hate toward his sisters misogynist, and not just anti-fat? Because his younger brother was at the campground with him, and he was a chunky lard-ass if I ever saw one!

I started to lecture the guy about his ridiculous critique of his sisters, and it quickly escalated into a full-fledged "Gah you old men are so retarded!" tirade, so my boyfriend came over to calm me down. I was kind of wasted at that point, but I don't know if my reaction would have been any different had I been sober.

As I continued to drink, I also continued to talk - not a good combination. As punishment for banishing me in the first place, I made them all listen to my theories on the lives of heterosexual men when their significant others aren't around. I won't detail my theory here - but in a world of Larry Craig's and Mark Foley's, you can guess what it is I think heterosexual men do when the women are shopping or visiting their mothers.

In all, I was able to handle being a lone girl thrown in the mix of 10 straight, old-school, kind of uneducated, perverted guys. But I don't think I'd voluntarily choose such a situation, because seriously old men? You make me weep for the women of your generation who had to put up with your stupid asses.

I feel like I'm constantly apologizing for this...

Yep, I haven't posted in a few days, and though I have a post or two in my back pocket for times like these (i.e. when I'm feeling lazy), I'm not going to publish them (because they suck). This week has been full of DNC happenings and veep choices (haha, ooook McCain), and also I'm trying to write stuff that will help me have a real career, so this blog will have to deal with being my neglected bastard child from time to time.

But I'd hate to leave you all high and dry, so I'm gonna do some piggybacking on the work of my college buddy, "Vern." He wrote this fake craigslist post, and it had me ROTFFLOLDFGYJNBVC (don't ask what that stands for, I just dragged my knuckles across the keyboard and thought the letters looked cool). Please don't be taken aback by its crudeness...ok, go ahead and be taken aback, but you CANNOT tell me with a straight face that the wikipedia part didn't elicit the smallest of laughs from you (there is a picture toward the bottom that is slightly NSFW).

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Hey, do you want to get fucked in your vagina by a penis? - m4w - 24 (SoHo)

Reply to: [redacted] Date: 2008-08-27, 12:57PM EDT

Then, my darlings, my lovers, my Nubian queens, you have come to the right place. Because I am about to unleash this dick all over your ass. Oh yeah. You read that right. This dick. All over that ass. Let me put it to you in even more ridiculous terms.

I have a penis. You can call it a lethal weapon. You can call it whatever you want to call it. Fact is, I'm going to elect your vagina to political office just so that I can assassinate it. I'm going to make sure that your vagina is not registered in the National register of historic places, because I am about to destroy it and I do not want to get fined. Let me break it the fuck down.

First, you'll pull up into my apartment complex in your lifted truck that you stole from your old boyfried, but it doesn't matter, since he's in jail and all. I'll open the door for you, wearing nothing but full body SCUBA gear. Yes, to answer your question, of course it will have a hole in it with my dick hanging out. I'll pull out the case of PBRs that I purchased, and we will slam them. All of them. Shotgun, bong them, whatever. I'll light a few candles. I'll then take your pants off, and singe a few pubes with the candles if you need it. You won't care, as you are already in awe of my penis. You'll be like, "omg, that looks delicious!". I will agree. I will then excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I won't move. You'll ask, "aren't you going to go to the bathroom?", and I will continue to remain still. Then I'll start pissing on you. You'll think to yourself "ohh...fuck". Covered in piss is no way for a lady to present herself, so I'll slap you in the face and tell you to clean up. You'll like it, since you are a sick fuck and you're into that kind of stuff. Whatever. I'll take you to my room, but since you are covered in piss, I'll pull the sheets off first. I'll then proceed to tell you that you look like Rebecca Lobo. You'll say "who?", and I'll get all pissed and make you look her up on Wikipedia before we proceed. The whole time I will be sitting on my bed jacking off while wearing batting gloves.

Ok. So you looked that bitch up, said she was ugly, and got all sad. I said, "no way, baby, she's one of the prettiest women on the planet, just like you". You'll open your mouth in a huge smile, and then I'll jump up, stick my dick in it, and yell "siiiike!". HA! You just got served! SERVED! Oh well. I'll make you bite off my pubes, too. You sick little girl. But then I'll stop playing games and get back to business. And I am in the business of tearing that vag up. I'm like a fucking entrepreneur in that business. So I'll go to town, like a fucking jackhammer on your uterus. A jackhammer with balls. And ball hair. Shifting around, hitting all the spots, pretty much surveying all of the land with my wang, taking you to pleasuretown on the L train, you fucking hipster. I will pull it out, put it on your forehead, and knight you. I will rub ball sweat all over your hair, and then style it like Belinda Carlisle's. You will be moaning. I will make no sounds, like a silent ninja. You'll ask me why I am silent, and if I am even enjoying it. I'll cockwhip you in the face and tell you to shut the fuck up. Huh? You like being yelled at? No? Then DON'T FUCKING CRITICIZE MY SILENCE. You stupid tramp. I'm sorry. Can I put my penis back in your vagina? Thanks.

So, as I'm pulling into the final stretch, I'll start thanking all of the people who made this possible. I'll thank Craigslist, I'll thank God. You'll interrupt me and tell me to stop. I'll give you an angry glare and you'll get the point, lay back down, and shut the fuck up. I will proceed to thank my parents. I'll thank Al Gore for inventing the internet that I solicited you with. And, finally, I will thank you for taking the dick. Then, in my final silent scream of quasi-pleasure, I'll blow it all up in the condom. Because I don't want to get you pregnant. You don't even weigh less than me, and that's just sick. Damn. Get out of my garage.Here's an artist's rendition of the dick, since this is Craigslist, and I have to post my dick.






















Gosh Vern, you always were the charmer!

Quick Post: Songs I'm lurving

I try not to gush over bands or music I've recently discovered. I refrain from doing so because, whenever I'm reading a blog and the author posts a video or music clip, I never, ever take the time to listen. It's time consuming, and the chances of me actually liking the song or video are about 5%. Also, I am probably the last to even 'discover' this music. Odds are the comments will turn into one big thread of "these songs are SO two weeks ago."

But because I'm excited to be seeing them in October (along with my other favorite musician, Beck), I've been listening to a lot of MGMT, and I just thought I'd share a song with my readers. Their album, Oracular Spectacular, has been playing non-stop on my cd player, and this tune, "Future Reflections," has had me hitting the rewind button. Hope you enjoy!




Oh, you want a bonus? How about this one from Panic! At the Disco called "When the Day Met the Night"

MySpace? More like Oh-My-Fucking-God-You-People-Appall-Me Space

After my umpteenth invitation to view some chick's webcam, it seemed time to delete my MySpace account. I never use it; it's an abscess on the shiny veneer of social networking, particularly my social networking. Even though I heart the internet, I am not one of those people plugged in at every outlet - I do not twitter, or digg, or flickr, and I do not own a mobile device that provides me on-the-go internet access. Blogging, emailing, and perusing the Craigslist casual encounters is as much as I do with the interweb. Oh yeah, and Facebook. And coming back to my former statement, Facebook is a far more superior method for social networking - it looks cleaner, and is, in my opinion, more user-friendly. Though MySpace was Facebook's predecessor, MySpace has quickly become the ugly, half-retarded, spam-loving step child of internet communication.

So like I was saying, I was going to delete my profile. As I logged onto my MySpace account and considered the piss-poor layout I was about to obliterate, I clicked on one of my 50 "friends" - people who I have known at one point or another, but can't really say I'm friends with. This particular "friend" was a girl I knew in elementary school, someone who I can quite literally say I watched grow up from an awkward, be-spectacled little girl, into a beautiful young woman, then into a ghetto-ized drug-dealer with a penchant for accusing females in the vicinity of her boyfriend of trying to"git wit him." Seriously, she went from coke-bottle eyeglasses to coke-caked nostrils. I don't totally judge her for it - she was one of my partners in crime during my drug-addled summer after college - but the image she purports in her MySpace is a fucking parody, or would be a parody if she didn't really aspire to be what she puts forth to the world.

In essence, her profile is a total fetishization of all that is "gangsta,""ghetto," and "slutty," although I bet she's trying to be sexy. But it's not sexy at all. She substitutes "da" for "the," deliberately loses the "g" on all her gerunds, and says things like "holla!" Possibly the best (or most despicable?) part of her profile is when she declares that she has "been workin in the sex industry for a while now, its been fun n all but I'm ready and qualified fo so much more!" (sic all of that, if you couldn't guess)

Um, I could forgive that statement if she actually worked in the sex industry, but she works at Priscilla's, an "adult boutique" that sells tacky stripper shoes and penis-shaped crazy straws. It does not, in any way shape or form, require my "friend" to twirl around a stripper pole, perform sex acts on camera, or hustle her ass on the street. So why is she implying thus? There is something truly pathetic about a person who finds the sex industry glamorous. Please, go talk to a prostitute and ask how he or she feels about selling their bodies, and then come and tell me how glamorous it all seems.

After spending 15 minutes reading her MySpace profile in amazement and horror, I moved onto my other high school classmates - what can I say? None were too bright, none were too...dignified? Part of the reason why their profiles make them look like caricatures of ghettofabulosity is implicit in MySpace (I know animated GIFs are fascinating, but Jesus Christo one can only take so much before the seizures happen!) But you can't blame Tom for that profile picture of you holding a fan of Benjamins, and you really can't blame Tom when you lack any trace of irony when you're holding that fan of Benjamins. That photostream of you and all your boys? Yeah, it could have been classy if you'd left out the snapshots where you're flashing gang signs and nuzzling up to some "hottie's" ass. And may I remind you that you will be 30 years old in two months? As most sane people say, no time like the present to grow up.

In any case, I decided not to delete my MySpace account. Though I rarely go on it, it does provide great comic relief when I'm feeling kind of low. Also - you can't write this shit. The characters that I'm seemingly friends with could not be conjured by Capote, Oates or King. These MySpace profiles are a well of material, a go-to source for those times when writer's block hits me. True, MySpace really only provides me a close-up to a few character traits (ridiculous and fucking ridiculous being the main ones), but my "friends'" profiles are thorough character-studies in and of themselves. Now is the time for you all to start anticipating my debut novel, "Who Knew I Attended High School with Retards?"

Ewe are the wave of the future

From time to time, my college pal Sara will send me topics to blog about. And they aren't colloquial topics either - she never asks me to write about prime time programming or Obama vs. McCain. Moreso, she wants to read my musings on weird shit that, if I (or anyone) were to bring it up in daily conversation, everyone would stare at me cross-eyed and write me off as a schitzo, even though they think weird shit like me all the time. It's just that I'm brave enough to say it out loud! (This is what I tell myself when I have tourette's like outbursts - the fact that I announced that my farts smell like broccoli makes me a visionary.)

Sara has asked me to write about my thoughts on the end of the world, to which I complied, and now she wants to know what I think about a lyric she heard in a song and how "being the last man/woman on earth" has different ramifications depending on your gender. This is the message she left on my facebook wall:

"i heard this lyric in a song that went like, "i would choose her if I was the last man on earth" and i started thinking about if i was the last woman on earth. the difference between being the last man or the last woman on earth.. a man sees it as if he has his pick of fucking any woman he wants, but think what it would be like to be the last woman, you would have alot of dudes just trying to rape you all the time." (emphasis mine)

After I read her message, I hardly had to think about it - my answer to this dilemma is sheep prostitutes.

Because let's face it, if you were the last woman on earth, you have a shitload of problems to deal with. Hell, even though women make up half the population now, we still have to fend off unwanted suitors (i.e. perverted assholes). Prostitutes help divert some of this unwanted attention from the ladies of the day to the ladies of the night, and because of this, I am forever grateful.

At first, I thought maybe I would band together a group of men who, in return for their protection of my lady bits, I would service sexually. But I would need to employ a HUGE group of men to protect me from the other HUGE group of men who were trying to rape me, so I would have to sexually service like, a baskillion dudes, which is kind of what I'd be trying to avoid, so no, that solution would not work.

Then I thought of farmers, and how they are stereotyped to have sex with their farm animals, sheep in particular. (BLUSH ALERT) I hear that ewes have genitalia that feel just like human vaginas, hence the reason for the farmer's predilection for them.

I would become the Heidi Fliess of the animal kingdom. I'd round up a bunch of sheep, at least 500,000, and I'd build some fancy digs complete with ESPN playing on huge flatscreens 24/7, and there would be a bar that has every beer in the world on tap. There would be a cigar lounge, a pornography palace (I can expect men to have sex with farm animals, but I can't really expect them to suddenly be aroused by them), and I don't know, a state-of-the-art athletic center for all that residual testosterone.

While the mens were gettin it on with my ladies, I would train a pack of ewes to be vicious killers, so eventually I would be surrounded by 500 sheep who wouldn't hesitate to rip a man's throat out. And I would live my days happily ever after, reveling in my empire and snuggling in the fluffy wool of my sheep protectors.

How many men would opt for bestiality as opposed to spending the rest of their days just jerking it? Also, would PETA have a problem with sheep prostitutes? Ha! That would be hilarious - decrying the practice of using animals as sexual objects while simultaneously using Pam Anderson's ass to push its agenda.

Let us contemplate this for a second

Ok, I finished American Psycho. I started a blog post about my thoughts on the novel, but then Blogger lost part of what I wrote, and it just seemed stupid to share my feelings about it with people who, odds are, have not read it. So instead, let's please discuss this:


I was making a turkey burger on the George Foreman Grill the other night (covered in a melted string cheese stick - mmm ingenuity!) and while contemplating the grilled goodness that awaited me, my eyes landed on George Foreman's signature. Now I know he's an entertainment personality and whatnot, but is this the signature you would expect from a heavy-weight boxer? This looks like the signature of a Hannah Montana fan, some 11 y/o girl who spends math class practicing her cursive G's and character spacing, perfecting the dips and curls in her letters to ensure that her signature tells people: Pay attention! Please?

As I mentioned before, I know he's an entertainer and a certain amount of showmanship is to be expected, and since they created the GF grill for the sole purpose of sitting in a kajillion people's kitchens, the signature had to be decorative, but I don't know...I guess I just expect the signature of a fighter to be like, jagged teeth marks on a sheet of paper. What do the readers think - cool sig or not cool sig?

American Psycho has me freaking out

I'm reading the book American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis. I've got 96 pages to go before I'm finished, and I really don't know if I should continue.

The book came into my possession a few weeks ago while my boyfriend and I were walking to Prospect Park. American Psycho, along with The Sun Also Rises and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, were lying on the sidewalk, laid in a neat row and presumably free for the taking. Though it had rained a hour or so prior, the books were dry and intact.

I had read about American Psycho in a book I own, 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. I liked the movie (starring Christian Bale), and since the book was an absolute must-read, I plucked it from the ground (I took the Hemingway novel as well; since I own Caged Bird, I left it for another lucky bookworm).

Last Saturday the bf and I were packing up supplies for a sailing trip, and since I'd left the book I was already reading (Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris) at my apartment, I brought American Psycho with me; when I finally began reading it, I was instantly drawn in. It was fast-paced and provocative, detailing a world where money and image mean everything while at the same time mean nothing. For the first 100 pages or so, there was no violence - just tedious descriptions of 80's yuppie fashion and the vapidity of a life that, though priviledged, made me sigh with relief because I have no connection to it.

But then the gruesome stuff started to take place. At first, the bloody murders were tolerable - though it disgusted me when Patrick Bateman would murder a bum and his dog, I eagerly took it all in, my mouth agape with shock. After a murder more tedious descriptions of name-brand clothing and upscale dining would soften the horror I felt. But then the murders became more frequent, violent and depraved, and now I'm actually thinking that I have made a serious mistake by picking up this book. Part of me wants to keep on reading - 1001 Books says American Psycho "must continue to be read," if for anything because it is a warning, or a powerful statement on how capitalism kills the innocence of the soul, or something...and also, I've got 96 pages to go - I'm almost done with it and I need to see how it ends.

But I'm having nightmares. Last night I dreamed that Patrick Bateman (looking like Christian Bale) wooed me with his looks and charm then tried to kill my family and me with butcher knives. I awoke thoroughly freaked out, and I can remember thinking in my dream "this is all because you are reading that fucking book."

Tonight I was walking my dog, and though I've walked him in my neighborhood (not to mention run errands and gone jogging,) at night a million times before, it was frightening. If the dog wasn't with me, I wouldn't have gone out at all. The entire time, I kept thinking someone was watching me and scenarios kept running through my mind - what would I do if accosted by a psychopath? Would my dog attack him? Should I just run? What about my dog, should I hold onto his leash to make sure he comes with me, or let go of it and just hope he follows? What if the psychopath got my dog, should I run or try to save him? At one point - and I'm almost too ashamed to admit this - I started walking in a zig-zag thinking that by doing so, it would be harder for some lunatic with a sniper rifle to shoot me.

And the worst part is, I can't even be comforted by reminding myself that it's just a work of fiction because the sick shit written in this book does happen. Maybe not in its exact form, but there are crazy people out there who need to control and need to kill, and their methods are revolting and torturous. Hell, maybe someone has read American Psycho and reenacted one or more of the murders described. That wouldn't surprise me in the least.

I'm really wondering if I'm going to have severe trust issues after reading American Psycho, and my paranoia of the everyday has been tripled. Or quadrupled. I don't know, all I know is that I'm freaked out by everyone. And my boyfriend is out of town, so I don't have anyone to relate my fears to:( Except for my readers. I guess that's why I'm writing this.

Then again, maybe this excessive fear will just last for tonight, and another week or so. Maybe the intensity of the violence will wane, and I'll come out stronger for reading it. But I cannot in good conscience recommend this book. It's sick. The detail Ellis writes with is, for lack of a better word, illuminating. But the word illuminating connotes a wonderful discovery, and there is nothing wonderful about this book. Or maybe there is. I don't know, I'll tell you when my stomach stops churning. Ugh, I'm even scared of what will happen if I have a kid and my kid wants to read this book - I certainly don't want him or her to, but how will I stop it? How can I censor them? Oh jeez, I need to chill out.

If anything, American Psycho has made me see the need to legalize prostitution. Many of Bateman's victims are prostitutes, and the same holds true for the non-fiction world; ladies- and gents-of-the-night are often the most victimized group of people. Prostitution should be legalized, therefore monitored, to prevent further horrors from afflicting sex workers. I'm so convinced of this right now that I'm going to start looking into some pro-sex worker organizations. Seriously, I'm on it.

Ok, I think I'm done incoherently rambling. I'll probably stay up til 3 am to finish the book, and then stay up the remainder of the night clutching a baseball bat. Gosh, how lucky I was to find this book randomly laying on the ground; God must have been smiling on me that day! (douchebag)