Riding In Beds, and Sleeping in Cars

from: "And Then" (novel)

2011-12-20T17:01:00.000-08:00

“Who’s that?” Clayton inquired, nodding to the blond sitting at a table full of finely dressed people.

“That’s Corrine Valmont.” Monroe clarified. “She just left St. Agnes.”

“Is she a nun?”

“No, a widow.”

“Oh.” Clayton shrugged. “I’m surprised no one’s drooling on her yet, with the face she’s got.”

“You’d be surprised.” Monroe chuckled with a smirk. “But I’m not interested.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” He turned his friend to spot the dance floor. “She’s already got me hogtied.”

Monroe smiled at her with a bright, unassuming smile.

“That’s Ruth Saxe, her sister.” Monroe clarified, still smiling. “She’s got the fiercest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Clayton frowned.

He had caught sight of her as she swung around to the tune of the music. She was dancing with a weasel of a younger man, who looked as green as grass. Her hair was flying around her face, and she was laughing—a deep, hearty laughter. She was free, and flirtatious, and everything he had recalled.

Clayton held back the sensation of fury and melancholy that suddenly rose up into his throat.

“I see you’ve found her.” Monroe smirked, catching him around the shoulder. “Hotter than hell, ain’t she?”

“The man who plays in that fire is an idiot.” Clayton muttered, removing his friend’s grasp. “I need another drink.”

“Indulge yourself while I fetch the sister.” Monroe chuckled, easing away, and heading towards Mrs. Corrine Valmont.

Clayton shook his head, and moseyed over to the refreshment table. He nodded to the scotch, and the negro fixed him a glass. He held it in his hand for a moment, before tossing it back and swallowing the entirety in one gulp. He was about to hold it out for another, when someone wheeled him around and he suddenly found himself in the presence of Monroe and Mrs. Corrine Valmont.

She was pretty. It was a womanly, worldly, unexciting kind of pretty. Her hair was pulled neatly back. Her dress was prim. She smiled as if having been in uninterrupted happiness for centuries. Clayton mustered a weary grin.

“Mrs. Valmont, I’d like to introduce you to my oldest friend—fresh from the North, I may add—Mr. James Clayton.”

“How do you do, Mr. Clayton?” She inquired lightly with a smile.

“Nearly drunk, but I can’t complain.” Clayton replied with a shrug.

“The man’s a jokester for sure.” Monroe chuckled, giving his friend a little nudge.

Corrine still smiled as if she hadn’t heard the remark.

“Are you from here, Mr. Clayton?” She asked.

“Pattersville, born and raised.”

“Not far, then—it appears you are a local boy indeed. How did you like it up North?”

“It was only Tennessee. Mountainous. All that.” He replied without much effect.

“Lovely…” Corrine nodded, trying to remain interested, but catching his blasé.

The sound of the music suddenly caught them all with a loud beat, and the dancers were whipping around—to Clayton, they appeared as good as blurs in an abstract painting.

Auburn hair suddenly swept around and around, and Ruth flew from the crowd and out of the arms of the youngster who danced with her. Clayton raised an eyebrow. She spun around, and around, and suddenly found herself tripping right into his arms. She was dizzy, and disoriented, and laughing without looking up. Then, slowly, she brushed her hair from her eyes.

She stared at him for a second, and he stared at her.

Her face grew white, suddenly, and she startled back as if fleeing from a ghost.

“Ruth! Dear lord, catch your breath!” Corrine laughed, grasping her sister’s hand. “Ruth, Mr. Monroe brought a friend tonight. This is Mr. James Clayton.”

But Ruth’s eyes were on the floor. She didn’t answer.

“I believe we’ve met.” Clayton interjected, his tone marked.

“Oh, good!” Corrine giggled. “It saves an introduction.”

The sound of the band kicked up again.

“Miss Saxe, would you like to dance?” Monroe asked Ruth, keenly. “I know you’ve been dancing all night, but I was hoping you could spare one more for me.”

She didn’t say anything, but grabbed his hand as if it were for life, and he took her to the floor.

Corrine turned to Clayton with a bemused smirk.

“My sister certainly isn’t shy around many people, Mr. Clayton.” She giggled. “I wonder what’s gotten into her.”

“Perhaps the fear of God.” Clayton murmured, turning to the table and nodding to another drink.

Back to Breathing.

2011-10-15T17:48:00.000-07:00

I have not written a poem, a story, a novel...in so long...

I attribute this great block to being entirely too content.

When a writer is too content, a strange thing occurs:

Life suddenly becomes this day-to-day routine of work, activity, and sleep. They aren't too happy, they aren't too sad. They are nestled contentedly between the fullness of both polar emotions. It is an equator of sorts.

This equator is possibly the worst thing that could ever happen to a writer.

I am a writer, and it has finally happened to me.

I sit around every day, waiting, hoping some crazy tragedy or fit of elation comes to me. My best work has come from the deepest moods one could never wish to possess. My best lines were penned in my darkest despair, or my highest ecstasy.

I used to be an utter nihilist. My entire life was centered around my own pleasure. I took what I wanted, I threw away what I didn't want. I played music night and day, I took drugs and snorted anything I could get my hands on. I had my fill of men and women. I chanted from the Book of the Dead. I cried in misery for nights on end, fearing death and illness. I couldn't have looked in the mirror and seen anything uglier if I had squinted harder.

I was a hot paradox of emotions, an utter freak, and I could not have felt more alive--more free from chains.

NEVER, when I have been contented, did I write anything memorable.

I am in this limbo today. It makes my heart heavy to only think about it.

My financial life is stable. My romantic life is stable. Everything is so stable, stable, stable--bland, bland, bland...

My pen is like my very breath.
My breaths give me life.
I want to be alive again.
I want to be in pain again, or flying again.
I want something so vivid that it haunts me in dreams.

I want my identity back.

Blaine.

2011-10-09T10:43:00.000-07:00

Blaine is my father.

The only compliment I could ever give him is that he is an excellent provider--and that is the entirety of the good things that he has done for me in my life.

I don't believe I have fully loved him for the majority of my adulthood.

A lot of people would be quick to judge me for whining about a man who paid for my livelihood until I was out of high school, and who kept a roof over my head and all that. A lot of fathers, one would say, haven't done so much for their children.

I'm not speaking about a lot of fathers, I'm only speaking about one. And I'm speaking about him from a place that is very personal, because I have always been too ashamed before.

One who provides is not always deserving of the title of "father".
I'll tell you why.

Ever since I was very little, my father has been physically and emotionally abusive to both my sister and I.
He has never been this way to my mother, only his two daughters.

His physical abuse ceased when I became old enough to understand that when he hit me, yanked me or grabbed me, I was supposed to call 911. I told this to him one day as he came at me in a rage, and since then he has never once touched me in anger.
I was about thirteen when this ceased.
I had been contemplating the courage to stop him for a few years by that time, because we were always taught "abuse" was punishable at school. They would lecture us about calling 911, if we knew someone was being abused. I would look around at everyone, wondering if they knew I was a child who was constantly physically and verbally assaulted in my own house...I would wonder if they were going through the very same things, and if they were thinking of trying to stop it.

When I did have the courage to stop it, I understood all the dynamics of what was going on.

He would prey on my sister and I because we were weak little girls. When I was young, I thought these outbursts were my fault entirely. I was a rambunctious child who was not easy to manage, and when he would attack me I felt that it was my punishment for misbehaving. He would often leave me bruised in a corner, with my mother yelling at him for "going too far".

She never helped me escape him.

It made him feel like a man to take all of his own anger, disappointment, and rage out on his two very young daughters--beings who could not fight back.

As I got older, he was exclusively verbal and emotionally abusive. This continues to this very day.

I'll be berated for being lazy, dumb, and useless--when I am putting myself through school, working and attending class five days a week. This happens nearly three out of every five days I see him.

I've grown eerily accustomed to it all, standing up for myself often, which leads to fighting.

When a dog is provided a kennel and food, but is still constantly beaten--does one actually think it won't bite back?

I'll bite back, and I'll keep fighting it until I don't ever have to see him again. I've already made very clear decisions about how I would like the relationship between my parents and my children to be. I cannot, and will not, subject them to the erratic behaviors of people who have no idea how to channel their feelings.

I don't want to blame him entirely. I know there must be a problem inside of him that he is unwilling to address. His behavior is entirely too unexplained for me to say he is an evil person, and not regretful of his actions. He is too quick to apologize after the things he's done, his conscious tells him that what he just did was very wrong--he simply does not know how or why he did it. It's a blind rage he goes into when he acts this way...

However, in the same instance, I cannot pity a grown man who has had an entire adult life to fix it.

Had he seen a doctor, or had he even took precautions to not loose his nerve at the drop of a hat...he and I's relationship would be so much better than it is today. I would not have so much distaste for him, had he at least tried to better himself.

I'm a woman now, so I must deal with these things with a woman's judgement--and pray to god that I'm doing it all the right way.

Such is where I find myself today.
I've been provided for, but maltreated by one of the people entrusted to love me unconditionally.
I'm biting back in the best way that I can, with patience and acceptance of what has happened--and a resolve for it never to repeat itself in my future.

The Embrace

2011-08-21T18:54:00.001-07:00

Her feet trumped against the cement as she pulled her worn faux leather purse harder against her shoulder. She stared up at the billboard with glistening eyes, blocking herself from sending signals to her glands to prepare more tears. The reflex to bite her bottom lip announced itself again, and she gasped as a car sped by--the driver, furious, waved his fist at her.
It was a warning.
Walking too close to where the sidewalk met the blacktop would cause something worse.
She knew where she wanted to go, but getting there in one piece was the challenge. She only halfass wanted to keep herself together, after all.
She stopped glancing ahead, she looked down at the sidewalk as if it made it easier to stomp along unnoticed. The air felt heavy, as if it was going to rain.
She was intending to fix a dilemma that had started fifteen months before, a dilemma that had perhaps affected her more than any other. It had all started in the front of the window of a boutique store. It had all started in front of a copy of Gustav Kilmt's "The Embrace".
He had walked up and stood next to her.
He was drinking something frothy and pretentious.
She wasn't going to pay any attention to him, until he turned his head to her, and told her "your concentration is nice...I've never met a woman who could stand in one place for ten minutes, and enjoy it."
He had asked her if she wanted to come along with him to a vintage camera store.
It had taken off from there in the normal fashion, or as normal as she had known all of her other relationships to be. He was over so often her cat had come to regard him with disdain instead of viciousness. They shared icecream from a carton, while watching trashy reality television. They had sex in the most random instances, on the most random and awkward surfaces imaginable.
The months rolled on.
The arguments intensified, and perhaps over the most miniscule things.
How to place the mugs in the cupboard. How to make the bed. How to fold towels.
She began to take the long way to work, just so that she would have more time to think about what was happening to her. His apologies after every fight were daunting to her. His willingness to correct whatever void was between them intimidated her. She was comfortable with keeping him at arms-length. The way he was making her feel was bewildering her in the worst way--she wondered if she was even cut out to be in love, or even understand what it meant.
Just as soon as she had confidently decided she was freaking herself out over nothing...
He took her to a small restaurant on the river, beckoned her to dance with him on the boardwalk under the moonlight, and...proposed marriage to her, on bended knee.
Before a proper resignation could be mustered, she turned around and left him kneeling there. She walked right to the bus stop, and went home to her cat. She sat down on the sofa until five in the morning, staring at the black screen on the television, and contemplating if what had happened was not actually a figment of her imagination.
No one had ever done anything like that in her twenty-eight years. No one had expressed the vulnerable nature of a man on his knee. No one had offered her a piece of expensive jewelry that had so much responsibility attached to it.
She wanted to feel sorry, but she couldn't in those odd and incomplete moments.
Her life before him had been so different, after all.
She was the one who had laughed confidently with girlfriends over martinis, saying she would never get married--marriage was for boring people. She had indulged herself with idle and snarky pleasantries, like leaving little dirty notes in her favorite books at the library, and going bra-less to the market just to see how many people would notice.
And now...
Now here she was, a month later without having spoken a single word to him.
Yet she was moving, and she was clearly on the verge of something profound.
Her hair was unkempt. She was mismatched in attire. Her eyes were watering.
And this is how she had found herself the morning she had woken up, and found his side of the bed cold and empty. The cat was perched worriedly on the sofa, staring at her mistress as if to say "...where is the fellow who scratches my head every morning?"
That was the first incident that rocked her uncomfortably.
The rest followed suit very quickly.
There were no towels folded weirdly in the drawers. The place was entirely too clean. The smell of men's cologne and aftershave didn't clutter her bathroom. The pair of shoes he'd left behind sat at the door, not moving an inch day after day.
Her mornings were filled with anxiety, her afternoons with annoyance, her nights with loneliness.
So she decided she had to see him again, and that all of those questions would be answered with the very sight of him.
If she loved him truly, she'd know.
If she didn't love him, she'd know.
All he had to do was open his door, and she would just know.
That's why she was here, climbing up the three flights of stairs to his apartment door. And that's why she was clutching her purse in anticipation, as her quivering finger rang the doorbell. She supposed this was why her eyes were still watering, and her eyes were threatening to flood rivers again.
She jumped slightly as the knob turned.
She stared at him as he opened the door, and stood there with a weird look on his face. And they stood there, looking at each other, as if half expecting one or the other to say something to break the silence in the hall.
But, the problem was...she couldn't say a thing.
The answer she had come for was never more apparent, and it left her speechless at the sight of him there. Her mouth gaped open like a guppy.
He put his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her into him.
Her cheek pressed against his shirt, and as if by reflex, her eyes closed and she inhaled--smiling, and struck dumb by the scent of his laundry detergent.
His lips touched the top of her head, and in those auspicious seconds she received the one thing she wanted since that night--
him, back.

A Letter to the Hipster Next Door

2011-07-10T15:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Hipster Next Door,

Hello, and welcome to the neighborhood.

I was going to bake some cookies and go next door to greet you formally, but it appears nothing I'm wearing is organic. If we're going to be literal, the shirt on my back is 100% cotton--therefore, technically, organic--but I'm pretty sure it was manufactured in a warehouse with a bunch of other like shirts...and so I'm assuming that dethrones it's "organicism".

It's okay, I'm just going to write this letter to you in hopes that we can be friends. I'm kind of scared you won't like me, though. I occasionally listen to Greenday, and I don't recycle.
And...I don't drink Pabst.

I'm too mainstream.

I know there are strategically warped-out pictures of you on Facebook doing cool shit--you know, like sitting in a field, or front row at some obscure concert. Damn, I wish I did awesome things like you.

I spend way too much time not focusing on being individualistic.

My profile picture is of me, you know, half-smiling and shit. I should be doing something cool! I need cooler friends, which is why I'm trying to make one in you!

In fact, I was thinking about how I could impress you...so I went down to the local thrift shop and picked up a fedora and some thick-rimmed glasses! I bought a tweed jacket for shits and giggles. And now, voila, we're primed to be the best of friends!

But...well...I still didn't think I was non-conformist enough...

So I went down to the local cafe and bought some auspicious coffee drink of frothy goodness. Then I opened up my Macbook and started blogging about my feelings concerning our political crisis, and how children in Uganda need shoes so everyone should buy more TOMS.

Just in case I was missing something, I surfed Reddit for an hour.

I know I seem to be a bit obsessive, but I just want to be a nonconforming, obscure beer-drinking, indie music-listening individual so freakin bad!

I'm even in the process of fixing my bike as we speak! Yep, that stupid gas-guzzling piece of shit you may have seen last week has been scrapped. I've decided to become an earth-conscious individual, and so I pulled out the old fix-gear bike of mine. I put some skinny tires on her and everything, and by the time I install a leather saddle she'll be as good as new.

Sheesh, this shit's long. I hope I didn't take up too much of your time!
I know you're probably busy blurring the gender lines, and all that.

Come by sometime! We'll make something vegan.

Yours Truly,

The Conformist Next Door

This Year, Me Is Thankful For...

2010-11-24T15:59:00.000-08:00

- pleasing grades
- pleasant dispositions
- turducken
- rainbow flags
- rebel flags
- my janis joplin poster
- unexplainable retention of sanity
- awesome sales
- sushi
- my annoying sister
- icebergs
- Finland
- supportive boyfriend
- new-found clarity

Mother Dearest.

2010-11-15T07:11:00.000-08:00

So...I suppose I cannot fully claim that my mother is a raging psychopath...but perhaps we can put her under the category of "prelude to psychopath'.

My mother has always been this figurine in my life that I could never really grasp. She's insipid of mind, emotionally fragile, and projects the disposition of an eternal sixteen-year-old.

What I mean to say is...

- When I want to talk about my writing...she expresses so little interest, you'd have thought I said absolutely nothing at all.

- When you call her out on her character flaws (very evenly, and very maturely, in a conversational way)...she goes postal, and thinks you're attacking her.

- When you roll your eyes and say something snarky (as my fourteen-year-old sister does on the daily)...she will actually MIMIC her, in such a way that a five-year-old would mimic her mother or sister as if it would prove a point.

I've always known my mother this way.

But this isn't what perhaps vexes me the most about our association...

I think a new level of my annoyance with my mother began around the time my cousin (who has always been a very accomplished beauty) was crowned her high school's Homecoming Queen.

Now, before you think that this is just an everyday run-of-the-mill kind of jealousy, you're wrong.

My cousin has ALWAYS been the beauty, and I have ALWAYS been the brains--that's simply the way it was, and I have been enormously satisfied with my lot. Naturally, one day she will no longer be beautiful, and I'll still have my uppity elitist prose to wipe her runny nose with. I have looked forward to that day since I was six and she was three.

Plainly, this has nothing to do with my cousin's title.

This has to do with me, and my mother, and my mother's reaction to said title.

What perhaps hurts me the most is my mother's blatant ignorance for things that are very important to me.

I have been a writer ever since I can remember. She knows I write, and she knows that it is the epicenter of my existence.

I've already expressed that if I couldn't write; I'd rather not live.

I am perfectly serious by this.

If I wake up one morning, and I find I can no longer pen my thoughts--I'll pull a Plath.

(I find it not as obtrusive as a Hemingway.)

Anyway...

When my cousin was announced as Homecoming Queen, you could have sworn it was my mother along with her.

Plans to have a tea, and to find a dress, and a suit, and everything for my cousin began to be arranged in full-force--and my mother was "honored" to be involved in every single step of this process.

At first, I was excited for my cousin. At first, I was thinking this was a pretty fun thing. Fun, however, was the extent of it. I never held any beauty and/or popularity recognition in any higher esteem than "fun". But, nonetheless, I smiled and was happy for her and all that.

Well, the annoyance probably climaxed when I realized that my mother was perhaps more involved in this process than she was in anything I have ever done in my entire life that was important to me.

Naturally, if I called her out on this, she would say that scouring for dresses for MY homecomings and all that equaled this event--IT DID NOT.

If my mother really knew me, she'd realize:

a.) a lot of the dress shopping and general clothes shopping that i have done with her in my life has been to please HER. i, personally, hate this ritual, as it makes me feel enormously uncomfortable.

b.) she has no idea what is most important to me, which is my writing and my career. if she realized that, or even cared, perhaps she'd discuss my writing with me--or even express a desire to.

I am her daughter.

That's what pisses me off the most.

I am her daughter--and she knows nothing about me, except for what she sees on the shell.

I can't talk to her, because she will INSIST she is RIGHT and that I have NEVER TRIED to talk to her about any of this.

I was so angry that my mother would be so involved with my cousin, over dresses and frills and shit--and she has never even glanced at anything I've done.

At least...I know what I'm not going to do, when I have children.

Because it hurts, enormously, to be unnoticed by the person you wish would notice you the most.

Dear Taylor Swift

2010-11-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Taylor Swift,

Salutations! I have not have the good fortune of listening to your latest CD--but apparently I'm hearing good things. Congrats on it, and all.
Though I'm not particularly a fan of your work, I felt that I should reach out to you as a relatively concerned personage of goodwill.
I couldn't help but notice that all of your songs happen to be about small towns, fairy tales, and boys that don't like you. I can't help but wonder if you were that token annoying chick in high school that would sit with a group of fellow shallow, contemptuous women and sigh aloud
"SIGH...i'm so FAT and UGLY..."
Whilst I'd love to agree that you are--indeed--fat and ugly, I'm not the sort of female to lie in order to reserve my pride.
Miss Swift, perhaps as you pen these charming little mementos to your army of idealism-swept prepubescent girls, you're not thinking of all the money you're making weaving these awe-inspiring reveries...
The truth is evident, and perhaps you need to hear it in terms you may understand:
1.) You're fucking gorgeous, and appropriately insecure.
Only an incredibly insecure woman would sing about how many guys have dumped her, without appropriate satire, and adding numerous clauses about how much of a loser you are for being inadequate for his attentions. You just belt it out about your man leaving you for another woman--how awesome does that make you look? Are you getting my sympathy vote? Nay!
I am no victim, Miss Swift!
2.) You're a bit public about the private life, eh?
Who cares if Joe Jonas dumped you over a who-the-fuck-cares minute phone call? McDouche is a flamer anyway, who the hell gives a shit? Does the rest of the world really sympathize with a woman who is going to welcome the general public into her messy relationship drama--
HELLO MONICA LEWINSKY.
3.) Maybe you should take voice lessons?...Just sayin?...
I'm certainly not one to claim that my singular talents rise above anyone else's; but we're not talking about me, are we? Nah. We're talking about you, Miss Swift. While I applaud your relative lack of stage fright, your cute outfits, and bedazzled guitar--what does that bring to the one thing that I'm looking for the most?
Dare I say, actual talent?
Listening to your CD, I'm humming along, I find your countrypop twang catchy and endearing! When I turn up a live video via Youtube--WHAT IS THIS?!
...Where oh where hast thou vocal talents gone?...
Locked up in the studio, perchance?

I could go on and on, but clearly you understand me by now.
I would write another page and a half, but I don't wish to give you any more inspiration for your next song. I just know it's going to be about some mean girl from Louisiana that picks on you because you have a vagina and are therefore feeble at heart.

Humming Along to the Digitally Remastered Sound of Your Voice,

Lady Cracker

"Coming Out" of that "Proverbial Closet"

2010-10-26T08:09:00.001-07:00

So...I've always known I've had this mild to great attraction to certain people--not necessarily a sex.

A lot of people don't understand my logic, so I never really go into detail about my sexual orientation. To be honest, it's incredibly ambiguous. I hate to really categorize myself, because I am one of those people who value learning experiences and trying things to get a different perspective.

I found out that I was in this limbo the summer after I got out of high school. I'd only dated men before, and a curiosity that I had always had peeked when I met this woman. She was 25, and I was 18. We shared a brief, though intimate relationship. I discovered that I could be best deemed as "bisexual", due to this experience, and other desires that I had experienced for other women.

Whilst I do think that "bisexual" is a best term for me, I don't advertise it. That was never my way. I don't like to throw my personal thoughts and feelings at just anyone. This blog, even, only certain people know about, and only certain people will I allow to see it. I like to control the way things are as much as it is in my power to do so.

I have a strong distaste for hatred of any sort--whether is it targeted from the straight to gay population, or the gay to straight population.

I'm not an advocate, but I do strongly believe in equality.

A lot of people think that just because you're gay, just because you're an atheist, just because you don't believe what they believe, that you're a bad person...

You know what?

I have had romantic feelings for, and relationships with, both men and women--

I am currently celibate, and have been in most of these relationships.

I have experienced more love and understand through these processes than I have from my own parents.

I am spiritual, and I do believe in a higher power.

I bide laws, I follow them, and I have hope for "all men are created equal" to finally be a truth in this country.

Therefore, am I a bad person?

Am I a bad, horrible person, because I don't categorize myself as a

"Christian"

"Straight"

or because I don't indulge myself with being as close-minded as the next person?

Goddamn it, I'm so sick and tired of having to hide myself from my own mother and father.

Literally, around other people THERE IS NO CLOSET...around the average person I know; people who know me, friends, who I work with, who I consort with--they are generally accepting of whoever the hell I am. They know I'm on the level, they know I'm not a malicious person, and that's really all that matters.

I don't feel "closeted" anywhere, but in my own parents' house.

This is a tragedy.

I cannot be who I am with the full knowledge that my parents are going to accept me and love me, because the way they are...shall never, ever change. If I told them this...if I told them that I cannot bring myself to believe in Catholicism alone, if I told them I cannot bring myself to lie and say I do not have an attraction to women, if I told them I'm still me and nothing has changed at all--I would never, ever be looked at the same way.

In truth, I would be harped-on, and bullied.

By my own parents.

My mother would probably seek out a type of medicine to cure me.

My father would most likely shake his head in disgust at the sight of me.

And I know now...I've known, entering into this discovery of myself, that this is what it feels like to be alienated within oneself by the realization of who one is.

If we are not accepted, we are aliens.

I am an alien in my parent's home.

I actually did an experiment on my mother the other night, just to see if I was perhaps wrong about these assumptions I had made in regards to her person...

I asked her if she wouldn't like the idea of marrying someone outside of my race.

She asked me if I meant marrying someone black.

I told her yes.

Her immediate response: "I wouldn't support you if he left you."

How can someone jump to those types of conclusions?

What if he's cultured? Educated?! What if he's a millionaire?! What if he loves me for who I am?! Am I supposed to not be with him because of the color of his skin?!

What if this was a woman?!

It's the same difference!

Am I supposed to not be with her, when I feel these things for her? When it's real, and pure?

I'm a human being! You can't deprive me of the differences in opinion, in myself, my collective personality: THEY MAKE ME WHO I AM.

She's my mother...her reaction should be to open her arms, and to tell me I can love whoever the fuck I want to love. Her reaction should be to encourage my growth, to encourage me in anything I want to willingly pursue.

It breaks my heart that I've never experienced that sort of untutored acceptance with her, and that I never will.

People need to understand that it is a lack of involvement, acceptance, and awareness that is making poor teenaged kids--already confused about their own feelings--commit such acts as self-mutilation, murder, and even suicide.

If people don't understand this now, how are we ever going to presume?

Is everyone going to have to keep conforming?

Keep hiding? Keep pretending? To satisfy a society that we, ourselves, populate?

We can control the future.

We can change things.

I know that I will change it, personally, if just by taking this step to let you (whoever you are reading this right now) know that you are beautiful just the way you are. The person that I know and that I see with my eyes, just you, you are perfect. You are important, your opinions are important, who you are is important.

We can help the change.

From my mother's own example I have learned more about the mother that I one day aspire to be.

I vow; my child will never be subjected to judicious treatment in my care, by my mouth or by my actions. Black, white, male, female; they are going to be mine, and I am going to nurture them. That'll be my task, as a mother.

If my son/daughter wakes up one morning and tells me he/she is gay...I am going to hug them, support them, and tell them that there is absolutely nothing wrong with their feelings.

Literally, I think I'll say something to the extent of "As long as you don't intentionally hurt yourself or anyone in the process of doing whatever you want to do in life, I don't give a fuck. Jump in, kid, the water's fine for swimming."

It feels good to rant...

I haven't done so in a while.

Bottom line:

Being gay/straight/bi/trans doesn't DEFINE a person.

I am not DEFINED by the orientation I choose to identify with--so I choose not to identify, in order to escape said definition. It is only a piece of the picture--a gilded mirror in a scene of a beautiful room, if you will.

What does define me, is the contents of my character, my differences--my entire person as a whole.

I wish people would understand that.

Maybe then, I wouldn't have to tailor this explanation down to a blog entry.

Stay beautiful.

Romantical.

2010-10-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

I feel like I need to speak.
I hold my throat, but nothing seems to come out like it should. It's loud, and it's vulgar, and unmatched. I try to meet these ends and they never, ever connect.
You don't like what I write.
You don't understand it.
It's okay, because I'm shy to show you anyway.
I can't say this out loud.
I'm falling.
I'm falling.
I'm falling.
And you're not here to catch me.
I'm crying.
I'm crying.
I'm crying.
I'm so crazy; I need to recollect.
But I love you, and I can't say it out loud.
I love you so much, and I can't cry it out.
I can't scream it like I want to. You'll leave me, I know you will. You don't want to set anything in stone, like they all said. I'm not good enough, I know.
I'm not worth a thousand explanations.
Oh well, oh well.
We'll have a good time, then you can forget me. We'll be together for eight days, then we'll part with a hug and a kiss and a nod. You'll never see me again. You won't regret you met me, oh you'll love the story. You'll tell it to everyone you know.
Your lovely American whore.
Your lovely broken-hearted American whore.

Awkward.

2010-10-14T17:18:00.000-07:00

So, I'm beginning to think that I have an atrocious issue of dating men who I never in my right mind would have dated--were I using all accurate parts of my brain.
I say this because I was introduced to a blog that an ex-boyfriend of mine began writing...
Clearly, it was not a blog that expressed any sort of thought at all. In fact, I don't believe he put five minutes into it's construction.
Perhaps we should review the reasons people begin blogs?...
To express ideas?
To protract views?
To bitch out punk ass hoes?
I dunno.
You tell me.
But here I am wondering why in the name of Allah did I ever even consider him a suitable candidate for my romantic life...
I mean, as I read this rant which--though, perhaps, heartfelt--is entirely self-pitying...He goes on about his job, about his life, using phrases like "suck a dick, then choke on it"
Classy.
Let's wonder if your life really is that bad. Let's wonder if you actually love the attention you're getting from all of these negative vibrations. Let's wonder if I actually give a real consistent shit about your problems--considering your incredibly effortless attempts at finding your own happiness?
I'm thinking why, oh why, did I ever look at you twice?
I mean...you have a Chevy tattoo...the whole time you were dating me, you couldn't stop bitching about your ex...and, you hesitated whenever I asked you to come see me when I was crying.
Hello, asshole. You're my boyfriend. Yeah, you. I didn't just end a year-long single streak to fuck around with a two-bit jerk.
Bottom line, I don't pity him, or his so-called "issues".
A person who writes a blog about his issues with women, avoiding correct grammatical composition and being oblivious of his own annoying qualities--
does that need anything more than a blog dissing him?
No.
So this is my valediction.

Some Things I Realized...

2010-09-30T23:06:00.001-07:00

- the men i date usually turn out to be borderline pedophiles
- i have a thing for accents
- i have an eating disorder, but rarely talk about it because i'm ashamed
- i love being wanted and needed
- i've decided to forsake capitalization and general sentence structure in this blog
- i'd kill someone for my sister, and i've already coordinated the ways i'd do it
- edward scissorhands, amory blaine, holden caulfield, the green ranger, and clark gable were the first loves of my life
- i find it easiest to love plants
- i find it hardest to love women
- always admire, never desire
- i can be weird about wanting things in a certain place at a certain time
- i drink at least six glasses of water a day
- i wanted to be a nun when i was in grade school
- i nearly fainted when i got my first kiss
- it was in the backseat of an SUV
- he was the first in a long and distinguished line of jerks
- i think of the characters in my novels as real people, and often as my friends
- i'll be arrested one day for stealing antiques
- the uglier my mother thinks i look, the more attractive i tend to feel
- the colder, the better
- there's a novelty to being cajun that i'm only just beginning to appreciate
- i'm convinced i'd have been best friends with my great-grandmother in the 30s
- nature has taught me more about the world than any particular person has
- i can be deep
- i will get what i want, because i know i deserve it
- recollect yourself
- i want to be a thousand things
- i wish i had the patience to properly curl my hair from time to time
- "the friends zone" has been my fortress for many years
- i wish deadbeat guys would stop hitting on me
- i fall for them because i like to nurture
- i wish i could eat something without feeling guilty or nauseous
- there's something about music snobs that really piss me off
- i've sought the approval of people who really don't get it
- it's safe to say i have a bi-eye
- i don't advertise it
- i fall victim to beautiful women, or intelligent women
- i have yet to find a woman who meets both in decent fashion
- i hate it when women use casual sex as a means of liberation
- the whole "men can do it, why can't i" philosophy is shit
- WE'RE supposed to be the wiser sex
- i'm european
- my standards make me seem prudish, and often snobby
- i'm tired of this

My Twenty-First Birthday Plan:

2010-06-22T14:37:00.001-07:00

- Purchase a scratch-off ticket and a bottle of some girly fruity shit.

- Indulge myself with a guilt-free pampering via Barnes&Noble

- When the lights dim...dress to impress... This means I want to look like Lana Turner in her Ziegfeld Folly's days.

- Stuff my face with my favorite sushi dinner at my favorite sushi resturant.

- Order a glass of red wine to go with this meal--just because I can.

- Kiss the first random hot guy that I see walking towards me--also, just because I can. (God-willing he isn't with some attractive female who may or may not punch me in the face).

- Return to my abode. Scratch ticket. Enjoy girly fruity shit. Run my fingers over my purchases from Barnes&Noble. Watch my three favorite movies ever.

Sounds like a plan.

Dear Journal...Part II

2010-03-15T09:08:00.000-07:00

So...this morning I had aspired to wake at 6:30am.
That didn't work.
Liam Neeson...you're at it again.
It fuckin sucks, I made a 61% on my test.
I have so much random crap to do today.

Nude As The News.

2010-02-24T09:29:00.000-08:00

You know, I'm becoming really disgusted with the way that I am being taught to view nudity by conventional society...
First off, I suppose we'll speak of a little history--
After all, that's where it all starts, right? In the youth, and the way we are taught in our youth? We are a product of our environment; I am a believer.
So...
How have people come to fear, or find something revoltingly feral, about human sexuality (nudity included)?
There are certain religious sects that will argue the idea that sexuality was meant to be protected, kept decent, reserved only for "marriage"... yet, the ancients taught that sexuality was a healthy and socially-conscious way for the sexes to interact.
In ancient Greece and Rome, sexuality was used as a key figurehead in political manipulation...though perhaps not the wisest motive, it apparently kept both civilizations quite prosperous.

Happy Valentine's Day! (From Me to You, Fo Real)

2010-02-04T21:45:00.000-08:00

It started off as a perfect day
you were freshly twenty-one
and I wanted to say
"I love you"
In the only real way I could.

I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.

I knock on your door
and the knob turned slow
she stood there and murmured a nervous "Whoa,
I'm sorry...I was going to tell you...
please don't go."

I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.

But it was too late, she was standing there
with her golden locks and underwear
And I couldn't understand...
Classy dude- why of all girls
my best friend?

I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.

How completely freakin a-typical
for me to trust and really care
I put my heart and soul into every word
You'd think I know by now,
That not every sweet whisper is a promise or a vow.

I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.

Top Five Most Annoying Resturant Taboos:

2010-02-02T21:59:00.000-08:00

1.) If I ask for no tomatoes...I mean I don't want any fucking tomatoes.

2.) Oh, your name is Mindi? That's nice. Stop flirting with my date.

3.) Ahem...you asked me if I wanted a lemon in this water...I said yes...where the hell is my lemon?...

4.) There's a cozy booth, right there--why are we sitting at a dank table right near the door to the kitchen? Oh. I think it's because you like watching me get slapped in the back with the swinging door. D'accord. Salope.

5.) Check?...Check?...CHECK?!

I Sympathize, Ophelia.

2010-02-01T09:35:00.000-08:00

In my opinion, Ophelia, the ill-fated heroine of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, is perhaps one of the most interesting character's he's ever created.
However, she's often incredibly and unfortunately undermined.
I don't like it.
I think that one should realize that this woman had all the qualities to be more lovable and less fancifully idiotic than Juliet (of Romeo and Juliet, for the Shakespeare-illiterate).
I find myself hungry for more of her story. Apparently, Shakespeare gave me enough information to fall slightly in love with her, but not enough to keep me satisfied. Surely, he didn't give me a detailed idea of who she was as a person (and her relationship with Mad Hamlet, Prince of Denmark), or even a pretty little picture of where the hell she came from.
I understand that this wasn't the point of the story, in being that Hamlet was about...Hamlet... but--in theory, I think Ophelia had more umph than that lunatic!

But I, O yes, I shall attempt to fill in the places...suck on that, Willy.

First off, I don't think she was the fucking basketcase everyone made her out to be... I think she knew perfectly well what she was doing the entire time. I mean, here she is, this pretty young thang in the Court of Denmark, and she just totally conquered the affection of the Prince and Heir Apparent to the throne...
This Hamlet cat thinks he's the coolest dude around, because he's got this kingdom, and all of these issues. His emo disposition is somewhat appealing. Ophelia sympathizes, and reciprocates the feelings he offers her. She knows this is dangerous, being as he's somewhat unbalanced, but she's optimistic.
Then, after this massive fight to end all fights with psychotic Hamlet (in which he mutters the infamous "get thee to a nunnery!"), her father winds up six feet under...
Of course she's going to fake a mental breakdown.

What free-thinking woman with any nerve wouldn't?

Can you imagine?
She was in love with an absolute sociopath!

Though I must confess, Hamlet is my ideal anti-hero.
I have a sort of twisted endearment for characters of his sort; you know-- the whiny, insane, glamorizers of suicide.
Mr. Prince of Denmark was no different.
He was like a leech feeding off of her truth and her innocence.
Yet, at the same time, she harnessed his passion and used it against him in the worse way--good girl.

So yes, anyway, she loses her mind.
The queen tries to comfort her, which isn't very helpful considering the queen is a twit who married Hamlet's uncle after the untimely (somewhat homocidal) death of her husband, the King.
Ophelia decides it would be a good idea to get everyone's attention by wading into the waters of a stream, while perfectly aware of the fact that she can't swim and her outfit (when soaked) is super heavy.

Thus, at the tender age of seventeenish...our heroine perishes.

Goddamnit, you, tears!

Latest Trend: Pregnancy.

2010-01-28T09:22:00.000-08:00

Apparently... the new totally awesome thing to do for a moderately singular female between the ages of fifteen and twenty is become impregnated.
Chyeah, I know right?
You know, pregnancy isn't a crime. It's surely not a bad thing. Logically speaking, we need babies in this world in order to have an ongoing supply of developing human beings to populate this massive sphere called the Earth. However... I find myself wondering how the most illogical people, at the most illogical ages, in the most illogical parts of their irresponsible lives are finding themselves "prego".
I mean...sure, sex is great.
Sex is fun.
Sex is all that good stuff--whatever.
I'm far from Sister Mary Lady Cracker, but I'm a realist here.

I've chalked it down to that whole "it just happened" chestnut.
At least, that's what the girls who are unwed, uneducated, and stuck in unfavorable positions will cite as their excuse.

I base most of my theories on facts, on research that I do in my everyday life just by witnessing, and I've come to realize (surprise, surprise) that women who were raised in "difficult" or "abusive" circumstances are highly likely to become sexually active (and therefore: pregnant) at early ages.

An example:
A friend of mine is an adoptee. Her biological mother was sixteen and unwed at the time of her birth. My friend was adopted into a severely religious household as an infant, and raised under the constant eye of her adopted mother. In high school, she displayed particularly promiscuous behavior, careful to hide it from her adopted parents. Once graduated, she moved away and "went wild", dropping out of college and returning home with a desire to eventually go to community college. She serial dated for a time, before discovering that she was pregnant (at the age of nineteen, and presumably by a one-night stand with an ex). I have reason to believe she sought or is seeking some form of verification in life through her actions--as she often expressed to me her dissatisfaction with her adopted mother, and her desire to be loved.

In essence, I sympathize.
In particular, I'm honest.

Ideally; I'd like to be in a position in my life where I know I can handle the task of bringing up another human being.
That's "ideally" speaking, and the average girl never really takes the time to think about an ideal setting.
Newsflash: They ought to.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with planning one's future, and looking forward to it.
There is room for chaos!
But in my world...at this point in time, there's absolutely no place for a 6lbs 7oz mound of infant humanity.

In retrospect, I'm also a believer in the term "shit happens".
That is "shit" being a fetus...that sounds bad, let me rephrase:
Your fetus is not shit.
It's a miracle, and all that wooplah.
As a free-thinking (if not entirely rational) individual, you have secured your right to allow your eggs to be fertilized whenever and however you see fit.
If by accident or no, hook or by crook, or whatever the hell.

In speaking this way, I never mean to offend...
I just often find myself wondering why there are so many broken homes and children growing up in unstable environments.
Jus sayin.

Dear Journal... Part I

2010-01-28T06:27:00.000-08:00

Dear Journal,

Who the fuck is that moron singing on the radio...I don't feel like opening my eyes. Sounds like a rapper. Mother--
Oh, did I unload the dryer?
Yes.
Good.
So, I'm pretty sure my French substitute is a tweaker... I tried to solicit Ty to follow him into the bathroom to see if he shoots up right before class, because I don't think I've ever seen someone look quite so spaz-tastic while they're trying to teach passe compose and imparfait.
Seriously, this guy does the "triple blink". I haven't seen the "triple blink" since high school. And he slurs his words, and his accent is atrocious, he sounds like he's from New England...
Ty thinks he's just nervous, and refuses to follow him into the bathroom...he thinks it would make him a creeper.
I don't think it would make him a creeper.
I really want to know.
In fact, I think I'm willing to pay Ty for his services (that sounds wrong--I like it).
I don't even know this French substitute's name, and I don't really care. I wasn't there the first day he decided to fill in for the real professor, because I was at the hospital...but his name is completely irrelevant to what sort of drug he shoots up before class.
I'm betting it's coke.
He doesn't look like he could afford heroin.
Or maybe he can afford heroin, because it doesn't look like he can afford a semi-formidable wardrobe.
Sigh.
It's really freakin cold in here...
I want a blanket.
And a Norwegian prostitute.

Bisous.

Glance At the Clock Again in 5 More Minutes...YOU ARE WEAK.

2010-01-25T09:35:00.000-08:00

Class...oh, class...

Right now I'm sitting in Communications, on a Monday, and this guy has to be the most irrelevant preacher of anti-modern Journalism tactics I've ever known in my life...

First off, he's like--wha? Ninety?

Second off, he has a voice like freakin Liam Neeson...I'm about to fall asleep, it's like the voice of God.

There's ten minutes left in this class, and I can already tell there's no hope of me walking away from this experience learning anything.
It's because I wasn't taught anything.

Don't get me wrong, this guy is totally nice...

He's like God, your Grandpa, and Liam Neeson all rolled into one.

This combination, though interesting, is a recipe for naps.

It couldn't be anymore perfect...
Soft hum of the air conditioner...the lesson plan being read...the air feels like blankets.
Power nap time.
Pull down the beanie.
Kick it.

FUCK.

It's time to leave already...and I totes forgot there's going to be a test Wednesday...

Onward, Lady Cracker...
University Hath Made Thee Her Bitch.

I Hate Goodbyes.

2010-01-21T07:27:00.000-08:00

Death.

The sound of the word on my tongue is almost as hard and as cold as it looks when I see it written.

No one is ever prepared for it, no matter how long you've waited, or how many times you've seen it. I think after the general death of a loved person, I'm through. You know? I don't need a verification, I don't need a traditional ceremonious ritual that's supposed to bring "closure".
My closure comes gradually.
My closure comes from within myself.

In fact, things that are often supposed to bring "closure", often gives me nothing more than this bad-tasting residue...

I hate funerals.
And I don't mean hate them like a normal person is obliged to hate funerals...

I'm talking this deep, demented loathing...that climbs up from the pit of my stomach and chokes me.

There is nothing quite so pretentious as a funeral.
I mean traditional southern funerals, you know?
You have old ladies with their rosaries and their big ugly hats that go and sit down next to so-and-so with big fake smiles and gossip about so-and-so's unwed pregnant granddaughter being hauled up in a convent somewhere until the illegitimate offspring is born.
Mind you...this is being spoken of in the same room where your beloved dead relative's body is chillaxing in the coffin.

Don't people understand that it's basically the rudest thing in the world to gossip in a funeral home?!

You think that after living seasonally for a couple of decades and bitching at your kids for not having basic table etiquette, you'd be able to hold your silence in the presence of the dead--you dumb fuck.

And then, oh, and then...We must pray.

Oh yes, let's pray.
Let's pray for this person laying here without a pulse.
Let's pray that your husband doesn't find out you're screwing the family attorney.
Let's pray that you turned off the stove before you left the house.
Let's pray, let's pray, let's pray...

You know what?
Instead of going on and on all this tripe about prayers and peace and eternal happiness and yadda yadda yadda...can't we just look at each other with frank distaste and say

"This fucking sucks."

It does.
It fucking sucks.
There's no better way to word it in my opinion.

I think I'm going to try that one day, seriously.
Seriously.
When everyone is praying for the eternal beautification of this person's soul...I just want to stand up and say "can I say something for a moment"... go right up to the pulpit...look out into the congregation...Raise my head with this frank and forthright look upon my brow, and say

"This fucking sucks."

Amen.

Momentous Conversations: A Satire

2010-01-06T12:00:00.001-08:00

(via Text Message. Approx. October 11, 2009.)

"Olive": Omfg I stayed up till 4 reading new moon...fuck meh.

Lady Cracker: Ew.

"Olive": It reminds me so much of my own life.

Lady Cracker: LoFUCKINGl.

"Olive": Do you even know what new moon is about?

Lady Cracker: I've read all four books just to see what all the fuss was about; and half-ass prose gives me the shits.

"Olive": How graphic. I was talking about her battles with depression. You know what its like to just go through the motions. When I got to the part where it just skipped through several months of her life I caught a shiver because I know the feeling also. My heart was aching for her :(

Lady Cracker: But Bella is so fucking whiny and insipid!

"Olive": To me she gets a little better toward the middle. A little more crazy. I know the feeling also.

Lady Cracker: She's so PREDICTABLE.

"Olive": Not everyone isn't. TELL ME is that really edwards voice she hears?!

Lady Cracker: Omfg. I hated those stupid books and just read them to see what all the fuss was about. I refuse to discuss books written by a woman who ruined, perhaps FOREVER, the concept of traditional vampire lore. And any woman who can relate to Bella Swan is a sniffling little whiner with her foot up her ass.

"Olive": Traditional vampires got boring when I was twelve. I actually thought that brad pitt was fucking funny in dinner with a vampire?... i can barely remember the name just the main character.

Lady Cracker: Do not talk to me with that heresy on your tongue.

"Olive": GIVE ME TWILIGHT OR GIVE ME DEATH!

Lady Cracker: Death. Please and thank you.

(Approx. December 10, 2009. Via Text message.)

"Howard": so my friend's ex boyfriend shot her on her porch

Lady Cracker: Oh, only in yon Mississippi...

(via Text Message. Approx. December 20, 2009.)

"Dan": So...what languages do they speak in Austria?...Austrian?

Lady Cracker: No.

"Dan": Oh. Austranese?

Lady Cracker: No.

"Dan": Oh. Well what?

Lady Cracker: German.

(Approx. December 27, 2009. Via Text message.)

"Morris": We are hinting for a raccoon with a harmonica

Lady Cracker: How charming!





(Approx. December 28, 2009. Via Text Message.)

"Ty": I'm fine. I was sick today with a virus, but I'm getting better.
How have you been?

Lady Cracker: Mon dieu, you poor thing! Do you need fluids? Citrus?

"Ty": Hahahahaha. I am limiting myself in the intake of fluids
and such because I've been throwing up.

Lady Cracker: Oh, well, dear god. I retract my last inquiries.



(Approx. December 30, 2009. Via Text message.) 

Lady Cracker: I just woke with an extremely bad headache, and it is three o'clock
in the morning.I checked my phone, and it appears I called you, and we apparently
had a fifteen minute conversation. What's the damage report?

"Dan": Can I debrief you like in men in black?

Lady Cracker: Sounds kinky...but, alright.





(Approx. January 1, 2010. Via Text message.)

Lady Cracker: (mass message) Rock out with your sock out, 2010! (:

"McBogus": are you sure it was a sock?

Lady Cracker: Keeping it rated G for the children. 





(via Text Message. Approx. Jan 03, 2010.)

"Kev": How was your christmas and new years?

Lady Cracker: It was good. Yours?

"Kev": Good. I went to a new years party where almost everyone got naked and
we played beer pong nude. Lol

Lady Cracker: Fascinating.

"Kev": Lol think you woulda had fun?

Lady Cracker: Probably not.

(via Facebook status. Approx. January 3, 2009.)

Lady Cracker: suddenly, as i'm about to ex out the playlist box, the
Titanic Song comes on... damn you, Celine Dion.

Chandler: even more reason to click the exit button....

Lady Cracker: chandler...don't diss the dion. mmk?

Chandler: Or what?

Lady Cracker: or i'm gonna slap you with a baguette.

(Via Text message. Approx. January 4, 2010.)

Lady Cracker: So, apparently, Mr. N wants a "reunion".

"Alice": FUCK THAT you know who he is and you know he's dumber than a
box of rocks what's the point

Lady Cracker: I'm a cat. He's a mouse. And there is all the difference. 





(Via Facebook status. Approx. January 5, 2010.)

"Starla": So, Valentine's day isn't special. We should...I repeat should love
and show love each and every day not just one day a year.

Lady Cracker: We should, I repeat, should solicit moronic males for
expensive jewelry and boxes of individually wrapped chocolates.





(Via Facebook conversation. Approx. January 6, 2010.)

Lady Cracker: Don't bring your bad energy around here,
I'm a mother fucking ball of sunshine.

"Howard": LMFAO. I'm gonna have to tell Mark that one.
He's always talking about "throwing shade"on people, you know,
like giving them a hateful look.

Lady Cracker: Ebonics is such a visual language...

"Howard": LMFAO.

Lady Cracker: I wonder what would be the term for smiling at
someone? "Throwing them KFC"?

Why I Do Not Relish Falling In Love

2009-12-25T16:40:00.000-08:00

This is a story that has happened, oh, about three times in my relatively young life...
Love.
What is it?
I hate when people believe they've fallen utterly in love, and they know what it is completely; there's nothing left to discover. They're full of shit. One is always learning more about this dangerous emotion, more about it's ambiguous nature, and it's sinister residue.
I've learned the hard way, all times.
Every time I've entered into romantic love, I've allowed myself to open my heart. When I open my heart, I often learn more lessons than I receive a reciprocal feeling. This is very convenient for future occasions, but the "come down" is a...well, it's a pain in the ass, to be frank.

The first time I ever fell in love, it was quite a puppy situation.
Sixth grade, with boy we shall call "Anthony".
He was charming.
He left notes in my locker, he held my hand on the playground, and he was the first boy to ever ask me to the movies.
I was completely smitten.
The only problem was- I didn't know what on earth it was to be boyfriend and girlfriend.
Me, in my ignorance, thought we were only friends. I told him that. He was crestfallen and "broke up" with me. I spent the next three years pining for his affection. Didn't work. And though he was polite to me from that day forth, he never felt the same about me.

Such was my first juvenile heartbreak...

The second "love" was perhaps the most destructive relationship I've ever been in.
We shall call him "Dave".
From the moment I saw his electric blue eyes I was head over heels. I dove recklessly into this naive land of romantic dreams, and unrealistic expectations. I was completely oblivious to what would lay ahead.
He was addicted to heroin.
Through him, I tried cocaine.
I was lost in a haze, and he was the still centerpiece of the spinning world.
It's a known truth you don't choose who you fall in love with, and this was no different. If I had it my way, I'd have never set my eyes on him. He was evil, and I was attracted to him because of that. I felt obligated to fix him. I felt like I was sent to protect him, to keep him from killing himself, to sacrifice my sanity to prove to him that I could be strong.
Like a drug, I had to cut him off from my life...
He would have been the death of me.

It was possibly one of the hardest experiences of my life, and I still don't understand to this day...
how i could love someone so horrible to me.

It was then that I realized a truly important notion to understand: "Love never dies; it changes."

For some strange reason, I will always love Dave. But I will never love him in the way I did once...it feels like a warmth in my stomach, that I hold down with a sigh.

I'm in the process of falling away from that ardent love again...

I met someone who I thought was very exciting, very different, very worthwhile...

He turned out to be like the rest, disappointing and weak.

It's hard when you realize that you're the type of person who doesn't give up easily, who fights for what they want, who pulls through the tough times with a lesson in mind...but in this even, one often ends up alone.

My Newest Reality Television Obsession: Meet the Natives on the Travel Channel

2009-12-16T10:03:00.000-08:00

Chief Mangau is a figure of authority, guidance and wise words. His father, the Supreme Chief has given him the mission of restoring the spirit of peace in America. Before setting out, Chief warns the other men not to be distracted by pretty girls. But he's not a spoilsport: once their journey begins, he reveals a cheeky grin, a warm laugh and a curiosity about the new world around him. At 65 years old, he's the oldest of the group.

Keimua is the Head Dancer for the community. His infectious enthusiasm for singing and dancing and his beaming grin not only make his dancing lessons the number one activity for the kids on the island, but he also wins over everyone he meets in America.

Sam is the Medicine Man, to whom the community comes with everything from fevers to broken bones. He also understands the spirits and age-old traditions of Tanna better than anyone else, and these traditions inform the ways he views America.

Kuai is known as the “Happy Man.” His job at home is simply to generate love and happiness, and as he says before leaving for America, “I will make them happy! It's great!” He hugs, smiles and giggles his way around America, connecting with everyone he meets.

Namus is the translator for the group. He's from Tanna, but has been to school and speaks English well. At 27 years old, he's the youngest of the group, and a bit savvier about the outside world than the others.

We Could Only Make This Shit Up...

2009-12-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

"The Man-Stand" (n.) - a term that refers to the luring of a male by a dominant female, an action of a one-night-stand, followed by the female awkwardly asking the male to leave in the morning. This is a counter-culture phenomena of the "one night stand", where the male is customarily obliged to ask the female to take her leave in the morning hours.

Lady Cracker's Guide to Man-Handling.

2009-12-03T10:24:00.000-08:00

Apparently, I have this sixth sense that enables me to smell a Mega-Douche from a mile off...
Or an Ex-Factor lingering somewhere in his own pathetic reveries...with the scent of lavender and Cosmopolitan cut-outs strewn upon the floor of his mind...
I've always had the uncanny ability to separate the lambs from the goats in terms of the more primitive sex...or well, the goats from the goats. Though equally pathetic, each man is different in his own sphere.

I've narrowed my field of this particular study into ten core groups:

1.) The (Really) Hopeless Romantic
2.) The Metrosexual
3.) The Mega-Douche
4.) The Emotionally Scarred Attention Whore
5.) The Ex-Factor
6.) The Over-egoed Hottie
7.) The Self-Righteous Political Guru
8.) The Lethargic Hippie/Musician
9.) The Illusive Player
10.) The Wannabe

You all know them, ladies.
So let's get the break-down.

1.) The (Really) Hopeless Romantic

He's a charmer.
He quotes Rhett Butler.
Forget an anniversary? Never!
Husband material? Right on.
He's lovable, he's eloquent, and he's proven to you that "all the rest" were simply little boys shielding you from the true limelight you belong in. He lifts you up, he supports your ambitions; hell, he pays for every meal!
He's Mr. McDreamy in the flesh.
Yet...
Doesn't he tend to rub you the wrong way sometimes?
I mean, don't get me wrong- he appears perfect on the exterior but...
Isn't he a little OCD about some shit? Isn't his "knight in shining armor-dom" a little anti-feminist?
When he meticulously arranges the wine glasses so that they're perfectly a-symmetrical with the plate and utensils, doesn't it seem a bit obtrusive?
And how about that time when he bought you to Build-A-Bear when he knows you're afraid of stuffed animals...I mean... sure, it was a cute idea and he was going out of his way but is he spending so much time thinking of new ways to impress you that he forgot your general likes and dislikes?

Pros:
- Outrageously sweet
- Thoughtful
- Attentive

Cons:
- OCD out the ass
- Perfectionist
- Liable to make you question your own self-worth

2.) The Metrosexual

He's adorably oblivious to masculine norms.
He likes his oatmeal scrub- with the jasmine compound for moisturizing.
He's particular about mixing his seasons.
He likes to pick out your outfit for that really important banquet when you're running late.
He can distinguish Armani from Gucci from Chanel.
Wait...
Is he still straight?!
Yes, ladies. Oh yes.
Still very much attracted to the fairer sex, our man is an aficionado on fine culture, and the art of being indulged.
He loves to spoil himself with trips to the spa, and regularly checks out of a lunch meeting to go to the bathroom and make sure his body spray is still potent.
In his youth, he was often tortured with such slandering nicknames as "Fag" and "Limp Wrist". Becoming bffs with his Mommy taught him a thing or two about treating a woman- in addition to treating himself.
He's the King, gold-cuffed boots and all, and you are his Queen.
His perks may be well and good, and perhaps you even admire the fact that his sense of fashion is more confident than yours, but let's face it... He does think his shit don't stink from time to time.
All that childhood torment has appeared to make his freshly moisturized exterior tough as nails.
He may need to tone down on the toner before he ends up looking more fake than baked.

Pros:
- Best Dressed Man Alive
- appreciates detail
- effortlessly juggles vintages and fine wines

Cons:
- a bit self-employed
- manliner?
- he paid more for his suit than he did for his life insurance...

3.) The Mega-Douche
Oh, the Mega-Douche.
Really, what isn't there to say about this fine piece of work?
Devoid of any remote intelligence what so ever, he aimlessly removes his shirt, grabs his club and bottle of jack, and journeys forth into the mushroom cloud of bong smoke.
When out on the town, you may spot him surrounded by his hoard of personal supporters, or what I like to appropriately term as "the chodes and the hoes".
He's quite noticeable.
The sideways cap, the tribal tattoos... the conspicuously placed blow-up doll, complete with Vaseline...
*Forehead slap*
It's safe to say that at least 2/3rds of the general female population have dated at least ONE Mega-Douche in the entirety of their relationship career.
Though not completely advised, it is somewhat necessary to date one of these assholes in order to appreciate our other contenders- who often appear to be a grade above him in terms of general species.
If one is not clear as to the level of douche-baggery our chode may be reaching, one should look for the following conspicuous signs of the "Mega-Douche":
- lack of shirt
- weird piercings
- the "duck butt" hair spike
- constant usage of the term "bro"
- loud, obnoxious vehicle

Pros:
- when you find one...let me know.

Cons:
- lol.

4.) The Emotionally Scarred Attention Whore

Dear Diary,
Mood: I Feel Like Cutting.

Beware of the two-toned hair.
The token myspace pictures, shielding his face.
The odd piercings.
His ostentatious bi-curious behavior.
His philosophical outlook on religion, life, shit...
Why is he doing this?
Why is he saying all this crap?
Why does he constantly ask you if he looks okay, if what he believes is okay, if he's okay?
YOU DON'T KNOW.
And frankly, you're too worried about your own life to make his over.
Yet, you feel quite sorry for him.
He's been through the not-so-rare, yet traumatic experience of having the meanest girlfriend alive.
He's been bullied by God and man alike for his sense of "non-conformity".
He'll use his misfortunes as a crutch to gain your trusts.
And, he'll take your number, or your pity sex, whenever he can.
He's pathetic, and the various females of his acquaintance know this, but he's so pitiful it's hard to resist his puppy-dog pout, or his suicidal poetry that he sends you via-text about his failed romance and how undeserving he is of love.

Pros:
- hollar-back boy
- dedication sonnets
- stunts in the name of romance

Cons:
- obsessive
- constantly seeking your regard
- won't. go. away.

5.) The Ex-Factor

To Be or Not To Be?
That is... To Be or Not To Be the psychotic ex boyfriend who calls and texts every waking minute, still pining for your everlasting love.
It's been two years, and several boyfriends later, and you think that by now he'd get the idea. I mean, you still care, sure, but this is just ridiculous. What's with the jealousy? The pout? The fact that he thinks he has a right to know what you're doing and who you're with?
Come on, asshole.
Alas...
He's still hung up on you, and you know it.
He texts you every chance he gets a free moment:
How was your test?
How was your lunch?
How was your day?
How was your breathing?
Creeper...
Your relationship was great; it lasted through many hardships and really went to a whole new level in your opinion. But, you know, school got in the way, and lots of personal tragedies happened, and let's just face it: He got boring.
So, I mean, what else was there to do?
You broke up with him proper-like, and gave him the 411 on "Friendship".
Yes, you can still call me on holidays.
No, we can't snuggle anymore.

Pros:
- Devoted
- Generally caring
- Cute..in a melancholy way

Cons:
- Really? Do we need to go here?

6.) The Over-egoed Hottie

He probably spends more time on his body than he has on anything else in his entire life.
He glances at himself in any available reflective surface.
He's hot. He knows it. And he expects you to know it, too.
So what if he says he loves you despite the three pounds you gained from that run-away cheesecake?
He's totally lying.
You can see him out of the corner of your eye flexing his muscle's in the glass door.
You want to say something, you want to be blunt and sarcastic, but you know what? He's just too hot to hear you. So why bother?
Closely related to our "Mega-Douche", the "Over-Egoed Hottie" is the lesser-devolved medium between the "Mega-Douche" and "The Metrosexual".
He is an asshole.
Perhaps he's cheated on you.
Perhaps he's fooled around.
But, he does work out obsessively, and he does like to dress to impress.
He may get his ego fluffed on a daily basis, but it is up to YOU, women of the world... it is up to YOU to forsake this perfectly toned pecks and his well-manicured backyard... You must abandon his-... Oh, fuck it.

Pros:
- So hot...
- So, so very hot...
- Yeah, you get the picture.

Cons:
- Asshole-esq tendencies
- Really? You're not gonna eat that?
- Ego. Ego. Ego.

7.) The Self-Righteous Political Guru

I quoth:
"Damn Liberals."
"The Hollywood Left is going to be the death of us."
"We're all Socialists, Socialists I tell yah!"
"That Healthcare Bill- my ass."
Of course he's a Republican, would a male Democrat actually go through the trouble of un-promoting peace and love?
But he's really...really Republican.
We're talking...you buy a vegetarian pizza and he suddenly starts calling you a "damn hippie" and he insists you stop taking yoga because it's somehow "unconstitutional".
You don't agree with him, at all, but when you try to defend yourself he's suddenly so completely offended that you dare to question his stance, that he forgets this is a relationship and not a debate.
Sure, the arguments are sometimes a little spicy when it comes to bedroom banter, but how long is this going to last?
How long can one tolerate a man who uses the sudden two dollar increase of your fancy dinner tab to talk about how the economy's shot to shit?

Pros:
- sturdy
- politically correct (or so he thinks)
- good for PR

Cons:
- constantly offended
- pig headed
- you are not, and never will be, Sarah Palin

8.) The Lethargic Hippie/Musician

He can play a mean guitar.
He serenades, too.
And, he looks like he hasn't bathed in months...
We'll call him the "Ani-Self-Righteous Political Guru"
There's something very attractive about a man who can play guitar, wear some dingy creepy-uncle button down and a fedora- and still manage to belt out a thing or two that sounds slurry but cohesive.
Sure, he's drunk all the time, a little high, a little dirty...
But he's cute all the same, correct?
He's an "artist", and he's constantly needed to improve his "art".
Yeah yeah, you get it.
He doesn't give a shit about politics... he doesn't give a shit about anything really.
He'll nurture his dreams of being big, while he spends his last two dollars on some weed and beer, and then ends the night with scribbling dreamy lyrics on an old pizza box with a Sharpie.
But um... so you missed the part where he has a real job...
What about real goals?
What about a care for anything at all besides "Lucy", his vintage Gibson?

Pros:
- music man
- mysterious
- carefree

Cons:
- seriously...shut up already
- not all dreams come true for the lazy of heart
- bathe, now. kthanks.

9.) The Illusive Player

So of course we all know this one...
He walks into the club/bar/place of any sort of social interaction...and women flock to him as if he smells of pure Swiss Chocolate and looks like George Clooney's very dashing younger brother.
You're drawn to him, you can't help that.
Any woman in her right mind is drawn to something so, so shiny!
He's very mysterious, and very charismatic. He dresses appropriately at all times, but still has this laid back sense of self that doesn't make him seem overbearing in any way.
On the exterior, he's got it all going on... He's got the personality, and a supreme amount of good-looking. He's balanced in all mannerisms, he knows how to make you smile, how to make you laugh, how to make you swoon.
But oh, he's too good to be true.
All those years of never being turned down, not once, has fluffed his ego so much that, despite how well he may treat you, there's always going to be present the fear that you are yet another addition in his notorious "Little Black Book".
There's an issue ladies, you just have to figure it all out:
The only real problem is, when he's texting and calling diligently, keep in mind...
He's also calling Samantha, Lorie, Jessica, Brittney, Viola, Esperanza, and that chick that works at Walmart in the food center.

Pros:
- sweet-talking
- charismatic
- always up for a good time

Cons:
- man whore
- tragically unable to commit
- STD much?

10.) The Wannabe

He wants to be married in Guam.
He wants to be a golf champion.
He wants to try equestrianism.
He wants to be grade A at chess.
He wants to catch that fish.
He wants to join a yoga class.
He wants to fucking try too hard...
Don't you ever get tired of seeing him looking wide-eyed at the television screen and you just KNOW it's suddenly popped into his mind that he wants to be the next Michael Phelps?
As if the crumbling bricks from the half-build outdoor fire place aren't enough to frustrate you, you already know that he's going to go out and buy a whole knew workout machine, only to use it to hang his clothes on after a vigorous two weeks of trying to beat out fish-boy.
You think you've had enough when:
Lo and behold, he convinces you he really wants to go to Italy for a pleasant vacation come next year!
You're totally stoked.
That is, totally stoked until next year rolls around...and he has yet to save a penny... and his last dollar was spent on the Dollar Menu.
He's neurotic.
He can't apply himself.
He's adorably oblivious, which makes you like him that much more, but his sense of priority is way out of sync with the rest of the universe.

Pros:
- spunky
- willing to try new things
- eclectic

Cons:
- can't settle
- can't stay focused
- can't be normal

A Day to Remember...

2009-11-11T08:28:00.000-08:00

10th of November, 2009...

November 10th. Not a day I would wish to remember, surely. Perhaps it's because I cannot control my emotions when I bring myself to think of my grandmother. Her significance in my life was crucial; living a minute away from the place where she died is a constant reminder that life is fleeting.

I know that I have to grab life by the balls when the opportunity arises. More than once I've let something I've wanted in life slip away, watched it glide off into the sunset without doing a thing about it... because I was afraid to take the jump.

Well... on that Tuesday afternoon, I felt like taking a jump.

I really didn't know what to expect when I walked into the tattoo parlor Monday...on the 9th... I'd brought with me a picture and a mission.

The artist's name was Terry. He'd been at it for about fifteen years, so when I showed him the picture, which was drawn by a friend of mine, and said I wanted it exactly done, he smiled.
"No problem, kid." He said, tousling his mane of dark brown locks. "Is it your first one?"
"Yeah. It's my first one."
"Well..." He regarded the picture, then me. Me, in my pink skirt and white cardigan. "It looks like it's going to be medium sized. Might take me thirty minutes or so. Think you can handle the pain?"
"I have a high tolerance for pain." I said staunchly, holding my head up.
He gave a chuckle, and patted my shoulder.
"Tomorrow at three then, kid." He smirked, taking my picture.

I had trouble sleeping that night.
I kept tossing around, imagining what it would be like now... People would consider me a little eccentric for my actions, sure, but I knew I was doing the right thing. I knew I wanted it, I needed it more than anything.

My mother called me that night before I had turned in to sleep... I told her what I was doing and she gave me some remark- I don't quite remember- but she wasn't happy.
I just replied "We mourn in different ways. You go to mass, I get a tattoo."
She'd hung up angry.

I got up in the morning, went on about my day in the regular fashion.
I went to class, took a test, went to work, found solace from my boss (who has about ten tattoos)...who smiled and grasped my hand and said:
"I'm thirty-three, with a son, and a doctorate... if I did it, you sure as hell can do it."

I went home, put on a button-down, and sighed.
Patrick and Ali came meet me, thinking I may be too weak to drive myself home afterward.
After some mild conversation, we solemnly went to the tattoo parlor.
It was three in the afternoon on the dot.

They decided to stay in the waiting area, after I insisted I didn't need anyone holding my hand.

Terry was actually finishing up a rose on some girl's calf as I was walking in.
He smiled and said he'd be a few minutes.
The girl walked out with a smile, and then he turned his attention to me.

I sort of crossed my arms over my boobs when he said I'd have to practically remove my shirt so he could do it in the precise place I wanted it on my back.
I reluctantly shuffled to the bathroom, and came out with the shirt on backwards, unbuttoned and revealing my whole back.

I straddled the chair, gripped the cushion, and closed my eyes.

To be truthful, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had thought it would be in the beginning.

The pain was mild, I'd felt worse for sure.
There's nothing like rope burn or literal burn or broken bones that make you wish you were numb all over, but this- this was nothing.

I did start to cry a little... not because of the way it felt, I just kept thinking my grandmother felt so much worse when the chemotherapy treatments ravaged her skin, leaving blisters, leaving tears the size of canyons. I remember when I'd sleep beside her in her bed how I'd hear her cry out in her sleep because of what was going on inside of her body. I'd close my eyes and pretend I didn't hear her. I wouldn't move a muscle. I never wanted to wake her from her sleep; it seemed she could forget the pain a little when she slept.

I felt like, with each injection, with each drill against my skin...
there came a reminder of where I am and where I'm going, and what I'm leaving behind in the past.

I felt like I was being branded for all of my past digressions.

It took thirty minutes.
Terry walked me through it, kept me talking, kept me smiling from time to time by cracking a joke.
He removed his needle, and wiped my back down with a smile, set a bandage on it to soak the little bit of blood, and buttoned the backing of my shirt.

"Alright, kid. You're finished."

I smiled, thanked him, and went out to meet Pat and Ali.

I'm not finished...

but I'm working on it.

True or False: The Dreamboat Overseas

2009-10-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

(T/F): You make me smile.

(T/F): I think this won't work.

(T/F): I adore you.

(T/F): We're connected.

Wickedly Ridiculous Items I Want In My Dream Home...

2009-10-14T20:22:00.001-07:00

- claw-foot marble tub

- sky blue walls

- a study, complete with an epic bookshelf and a writing desk

- big, big tree with tire swing

- four-poster bed

- hardwood floors

- fireplace in living room and bedroom

- white-washed kitchen table that sits four

- french doors

- a big overgrown garden...english style

- a lazy pond with pretty lilly-pads

- a chicken coup, with chickens!

- a stone tea kettle, painted fire engine red

- an old fashioned gas stove

- doors with skeleton key locks

- a winding staircase

- an antique bureau, painted sunflower yellow

- shutters on the windows, mint green

- a parlor... with big open windows... and a cute little table to serve tea

Vegetarianism: What's the Big Fucking Deal?!

2009-10-07T11:00:00.000-07:00

About a week ago I made a not-so-unusual decision to improve my diet and to start focusing on getting myself in shape again... trust me, this lazy hibernation has been going on for far too long.

So, I'm browsing through different options, figuring that this or that is going to be pretty hard to maintain considering I'm a full-time student, and I have a job, and I take a dance class... that doesn't leave me with the time or energy to pick and choose.

Then, it dawned on me...

I'm not really a fan of barbecue...
When I eat greasy meat I feel nasty and bloated.

Light bulb!

What if I just illuminate the meat from my diet?
Considering the food I really enjoy is all grains and fruits anyway... this makes for a very pleasant and easy decision.

A week ago I became a, you guessed it, Vegetarian.

I can honestly say it isn't as hard as I thought it might be.
I avoid meats, and generally eat grains, and starches, and fruits.
I'll sneak the occasional egg for breakfast in the morning, but it's not a sin.

Alas, here I am, feeling really healthy and adjusting my body to this shift... and I'm suddenly getting all sorts of brash interjections from friends and family alike.

"You won't get enough protein and you'll die." Being the main "concern".

People... don't you think I've put good thought into this?
Do you realize that there's more than one place to get protein?

I mean, sure, meat is good for you... but on a whole, I didn't even like the shit... except when it was lathered in grease and tasted too good to resist (the only reason being BECAUSE it was lathered in grease).

I can honestly say I'm proud of myself for making a decision like this.

It's going strong, and I want to be supported, not getting eyes rolled at me.

People associate vegetarianism with liberals and PETA and all sorts of retarded crap...

I don't care about bunnies getting stripped of their fur, okay?
I don't give a shit if you run over a kitten or eat a stake medium rare, it's not the end of the world.
I think PETA is retarded and that animals are good eating... just not for me.

I like my fruits and my veggies and my breads, is there an issue?

I'm not going to die.
I make sure I get more than one dose of protein-friendly foods every day.
Peanut Butter. Hummus. Lima beans.
Yum yum.

So get off my case because I'm trying to improve my health.
And stop asking me if I've suddenly stopped bathing and decided to live naked among the lemurs in Madagascar...

The past, the present, The Future.

2009-10-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

I've come to realize how far down this road I've been traveling, and how things are suddenly branching out and creating new paths and new opportunities. It's really exciting for someone like me to realize that life is getting to the point of adventure, thrill, and intrigue.

I'm going to be twenty years old.

I remember when I was twelve and I looked at a twenty year old with complete and utter wonderment. I thought that that person had all of the answers. They lived on their own in some swanky uptown apartment, and did cool shit... like road some bike with a basket around, splatter painted the walls of their bedrooms, and took black-and-white pictures of old people holding hands in the park.

Now, I'm on the brink of being twenty... and I realize that I'm sort of living the way I envisioned a twenty-year-old to live. (At least, within my means.) I don't have all the answers, and I never will, but somehow I think I'm going to be okay without knowing everything. The path is shaded, but it's there.

It's funny how the worst thing that could have possibly ever happened only catapulted into growing up... it was a reality check I needed.

That 'worst thing' was the death of my grandmother last year, on November 10th.
For all intensive purposes, she was my mother.
While I've always somewhat had a strained relationship with my biological mother (her eldest daughter), she encouraged me to try to understand her, and in the same instanced shaped me into the woman I am today.
I admired her so much for her strength and for her quiet mind.

It's going to be a year since she died, and I'm still trying to collect myself.
I thought I couldn't go on without her, but her death intensified my desire to want to do something extraordinary with this existence- the only one I've got.

I've been toying with the idea of not finishing school... right now, however, I'm thinking I will. I've come this far, I want that degree in my hand. But the credentials of it are really sort of ridiculous. I don't learn sitting in a classroom, I need to be out in the world and experiencing. I feel like that's my calling.

Sometimes I feel like I don't need a degree to dictate that I have intelligence, or to say I'm certified to help this person or that person.

In fact, I don't believe in it at all.

I feel as if most people say they're in school, or going through it, just to prove to the people around them that they can make something of themselves when really... really, making something of yourself should be about the people you touch, and the works you do, and the stories you have to tell afterward.

The longer I'm in college the more I realize it's a debauched myriad lie of higher learning... where "Beer Pong" is the national sport, and "How Many Lays" the slogan.

I don't want that, and never have.

However, some good things have come out of this whole new world...

I've moved out, and learned to live under a roof with completely different personalities than what I was accustomed.

I have a job where I make enough money to support myself.

Still in school (whether I like it or not), and toiling.

And... and my direction is becoming clearer and clearer.

See, in the beginning I thought I wanted to perhaps be a linguist. I love studying languages, and going overseas sort of sealed my love of foreign places. But then I realized if I wanted to actually make a living, I'd have to have at least five languages under my belt. A whole lot of classes, and a whole lot of brainpower that I wasn't willing to commit to. (Trust me, if i don't want to learn something... I'm not going to learn it.)

But I love to write, so I sort of decided Journalism would be my target.

I didn't like the idea of following other people around and badgering them about their personal lives, so I did a little research... and that's when I discovered what I want to do.

I want to write for a humanitarian journal.
And for those of you who don't quite know what that is... think along the lines of National Geographic... but focusing on the people of third-world countries and their cultures.

It's not set in stone, nothing ever is.

But I know that I want to help people.
I feel my best when I'm out in the world, getting my hands dirty, and exploring the meaning of life.

I want to try other things as well...

photojournalism
fashion photography
painting
novel and poetry composition
entrepreneurship

But whatever I do end up doing in the end, I'll do it well.

I want to be known by those who loved me as someone who went out there and did what she had to do, followed her beliefs, and lived fully and openly.
That's all.
Nothing more or less.

Misinterpretations, Methodical, Men...

2009-10-03T23:39:00.000-07:00

I've come to realize over the course of my very brief dating career, that I haven't dated all that much, or all that well...

Ever since 6th grade...that fateful ill-fated puppy love with a boy who truly liked me, and to whom I squashed mercilessly by failing to understand his feelings... I've had possibly the ultimate shitty luck where this tangled web of business is concerned.

For example, my first "serious" boyfriend was a stint with a biker, he was eighteen, and I sixteen. I marveled in true and utter wonderment of him until he dumped me faster than a hot tamale on the 4th of July for a big-breasted short shirt in a Mustang GT.

I hadn't yet gotten to second-base, and already I was krill to the dating scene as we know it.

My second serious boyfriend was a year and a half younger than I but oh, who am i kidding? Age is but a number- right? No need to be ageist when you have this smashing fellow who's on your level, meets your needs, and appears to have himself on the level, correct?

Wrong.

So wrong.

Mr. Level left this old bag of horse feed after a little over a year of tumultuous canoodling, promises of college live-in situations, and eventual marriage on a little island in the south pacific by a Haitian spirit healer...and why? Oh, there was some hot young thing with synthetic weave and eyeliner thicker than tar.

So here I've been since.

Only two serious situations down under my belt, and I couldn't be more confused or disoriented by the very IDEA of being with someone for an extended period of time.

Sometimes I like to wonder what's the point of it all... I mean, is that all there is in life? Women, being told from the earliest age that we're princesses that need to be treated as such by men who don't exist? That marriage is the ultimate form of euphoria, and if you don't find someone to marry eventually then you're a lesbian, a feminist, or just plain weird?

Don't get me wrong! I've had my fair share of guys pining for my hand...(not all at once- but you get my picture)...

A.) There was "S." from orientation, who gladly bought me anything I wished and whined and dined me until I wanted to gag for lack of independence (or breathing room, for that matter).
B.) There was "D." from a fraternity, who, though witty and amusingly charming, failed to clarify what it was that was happening between us, and therefore lost my regard.
C.) There was "C." from a mutual acquaintance, who took me to a rock concert and proceeded to be extremely awkward about his lack of financial and emotional stability.
D.) There was "P.", whom I met while in a college course, who I convinced to go on a date with me only to discover that, after locking lips, he was only meant to be a very best friend/brother sort.
E.) There was "R.", a foreigner who swept me off my feet with a sneak-kiss and intellectual conversation before I realized he was stringing me along (in true Scandinavian fashion).

Sigh.

It is a history that I look over and could truly laugh at.

Perhaps I'm picky.
Perhaps I think too much.
Perhaps it's my own special combination of neurotic and insane.
I've been told all of this before.

But I'm a modern, assertive, independent woman... you know, I've convinced myself I don't need a man.
Sure, it'd be nice if he takes you out, brings you home, canoodles and wants to spoon after. That's a winning combo! It'd be even better if it wouldn't be weird after, and he'd look at you and smile and just tell you it's official. There's no room for inhibitions here, people, we're young! There's time!
But if we're young, why are we so damn afraid of commitment?
You know, I'm might be scared, but I'm not stupid... I know a good thing when I have it.

Or I thought I did.

I thought I had two good things, before they walked.
And I'm sure one of those poor guys I was involved with after the fact thought they had a good one too...
before I walked.

A Story Not Often Told...

2009-09-29T18:22:00.000-07:00

She Fucking Dissed Me?!:
The Tale of a Man's Not-So-Rare Walk of Shame

The code said three days, so of course he waited three days before sending that casual text with all the nonchalant effective wording:

"Hey... i had fun the other day."

Of course, he noted, his performance had been outstanding. He'd made her squeal at all the right points. He'd playfully lingered over her until she couldn't take it anymore, and he'd even given her the reassurance that she was good as well. He brought on the compliments. He lathered it on like layers in a cake. He could not tell a lie, she was fantastic. So the reply comes, and oh, what's this?

"Yeah. It was good."

What?! No smiley? No capricious flirtatious little giggle? No HEHE?! He contemplated not returning the text. He wondered what it meant...
We find our man in a sticky situation, and it is now he realizes what precisely has happened, and prays it isn't so.
Yes, he'd followed her home from the bar on her request, yes he'd ventured into her one-bedroom apartment and allowed her to make him a cup of tea. Yes, he'd successfully seduced her in her bedroom, and was obliged to collect his boxers in the morning and leave.
But she had an early class and he was only being nice!

"So yeah, I was wondering if you want to catch a movie tonight?"

Our man is hoping to be casual, because he doesn't want to appear too desperate. He notices there's a late reply and wonders if he asked her the right thing. After all, is it against protocol of these so-called "one nights" to ask the woman out on a proper date? Movie ticket, popcorn, the works?

"Busy tonight. But thanks, that's sweet."

Busy? My ass. It is now that he realizes his less-than-threatening advances have been in vain.
Our man diagnoses the issue at hand. He's fallen into the pit of truly liking this one-niter, instead of keeping her up on the shelf with the rest of dim-witted idiots he's collected in his college career. He couldn't help if her opinions on Marxism were more than sufficient, or if he caught himself thinking of her as a little prettier than average even after she removed all her makeup, or even if she was just good at what she did with her body, clothes on or off.

Enter the "Bro".
Now the "Bro" is our man's best friend. A heterosexual romance has evolved between them, and he calls upon this stoned, opinionated, pseudo-intellectual to help him evaluate the situation at hand.

The "Bro" begins his defending tyrant by pointing out that the girl in question has an ass the size of a small galaxy.
Our man begrudgingly agrees, though he thinks otherwise, and in fact truly admires her derriere against his better judgment.

After a beer and idle smalltalk about video games, the "Bro" suggests they check her Facebook page.
For a few moments, all seems well.
She updated her status, and she's currently taking a shower, ten minutes ago.

Then, with sudden revelation, the "Bro" announces
"DUDE, DUDE, DUDE, CHECK OUT THIS SHIT!"

Our man rushes to the computer.
Under her relationship status:

"It's Complicated with...."

The ex boyfriend?! The dude she was bitching about three nights ago at the bar?! The guy with the fucking irrelevant tribal tattoo and absence of a respectable job and was still living with his parents?!

"She fucking dissed me!"

With horror, our man realizes that he was used.
He was "that guy".

Embittered, he calls up the other "Bros"...
A night of makeup debauchery ensues, his opinion of women growing evermore blasé.

Sometimes...

2009-09-22T13:57:00.001-07:00

... I look in the mirror and find myself afraid of what i'm becoming

... I still think that the things you did to me were MY fault

... I take out a picture of me and him, and i have to put it away because i start shaking from thoughts of the past

... I change in my cubicle at work when i know no one else is in the office

... I'll stand in-between two mirrors and wish i were that thin

... you really make me laugh, without the sarcasm

... she irritates me so much i wish she were dead

... the appearance of blood facinates me

... I pick my nose when i'm driving, hoping no one sees me

... my colossal ass makes me feel really good about myself

... i'll scream Fuck, in public, just to

... i wish i could let God back in

... i lie in my diary

... i actually enjoy the idea of getting married and making babies in the conventional way

... my very best friend, who has never done anything to me, gets on my nerves

... i want to climb trees, then i realize i'm twenty years old and that's socially unacceptable

... i wonder if i'm supposed to enjoy oral sex

This, I'll say...

2009-09-07T22:10:00.001-07:00

The touch of skin on skin gave me a race of heart, yes;

Someone told me you loved me

And I felt a twinge of vanity-

I am no one.

I am nothing but a flake of sand on saturated soil.

You are wonderment;

Underneath;

Form and face and hands and heart and mind-

Elation.

Did I Really Just Say That? (song I wrote)

2009-08-08T10:31:00.001-07:00

Now I do recall while we were laying on the floor
the effects of all the night-time skirmishes
that have our clothes in awkward places
and skin shaking sweat down to the core

You leaned over me to grab your pants
and then you looked into my eyes
For a moment I swear to god you were kidding
but I guess you maned up and took the chance

The three most overrated words in the English vocabulary
came dribbling out your mouth
I didn't know if I should laugh or take in the moment
like I ought
but you just gazed outright directly
As that damn "I love you" came again...
"Do you, Do you, Do you?"
I could only shadow a passive smile
"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

So I guess it makes me completely unsentimental
to see overly past the pitiless shit
into the untruthful cavities of your heart
How could you call our soulless fucking anything conventional?

Oh come on, let's do the right thin; make an honest woman out of me
let's not beat around the goddamn bush
let's play the parts of trailer affairs
Or run with tattoo-clad, cycle-riding symmetry

The three most overrated words in the English vocabulary
came dribbling out your mouth
I didn't know if I should laugh or take in the moment
like I ought
but you just gazed outright directly
As that damn "I love you" came again...
"Do you, Do you, Do you?"
I could only shadow a passive smile
"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

I really can't shake your hand enough,
this has been a grateful partnership,
I've enjoyed all your half-ass promises
and your attempts at being true

"Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Untoward Significance

2009-08-04T10:28:00.000-07:00

So as I lay here, attempting to wake myself from this laziness that has come to swallow me up in the form of comfortable pillows and a feather comforter... I realize I haven't been taking as many pictures as I'd like these days.
I'm a photographer by tendency, not professional by any means, but I do the best I can.
I like giving myself room to breathe, per say.
So I stumbled across a little file of a bunch of pictures I'd taken months and months ago... and I started thinking about which pictures mean things to me.
Then I found this one.

Taken, oh, maybe seven months ago.
And it's one of my favorites.
Why, you ask?
Well, believe it or not, I have a terrible experience (not personal, but second-hand) where prescription drugs are concerned. To be able to relay that into a photograph almost made me cry when I took another look.
And that's what I've always wanted to do... bring emotions out with the things I do.
For better or worse.

Clairvoyant

2009-06-11T16:23:00.001-07:00

Slip, slide across my mind. It's liquid of course, do you agree? Do you agree with underwater dreams? Of palaces and knights - and homosexual kings and queens? I do. Is that odd? Am I different? Eyes are bright- sure- brighter than mine by measure I believe. I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to. It's a secret how I move, you know. Closely guarded. You wouldn't catch on even if you watched me in an empty space, with just my hair blowing violently across my face. You'd ask some question and I'd be silent. That is all.

My Life Is A Fucking Dolly Parton Song: Part 3

2009-06-11T10:47:00.000-07:00

Her and the Car and the Mobile Home

Sometimes I begin to really wonder about my sanity...okay, I always wonder about my sanity...
So I have this friend, right? And we'll call her "Bessy".
Bessy has a boyfriend who works on a smelly boat out in the boondocks right smack dab in the middle of nowhereland. For some odd reason she chose me to be the one gal to assist her in a pseudo Romeo-Juliet campaign. See, her parents are really religious and don't like this guy, so a couple of nights a week she tells them she's going do something with me. I go pick her up in my car, and away we go.
And then--oh, this is the good part-- and THEN i have to watch her and her hillbilly lover suck face on the oil boat while I sit there twiddling my thumbs with nothing better to do.
It wasn't so particular last night, the ritual went as planned. We left the boondocks around midnight in our efforts to get home before anyone got a little antsy. She begins with this insane little tirade about how she's going to eventually marry this guy and they're going to live in a double wide someplace out in the country...
I'm thinking if that floats her boat, so be it. Why not?
It's not like someone can be completely unhappy living in a mobile home in the middle of nowhere, right?
She has the window down and she's completely going a little crazy, screaming at the top of her lungs; the effects of her uncontainable joy (I suppose it was a mild effect of her snogging the oily man back at the boat).
All of a sudden, her phone starts ringing and vibrating in her hand, and what happens then?
Why, she flings the phone out the window!
It wasn't a purposeful sort of gesture, but one of surprise, because at that moment she turns her head to be and shrieks that she just dropped her really expensive cellphone into the ditch along this winding back road, and that we have to get out and find it.
How else is she going to explain to her mother (whom she lives with) that she lost her new phone?
So here we are, skirts hiked up, jeans rolled, hands dirty, searching the muddy ditches on the side of this road looking for her new phone with one little mini flashlight.
It was a pretty sight.
I was pissed to say the least.
When we finally found the damn thing it was threatening not to work..the screen was wet, and it appeared water had gotten inside.
She moaned and groaned until finally it came back to life, and all was well.
For the rest of the ride home she talked about her idealistic little life out in the country, with her beau and her double wide...
The things I do for friendship.

I Think You're Wonderful, Loser.

2009-06-10T23:17:00.000-07:00

I think you're amazing, why can't you see that?
It's as if there's something that makes you believe that there is good in every other person on this planet but you... you think of yourself as selfish and afflicted. You think that I'd be better off if I didn't have these feelings for you, but how wrong you are. You don't look in the mirror and see yourself truly, do you? Or often enough?
If you did, and you saw what I see, you'd see someone genuinely worth all of my time and attention.
There's something so playful about the composure of your mouth, and when you smile, you light up the entire room like a glowing sphere of unadulterated joy.
You never complain.
Your eyes are bright--like Plexiglas-- my heart beats when they alight on mine.
How ridiculous that you can't understand it...
That you can't see why I love you.
It's hell, really, it is.
I want you to know and I want you to see it...

It's too bad you're across the ocean,
away from me.

Linger

2009-05-24T14:09:00.000-07:00

I had just finished a line when she stumbled into the room in just her underwear, laughing, saying they had stolen the rest of her clothes after she jumped in the pool. I remember looking at her and thinking she was hot, you know, regular like that. There was a butterfly tattoo on her hip bone, and she wasn’t outrageously skinny. There were curves, which made her pale skin look like ice against the dark walls.
She glanced around the room frantically, as I stared at her with something like confusion and fascination.
“AH!” Inspired, she ran over to the bed behind me, and tore off the white sheet. It was thin enough to fold in half and tie around, and this is precisely what she did. There she was, in her makeshift dress, damp skin, hair disarrayed; she came and sat down next to me on the sofa. The music from the other room was obnoxious, complimented by the sounds of high-pitched laughs and glass bottles being thrown around.
“You like butterflies?” I asked her, wiping my nose. “Sure thing, I love butterflies. Don’t you?” Her voice was the kind I liked, soft and sincere.
“They’re okay.” We sat on the couch in awkward silence; she could see my eyes and the way my hand was twitching a bit. I began to wonder if she cared. I didn’t really know what to make of it until she put her hand on mine, stopping the twitching; her touch like ice, her fingers still clammy from the pool.
“You’re shaking,” She explained. “Here.” She took my other hand, and pressed them together.
She put her own hands over mine, and blew into them, her breath hot. She repeated this three times, and all the while my head was spinning from the effects of the drug. Still, strangely, I remember every detail, in colors so vivid it felt like a dream. She looked up, in my eyes, and smiled.
“I’m Ellie.” She told me.
“Regan.” I replied.
“Like the president?”
“Yeah.”
We looked at our hands, still pressed together.
“I couldn’t get them warmer.” She surveyed our hands, disapprovingly. “You’re still shaking.”
“It’s not from the cold.”
She looked at me again, our eyes met. She smiled, and I forced a grin. Let go of my hands, and brought her own up, to touch the sides of my face. I’m sure she felt my scruff, I hadn’t shaved in days. Her eyes were violet, a wild sort of blue I hadn’t seen before, electric, wide. I could have swam in them. She arched her neck, and brought her lips closer to mine. I wanted to.
I wanted to; but the instant it appeared it would happen- I turned my head away. Her lips gently brushed my lips before she realized her intentions weren’t executed.
“I don’t want to kiss you like this.” I told her, shortly, the words coming out sharp like knives, a bit heartless and unfeeling.
That’s when Mickey came in.
Well, he was pushed in, right through the door, and landed in a heap before us. Groaning and laughing at the same time, he sat up and turned to the two of us, sitting there staring at him.
“What the fuck you’re lookin at?” He chuckled, jumping up, and sitting between us.
“You were just thrown through a door.” She marveled.
“Yeah, and you’re quite the observer.” He chucked her under the chin like a kid, and pulled out a little pouch from the pocket of his jacket.
“Doing one with me, eh?” He asked me, as he began his set up.
I looked at her, and then I looked at him, and shook my head.
“Should’ve known. You’re high as a kite already.” He chuckled, he turned to her.
“You want some?” He asked her.
“No.” She replied shortly.
“Your loss, it’s the good stuff.”
So began a strange friendship.
As Mickey sat there doing a line, Ellie and I exchanged glances, and eventually locked fingers behind his back.
We started hanging out more and more. She was in college nearby, and Mickey and I didn’t know a damn thing about college. She was sober, but thought we were fun. The three of us became somewhat inseparable, like a Bonnie and two Clydes. Her connection with me was different, though. It wasn’t as platonic as I hoped it would be. I liked her too much too soon, I knew it was real, but I didn’t want to fuck it up.
Then, one day, it occurred out of the blue.
The three of us went down to the beach at night on an impulse, and something happened. Mickey was fucking around in the waves, high, and singing something in Russian. Ellie and I stole away behind the lifeguard cabin. We were laughing and the only light above us was the moon. She took off her shirt, and I took off mine. We gripped each other, tight, the heat making our bodies stick together. Her mouth found mine, there, in the darkness.
In three days time, I had made up my mind.
The trio would be sacrificed.
I wanted her. I wanted her for my own selfish reasons. She was clean and she was pure, the type of love she was offering only came around once in a lifetime. I didn’t want to think about the future, it was nothing to me. All that mattered was the now. All that mattered was the taste of her on my lips, the way it felt, and what it meant. I called Mickey.
“Do what you gotta, man.” He said in his thick southern drone. “Just don’t fall in too deep with a girl like her…she’s the kind that wants to fix things.”
Some time came and went, Mickey and I still got together in his apartment, doing lines and talking about things. Ellie became my girlfriend.
Mickey disapproved in the beginning, especially when he found out I’d told her everything about me. The bad childhood, the innumerable exes, the record for criminal activities, the habit. He didn’t like the idea of being ousted, but he knew she wasn’t the sort. As much as she disapproved, we moved in together. It was the best two years of my life. She continued to give, and I continued to take.
In the beginning it was paradise, coming home, being with her. It felt like a marriage. I felt like a man. I felt like things were the way they were supposed to be. She was happy, I was happy. We both had jobs, we both found completion in being together, a sense of assurance.
The most beautiful thing about it: it was a lie.
She was living with a double me. There was the person I became when I was with her, the person I knew I could be, some guy on top of the world with all the answers to life, happiness was a ball on my string. And; the Hyde to my Jekyll, the animal who needed the healing power that only routine could bring to me. The control I felt when I knocked on back doors and slipped cash in the hands of a fellow reprobate.
She was waiting, lingering, for me.
A lover, a best friend; hurting because she couldn’t change me. I refused to change myself, I wasn’t ready. I was leaning on my inhibitions in the form of anything I could get my hands on at the moment. When things got bad, a fight or a thought of the past arose, and when that happened I reverted. Cookie jar money was wasted on my pitiless habits; I became a victim of my own demons.
I never touched her when I was high. I felt like it wouldn’t be love. I felt like I’d hurt her, I’d be fucking her, I’d be abusing her like I was abusing myself. She began to compare me to how she wanted to be treated. She pinned me up again her ideal portrait of us, and left me there on a noose. I’d hang my head; I couldn’t come to terms with it. I disappointed her with expectations, willingly hopeful that she’d find me useless enough to save herself.
The day came, but it took time.
It took time to get her to hate me. She clung to me like the fixer she was. There was this desperation in her, as if she thought she was failing in her efforts if she left me here to die without her. She knew I wouldn’t change this way, like this, ignoring my hang-ups, ignoring all the issues that had accumulated into one huge self-destructive mechanism.
But the day came.
“Get clean, or I leave.” She said to me.
I tried for a day or two, to see for myself if I could really put away my selfishness in order to keep the woman I had come to love sincerely. But I couldn’t, and I lied to her. I was walking around, living a sober story. At night, when she was asleep, I’d sneak outside and have a line. It went on for a few months, but I knew I couldn’t hide it from her for long. She was too smart for me. So, easily, she found me out again, took her stuff and left.
It was that easy.
It was that hard.
I fell deep again, and realized in the end what exactly I had done to her.
Years have passed, me and Mickey got clean. We never talked about Ellie, except for times when we were talking about others and threw her in there collectively for the sake of remembrances.
“I wonder what she’s doing now…” I said to myself as we stood out near the lake one day, talking again about the past. “I bet she’s married now, with kids. Living in the country someplace, in a house with a loft.”
“You know what makes a woman beautiful, man?” He sighed in reflection, looking out into the water and dangling his hand over the edge of the wharf. “It isn’t the size of her breasts or the way she dresses… it’s that smile you get when you tell her she’s yours.”
I never forgot that.

Funk

2009-05-24T14:00:00.000-07:00

So I suppose today is just one of those days...
I'm sitting here in my room, lingering over my laptop with nothing better to do at all.
It's hell.
When is my life going to start?
You begin thinking that everything means something, that shit is going in the right direction, and then BAM, you can't get a job and life is suddenly at a stand still. It's really beginning to piss me off.
I've waited so long for my life suddenly become something exciting and eventful. But being stuck in a financial slump is doing absolutely nothing for my mojo.
Ugh.
It's one thing after another. Continuous. I can't stop it.

I move out in July.
I hope it'll be a transition.
A positive one.

Dear Miss California,

2009-04-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

I regret that you are now detested by the homosexual majority in your home state.

It must have come as a blow to be booed by people as you stood up on stage and all that, I think i'd have freaked out a bit.

Though I applaud you for voicing your true opinion, I believe you could have stated your point more elegantly.

When asked the question you said "In my country, and in my family we believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman." And you went on to apologize for offending anyone.

1.) You shouldn't have said "in my country". That's clearly a sign that you don't pay attention to detail. The country is peppered with conservatives and liberals alike. If it's your opinion, keep it yours. Don't throw in the rest of the country in there, it makes you look like a biggot.

2.) Apologizing for "offending anyone" makes you look like you don't truly support your own thoughts and actions. If it is your opinion, it's not nessessary to apologize for it. You're an American, and it's your right.

Regardless, you were really pretty.

I'm glad you came in second.

I hope the press stops eating you up, we're human and they should understand that fact.

Sincerely,

Lady Cracker

My Life Is A Fucking Dolly Parton Song: Part 2

2009-04-11T20:04:00.000-07:00

Think About Love

I've always seen my mother as some weak and weary individual...a southern belle thrown into the chaotic world of being a wife and mother.

She always tried to love me like she should have loved me, with wide open arms, no inhibitions- but there was always a sort of vulnerable little hesitation about her that I never understood...and so, as it happened, my grandmother became more like my mother, and my mother became more like the annoying older sister that I could never get off my back. My mother was always fine with this arrangement, possibly thinking that living with me in the late afternoon hours and the early mornings before school was enough.

My bond with my grandmother was a iron one.

We couldn't have loved each other more.

She was my rock when I felt the world crowding me, my blessing at bedtime, and the arms I ran to when I needed someone to embrace.

She discovered she had cancer when I was sixteen...and three years later, she lost her battle.

My mother found herself in a thick situation.

See, my mother depended upon my grandmother as much as I did- if not, moreso. My mother's birth father left her, and her two siblings, when they were very young. My mother remained dependent upon my grandmother for emotional support. With my grandmother gone, and us both missing her, it's easy to assume it was a recipe for disaster. It was.

Big time.

My own father, who was always really verbally amusive towards me, was getting especially tough on me since my coming of age. Now that I was in college, he believed that I should have been out of the house, on my own, though I was only nineteen.

One night, my mother and father got into a huge fight...which, wasn't abnormal...

But this time my father, in a drunk rage, points his finger in my mother's face and says menacingly

"And I was still paying for your college tuition when you were married to that other guy."

This sort of startled me.

Other guy?

What other guy?
In a well-written letter the next day (so was my mother's style, she could never just TELL me anything), my mother explains she was married before... briefly... to an unnamed man... when she twenty...

She married my father when she was twenty-six.

Had me at twenty-seven.

I was struck.

I couldn't believe that I had been living this, without ever having really known her or her agenda, for the whole nineteen years of my existance.

I was really angry at first. Not only about that, but about so many things that had built up that had be at odds against her. So many things were running through my mind. So many things about my mother that I never understood and remained enraged about.

I tried to make sense of it, but couldn't.

So I stopped.

I just stopped questioning.

And I tried to understand...

I know how she is, probably better than anyone now.

She has this thing about her, where she's strong and incredibly weak at the same time.

She's strong enough to stand up to my father, but she's weak because she won't leave him.

She was strong enough to leave the man who hurt her first, but she's weak because she still keeps the pain he left her with.

I realized there was nothing I could do, but love her.

Nothing at all, but love her.

It's that simple, and yet, that hard.

I never approached the topic again with my mother. I'm sure she thought I'd be completely destroyed by it... but in theory it explains so much for me. It puts me a bit at ease about how she is the way she is.

There's no way she needs forgiveness from ME for leaving someone who hurt her. I applaud her for it, and in fact, have an entirely new respect for the way she handles things. Though there's still a lot I have left to understand, and unearth, about this woman...

I'm ready.

I just have to see her with open eyes,

and know that I do love her, as her daughter, and I always will.

To: Mr. Anonymous Sitting in the Last Chair on the Third Row to the Left

2009-03-16T21:16:00.000-07:00

I was thinking of you a lot today…
And, seriously, why must you be so damn perfect?
Why do I have to look at you and question my morals?
There was that awkward moment last week…you probably don’t remember it, but I do… the prof was passing out the tests and I turned around to get my binder and you smiled at me. So I smiled back. And, as soon as it was there, it was gone.
That was a moment, and I took it in.
I saw the gold flecks in your brown eyes.
I found myself thinking about you all during class.
The sound of the prof’s mutterings on about Milton’s Paradise Lost didn’t seem relevant in the least to anything anymore… I didn’t care about Heaven, and I didn’t care about Hell anymore. You took up the majority of my mind, while a vision of a little house on the coast of Ireland took up the rest.
A little cottage, right there, on the coast.
And whose is it?
It’s ours.
Why am I thinking this?
Am I a complete idiot?!
But I see it so clearly!
I see it, right there, in front of my mind like a movie projected on a giant screen:
There’s the little cottage, nestled sweetly beside a cliff, white-washes with a little garden along the side. The cliff plummets right down to the ocean, the green grass sliding off the edge as if it is ready to spread wings and fly. There is a whistle in the wind, carried up from the foaming surf below, which rises up and down and slaps and splashes.
And I am standing on the cliff, looking out into the eternal vastness of the ocean. The sun is dipping slowly downward; the sky is pale colors, like dishwater from a paintbrush. I am wearing a white dress, with bare feet, a shawl wrapped about my shoulders. My hair is fluttering behind me like fine strands of gold.
You are there, watching me cautiously from the window of the cottage.
I turn back, I see you, and I smile.
But class is over…
And you’re backing up your books as hurriedly as you can, to get out of class before you expire of boredom.
No, no, wait!
Wait, I want to talk to you!
But it’s no use…
My mouth can’t motion the words.
So I just raise, gently, the last to leave the room…
I mutter a sweet word or two to the old prof who, for all of his efforts, couldn’t manage to entertain my mind, or pull it away from you.
I take my leave.
The ovation is gone.

Disney Channel & the “Tween Exploitation” Problem

2009-03-04T22:12:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or does every other female child star that comes out of Disney Channel turned into a rehab-center regular/promiscuous scalawag?

Women, and “The Body” Issue

2009-02-28T11:13:00.000-08:00

So you’re sitting down in a cafe with your friend… take it, she’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but you tend to love her nonetheless… she’s sort of glaring at a muffin she just picked up from the counter. You’re finishing off your piece of lemon pie without shame, and here she is still staring at this little old muffin.
A muffin, you observe, that doesn’t even have butter on it.
So you put down your fork and you kind of raise an eyebrow and ask if she’s going to eat the damn muffin, because it’s not a life or death situation.
She whines and tosses it down and says the dreaded phrase that no sensible woman wants to hear from a girl-friend:
“I’m so fat.”
All you can do is roll your eyes, and not respond to that comment.
You don’t want to hear it, not again.
It’s gotten to a point where she pulls this shit and says stuff like that so that I’ll look at her, appraise her with a fake smile, and tell her that she’s perfect in every way. That her body is so thin you can see her bones through her tank top.
You can look at her and clearly see that she isn’t fat… but in all honesty, she isn’t a waif.
Would that upset her, if you told her she wasn’t a waif? If she was healthy in appearance? If she was the perfect weight for her frame?
No.
No, no, no.
Women want to hear that they’re “Skinny”, and they want that word precisely.
What the hell is this whole misconception coming from?
In my eyes, personally, I think a woman’s beauty comes from more important factors than WEIGHT.
I’ve read more than a few books concerning body image. It wasn’t because I was looking to feel good about myself, because I do every day. I read these books so that I could understand from the P.O.V of other women, why is it so important to look a certain way? Why is it so crucial to fit into a mold of what consumer-driven assholes want you to look like?
I mean, sometimes I have to physically bring myself in front of a mirror and slap myself in the face and say out loud “hey, you’re beautiful. Just the way you are.” But that works for me!
I’m always brought back to the idea that I don’t look like your average girl.
I’m not skinny, and I like it.
I have skin, and I have muscle, and yes I have fat, but that’s healthy!
I’m comfortable with myself… and I think I’d enjoy female company better if most of them thought the same way.

My Life Is A Fucking Dolly Parton Song: Part 1

2009-02-25T19:52:00.000-08:00

My Own Personal Jolene

Women are insane.
I ought to know.

We will kill for love, among other things.

But what happens when you’re a gung-ho southern woman who can’t hold onto her man?
I found myself in the middle of a Dolly Parton song, about a year ago.
God, I hate to even reminisce about it, it was such a silly sort of juvenile position to put myself in… I mean, seriously, when a girl begins to date a guy she ought to prep herself for the worst, right? Yeah, well, I was “in love” and when you’re young and “in love” your vision of True and False becomes distorted.
It began towards the end I suppose. We’d be dating for an awfully long time, me and this fellow, and we acted as if we had been married for a good ten-fifteen years: dinner, sitcom, bed.
Yeah, it was as bad as it sounds. We had no common interests anymore, but out of curtesy we didn’t want to bring the issues to the forefront. No one wanted to be the bad guy in this sort of situation…yet…
Count on the idiot bozo to go and fuck it up even more, eh?
Well, I knew that my boyfriend at the time (we’ll call him “Athol”) had waning affections. Yes, his affections were waning quite quickly, and I found myself pulling back with force. I felt like I loved him, sure, and I didn’t want to lose him.
Well, Athol had other plans.
In fact, I discovered he didn’t even care about how I felt as all of this unfolded.
While we were still in a committed relationship, he was introduced to a little girl (and little is true, she was a good deal younger than him) that he began to regularly correspond with over the computer, phone, and the like.
I didn’t really like it, but there was nothing I could do about it without going psycho.
Then came the fateful day when he proposed that we “take an undisclosed break”.
Fine.
Athol and I parted ways, and made a “vow” to get back together in good time, once we had reasoned things out a bit for ourselves.
Hmph. Sure.
I’m a little antsy, because I know that they’re talking to each other. And this little girl looked like she could hold her own around a guy. I’m not saying I’m ugly, but out of my own general spite I began to refer to her as the “belle petite fille”.
I was bitter.
I wanted to know what was going on, because by his short telephone calls and inattentiveness to me in the days that followed, I knew he was becoming less interested in getting back together with me- and more interested in this little harlot who had just paraded onto the scene and busted my nice little domestic bubble.
Well, about a week later, I’m still optimistic about seeing Athol at a concert that we were supposed to go to. We were going separately, but meeting amongst a group of mutual friends.
The day rolls around, and I’m excited.
So I show up, and he’s not there yet, I’m hanging out with a group of friends.
And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world… In swaggers Athol with the little girl on his arm… They’re clinging to each other as if it’s Armageddon and they’ve got .9 seconds to live…
My stomach grows sick, but out of courtesy, I decide to approach them both and be as unassuming as I can manage.
I start by greeting him with a hug, and then turning my attentions to the little auburn-headed, eyeliner-clad youngster at his side.
I say
“Hi, I’m Ash! I’m so ready for tonight, they have amazing bands playing.”
I proceed to list the bands, while she stands there looking at me with glazed eyes as if she’s bored out of her mind.
I’m finished talking, and I’m waiting for her to say something.
So that little hot mess looks at me, and rolls her eyes, and says in a staunch, haughty tone-
“Oh… well I don’t know any of the bands playing here.”
I smile as cheekily as I can manage through clenched teeth and reply
“Yes, well, they were popular before you were old enough to get in here.”
I turn, as my friends come up to me, in a desperate attempt to get me away from the scene. But before I do, I glance back, and reassure her with a last line:
“You should really take a look in the mirror after playing in your crayon box all day.”
I added a nice hair flip, for measure.
Then I went home and drank my weight in vodka.

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene… I’m begging of you-
TAKE MY LEFTOVERS, YOU DESERVE THE CHEATING BASTARD!

The Ultimate Intellectual Woman's Mancandy: James McAvoy

2009-02-21T22:17:00.001-08:00

Name: James Andrew McAvoy

Nationality: Scottish

Birthday: April 21, 1979

Current Age: 29

How Many Years Older He Is Than I: 9

Does That Mean It Would Be Creepy If We Married: No

Qualities That Make Me Love With Him:

- Intelligence

- True Humor

- Wicked Cute Scottish Accent

- Insanely Beautiful Blue Eyes

Notable Roles:

- The Chronicles of Narnia

- Becoming Jane

- Atonement

- Rory O'Shea Was Here

- Penelope

- Wanted

Is it really, really evil of me if I hope his wife randomly falls in love with another man and leaves him desperately starved of love and in need of attentions?... Attentions from an ambitious American female, nine years his junior, full of life and looking for love?...

Got Milk?: Opinions on the Homosexual and Bisexual Agenda

2009-02-20T12:34:00.000-08:00

Upon finishing the movie Milk, starring Sean Penn...

The other day it occurred to me, everyone is going Bi.
Bi is the new black.
I, personally, prefer the male anatomy, thusly concluding that I am, indeed, straight. But it’s sort of unfortunate that I’m hetero, because I find women to be absolutely stunning.
There’s something about the female form that has a way of being alluring- no matter what orientation you are.
Here’s the break-down:
Since I was very little I was taught it was a grave and dangerous sin for one person of sex to have feelings for/sensually love/and/or be drawn to a person of the same sex. I was raised in a very traditional Catholic household, and so of course I felt weird about the whole ordeal, noticing more and more of the people i know making out with their own gender.
It only proved to fascinate me more than frighten me.
That’s when I sort of began to rethink how important it is for these sort of things to be addressed.
It doesn't bother me at all to believe that persons of the same gender can fall in love, and want to be together. In fact, I believe that every person, at one point in their life, is drawn to a person of the same sex. It's only human. As a person who often considers themselves a pseudo-psychologist, I believe it is simply a part of our mind state, and is NOT something we should be ashamed of.
Another thing, I choose to detest those people who believe that treating gay, lesbian, and bisexuals with little or no respect. It's cruel. It's wrong, and it's NOT something I support in the least of respects. I dislike people who are so closed-minded and immature about the situation at hand. Those people who think this is dangerous to our society are wrong as well, it’s not dangerous.
I would rather for Abortion (which, in my opinion, is actually murder) to be illegalized, and Same-Sex Marriage to be legalized.
Abortion is TAKING AWAY LIFE, and Same-Sex Marriage, in my opinion, does nothing but PROMOTE commitment, and love.
I mean, really, what's the world coming to?! I'd prefer to see two men holding hands in public, than a topless girl whoring herself on public television, like CBS or ABC.
So yeah, let’s let people make out and hold hands.
And stop killing fetuses instead.

The Rape of Sexuality

2009-02-20T07:32:00.000-08:00

I always have very strong feelings about these sorts of things… don’t ask me why.
I’m shameless, sure, and unabashed, but if there’s something that I’m always clear about:
I have respect for myself, and I have respect for others.
So as I sit here, flipping through the channels on TV, ignoring my only class that I have on Friday (Political Science, fun stuff), I stop and stare in amazement. Why, it’s none other than Rock of Love: Bus on Vh1. I’m gazing at the television screen, fixed, and I’m completely distracted, but not in a good way.
The first thing I don’t understand; why are these women unloading music equipment in lingerie?
Second; why are grown women not only:
1.) doing this on a nationally-broadcasted reality show?
2.) competing for the love of Bret Michaels?!?!
Mmmmk, seriously, what is the world coming to…
I’m sorry, but where has the “New Attitude with Old Values” gone to?
Don’t get me wrong, I think that sexuality is very important. In fact, it’s huge.
I have no issue with moving forward, being daring, being SEXY! There’s nothing wrong with being aware of your natural sexuality! My god, sex appeal has really nothing at all to do with what a person wears; it’s how they protract their energy!
I just feel like the whole system is completely Fruged.
Women dress like sluts.
Men like women who dress like sluts.
That leaves no room for the rest of womankind that treats themselves with dignity, and esteem.
Mind you, there are a very small percentage of guys and girls who catch my drift, and I’d like to say to you: THANK YOU SMART PEOPLE OF AMERICA.
But, I suppose it’s whatever floats one’s boat.
I’m sorry, but I’d feel as if I was cheating myself if I felt like I had to take off my clothes and dumb myself down to attract a man…
Perhaps that’s why I’ve never really dated all that well.

Hello, Welcome to Chaos.

2009-02-19T20:51:00.000-08:00

So, this is the beginning of the end I suppose…
I’m sitting here doing much of nothing and I figure it’s time for me to begin to voice a little piece of my mind that not many people hear from me.
This is good.
I guess I had better do something profound before I die.
Oh wait, shit, what was I suppose to say?...
Oh yeah, there’s more about me to go on about blah blah blah explaining why I’m doing this blog-thing…blah blah blah… there’s stupid music playing on the TV… blah blah blah… my tea’s too damn hot…
Fruge.
“Fruge” is a word I’ll use often…
It’s sort of like saying “Fuck” minus 99.9% of the profanity.
That’s a useless tactic, I don’t care about offending people, but oh well it’s a fun word.
I might just say it around at the supermarket sometime, and tell people it’s German for “condoms”.
Fun stuff.
In other news… I need a punching bag desperately.
My therapist says I have a lot of built up sexual frustration.
Lucky for him, he’s a fifty-something married to a twenty-something, so he doesn’t have this issue.

*Googles*
$200 for a punching bag.
Shit.

Prose Before Hoes: That Damned "Vampire" Series

2009-02-19T18:28:00.000-08:00

Ten Reasons Why the Twilight Series is
(by far)
the Most Mediocre Bull I Have Ever Had the Misfortune to Read:

1.) The mundane storyline is washed-up, and sounds like a Danielle Steel novelia gone horribly, horribly wrong.
2.) Half-ass prose is a fantastic way to make money.
3.) Let's just take the base line of Anne Rice's epic personal narrative and turn it into a poorly-written yuppie tween fantasy!
4.) How dare people compare the Twilight series to Harry Potter?! Seriously, like there is even a DEBATE over this. J.K. Rowling put her heart and soul into the story of Harry and into the books she wrote. Clearly this shows, by the composure and the intelligent design of every single story she's written. In twenty years, people will still be fans of Harry Potter, this will not be the same about Twilight- which will fade into obscurity along with every book written in such a juvenile manner.
5.) The character of Edward is appealingly an oldschool romantic, but the identity crisis does nothing for his beautiful complexion.
6.) The character of Bella is less appealing in the idea that she's whiney, and rather pathetic, in her quest to obtain this insecure blood-sucking fool.
7.) Twilight, that is, the first book, was what I would deem "good". Every book afterward was like Gigli, ridiculously blown-up, and a sorry excuse for production.
8.) Let's give prepubescent children with bad home lives something to squeal about, eh?
9.) Oh no… they've made a movie…
10.) WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH BELLA BECOMING PREGNANT… VAMPIRES DO NOT CREATE SPERM. WHEN THEY BECOME VAMPIRES, IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR THEM TO REPRODUCE. THIS CHILD WITH THE FUCKED-UP NAME SHOULD NOT EXIST!

Irregular P.O.V: A Humorous Observation of Dating

2009-02-19T18:20:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to that oh-so-adorably idiotic Frat boy who attempted to lure me to his bed after a casual meal… thank you, you won me an A+ in creative writing.

Entertain me with your smiles. Tell me lies so that I may, perhaps, over the placid expressionless demeanor of my face, I may be roaring with laughter within.
I can understand why you would lie.
I can understand how you wish me to believe that you are perfect.
I'd never blame you. I'd never even see it, were I not gifted with intuition. I'd probably think you were perfect, and without flaw. I'd sleep with you, and give you all of me. And when you'd call "us" off, I'd blame myself instead.
But you can see, quite comically, that this is not to be. Not for us.
See, I can tell you're an ego-driven jerk. I can read you and your intentions so listlessly.
Oh yes, I do think you're quite attractive! You're well-formed and all that; you hold yourself well and have a very magnetic smile.
But is it enough to move me?
I'm sorry to disappoint, but your beauty clearly isn't enough for me. I cannot let you touch my breasts if I thus dislike you.
I don't quite know you enough to hate you.
But it doesn't mean you aren't trying. Oh you are trying very hard indeed to have me like you.
You're telling me all of the "right" things, all the things you think will make me swoon. But I'm still laughing. See, you clearly haven't understood me when I said "I'm not like other women."
Compliments repel me. Don't call me beautiful, or say that my eyes "shine like diamonds". That may very well have me hate you.
Give me an insult instead; your honesty, unguarded and blameless, shall make me like you all the more. Tell me that my hair is frizzy, or, perhaps, that I am fat. I assure you, I won't slap you.
The worst you shall receive from me is a giggle: which means it was a poorly executed insult. I might ask you to never try that one again.
I don't mean to hurt you by saying you're not my type. I'd say it isn't you, out of some bullshit protocol, but, well, it is you. You're even more vain and eccentric than I thought at the beginning of this conversation.
I've known too many boys like you to not make my experiences applied.
As you can tell, I'm not easy. It's amusing because it appears this is making you try harder nonetheless. You're saying you're an ostentatious asshole. Yes, you are. You're saying you know you're one to always break hearts. Yes, yes, you probably are.
But you're willing to stop all of that for Me!
Oh, this is too funny now. You think that after outwardly expressing my disgust you'd get the point, right? Wrong.
I'm flattered, really, by your persistence. I must be a prize to be won.
Your willingness to kiss my ass is growing on me.
But oh, please, let's end this as cordially as we can manage without wounding your pride. I would hate for you to be bitter. After all, I'm perfectly certain there's more suitable game at the local pub or saloon.
Let's view this in a very sensible light:
You're a hunter, and I'm not willing to lay down and be your prey.
I do hope we can chat from time to time.
You are, after all, a valuable reference.

Let's Get Political: Personal Commentary on President Barak Obama’s Inauguration

2009-02-19T18:16:00.000-08:00

For all of his political flaws and inexperience, I suppose it’s safe to say that President Barak Obama is a charismatic and moving speaker. His charming and unassumingly appealing way of presenting himself perhaps salvaged his triumph in the presidential election against the grey-suited hoard of Republicans: the ever-stuttering George W. Bush, the alarmingly conservative John McCain, and the staunch gun-advocate Sarah Palin.
To the sensible eye, putting another Republican in the seat of Commander in Chief would have been purely taboo, correct? It is quite safe of the American population to rest the burdens of an entire nation upon the shoulders of one man, a man unofficial termed as ‘the most powerful in the world’. Yeesh, it is without a doubt that a good number of Americans are more willing than not to cast a grumble or a look of disdain upon the term of President George W. Bush; a man who, for all of his positive convictions, couldn’t verbalize gracefully for his life!And then, alas, like a breath of fresh air… Senator Barack Obama announces that he is running for the Democratic Party. Halleluiah; I could almost hear the nation breathe a sigh of relief, and the notion of ‘let’s vote for him because he’s black, and he’s a democrat’ being sung from East coast to West coast.
Here we are, the beginning of a new year, and our new president is making himself cozy up on Capitol Hill. I sat through the speeches, the fanfare, the parade, and somehow I still can’t seem to grasp the concept that anything at all has changed in this country. The more I read, the more I realize that promises must be taken back, in order to please the laws of the party. I understand President Obama, as I sit here listening to him speak about peace and good for mankind, but I cannot help but feel like his promises are half-ass.
I may be completely wrong, but my feminine intuition tells me that my inner premonitions are only foreshadowing certain disappointments. I can only assume that if shit hits the fan during our new president’s administration, that the press, the American people, and the world will be gracious in their judgments of him. We wouldn’t want to end up like France; everyone knows what happened to Robespierre.
On another point, I found the sermon to be a bit overrated and wordy. The address by President Obama, while revitalizing and pseudo-Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., was deficient in the towering rhetoric he is best known for using in like speeches. I found myself thinking ‘have I heard this before, in different context’? and ‘Is it just me, or does he toot his own horn a little bit?’
Oh, who am I kidding, he’s a politician! Like the rest, he’ll say whatever he must to be the darling of American reform. He’s the leader of this country now; he’s doing his part to assure that the people are pleased. Without their help, he knows he’s good for nothing. I just hope that if he does, shockingly, reveal that he’s a human who makes mistakes, the whole world doesn’t hate him for it. I can almost hear President Obama, whispering, as he lays his head on his pillow at night ‘I sure hope I don’t end up like that Bush guy.’