one paranoid android

What do you do?

2011-09-17T13:32:00.000-07:00

"I'm a waitress. I sort of write, I used to paint. I think I'm going to be one of those people with a lot of potential who never really takes off."

-Rebecca Miller

2011-08-28T14:02:00.000-07:00

A hurricane passes over us and her name is Irene. So nice to meet you Irene. You've been kind thus far. Please don't ever change. You gave me the day off with double pay. You gave me insight into human nature, placing hysteria under a microscope, with little consequence. Congregation, indulgence, dropped obligation, sometimes we need you, all at once. You also free up time in my schedule. How darling of you. Be a dear, keep it up. Do come and see us again, not before too long.

2011-08-24T13:02:00.000-07:00

What do we want? Love and understanding! When do we want it? Whenever it's available!

2011-08-03T12:07:00.000-07:00

You get to the point where you decide you won't stand for it anymore, but then find yourself more alone than ever. You conclude this kind of loneliness you can deal with, because at the very least there's integrity in it, whereas the other species of loneliness makes you feel emptier than you've ever been, no matter how many people surround you.

2011-07-30T11:21:00.001-07:00

Cats and rats are too much alike, which is why they don't get along.

The Smallest Violin in the World

2011-07-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

Oh angst! Remove thy hands from off my throat! I do not seek thee by any means!

I search for someone purely as a means of escape. I exert myself physically, in order to avoid. I chase lofty dreams. I convince myself otherwise. I say, you don't have to if you don't want to. You can be selfish if you so choose. My angst is still not quelled.

I place my heart in your hands and you drop it on your walk home. You don't even hear it splatter when it hits heavy upon the sidewalk. You just stroll along, head in the clouds, reaching for a cigarette. Long forgotten. Happiness is a four letter word.

I fight not to be alone, because I'm supposed to be alone. This is my path and it was chosen for me. You were placed along this path so you could kick me as I crossed you. You didn't necessarily mean harm, you just couldn't help yourself. I wear the bruises of lovers past. Some take longer to heal than others, some never go away, some are forever hidden from sight.

Do we flourish when happy? Or are we weakened by our joy? This is the way it goes when we blindly we lead our lives, driven by false notions, unsure of the difference between need and want. And I continue paddling upstream with a disposable spoon. I sure am thirsty, can somebody please hand me an ore?

2011-04-08T17:54:00.000-07:00

I suck the medicine into my lungs and I think about how to grow up quickly. Or at least, at an accelerated rate.

Step 2.

Go away. Go far away from everything you know. Go to a place where you don't have a damn thing. Go to a place where you have no friends, no family, no job. Go where no immediate sense of support exists. Strip the walls of comfort down. Though you may fall apart when the thick, velvet curtains are parted and you stand naked in the piercing light of dawn, trembling and terrified, don't be too shocked when you still find yourself alone. Don't be surprised when the "right thing," or the answer to your problems doesn't come. Oh sure, you can call home, cry and complain to your hearts content. But when your lifeline dries up, there is no choice. You must go it alone. Suffer, sisters!

This may lead you to drink, or cry, or seek bad sex from a stranger. This may lead to severe anxiety, longing, insomnia, credit card debt, over-eating and self loathing. You might also become a drag to be around, angry and abusive to your fellow man. Your heart will harden, sure. But months, maybe years later, you will look back on the multitude of difficulties you decidedly brought upon yourself. You fool, they said to you. No one understood why you chose to suffer the way you did, and you still can't quite explain it to them, but you will admit the occasional surrender to fearlessness propels you in a necessary direction. Because right now, you can't imagine your life any other way.

A Meditation on Fear

2011-03-10T09:44:00.000-08:00

Fear makes you doubt. Fear promotes differences. Fear gives way to shame, apprehension, pride. Fear pushes others away. Fear closes itself off from love and clings desperately to habit. Fear is accusational. Fear is suspicious, paranoid. Fear is the devil sitting on your right shoulder, whispering in your ear, telling you it hates you.

Dear Me,

2011-02-01T14:07:00.000-08:00

In my heart I always knew I cared about you. I just never believed it. I never believed it the way I never believed in myself.

I did wrong. I knew your worth. I was acutely aware of it. Still, I refused to believe, I turned a blind eye. It was selfish. But like I said before, when you don't believe in yourself you'll do anything for approval.

I continue to live with the psychological repercussions of turning my back on you. You were the only one really standing by my side; the only person whose opinion truly mattered.

Please believe me when I say my aim was once true. When you met him, there was apprehension. Something wasn't right and you felt it. His falseness and unwarranted superiority resonated from within him, via a need for attention and his snide take on humanity. It was jarring for you. In reality, he was just scared as hell. Scared you'd never care for him. Scared no one would. He needed you, so he opened his heart to you alone. It was the softness he showed that gave you hope, drew you in. After all, you needed love just as much as he did, for your own fucked up reasons. The common thread remained; you both wanted to find love for yourselves from within each other.

The next couple months were divine weren't they? Imbibed in lust and comfort, you relished in your desires and began to forget things. Your attention to details of importance began to falter. The foundation to the house you'd built began to sink.

Shakespeare gladly put it, "To thine own self be true." Your greatest errors have been committed when not living by those words. Admit fault. Know that you became careless with him as I did with you. You stopped doing those things that were important to you, in order to allot time for him. You let life get in the way, lost a sense of yourself and clung to your crutch for love. You became debilitated, disarmed from your best self. You took his adoration as a given. And when his interest in you died, a part of you died too. True, he ultimately failed you, but more importantly, you failed yourself. Losing self worth and ceasing to chase your destiny stripped you of your very essence. You forgot how someone liked to be loved, all because you were too consumed by the love you were missing from within yourself. The magic left and you allowed that. You hadn't the courage to address it, for fear of losing him. But soon after, he was still gone.

I betrayed you, through and through. I placed others before you. I placed lovers, parents, sisters before you. I've failed to see your valor for some time now. For this, I am sorry. I commit to love you with honesty and without reproach. I won't deny a lifetime of scorn will do something to the deepest level of your psyche, weaving itself into every extension of your being. I've taken the whip to your back for a good 30 years. The lashes ingrained within speak. They say, "It's ok honey. You're doing just fine. You can stop now."

These difficulties come but not without a lesson, as I've come to regard you as the special, capable soul you really are. I always felt it, the life inside you. Perhaps this explains why I clung to the pain so long. It made me truly feel alive. Now I aim to make you feel alive by a nobler, more loving means. I'll never stray so far from you, at least not for too long.

Women Like Assholes

2010-12-03T11:44:00.000-08:00

Yes. We like assholes so much. That's why we don't like you, nice guy. Shit. I've dated a few "nice guys" in the past. Turns out they weren't so nice. They badly wanted to be liked so badly, they ended up doing whatever it took to retain that "nice" facade, going against the whole idea of being nice.

Let's not mince words. Women like courage, not assholes. Women want someone who has the guts to stand up for something he cares about, whatever that be. We want someone who knows when to put his foot down, especially in the name of self-respect. We seek the kind of person who stands up for their beliefs, even in the face of conflict or scrutiny. This isn't something you can easily compartmentalize into the "nice" category. It's something greater and it's called having the courage to be honest. This undoubtedly becomes the biggest discrepancy in differentiating between the assholes and the wimps and sadly, I fear my dating pool is primarily comprised of these two types of males.

Nice guy wants to be liked, as we all do, so in order to obtain this he paints a pretty picture. When he gets what he wants, he validates himself, particularly his ego, at whatever the cost. Feeding the ego is like offering a sacrifice to the fickle, insatiable gods. It's an endless cycle that requires continual yet fruitless effort. So in hopes of winning you over, nice guy presents the most favorable version of himself. This occurs in exchange for temporarily boosting his self esteem and keeping truth, anger and emotion stowed away. Let us not forget that such a compromise formulates with a noble cause: In hopes of gaining our affections. Totally valid. Women love to be adored as much as the next person. Yet what is on the other side of that adoration? When the chase is over, what comes next? You may find yourself in bountiful courting stages, but the nice guy mask cannot stay on forever and when the ugly head finally reveals itself, the end result is usually laden with bitterness, disillusion and hurt.

In love and romance, it's important to take heed in how pursuit is approached. Nice guy issues become apparent when the male in question suddenly morphs into man of the year, or performs the "mating dance" in order to obtain his female of interest. I once dated someone who pretended to be edgy and social so I would go for him. It was generally very important that people like him, and our initial connection formed in going out for dinner and drinks. It was an activity we both enjoyed, or so I thought. After three weeks into dating, I began to notice he wasn't so gung-ho about dinner and drinks. Turns out he was really a homebody who didn't like drinking at all. In the end, he became judgmental about my drinking, when his vice was pot smoking. He fancied himself a high and mighty wee girl, didn't he? Fucking cub scout.

Before this issue surfaced, I distinctly remember this boyfriend being a very promising candidate, due to the romantic gestures he made within the first month of our relationship. He would bring me lunch, love notes and flowers to work, showering me with attention and affection. It was all very new and exciting to me. The only problem was, he started to move too fast too soon, and everything became overwhelming. Our romance was somewhat forbidden, since my then roommate had developed an unreciprocated crush on him. I was torn between being a friend and a girlfriend, so the heavy duty Don Quixote bit became more stressful than enjoyable. When I brought it up, his boner deflated and he was never the same guy. He'd projected his romantic ideals on the person he wanted me to be (future baby maker) and when I didn't appease that ideal, his ego was crushed and he checked out. Problem was, he didn't bother to tell me. Why? Because men are afraid of women when they're upset.

So it goes. The demise of your relationship with Mr. Nice Guy begins. Enter passive aggressive behavior, lack of willingness to communicate, time spent together becomes eradicated and let's not forget our good buddy, bad sex. Yow! Exit, nice guy.

After things with the cub scout began to fall apart and communication didn't make a lick of difference, I finally decided to end things after four months together. The night I told him it wasn't working, he nodded his head vigorously in accordance. He cried, but only after he started talking about how much he missed his dog. Otherwise, I'd made his day. The truth was he'd been trying to shake me off for weeks by not calling or texting me back, suddenly being really "busy" and all that other weak business nice guys do. If the nice guy is erring more on the side of "asshole," he cheats and tries to get caught. Whatever the method, the point is to make a clean break, where the female has to execute the breakup so he won't have to smear his "nice guy" image. To put it simply, he's too pussy to be honest about his true feelings because he doesn't want to confront possibly hurting you.

Let's get something straight here, gentlemen. Though we may at first be upset, we can handle it. Don't insult us. We will survive losing you. Perhaps we may even...gasp! Flourish? To dream! A woman's post break up fit of anger is merely a blip when compared to the sense of respect one feels toward truth. Yes, our panties will be in a bunch after you break up with us, but if you tell us what you sincerely think and feel, we will always look back on you fondly. I feel an elevated sense of respect toward the ex's who didn't sugar coat anything and just kept it real. It takes balls to put it as plainly as "I don't love you anymore. Goodbye." Though sometimes brutal, honesty eliminates the obsessive guessing games, speculation and torment surrounding the end of a relationship. To save everyone a lot of time and energy, let us start to come to terms with the possibility of being momentarily disliked by our ex lovers and stop treating truth like an embarrassing afterthought, shall we? If all our ex-boyfriends proceeded with breakups this way, life would be so much simpler, and so much time would be saved.

Then we have the guys who are so stifled by their niceness they can't even make it into the boyfriend zone. They are stuck sans girlfriend and place full blame on the fact that they're "nice." This species of male tends to be particularly bitter toward women and their asshole loving ways. I have been fooled by this type before, but am now adept to hang a quick left at the sight of them.

Not getting laid for an extended period of time will do one of two things: Give you clarity and allow you to detach yourself from the physical need to be with someone or make you horny and crazy as hell, leading you to get down on yourself and project your neuroses onto every person you meet. This is also known as not keeping your shit tight. It's unfortunate, but it happens to the best of us.

I recently met someone while searching for an apartment on Craigslist. Not a good start, I know. This guy was very cordial and light hearted via email, but in the end, he rented out the room before I even had a chance to look at it. He sent an email letting me know, apologizing all over the place and offering any help if I so desired it. I thought, "Wow that's really nice of him." True to form, turns out he was a really nice guy. Now that I think about it, he was the king of nice guys.

I sent him an email thanking him and in reply, he offered to buy me a drink sometime. I stupidly accepted. Upon meeting him for the first time, I was pleasantly surprised. He wasn't half bad looking. And not only was he easy to look at, he had an elevated understanding of good music and interesting things to say. However the red flags began to pop up soon enough, when I realized he was a sycophant. He began to place me on a pedestal, telling me everything I said was perfect, that I did no wrong.

Whoa. Get to know me buddy. Perfect is not the word to describe anyone, particularly me. I started to get the impression that if I stuck around I'd become this guy's teacher, as I was not only smarter, but wiser as a cause of being three years older, which is equal to ten in man years. Teaching is for teachers and I already teach yoga, thank you very much. I like to leave work at work and I certainly don't need another full time job. Especially if it's teaching you how to be my boyfriend.

The second time I hung out with the king of nice, the alarms really starting going off, after he openly told me he hadn't dated anyone in six years. Apparently, girls always rejected him on the grounds that they'd rather be friends (since he was so nice and all), to which he bitterly retorted, "I already have enough friends. I don't need another one."

C'mon! That's the biggest piece of horse shit I continually hear from scorned nice types. I don't need another friend. Shit. I'm sure you don't. You are beyond needing friends. Listen to yourself, will you? You sound like an ass. Even if it's true and you have plenty of friends, don't say it. I beg you. Don't even say it. It makes you look bad and serves to keep you single. No one was ever harmed in having one more friend and if you think you're above this, it's probably time to check your ego. You couldn't find a better way to make yourself look like the down on his luck sap, when things like this come out of your mouth.

So did I take on the gentleman who probably didn't know how to fuck (six years and no girlfriend?) No, I did not. I was very candid about why we couldn't move forward with any sort of romance, because I felt I owed him truth. I let him know he wasn't able to afford me the level of intellectual stimulation I needed, and that he did wrong in selling me the down on his luck "nice guy" whom women wanted only as a friend; the same guy who took no interest in having yet another burdensome female friend. Did he appreciate my honesty? No, he did not. He pretty much sent me to hell. Needless to say, we did not remain friends.

And why did these women only want to have him as a friend in the first place? Because he was too much of a coward to keep as a boyfriend! No one wants that. This guy literally asked if he could kiss me in a bar, and didn't even wait for an answer before coming in for the kill. He got shoved off real quick, whilst I simultaneously whipped my head away in mild disgust. I'm sure I could've kept him around to abuse and manipulate to my hearts content, but that's not what I'm looking for. I'm looking for a man who's secure enough in himself to not seek validation via self deprecation, pity partying and ass kissing. Grow a pair!

I like nice people. I appreciate human courtesy and respect. I don't appreciate men who use lame cop-outs to cope with being rejected by women. That's not fair. You know what else isn't fair? When men cry about how women have it so easy because they can use their looks to get what they want. That's just about the only trump we have over men, and now they want to take that away too. It's an outrage! Ok, big whoop if I can get a couple free drinks at a bar by flirting. Society still dictates and men still run the country. You're going to complain about us getting free admittance and free drinks? For the love of jesus, just let us have that one thing.

Furthermore, when women are rejected by men, they turn inward and blame themselves for not being prettier. This doesn't make us any better; it's pretty sad actually, but at least we assume responsibility rather than shift blame. In the end, we all want the same things: Someone to share a few laughs and good sex with. So like Lesley Arfin from Vice Magazine wisely put it, learn how to eat pussy and start memorizing lines from Will Ferrell comedies like your sex life depends on it, because it does.

I recognize there's another side to the coin, regarding the assumption that men love bitches. Books have been written on this topic and there is much analysis and discussion to be had here. For instance, what really constitutes being a bitch? Is "bitch" also just a label generalizing behavior that's altogether misconstrued? Probably. I invite a rebuttal from the man's perspective. Because I am just as mystified by my single shelf life as you are dude.

It Begins...

2010-12-01T10:40:00.000-08:00

I fell down twice walking to work yesterday. Not once, but twice. I suppose it was actually one and a half, but it's more important to note how this foreshadows the commencement of winter. Given that a single snowflake has yet to fall, it's going to be a harbinger of a winter.

I managed to take four terrific little spills last year. 2011 is off to a running start with one and a half under my belt, as a prelude. I place blame entirely on my shoes. The heels were worn, which created a slip and slide action when I stepped down on them, causing me to propel forward in an unprecedented manner. Unprecedented and undesirable, as most travesties go. If I really wanted to skid down the road, I would've done like contemporary adolescents (geeks) do and bought Sketchers with wheels on them.

A word to the wise: slippery shoes are no good when you're late and rushing to work while wearing a skirt. They started to give me trouble as I marched down 1st Ave in a huff, but I managed to catch myself just short of falling. It'd been my third attempt to stay upright as I approached St. Marks. Prolonging the inevitable remained no more. My right heel slid forward as my left knee buckled and hit the rough pavement. I basically did the splits in the street. Took a knee on the sidewalk. This created a nice little tear in my pantyhose and skin. Blood was shed, folks. You can't imagine my displeasure.

It brought me back to my 'winter self'. The person I was exactly one year ago when I'd just moved to New York. The most interesting part about experiencing seasons for the first time is the shedding of skins. With seasonal change we seem to metamorphoses psychologically, depending on how we emotionally acclimate to extreme temperatures. I reminisce on my old winter self as bumbling, beaten and with little direction; literally and metaphorically speaking. I could meditate on the numerous times I ducked around a corner to sadly scrutinize the crummy NYC street map I held between my frozen fingers. Hence my falling nastily in public an unprecedented four times. My spirits took quite a ride. This winter was starting to look similar, but not without a good omen. Just one day prior to falling on the way to work, while wearing the exact same boots, I basically levitated over a manhole. Walking along the sidewalk late at night when things begin to get blurry, you naturally pay less attention to the ground. So it's not too surprising that I stepped directly on a manhole cover to a shop basement, with all my force. Most of us would do the same and not give it second thought. But this manhole was different. It was not secure. Not even a little bit.

I just remember springing really deeply, and a sensation much like when one is trampoline jumping came over me. I'm pretty sure I went airborne for a second. I couldn't believe it. Looking over at my friend in hopes of registering what'd happened, he marveled at the fact that I'd remained above ground. He thought he'd lost me to the basement for sure. I suddenly went from dopey klutz to urban Jesus, jumping manholes versus walking on water. Some of us were just born lucky I guess. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

Yes, it will be a harbinger of a winter indeed. Bring it mother. Because it's last winter's pitfalls that prepared me for the year to come. With these battle scars I continue to slug my way through the world and I am not alone. If there's one thing the winter brings, it's a sense of congregation. A shared sense of hatred or deep seeded resent can be extremely unifying. It can bring even the most unexpected people together. Christmas-a-come and we know what's in store: The pain of leaving the house. Ice cold temperatures that make it all the harder to get up and go to work. The drawn out process of leaving. The pain of going into the kind of cold that gets in your bones and cuts through your skin, leaving your hands raw and red. Being blasted in the face with ice wind until you feel your head might explode. The wet, slippery streets and falling on your ass. Yes it pretty much blows. We can agree on that. We can also come together and drink heavily in a dark bar to ease our sorrows. The holiday parties, festive gatherings and comfort food are all gifts offered in attempts to help cope with extreme conditions. Although somewhat dreadful, the winter is an interesting time, from a social standpoint. We can get shit housed if we want to. Our shattered souls need this. This is understood?

And when the snow melts and the spring flowers begin to bloom, New Yorkers everywhere shed their chapped winter carcasses and rejoice in the delights of a new and less painful season. It's a phenomenal energy shift. The energy that emerges from a change to warmer temperatures is unlike anything I've experienced, and for this I am truly grateful. Full seasons allow for a deeper appreciation of pleasant weather, which you are more prone to take advantage of when it's less easy to come by. Furthermore, shedding seasonal skins does something to you, sort of like leveling out the playing field of your psyche. Sure my winter psyche may be held together by cobwebs, but on the other side of this my summer psyche is lusty, impertinent and ready to lunge at throats with outstretched hands. All these dimensions just give us more depth, or so I choose to tell myself.

So as I prepare for another season of slipping on black holes and busting my ass on the concrete, I remind myself that in order to fly, one must fall. In order to fall, one must let go of fear because being able to fall freely takes courage. If there's anything this city has taught me, it's the importance of keeping courage. I commit myself to another season of bravery in the face of potential falls and subzero temperatures. And though the brave may not live forever, the timid do not live at all. I choose to live, but this time I'll come equipped with better shoes...

You Are Your Mother's Only Son And You Are A Desperate One

2010-11-21T15:29:00.000-08:00

Life continues to slip through my fingers and I continue to half-heartedly yet desperately grab for it, like a frenzied game show contestant.

Reading Rainbooooow

2010-11-10T23:15:00.001-08:00

Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen authors (poets included) who've influenced you and who will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than 150 seconds.

1. Dave Eggers

2. Charles Bukowski

3. Vladimir Nabakov

4. Allen Ginsberg

5. John Updike

6. John Steinbeck

7. Anton Chekhov

8. Hunter S. Thomson

9. Jack Kerouac

10. Raymond Carver

11. Plato

12. Henry Miller

13. Ralph Ellison

14. Kurt Vonnegut

15. Jhumpa Lahiri

What Is Art? Is Art, Art?

2010-11-02T19:54:00.000-07:00

I'm going to give it a stab. Here's my definition for what constitutes a higher form of art (completely made up):

Aesthetics. Anything becomes an art form when it advances beyond traditional forms and meets or exceeds aesthetic expectations. See individually subject to question.

According to Carissa Aguayo

2010-11-01T20:23:00.001-07:00

"Yes. You are special and different. Just like everyone else."

Do You Know the Way to Cougarville?

2010-10-31T17:05:00.000-07:00

I guess I'm technically not old enough to be considered a true cougar, but I'm still the most cougaresque of my friends, due to my talents in attracting boys half my age. Not that I'm trying or anything. Don't know what it is. The youngins just dig me.

Lies. I know what it is. I not only look young, but act young. I refuse to subscribe to 30 year old behavior, whatever that is. So I'm lighthearted! I pay my bills on time and take care of myself, so if I want to wear bright colored sneakers and bows in my hair, I suppose that's entirely my prerogative. And though I may look like a girl, I think like a woman.

But I hit new lows this week. The net got cast much too wide. On Mondays and Wednesdays from 4:30 to 7:30pm, I sit for a sculpting class near the Guggenheim on the UES. Art students shape my head out of clay. This gig has really been an experience, I must say. More to come on that later. But to not veer off course too much, there's a student at this school I've become friendly with. He was one of three students sculpting my head, and doing a poor job at it too. Apparently my head shape is not his strong suit, as it's exceptionally square, or so I'm told.

I couldn't really put my finger on how old he was, but I guessed somewhere around 23 or 24 years. The thing that threw me; he's pretty stoic looking. According to my logic, no one that young would take themselves so seriously, would they? Well there lies the riddle. He seemed to have an old soul, this one. He understood an obscure late 80's Nickelodeon show reference and his tastes in music were elevated. Sharing an equal appreciation for hip-hop, funk and soul, we had plenty to discuss on that front. I exchanged numbers with him under the assumption that we could hang and just be friends. He wasn't the guy for me, at least not in thaaaat way. Still, I'd give him a chance to be human about it.

So he calls one afternoon to see what I'm up to. I tell him I'm terribly busy, as I needed to do laundry about a week ago, in addition to run a few errands before work. And for some strange reason, I asked him if he dropped off his laundry or if he did it himself. Not sure what that was about or where it came from, but god bless it, because this brought forth truth. I was on a need to know basis.

"I have it done for me" he replied.
"Oh. So you live at home then" I responded, becoming slightly alarmed, the hairs flaring up on the back of my neck. I smelled a rat.
"Yeah. I'm 20" he said flatly.
"Hoooly shit. You're 20 years old? Jesus Christ you're just a kid!" I said incredulously. I surprised myself even and I wasn't trying to hide it.
"How old are you?" he asked, uneasy.
"Approximately a decade older than you" I replied, indignant.
"Noooooo" he says.
"Yeeeeeess" I say.
"Well let's just hang out" he retorts.
"Uhhh not today, I've got too much to do. Call me tomorrow and we'll see" I lied. Not sure why I said that. That was weak. Total bush league.

He calls the next day and I don't pick up. He calls again and I still don't pick up. How could I? The simple fact remained. When I was ten, he was an infant. Imagine me at ten years old standing over his crib. I could've flicked his tiny baby penis with my finger. Vile.

It's unfortunate, because he seems like a lovely person. It's just not acceptable to congregate with him, now that I know he can't drink in public. My only other groundbreaking cougar moment was the time a chepe kid tried to hit on me while I was working at the wine shop. I could tell he was really young, but this kid had guts. He got excited that I actually responded to his "Hello beautiful," as I was outside sweeping the sidewalk. I reentered the store and he lingered outside for about 10 minutes before walking in and pretending to browse. It was pretty special. I asked him how old he was, as he clearly could not purchase wine.

"Eighteen" he replied shyly. "How old are you?"
"Thirty" I said plainly.
His eyebrows arched.
"Yup" I said.

I waited for him to leave, but he just kept browsing. Whaaa?

He finally worked up the nerve. Swiveling around on his heels, hands in pockets, he turns to me and asks "Excuse me, do you wanna go on a date with me?"

Unbelievable. He really went for it, despite it being possible grounds for statutory rape. Guts and glory kids, guts and glory.

I told him though I admired his courage, there was no way I would be dating him in this lifetime. He left shortly thereafter.

I've got to give it to the little guy, he really took a shot. This is more than I can say for many grown men I've encountered. I once had a guy ask me if he could kiss me while we were in public, as he simultaneously leaned in for a kiss--without warning! Woof. One, you can't ask permission for something like that. You just have to judge it correctly and use your common sense. Two, it's a sad day when an 18 year old displays more heart than you. And though I wasn't fooled by the 18 year old chepito, I was sort of fooled by the sculptor. I can't believe I almost invited him over to listen to records. And he was so jazzed when I told him I thought he was 23 or 24. Epic fail. Dude was born in 1990.

Mothers lock up your sons!

Same Shit, Different Day

2010-10-29T15:50:00.000-07:00

Working on the Upper East Side affords me the opportunity to ride the 4,5,6 at least three times a week. Joy joy joy. I hate the 4,5,6 train. It eats it the most.  The 4,5,6 is always miserably crowded and teeming with lame-o's or wannabe finance guys with bad shoes. This train explains why acronyms like "fml" were invented.

But once and again you have moments of brilliance amidst the misery. This is your job, as a citizen of the world; to find these beautiful moments. Since I'd forgotten to bring my headphones, I was forced into a very organic commuting experience, however the odds turned in my favor when I actually got a seat on the uptown 4. Ching!

Three teenage boys stood before me, discussing girls, or one in particular that tickled their fancy. They had that dorky, sweet charm I often attribute to the memory of my old high school self. The boy in question pondered his feelings for a certain girl and came to the realization aloud that he hadn't felt strongly about anyone like that for the last four or five years.

"I remember when I used to feel those crazy type feelings for somebody. Man, remember how that felt? It was nice to feel like that.  It's been like four years since I used to feel that way..."

A hush came over the boys as they contemplated this.

These kids had to be around 18 or 19 years old, tops. So according to my calculations, we were about square. The 18 year old and I have exactly the same romantic track record.  One great love, then nothing to follow for the next four years. Oh me oh my. It doesn't get any easier, does it? I wish someone would've warned me.

My Music Video Debut

2010-10-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

A little over a month ago I was in a music video for Sirpaul, the pop star/hair dresser du jour I met while at a co-worker's labor day barbecue. We initially bonded in being part of the anti-social group who stayed glued to the couch while watching "Hoarders" on mute and inserting our own hilarious commentary. Classic times.

So when Paul asked me to be in his "Music and Me" video that weekend, which was to be filmed in a Chelsea penthouse, he made me an offer I couldn't refuse. The only catch? I had to get naked for the video...

I was told I could wear pasties and a nude thong or "wing it." Though I'm usually rather prudish about being naked since my Catholic guilt/shame track record is pretty deep seeded, I decided plunge forth and free ball it. I would conquer this being 'naked' thing once and for all.

I arrived in Chelsea about 6pm that Saturday. As a bonus, I got my hair and makeup did for free and I even got styled out with some threads from Zachary's Smile, an amazing vintage boutique in Soho. When we arrived at the penthouse, we came to the realization that we needed the key to the apartment in order to access the elevator. We all huddled near or in the elevator in confusion, waiting for someone to bring the key. Soon enough, this obese, pimply faced princess arrives with her chihuahua and starts to raise hell.

"Excuse ME. I need to get into my elevator please! Can you all move so I can use my elevator? Some of us actually do live here, thank you very much!"

And with that she rolls her eyes, elbows her way past us and stomps into the elevator, glaring as the doors begin to close; her tiny chihuahua trembling next to her cankles.

These are the type of people who inhabit Chelsea penthouses. Actually, no. She inhabits an apartment in a building complex under the penthouse and she's pissed that we looked and got to play the part, while she looked like she slept in rats. This might explain why she came back for a second helping of cunty.

Everyone turned in disbelief as Jabba the slut emerged from her elevator, looked at us and asked in a challenging tone, "Who's in charge here?"

Everyone looked away.

The lady with the clipboard attempted to do a little damage control with Miss Congeniality. She ranted and raved about how it was unacceptable that we were blocking the elevator. Finally someone was able to placate her and she ceases to argue with the film crew. As she's walking back to the elevator, she flips a personality switch and mentions how beautiful the penthouse is. She says she "hopes we enjoy it." Eh? What a sociopath. Now she's happy for us? Go eat a pound of fudge and use your Hitachi Magic Wand on yourself, bitch.

Shortly thereafter we gained access to the penthouse. It was unreal. There were different floors to that apartment we didn't even have access to. Fortunately Paul's hair clients are rich and generous enough to let him "borrow" their penthouse for the weekend, so that humble peasants like myself can beg and scrape for free champagne and be featured in music videos. Let's face it. I will probably never be in an apartment like that again.

The video shoot was long. Lots of waiting around. Basically that's all a video shoot is. Waiting around. I started out as a loner but made friends soon enough, after being paired with a group of nice people who also enjoyed a twisted sense of humor. This pretty much made the night. We took a serious job of acting like rich douche bags, which probably explains why we got the least exposure when it came time to release the finished product. I'm pretty uncomfortable with being on camera and "acting," so I dealt with the situation by hiding in the back and over emphasizing everything. The concept of the video entailed a bunch of Upper East Side socialites at a cocktail party, which Sirpaul crashes, much to the horror of everyone. As he walks through the party, the snobs part like the red seas did for Moses and the Israelites, shooting hateful glances left and right. But as soon as Sirpaul starts grooving with his hit single, "Music and Me," we loose control of our bodies and manage to rip our clothes off in a fit of passion, and also manage to get the signature 'Sirpaul' symbol tattooed on our bodies. When the music stops we all emerge from our hedonistic trance and feel shame for being naked. Think the technoqueer version of Adam and Eve. Not sure why I'm juxtaposing biblical references with gay pop music videos, but I'm just going with it.

When they told us to act disdainful towards Sirpaul as he walked into the party, I just made a face like I'd smelled a shart, whilst holding my hand to my breast. When they told us to act surprised about the fact that we'd found ourselves naked, I crouched down into a little ball behind everyone else and made a face like I'd smelled a shart. The only part that really came natural to me was drinking the free champagne. Thus it makes sense that the only airtime I got in the video showed me housing the champagne. So it goes.

In regards to being naked. As soon as we were told it was time for that bit, we all just looked at each other and stood there.

"Really? Like right now?"

"Yes. Like right now."

The time had come to release my breasts from their bindings. I went off to deal with applying pasties and putting on nude pantyhose with the legs cut off, generously donated by the lady with the clipboard. Come to think of it, that lady reminded me a lot of Lindsey Lohan, back in the Parent Trap era, when she was young and untainted...

I brought a button-down cover up for the waiting around moments, though some of the girls decided they'd just wear their bras instead. Yet when it was my turn to be branded with the Sirpaul symbol (black spray paint), I was told my titties would be the perfect place for the tattoo. So Sirpaul and his assistant spray painted my chesticles and told me not to put anything on while the spray was wet. This then became the moment of truth. I had to go back into the waiting area with my titty balls on display, for everyone to see. But somehow I was safe as kittens, because I used the spray paint as a scape goat for my nakedness. Everyone needs a scape goat now and again. Theoretically I had to let it all hang out, the paint was drying. Much like submerging into cold water, you just have to plunge in quick and get the painful part over with. Then it's fine. Plus the spray paint did a good job of covering my areolas. It also helped that I looked better naked than 80% of the people participating.

Standing huddled within a group of people who are all naked gives you a sense of comfort, if you are anxious about being nude. There's an understanding, a kinship or allegiance to not staring at each other's private parts, or laughing at each other's back hair, saggy asses or lopsided nipples, because you're in it together. It felt somewhat natural and awkward at the same time. It also helped that everyone involved was either gay or a beautiful woman, given there were a couple straight guys in the mix, but you really couldn't tell the difference anyway. Everyone had their nipples pierced for some reason, which sort of served as a decoy in terms of labeling who was gay or straight.

Fortunately no one lost their sense of humor about the situation, and how could they, especially after it came time for the men to strip off their underoos and show their teeny shrunken cocks to the world. The lady with the clipboard quickly remedied the situation by giving them a nude stocking to place over their junk, like a ski cap. Everyone was grateful.

We filmed the "I'm so surprised I'm suddenly naked" scene relatively quickly. It took about 10 takes, but was much faster to capture than the party scene. Again, you would find me crouched in the back looking like I was sniffing my own farts.

It was a long night, but definitely worthwhile. For me, it's all about the experience and an experience it was. Would you like to see the finished product? Of course you would...

Human Extinction: ETA*?

2010-10-16T21:17:00.000-07:00

It was one of those nights where you bum a ride home from a friend, swearing to immediately run up to bed upon reaching your apartment. Yet in finding yourself in such pleasant company and good conversation, you end up chatting in the car for 45 minutes with the engine on, parked, headlights blazing, not knowing, not knowing.

The conversation steered toward the question of mortality, as it always does when one was in such states of mind. The redhead complained of crappy keepsake gifts that had no use, as a prelude to the conversation.

"Wanna know what the crappiest gift in the world is?"

The blond and the brunette sat in silence.

"A stuffed animal. Can we talk about stuffed animals?" croaked the redhead.

"What about them?" asked the blond.

"Only that they aesthetically play into your emotions while simultaneously burdening you. It's kind of like getting a slobbering puppy. Sure the stuffed animal creates a warm and fuzzy feeling for the first 5 minutes because it's "cute," but you also feel obligated to keep the thing. What do you do with it, put it on your bed? Gross. So then are you supposed to lock it in a closet or throw it away? But then you feel guilty. It's just a piece of crap in the end, taking up space."

"That's true" said the brunette. "They have a cheap thrill, but they are useless in the end."

"I used to dread getting them as graduation and birthday gifts. They're so tacky. Not to mention their production is total waste of economical/ecological resources. Waste and want. That's all we do. Stuffed animals are so contemporary America" the redhead complained.

"Balls" the blond said plainly.

"Why are we so wasteful?" the redhead asked.

"Because we can be" said the brunette with a snicker.

"Fuck you" the blond snapped.

"Ok" replied the brunette.

"Fuck you" repeated the blond.

"How many more years you think we've got guys?" pondered the redhead.

"God I'm sure we'll have thousands of years to come" the blond assured, exasperated.

"No way, we've got a hundred tops" said the redhead skeptically.

"You think so?" the blond doubtfully replied.

"Sure I do."

"What do you think?" the blond asks, turning to the brunette.

"2012. The Mayans calendar knows all" the brunette said with full conviction, as the blond and redhead openly begin to laugh.

"So true. Those Mayans were crafty devils. They built temples by standing on each others shoulders, with their wits and brawn" the redhead mused.

"That's what I'm saying" cooed the brunette. "We've got a year left. We should go drinking for six days straight before it hits. One final hurrah. Just sayin'..."

"Bar hopping" quipped the blond.

"I believe 'pub crawl' is the preferred nomenclature" retorted the redhead. "Are you seriously suggesting an apocalyptic pub crawl in light of the end of humanity?"

"Sure" said the brunette. "You should start a Facebook page. I would like it."

"Get out. And what do you suppose we call it, the 2012 Mayan Death Pub Crawl?" joked the redhead.

"Funny" said the blond.

"Honestly, what can we do to be more proactive about this problem?" moaned the redhead.

"Go make a Facebook page. That's what you can do to help. It's easy. It takes 20 minutes" replied the brunette shortly.

"Ok fine. I guess it's a cool idea. But if I do go through with sitting down and making this shit, are you really going to like it?" pleaded the redhead.

"Yeah I am" stated the brunette.

The brunette turned to the blond. "You'll like it too, won't you?"

"I guess" said the blond.

"But we aren't even Facebook friends" the redhead reminded the blond.

"We're not?" asked the blond, knowing they weren't.

"I'll suggest this one to 'like' it after I 'like' it" promised the brunette, nodding at the blond. "Now go forth and create that page. I'll be up for another hour or so, I expect to see results tonight."

"Don't get too excited. It likely won't happen tonight" the redhead muttered while opening the car door. "Night all."

With that the redhead shut the car door and headed upstairs to look for pictures suitable enough to represent a movement of people who stood for one thing: the hedonistic final throws of a generation who likely brought down their existence because they fashioned themselves into wasteful proponents of a hedonistic lifestyle. The spiral ensues.

So far, this is what the redhead came up with:

*- And Facebook continues to ruin lives.

Tears On My Pillow...Is It Youuuuu

2010-10-15T12:10:00.000-07:00

In the past 2 days, I have seen 3 different people crying in public. Openly bawling in the middle of the street. What is going on?

This Is What You Call "Not Practicing What You Preach"

2010-10-12T19:15:00.000-07:00

My current FB profile picture:

Some call it being a liar and a hypocrite. I call it irony.

On Being A Throw Up Ninja

2010-10-08T14:37:00.000-07:00

First of all, what constitutes being considered a ninja? What does it take to be reigned with a title so supreme? Before we make hasty assumptions and generalizations, let's dive right into the formal definition of what constitutes ninja status.

The ninja, otherwise known as a shinobi, was a covert agent of feudal Japan specializing in unorthodox arts of war. The functions of the ninja included espionage, sabotage, infiltration and assassination, as well as open combat in certain situations. A skilled individual indeed. This likely requires a rapist wit and supreme physical condition. If we're making comparisons on my account, so far so good.

Military historian Hanawa Hokinoichi writes of the ninja: "They travelled in disguise to other territories to judge the situation of the enemy, they would inveigle their way into the midst of the enemy to discover gaps, and enter enemy castles to set them on fire, and carried out assassinations, arriving in secret."

Ninja skills. This is what I would look like as a ninja, though instead of scaling a wall using only the strength of my upper body, I'd be puking at a party. Same same but different:

Well now that we've refreshed our memories, I'm going to juxtapose the art of espionage and the art of partying too hard. I'm no stranger to vomiting after a good night of party. Puke happens. We've all been there...You're feeling good, you mix things you shouldn't and then your head magically transforms into a full powered nozzle. Before you know it, carne asada chips are shooting out of every orifice in your face in projectile fashion, before a crowd of onlookers who are pointing and sneering. Awww :'(

But this can all be avoided. No, not the vomiting. Why would I advise total use of discretion? That's boring! There's a way to still go hard and cut the humiliation out of the drugs/drinking/eating induced puke pyramid scheme, but this becomes possible only in learning how to vomit discreetly, i.e., being a "throw up ninja."

I'm comfortable pegging myself a throw up ninja, because I've managed to puke in front of a crowd without getting caught, twice. Not only did I secretly puke my guts out, but I managed to rage on, immediately thereafter. How did I accomplish such a feat, you ask? Listen and learn.

The first time it happened was my 27th birthday. My friends were nice enough to throw me a surprise party, complete with a piñata and a DJ. They knew how much I loved piñata's and got me a lovely Mexicanized Mickey Mouse number. I never really got over the childhood wonderment that came along with beating the crap out of a paper maché shaped into a cartoon character. I honestly still can't think of a better way to ring in your 27th year of life.

In conjunction with the piñata bashing, my friends also thought it would be a great idea if I drank 13 shots of tequila, as a precursor. At the time it was a pretty good idea, except for the part where I was to single-handedly take on a piñata big enough for a party of 10 children. Not only was I drunk and blindfolded, but I was armed with a whiffle ball bat. My friend Gustavo was on the balcony, in charge of suspending the piñata over me on a nylon rope. He thought dropping it directly on my head was the funniest thing, and he did so repeatedly despite my pleas. To make matters worse, no one helped at all with giving me any sort of direction. So for 20 minutes, I swung my blindly at Mickey, catching air all the while. After reaching the point of exhaustion and tedium, I asked for something stronger than a whiffle ball bat. One of the hosts then brings me the handle to their mop. This however, still didn't work. Eventually the piñata was simply lowered to the ground where I beat it like Ike beat Tina. When the piñata finally broke open, the candy inside was dumped to the ground for everyone to savagely claw at. I had sweat on my upper lip when it was all over.

Then I got really drunk. I was peer pressured into drinking a blender 1/3 full of coffee liqueur. Under more sober circumstances, one would usually ignore fellow party goers requests for you to polish off 16 ounces of blended Kahlua as a follow up to several rounds of tequila shots, but I just decided to go balls deep that day. Everyone watched and chanted while I pounded the entire blended concoction in one sitting. It was a really bad idea.

The next few hours were fun. I danced and god knows what else. I was told there was some wrestling on the floor with one of the hosts. Soon enough I was lying on a bed in someone's room when a cake was brought in, all lit up with candles. Everyone sang me "Happy Birthday" and I made a wish, happily blew out the candles, none of which I remember. And they all had cake. This is about when I start to come to, because I distinctly remember smelling the cake and becoming nauseous at the sight of others eating it. I knew I was going to vomit. Yep. This was happening.

I was in a room full of people eating. I knew I had to make a quick decision. I could jet it to the bathroom, leaping over bodies, praying I'd make it there on time. Yet I sensed the alarm and panic that ensued when running to vomit would only exacerbate the urgency I had to vomit. Then I would probably end up vomiting in my own mouth and holding it mid jog, only causing me to lose my shit and spray puke everywhere in attempting to flee. Trying to throw up in the traditional sense (in a toilet) would've made me a target for ridicule. I decided I would just throw up right then and there and hope for the best.

I gingerly turned my head away, shielded my mouth with my hand and quietly emptied the contents of my large intestine onto Ronald Rizzo's bed spread. It felt great! Too bad I'd eaten Persian kabob earlier that evening because in conjunction with the tequila and Kahlua it smelled...not so great.

Everyone carried on with their cake eating and chatting while I silently finished vomiting all over the bed. My retching was totally on mute, because no one saw me do it. Problem was, I couldn't address the problem with everyone sitting there, as this went against the whole idea of puking on the bed as opposed to running to the toilet. With zen-like patience, I waited until just about everyone left the room. When the majority of the people were gone, I tapped my friend Cristina on the shoulder and motioned for her to come closer. In a whisper, I told her what I did. At the time I remember feeling pretty smug; something comparable to when a two year old has a shitty grin plastered on their face after they've taken an enormous crap in their pants, like it's some sort of accomplishment.

But it really was. Cristina was genuinely surprised, maybe even impressed. People didn't believe I'd puked at first because I was so slick about it. Then little doubt existed when I showed them my art work, in hoisting myself right up off the bed. I was lying on top of it you see.

So as to cover the puddle of fetid smelling upchuck, I just lied directly on it, casually propping myself on one elbow, resting my head in my hand. In everyones mind, I was having a great time, yes...

Cristina commented on how she'd thought she'd smelled something putrid and I was immediately sent to the bathroom to clean myself up. My friends were real sports about the whole thing. They took care of cleaning up the mess I'd left. Unfortunately the DJ got the shit end of the stick, because Cristina saw his Banana Republic cashmere sweater lying there and used it to wipe my barf off the bedspread. I still feel pretty bad about that one. Especially since I later remedied the situation by washing it in hot water, thereby shrinking it to unwearable proportions, before I gave it back to him.

Though I felt a twinge guilty when I went back to the apartment the next day and saw Ronald's mattress sitting in the sun, I actually couldn't have picked a better bed to puke on. I later learned that Ronald Rizzo is a brazen, womanizing jerk, as he repeatedly broke my best friend's heart with his cheating ways a couple years later. I subconsciously called it! If I was going to shit on anyone that night, it would have to be Ronald. Let's remind ourselves of the job of the ninja, shall we?

"They travelled in disguise to other territories to judge the situation of the enemy, they would inveigle their way into the midst of the enemy to discover gaps, and enter enemy castles to set them on fire, and carried out assassinations, arriving in secret."

So I arrived at the party disguised as the unassuming birthday girl, where I later inveigled my way onto Ronald's bed and desecrated his sleeping space with my unholy vomit. I was fighting crime even, like Time Cop. Not too shabby, throw up ninja.

My latest throw up ninja venture took place at Blue Ribbon Brasserie in Soho. I had just given my two week notice at The Mercer Kitchen, the most awful pseudo upscale corporate restaurant in history, and I decided to take myself out to Blue Ribbon to celebrate. I saddled up to the bar and immediately ordered some Salt-and-Pepper Shrimp and a vodka tonic. I felt fancy.

Upon finishing my appetizer I was on such a high, I decided to keep the party going. Perusing the entree section of the menu, I still had a hankering for more food despite the fact that I'd eaten pizza earlier. My ultimate decision became clear after I looked over at the guy next to me who was having the Duck Club, one of Blue Ribbon's classic "go to's." It looked damn fine. I decided I'd order one, since my good friend Pat raved so much about it. A couple more vodka tonics and my sandwich arrives. It was pretty substantial, but believe me when I say I had no problem devouring it. That shit was delicious! It was so savory and sweet, like smokey duck meat roasted in an apple wood fire oven. Mmmm. Happily munching away at my delicious Duck Club, I decided this was the best date I'd ever been on. I was having a old great time.

By this point I was so out of touch with reality that I started hallucinating. My brain tricked itself into thinking I still needed more. I'd had enough to eat by now, this was clear. So why did I decide to order a banana split for dessert and proceed to eat the entire thing, all by myself? I'll tell you why. Because I'm a throw up ninja.

If you don't know what the banana split at Blue Ribbon looks like, it's pretty big, especially for one person:

I'll tell you what, I didn't share. Those two spoons are just for show.

I was finishing up the entire banana split, much to the surprise and horror of the bar staff, when my friend Pat joined me for a drink and a quick bite. He'd also just gotten off work and I informed him of giving my two week notice at The Mercer. Though disappointed, he understood my plight. Pat then decided on a half dozen malpeque's and our trusty shucker Marco got to preparing them. By this point I began to understand that something was terribly wrong. As a cause of the amount of food I'd consumed, a jabbing pain in my stomach had just about kicked in. The pain was rather dynamite. There would be hell to pay.

As I'm working through all this in my mind, Pat's oysters arrive and he begins to feast. Being the generous fellow that he is, Pat offers me one. I opted against it. It had never been so clear that I would vomit, very shortly.

I decided to stay calm and excuse myself to the restroom without saying a word. I grabbed my linen napkin from atop the bar and began to make my way through the crowded dining room toward the back of the restaurant where the bathrooms were stationed. Unfortunately the banana split had already began to make it's way up my throat by that point. No problem. I merely held my linen napkin to my lips and gingerly vomited into the napkin, shielding everything from plain view. That's how a true lady does it. In her day, if Jackie Kennedy had to puke at the Governors Ball, I bet she'd do the same thing. Tried and true.

Upon reaching the restroom, both stalls were occupied. Curses! I sat in a chair, took a deep breath and started to recite my mantra, which has proven to be a life saver when I'm nervous or panicked: "Poooower. [Deep breath] Powerrrrr. [Deep breath] Pooowerrrr." To be repeated 10x's.

Finally someone leaves one of the stalls. I smile at them as I go in, lock the door behind me, swiftly step over to the toilet, lean in and watch an entire banana and some whip cream leave my mouth.

I cannot tell you how freeing that was. What a relief! I felt peachy keen and was ready to party again. I gave my mouth a rinse-a-roo and stepped back out to the bar to join Pat for a fabulous time. No one would've even guessed I'd just thrown up. I'll be honest though, I did think about eating more since I'd made additional room in my stomach, but I figured that would be wrong.

These are the ways of the elusive ninja. No, not everyone can be a throw up ninja. Only sick demented folks like myself. Live long and prosper, throw up ninjas. Cheers!

Notes on a Friday at 8pm

2010-10-06T22:30:00.001-07:00

The venom is building

It's bulging from my veins

A period of dormancy washed clean

Angst takes its place, visits me again

How long passes before I implode?

...Devo does a terrible cover of "Head Like a Hole," apparently.

R.I.P. pt II

2010-10-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

Little did I know, beyond what I perceived were the best efforts of my subconscious ability, the day both my boss and I were dressed for a Sicilian funeral at the wine shop, we were actually burying the shop. Spot fucking on. The boss finally confessed that he plans to sell his business. Things have been somewhat lack luster at the shop for the past couple...ehh 6 months or so. In the wise words of Bananarama, it was a cruel summer.

I guess wine wouldn't be the first thing I'd buy in 105 degree weather, but I found it unusual that other local wine stores were still carrying red, when our rap had been "inventory is low since it's too hot for red." Waaaaiiit a minute...

The reality of the situation was, Pauly the wine distributor wasn't getting paid. Which meant no wine for the store. Which also meant having to hear people continually bitch and moan and ask us if we were going out of business, every single time they walked in. Then an older Asian fellow who pretty much belonged in a Steinbeck novel, so I started calling him Lee Cheong, would frequent the shop asking for my boss and payment he was owed. Soon enough our internet got cut, then the credit card machine "stopped running" for five days as the shelves got emptier and dustier. At one point I found a bank statement showing a $700 balance in the shop's account, not to mention the invoice Lee Cheong brought in for me to show my boss, for a bounced check of $800. Awkward. So I finally ask the boss point blank, "Are we closing? Because I need to know. For financial purposes, catch my drift?" And do you know what he says to me?

"No, no we're fine. This is how it is to own a business."

Rightaroo. Where the hell do I sign up then? Because owning a business sounds like a bum deal. I'd rather have Muhammad Ali shave my legs with a rusty bic razor.

This past Friday we reopened after a week long hiatus. The crowd reaction was brutal. The store was pretty much at bare bones; it was really embarrassing. There was one particular customer who compared our shelves to the story of "mother hubbard's cupboard." Fucking classic.

I don't know how much longer the wine shop's life cycle will last, or how much longer I'll be able to keep the natives at bay with their questions on why we don't have wine. The boss claims the new owners will maintain the store in similar fashion, still selling wine, still needing us as employees. But seeing that my boss has been so honest and forthright all along, I'm not hopeful. I'm actually considering applying to American Apparel in the meantime, since I already look like their Soho location threw up on me and all.

Oh me oh my. Take us home, Bananarama...

One of the best opening lines mine eyes have ever seen

2010-10-04T11:42:00.000-07:00

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

-V. Nabakov

Monotony = Monogamy?

2010-10-03T14:40:00.000-07:00

So I was standing there doing my evening ritual: flossing, brushing, applying my life-altering face creams, thinking about how certain levels of monotony are absolutely necessary to retain your wholeness as a human being. Though we generally frown upon the concept of monotony, it can be pretty enjoyable.

Yet when one is at extremes of sadness, joy and distraction (lust), the tendency is to abandon monotony incorporated to our wholeness. Pleasure seeking comes first, all other self-related items come secondary. Honestly, in the honeymoon stages of dating who wants to be with the person who jumps out of bed post-coitus to perform grooming rituals such as brushing and flossing? Talk about a love buzzkill. There's nothing less attractive than rigid behavior totally devoid of spontaneity. So as the thrill seeker you are, you skip on flossing one night, or two. This becomes habit and in not continuing to floss, you buy yourself a fast pass to gingivitis-ville. Not hot. Exercise is a similar story. You ended up not going for that jog you promised yourself, because you wanted to spend more time with your significant other. What sounds more fun: wine, dinner and sex with your partner or chest and triceps at the gym? Doi.

In turn, it's your personal self-improvement time that's denied to keep the relationship going at its hottest and most enjoyable, when eventually, this only leads to the demise of the relationship. Once you start losing a sense of yourself in order to assimilate to being a unit, the essence of who your partner initially became attracted to is lost, compromised, faded into a memory. You notice the shift within yourself and ultimately begin to question your own integrity. You begin doubting your abilities, and in attempts to obtain comfort and validation, you cling to the very unit that holds you together by a thread. It's not long before you're lying awake next to your partner at night, feeling utterly alone, more than you've ever felt in the most isolated of situations. This system is designed to fail.

Some of our biggest failures in our relationships come about when we deny ourselves access to that small, substantial factor called humanity. We all need room for error and recuperation. It gives us identity and sanity, two very important components for a functional relationship. The next time you are rushing to an appointment with your significant other, worried and stressed about all the other items you've glossed over in exchange for not pissing your b/gf because "they haven't seen you all week," remember that you have a right to sit and clip your toe nails in peace for 20 minutes, if it makes you feel whole. This will only enhance the experience shared between you and your partner, because something as inconsequential as giving yourself time to clip your toe-nails can be meditative, restorative and will give you unspoken sense of peace that gets carried into other endeavors. We need time to decompress between junctures. This is something I still very much need to incorporate into my repertoire, as I tend to unrealistically schedule several appointment I'll never make into my daily schedule. I end up being late to all of them, or not even attempting for lack of time, leading to loads of frustration or a sense of failure, which unfortunately becomes projected onto others. The sting that follows momentarily rejecting some romantic hang time for personal monotony time will prove far less arduous to handle than enduring behemoth heartbreak, or the demise of a significant relationship.

It's like I tell my yoga kids in class, in being present and knowing when it's time to take care of yourself, you'll be better able to serve others. What's on the other side of your personal monotony? Sometimes the grass isn't always greener. Not that I'm an authority on the matter or anything. I myself am still trying to find better pastures.

Mary hail a cab

2010-09-30T07:03:00.000-07:00

Seeing a nun in NYC always throws me. It gets me thinking, what are you doing in this city? There's no god here.

Hugs Not Drugs

2010-09-29T13:24:00.000-07:00

So I'll have you know I passed. I was able to stay away from Facebook for a whole day. Truth be told I jumped back in the very next day and FB'd the shit out of everything, but it's nice to know I can put my social crutch in the closet for a day or so. I'm actually taking today off FB as well, thank you very much. Baby steps to freedom y'all.

So yesterday I ventured into the city wearing my "Hugs Not Drugs" t-shirt. I'll tell you something, that shirt was a hit about town. Most everyone either looked twice or made some favorable comment about it. I actually had an elderly woman stop to tell me in all sincerity that my shirt was "simply wonderful," which is great because I was literally stoned off my ass when she stopped me. The security guard at an Italian eatery place in Flatiron gave me props too. The boys in Chelsea however, weren't so favorable. The front desk boy at David Barton Gym told me he was happy to hear I was enjoying the gym as much as I did, though in appointing himself to speak for everyone, the message on my shirt wasn't welcomed in this particular facility. For the members of David Barton, things were the other way around. It was all about drugs and not hugs. Whoa. I had no idea. I was wearing something that proved to be the equivalent of a YES! on Prop 8 shirt.

I suggested the shirt had an ironic purpose to it, or at least that was my vision when I left the house. He lightened up a bit, but said he would accept the idea of drugs being stricken in favor of hugs on a shirt only if it were a big fat joke. Really.

The Chelsea gays take their drugs seriously. I guess they like 'party.' And though I initially thought the front desk boy was just being a chode, he was kind of right. I was taking Steven Limpin's class again in a final attempt to suck ass and get put on as a substitute yoga teacher at DBG, however when Steven saw me, he pretty much blew me off. This was not going well at all. The "Hugs Not Drugs" shirt was tossing salt in my game with the Chelsea gays!

Before checking out I light-heartedly attempted to convey my overall stance to the front desk, proposing that in a perfect world we could have both hugs and drugs, but this t-shirt only had one of the two available, so for the moment I'd just take what I could get.

Fortunately I didn't have to wait too long. As I was leaving David Barton, one of the personal trainers offered me ecstasy after asking my age and guessing I was 20 years old. Nice.

Facebook, Why Do You Ruin My Life?

2010-09-26T13:05:00.001-07:00

I have a dilemma. Facebook is ruining my life.

Why? For the obvious reasons. Time being top dog. How much time do I spend on Facebook? Shit I don't know. A lot. A great part of my day, I might say. Why is this? Am I really that nosy? Let's think about this more deeply...

Look at how much fun we're having!

Oh the togetherness of the social network. You get to catch blurbs of your friends lives as they live them, round the clock. Even the parts you don't give a hoot about. Most of the time really, if your friends are attention whores. Not to mention that often times those FB "friends" aren't really your friends. They may be friends of friends, or fan pages. Or people you've been guilted into being friends with, because you don't want to seem mean. Plus there's the inevitable co-worker friend request dilemma, which proves to be pesky especially if you work in a stiff environment, teeming with tight-assed stiffs. Yet if you don't add your co-worker you have to face them 40 hours a week and know they resent you for not adding them. So you cave in and filter the shit out of them.

Yes it's all there at your disposal if you want it. There are moments when we don't want it of course, primarily upon discovering that you've added a sociopath to your friends list. And by sociopath I mean the type of person who updates their status more than once a day, every day. There is no need for this. Nothing in your life is that interesting that you need to give your audience a continual play by play. Just stop. And stop repeatedly suggesting I 'fan' something, or sending me cute page suggestions that rage against lame fan pages or page suggestions, because those too are in fact, lame. Send me a heartfelt message instead. Cut the shit.

Still, when you legitimately leave close friends behind, FB becomes something of a salve to fill the disparaging gap between you and your loved ones. So to play good cop/bad cop, I will admit FB is brilliant blady-blah but let's just skip ahead to the criticisms...

Little red flag, where are you? There should be a study on the average length of time the contemporary adult will spend waiting for a status update. Really look inside yourself and be honest...did you just spend the last 40 minutes checking to see if anyone likes the bitchin' new photo album of you at brunch? What countless number of times did you go back to your computer just to refresh your news feed today? How many times did you decide to log out, then log back in, in the last 3.5 hours? Are you secretly disappointed when the masses don't in fact, like your photo album? Or comment on it for that matter? Do you covet other people's likes and comments? No, you say? Yeah me neither...

The goddamn news feed. That in itself is a beast of a concept. I sit in front of my laptop, my eyeballs skipping along the stream of verbal diarrhea updates and I am amused. Lots of speculation, gossip, socializing opportunities, cries for help and clever musings are commingling and bombarding you in waves. It's pretty great. The FB news feed actually saved my life when I moved to NYC. Unfortunately it also became a crutch of sorts, debilitating me. You want to know what's happening in the world so you turn to Facebook, but where does the push-pull begin shoving, as you realize you've compromised the time you could've actually stepped out and experienced the world directly, rather than waited for it to come to you, via internet superhighway? Especially when people are updating you with what is often time inane bullshit, several times a day. It saddens me to think that I'm sitting around in anticipation for an inconsequential status update. I wish not to stop living, while waiting for life to come to me.

Then there's the stalking. We have to come to terms with voyeurism. It's human tendency, let us accept it and begin to understand it, rather than write it off as a guilty pleasure while pretending to feel ashamed. When Bunim-Murray capitalized on the concept of voyeurism, reality television gave birth to a demon child that decided it was here to stay. It has been 18 years since 'reality' as entertainment first emerged. I'm pretty sure it's not going away.

The spin offs subsequently are, smutty celebrity tabloids, reality show/game show conglomerates, Myspace and it's older, prettier and not to mention smarter sister, Facebook. Ta-da! Six years and 500 million active users later, here you are, trying to find that guy you met last weekend who you felt you connected with, squinting and straining at the computer screen to make out what could potentially be his profile picture. While we're on the topic of profile pictures, because you actually can tell a lot about a person by them, let's just go ahead and file the do's and don'ts of profile picture taking down to a nub.

Don't take a picture of yourself in the bathroom. I'm speaking from experience here. Especially if you're not going to photoshop your cruddy bathtub out of the photo. Grotty to the max. Goes against the whole idea, since you are likely trying to look sexy in this bathroom photo op. The same goes with your messy bedroom. I don't want to see a pile of dirty laundry in the background. The end result will look contrived, or worse yet, low class.

If you want to seem sultry and profound in your profile picture, don't take yourself too seriously. You'll just look constipated. Ana Roman did that. If you don't remember Ana, she's the beezy that tried to fuck with me at the wine shop. Now her ass is long fired and I have all her hours. Pawned. I'm still working on destroying Fauziyah, my Absolute Power Fitness nemesis...

Anyhow, one of my favorite of Ana's 213 profile pictures is the one where she put her stanky high heel clad foot atop a chair in her disaster of a room and peered into her camera with a seductive look on her face, whilst showcasing her sexy legs in short shorts. Baaaaaarf. What an overt cliche. Could you be any more obvious about how desperate for sexual attention you are? Jeeeez. And 213 profile pictures? Really? Isn't that a bit excessive? I do say.

You may, however, be wondering how I know about Ana's profile picture. Well it's simple really. I was stalking her. Let's not stray too far off the mark here. Getting back into the concept of cyber stalking, this modern past time can be informative or dangerous. It can also be painful. You ever hear the expression, "don't ask questions you don't want to hear the answer to?" Yeah. It's like that. If you are spying your ex boyfriend's or crushes (who's indubitably rejected you numerous times) Facebook wall or photo albums for clues on who else he's hooking up with, be prepared to feel hurt. And more rejected. Heaven knows I've tormented myself enough to learn that cyber stalking is not the way. It's like tearing off a scab that's hardened, taking you back to square one in terms of healing yourself. You are looking at a facade and interpreting it with your preprepared bias. I mean who's really going to put the weakness in their lives out on public display, unless they're candid about being totally disturbed? Only pleasantries and fantasy are on the other side of your looking glass. This makes for an exaggerated or inaccurate conclusion. Plus can you say creepy? I know you can...

Albeit in a charming manner, I'll comfortably proclaim myself the mayor of creepyville. I enjoy a good peruse of ostensibly interesting people I know nothing about, who know nothing about me, given that they don't have their page set to private. How much time I spend doing this I'd rather not say. The fact of the matter is, I don't want to know. If I actually did know, I'd probably feel compelled to sit on my own hand until it went numb, then slap myself with it.

I know it's wrong, but these sorts of habits are hard to quit. I am a coveter, a breaker of the epic human commandments. I love to look into to peoples pretty lives and convince myself they're better while hoping they're really worse so I can feel better. I'm working with both ends of the spectrum here. Does this motivate me or destroy me internally? Probably both. Facebook is good that way. It allows you to subject yourself to something that both builds you up and breaks you down at the same time. Much like crack.

Of course there is a place for Facebook. In terms of marketing product, it's a no brainer. Pushing your own product requires you to continue evolving your salesmanship and stay in the know technologically, otherwise you are left and forgotten. Facebook is a necessary tool for that. As someone who potentially wishes to DJ, I find FB essential for promotion, so I can't exactly quit it cold turkey. In sharing my stance on FB with others, I was suggested to just jump free from it completely, but the very prospect of quiting FB got me shaky and sweaty. I started to come up with excuses for why I shouldn't quit and there was a twinge of desperation in my voice when I justified my needs. It really frightened me.

Perhaps momentarily stepping away from it will be the key. Moderation moderation moderation tis' the way! La-dee-dah, said Diane Keaton. Honestly, will moderation always be the answer? That's such a trite concept. I don't want to hear that shit. I want blood and guts. I want epic proportions of emotion and zealotry. I want resolution. And this is not just because I am the mayor of creepyville, but because I want to feel alive!

Wait, what where we talking about again? Oh, yes. Quitting Facebook. Or cutting down at least.

I suppose our mild perversions get the best of us. I have recognized this so I'm a single step ahead. But like I've said, those small victories are not to be waved away like a bad fart. To go ahead and throw the gauntlet down, I now pledge my attempt to not check Facebook tomorrow. Not once. Just to see if I can do it. Just for the taste of it...Wish me luck.

R.I.P

2010-09-04T06:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I arrived at work dressed like I was going to a Sicilian funeral and coincidentally, so did my boss. What were we burying, albeit subconsciously? I aimed to bury hesitation, caution and timidity from my professional life. He, his parents as visitors from out of town.

Amazing things I saw living an ordinary life

2010-09-03T10:36:00.000-07:00

Greatness is all around us, cloaked in different disguises. The difficulty lies in whether we are able to see through the disguise.

Call me simple, but I was able to marvel at the small, significant occurrences of yesterday. When you allow yourself to see, one can steadfastly recognize how amazing life can be. Here's why (I now realize I cannot ever go back to the 9-5):

I was able to get in and out of Ikea Brooklyn in two hours. That in itself is amazing to me. What? You've got to take those small victories. Let's not get greedy now.

While exiting the Smith St station, I saw a man who needed a cane to walk elect to not take the escalator. I looked back to see him slowly descending down those treacherous steps, on a blazing hot day and realized that strong will continues to prevail.

I got the last Engan bed frame at Ikea. They had just received a new shipment that day. I fought the bed and I won. This might be one of the biggest upsets in my battle with being aggressive in a notoriously aggressive city. I clawed my way to Ikea and I clawed my way to the last bed frame. Small victories baby.

On the shuttle bus, waiting to return back to the subway, I witnessed a verbal confrontation between this Puerto Rican kid and the driver. Numerous insults were thrown about, naming calling and alleged ass kicking, and it went on for about 5-8 minutes. All the rest of the passengers sat quietly during the awkwardness, just kind of wanting to get the fuck going. We needed to be somewhere. Apparently the Puerto Rican kid was pissed that the driver went in for a coffee and left the people waiting on the shuttle bus. "I want some coffee too then! Pendejo!" the kid shouted.

The bus driver storms up to the bus and goes off on the kid, "I want no more out of you! You shut your mouth or I take care of you!"

"Why don't you go ahead and do something then! I'm back here. Come back and get some!" the kid snaps back.

Then the guy who directs traffic was playing mediator, sort of cheesy like. "My friend..." he begins in his soothing falsetto, "Now everybody let's be calm. We're gonna get you going real soon here..."

As we finally started moving, the driver and the kid continued to bicker. Both of them wanted the last word. The bus driver's anger continued to escalate as the kid relished in talking shit to him. The final straw was the kid shouting, "Just shut up and drive stupid!"

The shuttle bus came to a screeching halt and the driver stormed off the bus, claiming he refused to drive the bus if that "idiot" was on it. Everybody remained dead silent. This was turning into a real shit bath.

Finally the kid gets off the bus, but not without a few last jabs, as he calls the driver a "fucking faggot" as the bus pulls away.

The traffic director leaves us with a sad, apologetic "Ehhh sorry about all this folks..."

To stay in the theme of violence, while walking to do my laundry I passed this group of local hoodlums talking about beating the crap out of someone.

"So I got the muthafucka like this son, then I gave him an uppercut and he was bleeding and shit!" etc.

"Ooohhhh!" They all exploded. They were so enthralled. It was slightly disturbing and amusing at the same time.

This was immediately followed up by a fairy boy on roller skates doing ballerina twirls in the middle of the street. In figure skating speak, I believe he was exhibiting what is called the "triple lutz." He really was a sight to see, especially since he nearly ate hardcore shit coming out of his twirl. If you're going to be doing twirls in the street on skates, maybe you want to have that shit down before attempting. This enhanced the reasons for savoring how he'd nearly gone down like a lady of the evening, all that much more.

At the bodega you can get a tall boy of Tecate and they'll give you a paper bag and a straw, so you can sip your brew in public. Which I did. On my way to do laundry. Again, small victories.

While talking on the phone outside a pricey health food store, I saw a hipster boy walk in wearing a silken kimono and combat boots. It was definitely a double take situation. I'd seen this guy at the wine shop a couple times before. He always walked in like he'd just stepped out of a Vogue photo shoot, but he was taking it to new levels with the kimono. This is that kid's world on a Tuesday. Silken kimono and combat boots just to get groceries. Here-yee here-yee! Here lies Williamsburg.

And finally, taking yoga with Steven Limpin: A chubby, funny, flaming gay yoga teacher. While hanging in a forward fold, he told us to kiss and lick our knee, or spit on it, call it a dirty name, whatever we liked to do, as long as it's what got us off.

Someone asked me how my day had gone that evening. I paused and thought, finally concluding, "Today was amazing."

"Wow," my friend replied. "Why was it so amazing?"

I guess that's not answer he suspected I would give, so I began to explain about the roller skate boy and local hoodlums and though he was amused, I gathered that wouldn't have constituted his idea of amazing. The beauty is, as taught by Steven Limpin, it's what gets me off. I love that I wasn't trapped in an office yesterday, hating life. Even though I was doing the mundane errand running thing, it felt like I was experiencing a part of something greater, something outside the box. Everything happening around me was a testament to my current freedom, integral parts symbolic for what we're missing from life, as slaves to our attachments to security.

Then again, there's always tomorrow. If we're lucky.

mind hybernation...everything is culminating, surfacing, everything is about to begin

2010-08-15T14:37:00.000-07:00

Why do I write? I write because I kept my mouth shut all my life and the secret ego truth is I want to live eternally and I want my people to live forever. I hurt at our impermanence, at the passing of time. At the edge of all my joy is the creeping agony that this will pass--this Croissant Express at the corner of Hannepin Avenue in Minneapolis, a great Midwestern city in mythical America, will someday stop serving me hot chocolate. I will move on to New Mexico where no one knows how it feels to be here with the sudden light of afternoon, the silver of the ceiling, the half-smell of croissants baking in the oven

I write because I am alone and move through the world alone. No one will know what has passed through me and even more amazing, I don't know. Now that it's spring I can't remember what it felt like to be in forty below. even with the heat on, you could feel mortality screaming through the thin walls of your house.

I write because I am crazy, schizophrenic, and I know it and accept it and I have to do something with it other than go to the loony bin.

I write because there are stories that people have forgotten to tell, because I am a woman tyring to stand up in my life. I write because to form a word with your lips and tongue or think a thing then dare to write it down so you can never take it back is the most powerful thing I know. I am trying to come out alive, to find the distances in my own recesses and bring them forward and give them color and form.

I write out of total incomprehension that even love isn't enough and that finally writing might be all I have and that isn't enough. I can never get it all down, and besides, there are times when I have to step away from the table, notebook and turn to face my own life.

And I write out of hurt and how to make hurt okay; how to make myself strong and come home, and it may be the only real home I'll ever have.

-Natalie Goldberg

When you lose, don't lose the lesson

2010-08-08T11:14:00.000-07:00

All is vanity. My friend used this phrase as the caption when posting some pictures of us on Facebook. How so very appropriate as a segway into my thoughts...

I believe everyone is their own little walking universe. Our world, everything that's happening around us, is certainly shaped by our actions. And the universe tries to tell us things. Question is, will we listen? I've lost several things over the course of this past year. And by "things" I mean both material and personal relationships. I have been so bogged down by vanity. My planetary solar system stripped me over and over, yet I'm still not naked. The fog is slowly clearing. Not with judgement or recrimination, but with a willingness to move on.

I made this realization walking to work, after a mild post-drunken depression, grappling with the idea of possibly having an alcohol problem, thinking back to the hope I'd put in that damned fortune cookie that said good luck was forthcoming, thinking it ironic, when I saw a shattered full length mirror leaning against a building. I kind of lost my shit a little. The idea that propelled this whole epiphany was initially feeling grateful for not having a full length mirror in my new apartment. I had been pondering how it was probably healthy to strip yourself of your attachments for a while, to balance things out, to add another aspect to your character and make yourself whole. Without a mirror, I had to more or less let go of the idea of looking 'perfect' before leaving the house. I battle with a narcissistic tendency when it comes to my looks. Being so attached to my vanity and needing to look a certain way every time I leave the house has impeded me professionally and financially, as I'm nearly always late and am constantly spending money on shit I don't need. It takes me forever to get ready. Ask anyone who knows me. I'm perpetually on BPT (black people time).

Shit. My face was being pushed into it.

I also realize I've probably been a (drunk) wreck lately because I haven't written at all in weeks. When I don't write, I become a quiet storm. Or the incredible hulk.

Shit. The universe speaks...

hoarders never win

2010-07-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

I am hoarding my thoughts currently. Why so private? Will keeping my thoughts away from the world keep me safe? Probably. Will it also keep me stagnant? Probably.

knowing

2010-07-10T13:12:00.000-07:00

There's a certain loneliness that comes with knowledge. You begin to arise from the catacombs of ignorance, yet those once with you are no longer there. They've been left behind, eradicated, banished from your life. Bursting at the seams with desire for a life less ordinary, you seek solace in others. You hope to find a mutual understanding but there is none to be found. You speak, but they hear and don't listen. The feeling of superiority over others doesn't empower you, so much as it saddens you. When your thoughts and questions elicit blank stares, you can't help but wonder where other great minds lie. You can't help but feel terribly alone. You can't help but wonder if this loneliness is your destiny.

A Writer's Creed

2010-07-01T22:47:00.000-07:00

"Speak from that place in your heart where you are most yourself. Speak directly, simply, lovingly, gently and without any apologies. Tell us what you see and want us to see; tell us what you hear and want us to hear....Trust your own heart. The words will come. There is nothing to fear...."

Hell yes.

So what's your excuse?

2010-06-24T01:20:00.001-07:00

Life is hard. And somehow, some way, people get by a good portion of their lives without learning a damn thing. How do they do it?

I don't believe I've ever seen a full grown Jewish man revert to childhood in public, until today. Fedex/Kinko's will do that to you I guess. The man in question was a poodle haired baby dickhead in braided sandals, of about 40-something, judging by the salt and pepper hair. He wanted to print out some pictures directly from his digital camera. In his hand he held a ripped out newspaper clipping of sorts, with some facacta instructions scribbled on it. Yeah. He was a mess. When he reached the clerk at the register, he started wailing about how he wanted to print his pictures straight from the camera. The woman floating around to help customers had already told him while he was in line he would need to access the pictures from an email address.

"But I don't have an email address," he whined.

Upon reaching the register, the Fedex/Kinko's folks reiterated the same information to him. The line came to screeching halt and customers waiting and being rung up alike turned to look on as Mr. Archaic stupid head cried about how this had become so complicated, how this had never been a problem "before." Before what? The internet boom? The bull-bear economy? The atom bomb?

How does a person go a lifetime in contemporary American society without having a functional email address? What's your malfunction sir? How do you communicate with others? Do you work? What in the hell do you do for a living, besides cry like a bitch and hold up the line at Kinko's?

What gets me is, signing up for an email address was not even on the menu for this guy. Here was his chance to become a part of the technological brigade, but he just had to insist on being difficult, whilst bitching about the situation being unnecessarily complicated. He literally pouted and raised his voice to a shrill level in front of the cashier, and when the floater came around to check on his progress, or lack thereof, he went to her and rubbed his eyes like a sleepy baby while whimpering, "I don't know why this is so difficult, they don't want to print my pictures off the camera and I've done it that way before..."

This guy could've used a few more ass kickings in his lifetime. That would teach him. I bet this clown probably went home and had his mommy put vaseline on his hiney. How is he surviving in New York City? All I'm saying.

Thank You

2010-06-13T15:12:00.001-07:00

Thank you for freeing me from the crippling need of you. You were the shepherd for some time but you've disappeared from your flock without notice. Though you've abandoned me like a faithless friend, you forced me to seek comfort and approval from a far more important person. This new support will be sure to last a lifetime and I say this without lack of faith, because I now turn to me.

Rat Race

2010-06-07T21:13:00.000-07:00

And we rise out from the ground like rats. All of us inevitably wanting the same thing, being just a piece of this immense, limitless city, all for ourselves. We want the same, but head in different directions, at different paces, with different intensities. Yet at the end of the day, after the race is over, we submerge ourselves to the underground congregation yet again, our meeting place, where numerous walks of life share the same space, the same direction, perhaps for the last time. As you grip the steel bars, your body nestled between the performer, the intellect or the vagrant, you exhaustedly sway together under the train's motion, silent and resigned. There's a commonality among you, a stillness, an understanding no one speaks of. No one dares break this rare moment of silence, because once you rise out from the depths of the city, the race against one another begins anew.

It just occurred to me

2010-05-25T00:06:00.000-07:00

My tastes are too elevated for my obtainable surroundings. And I'm not doing anything substantial to lift myself out of these surroundings. That explains it. Hence my constant toiling with angst. Huh.

Go fuck yourself, San Diego

2010-04-30T20:37:00.000-07:00

Six months ago I left "America's finest city" for the big bad city. New York has slugged me over the head with clenched fists on several occasions. I've bared the winter, the prices, the cruelty, the infuriating rat race. I've managed to come out alive, boastful. I've even put myself in the line of fire on several occasions, by taking rides from pirate taxis at JFK, walking home alone at 5 am, falling asleep on the subway and drunkenly riding the train for hours. Somehow I was always lucky. There comes a time when you've tempted fate too much, I suppose. I've probably reached that point.

I came back to San Diego for several reasons but mainly it was for some respite from the hustle and bustle. I was anxious to see my friends, to feel familiar with my surroundings again, to relax and enjoy a little vacation. I anticipated this trip to be something like chicken soup for my teenage soul. So how is it that I was robbed not even an hour into my arrival, on my first trip back home? Oh the irony.

There was an issue over who would pick me up at the airport. My best friend Carissa is always my first choice, but she had an interview in L.A. that afternoon, so I didn't want to chance it. Not having Carissa pick me up threw everything off. I'm not all that superstitious, but I firmly believe this. I hadn't heard from my cousin for days, so I decided to "punish" her by not giving her the satisfaction of picking me up. Ha. Perhaps I was robbed because I was punished for being entirely up my own ass. In any case, I turned to my friend Motos to pick me up. He happily agreed, but at the last moment I changed plans. A couple friends of mine who lived closer to the airport offered . Also, one of them was to attend a music festival with me and my group the following day. I figured it was a good idea to make introductions and figure out a game plan for attending the sold out festival, as we were ticketless.

Mama's home, I smugly thought to myself as soon as I stepped off the plane and walked toward the baggage claim. I sent out a mass text announcing my arrival, calling the cavalry to meet me for a drink at one of my favorite watering holes. We parked just down the street from Nunu's cocktail lounge and I pulled my wallet and cell phone out of my carry on bag. I turned to step out of the vehicle and paused. Looking back at the bag I wondered, should I really leave that there? The bag contained plenty of valuables; my laptop, ipod, journal, house keys, makeup bag, 10 vinyl records (some of which I had proudly won on Ebay because they were rare or out of print), a USB zip drive containing several documents of importance and other assorted items. Being that the bag was so heavy, I decided against lugging it into the bar. It'll be fine, I thought. I pushed the bag deeper underneath the driver seat. We would just be right inside the bar.

We head in and slowly the group arrives. My minions were just waiting in the wings, waiting for a signal from me. It was great to see everyone again, although some reactions to seeing me upon the first time in 5 months were mixed. Some were elated. Others regarded my presence with wariness and hesitation. People have their own ways of dealing with separation I guess.

One hour later, the friends who picked me up decided it was time to depart. I accompanied them to the car to retrieve my luggage and transfer it to my cousin's car. I pulled my suitcase out of the back and my friend helped me load it. Yet when I went to get my carry on bag out of the back seat, I didn't see it. I looked under the seat. Baffled, I asked my friends if they had seen my other bag.

"What bag?"

"My carry on bag. The purple tote bag."

"I didn't see a carry on bag. You only had the suitcase."

"NO, I had a purple bag too."

"Oh, you must have left it in the bar. I bet it's in the bar."

"NO, I DIDN'T LEAVE IT IN THE BAR I SPECIFICALLY REMEMBER LEAVING THE FUCKING BAG IN THE CAR!"

Everyone just stood around in awe and silence, not knowing what to say or do. There were absolutely no signs of forced entry to the vehicle, but a large bag does not just disappear into thin air. I asked my friend if he was missing anything from the car. He just stared at me in amazement.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, aside from my missing bag. So I just told him to go home and we would figure this out later. Stupefied, I turned to get into my cousin's car. A catalogue of all the items in my carry on started to flash before my eyes. Each item potentially missing from that bag, in all it's importance, glory and net value, would be a very big hit to my person if it were gone forever. Of utmost concern was the laptop, what with all the files and pictures saved in it. The files, pictures and programs that I didn't have backed up. Did this mean that my entire iTunes library was gone? Wiped out? Years and years of music compiled and filtered to my 7000 song liking snatched away? I guess that meant all those unfinished short stories were gone too, as well as my resumes, pictures of my last vacation in Thailand. And the fact that all my email passwords were auto saved, that I did online banking and wasn't sure if I had deleted bank information with my account number from my desktop, left something to be desired.

Then I thought about my journal. All those "dear diary" moments I had on paper. I thought about how my name was engraved onto the front cover, how anonymity was out the window.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, this was bad indeed. There was some sliver of hope that my bag was hiding somewhere in the back of Pete's Jeep Cherokee, but I knew that was just a bullshit pipe dream. Inside my very being, I knew I'd just gotten royally fucked. Right in the baby maker.

Defeated, I returned back to the bar to break the news. It's funny how people's first reaction is usually denial.

Noooo, they all said. That doesn't make any sense. It's impossible. Your bag is there. Are you sure you didn't bring it in with you? Are you sure it's not lying around somewhere? Why would your luggage be in the car and not your purse? It doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't anything else be missing?

Oh but something else was missing. Not long after did I receive a text verifying we had in fact been jacked. Someone had also stolen my friend's ipod, adapter, half smoked joint and a bag of almond cluster snacks from out of the car. We'd been had by a crack head.

I skipped denial altogether. I hung out in shock for a while. I was too shocked this would happen on my very first night back to my hometown, within the first hour of my arrival. It didn't set a very good precedence for the trip. No it did not.

Then you ask yourself why. What is the point of this? As a masochist I always assume it's punishment for something. But what? I would never dream of breaking into someones vehicle and stealing their possessions. Outrageous! And sooo rude. Never in a million years. I suppose I could not begin to understand the dynamics of a crack head's mind, nor would I wish it. But for christ's sakes, stealing some munchies and a half smoked joint out of a car? C'mon! Is there no dignity left in the world? Then again as Rick James brilliantly put it, cocaine is a hell of a drug.

So I was still grappling with the idea of this being my welcome wagon. This guy went straight for the jugular. I hadn't had a loss this big since I'd lost my wallet 8 years prior. It wasn't the money in the wallet that was the loss, it was the credit card and identification information that was a motherfucker to deal with. Have you ever stood in line at the DMV on a Saturday afternoon? Or at the Social Security office? How about being on hold with your bank for hours? These are some of the tedious life tasks I loathe the most. More than anything. I find them soul crushing. It's like being branded and tagged on a cattle ranch. So when I realized I'd lost my wallet while at work and my employer didn't let me take time off to call my credit card companies to inform them because Home Depot SUCKS ASS, I went into my car on my 15 minute break to wail and scream like a wild, wounded animal, complete with pounding on the steering wheel and all other sorts of hysterics. Of course, I was only 21 and life only just begun to reveal itself to me. That wouldn't be the last time I'd get fucked over.

I realize this also won't be the last time I get fucked over, but at least I didn't wail and scream like a wild wounded animal this go round. I just continued to ask myself why. I felt disappointed and dismayed. How could life throw such a curve ball? Talk about being caught off guard. The universe had really let me down. San Diego really let me down.

Then I got drunk. That helped.

The next day I shot up out of bed like lightening at 6 am, as if emerging from a bad dream. Did last night really happen? As a person who likes to dwell obsessively on the past, I continued to beat myself up over what happened. It was all my fault. My instincts told me not to leave the bag in the car, but I did anyway. I should have just let Motos pick me up from the airport. Perhaps this would have all been avoided if I had not changed the plan, etc. I thought of a million different things I could've done to make the situation turn out differently. But it was all useless. What was done was done. Then I started to obsess over what I'd lost and it pained me to think about the slow difficult recovery.

Not exactly in the best spirits for a music festival, we got a late start to leaving for the desert that day. Coachella and all it's delightful musical offerings only served as a painful reminder to what I'd lost the previous evening. I thought of the MF Doom Special Herbs Vol.1 LP I found in a record store in Brooklyn and how amazed I was that I'd actually gotten my hands on it. I became furious at the prospect of some rogue tossing my out of print Peaches Fatherfucker LP into a dumpster after I 'd won it on an Ebay auction, fair and square. Listening to music on the car ride over became the twisted knife in my heart, because I no longer owned the vast musical catalogue that was a routine and necessary part of my life. This may all sound dramatic, but music is one of my greatest passions. It's not to be messed with.

We were relatively unsuccessful in getting into Coachella the first night. It took us 4 hours to get there due to traffic, as opposed to the standard 2.5 hours and we waited in a queue to park for FOUR hours. I decided that God really hated me. It was quite unbelievable. The concert was sold out and arriving at 9 pm left us little chance to get in. We contemplated jumping over the gate and rushing the venue, but my gate jumping days ended in my early 20's. This ole hose hound doesn't play those haggard reindeer games anymore. We cut our losses and went to the hotel to get some rest and regroup for the next day.

Saturday morning began with a great omen. I had a text from SDPD officer Sgt. Dale Flammand that said: "Cynthia. I have recovered your macbook. Please call me asap."

I was astounded. Praise Allah! I called the officer and he informed me that he found a transient on University Ave. in Hillcrest and after searching him they'd found my laptop in his possession. He claimed he'd found it in the dumpster, but fortunately they didn't believe him and arrested him for misappropriation, since they couldn't get a hold of me and confirm it was stolen property. The one item I would have wished for was being returned to me! This was truly a miracle. I am a very lucky person. Someone out there is looking out for me.

And we managed to get 3 ticketless people into Coachella for the remainder of the weekend, for $200. Mind you, festival passes were $300 a pop. Not bad at all, I do say.

In retrospect, I still don't know why this happened, but I believe it was necessary. I'm sure the reasons for this happening will reveal themselves in due time. In better news, I learned a little lesson on attachment to 'things'. Many of those records I purchased were hastily obtained on a whim. I haven't been the best example of exercise of restraint, given that being alone in a big city is a large temptation. We all have our way of filling a void in our lives, and buying cool shit is mine. I had been battling with an ominous feeling of guilt for my overindulgent ways weeks before I flew to San Diego. Despite my instinctual realization that I'd been living somewhat irresponsibly for my means, I continued to consume. I bought many of those records because I wanted to feel validated when I played x song at my DJ gig in San Diego. I wanted to appear a certain way with the help of my material goods, which I felt defined me. And when those material goods were stripped away, it broke me a little. I didn't have my "cool cloak" to hide behind. In the end, it's just stuff. It goes away. It doesn't make me. Those things are inside me and losing them in material form does not change who I really am, or make me any more or less desirable. Now I will think twice before indulging my desires, because desires should be earned. Obtaining unearned desires devalues our appreciation of them. New York had not slapped me upside the head with this reality, but San Diego sure did. Then again, this could be interpreted into a push/pull between my place in two cities. It's like my good friend Pat brilliantly put it after I told him what happened, "That's because San Diego ditched you. New York is your baby now." He may be on to something...

And the crack head who stole from me and my friend turned out to be a 50 year old ex gang member from L.A. He's a heavy drug user/burglar/transient who's been terrorizing the greater San Diego area for some time now. That's what he does. Aside from that, what's HIS purpose in life? To teach us lessons? Perhaps. So what was the lesson? It depends on how you handle it. What you take away from a dire situation, or how you deal with it, that's the lesson. The fact that I didn't fly into hysterics and wail while pounding on my steering wheel could be indicative of a decent take on the situation. And as my other friend Kimberly also brilliantly put it, if New York hadn't already snatched my panties off and shoved them down my throat, I could easily take another junior varsity ass pounding from lil' ol' sun shiny, small town San Diego.

Dictionary Family Tree

2010-03-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

Oxford Dictionary:

The all knowing, respected grand dad. The scholar, the Cadillac, the Don Corleone of dictionaries. If you really want to know what's up, sans the bullshit and speculation, you go see him. Seek truth or seek nothing.

Merriam Webster:

The sluttier sister-in-law. Not as reliable as Oxford, but easier to get to, so she becomes a preferred method. Convenience and accessibility are of most importance these days. Contemporary times call for contemporary measures, don't they? Sure you can say cooking and knitting are a lost art, but I still don't see anyone doing anything about it.

Urban Dictionary:

The perverted, alcoholic Uncle who spends his entire paycheck at the race track. The Jerry Springer of dictionaries. The derelict. The guilty pleasure. Despite all this, you can't contest he is oh-so-fun...

The Nose Knows

2010-03-27T23:35:00.000-07:00

So I have a gift and it's called my intuition. But I don't listen to it sometimes. And that's where my fuck ups come in.

The gig is up. I am no longer going to be able to collect unemployment. I am officially cut off. Gone are the days of leisure and low maintenance financial worry. I bid a somber farewell to the overindulgent moments of recklessness and splurging. Enter impending financial doom.

Being that I submitted my unemployment claim late, my checks were stopped until I went through a phone interview with an EDD representative, some flunkey who grilled me and managed to get me to shoot myself in the foot. I am the worst liar EVER. Always have been. I don't know if this is inevitably a good or bad thing. I want to say it's a good thing. But right now it's very much not.

So I was told I would receive notification of their decision to release my check in 7-10 working days, which means I'm denied my benefits, according to many an online discussion forum. This couldn't have come at a worse time, just before I go back to San Diego for "vacation" which is going to cost me some money, especially since it's everyone and their mother's birthday. I started to think about the downward spiral my bank account would take. I started to think about the forth coming pressures to find a job, my likelihood of taking up a job I absolutely detested, out of desperation. I started to think about the possibility of not finding employment and surrendering myself to failure, defeat. And then I thought about how I'd already known this was going to happen a month ago.

On 3/2/2010, I wrote:

I am freaked out. Mr. poverty is coming for me, like impending death. He's just around the corner. I can smell him. When I'm on the train with my iPod and American Apparel outfit, there are those frequent occurrences of a pan handler entering your car and making an announcement entailing how depraved and broken they are, asking for anything you can spare so they can get something to eat, meanwhile you become more engrossed in your reading material or headphones, not wanting to even look at them and have to face the fact that you could help them, but don't want to. They could be lying. They could be alcoholics/junkies/lazy assholes. But the worst one is thinking, that could be YOU.

I knew then what I know now, not in the same sense, but I had an idea of what was to come. Yet it didn't make things any easier. And here I am. Facing the dragon. I'm still scared shitless. Though somewhat delayed, I'm now thick in the midst of navigating through the difficulty of change, having left everything behind for a place where I had nothing, simply because something within me was crying out for it. And now it's time to find out what I'm really made of. Before I moved to New York, I knew I would be forced to make such a finding, to see if I really could endure difficulty alone.

Immediately after being faced with the possibility of running out of money, I had a moment of weakness. I feared defeat. I thought of the possibility of being sent back to San Diego with my tail between my legs. Admitting I couldn't make it. Failure; the initial fear that caused me to avoid trying so many things. But yet something inside me still tells me that won't happen. My intuition whispers in my ear, telling me to do this or that, it haunts me and keeps me awake at night with worry. But it's never been wrong. And just as it told me rough times were ahead, it also tells me I'm capable and strong enough to see them through. I trust I'm going to make it, somehow. I will find a way. I just need to stay hungry.

Tall guys

2010-03-25T15:38:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see tall guys walking on the street, I look at them and wonder if they have big cocks.

Is that wrong?

New York I love you, but you're bringing me down...

2010-03-24T14:59:00.000-07:00

Having hit a wall of sorts on Saturday, I've been somewhat on a "forced to face reality" kick. The honey moon is over. Woe is me.

I think New York is trying to indiscriminately destroy me. I don't know. First I realized my life will become a downward spiral of self inflicted pain if I don't get around to writing a book. Then I found out my unemployment may be terminated very soon, which is the only thing keeping me afloat financially. Scary thought. This is all the more disconcerting since I've got plans to visit San Diego soon, complete with a plethora of activities that will be costing some serious money. And finally, I was given the opportunity to interview with The Crosby Hotel for a hostess position, which was actually great because I didn't even contact them. They called ME. Turns out an old supervisor of mine recommended me and they asked me in for an interview. I woke up that morning, ready to kick some ass, but discovered the door knob on my bedroom door was stuck. It wouldn't budge. I was locked in my own room.

I started to fiddle with the knob, first calmly, then with more fury for every passing moment. I heard my roommate Zoey's heels stride across the wooden floor of our living room. I called her name. She didn't hear me, and my heart sank as I heard her close and lock the front door behind her. Gonzo. I started to yank on the door, tugging and twisting the door knob, a quiet panic growing within me. I got tired. I took a break. I stared dumbly at the door knob. I put my hands on my hips and muttered to myself. Fuck.

I kept trying to force the door open for another 5 minutes. Fortunately yet mortifyingly, Zoey's friend Lake is visiting from Toronto and he was asleep in the living room. I had to wake him up. I'd been left no choice. This was getting ri-goddamn-diculous.

"Uhh Lake? Hello?"

"Yeeah..?"

"Hi. Sorry to wake you. This is awkward. I'm trapped in here. I can't open the door and I have an interview soon. Can you open the door from your side?"

"You have an interview today?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Oh..."

"Yah."

Lake tried to open the door. No luck. I removed the screws in the door knob with a nail file, but that didn't help since the latch was stuck so far in the door frame. It just wouldn't budge. I instructed him to go into the kitchen to find "tools" and he brought over a hammer and a chisel. He began to knock down the door. Well, he wailed at the spot where the door knob was. That loosened the door, but not much else, besides make a shit ton of noise at 8am. Lake then slid the hammer under the door to me and I started to chisel the wood off the door panel. I was ready to saw the door down. My urgency and panic grew with every waking moment I remained trapped. And we couldn't unhinge the door because the hinges were painted over. Mother.

I chiseled and yanked and pulled and pounded on the door until my hands were red and raw and sweat formed on my upper lip. I had 45 more minutes until I had to be at my interview. This was a fuck. Then I grabbed the nail file and jimmied it between the latch and the door frame. When I had it where I wanted it, I instructed Lake to throw himself against the door. He gave it a good shove and the door went flying open. Freedom! Now I had to manage to get downtown in less than 45 minutes.

I got ready in record time, which is a big deal for me, especially if you know anything about my grooming habits. I somehow, by some miracle, got there right before 10:30am like I was supposed to. Then the woman interviewing me asked for a resume. Shiiiit. I told her I had a crisis of sorts and was locked in my room that morning, hadn't had time to print my resume. She didn't like that and she wasn't very amused. Maybe I should've told her my dog ate my resume. She went to go grab an application and came back perplexed. They didn't have any. I offered to go print my resume out and bring it back, since I had my USB drive with me. She said ok. Since I had shown up for the interview on time, she "wouldn't hold it against me." Whatevs bitch.

So I went in search of a Kinko's on Astor place, two stops away. I actually didn't have the resume saved on my USB drive. So I had to go into my email records and find a copy, fix it up and print it out. I rushed back to The Crosby Hotel. I sat down with the woman, whose name I still don't know, and her boss for the shortest interview in the history of time. They asked me why I left my previous job and I told them I wanted room for growth. I was thanked for my time and told they would be in touch. I couldn't help but wonder. I wasn't getting the job, was I?

Great. So glad I went through that ordeal then. I mean really. Who gets locked in their own room the morning of an interview? Trapped in their own room for almost AN HOUR. Who else does this shit happen to? I think New York is doing its best to get rid of me. It's trying to break me. Well good luck! You forgot that little bit about me being a masochist! Dig that. I've busted my ass on your streets a good four times now and I'M STILL HERE! You won't succeed! I ain't going nowhere!

What else do you got huh? I'm ready for it. Bring it on. I'll be waiting in the wings with knee pads.

Avoidance

2010-03-22T09:18:00.000-07:00

Turning 30 last month, aside from putting me at a nice round number, has made it harder for me to continue avoiding my destiny. I've tried. I changed majors. I partied. I drank. I channeled my energy into more destructive pursuits, I got more piercings, tattoos, I exercised more, denied my abilities, took trips to foreign lands, ate more. But I can't hide anymore. There's a shadow lurking behind me. It follows me. It haunts me. And this past Saturday night, after drinking a bottle of wine alone followed up with a series of bong loads, I lay on my air mattress in a daze, attempting to write down the thoughts infecting my troubled mind, barely able to hold the pen steady as the room went into a tailspin. It took me back to the days of self reproach, when the existential dilemma first began to surface. In those days, the restlessness had not yet been identified as restlessness; it was merely a freshly planted seed. It became self diagnosed insecurity, depression, doubt. I hadn't even begun to capably understand what was going to happen inside me. Yet it was as if I had a visceral sense of no longer belonging to a majority. A contented, oblivious majority.

Yesterday I realized that if I don't do something about this soon, I will commence to make a downward spiral into some form of self abuse, whether it be through the form of substance, or self loathing. Either way, it was a disturbing revelation. Fortunately it was also a motivating one as well. I am ready to make my commitment to my destiny.

To make my goals less foreboding, I must commit to the following:

1) Start writing. Every day. And not just in my fucking diary.

2) Read more. You don't read as much anymore. What the fuck's wrong with you? You must feed your brain.

3) Do your research. Educate yourself woman. You don't research bands or politics or current events or movies or art anymore. What the fuck's wrong with you? Read a newspaper or something.

4) Put yourself out there. Look for opportunities. Work on your resume all the time. Submit your work. Write down ideas. Don't get stuck. Don't get complacent. Keep moving. Upward mobility. Stay hungry!!!

If I want it, I can run with the best of them. Now get to work...

In order to fly, you must fall. In order to fall, you must be me.

2010-03-12T08:22:00.000-08:00

Falling down in public is pretty special. And when I say special, I really mean god awful. You never really do forget it. I mean the memory of it fades with time and all, but it usually haunts you pretty good for a spell before it leaves, like a faithless friend.

I firmly believe this species of humiliation is a rite of passage. We must all fall. Some of us are prone to fall less gracefully than others. Some of us are not so lucky. You're damn right I'm talking about myself.

Since I've moved to New York, I've got a catalogue of falls under my belt. I just took public fall number four yesterday. It wasn't pretty. Let's recap all the falls I've taken in the past four months (one per month!) before we discuss what I endeavor to be the last fall for a while (for the love of CHRIST).

Fall #1: A cold January day on West Broadway, shortly after New Year's Eve. I was shopping in Soho before I went into work. Being that it was so close to the holidays, there were crowds. Big crowds. Lots of tourists. I specifically remember being blasted in the face with ice wind so cold, I felt like my head would explode. Still, I was wearing what I believed to be a saucy outfit so I was feeling spry, despite the weather. I trudged on. In attempts to cross before the cab turning right cut me off, I sped walked through the intersection, oblivious to the ice puddle I was about to step in. What happened next was a jolt to my physical being. It was as if the forces of loserdom had entered my body and set up shop, expelling me from any possibility of feeling "cool." I didn't even see it coming. I began to slip and slide about for a good 5 seconds, shocked that life could take such an ill turn. My heart and mind refused to accept it, but I was battling the inevitable. I was going down. I flailed my arms wildly (because that's such a good way to deal with stepping in ice) until my legs slid out from under me. Then I landed straight on my ass. Most New Yorkers would ignore you and leave you there to die, but as I mentioned earlier I was surrounded by tourists so one particularly kind man extended his hand, pulled me from the muck and ventured a genuinely considerate, "Are you alright?" With my head down, I muttered "Yes" and scuttled away. I quickly ducked into the nearest H&M, rested my hands on my knees, hunched over and began to hyperventilate. Fall #1 done.

Did I hurt myself, you ask? Yes, I hurt my ego very badly. Then the pain in my ass set in about 15 minutes later after the shock wore off.

Fall #2: The historic blizzard of 2010. There hadn't been a snow fall this bad since 2006. God bless that. So glad I was present to see history in the making.

I had elected to dog watch in New Jersey. My friend's mom, Paulina, was going out of town for two weeks and needed someone to watch her dog "Freckles." Otherwise she was going to put the dog to sleep. I volunteered, as I was newly unemployed. And then there's the bit where Paulina let me stay at her house for a month rent free when I first moved to NYC...

Despite the fact that I was "paying it forward" and all that malarkey, I immediately regretted volunteering to take care of Freckles after being there 2 days. I did not like Freckles. She stunk. And worse yet, there was no furniture in the house, as Paulina was planning to move after her return, so she'd gotten rid of most of her belongings. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor in an empty house. All I could do was eat and watch television. It was cool watching all that free cable at first, but then not. New Jersey blows. Pretty much.

I was entering my second week in Jerz and I was getting a bad case of cabin fever. The people at the local supermarket knew me, as I would go in to buy a cheap bottle of wine almost daily. I tried drinking and eating the pain away, but to no avail. Most times I would stay up until 4 or 5am watching movies. A problem with insomnia ensued. I was becoming a zombie. My life was slipping through my fingers. The only solace I had lay in the trip I would take into NYC that week to meet with a friend. I couldn't have been more thrilled at any opportunity to get out of Jerz. I relished the day I would go into the city to have drinks with other humans. I covetously rubbed my mitts together in anticipation. Little did I know a blizzard was in the works.

Per usual, I had difficulty falling asleep and did not achieve doing so until 7am. At about 1pm I awoke and found a text from a friend saying something about it being a "winter wonderland." Horrified, I ran to the window and discovered there was about a foot of snow on the ground, and it was continuing to fall steadily. This was going to fuck my plans pretty good.

Panic set it. I was trapped! What would I do? I could not stay there one more day. Why was it snowing today? Precisely now? I was not prepared for this. Ironically, I had been lugging around my rain boots like an idiot for the entire previous week because the weather forecast had predicted snow. It hadn't snowed, so I gave up and left the boots in my apartment in Brooklyn. And now it was snowing.

I decided to flee on foot. I saw a few folks outside. If they were out, I could be too. I would walk it. Even if I was wearing cheap leather boots. Walking in the snow never killed anyone, right? WRONG.

In order to get to the bus stop, I had a 30 minute walk ahead of me. I started my journey and wasn't even 10 feet away from the house when I slipped on the ice and fell right on my tail bone, in the middle of the road. Square on the coccyx. The pain was dynamite. I was almost certain something in my body had been irrevocably damaged the minute I hit the ground. I sat there gasping for breath, the pain was so stunning. I also noted the street was empty, so I felt somewhat fortunate in being able to ingest the agony of my fall in privacy. Except that wasn't true. After a few minutes, some guy peeks his head out from behind a parked car and goes, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," I replied. I really didn't know.

I told him to leave me alone, sat there for a while longer and finally collected myself from off the ground. Now some would take this as a sign telling them to GO BACK. But not me. I was going to New York even if it fucking killed me. It almost had. Even so, this storm would not win, by gum.

I hobbled along, in extreme pain from falling on my asshole, nearly slipping and falling again with every step I took. My shoes were soaking through, my feet wet, my toes frozen. The frost bite would set in at any moment. What was a 30 minute walked turned into an hour long death march. I remembered Paulina's son Harold lived nearby, so I called him to ask if buses were running and to possibly get sympathies, but more importantly a ride. Harold answered his phone, much to my surprise.

"Hi Harold. Listen, do you know if buses are running even though it's snowing?"

"No idea."

"Oh. Well, I was just wondering. Because I'm walking to the bus stop now and I already fell on my tail bone in the snow. I wanted to make sure that there would be buses running before I go any further..."

"That sucks. I don't know. Sorry."

Bastard...

Ok. This was happening. I was going to walk it alone. I arrived to the bus stop, feet frozen, ready to face the possibility that no one was coming for me. Then a bus came. It wasn't my bus. I decided God hated me.

After a good 25 minutes a shuttle finally came. I was saved! I had to go and buy yet another pair of fucking galoshes once I got into NYC. My shoes were destroyed and my feet would not make it otherwise. $40 down the shitter. And the galoshes I bought ended up being too tight. They squeezed my toes together so much, the insides of my toes got cut up by my own toe nail. Since I wore the galoshes home, there was no returning them. Yay me. NYC-2, Cynthia-0.

Fall #3: My 30th birthday. I was returning home from a splendid evening of being lavished with attention. The downward spiral had already begun however, when I waited too long to get off the A train and ricocheted off the closing doors. I probably looked pretty foolish breaking into a sprint after having gotten caught between the doors. It was one of those fight or flight situations. Obviously, I flighted. Come to think of it, I probably looked doubly stupid waving into the window of the train car at my friend Pat, immediately after having been slammed between it's doors. As if having a friend in the train makes it ok to act like a second string human being. And he didn't even see me waving at him. Run away, old girl. Just run and don't look back.

I managed to get off the train ok. I was walking to my apartment, at about 5am. I knew what I was in for. It was snowy. I was wearing heels. I was tipsy. Despite all this, I tried to walk as carefully as possible at an elevated speed, seeing that it was pretty late and all. I had just passed a couple arguing in the street when I slipped and fell on the sidewalk. I slid on my side, much like a baseball player would slide into home plate. I looked around. The couple arguing was so engrossed in their argument they didn't even look at me. Nothing was broken. Probably because I was drunk and totally at ease. I got up and peeled out of there. This proved to be the least painful fall I've taken, physically and emotionally. Happy birthday to me :(

Fall #4: The motherload of falls. I had just spent a wonderful day at the MOMA, checking out the highly coveted Tim Burton exhibit. It was great. I spent a good four hours there perusing. I even got all gussied up. Life was going great. When my feet felt like they were on fire, I knew it was time to call it a day. As I walked down the stairs to the train, I took my time. My heels were pretty high and I wasn't sure the train that'd just arrived was mine. When I got to the bottom of the stairs I realized it was my train. The doors were still open, so I instinctually began to run. As soon as I entered the car, everything went all wrong. I'm not sure if I tripped on the gap or if my heels gave out, but I ate major shit. I landed square on my knees. It was very Tom Cruise Risky Business. Except 100% less cool. Sucky part was I had a skirt on, in addition to my heels. And to add insult to injury, the train doors didn't close for another 10-15 seconds after my grand entrance. I'd made such a thunderous noise when I landed that everyone turned to look at me. So having that agonizing 10 second interval before the doors closed and the train started moving was really key in adding to the humiliation. But the worst part of all? Just when you think a human can't fail any more at life, I managed to super cede. In a desperate attempt to save myself from falling, I grabbed the back pocket of this man's jeans and tried to hoist myself up via his ass. Thankfully I didn't rip his pants. But I did get a few sidelong glances brimming with pity and disgust. The man who I tried to drag down with me asked me if I was alright, to which I replied, "Yah." He really wanted to say "What the fuck is your problem?" judging by the look on his face. I tried to laugh it off, but that probably just made me look sad. I was. There was NO WAY I could look cool after something like that. It was the longest two stops of my life. I still have the bruises to prove it.

The End?

Yoga instructor vs. Pilates instructor

2010-02-22T20:52:00.000-08:00

I've been teaching at a shitty gym in Brooklyn for a month now. I'm upping my class load, starting to get a small following of devoted beginner yogis and am about ready to roll up my sleeves and come down on the pilates instructor's dome, with fists.

She's a crazy, bipolar, retarded bitch. The first day I taught at the gym, I had an icy interaction with her over the room set up. She wasn't outright rude, but I could tell there was a territorial situation formulating, as she taught the bulk of classes at the gym. Her name is "Fauziya" and she wears ridiculous work-out attire, like really low cut bra tops that show off her low hanging ape tits and short spandex unitards in unorthodox colors, such as all white. I think she wears a wig too. She's busted looking.

The problems with Fauziya began when her classes started to run a little longer than they were supposed to. I teach yoga at 12 p.m. Fauziya teaches a cardio/aerobics class at 10:30 a.m. Her class ends at "11:30 a.m." There are quotes around 11:30 because she rarely ends at 11:30. She usually goes until 11:45 a.m. Sometimes even 11:55 a.m. I usually don't care, except for the time I walked in and the room stunk to high hell like armpit. There wasn't adequate time for the room to air out before my class, so my student's walked into a B.O. sauna. It hit you like a wave. I'd never smelled anything like that. A formidable scent indeed. Stung the nostrils. It annoyed me, but I never said anything to her. I let it slide. Even when she would barge into my class mid session to get something, and make a racket in the process, I wouldn't say anything. I let it go. I figured, as long as she didn't go into my class time it was fine. Then I started going over my class time too. I figured if she could do it, why couldn't I? So I would end class at 1:05 p.m. Sometimes 1:10 p.m. Problem was her pilates class started at 1 p.m. There was no 30 minute gap between. Fauziya started to lose her shit a little. She had words with the front desk boy. She sent him in to do her dirty work.

Sam, the guy who runs the front desk on weekends, let me know she demanded I end class on time. He said she was "very upset" that I went into her class time. She didn't want to tell me herself, so she asked Sam to do it. I was surprised. I never fancied Fauziya a passive aggressive type, but I guess her bark is pretty loud and likely worse than her bite. Meanwhile, she just continued ignoring me when we would pass each other in the gym. So I did the same. And because I'm a decent human being, I was more cautious about ending class on time.

But then sometimes life happens. This past weekend I was running late. To make matters worse the L train was running "express," which is horse shit because the L train never runs express. It skipped my stop and went in two more. I was shitting myself because the trains also happened to be running every 12 minutes as opposed to every 4 minutes. I was already about 10 minutes late. I couldn't wait for another train. I left the subway station in search of a cab. By some grace of God, there happened to be a cab in Brooklyn and I managed to hail it. There are never cabs in Brooklyn. I must stress how miraculous this was. So I got to class about 15 minutes late. All my students waited for me, and I still managed to end the class about 1 p.m., 1:05 p.m. to be exact. I even apologized to Fauziya for my lateness, told her I was sorry I went over a little. She said, "ohh no problem" and walked away. I figured we were on decent terms at that point.

Well today was the first day I taught a Monday class. I gave pretty short notice to all parties involved regarding the change in schedule. So when I approached the aerobics room, I was not surprised to find Fauziya inside, still conducting a class. My students and I waited outside the room patiently until about 8:20 p.m. It didn't look like she was trying to end the class. We wondered whether she knew I was teaching a class 20 minutes ago. Then one thing led to another and we started to discuss her colorful (slutty) wardrobe choices, how she rudely walked into our class every single week, how she was a lousy loud motherfucker, etc. The clock ticked on. 8:25 p.m. One of the students asked if she should alert the front desk. I says, "Sure." Fauziya clearly needed to know the score.

Well Fauziya did not react favorably. Mind you I hadn't said a word to her, but as soon as the front desk guy stepped into her room to ask about her ending time, she flung the door open, stepped outside and looked at me.

"You need to stop having side conversations. I don't appreciate you having your side conversations outside my class. You run your class late every week and I don't ever bother you about it. Do not interrupt me while I'm instructing. You need to respect my class please THANK YOU!"

And with that she slammed the door behind her and went back to teaching pilates. I stood there in amazement. Everything she had just said was just plain crazy.

I didn't run my class late every week. I had not interrupted her class, as she had mine, week after week, when she would walk into my class while it was in session to pick up some weights, or a cardio ball, or some other shit she "forgot." It was obvious this woman was disturbed.

Jason (front desk guy) became incensed and went to call the manager and report what happened. The manager tells him to kick Fauziya out of the room, which I was wary of doing, for we didn't know what she was capable of. Well, Fauziya then flew into a rage, directing the bulk of it at yours truly. She needed little reason to openly hate me.

"I will end my class when I want to end my class! Do not interrupt my class with your side conversations ever again! Respect my class! You do NOT do that to another instructor..."

"I didn't say a WORD to you..."

"You end your classes late every week and I don't bother you about it. You were 20 minutes late last week and I didn't say anything, so I'm gonna end my class when I feel like it. If you don't like it too bad. You can WAIT!"

And with that she re-enters her class where all her students (and mine) have just witnessed the spectacle she put on. I was a little embarrassed for her. She made herself look really stupid, not to mention unprofessional. Not only did she cause an unwarranted and unnecessary scene, but she created a divide between her students and mine, like there's some kind of rivalry between the pilates and yoga people. When her students filed out of the room, there was a couple looks of contempt cast my way, as I was "the enemy." At this point I'm thinking, "Fauziya is middle finger dipped in monster. She's been sent here to destroy me."

I didn't say much to her after that. She seems pretty unstable. Picking a fight with her may not be worth it. She'd be likely to throw a brick through a window in a fit of rage, or slash someones tires; a definite contender for keeping it so real it goes wrong and she lands herself in jail. I don't want any of that. I choose my battles. This one doesn't seem so savory.

As I entered the aerobics room I heard her bellowing at the poor front desk guy, "Jaaaason! GET over here NOW!"

I felt sorry for that guy and he also felt sorry for me. He later confessed she often harassed him sexually, touching him and coming up behind him and loudly saying things that made him feel gross inside. Many of the other employees and members at the gym also expressed a sentiment of disdain toward Fauziya, where they complained of being able to hear her shouting over their headphones, from across the gym. Her aggressive, primitive behaviors are not sitting well with many. She's clearly a problem at Absolute Power Fitness. And now, I have no choice but to destroy her. Her ass is grass...

Going on 4 Months

2010-02-18T22:30:00.000-08:00

So I just bought my fourth metro card today. As I come into being a "New Yorker," albeit a transplant New Yorker, the only logical way to commute is with the monthly unlimited metro card. I've also starting using my purchase of the monthly metro card as a marker for my time spent here. I figure I can't throw in the towel on my New York life, at least until I get full use out of my metro card. Then another month goes by. And with each new card, the utter lack of familiarity to everything around me in conjunction with the fear surrounding it continues to fade.

When I reflect back on my mindset when I bought my first metro card, I have to smile to myself. I'd felt like someone had forced me come to this city, while fully aware I was the one who had done so. There was no one else to blame. I knew I had no choice but to move here, yet I wasn't exactly enjoying the consequences of my decision. I was homeless, alone, disoriented, afraid and I did not like it. I felt like the new girl at school, being kicked out of the bus onto school grounds while crying for her mommy. For someone who has major issues with assimilating and being the "new girl," this was a big fucking problem.

So I'm not surprised I spent my first day in New York almost entirely indoors. I didn't want to go outside, to confront the harsh reality of my new world. I hid in my friend's apartment, beaching myself on her couch, wallowing in fear of what was to come, wishing to avoid it all for as long as possible. I asked myself why I was there again. By taking myself out of my comfortable and familiar domain, I came into a new self. A needy, paralyzed by insecurity and grappled by fear self. Yucky business. As a severely proud human being, I was disgusted with the person I had stepped into for that initial period. It was like a tug of war between the two ensued; completely opposite dimensions to my personality battling it out for ultimate supremacy. The disparity between who I wanted to believe I was and who I was becoming, really tore me up inside. Internal conflict is no easy feat.

I understood this was all part of the process but enduring it is a whole other matter. Who would win? Fear or bravery? At the time I hadn't realized bravery had already won because I was here. I was uncomfortable and I had single handedly decided to make myself so. And I stuck around, so far for 4 months.

Now I understand this was the best decision I could have ever made. It makes sense being here. Despite all the miserable aspects to this city, the coldness, the strangeness, the rudeness, I love it. I don't have much here, in terms of a home of my own or a career. Never have I been more uncertain of how I would make it, or whom I would eventually become. And yet, ironically, never have I been more happy.

Me Me Me

2010-02-17T16:35:00.000-08:00

Sometimes adjectives are proportionately interdependent. Like, older and wiser. Fast and cheap. Simple and obvious. Long and hard. Quick and dirty. Mature and selfish as shit?

No. That one doesn't quite work. Then why is that the case for me? Will someone explain this one to my selfish ass?

Once upon a time, as an ignorant, insecure little fuckette, I once dreamt of having a family, and what that would be like. What names would I give my offspring? Whom would I marry? Would I have boys or girls? Would they look just like me? Would they act like me?

Yet every year that fantasy would become more and more distant. And the feelings that came with it became less and less familiar. I began to grow accustomed to the feeling of NOT being needed. Not being in love. Not loving. It started becoming harder to find love, because the feelings elicited by "love" became less frequent and more difficult to encounter. The feelings elicited by love weren't necessarily pleasant, I'd come to learn. Most people weren't worthy of my love. Most people weren't worth a shit. And the relationships with those who were worth while, ironically, did not substantiate sincere feelings of love from my side, as evidenced by the previous torturous relationships I'd had. It was like a cruel joke.

The closest I started to feel to true love was "self love," which again, ironically, had begun to repair and grow immeasurably since I'd distanced myself from the need for physical feelings of fleeting romance with compromising individuals I'd learned weren't worth while. So it goes...

This pattern became pretty comfortable. Sure I felt lonely from time to time. Sure I often longed for one's caress. But I also knew what it was to feel lonely when in the company of others, which is lonelier than the number one or two for that matter, and Three Dog Night can go fuck themselves. Until you lay next to someone and still feel empty and alone as hell, knowing they don't give a damn or can even start to comprehend how palpable your loneliness is, you will soon learn this is the epitome of loneliness. And the need of having someone in spite of how miserable it is, begins to fade away. When you grow to know every last dimension of this feeling, you become resistant to compromising it. Why should you? You've come this far...

Yet again, as I have encountered, the emotional detachment that comes with this sense of non-reliance can be a little off-putting as well. The older I become, the more selfish I become. These are two reciprocal ideas. Am I not, in theory, supposed to become more giving as I become older? Have I failed as an evolved human being? Is this anything like saying I'm becoming older and more stupid, as opposed to wiser? Or am I actually shrewder than most? I see those with offspring around me and I can denote how much of their life is actually sacrificed. Yet the most fascinating feature to this riddle is how these individuals react to the situation. Some thrive in their role in "parenthood." Others are broken by the pressures and fail miserably under such responsibility. And still, there are the few that rise to the occasion, those that are transformed by their newly concocted role of moral citizenship. People who feel like their creation gave them a new purpose, changed them, made want to be "better."

I theorize that the last subset of people had nothing more to offer to the world than the most base of human contribution; they can spread their legs and breed. I know that sounds fucked up. I know many people will become enraged at such a notion, or rather, accusation. The reason? It's likely true. Fuck 'em.

Is there any other reason we can generally say the population likely breeding at the highest rate is that which lacks the most formal education? Those who are learned know better, and sadly, as a result are less susceptible to bringing offspring into such a a world. Furthermore those who are in fact educated and do have children have admittedly expressed regret in doing so, have admonished me against engaging in the same sort of mistake they have. Word. Of course, this is but one example. But it only helps prove my point. And it is all about me, after all.

Yes, people who have no higher purpose revel the newly found role we call "parenthood" like a dog would in its own feces. Why do I feel so strongly about this, to the possible point of contention? Because I am embittered and romantically dead inside. I admit this is worrisome. I admit I am one selfish motherfucker. I can't stand the notion of being needed, if there isn't something in it for me. If you are not my family or friend and you want something from me, whether it be financial or physical or emotional, you can simply FUCK OFF. You would then be the enemy, in my greedy little opinion. Anything needy is thus considered a foe. Included in this category would be children, pets or unwanted friendships. My freedom is important to me. I am resentful of anything or anyone who will impede my progress, anyone who wants to steal my precious time, because if I've learned anything, it's time is too precious. Do not take this from me. Or I will cut you.

Of course I am also concerned with the strength of my own violent opposition to neediness of others. Did I fail to keep a sense of humanity with my growing wisdom? When did selfishness ever become considered a desirable quality? Perhaps it's this selfishness that serves to keep me alone. Perhaps...

The problem with being overtly aware of every fucking misgiving is all my arguments become entirely too circular. There is no resolution; I can play merry go round my failures all day and never figure it out. The only conclusion that feels satisfactory because it appeases my ginormous goddamn ego is that I am far too superior, thus misunderstood and this is why I'm in this predicament. Yet we all know that's a cop out. But until I really figure my shit out, I'm sticking with it. A lot of people I know are still there, and refuse to admit it. Human nature tends to rely on admittance as being the first step in self upheaval, so it contends itself in rolling around in admittance for a while, because it's unwilling or unable to do anything else. Much like the dog rolling around in it's own shit, because that was previously such a stunning little visual to keep as a point of reference, I'll go with it.

BAD YOGA

2009-12-01T20:53:00.000-08:00

After a 2 week hiatus from doing yoga, which serves to keep me grounded and healthy and not so angry, I was inundated with some lousy goddamn yoga. What a way to ease back into it.

The studio was way the hell out in Brooklyn, Carroll Gardens me thinks. All I know is I rode that G train for about a fucking month before I got there. The space was pretty much a converted house crawling with children. It was like a soup kitchen for wannabe yogis/new-agers/athlete's of the spiritual fuck tard variety. I was surprised when the guy told me a class costs $10, but now I know better than to need a beating from the red flag.

The second clue I should have picked up on was the children's jazzercise class that was being conducted while I threw away $10 dollars at the check-in desk. Shit show. Why would anyone want their child to dance like Britney Spears, when we all know how that one turned out?

The third clue: an acting class was being conducted in the room our yoga class was to take place in. We waited in the hall before class, hearing the young hopeful thespians grunting like apes. I wonder what the room would become after the yoga class was done...a kindergarden classroom? Come to think of it, I saw some chalk boards hanging on the wall with children's drawings on them, and there was an eight year old in the yoga class....hmmm. Damn. You know it's a bad sign when there's a pre-pubescent child taking the same yoga class as you.

Then I understood. It was going to be a really bad class when the teacher walked in, and she was a tubby little fucker. I hate fatso yoga teachers. How am I supposed to believe in you? Go on and do some push ups girl. Trade that donut in for some rice cakes. Be a leader. Care more!

As soon as she opened her mouth, she kept on dropping her own stock. "Oh! Let's face due south today, wouldn't it be nice if we faced the windows? I think it's nicer...Ok, no, let's face due north then...let's keep it just as it was. And can everyone please grab 2 blocks?"

Bitch. I don't need blocks, ok? If I need blocks, I will grab blocks. I know what I need and it isn't a block. Teachers who insist on using blocks don't even end up incorporating them into the practice anyway. And guess what? We really didn't need them. No kidding.

Then she insisted on pointing out that people were actually taking her class: "I see some new faces here...Are we new to the studio? Or my class? Or both?"

And she actually waited for an answer. She would not move on until we appeased her flighty fucking meanderings. Then we finally started the class. I gathered we'd be off to a slow start, and we sure were. Without warning, she went into an Om chant and I suppose she wanted us to chant along. Many did, but I refrained.

"Wo-yoooooooooooooooo..."

Silence.

"Wo-hoooooooooooooooo..."

Umm. Wo-yo indeed. The rest of the class was a weak delivery, poorly thought out, unchallenging, terribly uncreative, UNSAFE, I mean it was a real shit bath. All the no's were in play here. This woman had us going into pigeon and splits when we were completely cold. I would've torn both my hamstrings and ACL if it were up to her. And she did the annoying yoga voice. I hate yoga voice!!! Inhaaaale one, exhaaale twoooo, inhale threeeee...goooood. She verbalized every breath count. Every one. It got redundant to say the least. You don't have to count every single breath. Especially with the yoga voice. Less is more.

It felt like the longest class of my life. I really wanted to shoot myself in the foot. I wanted out. I wanted to give up. I wanted a mutiny. THIS CLASS GARGLED MY BALLS.

And please remind of why I'm not a yoga teacher again? Oh yeah, I know why, because up until now I've been a big fat pussy who is afraid of failure. Well things are different now. This will not stand. I could never be that bad, and if she's teaching humans yoga, I sure as shit will be doing something to offset it. Wait for it. Waaiiiit for it....

2009-11-12T12:22:00.000-08:00

There's all different type of persons, but one kind that stands out is the type that deliberately chooses to make themselves suffer. The reasons for this are numerous: you want to keep evolving, you want a story to tell, you want to feel...something, anything, you are a masochist and the always lovely, you hate yourself.

It is these people I find myself drawn to. It is them I admire, that are so courageously in the words of sage old Frost, "taking the road less traveled." Maybe this is because I am of that kind. Maybe it validates me to surround myself with such folk, to feel that I'm not alone. If there's one thing we self induced sufferers do take refuge in, it's not being alone in our misery. But yet in most cases we are alone, no matter how many people surround us. The void is there. Perhaps it's the void that craves pain.

where there's smoke

2009-11-10T22:24:00.000-08:00

Being retardedly in love is a lot like being in a smokey bar. It may feel good at the time, but it can be very bad for you. You don't notice how detrimental it can be, until the next day when you wake up and smell the stench of cigarettes and aftermath in your clothes and hair. Being out and away from the bar helps you realize what a potent, noxious fog you were under; how you were willingly susceptible to it all, how much you loved it. Only then, after you are free from the bar's intoxicating, smokey clutches, do you realize how much it stinks.

One of the greatest things I've heard this week

2009-10-18T16:24:00.000-07:00

"California is like a beautiful, wild girl on heroin. She's high as a kite, thinking she's on top of the world, not knowing she's dying, even when you show her the marks."

To breed, or not to breed? That is the question...

2009-10-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

I come from a long line of breeders. My biological mother is a breeder, and her mother was quite the breeder (6 of them). My sister is too a breeder. It is said that when two people come together whose love is so great, a new life is formed from that very love. In my sister's case, and perhaps her predecessors cases (who knows, my family doesn't talk to me), her lust was so great that is caused her to be completely careless a documented total of three times. Thankfully, evolution did not cease on the isle of Galapagos. I, as a witness to poor choices in those breeding precipitously around me, have other ideas.

Living at home again with my post-stroke father goes a little like this: wake up in fear that I've slept in too long (as I normally liked to when I was free) and prevented him from doing his tasks (seeing that I'm his chauffeur and all), feed him, shuttle him around all day, feed him, then clean up after him.

So today, I start my routine and prepare my dad's meal of the day--no salt, not too much fat--and I set his plate and take it to him. He takes it from me and says nothing. Actually, he grunted. Yes. That was his response. Then he eats his food and I clean up. After I'm done with that, then I can eat. As I'm snorting down my food, he brings his plate to the kitchen and sets it on the counter for me to clean. Fortunately for my shattered soul's sake, he says the food was good. There is a trace of a smile on his face. I see it, faintly. I regard my mom's adult life with compassion and pity as I load the dish washer and wipe down the stove. Being in my dad's life currently is a lot like being a mother, or a maid for that matter, because both terms are momentarily interchangeable. Your day isn't necessarily yours, and it is made up of being responsible for another person, doing things for them, feeding them, cleaning up after them, taking them places, and all of this is taken as a given. There is no "thank you." It's your job. Being a parent has never been less appealing to me.

I suppose biological programming is clever that way, because when you create another human being, is comes out small, cute (hopefully) and fresh. The ploy lies in the fact that your offspring initially presents itself to you in a uncomplicated and desirable way. They just need to eat, sleep, be held and played with. You grow attached to this thing. Your like your creation. I love this thing, you say. I can do this. This is mine. This is my life. It sure is...

But then it grows and doesn't get any less needy. It may even become less cute. It needs more. And it begins to ask questions and beg and complain and monopolize your day and psychologically destroy you, without so much as a "thank you." Why? Because it's your job. This is what you signed up for. But no one ever told you that. It was merely alluded to. Perhaps you can recall a time when your parents spitefully told you at the height of their frustration, "Wait until you have kids," whilst they covetously rubbed their mitts together, awaiting their redemption. I aim not to give them such satisfaction.

No, I have never been more apt to reject the idea of breeding. Ultimately, I wish for my life to be mine and not someone elses. I like waking up and being able to decide what to do with my day. I'm selfish like that. Giving up my time is a loathed, dreadful idea that I don't appreciate one bit.

Yet...I am fearful. I am fearful of the female biological programming that will come into play, scooting my present, clear headed reasoning by the wayside. Like a wrench thrown into the spoke of a moving bicycle, I sense love will eventually serve to ruin my life as a free woman. Maybe that's why it hasn't happened for me yet, and I'm alone as fuck...or at least it feels better when I think about it that way. Sharing my life, i.e., marriage--that's ok. I can do that. But giving it away...handing it off like a baton in a life long race I'll never win, well, not so much.

I suppose the "no kids" conclusion seems to make sense while I'm young and vibrant, but when my womb is a barren wasteland, and the coin flips and I'm the one who needs to be shuttled around and cooked for and cleaned up after, what will become of me? Who will wipe the drool from my bubbling lips? Meh, who am I kidding? Having children solely as a preventative measure to being debilitated by old age is pathetic and a pretty good indicator that I'm not fit for the job. Still, I won't say I'll never have kids. That's just a set up for appeasing my parent's eagerness to get their payback. But I will sure as hell put up a good fight.

2009-10-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

I can't name it. It's just there. The thing is there, I have to go see it. The monster, the god, the rat, the snail. What ever is out there, I have to go see it and look at it. And endure it, or maybe not endure it. It's needed, that's all. I really can't explain it. And if I could, I wouldn't go.

-"Hinterland" by Aim

"Health Care" according to Kaiser Permanente

2009-09-25T22:13:00.000-07:00

Get it taken care of, they said. It's easy, they just freeze it and it's gone. My instinctual tendency to want to avoid visiting the doctor is no coincidence, and today was a testament to that, disproving the above mentioned "it's no big deal, just get your ass to the doctor" mentality. The skin tag on the right side of my mid back was beginning to cross over into the unpleasant and gross territory. From continual snagging on my bra and clothing, it had been stretched and pulled into newer, more expansive proportions. It felt like a displaced third nipple. Being that I was soon to lose a hefty percentage of my health care coverage at the cause of being "laid off," I finally decided that I would get to a doctors office and get it taken care of. Upon making the appointment I was very specific about what I wanted out of the visit. I told the woman on the phone, "I have a skin tag that is enlarged and bothersome because it is continually getting caught in my clothing, and I would like it removed." I mean shit, that's pretty clear cut right? Well cut is the operative word here, I suppose, because my practitioner cut the skin tag off me today with a pair of scissors.

I'm still horrified. Let's start there. My general practitioner Dr. Khan seemed to be new, because she didn't know where anything was and nervously over explained logistics and mundane details I didn't give a shit about. The nurse had to show her where the drawer with the supplies was. What she lacked in experience, she made up for in talking to you like you were a retarded ten year old. By over accentuating words and sounding enthusiastic she managed to talk me into bypassing a dermatologist. I ended up feeling a lot like a retarded ten year old, actually. I also remember feeling sullen. Maybe even a little disappointed in life.

I suppose I was lucky I got anesthesia. Sure I may get an infection, but hell, why go through the time and trouble of getting referred to a specialist who has the proper equipment to remove a growth on my back when I can just have it lopped off over the counter? What a fucking primadona I am. Goddamn.

What's more, Dr. Khan also explained to me that many people come in with similar requests, but many have clusters of smaller skin tags all over their necks. She mentioned that in those cases they just tell the patient to "go home and cut it off themselves."

WTF? Isn't that what they tell you not to do? So I could have saved myself a $15 co-payment and cut this thing off myself at home? Balls.

I also asked her about the mole on my face while she was examining me, and without so much as looking at me or asking any questions she blurted "If you've had it all your life it's fine." Cool.

After injecting the skin tag with an anesthetic, she had me lie down on her little table of horrors while she pulled out her scissors and other shit that was completely inappropriate for this procedure. She told me she needed me not to talk to her for a while because she had to concentrate. I was repulsed. Then I stared sadly at the ground. I began to wonder what people said when they were told by their doctor to go home and cut their skin tags off themselves.

She started to come in on me with the scissors. It honestly scared me. I just couldn't get over how low budget and morose this was. On so many levels. Why was this happening? Why was I letting it?

Thankfully it didn't hurt much, but here I am ten hours later in a little pain. Funny thing is, a friend told me his aunt used to remove skin tags by tightening a hair around them, then waiting until they died and fell off. At first that story grossed me out, but it's sounding pretty palatable at this point. It makes more sense then ripping off the thing while it's still fresh. Especially since my back wouldn't stop bleeding. It didn't help that I had taken about 1400 mg's of ibuprofin the previous day. Real neat.

After my "procedure" was over I asked her about my back. I told her my lumbar spine had been in pain for about 4 months due to over exertion in yoga class. She poked around my spine and said it felt fine. She also told me because I was petite I didn't have strong muscles in my back and that's why I was prone to hurt it. It's weird because I do yoga about 3-5 times a week, so I feel like I have a pretty strong muscular frame, but whatever. I was also advised to never to do backbends as well, one of the common types of poses in most yoga classes. Sure, no more back bends ever again. You got it.

Then she gave me some literature on back pain. Actually, she couldn't find it. She had to ask the nurse again. It was hidden behind the pamphlet about "Gonorrhea." I guess their pamphlet section was out of alphabetical order, that's why she couldn't find it. It had nothing to do with the fact that she's a clueless tird.

All in all I really got boned dry today, but the unfortunate part of all this is, you see your doctor feeling like you're supposed to be able to trust them, thus you're automatically prone to being cajoled into these sorts of unsavory happenings. Something inside you knows it's wrong, but you are confused and scared and so wearing that stupid little smock, so you feel extra vulnerable at the cause of your semi nakedness. And even when I did ask questions, she blew me off and came up with some reason why her bunk reasoning was correct. What is one to do? It's a lose-lose.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I don't get tetanus or something. If I do, you better believe I'm writing a complaint to the grievances department. Yeah, really stick it to 'em. Yah...

Help Obama! Do something! You promised...

Stepping closer

2009-09-24T23:52:00.000-07:00

I have been restless. I often stay up late into the night, thinking, dwelling, anxiety ridden. I don't know why. The ball is moving, the forces are taking me to the next destination, just as planned. Why can I not take comfort in this? Why do I remain unsatisfied? I made a decision to change my life, I left my job, the most difficult hurdle thus far. I put in my 30 days notice with my landlord...I am on my way, however though the ultimate destination is marked in my mind, it's still not a tangible reality. There is no set date to work towards. It's all still somewhat speculative. It has been one week since I have stopped working and I can already feel the days slipping away from me. It's comfortable, minus the reality. I took a longer than necessary moment to bask in the glory of breaking the chains of servitude. And I was enjoying it.

The tentative date to leave remained a big questions mark. I began to prolong my departure, for this reason or the other. People started to discourage me from leaving, told me it was a bad time to go--too expensive, too cold, too soon, too sad. It's never a good time. It swayed me. I felt guilty. I wondered when I really would go. Never did I once doubt the idea of leaving, but the matter of when was a different story altogether. Should I wait until Thanksgiving was over? Early December? But then the holidays would be just around the corner, and I may want to come back for the holidays, so why not wait until after that? How long would I keep waiting? But then it got hard to look at myself in the mirror, because I knew what I was doing. I was getting scared again.

I had to choose between facing myself in the mirror and accepting the fact that I was going back on my own word and distancing myself from my goal, versus facing the backlash felt from abandoning the most important people in my life during a predetermined calendar period of togetherness. When I can't decide I usually choose both, but this time I decided to choose the latter, because at least that one didn't lead to self deprecation. So without thinking about it, without investing too much emotion or sentiment, I went online and bought a one way ticket to New York City. On November 17th, I will fly into a city where I have little to no friends, family, job prospects, or a place to live. I don't know what I will do, or where I will end up, but I take comfort in the fact that the ball is rolling now, and I know where it lands. What happens after that is still in the air...

comfort in the hopeless emptiness

2009-09-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

I have never been more afraid. There's no cloak to hide behind anymore. I am finally going to find out what I'm really made of.

After 5 years at the same job, the same unfulfilling job that failed create any sort of feelings of long term satisfaction, I have decided to take control of my own life. The fear toyed with me for approximately one year. Maybe longer. The void that was a precursor to the fear was a cause of my aimlessness. The emptiness that came along with the aimlessness was so palpable, but I found ways to fill it. I wrote it off, I drank, I partied. I managed to have fun. I also managed to let 5 years blow right past me.

I didn't understand why I felt so paralyzed by fear and anxiety. I was getting older, but I wasn't growing. Those moments where everything became a blur, where I sought distraction from reality, I began to look within my self and question my purpose. Was this it? Was this life? What was I meant for? I'd always hoped I'd be destined for greatness, but I suppose I expected greatness to come and sweep me off my feet, to come and save me from the banality of it all. It had not. I couldn't even comprehend what kind of greatness I was destined for. I certainly hadn't excelled at anything just yet. Then the hopelessness began to seep in. Perhaps I wasn't destined for greatness after all. If I was, wouldn't I have achieved it by now? But the funny thing was, all that time my passions and creative abilities were staring me dead in the face, and I wasn't even paying attention to them. They were incubating, dormant. I had never even considered them as abilities. I wanted to believe I had a chance without really believing it. I guess I was waiting for someone to rescue to me, to validate me, to save me from myself. When did I wake up from my trance? I really don't know.

All that time, I could always peg my potential failures on my lack of interest in anything I did. It always felt better to resign myself to not being good enough because I didn't care about it. It didn't hurt so much that way. If I cared, failing would be all the more painful. I desperately wanted to find what I loved, what I excelled at. I didn't understand why it was taking me so long to find it, when all my peers were pursuing what interested them, and thriving. I felt alone, useless, ineffectual. I told myself I didn't care. I wished for it to find me. But there's a pattern here, because I continued making myself of victim of circumstance. In actuality I avoided every opportunity to give myself a chance to do what I loved, because I was so fucking afraid of failure. I never wanted to even have to deal with the concept of failing, so I never tried. Not trying was so much safer.

Yet when you don't try for so long, and you let what's bubbling inside you go stagnant, you begin to accept the mediocrity. You accept the idea that you are incapable of being exceptional. You are caged, and you have no idea. You plead for happiness, but security starts to mean more to you. I could have remained here, in a place devoid of passion. I was too afraid of anything else for a while. But then I started to transfer my fear into a different kind of fear. I began to fear what would happen to me if nothing changed at all, and I continued to live a seemingly mediocre existence. To possibly confront living in regret. That really frightened me. I knew I had to leave myself with no choice in order to take action. I gritted my teeth and made a choice. I took a stand on my own behalf.

On September 15th I was laid off from my job of 5 years, and I requested that this happen. It was a bitter-sweet feeling for the obvious reasons. I can't say there wasn't a welling in my chest when I walked away from my office for the last time, and that I didn't look back, but I can say I have never felt more free. I'm finally giving myself a chance. I've never felt more unsure, fearful, anxious or more alive.

life's surprises

2009-09-01T22:38:00.000-07:00

It always comes when you least expect it. That's a trite little number you can apply to so many of life's offerings; love, tragedy, all of it. For good, for bad. It always manages to knock you on your ass. You begin to hit a stride, possibly feel content, like you have it all figured out, perhaps not, maybe even comfortable with the routine, then BOOM. Down you go, as life knocks you over your smug little head.

Today started out like any other ordinary day, but became a day less ordinary when I got the call.

LCD Soundsystem once said, "I woke up and the phone was ringing, surprised, as it's early. And that should be a perfect warning that something's a problem."

I think we inherently know something's wrong when we get a call from a particular person at an unconventional time. Something inside you tightens, and you brace yourself as you place the phone against your ear.

Yet it never makes the blow you are about to receive any easier. My father had a stroke this morning, collapsed at work and was ambulanced to an unknown hospital. That was all I knew. A flood of scenarios ran into my head. Was he alive? What happened? How bad? Would I ever see him again? Why now? Why ever?

It's situations like these that allow the underlying guilt to surface. Seeing my dad in ICU, the big bear of a man that was always there to help me move furniture into my new apartment, or drive me to the airport mid week, or readily able to advise me when I was and wasn't getting ripped off at the mechanic, jolted my sense of what closeness between family members was supposed to be. At the hospital, I held on to his hand, suddenly remembering how large his hands seemed when I was a little girl. On a trip to the zoo when I was about six I remember gripping his immense thumbs in my entire hand and marveling at how enormous and strong they were. Now his hand was covered in tubes and bandages, not nearly as commanding as it was all those years ago as he guided me through the petting zoo.

The stroke rendered him incapable of speech. I watched him struggle to get a few words out, exhausting himself into silence, resignation. I had avoided calling him for the past month. I was trying to evade his questions and sermons regarding my impending layoff at work. I knew he would nag me to look for a government job, because they were one of the few places hiring, affording me some kind of stability, and it didn't hurt that it served as his current place of employment. I however, had other ideas. I very much did not want to work for the government. I wanted to transition into more creative pursuits, I wanted to chase my passions. Those sort of lofty ideals wouldn't sit well with him. I knew this. I didn't want to hear it. So I didn't call.

Now I long to hear him nag and bitch at me. I wish with all my being for a sermon from him. He is no longer the person I previously found unpleasant to talk to. He is vulnerable and weakened and indifferent. From his hospital bed he stares vacantly, able to answer yes, or no, able to be spoon fed his hospital food. I sit there powerless and just stare at him. I wish for nothing more than the person I was avoiding to come back. His stubborn commentary would be music to my ears. What I resented him for is what I long to have returned to me; it was the essence of him. But now it's too late. It's easier to wish for anything when you have nothing.

Slowly and steadily, with each year, my family tree is losing all its leaves.

2009-08-31T13:36:00.000-07:00

To dream. Will having a dream carry us through? To simply continue dreaming in a time where there are no dreams...Is this in itself, a victory?

Imagine what would've happened if you'd pursued your dreams earlier? Would you have been ready?

little man

2009-08-30T23:57:00.000-07:00

There is a greedy, little, aching man inside me. He often ruins my relationships. With men and women.

My relationships with women are affected because of what the little man does for the men in our lives. They like this little man. They can relate to him.

This man is clever and asinine. He relies on the kindness of strangers and he takes what he wants. He is obscene. He is magnificent. This is yet to be implicitly stated by anyone other than myself.

This man was evoked by my failures, my misgivings. He trudges on. He's wounded but he trudges on. He wants to prove something goddammit. He wants you to even dare to question his ability. This will be his fuel.

This little man is hungry. He is starving for something more. But that doesn't make him any less afraid.

two is the loneliest number

2009-08-28T21:26:00.000-07:00

Emptiness. She’d felt the emptiness for weeks now. She felt it even before he left her. She knew the fall would come, in this way. Lying next to him at night, she felt so damn lonely. She’d never felt that lonely, even when alone.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked him.

He looked away.

“True love,” she said.

“Maybe once,” he said.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He looked down.

“Look at me,” she said.

He hadn’t really looked at her for the last few months they’d spent together. She held on. She held on longer than she should have. It was hard to forget who he was to her. How safe she felt with him. She kept thinking about how he used to look at her. She kept thinking.

She remembered all of this and she forgot herself. She pleaded with him. She begged him. Sitting across from him at the bar where they’d agreed to meet, the place they used to come when his eyes shone, she asked him why.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said.

“I care for you,” she said. “I need you to know. I care about you, no matter what you say,” she said, tears forming.

“I’ve been feeling so guilty,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t. It’s just not fair. I have no time to give. It’s not fair to you.”

“But we can make time…” she pleaded.

“Our time is over,” he snapped.

“Please,” she said, and felt a welling in her chest.

He turned his head away.

“Can I please come with you?” she said, looking at him, her eyes searching his for a shred of tenderness.

He turned towards her. He closed his eyes and opened them.

“I just want to be with you one last time. You make me feel safe,” she uttered.

“You really are a masochist,” he said.

She looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Just understand one thing,” he warned. “I will be terrible company.”

She nodded.

She accepted this, whatever he could give, though it wasn’t much.

dating the "sensitive guy" can blow up in your face

2009-08-26T21:37:00.001-07:00

I was on the verge of dumping Jason after I discovered how disappointing he was as a human being, but he bought himself some time by apologizing. He always did. Just when I was at the end of my rope, when I thought I’d had enough, he found a way to suck me back in. To make up for his misgivings, he offered to make me dinner on Wednesday. I agreed. Food was a weakness of mine.

On Wednesday I only had a few hours to spend with Jason because that night he was driving to his mother’s in Los Angeles for the Thanksgiving holiday. When I got to his apartment complex I had to wait outside for a bit. He didn’t hear me incessantly pressing the buzzer, for about three minutes. His roommate Tim began shouting for him to let me in. He casually comes out to greet me with beans on his breath. I seem to have interrupted a nice little dinner he was having with his roommate.

“You started without me?” I was aghast.

“I figured you weren’t showing up,” he replied dumbly. Nice.

The dinner was mediocre. Jason made rice, potatoes and salad…again. I conversed with Tim for the most part. He is, after all, more interesting and Jason did leave the room on several occasions to use the phone for ten minutes intervals. We lingered at the table for a while after we finished, chatting and smoking. Eventually Tim wandered off to his room to get ready for an evening out and I moved into the living room. Jason followed me to the couch. I sat in his lap.

“So you’re really driving up to your mother’s tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah, she’s expecting me. I just spoke with her earlier while we were eating dinner.”

“Yeah, I figured that. Say, why don’t you just wake up early and leave in the morning?” I asked, running my hands through his hair. “It’s pretty late. Aren’t you tired?” I asked, trying to lure him into staying.

“Yeeaah,” his voice trailed off. “I promised mother.”

“Jesus. Fine.”

“Sam, I told you I was going to my mother’s tonight.”

“I know.”

I wasn’t going to argue. It was a losing battle. Jason was never one to be forthright, or put his foot down about anything, especially when it came to his mother. He proudly admitted that he was a momma’s boy. He was an honest to Christ Cub Scout. All the t-shirts in his closet were color coded and folded into neat little squares, and he cried more than I did.

“I’m going to start some coffee,” he announced as he leaped out of my lap and bounced into the kitchen.

I decided to wait for him in his room. I wanted to get the ball rolling. We hadn’t slept together in two weeks, and I was horny as hell. I knew he would take forever to initiate sex, and we didn’t exactly have all night. He’d made that very clear. Normally when it came to having sex, I practically had to rape him. It was annoying.

He eventually finished in the kitchen and came in his room to find me. As soon as he walked in I started to press up against his crotch. I would think that if you hadn’t seen your significant other in a while, and weren’t going to see them for another few days, you would want to consider sleeping with them. But maybe that’s just me.

We began kissing. Things started getting intense, so I suggested he close his door. He started to, but stopped short, remembering he wanted to say goodbye to Tim first, in case he stepped out for the night before we finished. I asked him if this was necessary, as I honestly didn’t believe his roommate would be hurt if he didn’t get a goodbye. Guys know the code. Getting laid is priority. All else comes secondary. He insisted on saying goodbye anyway. This flabbergasted me. I started to protest.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he says. “C’mon. I have to say bye to Tim. I don’t want to be rude…God.”

In order to occupy my time while Jason ensued an elaborate goodbye with his roommate, I started checking out an instruction sheet on his dresser that came with the rubics cube he’d recently purchased. He came back in the room while I was observing the instruction sheet and got excited about the fact that I was looking at it. He showed me a cheat sheet he made during his spare time, from the rubics cube manual. I feigned interest out of politeness, nodding my head and smiling weakly. Somehow this fueled his energy regarding the rubics cube. He then proceeds to work on the rubics cube, explaining how he’s applying what he’s learned from the manual to the rubics cube. He became enthralled by it. He seemed more interested in the rubics cube than the prospect of getting laid. I sat there, blinking. He wasn’t aware that I didn’t give a shit about his rubics cube.

Breaking from my trance, I took the rubics cube away from him. A bit surprised I’ve snatched his toy away, he asked, “You don’t want to see how it works?”

“No,” I said.

Tossing the rubics cube aside, I moved in on him again and began kissing his neck. I moved my hands down his waist and start fondling his crotch. Suddenly he tears away from me, as if he’d remembered an urgent matter he needed to attend to.

“I know…we need music! I’m going to go grab the radio. I left it in the kitchen during dinner. I’ll be right back.” He started for the kitchen.

“No Jason, it’s ok. We don’t need…”

Halfway to the kitchen before I finished my sentence, he remained set on the idea of having a soundtrack for our impending sexual encounter (were it to happen). Come to think of it, he always wanted to have music on while we screwed, and I began to get the impression that the musical choices he made were always premeditated. It’s as if he had chosen a certain song to fit a certain moment, and played it with nonchalance. As if the romantic ballads constantly spewing from his speakers were randomly selected. He did, after all, always seem embarrassed when I was loud in the bedroom, which I usually was. Maybe he wanted to drown me out.

After he returned with his boom box in tow, he put on one of his favorite playlists: Jas1chillmix.

“Do you want some water?”

“NO.”

“Well I’m thirsty. I’m going to go get some water. You sure you don’t want any?”

“YES!”

He rushed off to the kitchen to get some for himself. I threw myself flat against the bed and decided he was trying to kill me.

Finally he returned after finishing with his errands. He carefully sets the glass of water down, not taking one sip from it. I stared at him in amazement as he lit a few candles on his desk. He turned to me. He was ready.

At that point, I predicted awful sex involving erectile dysfunction and me lying there like a dead fish. It was surprisingly fantastic. He lasted longer than usual and I was able to climax effortlessly. That moment certainly wasn’t set up for success, what with him resisting my advances prior and his mother psychotically calling him about fifteen times in a row while we were having sex, wondering what time he would arrive at her house. What was more surprising, he didn’t stop mid coitus and answer the phone, as he usually took her calls during our dinners and general outings. My mind was somewhat blown. That sex bought us approximately one more week.

untitled

2009-07-31T11:41:00.000-07:00

In the city of angels and demons, everything looks perfect. What’s shiny and within your reach, dare not reach out and touch. It will crumble in your hands. Merely observe. Survey the beauty, the chaos. Watch it happening. I promise no one will notice you. And you may feel outside of it all, displaced. You may feel superior. You may feel ineffectual. Just exist. Look at life happening around you. See the man reading his paper, the bus boy making his way through the maze of people with a stack of dishes. Hear the clinking of glasses, the rustling of chairs being moved around the wooden floor. Wait in line. Stay calm when your order doesn’t arrive. Smile when they screw your order up. Watch people knock into each other like penguins. See it unravel, the numerous story lines, the noise, the scattering. You’re in a vortex. It may even start to consume you. But there’s a moment when you look outside. All of this is happening around you, but you don’t hear it anymore. There’s a girl. You see her lips moving, her expressions, her vivacity; you see her inner fire. You can’t hear her, but through that glass door, you manage to catch a glimmer of her soul. It’s your little secret. No one knows you’re watching. She doesn’t see you, or anything else around her. All she sees is what’s in front of her, and all you see is her.

She speaks intently, her gestures sharp and passionate. She focuses on someone. Whom? Who engages her so? There is intimacy, it seems. She is comfortable in her domain. She is queen. The unknown party shares their sandwich with her. She bites into it carefully and quickly, pondering her thoughts as she chews. Satiated, she hands it back, continuing what seems like a description of conflict in her life. She seems proud, and speaks with fervor. I decide she is having lunch with her significant other. I strain to see outside, then stop short. I decide I don’t want to know after all. There is beauty in this exchange, and the catalyst is an arbitrary matter. I remain transfixed on her interaction, and feel like I have found my place among the rubble. There is safety in the unknown. In a world of disorder and hidden agendas, you can still encounter presence of mind. You can still find those with a zest for life, with passion, interspersed among all else. There is beauty among the chaos.

america, fuck yeah.

2009-07-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

An inappropriate title for an inappropriate holiday. Not that I'm complaining about getting an extra day off my soul destroying job, but it's as Ms. Stroud from Dazed and Confused once said, "this summer when you're being inundated by all the American bicentennial fourth of July brouhaha, don't forget what you're celebrating, and that's the fact that a bunch of slave owning, aristocratic white males didn't want to pay their taxes."

Not much has changed. I suppose any reason to get shit faced works for us.

So my friends who I love, well they're in a band. A great band. A band called The Flower Thief. No, I'm not talking about the 1960's film by Ron Rice depicting the beat poets inhabiting San Francisco's North Beach...I'm talking about the three man band called The Flower Thief. Well they booked a show...on fourth of July...at Canes in Mission Beach. Not only do I hate Mission Beach, but I especially hate Canes, which I consider to be the Sports Arena of small venues. It's gross and old and should be burnt down with torches. I most especially hate Canes in Mission Beach on fourth of July, when I have to sit in shitty traffic with all the other yokels out to celebrate "America's birthday," according to many a bikini clad bitch parading the streets with a dopey Uncle Sam hat perched on her head. Sorry Christian...

So not only did I sit in traffic, but I had to hunt for parking. Oh how I love the opportunists who come out of their holes on these special holidays. Those who decide to make an easy buck by exploiting others for parking. An elementary school parking lot was opened up to serve as a viable option for those shit out of parking luck, FOR A WHOPPING $100. Monsters...

So after an hour of searching I found one last parking space at the Mission Bay Aquatic Center, but I was still about 15 blocks away from my destination. No problemo! There's plenty of dodgy foreigners with those pedi cabs to haul you around. I got a little Russian number to take my cousin and I to our final destination...for $20. Fuck.

In all honesty, the going rate was only $10, but my cousin was generous enough to give the poor guy a nice tip, seeing that he was probably sweating his balls off lugging around drunk people all day.

So we get there and find out the show is over. We missed the band. They were done. Long done. Shitty...suuuper shitty.

But we DID get to see Jacqueline Grace perform. Oh, you haven't heard of her? That's weird...

Maybe that's because she's a big fat joke. Picture what would happen if you cross bred J.Lo (before she made it) with Christina Aguilera and just to add insult to injury, Britney Spears' costume design, particularly from her fresh out of rehab come back tour. She had on heels, a white bustier, a red girdle, and a plastic blue pencil skirts that accentuated all her stomach folds. She also had on an air force hat, with glittery red lipstick. And the ultimate accessory had to be the $20 bill tucked into the a-cup of her right titty. I liked how she kept saluting the three people in the crowd like she was a pinup girl visiting soldiers in Korea. She wanted to look sexy and patriotic, I suppose, but she looked more like a flight attendant in a low budget porn movie. Or a cigarette girl. She looked not unlike the beaner version of this:

But instead, she just made me feel like this:

Her fan base consisted of her mom and two tia's, her manager, and her cousin Ricky's friend Irene, who had nowhere else to go that day. Her band was the rest of her family. There was the old dude on the congo's, the cheesy bald guy with wannabe Versace sunglasses on bass, the poor guy who can't catch a break in the music biz on drums, the ex-meth addict key board player with the leather page boy hat and a sleeveless denim button down, and some gal wearing stacked soda flip flops and a fake smile on vocals. And the music was shit. Jacqueline calls it a "surprising blend of hip-hop, dance with a pop-rock edge. " Shiiiett. That is surprising. I call it chode laced with more chode.

Needless to say, we broke the hell out of there asap and drove back to North Park to start a real fourth of July celebration, with a bucket of fried chicken, paddle ball and a J on my lawn on the corner of El Cajon Blvd. Konichiwa, bitches.

To Ovid

2009-06-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

This letter, my dear, will be rather long. I always felt more comfortable expressing myself to you in writing. I can be as bold as I like. What I put down on paper I can reconstruct after careful consideration. There have been a few edits already. But when I stand before you, I never know what I’m liable to say. At this moment I feel in control. It feels right. You are not present, ready to tell me otherwise. It is not to say that you should feel my words are not sincere. The force inside me is moving my hands at this very moment. For if it is difficult to love, it is even more difficult to explain why one loves. Perhaps it would be better if I did not constantly question matters of love. Perhaps this is not an option for me.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve contacted me. It might’ve been better for me to just let you come back when you were ready, to wait quietly and sullenly for you. Patiently anticipating you, at that hour of dusk when we can see so little and feel so much. I often expected your greatest ease to occur at dusk, but I soon came to understand you. I know you, my dear. You may be emboldened by night, yet it was only in the dawn of day when you saw me with softness, and your eyes ceased to search.

I remember the first time I saw you. You were at the park reading Euripides under a tree. Oh how desperately I wanted to meet you! I admit with severe trepidation that I returned to that spot constantly, with the anticipation of seeing you. I waited. This may sound trite, but I have always been waiting for you. There were numerous times in which I did find you there, sitting at that same dilapidated bench, reading and smoking a cigarette. You always seemed to be brooding. I couldn’t understand the depth of my interest, without knowing who you really were. I even found myself gazing at you once. I often tried to imagine what you were like, what your voice sounded like, if you had a peculiar sense of humor like mine. You were always reading so intently, your eyebrows knitted in concentration. You rather enjoy poetry, don’t you? Callimachus, Philetas and Sappho were just a few of your favorites. Oh yes, I studied you. And after all those times I returned to the park, I don’t think you really noticed me. Or had you? Now that I think about it, you did smile at me once. I’m not sure if you remember that.

I don’t know if you realized this, but I have always been rather shy. I’m sure this statement will elicit a smile from you, because at this point it seems rather presumptuous, but I can promise you it’s true. I’m convinced that the shy, meek girl inside me will always be present, an active participant in everything I do. The thing about us late bloomers is, we spend a great deal of our lives making up for lost time, thereby submitting ourselves to constant acts of zealotry. What’s important to note is how everything is done out of a sense of longing. I’m utterly convinced my lack of experience in dating during my teenage years had a hand in my assertion with men. This is precisely why I returned to that park bench, week after week. Did you sense my longing? Sitting there alone, did you ever feel me wishing for your closeness?

Perhaps you had, because it didn’t take too long for you to react to my presence. You actually turned out to be more than I’d bargained for. Contrary to me, you were never the least bit timid. In fact, when given the opportunity you were rather bold. I was surprised. Pleasantly so. Do you remember when I came to see you at work for the first time? You were about to finish your shift. You sat in that broken chair by the exit sign, while I stood in front of you and spoke with your co-worker Jack. You did something I won’t forget too soon. It was a small detail, but it evoked an irresistible sense of desire in me. You casually stroked the back of my leg as I spoke. Your fingers moved slowly over my skin, making their way up the back of my knee. You did this so absentmindedly, almost instinctually, as if the forces of the universe had taken your hand as an instrument. I feigned nonchalance, but internally my heart danced. I continued talking with Jack, never missing a beat. But as I did this, I moved closer to your hand, so you could access me without struggle. Do you ever wonder why people rarely admit to this kind of attention to detail? It’s overtly human of us, I suppose. Yet I feel we lose the magic love elicits when we start to take these small details for granted. I like to think that I’ve always surrendered myself with candor, but in a sense I’ve also detested myself for it. I am not unfamiliar with ambivalence. This feeling of ambivalence would stay with me throughout the course of knowing you, and for good reason. You were my biggest victory. You were my greatest mistake.

Driving home today, engulfed by feelings of emptiness and vulnerability, I saw the remnants of a beautiful sunset, the deep purple and pink hues spreading vibrantly across the sky. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I drove on, being surrounded by so much beauty, while filled with such pain. The beauty I observed in the landscape only heightened my sorrow, somehow. It mocked my pain. In this life, everything tends to carry on as planned, with or without us. We are inconsequential to the natural order of the world. Fighting against this is futile. The fact that I have become inconsequential to you however, leaves me cold. I am tormented by your absence. In the midst of this torment, I can only think of finding you, loving you, but I sense that my need to desperately follow you will only cause you to flee. Shall I forget you, rather than wait for you? How am I to forget the way you have treated me now, when you treated me the way I have always longed to be treated, just prior to that?

How fleeting love is! I can’t help but question the sincerity of our emotions when such a radical turn occurs. And yet, perhaps naively, I can’t help but absolutely believe you loved me. There was a time when you stood at my doorstep with a whole uncooked chicken and a smile. You came over to make me chicken soup from scratch because I was sick. You stayed the entire night with me, easing my discomfort with your gentle caress. I even got you sick and you didn’t mind, or at least pretended not to. This does not account for the numerous times you cooked for me at your home, the endless bottles of wine consumed. Or the way you always carried me when my feet were aching, how protective you became of me, your tender kisses, how you took care to notice every detail, the way you held me when I lost a close friend, the ceaseless tickling matches we had, how you indulged my childhood nostalgia by pushing me on the swings at the park, the way your eyes shone with tenderness when you looked at me. Your eyes betrayed you. They probed my soul.

My darling Ovid, we are indeed strange. I have come to take a perverse pleasure in my suffering for you. It’s difficult to not consider oneself superior when one suffers more. And the sight of happiness in people makes me nauseous at the idea of such bliss. I am contented by the fact that I’m in anguish, because it demonstrates how genuine my love is for you. You once told me you could love only when hurt. I didn’t understand at the time, I was too happy then. I have come to know that pleasure is too ephemeral. It abandons us, like a faithless friend. My unhappiness will too abandon me, but at this time I only escape the memory of you, and thus my suffering, during sleep.

Shakespeare once said, “To thine own self be true.” My greatest errors have been committed when not living by those words. I admit fault. I know I became careless. I stopped doing those things that were important to me, in order to allot time for you. I became too focused on work, allowed life to get in the way. I lost a sense of myself, and had less and less to say. I failed to keep alive the feeling I first elicited in you. I became all too comfortable. I took your adoration as a given. I lost my creativity, neglected to take special care with my appearance like I used to. I forgot how you loved to be loved. The magic left and I allowed that. I hadn’t the courage to address it. And now you are gone.

I’m not a fan of goodbyes, but as disdainful as I am of them, in certain situations they are necessary and owed. So, I take this opportunity to say goodbye to you, because you did not have the respect to do so. Though I’m writhing in misery as I write these words, I don’t regret a thing. I know what it is to truly feel alive. You’ve ignited my heart and incinerated my soul. I hope you find everything you’re looking for in this hideous, beautiful world. Onward!

I hope never to see you again, not particularly because I have ill feelings for you, but because I want to remember you as you once were, and not as who you’ve become.

people are so fucking realistic

2008-12-16T17:23:00.000-08:00

Is it the times, again? The times, as they are, making us so fucking realistic? So jaded? It's impossible to create a lofty ideal for yourself anymore. What's the point of being lofty and quixotic, if you have to keep it trapped deep in the pits of your psyche? Ah, to share, to dream...but no. Relating your ideals to your friends, who are beyond the brink of cynical and hardened by modern society, this leads to their funny tendency to shoot down your "unrealistic" ideals. They know what's going to happen. They always do. They see the pitfalls of your predicament straight away. It hits you like a wave of mutilation. Your ego and dreamy notions are left feeling like a deflated balloon. What's wrong with having a starry-eyed crush? What's wrong with feeling warm and fuzzy about someone you haven't even spoken to? What's wrong with believing in people? What's wrong with hoping THIS TIME will be different? This can only mean that there is merely a shred of innocence left your tortured soul. And society is trying to stomp out your fire with it's big black boot.

Do we have to automatically think about the negative consequences and reprocussions of our actions, before we even act on them? Or are we merely given fair warning of what's to come? Can our jaded outlook on life be proven wrong, just this once? Do we always have to protect ourselves ahead of time, by acknowledging the fault in people? When will we be free? When will we free ourselves?

remember when a dime bag used to cost a dime?

2008-12-09T14:52:00.000-08:00

Tough times we're living in. Every morning I wake up to NPR, as if life wasn't bad enough. I'm bombarded with constant reminders of how shitty times are, how emaciated our spirits are, how economically fucked we are. Did you know spam sales have currently skyrocketed as a cause of this recession? And Walmart is thriving more than ever. Grim shit.

I can't get a second job. Anywhere. I keep putting my resume out there. Nothing. No one's biting. Remember when waiting tables was a no brainer? If anything, you could wait tables. Now those jobs are scarce too. Right about now, nothing is sacred. I've gone to a couple interviews lately, for jobs in the food service industry. This experience entails walking into a room of 20-30 people, in suit and tie no less, with portfolios in hand, waiting for a shot at working in the restaurant biz. Lines of people fighting it out. I graduated from college, and I can't get a job waiting on you at the pizza hut. What in the hell is going on? Should I do like wallstreet and jump out a window?

Ok I lied about the pizza hut. These serving positions are a little more high end. But still. The competition for a measly job that would've been easy to get a year ago is fierce. It scares me a lot. Given that I'm considering quitting my job within the next 6 months and giving up stable income, medical insurance, and a free ride education for the unknown...yeah, I'm nervous. Sweating bullets actually.

Or perhaps this "unknown" can be better pegged as the pursuit of happiness. Because if I have to continue spending my days tediously replying to hundreds of e-mails, or answering another phone call with, "Hi this is Cynthia, how can I help you?" I might really jump out a window.

I have just seen God and God looks a lot like Sigur Ros

2008-10-13T13:56:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine, who I like to consider reasonably intelligent and well versed in the ways of music once told me, "Do not ever pass up the opportunity to see Sigur Ros live. They were the best show I've ever seen in my entire life."

That's a pretty tall order.

I had missed seeing them the last time they'd come to San Diego, but when I heard they would be touring for their new album, með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, I would not make the same mistake twice.

I did not have a ticket to Sigur Ros. Did I mention this show was sold out?

Doors were set to open at 8pm. Forgetting how laborious taking the trolley could be, especially if you accidentally take the wrong line and end up at 18th and Imperial, I arrived ticketless to Copley Symphony Hall at about 8:50 p.m. I suppose the gods were in my favor that night, because in lieu of the usual hour long begging and scrounging for a ticket session, the second guy I asked happened to be stuck with two extra tickets, which he was desperate to be rid of for $20 a piece. The box office rate for these tickets was $40 + service fees, at the time of sale. When I mentioned to the gentleman that I only needed one, he stated he would sell one for $40, under the pretense that he didn't want to get stuck with one sole ticket. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could even get one word out, he relented.

"Oh what the hell, take it," he moans, handing me the ticket. I gladly obliged.

I guess he figured at that point in the evening he'd rather have $20 than $0. Cool beans. The gods were definitely in my favor.

I slide right in to the music hall. The venue for this show was class all the way. We're talking elegant concert hall here; plush velvet seats, tall marble columns, intimacy and crystal clear sound. I grab myself a beer and land in my seat just as the curtain is rising. I have no idea what I am in for.

I don't fancy myself a Sigur Ros superfan. My first brush with Sigur Ros occured one late drunken night in college, when the adorable gay boy living in the dorm across from me showed me their music videos on his laptop. At the time I didn't know what to make of their orchestrated rock sound, and 10 minute long videos entailing a two little boys invloved a forbidden love tryst. Perhaps I was not ready for Sigur Ros at the time. Perhaps my tasted had not evolved enough by that point. Damn was that cute gay boy ahead of his time...

What Sigur Ros lacks in mobility they make up for in sound and cinematic quality. They seem to be the type of band that takes the picky fuckin' bitch approach to their sound check. I can imagine the hell they give the sound guys, the hours of fine tuning required before they render their approval. You better believe Sigur Ros makes sure their sound system is tighter than the ass of a seven-year-old. To accompany the music, they had a well timed cinematic display on the big screen behind them. We're talking images, colors, very non-linear, superbly effective in the ways of invoking emotion. The display of images was executed to perfection with the musical score. You heard it, you felt it, in its most pure form. The order of songs, movement, sound, couldn't have been executed more accurately.

I love a versatile band. And here you have it, Sigur Ros is a group of musicians readily capable of switching instruments, rotating their position on stage like a volleyball team. I mean really, have you even seen a man play the guitar with a violin wand? Perhaps I'm cramming myself up their asses here, but they've certainly earned it.

There were moments when the cinematography would switch from image display to hidden camera placement on instruments, so the audience would get a close look into one of the band members playing the xylophone or drums. This is always a tasty feature, as effectively demonstrated by Radiohead.

In some of the more climactic moments, the lead singer would begin to wail on his guitar with his violin wand, meanwhile belting out a single falsetto note for minutes upon minutes. The musical tempo drawn out into a long overture, the audience became overtaken by the sound reverberating throughout the hall. We never stood a chance. We tried to clap, we tried to shout, to express our gratitude and emotion to the immensity of it all, but no sound was heard. We were overpowered by the music. Just for that moment, we became mere molecules, floating, commingling with the musical notes in the air, amongst the pitch, the frequency, the wavelengths of ethereal sound.

Amazingly enough, it gets better. The entire duration of the show, the lead singer of the band had addressed the crowd in Icelandic, which no one understood, but was charming enough. Toward the end, he switched it to English, and requested that we all stand up, which we did quite willingly. Then they shift into an upbeat number, where three of what I presume were pre-chosen audience members, caravan onstage with drums strapped to their chests. They were instructed to beat to a single tempo (great idea) and that loudened everything up. Things started to get pretty festive, with the audience joining in by clapping in unison, when three other pre-chosen audience member join the stage with confetti poppers.

What happened next was nothing short of a New Year's Eve in New York confetti dropping extravaganza. Tons of confetti flew from the ceiling, hitting the crowd in waves. I felt like I was a five year old at Disneyland's street parade, in terms of the magical sensation it created. The confetti flew and flew, reaching a decent stretch of the music hall. Everyone's mouths were agape in wonderment, our hands outstretched in the air, as we reveled in the majesty that is Sigur Ros. I felt like a kid again. It was the sincerest and purest form of innocent happiness, evoked in little 'ol me, by little 'ol Sigur Ros.

When bitterness persists...

2008-09-29T23:31:00.001-07:00

You crawled on your belly to me

And I mistook that for humility

There was tenderness amidst your cruelty

I mistook that for sincerity

In this world of conveniences

When did we become disposable?

Do you remember what love felt like

As you uttered it in haste

Do you remember how it felt

To be honest and sincere

When were you vulnerable

When you were real

Were you ever?

Buried down

In the catacomb of your soul

Your intensity fizzles

Your piety pretended

Take a bow

The stage is yours

My favorite actor

So immense and limited

Flooding then droughting

Leaving me gasping

Leaving me aching

notes from Chaucer class

2008-07-01T15:11:00.000-07:00

Teacher: "That's a really good reading, actually."

-Interpretation: teacher didn't expect dumb girl to provide any sort of analysis today. Stress falls on the word actually.

While teacher discusses point dumb girl has just made, dumb girl says, "YEAH" aloud, in accordance with teacher's commentary. Reason for that being, dumb girl is pretty excited about having received praise in class for the first time this semester.

Some people think in class lecture consists purely of an ongoing banter between themselves and the professor.

Some people feel they have to share every thought that pops into the little heads.

Some people really like to hear themselves talk.

15 minutes left of class....

I should've taken Milton.

Paris

2008-06-16T13:42:00.000-07:00

Henry Miller once said Paris was like a whore. From a distance she looked ravishing and you couldn't wait to have her in your arms. But then five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked. You are my Paris.

when someone great is gone

2008-05-29T22:08:00.000-07:00

Paging, Mr. JW Deville...where are you?

You were last seen dancing with me at the Beauty Bar, you and I amidst a flurry of chaos and spilled beer and skinny jean havin' indie kids. We danced ardently, until sweat formed on our upper lips, dizzy, lustful, not caring that we were the only ones on an empty dance floor.

You were once spotted at my doorstep, holding an uncooked chicken and a large pot. You came over to make me chicken soup from scratch because I was sick. This does not account for the numerous times you cooked for me at your home, the endless bottles of wine consumed, our noses shoved into our glasses, trying to detect traces of oak or truffles or sometimes even pepper.

Earlier sightings entailed sharing a Bronx pizza, with you eating a piece of ricotta cheese out of my lap, our laughter resonating off my plaster walls. You were caught giving me a piggy-back ride or two, and you were even sighted playing ghetto paddle ball with me in an abandoned parking lot. All the movies we attempted to watch but never finished. The way you held me when I found out Ron was gone. You pushing me on the rickety swings at the park off Adams Ave. Our racy game of twister. The ceaseless tickling matches. The time we listened to Jane's Addiction records while lying on your apartment floor.

There were many sightings of you on Sundays, which served as our designated day of indulgence. Sleeping and lovemaking made up the itinerary, and not much else. One could often also catch you having a cozy breakfast for two, late into the afternoon. Sundays were comprised of pure ecstasy. Drinks and laughter and not a care in the world. The sun would shine on you as you lay peacefully next to me, drifting into a lucid dream.

You were even seen pushing me out the of the way when some prick in a Mercedes Benz almost ran me over in the Henry's parking lot. You almost got into a fist fight with him, especially after he made fun of your favorite Flossy D sunglasses. Then you made me bacon and eggs.

Long back there had been a Mr. Deville sighting on my living room floor, you helping me with my Shakespeare homework, reading the part of both Lysander and Demetrius in A Midsummer Night's Dream. You had even helped me bullshit my way through a 7 page paper, staying up with me until 5am. To make up for it, I read Ginsberg to you in bed when you were sick. I kept reading even after you were asleep, just in case you'd wake up.

You'd been spotted with me sitting on the barstools in your kitchen, your hand in mine, our fingers interlaced. Your turn tables blaring Wolf Parade, before the sun rendered it unplayable. Not a word was exchanged. We'd stare at each other, searching desperately for something we didn't know. Your eyes spoke to me then, they probed my soul. The tenderness in your shining eyes. They searched me. Thoroughly. They would continue to search me for about a month or so. Eventually they gave way to quiet. Your calm eyes ceased to search. They'd found what they were looking for.

There has been a declined number of sightings these days. Where is Mr. Deville? Is he gone? Is he lost? Is he in hiding? Has he departed prematurely? Will he ever return? His eyes don't speak to me these days, they don't search, they don't question, they don't shine. No hopes, no dreams, no resources. Where is the happiest man alive?

Your eyes are vacant, Mr. Deville. Your eyes are cold, dishonest. The shiny, luminous being that was both so candid and elusive has gone. The purity in your eyes has been clouded over with pain and fear. Once electric and terrifying, you'd forgotten, forgotten who you want to be, what you want to be. You've extirpated what you felt, just so you could feel again. You're dying for something to live for. You can't help but fade away. An errant heart, a restless soul, an ephemeral love. I will forget you as you wish, Mr. Deville, but I will never forget who you once were, and neither will you.

Wielding, Withering, Seething

2007-06-11T18:04:00.000-07:00

Annie has been engaged to Chadwick for two years and has no interest in any other human beings but him. It is 2:13 am, and Chadwick has not called since 6:20 pm, when he informed her he wouldn’t be eating dinner at home. In that moment, she thanked him for calling, before slamming down the receiver and glaring bitterly at the insipid pot roast and lumpy potatoes, growing cold and desiccated on the stove. And now she is watching Blind Date, drinking Raspberry Smirnoff with a straw, and fantasizing about hitting Chadwick with a coat rack. She wants to flick him repeatedly and with substantial force, square in the center of his forehead. She is picturing smacking him, flat against the back of his big head, hearing her open hand resonate against his unsuspecting skull. The sound would almost make up for her troubles, she thinks. It could alleviate the torment of thoughts infecting her mind, her inability to sleep knowing that he’s not lying next to her, snoring in the same rhythmic pattern she has memorized over the years. Where the hell is he? Dinner has long ended, bars are closed. She is not even sure which buddies he could be with, since she’s strategically eliminated most of them. Annie hopes it isn’t Frank. Oh how she hates Frank, who always wore wife beaters, no matter how cold it got. Frank posed a severe threat, always trying to put ideas in Chadwick’s head—ditch the ‘ol ball and chain, come and party with the guys like old times, just tear it up, yeah—but above all else, he was trying to convince him not to marry Annie. Too much time and energy had been invested into getting this engagement ring on her finger, for a derelict like Frank to fuck it all up.

Yet somehow Annie senses Chadwick’s having a night of harmless fun with his friends, and has lost track of time, thus forgotten to call. Granted, his excuse was always “I forgot,” but Annie chose to believe him. After all, that’s what an understanding fiancé does. She believes in her man. And Annie knows Chadwick loves her. He said so. Not only does he love her, he needs her. She made sure to it that he did.

Annie pours more Smirnoff into her highball glass, spikes it with rum and slurps it down in gulps. She looks over at the television and scoffs, newly aware of what she’s been watching. The couple on the show is tossing a football around at the park. They seem to be enjoying themselves, until the pigskin comes straight at the girl with the speed of a torpedo missile, and bounces clean off her skull. Her date jogs across the grass and hovers over her in quasi concern, as she lies in fetal position, clutching at her dome.

Annie vividly recalls her first date with Chadwick, nearly five years prior. She smiles to herself when she thinks of how shy and insecure he was when he first asked her out; it was absolutely adorable. His demeanor then was such a stark difference to what it is now. Now he’s secure and comfortable, in terms of his appearance, their relationship, everything. He is a little too comfortable, Annie thinks, bordering on the indolent. She often had to remind him of how to behave, or at least how she would like him to behave. She thinks back to their exchange earlier that day, when Annie walked into the bathroom and found Chadwick staring at himself in the mirror, twirling a Q-tip in his ear.

“Chadwick, are you aware that you left a hair-ball in the shower drain this morning?” Annie admonished.

“Yeah,” Chadwick replied lamely. He didn’t shift his gaze away from his reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Annie said flatly.

She did not feel she was asking for too much, but Chadwick begged to differ. He often called her a nag whenever she got on his case. Annie was only trying to make him better. What was the crime in that?

While helping herself to another glass of Smirnoff, Annie hears her stomach gurgle. She realizes she is pretty hammered by now and quite hungry, given that she hasn’t eaten since lunch. Looking over at the dinner she prepared earlier, she heaves herself up from the couch and meanders towards the kitchen. Not bothering to use a plate, or utensils for that matter, Annie begins her ravenous assault on the pot roast and mashed potatoes. Though the food tastes like dry bark, she cannot stop eating. She eats with gusto, knowing that she spent a little over two hours preparing this meal. First she is proud, then nauseous. Is my cooking always this bad? Annie wonders.

Suddenly realizing she won’t fit into her wedding dress if she continues eating at this rate, Annie drops the fistful of meat she’s clutching in her right hand. Her face burns with shame, as she further realizes she already doesn’t fit into her wedding dress, because she is, what some might describe as portly. The saddle bags she’s acquired from preparing and inevitably, choking down Chadwick’s favorite meal; chili cheese fiesta—he calls it fiesta because he likes it with nacho cheese instead of the standard cheddar, in addition to jalapeños (but not too many because they give him heartburn)—make her feel less desirable. She doubts that Chadwick has to face such insecurities about his physical appearance. And that just isn’t fair.

Agitation—or perhaps gas—gnaws at the pit of Annie’s stomach. Looking at the clock on the stove, 3:26 am, she can’t believe Chadwick still has not come home. This is so unlike him. Perhaps he is testing the boundaries of their relationship, but Annie will see to it that he pays dearly for such carelessness. How inconsiderate could one be? When did she ever leave him high and dry on a Friday night? Annie always considered Chadwick when making decisions in her life, no matter how inconsequential. She did not cut ties with the remainder of her friends to spend all free time with Chadwick, for naught. Her decision to quit grad school to get a second job as a cocktail waitress in order to fund the wedding—having customers ogle her and spill beer down the front of her too snug uniform—will not go unappreciated.

Annie realizes these were her choices, but in her mind they merely demonstrate her undying love for Chadwick. Now that she thinks about it, what sacrifices has Chadwick made? His romantic efforts have not been particularly stellar these days. The last romantic attempt he made entailed bringing home flowers his co-worker had received from a stalker. Chadwick had forgotten to remove the card that said “From an admirer. Not your husband.” Annie snorts out loud at the thought. She is picturing him now, probably doing body shots off some flat lining tramp. And here is Annie, waiting, with mild indigestion and alone. Annie is confused and angry and ashamed and she wants to scream and stomp on Chadwick’s head. Her eyes become wild with fury. Why would Chadwick be so heedless? It was such violence.

A quiet rage builds within her. Annie feels compromised. She is a walking blade. When she begins to think of what she will say to Chadwick when he finally arrives, and how shrilly she will say it, she begins to enter a strange state of euphoria. It is a feeling not unlike being able to use the restroom after being denied for so for a time. Feeling so light and tingly—like she did last summer when she got drunk at the fair and had to wait in line at the porta potties for twenty minutes, whimpering mildly and clutching at the crotch of her jeans, then finally getting her turn to rip into the bathroom and piss like a race horse-- was the most profound pleasure she'd known all month. And now, waiting for her fiancé and knowing how righteous will be her indignation, how tremendously vindicated she will be when tearing him to shreds, she finds herself anticipating his arrival like a junkie would await their next fix. She is smiling to herself. She is tapping her acrylic nails on the counter top. What will she say? Will she direct her displeasure towards tonight’s happenings or shall she delve into all his general failures? Oh where to begin! The range is so free, so open. She can navigate anywhere she pleases, the possibilities were endless. Throwing back her third Smirnoff and rum cocktail, she jerks her head towards the window, where Chadwick’s headlights are flooding through the partition. This will be stupendous, she thinks. This will be marvelous. This will be superb. She can hardly wait for it to begin!

He Waits

2007-05-18T18:49:00.000-07:00

Pancho is in Stephanie’s room, where she stands with her back to him, rifling through her nightstand. Rubbing his forearms anxiously, Pancho peers around her room. Ceaselessly cluttered and obscenely pink, a menagerie of stuffed animals lines her bedspread. Pancho is surprised he’s found himself alone with Stephanie, who he knows through a mutual friend, and who has perfect calves. They were the last remaining people at a party thrown for Walter, who will leave for Alaska to research invasive species of plankton. Tonight they are in Stephanie’s bedroom, because they like each other, not a great deal, but just enough, as they both have been drinking and Stephanie’s calves looked especially phenomenal. But Pancho has never been with a woman before, at least never all the way.

He dated two girls in the past, both of whom broke up with him before he could even delve into the complications that came with a sexual relationship. The first, Marcie—a high school girlfriend—had mismatched features; small chin, wide nose, no taller than five feet with enormous breasts. Marcie liked to laugh, laughing in an exaggerated manner, head thrown back and eyes closed. It was laughter far from infectious; shrill and explosive, the kind you observed both in awe and disgust, wanting to study it. She played saxophone in the marching band. When Pancho attended her performances, she pretended not to see him watching, playing with her mouth wrapped all the way around the saxophone, as if fellating it. At the prom, he left Marcie unattended for three minutes while he used the restroom. When he came back he found her being groped without discord, by the tuba player from band. It was the most humiliation Pancho had experienced in weeks.

His second girlfriend was Linda, a pastry chef from Louisiana with the temperament of a Doberman. They seemed a logical match at first because Pancho was mild-mannered and vulnerable, while Linda would not be tolerated by any other kind of man. They met in the cooking section of a bookstore, where Pancho was leafing through the latest version of Cooking for Dummies, which Linda found both endearing and pathetic. She then decided she wanted to cook for him and watch him savor the meal without tasting it herself, she wanted to punish him for not eating everything on his plate, she wanted to dress him, she wanted to be his mother and his father. They began seeing each other, but the deterioration of their relationship came quickly—before any kind of sex could ensue, when Linda emasculated Pancho in a way that could not be forgotten.

It happened at his best friend Jeff’s twenty-fourth birthday party. As the night wound down and Pancho expressed his desire to go home, a belligerently drunk Linda, who didn’t want to go home, unleashed a kind of fury Pancho had never experienced. Pancho’s friends watched in horror as he dragged her from the party, kicking him in the shins with her pointy heels, screaming obscenities into his startled face, and yanking on the neck of his t-shirt until it stretched to expose his collar bone. Everyone agreed that Linda had lost her goddamn mind. She called the next day, not to apologize, but to inform him that it just wasn’t working out between them. Pancho was thrilled. God had acted quickly. He’d been dreading the repercussions that came with breaking up with her, but he also knew that remaining with Linda would’ve been a slow castration.

Tonight is different. The air is electric and terrifying, and somehow, Pancho feels good. Though he was invited home with Stephanie due to mere circumstance—she was drunk and he was there—it doesn’t matter. He’s never seen Stephanie’s house, let alone spoken to her for more than ten minutes at a time. He will likely not speak with her again after tonight. They have no immediate future together, and they both know this. Yet Pancho badly wants to have sexual intercourse with Stephanie, not because he’s intoxicated, nor because she has perfect calves, but because he wants to rid himself, once and for all, of this plague, this curse; his virginity.

Stephanie ceases to continue searching through her night stand, exasperated, and walks over to Pancho, who is tracing the stitches of her embroidered bedspread with his index finger. She reaches for his hand, and without a word, pulls him up from the bed to face her. He stands about a head taller than Stephanie, and she stares up at him, eyes red and glazed and lustful. He wonders if she can see his nose hairs.

“Thanks for bringing me home tonight.”

“Sure. No big deal. I’m glad you asked me to.”

“Me too,” Stephanie whispers

She leans toward him and presses her face into his chest, her hands moving to his waist. Pulse racing, he gently presses his hands into her lower back, sliding lower every second she continues clinging to him.

“I’m so…”

“What?” Pancho breathes.

Stephanie glances up at Pancho with a look of longing so unmistakable that even he could decipher what to do. They lunge at each other with equal certainty and begin to kiss, tongues sloppy and probing, desperately searching for something they can’t find.
Yes! Pancho thinks to himself. This is it. His time has finally come. Gone are the days of inexperience and shame. Hardly able to contain his excitement, his penis presses into his corduroys, like a wooden stick poking through a trash bag. Stephanie pulls back, pleasantly surprised.

“Sorry,” Pancho says, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” she giggles.

Pancho takes this as a green light, and immediately moves his face back into hers.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she says in a playful manner, waving her index finger in front of his sexually starved face. “I’m going to the bathroom to freshen up.” She nearly takes a CD storage unit down with her as she stumbles out of the room, her heels clamoring on the wooden floor like horse hooves on asphalt.

“I’ll be right here…” Pancho calls after her eagerly.

Pancho exhales deeply and steps in front of the mirror on her nightstand, smoothes down his thick hair and checks his teeth. He breathes sharply into his cupped hand. Breath is decent enough. Plopping down on her bed, he clasps and unclasps his hands, then rubs them up and down his thighs nervously. He looks over at the clock, 2:30 a.m. While waiting, he decides to come up with a plan, what moves to put on Stephanie when she comes back. He must be suave, he doesn’t want his inexperience to be a dead give away. This is his big debut. How will they do it? Missionary seems to be the only reasonable choice. Anything else would just be vulgar and presumptuous. Or would it? He’ll feel it out…Stephanie seems open to exploration. Yes. He’ll make a valiant effort to please her. But what if he can’t perform? What if he finishes too quickly? No, no. Stephanie will tell everyone he’s a lousy lay. That would be social suicide, the end of his fleeting sex life. This may be the first time he gets laid, but he certainly doesn’t want it to be his last. He approaches the mirror on her night stand and looks at his profile. Pancho does a few pelvic thrusts in front of the mirror. He grimaces at his reflection. Glancing at the clock, it’s now 2: 42 a.m. What’s taking her so long?

Somewhere between the sound of the chirping crickets outside Stephanie’s bedroom and the incessant buzzing from the ventilator in the hallway, Pancho faintly hears coughing echo off the bathroom walls. He cringes at the sound. Oh please, no…

Pancho creeps to the doorway, and cranes his neck down the dark hallway. A light faintly emits from behind the bathroom door. After a moment’s hesitation, Pancho starts inching slowly towards the bathroom.

“Stephanie?” he calls out in a loud whisper.
Nothing.

He moves to the door, and puts his ear up against it. He strains to hear something. There’s only silence. It’s maddening.

Pancho taps gently on the door with his knuckles. “Stephanie? Are you ok?”
Still nothing.

After standing in the dark for a few seconds, he gently pushes the door open with two fingers and peeks in. His eyes bulge at the sight of Stephanie, splayed like a buck on the linoleum floor of her bathroom. Her legs are wide open and her butterfly covered panties are peeking out from beyond her jean mini-skirt, now bunched around her hips. Stephanie’s eyes are rolled into the back of her head, and the white’s of her eyes are peeking through partially open slits. Pancho’s heart sinks. While he was dreaming up sexual scenarios and doing pelvic thrusts in the mirror, Stephanie was barfing herself silly. While Pancho savored the moment he would devour Stephanie’s perfect calves with kisses, she was lying on the bathroom floor in an unconscious state of being. Pancho blinks rapid fire. He’s frozen, mouth agape, looking down on a train wreck.

The smell formulating within the toilet bowl starts to set in, and disrupts Pancho’s trance-like state. He flushes the toilet with his foot. Crouching down beside Stephanie, he gives her a nudge. Two nudges. He picks up her arm, holds it for a second, lets it drop. No signs of life from Stephanie. Pancho realizes what he has to do. He scoops his arms under her back and begins to lift her from the cool tile floor. Pancho starts toward her room. Piss! She’s heavier than she looks. Kicking her door open and stumbling to the bed, he single handedly sweeps her collection of stuffed animals to the ground in one swift motion. Pancho drops her down and arranges her limp body on the bed, then pulls off her wooden platform heels and tosses them aside. Stephanie lets out an indistinguishable grunt. After covering her with her pink bedspread, Pancho sinks into a bedside chair to take one last look at her. Though she sleeps like an angel, she looks like hell. Remnants of puke cling to her hair, mascara runs down her cheeks. Pancho sighs deeply. Broken, but not hopeless, he gets up, leans and kisses her forehead, then walks to the doorway, and switches off her light.

Anthrax (not the band)

2007-03-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

Remember the "anthrax" scare? It was around 9/11. Everyone was afraid of opening mail containing anthrax. My co-worker said she knew a lady who actually wore a mask and gloves when she opened the mail during the anthrax era. The lady apparently was a nut who was paranoid about everything. Granted she worked for the county, but that's still a bit much. I don't think taking out some old crow who works for the county would be worth a terrorists time and money. The opportunity cost doesn't even out.

What I want to know is, how would one even put anthrax into an envelope? Do you have to wear protective gear when you put the anthrax into the mail? Do you put the anthrax into a container and then put it in an envelope, or do you just drop the naked anthrax into the envelope? How can you see the anthrax go into the envelope? Can you actually see anthrax for that matter? What if you are trying to mail out some anthrax, and you make a mistake and handle the anthrax in a faulty manner and accidentally poison yourself? That would be embarrassing. Then you would have to tell your friends that you got anthrax. And what's worse, you would have to tell them you got anthrax by accident because you fucked up when you tried to mail some one else anthrax. That would be ironic.

The notion of anthrax in the mail is ridiculous. I think the government made it up. They wanted to get us all riled up and the best way to do that was to make us scared shitless. And it worked, because here we are six years later, still at war. And we aren't doing didly shit about it. We're waiting until next presidential term. Way to be proactive America. Way to go.

2006-12-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

See that house over there? Let me tell you…

A guy I dated several years back used to live there with his mother. Yeah. The two story number with the plastic gnomes out front. The place stunk like the inside of a fake leg.

I never told you? About when I moved in with Mike and his mother, after I was fired from the Hungry Hunter, all that? I really never told you? Can you hand me a cigarette? No, I’ve got a light right here. Thanks. Actually, my ex boyfriend used to kind of stink too, in all honesty. Especially his breath. He wasn’t the most hygienic of fellows, bless his heart. Boy was that house a pigsty! His mother—dreadful woman—she wasn’t much of a housekeeper. She wasn’t much of anything, besides a witch about fifty with an Ogilvie home perm. She had it in for me, always watching my every move, the old cuss. They would’ve burned her in Salem if she were born any earlier. One of those Jesus freaks. They really are the worst, those Jesus freaks.

Grab the wheel for a second, will you? Gotta get this jacket off, I’m sweating like a hog. That’s right, just hold it steady. Good. Well Mike demanded that we move in together, so we could take our relationship to the “next level.” Living with his mother wasn’t exactly my idea of taking it to the next level, but hell. I gave it a shot. I will say, there was one thing taken to the next level, and it was my patience. Living with those two slobs would’ve driven anyone with a pulse crazy.

Just walking around the house was tough. At first I’d hop over the clothes and books and papers and trash lying on the floor. Eventually I got tired and just started kicking everything aside to clear a single path. I remember the living room had stacks of old newspapers from years back, piled into a fort. Those two refused to throw anything away. A couple of honest to goodness pack rats. I even had to clean out their refrigerator once. I must have thrown out five pounds of rotten cabbage that day. It had nearly fermented. But that couldn’t have been any worse than the time I cleaned the bathroom. I must’ve lost ten pounds from all the sweating I did while scrubbing that filthy bathtub of theirs. It looked like a corpse that’d just jumped out of its grave bathed in there.

Oh hey, can you put another CD on? My CD case is in the backseat. Say, I’ve got a request: ABBA’s Greatest Hits. Thanks. Where are you putting that other CD? You’re not just going to leave it out of the CD case, are you? No, no. It’ll get scratched that way. That’s just wrong, honey. It belongs in its proper compartment. My god.

So anyway, Mike’s mother slept right next door to us, as if the situation weren’t already bad enough. Just walking past that old goat’s bedroom was a feat. It smelled like a litter box in there. Not kidding. She had cats you know. There’s something weird about them, those cat people, something off. And the stench of cat shit can really clear a room. That and the carton of cigarettes she smoked every day. Jesus! It was fetid. I had to use the bathroom in her room once. Mike’s little brother had locked himself in our bathroom; he was probably whacking off or something. Anyway, she didn’t like to flush the toilet often. Yeah, I know. It was repellant. She said she was only trying to save water, but I’ve got other theories.

Now that I think about it, I can’t believe she allowed me and Mike to sleep in the same bed, with her being such a Jesus freak and all. We had to sneak around and keep quiet while that lazy cow was around. We felt just like a couple of naughty teenagers. Wow that kind of thing, the risk of getting caught, it really made Mike horny. Gosh, he was like a bull moose in hea—

Oh wipe that look off your face. What? Did I cross some line? I thought this sort of talk interested you. Well then. I stand corrected.

Well anyhow, the final straw came when his mother started stealing my underwear. I don’t lie about these things. They didn’t even fit her; they had to be three sizes too small. Then she would put them back when she was done with them. Did she really expect me to use them again? Those panties weren’t fit to wipe an abandoned car in a junk yard. Especially after that whale broke them in. They had been all stretched out of proportion, not to mention stained. An abomination, is what it was. I mean, who does that? Who steals underwear? You don’t do that. You just don’t.

So when I confronted her, she lied about it. She “didn’t know what I was talking about.” She said told me that I had some nerve. And you know what I said to her? I said, “I hope Jesus forgives you.” Just like that. Then I walked out of there, for good. I got her with that one, boy. She was fuming.

Sometimes I’ll drive past that old place, and slow down a little. I swear I can still detect the faint smell of cat urine. Then I step on the gas.

Moronic quote of the year

2006-12-05T21:06:00.000-08:00

"So like, suddenly I look around and realize , 'Oh my God I'm having sex'."

-Jenn from Real World Denver

A Barn (in love)

2006-11-29T21:47:00.000-08:00

Running down the sloping red velour hills, I discover a barn peeking slightly from below the rutted, muddy track. My curiosity drew me closer and aided my swift leap over the hickory hand-strewn fencing. Entering the barn, the aroma of clean hay and freshly cut grass fills my nostrils, heightening my senses. I am overcome with nostalgia, simple childhood memories of jumping in autumn leaves now flooding my mind. Instinctively, I cannot resist the overwhelmingly desire to take a running start and leap into the mounds of hay piled on the wooden beam floor. Laughing fervently, I thrust my arms deep into the pile of straw, doing a mock breast-stroke, performing ardently for no one in particular. Desire fulfilled, tired from “swimming” in the hay, I rest on my back, hands interlaced behind my head. Looking up at the ceiling, it spreads everywhere, mahogany brown and timeless. Beams supporting the roof were slanting and cracked, still, undoubtedly bracing the ceiling with the same fortitude it did when first built. I picture the men building the barn, their brows furrowed with sweat, sleeves rolled; working vigorously until they ached. My eyes sweep down to the loft compartments on the upper level of the barn. Oh the games of hide and seek that could have been played here! What I would have given to have grown up in a place like this…Still smiling, I close my eyes and dream.

2006-11-19T03:16:00.000-08:00

"I'll make you smile for the simple fact I'm good at it. I'll make you smile just so I can sit and look at it."

-Atmosphere

A Barn (mourning)

2006-11-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

Cold and exhausted, I came across a barn, which at one point had been red, but now timeworn and fatigued, had taken on a color not unlike a species of desiccated autumn leaves. The landscape was barren and unkempt, made entirely of an open field of dead shrubs, expanding in infinite directions. A sleepy willow tree oversaw the barn and surrounding field; long, cracked branches twisting and reaching inconsolably across the grey sky. Atop the barn sat a rooster shaped compass, the wind batting it east and west, never disclosing. I pulled my coat up to shield my face from the unrelenting wind and decided to take refuge in the barn. With a relatively forceful tug, the immense door opens and lets out an eternal groan, trying to dissuade me from entering and disturbing the barn's slumber. I step inside and stomp my boots on the ground. The air hangs damp and smells of earth, musky and penetrating. Exhaling deeply, I could see my breath billowing in front of me, lingering until it slowly evaporated into nothing. The inside of the barn had two levels, the upper a loft, and the lower made up of nine pairs of stanchions that faced each other. Now empty, a space once living and breathing with livestock and farm-hands was fallow, fruitless and seemed to be abandoned without warning. In the corner of the first stall sat a bucket of cornmeal, slowly transforming into dry-rot. The vigor of this barn was gone, stripped away. Smells of hickory and fresh, clean straw were replaced with sodden decay. This barn was loneliness, nothing.

Grandma was a Nazi

2006-10-21T21:20:00.000-07:00

Horns blare. I turn towards the direction of the fuss and see a maniacal older couple making angry gestures from inside their approaching vehicle. This couple was a testament to the truth behind the saying, “the evil never die.” Grandma’s Hundai came plowing down the mini roads of the city park, and she was more than willing to take down anyone in her path, even a group of evangelists taking a peace walk. After all, a bingo game awaited her, and her Depends were leaking.

She had a rabid look in her eye, and it frightened me. You know how some old people are so ancient that most of their physical features turn white, including their eyes? Gross. I endeavor not to get that old. In any case, this Aryan couple was in a hurry and they were mad. The decrepit, elderly beast sends her equally decrepit husband out of the car to stop the flow of pedestrians, liver spots and all. The protestors continue to march, and the Grandma continues to pound on her horn, while her husband makes his way over to the group of bewildered people. Park Ranger Jacobs noticed the brou-ha-ha, and walks briskly over to the old man, who is beginning to block people from crossing the street.

“Hold it right there, sir,” Park Ranger Jacobs says firmly. “You have to wait. These people are in the middle of a peace protest.”

“But my wife and I are in a hurry…” the old man barks back, motioning with one trembling hand towards the car.

“I don’t care whether you’re in a hurry or not. You have to wait,” Park Ranger Jacobs says, indignant.

From inside the vehicle, Grandma goes ape shit. She shoves her veiny blue hand out the window and waves it in a fit of rage. Her mouth is open. Thin lips parted into a rabid half-moon, she shouts words that can’t be heard, only imagined. She is a cantankerous, old cuss.

Her Hundai begins to roll forward, against the advice of Park Ranger Jacobs, against the will of the people, against anything that is decent and human.

“Ma’am! Ma’am please! I told you that you have to wait!” Park Ranger Jacobs was fairly agitated by this point. If there ever was a chance of Grandma being allowed to pass through the impending group of protesters, it was gone now. Her husband, defeated, hobbles back to the Hundai. Incensed, the elderly couple waited for the evangelists to pass, for a whole two minutes. They still made it to bingo on time, though they did not win anything that day, or for many days to come.

i like dogs, but not like that

2006-08-29T15:55:00.000-07:00

I love dogs. All dogs. Except for my cousin's dog, who is what I believe to be Satan's incarnate. He's one of those small yippy dogs, bordering more on the insane side. Every time you come over to her house, he will attack you when you try to leave. I don't know why; no one does really. He just starts screeching in octaves you wouldn't believe existed, while simultaneously barking and biting at your ankles when you head to the door, every single time you visit. On several occasions he's broken the skin. A car ran him over once. He didn't die. The evil never do.

So a pair of my friends have 3 dogs. The dogs never really made an impact in my life until I was at a going away party at their house about 3 weeks back. The party was held in the dogs usual hangout spot, so they were temporarily placed in a holding tank, where they could actively observe the party, and thus beg for food and attention through the gate. One of the dogs put on quite a show for us, where he would jump up and stick his arms through the gate and wave them enthusiastically. It was rather amusing.

"OK fella, you win," I think to myself. I then decided that this dog had earned its right to get some attention from me, so I lugged myself over from my folding chair, to the dog's holding tank. The dog's name is Vito, and he's one of those Siberian Huskies. They're the ones with the white eyes and fur coat. I then commenced to give him a nice thorough petting. I feel that my affection is really good. I suppose the dog seconded that motion, because it's eyes went from small dot of a pupil and white iris to really huge, dilated pupils...just as if the dog had taken 2 hits of ecstasy. The pooch suddenly looked more like a Japanese cartoon character than a wolf, which struck me as odd. Yet it was absolutely fascinating to see those trademark Huskie eyes change from "instinctual" mode to "frying balls" mode.

But what I found to be even more bizarre was that the dog was nursing an erection. Somewhere amidst the wonderment that came along with encountering Vito's overly dilated pupils and petting his great white coat, I glanced down to find 'Mr. red slime rod' poking out between Vito's hind legs. I immediately pulled my hand back in horror.

"Ewww! Bad dog!"

Why did the dog get a hard on? Does that mean that I turned the dog on? Did Vito get hot from me petting him? Is that why his penis reared its ugly head? I petted him in the most standard way you would pet an animal...on the head and back...no funny business, no extra attention to the dog's underside and belly. I just don't understand.

I walked away from Vito then, leaving him to pant and eventually shrivel at the height of his ecstasy. He had taken advantage of my affections, and made lewd gestures toward me. I felt used. I didn't mention anything for the shame enveloped me beyond words. I guess I'm traumatized by male dogs because I was humped by a dog in heat once and it scarred me for life. T'was a humiliating experience indeed.

And so ends the story of a dog who got too excited when I petted him. So excited in fact, that his eyes dilated beyond the brink of reason and his ugly red wiener thing popped out to say hello. That's when I had to say goodbye. Dirty dog.

i once had a boyfriend who couldn't spell stuff

2006-08-07T17:12:00.000-07:00

I've dated a really wide range of people. If you could make a box and whisker plot comparing all the boys I've been with, you would have a really fucked up distribution. We're talking lots of outliers here. I've dated boys from different ethnicities; white washed Mexican/Italian, just plain white, black, Mexican, Spanish, even a dash of Asian. I've dated some ugly asses and I've dated a supposed model, granted he did ads for Clothing Barn, but that still counts. I don't discriminate, is what I'm trying to say. I've got love for everybody.

The boyfriend that stands out in my mind though, besides the first one--who I hope dies slowly, maybe by birds pecking at him until he bleeds to death, or better yet, by stapling his ass shut and feeding him Taco Bell until he bursts--is the slowest boyfriend I ever had. He couldn't figure out how to play Scrabble. Because of him, the game of Scrabble is no longer a fun and enjoyable experience for me. The game of Scrabble now terrifies me, and reminds me of a very dark time in my life, when I realized that I was dating a dullard, for 7 months in a row.

I knew this boyfriend of mine was a stoner. That didn't really bother me, because I like pot, and I firmly believe most people on this planet are high. Well, I guess this particular young man smoked himself silly, because he was one slow mother fucker. Talking to him was like pulling teeth, and it was as exciting as watching paint dry. I initially thought he was the strong silent type, because although he was quiet, he would usually chime in and say the right things at the right time. But then I got to know him, and I found out there was nothing strong about his silence. There was actually a bag full of stale air between his ears.

My girlfriend and I decided to visit him and his buddy one night, and we thought it would be fun to bring over her game of Scrabble. Of course we got high beforehand, because that usually makes things more fun. This time it only made things more terrifying.

Dumb butt had never played Scrabble before, so we began to explain the mechanics of the game to him. He was having a hard time understanding where and where not to place letter pieces. He kept asking me, "So...can I spell something...here?" as he dragged his index finger along the horizontal plane of the game board.
"No," I said, "because that connects with another word spelled out on the board and doesn't spell anything. When any words are touching, they have to spell something."
"Oh." Pause. "So...can I spell a word...here?" (again dragging finger along same exact spot as before).
"Uhhhh, no. Remember I told you that if any spelled out words are in conjunction with each other, they too must spell out something?"
Pause.
"So...I can't spell something...here?" (dragging finger)

This went on for about 45 minutes. I was floored. I didn't know if this was some kind of sick joke or what, but I didn't understand why he didn't understand. I explained it to him about 10 times and he wasn't getting it. Finally though, after great deliberation he figured a word he could spell, and it only took about 20 minutes of brainstorming, apart from the time we spent explaining the game to him. We were all very anxious to see what he was going to spell, in hopes that he had finally understood the concept of the game.

He places down his pieces, seeming pretty satisfied with himself:

K--O--O--H

We all stared at each other in silence.

"K-O-O-H?"

"Hook," he replied lamely.

We all begin to laugh boisterously, and he joins in with us, mouth agape as he glances back and forth between our cackling persona's. Ha! Bravo! Hook, spelled backwards, hardy-har-har! That doesn't really count, but it sure is funny. Boyfriend was surely trying to be funny right there. Good one.

"Please tell me we can count that" Boyfriend says, still giggling
"Sure sure, why not. Hehe. Kooh. You are too funny."
"Good. Phew! I was worried. For a minute there I was beginning to think I didn't know how to play this game."

The laughter steadily died down and the smiles evaporated from our faces after his comment. Boyfriend was not joking. He indeed STILL did not know how to play fucking Scrabble. He spelled "kooh", thinking it was the same as spelling "hook." I began to feel nauseous. This was not handsome. My boyfriend had the IQ of a navel orange.

Not only did he not get it, but he got angry that he couldn't understand, and much like a wounded cornered animal would, he lashed out at us, accusing us of "laughing at him." How the hell could we NOT laugh at him? The dynamics of his mind were laughable. We were under every right to laugh at him in my book. Besides, we weren't even really laughing at him, besides the whole kooh fiasco; I think we were all somewhat too shocked to laugh. Anywho, he still threw a temper tantrum and refused to play, gave us the silent treatment and proceeded to kick us out of his house. The car ride home was very silent. After a minutes silence I turned to my friend and asked her, "So, is it ok to break up with him over this?"

What the fuck do I do? Is this ground for relationship termination? I am horrified that my boyfriend has shit for brains, but how do you breakup with someone because they can't play Scrabble? What's a girl to do?

We ended up making it through this one because he called me the next day and apologized for his childish episode, but we broke up not too long after. A relationship cannot survive this sort of thing. The night I discovered my boyfriend couldn't spell stuff was the beginning of the end for me.

handlebar sideburns

2006-07-16T16:57:00.000-07:00

Handlebar sideburns
I don't understand you
What's your purpose?
Where is your destination?
Why are you here?

You creep down his ear
and tickle along those pale cheeks
Your travels are infinite
from the tallest mountain top
To the lowest plains

You'll never leave his side
a constant in our lives
Handlebar sideburns
You bother me
But it seems you're here to stay

the most unromantic love letter ever written to me

2006-07-06T23:38:00.000-07:00

My corazon belongs to a puta :)

Dear Cynthia,

I hope you remember me. If you don't, here is what I look like: ////
Get it? I'm slanty.
Anyways, in all seriousness, I was thinking about last semester and I don't think I ever told you "thanks" for sitting next to me in algae class. It really meant a lot to me and I looked forward to every single lab because of those few hours that I could talk to you in person. I know damn well that you would have much rather sat next to Cheryl or someone else with a vagina so you could talk about girl stuff like "what's new with periods", "breast-soreness", or even The Lake House. . . but you sat next to me and made it an awesome class for me. Thanks.
Even though school is over, I really think it would be stupid if we never saw each other again. . . especially because you know that I love you and that you yourself would like to open up and love me too. That is why I suggest that we should hang out some time, maybe grab a pita or some sushi. . . whatever. We can go as friends which will hopefully lead to oral right away. Well, I think you know what I'm trying to say: It would be dumb for two awesome people to lose contact with each other, especially physical contact.
Have you even seen my hands? They are quite beautiful AND I would never treat you wrong, unless you count me beating the crap out of your cervix as a bad thing.
Is your boyfriend dead yet?

if fucking is wrong, then i don't want to be right

2006-05-14T16:21:00.000-07:00

Why is sex a sin? Fucking is fucking awesome, for lack of a less intelligent and eloquent way of saying it. Am I right or am I right?

To be continued...

your favorite place to view porn? the library of course!

2006-04-11T23:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight I witnessed something horrendous. It seems that all things filthy occur most frequently at my university's library. Long ago I heard folklore of the "gunslingers" that hid on the fifth floor of SDSU's lone Love Library, who would seemingly jerk off to their hearts content at any young piece of muff that walked by. Soon I witnessed a parade of sorority girls taking a field trip in the library's computing center. Then I found a severed toenail by my computer. What now, you ask? Well I tonight's calamity was the apex of all calamities.

I am studying marine algae. My intentions are pure tonight. Well, they almost were, until it is brought to my attention that the man sitting at the computer across from me is viewing porn. He navigates through website after website of young Asian snatch and peach fuzz covered scrotum's. Apparently he doesn't discriminate. His strategy is solid, because he's got a decoy screen ready, so when he feels the slightest inclination that someone is approaching, he clicks on the window at the bottom of the screen displaying the University homepage. When his tensions ease, he goes back to spying porn.

HOLD IT.

Let's not be hasty; I'm no puritan. I like porn too. You bet I'm a fan. SO? Well, I don't look at porn while at school or work. That's just rude. But I suppose that goes without saying. Very well then.

I consider narcing him out, but I would feel badly about telling poor old Mr. Mgee about the degenerate across from me. How awkward would that be for Mr. Mgee, poor old chap. After a while I forget about this guy, and continue studying. He's pretty balsy for looking at porn at the University library, but I let it slide...this time.

Well I shouldn't have. My study buddy suddenly perks up in regards to Mr. looks at porn at school, asking me if I saw his antics. Hell yeah I says. But what I didn't see, however, was when he stuck his hands down his pants and yanked on his wiener until he came all over himself, then proceeded to wipe his giz on his jeans and go take a nap afterwards on the library couches. He might as well have had himself a cigarette too. What a filthy fucking animal.

This is the riff raff that hangs around my campus, yup. Real nice. Who gets off in a school library?? I mean really. Who does that? Who nuts themselves at a public computer station? You don't manipulate your genitals in public. You just don't.

Well I caught up with the guy later in the Reserve Book Room when the library closed. At this point my study group and I decided to rat him out for sure. We saw to it that he was expelled from the premises. I still shudder at the thought of his happy ending occurring at computer cluster 8. Sick fuck.

i hate boys with ugly hands

2006-03-08T12:13:00.000-08:00

What I conveniently forgot about these boys with ugly hands that I tend to love so much is that they always break my heart. Fuck you, boys with ugly hands! Fuck you I love you! And I hate you! Fuck you up your stupid asses.

tori

2006-02-12T00:56:00.000-08:00

You're so gifted, Tori. You excel in everything, Tori. You're the best, Tori. You've always been "the best." You know nothing else. Between volunteering at the hospital and training for that marathon and finishing your Master's degree before gearing up for Medical school, you've got a pretty tight schedule. You've got a lot going on, don't you Tori? That's stupendous. Yet with such a busy schedule, when will Tori have time for Tori? When will anyone have time to get to know Tori? Does Tori know the real Tori? What are you striving for? And for whom? Do you even know?

always trying to look cool and always failing miserably

2006-02-10T13:46:00.000-08:00

I went surfing at 8am today. An ungodly hour to get in 50ºF water I would say, so that's why I showed up late. You see I'm enrolled in Advanced Surfing at SDSU. I'm a super senior and I will be graduating this May. That's why my curriculum includes difficulty level 0.5 out of 10 classes like surfing. And that's why I went surfing at 8am. Otherwise there's no fucking way I would willing get up at 7 am to get in 50 degree water. I did it nonetheless, and I felt cool. I felt like a real surfer, perse. I actually stood up on the face of a wave, which is quite a feat. As I wrapped up a successful day of surf, I made my way over to the showers to rinse off my board and feet. Still feeling pretty cool, I down graded to not even quasi cool, as I slipped on a puddle of water and fell down on my butt--surf board and all. It was one of those falls, you know those, where you can really do nothing about it but succumb to the loser factor. I sat there for a few seconds, on the floor, while the locals snickered at me. One guys asks me, "Are you ok?" YEahh. I duck my head in shame and speed walk away, defeated. The locals begin to laugh in a not so inconspicuous way, in a more boisterous manner...as I failed miserably yet AGAIN, in my quest to seem "cool." Someday fuckers, someday.

2006-02-05T23:32:00.000-08:00

People who endure the harshest of adversities seem to be that ones that have the most fascinating of lives. They have a story to tell, and if heart wrenching enough, we can feel some of their pain too. Those are the people that touch our lives and open our eyes. Their struggle is an inspiration. Yet does this necessarily mean that our lives are more meaningful only if we suffer? Are those who hurt really the lucky ones?

i found out who will play in the superbowl today

2006-02-02T20:44:00.000-08:00

Suck my pooper hole, super bowl. Today I found out who is playing in the super bowl because I don't give a shit about football. I had to ask someone in my biology of marine algae class to find out. Had I not, I probably wouldn't have found out until Sunday, when I glanced at the television briefly during my friend's super bowl party where I will mainly attend for social purposes and eating. That's why I'm going to a super bowl party. I don't fucking care about the Steelers or the Seahawks. I care about eating and drinking beer.

The reason why I hate football so much is due to my first boyfriend, whom I wish slow, painful death upon. That or rectal cancer. I hate him. He was a football fanatic, but I'm talking about complete and utter obsession. I wouldn't be surprised if he had routinely jerked off while gazing at his Jerry Rice poster that hung above his bed, he was that obsessed. He even had one of those fantasy football teams, where hours upon hours of research was spent in picking a super star lineup. Discussion groups were held with his equally obsessed, douchebag cousins, speculating which team in their competing league would win. During a date, he once left me alone for half an hour to go and use a pay phone so he could check his team's score. That prickless son of a hamster. And thus my disdain for football began. I know, I know; I sound petty and bitter and all that shit. Care loads! Thanks to my first boyfriend, football has been tainted for me, FOREVER. Screw you pigskin.

ben stein is a stoner

2006-02-02T20:41:00.000-08:00

Monotone voice. Clear Eyes spokesman. Is willing to give away his own money on a game show. Need I say more?

i like boys with ugly hands

2006-02-01T16:39:00.000-08:00

Every doomed relationship that I've been in has involved an ugly boy that has beautiful hands. I don't know why this always happens. In terms of all my boyfriends usually being ugly, I have the tendency to end up with the "nice guy", although they don't usually end up being so nice in the end, they just initially seem like big sweethearts because they are trying real hard to get laid. And it works, with me at least. I think to myself, eh, he is really sweet. I'm sure I'll grow to like him. WRONG. I have made this error twice now, you don't really grow to like a person, unless you live in a country that does the arranged marriage thing. Then you really don't have a choice. Sure you'll hit a high point where you are duped into not being aware of your misery for a short period of time, but it's only a matter of months before it all goes to hell and you'll be shrinking away from his advances in semi-horror. But I will say, I might have been repulsed by a couple of my mediocre looking boyfriends, but I always took comfort in the fact that they had beautiful hands. I know it's odd, but I would always observe those beautiful, strong hands of theirs, and marvel at them. "Man you have some beautiful hands", I would say. And that was it. Well, yes they were nice too. But not as nice as their hands.

What constitutes beautiful hands, you ask? Well, the fingernails have a lot to do with it. They usually have a nice shape, very egg-like and symmetrical. The fingers are long and slender, but not too long and slender. Men's hands are should also appear strong if they want to be considered beautiful in my eyes. The features are delicate, but masculine. Dryness is completely necessary. The hands must be dry and somewhat soft. The idea of holding a perpetually sweaty hand gets my gag reflex going.

So now it seems that every time I've felt knocked on my ass in love with a guy, which has not happened many times, it has been with guys that have ugly ass hands. It's so weird. I have felt pretty much the same about each guy I've been madly in love with: totally enamored by everything about them, looks personality, etc.--but they also happened to have really ugly hands. Their hands were callous infested, with hang nails, finger nails that grow strangely or nails that are bitten down until the flesh appears raw, and so on. But you know what? I love that! I love their ugly fucking hands because that means I'm really in love. Every time I've been in love, there are ugly hands involved. Every time I've been involved with someone I didn't love, I spend most of the relationship trying to tear their beautiful hands off of me. Thus, ugly hands=love and happiness. It's just too uncanny. I want to scream it from the highest mountain. I like boys with ugly hands! Embrace me with your beastly, crappy hands! I beseech you!

say thank you, bitch

2006-01-18T12:15:00.000-08:00

I hate it when people don't say thank you. Especially when they sneeze, and you don't even know them, but you're feeling kind enough to say "bless you" to them and they just sit there like a lump of shit that was dropped in a barn. You know you said it loud enough for them to hear it, so why aren't they responding? Because they're fucking rude, that's why. Here's another one that makes me burn like a venereal disease would in the loins of a two cent hooker. I hate it when you hold a door open for someone and they smoothly walk right past you without even a second look, as if you were wearing a monkey suit and made a living holding doors open for fuck tards like them. What now, I was supposed to waste 3 seconds of my day holding a door open for you, without even as much as a thank you? It is especially agitating because you made it a point to stop and wait for their arrival, and they don't acknowledge that you totally went out of your way for them. Show some appreciation bitch! How dare you take humanity for granted! See this is the problem with people. They are so damn spoiled. They expect the way to already be paved for them. They don't think about what's being sacrificed for their convenience, even if it's as inconsequential as me standing there like a tool holding open the door for them. A simple, "thank you" goes a long way. I don't think people realize this. It will not take your life away if you let out a "thank you" once in a while, you boogers.

Oh yeah, and fuck you if you don't give me "the hand" when I let you go in front of me while driving. For those who aren't aware of what I'm talking about when I say "the hand", I mean simply making a gesture with your hand, comparable to the motion you would make when you wave or say "stop" and put your hand up. For example, if someone was to allow you to change lanes in front of them, the proper usage would be to hold your hand up to your rear view mirror, as a simple, "thanks, you're swell for letting me cut you off." Anything else would just be uncivilized.

fecking eww

2005-12-19T16:14:00.000-08:00

What is it about finding a random finger nail that's so gross? I just found a nail by my computer and it nauseated me. Who did this nail belong to? What kind of riff raff just leaves a finger nail lying around in a public computer lab?? The worst part about it is, wondering whether the nail was severed from a finger or a toe. Toe nail tips are by far the most disgusting random discovery. The problem is, you can never tell between the two and you always just assume the worst; you found a toe nail. Hideous. Why are broken nails so gross? They are filthy and yellow, with crud residue stuck to their underside...but we all cut our nails and whatnot. I guess the difference is, some people have the decency to throw that shit in the garbage and some filthy animals just leave that shit lying around. Absolutely appalling. Now I've lost my appetite. Thank you.