The bar has been set, I will not fail.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Bar Has Been Set
Leppy recently returned from Las Vegas. Along with the bag of cocaine and hooker named Mercedes, she brought me back a miniature of the Las Vegas sign. It lights up all colorful and plays Viva Las Vegas and slot machine noises. Basically, it's the most amazing thing I have ever seen. As excited as I am about it, I think Leppy is a bitch. Now when I go to Ireland I have to get her something equally as mind-blowingly awesome. She has set me up for failure, unless I actually bring her home an Irish man. I think I have the...skills...to accomplish this.
The bar has been set, I will not fail.
The bar has been set, I will not fail.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I Think I Just Lost My Balls
While riding the exercise bike, I frequently opt to peruse trash television shows. I was hoping for some shitty talk-show, but the only thing on was MuchLive. The musical guest was Justin Bieber. I love music, I do, but while watching him jump around the stage with his perfectly manicured hairstyle, all I could think was, "What the fuck? This isn't music."
First and foremost, I am perfectly aware that the Biebanator isn't targeted towards me. His goal isn't to appeal to sarcastic bitter-boats heading towards their twilight years. Besides, I prefer to have a guy who can actually grow hair on his balls. Therefore, I understand I might not 'get it' because I am 'too old'. That said, as I watched the program I found myself disturbed, and yet, couldn't change the channel. Here are my observations:
1. Why is it that Canada pumps this guy up? Why did he have to come out of Canada? And why can't cool Canadian bands be featured on MuchLive like Arcade Fire or Hey Rosetta!?
2. When he goes through puberty, his fans are going to be in a world of hurt. Not only will he get his first zit, but he won't be able to sing any of his music anymore.
3. What's with all the ridiculous nicknames? The fans of Sir Justin call themselves: The Belibers. (You know, like the believers but they incorporated his name--how fucking cute!) It's almost as bad as the Clay-Mates, and we all know what happened with that one, don't we. Why are people shocked when these guys turn out to be gay?
4. There was this part where he was singing 'One Less Lonely Girl'. Not only was every ounce of testosterone evaporated from the room, but I am pretty sure my vagina vomited in disgust. He pulled this chick up onto the stage, gave her flowers, sang to her. And she cried. SHE CRIED!!! What the heck is that about? I understand getting emotional when you meet someone whose music has influenced you through the years, pulled you through tough days and speaks to your soul. BUT JUSTIN BIEBER??? He's a fetus who's been on the scene for a day and a half. Jesus Christ!
5. Who writes his lyrics? His mother? His grandmother? The women from the view? The biggest pussy in the world? All I kept imagining was a group of vaginas sitting around a conference table trying to write the most cringe worthy lyrics in the world. Cringe worthy for me...anyone not disenchanted by love and under the age of twenty would swoon.
There will always be pop bands. And I can get behind some of them, but I sort of feel sorry for this kid. I mean, where is he going to go? What's he going to do in ten years? I think about all the boy bands that came along and where are they now? Lying face down in the ditch, having been tossed off the music industry super highway. I can only think of one boy band member who managed to make it out alive: Justin Timberlake. Maybe it's something in the name and Bieber will survive too.
Regardless, I have to go rail a chick and drink a beer because that hour special really axed my balls off.
On a side note, I did get a little emotional when I met Alice Cooper.
First and foremost, I am perfectly aware that the Biebanator isn't targeted towards me. His goal isn't to appeal to sarcastic bitter-boats heading towards their twilight years. Besides, I prefer to have a guy who can actually grow hair on his balls. Therefore, I understand I might not 'get it' because I am 'too old'. That said, as I watched the program I found myself disturbed, and yet, couldn't change the channel. Here are my observations:
1. Why is it that Canada pumps this guy up? Why did he have to come out of Canada? And why can't cool Canadian bands be featured on MuchLive like Arcade Fire or Hey Rosetta!?
2. When he goes through puberty, his fans are going to be in a world of hurt. Not only will he get his first zit, but he won't be able to sing any of his music anymore.
3. What's with all the ridiculous nicknames? The fans of Sir Justin call themselves: The Belibers. (You know, like the believers but they incorporated his name--how fucking cute!) It's almost as bad as the Clay-Mates, and we all know what happened with that one, don't we. Why are people shocked when these guys turn out to be gay?
4. There was this part where he was singing 'One Less Lonely Girl'. Not only was every ounce of testosterone evaporated from the room, but I am pretty sure my vagina vomited in disgust. He pulled this chick up onto the stage, gave her flowers, sang to her. And she cried. SHE CRIED!!! What the heck is that about? I understand getting emotional when you meet someone whose music has influenced you through the years, pulled you through tough days and speaks to your soul. BUT JUSTIN BIEBER??? He's a fetus who's been on the scene for a day and a half. Jesus Christ!
5. Who writes his lyrics? His mother? His grandmother? The women from the view? The biggest pussy in the world? All I kept imagining was a group of vaginas sitting around a conference table trying to write the most cringe worthy lyrics in the world. Cringe worthy for me...anyone not disenchanted by love and under the age of twenty would swoon.
There will always be pop bands. And I can get behind some of them, but I sort of feel sorry for this kid. I mean, where is he going to go? What's he going to do in ten years? I think about all the boy bands that came along and where are they now? Lying face down in the ditch, having been tossed off the music industry super highway. I can only think of one boy band member who managed to make it out alive: Justin Timberlake. Maybe it's something in the name and Bieber will survive too.
Regardless, I have to go rail a chick and drink a beer because that hour special really axed my balls off.
On a side note, I did get a little emotional when I met Alice Cooper.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Leave Me Alone
Ever had the urge to say it? To lock yourself in your bedroom and refuse to come out? Curl up in a ball? Drown the world out with music? Take a bath in the dark, listening to your limbs move through the water? Draw the blinds in the middle of the day? Ignore the phone? Ignore the door? Ignore your computer? Ignore yourself? Shoo the skeletons out of your closet? Clear the monsters out from under your bed? Lay perfectly still, staring at your ceiling? Drain your body of all emotions? Face it on your own? Fight off the help offered? To drift along without moving? To dwell in solitude?
To try and escape what is.
To try and escape what is.
And So You Laugh
Life falls out of our control. It slips through our fingers and we fumble to hold onto it. We didn't plan it this way, we didn't mean for things to end up this way, we didn't think this would be how it would turn out.
People come and go, making impressions on our heart before leaving. Their length of stay never known until they're gone, but for the moments they stand with you it's almost as though you're bound together. You turn to them and say, "I care." And they smile, the corners of their mouth turning up and happiness flickers in their eyes. Until the day the light fades from their expression and you're left looking at a person you don't recognize anymore. And they step back into the shadow they came from.
The seasons change. In the middle of falling leaves and ominous gray clouds, you stand at the park, watching the trees dance to a tune you can't hear. Your mind's on someone on the other side of the world. You've never met them, but you wish you could. Guilt rises and you try to ignore it. And you try to forget the wanting that's been planted in your belly.
Birds soar across the sky and you remember how you've always wanted to fly, to spread your wings and break from the cage that holds you back. Your wings were clipped when you were a child and you take cautious steps now, only alighting to edges which are near and safe. The risks you long to take hang in the balance. Tempting you forward.
Time is non-existent for a moment, but you can still here the moments of your life slipping away. You hang your head at all you've done wrong and try to remember what right you have. The hurt you place on others is too much for you to confront, so you turn away. And you feel like crying, but you aren't sure why. The reason escapes you.
And so you laugh...
People come and go, making impressions on our heart before leaving. Their length of stay never known until they're gone, but for the moments they stand with you it's almost as though you're bound together. You turn to them and say, "I care." And they smile, the corners of their mouth turning up and happiness flickers in their eyes. Until the day the light fades from their expression and you're left looking at a person you don't recognize anymore. And they step back into the shadow they came from.
The seasons change. In the middle of falling leaves and ominous gray clouds, you stand at the park, watching the trees dance to a tune you can't hear. Your mind's on someone on the other side of the world. You've never met them, but you wish you could. Guilt rises and you try to ignore it. And you try to forget the wanting that's been planted in your belly.
Birds soar across the sky and you remember how you've always wanted to fly, to spread your wings and break from the cage that holds you back. Your wings were clipped when you were a child and you take cautious steps now, only alighting to edges which are near and safe. The risks you long to take hang in the balance. Tempting you forward.
Time is non-existent for a moment, but you can still here the moments of your life slipping away. You hang your head at all you've done wrong and try to remember what right you have. The hurt you place on others is too much for you to confront, so you turn away. And you feel like crying, but you aren't sure why. The reason escapes you.
And so you laugh...
Murder
1AM - Oliver thinks someone is at the door and starts barking.
2AM - Etnie sits on remote control to stereo, turns One Man Revolution on.
3AM - Oliver and Etnie decide to have a fight in the bed because they don't want to share space.
4AM - Etnie meows at window.
4:30AM - I murdered my pets.
2AM - Etnie sits on remote control to stereo, turns One Man Revolution on.
3AM - Oliver and Etnie decide to have a fight in the bed because they don't want to share space.
4AM - Etnie meows at window.
4:30AM - I murdered my pets.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Mother
The other day I was running through the forest and that Ray LaMontagne song 'Be Here Now' came on my Mp3. I started thinking about my mom. The burn in my legs and stitch in my side was replaced with an indescribable sadness.
I miss my mom.
When you're a child, you tend not to think of your parents as people. They're just your mom and dad, you don't consider their happiness. As you grow, you learn their likes and dislikes, you get to know them as individuals. Sometimes you realize, they aren't happy and you might have been part of that reason.
As I snaked through the trails, I got more and more morose. What was it my mother wanted when she was my age? What sort of hopes and dreams did she put on hold? Were kids worth giving them up? Knowing my siblings, I would have to say 'no'. Even now she's still putting up with bullshit. And eventually you reach an age, or mindset (not sure which it is), that you're too old to do what you want. Personally, I don't think that's the case, but I know my mom does. And that makes me sad.
I was the third child for both sets of parents. (I'd get into it but it's a whole yours, mine and ours thing that gets confusing right around, the half and full siblings debacle). By the time I wandered onto the scene she'd already given up what she wanted. Sometime I wonder if there's any hope left.
As time passes, I want one thing, for her to figure it out. I think she can be happy. I want her to be happy. I just don't know if she knows what will make her happy.
We try not to make the same mistakes as our parents. But sometimes you make them without knowing you are. What happens when you wake up and realize you aren't happy? That your dreams have been shoved off the cliff and dashed on the jagged rocks below?
I miss my mom.
When you're a child, you tend not to think of your parents as people. They're just your mom and dad, you don't consider their happiness. As you grow, you learn their likes and dislikes, you get to know them as individuals. Sometimes you realize, they aren't happy and you might have been part of that reason.
As I snaked through the trails, I got more and more morose. What was it my mother wanted when she was my age? What sort of hopes and dreams did she put on hold? Were kids worth giving them up? Knowing my siblings, I would have to say 'no'. Even now she's still putting up with bullshit. And eventually you reach an age, or mindset (not sure which it is), that you're too old to do what you want. Personally, I don't think that's the case, but I know my mom does. And that makes me sad.
I was the third child for both sets of parents. (I'd get into it but it's a whole yours, mine and ours thing that gets confusing right around, the half and full siblings debacle). By the time I wandered onto the scene she'd already given up what she wanted. Sometime I wonder if there's any hope left.
As time passes, I want one thing, for her to figure it out. I think she can be happy. I want her to be happy. I just don't know if she knows what will make her happy.
We try not to make the same mistakes as our parents. But sometimes you make them without knowing you are. What happens when you wake up and realize you aren't happy? That your dreams have been shoved off the cliff and dashed on the jagged rocks below?
Friday, April 23, 2010
Advice From My Dad
My dad has never really talked to me about relationships. It's sort of unwritten rule: thou shalt not discuss anything about boyfriends with Father. We discuss things that make us laugh, fifties music, movies and try to gross each other out (he wins, after all he was the one who explained what a bat-wing is). There is only one time I can remember that he decided to offer up a gem of advice. It was at a time in my life where I was neither thinking about being with anyone or in a relationship.
His advice to me?
Look at a guys hands.
Seems simple enough, doesn't it?
Just take a look at them.
His reasoning?
If he has pansy hands, he won't be able to look after you. Get a guy with hands that look as if they know what hard work is, get a guy with hands that are calloused, weather-beaten, and unable to get clean. A man with hands like this will be able to take care of you. He will make sure your car is working, he will fix things around the house and will know how to get things done. He will never be without a job, he will always find a way to put food on the table, and he will make it his goal to provide for his family.
At the moment, I laughed. But now, I see it for what it was. A father trying to ensure his daughter is safe, sound, fed and warm. My dad knows me. As much as I want to be taken care of, it's just not in my cards. I am too stubborn, too independent, too determined to prove I can do everything on my own, to allow someone to take care of me. The sentiment was in his advice.
And I think it's sound advice. Though I am certain there are exceptions, and I would prefer a man who's hands aren't black, there is something to be said about this tidbit of information from my father.
My dad's hands are working man's hands. And I have yet to find someone who works as hard as him, even at sixty something--or however old he is. He possesses that unique trait where he just knows everything. Electrical, plumbing, carpentry, mechanics. He just figures it out. Trial and error or some such thing...
If you long for more stories about my father, let me know...I will tell you about the time that his car brakes stopped working so he used his emergency brake to stop his car--this went on for a week. Or the time he decided it was a good idea to remove the dishwasher from their house and gave me a goose-egg on my forehead.
His advice to me?
Look at a guys hands.
Seems simple enough, doesn't it?
Just take a look at them.
His reasoning?
If he has pansy hands, he won't be able to look after you. Get a guy with hands that look as if they know what hard work is, get a guy with hands that are calloused, weather-beaten, and unable to get clean. A man with hands like this will be able to take care of you. He will make sure your car is working, he will fix things around the house and will know how to get things done. He will never be without a job, he will always find a way to put food on the table, and he will make it his goal to provide for his family.
At the moment, I laughed. But now, I see it for what it was. A father trying to ensure his daughter is safe, sound, fed and warm. My dad knows me. As much as I want to be taken care of, it's just not in my cards. I am too stubborn, too independent, too determined to prove I can do everything on my own, to allow someone to take care of me. The sentiment was in his advice.
And I think it's sound advice. Though I am certain there are exceptions, and I would prefer a man who's hands aren't black, there is something to be said about this tidbit of information from my father.
My dad's hands are working man's hands. And I have yet to find someone who works as hard as him, even at sixty something--or however old he is. He possesses that unique trait where he just knows everything. Electrical, plumbing, carpentry, mechanics. He just figures it out. Trial and error or some such thing...
If you long for more stories about my father, let me know...I will tell you about the time that his car brakes stopped working so he used his emergency brake to stop his car--this went on for a week. Or the time he decided it was a good idea to remove the dishwasher from their house and gave me a goose-egg on my forehead.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Dark Knight Is Confused
I love this.
It makes me laugh. If you didn't know. I love to laugh.
Have you seen Key of Awesome before?
Watch and rewatch.
It makes me laugh. If you didn't know. I love to laugh.
Have you seen Key of Awesome before?
Watch and rewatch.
DoggyStyle
Back in 93 I bought my first CD. It was Snoop Dogg's DoggyStyle.
I was listening to the gem posted below and got to thinking, what the hell was going through my parents' minds? In 93 I wasn't even a teenager yet...almost but not quite. Still, I would never let my 16 year old listen to this let alone a 12 year old.
Don't get me wrong. I love the album.I remember standing behind the portable and rapping Lodi Dodi with a guy named Shawn. I thought Shawn was cute. The truth of the situation is, I wasn't cute. I was an unfortunate soul with ratty hair and a porky belly. And I am pretty sure Shawn was only nice to me because he was afraid of my brother. Sigh. Not all is fair in love and war.
Delight in the fact that my parental units clearly didn't care about the advisory on the front of the album. But did they even read it? I mean...it is called DoggyStyle.
I was listening to the gem posted below and got to thinking, what the hell was going through my parents' minds? In 93 I wasn't even a teenager yet...almost but not quite. Still, I would never let my 16 year old listen to this let alone a 12 year old.
Don't get me wrong. I love the album.I remember standing behind the portable and rapping Lodi Dodi with a guy named Shawn. I thought Shawn was cute. The truth of the situation is, I wasn't cute. I was an unfortunate soul with ratty hair and a porky belly. And I am pretty sure Shawn was only nice to me because he was afraid of my brother. Sigh. Not all is fair in love and war.
Delight in the fact that my parental units clearly didn't care about the advisory on the front of the album. But did they even read it? I mean...it is called DoggyStyle.
I Miss Leppy
She went to Las Vegas in search of bitches, blunts and booze and I was left at home to rot. Well, this could be an exaggeration. Not the part about the bitches, blunts and booze, no those are the three Bs and are a necessity in having a good time. No, I mean the left at home to rot. Technically, the volcano made me stay at home and rot. Not that I am bitter. No, not at all. I wouldn't be on my way up to the Giant's Causeway right as we speak.
The thing about Leppy, and missing her, is I can say things to her I can't really say to anyone else. Cause she understands. There have been so many gold moments that I would have loved to have seen her expression over witnessing.
Last night she logged onto MSN and we had a little chat. She told me that her boy-toy vomited in his sleep and got it in her hair. I said, "Well, at least he didn't choke to death." And her response, "That's one way of looking at it Shirley Temple. Glass half full."
No one has snarky remarks like that for me. And I can't give them to anyone but her, for fear of seeing the 'ouch why'd you say that to me' expression. Basically, it's the I'm a pussy look and can't take a fucking joke. Leppy and I don't have this expression. I think it's because we are too busy laughing at ourselves.
It is moments like those that make me realize general life is pretty boring without Leppy. I think I am going to move into her basement and eat all her corn chips or something.
Dang it.
I'm going to make up t-shirts and make everyone wear them until she returns.
The thing about Leppy, and missing her, is I can say things to her I can't really say to anyone else. Cause she understands. There have been so many gold moments that I would have loved to have seen her expression over witnessing.
Last night she logged onto MSN and we had a little chat. She told me that her boy-toy vomited in his sleep and got it in her hair. I said, "Well, at least he didn't choke to death." And her response, "That's one way of looking at it Shirley Temple. Glass half full."
No one has snarky remarks like that for me. And I can't give them to anyone but her, for fear of seeing the 'ouch why'd you say that to me' expression. Basically, it's the I'm a pussy look and can't take a fucking joke. Leppy and I don't have this expression. I think it's because we are too busy laughing at ourselves.
It is moments like those that make me realize general life is pretty boring without Leppy. I think I am going to move into her basement and eat all her corn chips or something.
Dang it.
I'm going to make up t-shirts and make everyone wear them until she returns.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Tits
I got 'em. As a matter of fact, most girls do. And much more unsettling, a lot of guys do as well.
What I want to know is what is the obsession with them?
And no this isn't a man-bashing blog about how they like to stare at breasts.
To be frank, I like looking at them too. I scope out other girls' boobs and think, are mine that nice? That big? That full? And sometimes, that bad?
Personally, mad cleavage makes me uncomfortable. I like a nice subtle cleavage. A sneak a peak cleave, where at first glance you didn't notice, but upon second review, hello! I also don't like mad squished boob cleavage either. I actually find breasts look the best when the bra does the job and divides and conquers. So you can see the natural shape a bit.
Things I don't like about breasts? Tan lines (like LeatherChest-my old boss) Ugly moles with hairs growing out of them. Fake boobs (they really don't move or feel the same at all-I would know, thanks to my dear friend Sam who wanted a test and feel in the bathroom at the Central City Brew Pub-but that's a whole other blog altogether)
So what is the obsession about?
It could be because they are right there, front and center, displayed for all. It could be because we were all (for the most part) breastfed as babies-that's if you want to get into the whole psychological side of it. It does need to be touched on, but even babies not breastfed grow up to have a fascination with breasts, for the most part. Could it be because they are a life source? I don't know.
But for the most part, the fascination with this part of the female body doesn't have anything to do with a person's sex.
Women are just as obsessed. The difference is, while men think about touching, fondling, licking and cupping breasts, women obsess in a more crazy and mind boggling way. Women think about if they are perky enough, if guys would like them, what underwear to buy, what size they are, if it's noticeable that the one on the right is slightly bigger than the one on the left. Or if something is normal or if their nipples are too big, too small, too dark, too light.
And let's be honest...women obsess about other girls' boobs as well, not just their own. They ask questions like, are hers real? Do mine look like hers? That girl has a nice bra. Or is that a pushup ultra air wire bendy bra?
I know anything about bras, but I do know one thing, I don't need padding or pushup. It is frustrating going shopping and having women try to sell you the sure-lift. I don't need my breasts up to my chin, thank you very much.
Regardless of where the obsession came from, it's there. And it's hard to ignore.
Not to mention it has been around for a long time. It dates back to when child bearing hips and thick thighs were in, and scrawny women were out. Back when to be curvy was a sign of a richer social status. Curves=Food=Money. Simple equation for the olden days folks. (I would like to touch on at this point, I would have been considered very wealthy. hehe)
There is much to admire about breasts. And I don't think that admiration will be going anywhere anytime soon.
What I want to know is what is the obsession with them?
And no this isn't a man-bashing blog about how they like to stare at breasts.
To be frank, I like looking at them too. I scope out other girls' boobs and think, are mine that nice? That big? That full? And sometimes, that bad?
Personally, mad cleavage makes me uncomfortable. I like a nice subtle cleavage. A sneak a peak cleave, where at first glance you didn't notice, but upon second review, hello! I also don't like mad squished boob cleavage either. I actually find breasts look the best when the bra does the job and divides and conquers. So you can see the natural shape a bit.
Things I don't like about breasts? Tan lines (like LeatherChest-my old boss) Ugly moles with hairs growing out of them. Fake boobs (they really don't move or feel the same at all-I would know, thanks to my dear friend Sam who wanted a test and feel in the bathroom at the Central City Brew Pub-but that's a whole other blog altogether)
So what is the obsession about?
It could be because they are right there, front and center, displayed for all. It could be because we were all (for the most part) breastfed as babies-that's if you want to get into the whole psychological side of it. It does need to be touched on, but even babies not breastfed grow up to have a fascination with breasts, for the most part. Could it be because they are a life source? I don't know.
But for the most part, the fascination with this part of the female body doesn't have anything to do with a person's sex.
Women are just as obsessed. The difference is, while men think about touching, fondling, licking and cupping breasts, women obsess in a more crazy and mind boggling way. Women think about if they are perky enough, if guys would like them, what underwear to buy, what size they are, if it's noticeable that the one on the right is slightly bigger than the one on the left. Or if something is normal or if their nipples are too big, too small, too dark, too light.
And let's be honest...women obsess about other girls' boobs as well, not just their own. They ask questions like, are hers real? Do mine look like hers? That girl has a nice bra. Or is that a pushup ultra air wire bendy bra?
I know anything about bras, but I do know one thing, I don't need padding or pushup. It is frustrating going shopping and having women try to sell you the sure-lift. I don't need my breasts up to my chin, thank you very much.
Regardless of where the obsession came from, it's there. And it's hard to ignore.
Not to mention it has been around for a long time. It dates back to when child bearing hips and thick thighs were in, and scrawny women were out. Back when to be curvy was a sign of a richer social status. Curves=Food=Money. Simple equation for the olden days folks. (I would like to touch on at this point, I would have been considered very wealthy. hehe)
There is much to admire about breasts. And I don't think that admiration will be going anywhere anytime soon.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Moody Mondays
Mondays rub me the wrong way. It isn't their fault they are the worst day in the world. And it isn't Mondays fault I'm not the happiest camper. Regardless, I'm in a right bitchy mood. I can feel the lack of sleep is catching up to me. Back to the drawing board.
I'm thinking about taking a lover...
Is there anyone out there willing to take care of me financially? I will clean up the homestead. I will take care of your kids. I will run you baths and stroke your hair until you fall asleep each night.
I will do pretty much anything if it means:
1. I don't have to get up at 4:30AM
2. I can write for a good portion of the day
3. I don't have to worry about things
The things I say on Mondays probably don't apply to any other days of the week. So if there are any takers you better speak up today, or wait till next Monday.
And our Moody Monday Melody is:
I'm thinking about taking a lover...
Is there anyone out there willing to take care of me financially? I will clean up the homestead. I will take care of your kids. I will run you baths and stroke your hair until you fall asleep each night.
I will do pretty much anything if it means:
1. I don't have to get up at 4:30AM
2. I can write for a good portion of the day
3. I don't have to worry about things
The things I say on Mondays probably don't apply to any other days of the week. So if there are any takers you better speak up today, or wait till next Monday.
And our Moody Monday Melody is:
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Dipping A Toe Into Erotica
Some lovely Autho people decided to put together an Erotica anthology. In a fit of insanity, I decided to participate. I like to experience new things and like to challenge myself as a writer. Since I don't normally write erotica, I thought, how hard could it be? (Pun intended)
I learned a few things while I wrote this, here they are in no particular order:
1. Watching porn doesn't help you come up with ideas. It actually works against you.
2. I am not cut out to write erotica because I'm ultimately a romantic at heart and want love to be involved in the sex. Erotica isn't about the love (it can be, but ultimately isn't)
3. I can only use the words pussy or cunt, I feel Vagina is too prim and proper and twat is a British thing. Therefore the vocabulary is limited.
4. Writing erotica makes me have really naughty dreams and usually people I don't expect to make an appearance in them do. How embarrassing.
5. I told my mother about the story I was writing and she said, "I'm glad I don't have to write something so horrible." Yes this is an exact quote. And no, I wasn't impressed.
6. I'm pretty sure I was out of my element. I know this because I felt like I was out of my element. And I am pretty sure in the end it ended up sounding too porny.
(Is porny a word?)
7. I have mad respect for the women and men who write in this genre. How do they do it? I don't know. I'm pretty sure I would turn into a sexual deviant if this was my genre. As it is I am contemplating flashing people at the park for kicks. ;)
In the end, it was a great experience and it really did test me as a writer. I did persevere and, though it needs an edit, I think it turned out pretty good.
I learned a few things while I wrote this, here they are in no particular order:
1. Watching porn doesn't help you come up with ideas. It actually works against you.
2. I am not cut out to write erotica because I'm ultimately a romantic at heart and want love to be involved in the sex. Erotica isn't about the love (it can be, but ultimately isn't)
3. I can only use the words pussy or cunt, I feel Vagina is too prim and proper and twat is a British thing. Therefore the vocabulary is limited.
4. Writing erotica makes me have really naughty dreams and usually people I don't expect to make an appearance in them do. How embarrassing.
5. I told my mother about the story I was writing and she said, "I'm glad I don't have to write something so horrible." Yes this is an exact quote. And no, I wasn't impressed.
6. I'm pretty sure I was out of my element. I know this because I felt like I was out of my element. And I am pretty sure in the end it ended up sounding too porny.
(Is porny a word?)
7. I have mad respect for the women and men who write in this genre. How do they do it? I don't know. I'm pretty sure I would turn into a sexual deviant if this was my genre. As it is I am contemplating flashing people at the park for kicks. ;)
In the end, it was a great experience and it really did test me as a writer. I did persevere and, though it needs an edit, I think it turned out pretty good.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wise Advice From A Dear Friend
For those who don't know, Leppy is my commute partner and good friend. We probably spend more time with each other than we do with our best friends, significant others and family combined. In a time in Leppy's life where she thought she was alone, I came along, sat down and said, "I'm on the same page as you."
We say the most disturbing things and if another person heard the conversations we have in the car during our travels we would have been committed a long time ago. For serious. Don't get me wrong, we're fucking hilarious, but also, bat-shit crazy. We spend most of our time laughing our asses off at things that aren't really funny to anyone else.
Yesterday, I informed Leppy that on my travels to Ireland I am meeting up with some Authonomy folk. Sure there is that hidden fear they're going to eat my flesh and make a Tyson-Suit out of me. (Just Kidding-I taste bad and it would be a very unfashionable skin suit.) Leppy's response to my meeting up with some internet buddies abroad was, "Don't get trafficked."
Yep.
DON'T GET TRAFFICKED.
Not watch your drink. Don't leave your belongings alone. Beware of tramps and thieves.
Nope. Don't get trafficked.
Then she says, 'What if they kidnap you, shove you in their car, take you to a hidden place, force you to eat meat and you get the shits."
First and foremost, if someone takes the time to traffic me and all they do is feed me meat, it's looking like a good trafficking.
Secondly, I pity the fool who tries to kidnap me. I mean, have you seen me? Why would they even bother? They could kidnap some cute, young thing and leave me to eat my apples and whole grains on my own.
Third, What The Fuck? Granted, I don't know a ton about Ireland or the frequency of trafficking, but I do know I'm not high on their list of candidates.
This is about the best advice I have ever been given. Not only is it beyond ridiculous, but it has a certain paranoid "this would only happen int he movies" quality to it.
Someone saw Taken one too many times.
So, I am heading off to Ireland soon and I am under strict orders not to get trafficked. Beware to all those traffickers, I'm watching out for you.
We say the most disturbing things and if another person heard the conversations we have in the car during our travels we would have been committed a long time ago. For serious. Don't get me wrong, we're fucking hilarious, but also, bat-shit crazy. We spend most of our time laughing our asses off at things that aren't really funny to anyone else.
Yesterday, I informed Leppy that on my travels to Ireland I am meeting up with some Authonomy folk. Sure there is that hidden fear they're going to eat my flesh and make a Tyson-Suit out of me. (Just Kidding-I taste bad and it would be a very unfashionable skin suit.) Leppy's response to my meeting up with some internet buddies abroad was, "Don't get trafficked."
Yep.
DON'T GET TRAFFICKED.
Not watch your drink. Don't leave your belongings alone. Beware of tramps and thieves.
Nope. Don't get trafficked.
Then she says, 'What if they kidnap you, shove you in their car, take you to a hidden place, force you to eat meat and you get the shits."
First and foremost, if someone takes the time to traffic me and all they do is feed me meat, it's looking like a good trafficking.
Secondly, I pity the fool who tries to kidnap me. I mean, have you seen me? Why would they even bother? They could kidnap some cute, young thing and leave me to eat my apples and whole grains on my own.
Third, What The Fuck? Granted, I don't know a ton about Ireland or the frequency of trafficking, but I do know I'm not high on their list of candidates.
This is about the best advice I have ever been given. Not only is it beyond ridiculous, but it has a certain paranoid "this would only happen int he movies" quality to it.
Someone saw Taken one too many times.
So, I am heading off to Ireland soon and I am under strict orders not to get trafficked. Beware to all those traffickers, I'm watching out for you.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Great Jean Debacle
Yesterday, I dragged my ass to the mall to change my money into Euros and get a pair of jeans. Have you ever been over customer serviced? I have, and it happened less than twenty-four hours ago. Three girls greeted Leppy and I as we went into the store we were too old to shop in.
I had a couple pair of jeans selected when a young woman, wearing scarves and tight leggings, came over. Here is what ensued:
"Want me to start a fitting room for you?"
"Uhh...ok," I said.
"I see you got the boyfriend jeans here. Do you like the boyfriend fit? We have these other pants that are slouchy skinny, they are super cute and they combined the boyfriend with the skinny."
A moment of silence. "I have no idea what that means."
"Oh, you see these are a baggier fit. How about I grab them for you and you can try them on?"
"Ok."
Once in the changing room the woman brought me six pairs of jeans. I had two selected and I ended up trying on eight million pairs. I bought the one pair I'd selected. I don't like shopping. I hate trying on clothes. And it was the first time I'd been over customer serviced.
What I learned?
I am too old to shop in the young people stores. I have no idea what slouchy-skinny means. Boyfriend jeans are jeans that look like they could be your boyfriends. And I have turned into a crotchty bitch who just wants to be left alone while shoving her ass into a pair of jeans.
I had a couple pair of jeans selected when a young woman, wearing scarves and tight leggings, came over. Here is what ensued:
"Want me to start a fitting room for you?"
"Uhh...ok," I said.
"I see you got the boyfriend jeans here. Do you like the boyfriend fit? We have these other pants that are slouchy skinny, they are super cute and they combined the boyfriend with the skinny."
A moment of silence. "I have no idea what that means."
"Oh, you see these are a baggier fit. How about I grab them for you and you can try them on?"
"Ok."
Once in the changing room the woman brought me six pairs of jeans. I had two selected and I ended up trying on eight million pairs. I bought the one pair I'd selected. I don't like shopping. I hate trying on clothes. And it was the first time I'd been over customer serviced.
What I learned?
I am too old to shop in the young people stores. I have no idea what slouchy-skinny means. Boyfriend jeans are jeans that look like they could be your boyfriends. And I have turned into a crotchty bitch who just wants to be left alone while shoving her ass into a pair of jeans.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Poo Eater
I love my little guy.
But he really needs to stop hunting for treats in the kitty-litter box.
He even looks guilty.
But he really needs to stop hunting for treats in the kitty-litter box.
He even looks guilty.
Strippers And Such
This morning whilst commuting to work, I mentioned to Leppy that strippers frighten me. I have this fear that I'm going to lose my eye. Could you imagine losing my eye from a greased up cock of a man I don't know who is gyrating in my face? What would I tell people? I suppose I could make up a story, but I don't like to lie. Male strippers creep me out. First and foremost, men don't look like that in real life. And I don't want them too!
I like a nice pair of arms just like every other set of hooters with a cooter, but I don't want a rippling mass all shined up doing one of those weird tummy rolls. Well, unless he has an accent. Then we might be able to talk. Sure there are benefits to all those gleaming, flexing muscles. Like, he can pick me up and toss me about.
Besides, I am under the impression most of those strippers are gay. Of course, that could be something I made up. Although, I am pretty sure I read that in a magazine somewhere. Or maybe I read Channing Tatum used to be a stripper and I always thought he was gay. Shit, this is how rumors get started. Regardless, back to strippers.
They always play the crappiest music and it makes me feel as though I am having a flashback to the early nineties. There is something unnerving about watching a man gyrate to I'm To Sexy by Right Said Fred. Actually, there is something very unsexy about it. And as they strip down, eventually they are left with a a stethoscope around his neck and a pair of ball huggers. *cringes* Of course, he could be the cop and have a pair of aviators and ball huggers. Or a fireman and a fire hat and ball huggers. Basically he is left with some sort of accessory and ball huggers. I don't like ball huggers. I like those boxer briefs the guys are wearing these days.
There are other things I don't like about the strippers to, the main one. The scary scary women. It's almost as though all sense of rationale and modesty is flung out the window. I'm sorry, but if I wanted to watch a fifty year old woman flash a young man her floppy tits and try to grind up against him, I would just head on down to the Wheelhouse Pub (local dive bar).
Granted, it is amusing seeing the fine ensembles the ladies pick out to watch the studs strip down. If you love a gal in sequins, hoop earrings, hot pants and far too much make-up, head on down to the peelers.
I've gone to the girl strippers many more times than the guys. It is a far calmer environment. I like amature night, I like to give the girls starting out support.
(Please note the ball huggers, the woman's outfit and hair, leftover food, her fab earrings, the strippers burned skin, her creepy smile and the funked out move the stripper is doing.)
Cab Money to the strippers: 23 dollars
Dinner and a couple beers: 39 dollars
One flashy outfit from Zellers: 42 dollars
A picture of some old woman at the rippers shoving money down a college man's underwear -Priceless
I like a nice pair of arms just like every other set of hooters with a cooter, but I don't want a rippling mass all shined up doing one of those weird tummy rolls. Well, unless he has an accent. Then we might be able to talk. Sure there are benefits to all those gleaming, flexing muscles. Like, he can pick me up and toss me about.
Besides, I am under the impression most of those strippers are gay. Of course, that could be something I made up. Although, I am pretty sure I read that in a magazine somewhere. Or maybe I read Channing Tatum used to be a stripper and I always thought he was gay. Shit, this is how rumors get started. Regardless, back to strippers.
They always play the crappiest music and it makes me feel as though I am having a flashback to the early nineties. There is something unnerving about watching a man gyrate to I'm To Sexy by Right Said Fred. Actually, there is something very unsexy about it. And as they strip down, eventually they are left with a a stethoscope around his neck and a pair of ball huggers. *cringes* Of course, he could be the cop and have a pair of aviators and ball huggers. Or a fireman and a fire hat and ball huggers. Basically he is left with some sort of accessory and ball huggers. I don't like ball huggers. I like those boxer briefs the guys are wearing these days.
There are other things I don't like about the strippers to, the main one. The scary scary women. It's almost as though all sense of rationale and modesty is flung out the window. I'm sorry, but if I wanted to watch a fifty year old woman flash a young man her floppy tits and try to grind up against him, I would just head on down to the Wheelhouse Pub (local dive bar).
Granted, it is amusing seeing the fine ensembles the ladies pick out to watch the studs strip down. If you love a gal in sequins, hoop earrings, hot pants and far too much make-up, head on down to the peelers.
I've gone to the girl strippers many more times than the guys. It is a far calmer environment. I like amature night, I like to give the girls starting out support.
I'm sorry, but this just doesn't look like a good time to me:
(Please note the ball huggers, the woman's outfit and hair, leftover food, her fab earrings, the strippers burned skin, her creepy smile and the funked out move the stripper is doing.)
Cab Money to the strippers: 23 dollars
Dinner and a couple beers: 39 dollars
One flashy outfit from Zellers: 42 dollars
A picture of some old woman at the rippers shoving money down a college man's underwear -Priceless
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Ireland
As Ireland approaches, I realize I am not organized, nor am I a good traveller. I don't like flying, being away from home, or flying. Did I say flying? Well, it is probably best for me to stress this fact. Regardless, I am going to Ireland, which I am super excited for. I work in an office. This will tie in, in a minute.
At work people like to count down the days until their vacations, weddings, ect. I don't. I hate the fact of counting down. It seems childish and, to be honest, ridiculous. I mean, I can keep an internal count. It isn't like I am going to miss it. I personally think people only do it so people ask them what they are counting down to. Regardless, I have a count down on my whiteboard now, curtosey of Leppy.
She drew this shoddy four-leaf-clover (which actually has five leaves) and is updating the number. Every day she does this, I snarl at her. It has been two days so far. It is the crappiest looking countdown I have ever seen.
No really, look:
I wouldn't put up with it, I would kick Leppy to the curb and search for a replacement, but she gives me things like this:
I mean, that's hands down the best gift anyone has ever recieved, ever, anywhere.
Who's that peeping in the window? Oh, it's my own reflection. I feel so unspecial now. Anyways, that's all I have for you.
At work people like to count down the days until their vacations, weddings, ect. I don't. I hate the fact of counting down. It seems childish and, to be honest, ridiculous. I mean, I can keep an internal count. It isn't like I am going to miss it. I personally think people only do it so people ask them what they are counting down to. Regardless, I have a count down on my whiteboard now, curtosey of Leppy.
She drew this shoddy four-leaf-clover (which actually has five leaves) and is updating the number. Every day she does this, I snarl at her. It has been two days so far. It is the crappiest looking countdown I have ever seen.
No really, look:
I wouldn't put up with it, I would kick Leppy to the curb and search for a replacement, but she gives me things like this:
I mean, that's hands down the best gift anyone has ever recieved, ever, anywhere.
Who's that peeping in the window? Oh, it's my own reflection. I feel so unspecial now. Anyways, that's all I have for you.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
I'm A Sucker For A Great Song
I will listen to it a hundred times in a row. Look up the lyrics. Dance like a fool.
A friend reminded me of this one a couple weeks ago and I find myself listening to it a million times a day. The people around me get to hear my amazing vocals and now they get to hear me sing, oh oh yah yah yah yaaaaaah. Serves them right, the bastards.
A friend reminded me of this one a couple weeks ago and I find myself listening to it a million times a day. The people around me get to hear my amazing vocals and now they get to hear me sing, oh oh yah yah yah yaaaaaah. Serves them right, the bastards.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Little Notes
Every couple of days a new note shows up on my desk from Leppy.
She wanders over from her desk to chat me up and if I'm not present and accounted for she will leave me a little blurb on a yellow post-it.
Some of the classic notes I have received:
32 A Year? F*** That S***!
JEEZUS!
Nut up Or Shut up
Be De Be De Be De BREAKING NEWS! Christene Is Lurking On Your Autho Forum
4 in the Mornin' In the Mornin In the morning
And today's epic note?
Zool.
Yep. Zool.
It is something that just makes my day a little brighter.
She wanders over from her desk to chat me up and if I'm not present and accounted for she will leave me a little blurb on a yellow post-it.
Some of the classic notes I have received:
32 A Year? F*** That S***!
JEEZUS!
Nut up Or Shut up
Be De Be De Be De BREAKING NEWS! Christene Is Lurking On Your Autho Forum
4 in the Mornin' In the Mornin In the morning
And today's epic note?
Zool.
Yep. Zool.
It is something that just makes my day a little brighter.
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