Here are things you shouldn’t do.

Do not casually toss your dick over to me, saying “Here, honey, do something with this”. I know exactly what you want me to do, but I have things I need to do, too, and I don’t have the time nor the inclination to take care of your package simply because you’re bored. Besides, my lips are chapped. Reattach it, zip up, and go about your business.

Do not tell me that you’ve done something illegal and we have to be out of the house and moved 3000 miles away within 7 days. I simply have too many books to even entertain that notion.

when I am bored or nervous I obsessively check my hotmail account.

i keep hoping for some brilliantly amusing email from someone. something amusing, something thought provoking, something… anything gosh darn it, to distract me from whatever i am feeling right now.

if you ignore an itch will it eventually go away?

we were both bitter and angry, and he asked me questions that i wasn’t supposed to answer. i tried to give neutral responses so i wasn’t actually lying, but he saw through that. he asked if i wasn’t also humiliated by her abuse and deceit, and i couldn’t say that i wasn’t. he asked if i wanted to smoke a bowl, and i said yes, although i thought better of it. we were at his place, and she was out later than usual, and too worried about covering her own ass to wonder what i was doing there.

we got high and giggled and plotted our revenge. and i thought it was all just talk, that nothing would ever really come of it. and then he asked if i wanted to fuck, and i shrugged. within five minutes we were naked and he was buckling the leather restraints around my wrists at the foot of his bed. and then he fucked me, three times good, and i wailed because i liked it and i didn’t want to. and i was locked in a sweaty embrace with the one man i was supposed to only lie to and say she wasn’t with anyone else because she really loved him and that she would be coming back soon.

he wanted me to come back again but i couldn’t, of course. and then he promised that she would never, ever find out, ever. because she’d kill us both. but he was breaking up with her anyway the next day, because she’d already fucked him over, so all was fair in love, right? and i came back, the next day and the next. and we smoked more and fucked always. every time he restrained me first, and every time i loved it, loudly. i always swore it wouldn’t happen again as i was lacing up my boots, but i skipped work for an entire week on account of our little fling.

we never formally ended it, it just stopped on its own somehow. and i marveled at how easily i’d had something that was hers alone, and reveled in learning the curves that she knew like the back of her hand. and they did break up, and i fought with her about something else entirely and we began to hate one another. a year later they reconciled and got married, and he told her everything. and when she found out where i lived, i was so scared to face her that i actually moved. i heard later that she went apeshit if anyone mentioned my name to her in passing.

i had never done anything so stupid.

honey (except in dust form)
peanut butter
anything from a sex shop labeled “edible”
muffins of any variety
chocolate syrup
liquid latex
hot wax (unless i am at the salon)
certain lubes which are okay in one place but not in the other
anything containing alcohol
bananas
the sauce from those really hot buffalo wings
muscle creams that tingle
toothpaste
baby oil
petroleum jelly
any liquid straight from the microwave

i tried several times to get her attention, and i did, but i could never get her out of earshot of the others. when she passed me for the last time, i caught her eye and told her my secret, mouthing the words without any sound. but i think she misunderstood because she didn’t react at all as i’d hoped she would.

i’ll tell her again next week.

your ass is so round
curvalicious, but please go!
i’m trying to eat.

this one time i went to a party with a girlfriend of mine. i don’t remember whose party it was or why we were there, but i think we crashed it. because it was the sort of party we just did not go to held by people we just didn’t hang out with, at the house of someone who we just didn’t even know. i remember vaguely sitting in the back of a pickup truck that must have belonged to someone who was invited, because it was all airbrushed and shit. and we stared at the stars and checked our lipstick by the light of my zippo in her slender little compact mirror. we sat there in the driveway and bitched about the people who were inside, although i don’t remember actually ever going inside. i wore black leggings with a red babydoll dress and my black captain’s hat, because we were alternative before alternative was mainstream. i had a daisy earring in one ear and three studs in the other, and a necklace with a dragon claw holding an iridescent marble.

we were giggling hysterically and drinking the wine coolers we’d brought with us, and then some of the people from inside came outside. they were all boys, and there were like five of them, and i thought, oh shit, they’re going to gang rape the alternative chicks and we’ll wind up a made-for-tv movie or something. and they ignored us because we were very very quiet, but then i think one of us whispered and they saw us. because they stole my captain’s hat and ran away with it, calling us bitches or something. and if they weren’t all football players, we’d have kicked their asses, let me tell you.

my girlfriend promised to get me another captain’s hat, and i knew they didn’t sell them around us anywhere because i got mine in florida and nobody else had one like it. but it made me feel better that she offered.

two of the men who utterly adored me came out of the closet in later years. which makes me wonder if i was really just a fag hag all along?

somehow when i was younger i used to have all this power over men. i usually dated someone who was only halfway interested in me and still i managed to surround myself with man-friends who would jump through hoops to be at my beck and call. three of them actually begged me to marry them, and i had the audacity to laugh. then i would go meet my boyfriend for coffee and we would have a very loud very public argument about something extraordinarily stupid. and then we would run home and fuck instead of hashing out whatever the problem really was.

i am older now and all i can do is miss the days when i always had my way. i don’t mind compromising but i usually wind up being the one who blinks in the staring contest, and mostly only because my eyes are really, really tired.

I looked him up and I found his journal online. but it was hand written and scanned in. like the letters he used to write me.
the pages were all about how passionately he loved me and regretted having a child by another woman.
he wrote my name over and over again intertwined with flowers and spirals.
the words and images were about the life we would have had together, in a small town with a family and friends, about how we would have helped each other

why do I do this?

when I leave work the silence of the city deafens me. it is cold and dark and lonely and my ear drums are ringing. I have to wait for my car to warm up. and instead of going home I come here instead. it doesn’t seem to make much sense but then again, as I sit here maybe it does. I can sit on the curb, blowing into my mittens and look inside (like the little match girl – you all cried when you read that as a kid right?). the light creates a rosy and golden glow and I can see the people together and alone and they are busy or pensive. and from here they seem oddly at peace.

just for a second the peaceful glow warms me too.

I often hear women saying things like “oh men are so lucky to be able to pee standing up” and men are very smug about it “hardy har har, it’s too bad you cant pee standing up! [insert more hearty laugh here]“

this used to greatly irritate me and I would staunchly insist that women can pee standing up too. which they can. after much practice.

but now I pity those who pee standing up. think of all that wasted time standing there holding your dick. when I pee, I get to sit there and relax and I have two hands free to do whatever I want. I can examine my fingernails, read a book, pick my nose, call a friend, even masturbate, the possibilities are endless.

I think many problems men have stem from this having to hold their dick several times a day. not only are you holding it but you are probably looking at it is well and thereby thinking about it.

I think all men should start peeing sitting down and stop obsessing about their dicks.

i will eat another orange sloppily. because having my hands all sticky with orange juice yesterday was just too perfect.

if you like to eat the generic store brand of yogurt because they run sales on it where you get 50 of them for a dollar, do not ever buy the yoplait stuff. because it is fucking delicious. it is the caviar of yogurt because it’s never on sale and it always costs like fifty cents more than the generic. and when you find yourself in a pinch and you have to cut costs you will have to switch to a cheaper brand of moisturizer instead because the yoplait is so fucking good that you can’t possibly give it up.

is why it takes a man 20 minutes to get himself off, but if i help him it only takes 3. this makes sense on the surface, but if you look deeper it really is stupid. because i can get myself off 3 times in 8 minutes, but it takes him 20 minutes to get me off once.

why are boys complicated and ridiculous?

because i really can’t afford them anymore, k?

thanks.

i really hate it when the person who pisses me off is a person who doesn’t get pissed off. someone who knows that when i retaliate, i am doing it only for effect, that whole “taste of your own medicine” thing. they know that the key is to actually not mind the medicine. in which case the person serving it to you gets doubly pissed and goes home or something.

my whole life i have known far too many of these individuals. are they really that casual about shit? or is it just that i’m so predictable that they know i will try to give it back to them and they figure the best way to thwart such a plan is to act indifferent? for once in my life, can you please get pissed off when i am trying to piss you off?? can you please go, hey! that was fucked, why did you do that? so i can reply see? that doesn’t feel good does it? and then you go ohhhhh i totally see your point! i am sorry i was inconsiderate of your feelings and will now do unto you etc. i mean seriously what good is a war of attrition if you enjoy being bombed?

no, you were not supposed to say oh i’m sorry, were you giving me the cold shoulder? you are supposed to see the error of your ways and change dammit!

there is this itty bitty matchbox corvette stingray that i keep on my desk at work. it is a lovely shade of burgundy with gold sparkles in the paint, like this fingernail polish i have. i drive it around my mousepad when i’m stressed out, and everybody knows you don’t touch it because i will go mental.

somebody fucking touched it. it was moved clear across the desk, flipped over on its side when i found it this morning. and in my dreams i was the ceo and i fired everyone who had ever passed my desk (except for my good friend kay who i know for a fact would never do something so hurtful). and then i really was the ceo, and it was a life-sized car for me to drive around the city, looking hot with my hair flying out the back on really windy days. and i parked it really obscenely far away from all the other cars and covered it with this black drop cloth to protect the paint job.

somebody fucking dinged it on purpose. a long, deep dent right on the driver’s side door when i found it that night. and in my dreams i was the goddess of the entire universe and i rained fire and brimstone on the population of earth (except for my good friend kay and possibly my mother). and then i really was the goddess of the entire universe, and i wore a lovely shimmery gown made of something called gossamer. i don’t know what that is exactly but i imagine it is probably satiny and delicate and i know for a fact that all great goddesses wear it.

it is simply not my fault that every time you fart i laugh. it’s some kind of genetic thing that i honestly am incapable of controlling. i really want to, but it’s not fair for you to hold me to that.

it’s really not.

i just finished eating this really messy orange. my hands are sticky and they smell amazing. fresh oranges have the most awesome smell ever.

it’s all very sexual, really.

that “slammer” worm is
sort of like the el niño
of the internet.

and in the street, he was over me, pinning my wrists and growling into my ear that it was okay because he said it was. and his hair fell into my mouth and i moaned into it, at once horrified and aroused. i was naked beneath him, and arched my back fiercely in an attempt to feel his skin against mine. his bare chest retreated, slipping just out of my reach, taunting me, and i began to cry. he licked the tears from my cheeks, running his tongue along the edges of my hungry mouth, and unexpectedly

(please no)
entered me
(thank god)

with sufficient force to jar me awake. my room was fully dark and i caught my breath, keening my ears, but the room was still. i slid my hand cautiously across the mattress beneath the blanket and onto the pillow, finding nothing. nobody. and not him.

you have no right to speak to me the way you did, and you know it. fortunately for you i have the self-control to prevent myself from saying all the things i want to say to you, because it would destroy you and any shred of a relationship we could ever have. after this morning it’s hanging by a thread anyway, and the easy thing would have been to get in your face and tell you that you are not what you seem to think you are, that i am significantly better than you at that, that what i do means more and always has. the hard thing was realizing that you know all of these things, and that it’s because of your own self-hatred that you lash out at me, or at her, or whoever happens to be within firing range. your vision is clouded, and your aim sucks.

go tell everyone you know what a bitch i am and what a horrible thing i did to you. when they call me to take your side, i will ignore the telephone and erase messages. i am an adult, and i have more important things to do than defend myself against your slings and barbs, none of which are solid anyway. and the people that can look at the situation and see what you are up to are welcome to talk to me whenever about whatever; those myopic few who see only the one side, the blighted side, deserve what they get by being yours. because you will fuck them. you already have, and you will do it relentlessly until they themselves are as drained by you as i am.

you will not convince me that i am a terrible person, because i’m not. and i for one will cease enabling you to fuck up your life further, although i’m sure you’ll work around that and find new sources of emotional energy to suck dry.

you always have, haven’t you?

Fuck up your life, and your finances, and all those little things that you have to do by law or by common sense in order to keep from living on the streets. Do stupid shit and lie and cheat and only make a half-assed effort to do it right.

Leave me the fuck out of it. You think it’s funny that because of your stupidity, I get everything I own and love ripped away from me?

Grow up. You anger me. Get out of my face. And yet I’m forced to be cordial, friendly even, due to circumstances. I hate circumstances.

dwell dwell dwell dwell dwell
dwell obsess obsess obsess
dwell dwell dwell dwell dwell

There was that time when you took acid and then tried to draw your hallucinations. What you ended up with was a piece of paper with a lot of black squiggly lines on it, and one of the squiggly lines looked very much like a teddy bear standing in profile, looking down at the place where his dick used to be but was now just a puff of smoke. I still have that paper, you know. The other day I found your email address. We haven’t spoken in 10 years. What would you say if I just mailed you a copy of your masterpiece, the teddy bear with his dick blown off? Would you remember? Would you get mad? Would you feel badly that your friends (and probably you were in on it) robbed me blind and then a year later robbed me again? That you used me and bled me dry and I came back for more like a fucking puppy dog? Would you give a shit?

Inquiring minds want to know.

But I want to thank you for helping me to grow a spine. Asshole.

her name was amanda, and she had this fabulous pouty mouth and wore too much eyeliner. she was a drama queen, and occasionally i tired of listening to her babbling about her latest fight with her boyfriend. he’d been on the verge of death with mono or pneumonia or scurvy the previous semester, and the entire school population idolized him, sort of like the whole ferris bueller thing. he was a really sweet kid though. and i liked him enough to hang out with him even when she wasn’t around. we smoked and listened to ministry on his stereo.

amanda had finally accepted her attraction to women, and so she understood how i felt when my best friend turned on me after i told her i wanted to kiss a girl more than anything in the world. this is the primary reason we became really close while my best friend was sorting out her feelings that i had somehow betrayed her by masquerading as a heterosexual. because amanda and i were in the same phase of discovery, and excited about the new realms of possibility, we naturally put out the vibe for someone to experiment with. and we found each other.

she hit on me first, and most of it was harmless flirting that is difficult to construe at that age. because girls tend to flirt with each other regardless of their sexuality, and it’s all perfectly okay. i guess this is an extension of the whole idea that girls give off mixed signals, that we say one thing and do another. so i hesitated to respond until she got brutally honest and revealed herself to me. at which point i felt relieved and comfortable enough to reveal myself to her.

we danced around for a long time, wanting it but fearing it. her boyfriend supported her desires, she said, and encouraged her to act on them. i secretly feared he would turn out to be typical, thinking her having sex with another girl was great as long as he could get in on it. so i still flinched at the idea.

one day over ministry, he broached the subject with me. i said nothing until he was finished with his long speech about encouraging amanda to be herself, etc. and then he basically gave me permission to sleep with her if i wanted to. and then: do you want to? i did. but did i?

i told him i felt weird having him negotiate her sexuality, like a pimp taking bids. he was a little offended but mostly understood. he invited me over to his house that weekend, and promised that whatever happened would happen, and rightfully so. i told him i’d try to clear my schedule, which was in reality wide open. but i needed to consider it, and i wanted to consult amanda.

she wanted me to come over. she also wanted to sleep with me. and she was touched that he was so sweet and concerned about what she wanted. she left me after touching my arm and saying that she had to run home and give him a blowjob for that.

saturday night came and i drove to his house. the music was so loud you’d have thought there were a million people crashing a party. but it was just the two of them, drinking beer and eating pizza. amanda came onto me heavy, and he went to the kitchen to mix a pitcher of something alcoholic for me. i drank three of those and got in the mood, and when she kissed me i didn’t push her away. he went to the bathroom, and she primed me by stroking my hair and running her hands all over my body, and before i knew it we were making out on the couch. then he returned, and i collected myself. i didn’t want an audience, but how could we kick him out of his own house? that would be weird.

amanda was three sheets to the wind, judging by her eyes and the way she said ‘fuck’ every other word. she got up and started doing a striptease on the dining room table, while i shifted in my seat. her boyfriend took charge of the situation and told her that maybe she’d had too much to drink, that this was a choice she should make with a clear head. i agreed; i certainly didn’t want to be the girl who she’d fucked when she was too wasted to think better of it. i had been a regret once too often.

but she wouldn’t be silenced, and she grew belligerent, insisting that she was horny and was going to fuck someone. he eyed me apologetically, and told me he was going to take her upstairs to lie down for a while. i nodded and poured another drink, and turned on the television. for a long time i watched tv alone, disappointed and relieved simultaneously.

after a while, i had to go to the bathroom, which was upstairs next to the bedroom. when i was done, i stopped at the top of the stairs, because i heard a scream that sounded like a banshee or someone being murdered, followed by some noises which could only be made by a farm animal. i listened at the bedroom door, and heard amanda moaning and wailing, and then i heard him shushing her. i sank to the floor and eavesdropped while she came, hard, before coming again. then he came, although he did it much more quietly than she had.

i went downstairs and grabbed my bag, then drove home without saying goodbye.

after i recovered from the flu, which kept me under my pillow for nine straight days, it was terribly unnerving to actually smell the coffee brewing. it was so strong that it actually woke me up. moreover, i could hear it dripping, loudly, because the fog that had inhabited my ears during that time was mercifully lifted. and when i drank it, it was more than a hot liquid on my tongue — it tasted good, so good that i couldn’t drink but half of it.

it was almost a week before i could keep myself from covering my ears at the sound of a car alarm and shrinking from the warm sunlight.

i wanted to say to her that she had grown a little intense and difficult to talk to over the past several months. i wanted to tell her how much i care, but that her belligerence made it damn near impossible for me to have a rational discussion with her. i wanted her to know how much the chasm between us pained me.

instead i showed her my new shoes.

did i do something
to piss off the hot water
gods? o! i repent.

There’s a valley in the bedclothes,
and it’s growing every day.
Someone with a sensitive nose
would note the odor of decay
in the river which gently flows
through the valley where we lay.

all this poring over php scripts and how-to-skin tutorials is pissing me off. but it has an upside, which is that it has put me in a hell of a design mood. because when my brain overloads on logic and numbers and code and shit like that, the other side of my brain interjects and kicks the ass of the mathematical side. which isn’t really a big fight because the mathematical side is the 98 pound weakling. however. i love when i get in the mood.

i’ve already designed like six new skins.

promise.

miss aguilera:
consummate tramp whore! although
britney cannot sing.

thank god for haiku!
iambic pentameter
simply hurts my head.

socially awkward moment #4528
I am feeling horribly socially awkward… like yesterday I left at lunch to go pick up my prescriptions and then I went in to the taqueria to get some soup. and who was there? my whole group from work along with some marketing chicks.
so it looks really weird that I just showed up suddenly. they were like “oh ellie I didn’t know you were coming too” and then I had to explain about the prescriptions and it sounded really lame.
THEN to make things better I come back with my soup and someone jogged my arm and I spilled soup ALL over myself. it was messy. I managed to pull it off pretty smoothly. but inside I was about to cry. and then I had to go home and change.

something that may or may not be to my advantage is that it absolutely doesn’t occur to people that the grump tattooed chick is actually kind of shy in a weird way.

socially awkward moment #4528
another weird moment: drunk at a bar with some work people.. for some reason I start telling the cute guy about my first job when I moved out here. I usually tend to NOT talk about myself. because I assume no one gives a shit. so for some reason I launch into this story.
but in the middle of it I suddenly think “omg, what if he thinks I am name dropping so that he will think I am cool?” and right then he just gets up and walks away. ARRRGG.

another clear indication that I am socially awkward in some way that I cant identify. what the hell did i do wrong there? although another good point to make is that my drunk totally lame-ass exboyfriend had just suddenly appeared out of no where to lurk around in stalker fashion.

socially awkward moment #1876
I go into a store and am trying on dresses for clubbing. a super cute tattooed guy who works there comes over to help me and he chats me up. it turns out we have been getting tattoos from the same dude. who also happens to be my friend and someone I work with elsewhere.
SO. cute guy tells me he is going to get his tattoo touched up on such and such a day. I then see said tattoo artist later that week and mention the outrageous cuteness of this guy. he tells me to come ALSO get a tattoo touch up on the same day. and I do. and I get there and the cute guy is there. and suddenly his face lights up with recognition as he remembers me from the clothing store. “hey your that chick … etc”
then he says “didn’t I tell you I was going to be here today?” and I blush.
and then he just turns around and ignores me.

i figured out how to use .php and multiple templates in blogger. however. unfortunately i cannot figure out how to get the archives to work. so for the moment we will stay here in html as we always have.

i hate being so close to the solution without being able to reach it. sigh.

i wear a sports bra
it holds my tits in tightly
i hate when they bounce.

when i use bold and caps.

when i talk to you about saving a night in your calendar for certain plans, i tell you that i will talk to everyone else and then e-mail around to make sure we are all on the same page. you say okay. i talk to them, i e-mail around, and nobody hears from you so we assume you are going along with our plans. the night before the plans, you call and say you can’t make it or you didn’t want to go there in the first place and bitch that nobody really asked your opinion. i point out that you were e-mailed, just like everyone else, just like i said you would be. and you say oh, you don’t check your e-mail.

i want to kill you!!!

and don’t you dare ever fucking complain to me that we live so close and yet we never see one another anymore. because

FUCK YOU!

i liked my friendships particularly because there seemed to be none of that he-said-she-said bullshit. until lately.

person a got pissed at person b because person c was invited on vacation with person b and person a wasn’t. and person a has known person b for longer and they are supposedly closer friends. then person d felt the need to call a meeting with person e to discuss the fact that person d’s needs weren’t being met because person e talked about themselves all the time. person e was confused by this because person d is a very private person who doesn’t seem to appreciate prying or need to rant about everything to everyone all the time. person f told persons g and h that person i was complaining about visitors who drop in unannounced (persons g and h). but person i claims to have said no such thing, and person f claims to have misunderstood. so now persons g and h won’t go to anybody’s houses unless they have an engraved gold invitation. person e is still trying to figure out how to be friends with person d again without stepping on toes anymore. in addition, person j has no planning ability and leaves all of said persons hanging where social gatherings are concerned. so everybody phonestalks person j, who also hates to answer the phone. all involved conclude that person j is off the deep end and rude. person j is still somehow pissed because neither were they invited on vacation with person b. and nobody has any money, and this is driving everyone insane as well.

we are not fifteen!! these are not cliques!! we are adults who are supposed to be able to articulate our feelings and intuit certain things about how other people feel!!

i have spent an inordinate amount of time retreating under my covers with novels lately for precisely those reasons.

speaking of asses…
I have been really gassy lately. stress does that too me. I once dated this guy for a while and every time we hung out I got totally bloated. I realized that he was so boring and I spent all this energy stressing about how to entertain him that it made me have gas. how funny is that? I told my sister that and we had a little giggle fest.

I once had a boyfriend who I never once heard fart. ever. also very funny. in fact I finally asked him about it and he said it just made him really nervous. and that he didn’t even shit when I was at home. he always shit at work. hahaha. oh man…

once I was living with this guy and the relationship started to go bad. and every time I ate in his presence I would instantly have really really bad diarrhea. it was ridiculous. one bite of cereal and I was clutching my stomach in agony. I went to the doctor about it and he said it was probably irritable bowel syndrome. so what I had to do was try really hard to NOT eat in front of this guy. and finally after I moved out I never had a problem again.
I should totally have sent him my medical bills and charged him for mental anguish and possible damages to my ass.

really, the nerve of some people.

I made a calculated move to regain friendship with this person.
mainly because I just wanted another person to go drink mojitos and smoke with. anyway. now I am kind of regretting it. I mean the reason our friendship flagged in the first place is that he expected WAY the hell too much from me.
it was all very high school. as in he would be like “well I called you last, so I didn’t call this time because I figured it was your turn.”
hello? my turn? what the fucking hell is wrong with people?

so I may have to just outright tell him that I rescind my offer of friendship.
he is already right on the verge of thinking I am a supreme bitch anyway.
I might as well make things easier for his miniscule brain. oh wait, I mean the like 5 neurons that are firing in his head.
i’ll wave my hand in front of his face and say “yoo hoo! i am a bitch! go ahead and hate me now because i have failed to meet your own freakishly inflated expectations”

i hope that shawn, the listed contact for the 2003 sxsw web awards, is getting paid well. well enough to compensate for people like me who, having been invited to contact him directly for any little thing, have done just that. despite my haranguing, he has kept his cool and managed a sense of humor, too.

yes, we’re contestants. in two categories. no, i don’t think we’ll win. particularly now that i sent shawn an e-mail threatening an act of god if the results aren’t posted really, really soon.

hope that sense of humor still fits him…

From: jonothepenguin@hotmail.com | This is Spam | Add to Address Book
To: girlsinthebag[at]yahoo.com
Subject: wanna cyber?
Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2003 22:41:38 -0500

hey, do you want to cyber or not?!

um. not?

seriously, what is the fucking point of cybersex? the only use i have ever had for it is when it is with someone that i know and have already fucked. and would fuck again, except that we are not in the same geographical location simultaneously. the same is true for phone sex. i honestly just don’t get it. which is weird, since i really dig words and i like to write about sex. you’d think i’d be a prime candidate or something.

hopefully that shocks you. a little.

break up story #456983
I once broke up with this guy who I just felt indifferent to. we had to meet one more time to trade stuff. and this dude was pretty cute. he looked really good in my tight little t-shirts. anyway, he had to return some of my socks and some t-shirts. this guy also had the most repellant foot odor EVER. really foul. so he returns my stuff in a bag and I go back up to my office and look into the bag and the socks are all crumpled and just without thinking I picked one up, held it to my nose and took a big whiff. ARRGGG!! he must have like worn them for a week straight! it was horrible! but worse is the fact that he did not do it on purpose. he was just dumb. not realizing that you have to wash stuff you borrow from someone. dumb ass!
also as he returned my stuff he told me a story about how he was at the flat of these people I knew who had an open relationship. more like a four way marriage is how they liked to describe it. anyway so he was there and looking through their photo album and he came across some pix if me and them and this very cool attractive male friend of mine who he had met once and clearly worshiped. uh, so now I forgot my point…
i think my point was … why the hell was he telling me? to prove that he knew some people i knew? that he was fucking people i had fucked? sheer innocent delight at having some friends he could fuck?
i dont know. but been there.. done that.

break up story #456679
one guy broke into my apartment and left a note on my bed. I lived in a shitty slum. you could get onto the roof of the building next door by going out the hall window. and if you were daring you could then make a flying leap onto the ledge outside my kitchen window and then open the window and enter. I did this a lot as for some reason I had a few years there where all I did was constantly lose my keys.
so he leaves this note on my bed along with some of my stuff. so I took his stuff up to the roof of my building, lit it on fire and then threw it off. also lighting various pictures of us on fire as well. how I got away with throwing a flaming pair of boxers of the roof I will never know.

i used to have this friend who was three years younger than me. when we were kids, we hung out together a lot.

i don’t remember whose idea it was, but we were both interested in sex and how it worked. it seemed perfectly logical that two girls could do it too, although we’d never heard of lesbianism or the associated stigma. when we were supposed to be sleeping we sometimes stripped each other and explored a little. it never occurred to us to penetrate each other in any way, so we mostly just ran our hands over our bodies and looked.

when i was twelve, she showed me how to lean up against the water jet in the pool so it hit my crotch. we used to talk to her parents while leaning against those jets, and they never had a clue. later on she explained that the same principle applied in the bathtub, and that if you had a detachable shower head it could be really fun. i didn’t have one at my house, but i was a limber kid who took gymnastics, and figured out how to contort myself to make use of the faucet itself. that’s when i started locking the bathroom door.

i was in high school when i started making out with boys, and i always wanted to share it with her. we’d go into her room and lock the door, and i would tell her all about my latest makeout session. by that time i knew how sex worked, and so did she, but i explained it all to her again anyway. she listened, eagerly. when i started actually having sex, she wanted to know all about that too. we giggled a lot and i think she lived vicariously through me.

for some reason i never told her about the girls i had made out with or slept with. maybe i didn’t want her to be jealous or something. i wonder if she would be?

i think that society has come to a point where nobody can really be shocked anymore. which kind of takes all the fun out of everything. because if you can’t shock people occasionally, what’s the point?

I had a detailed sex dream last night.
I was sexless to start out. I turned into a female and was worshiped by everyone.
I had very high prestige and only the privileged got to fuck me. and I was on a pretty ridged fuck schedule. mostly I would be fucking a very big fat woman who had a small penis AND a man. or just one man.

then someone must have snuck in to fuck me. and he had a really big dick and I realized that I liked just fucking him better than the fat woman/man man combo. but we were found out and he was taken away from me.

i so rarely have a sex dream that i really must wonder what the hell this one was about…

there is this woman i know who is almost 40 and she is still single. probably because of her job, she travels a lot and is hardly ever home. or it could be some other reason that i don’t know. anyway.

what annoys me is that she is pretty much socially inept and that i somehow wind up in these situations where she and i find ourselves near one another while at a party or various other gatherings. i have no trouble making small talk with people (outside of work because there it’s just annoying), but for some reason she and i cannot converse at all. invariably what happens is that she doesn’t hold up her side of the conversation and i get frustrated after like two attempts and clam up.

the very worst part is that one time i was at this new year’s party with this sexy guy, and everyone there was with somebody, except for her. and the party was thrown by her and her roommate (who brought her own boyfriend). so they were taking pictures of everyone on those little sticky film cameras and giving them to us on little thank you cards as souvenirs. and when it came time to take a picture of her, she was alone, so her roommate posed with her. and for some reason then it became the mission for all of the men (yes, even my sexy date) to pose with her. and if that wasn’t bad enough, they were required to hold her aloft horizontally (she was wearing a short skirt). my date got her ankles.

i stood there horrified. i was pissed because it’s not my fault (or my date’s) that she’s fucking single and he shouldn’t be touching her ankles. and i was also disgusted because if that whole “look, even other people’s men love me” thing was her idea, how egocentric! and if it was her roommate’s idea then how pathetic and why would you make someone who was your friend the center of such humiliating attention? because i know all the other women there were thinking the same thing as their boyfriend held her waist or under her arms.

i thought it was a one time thing and dismissed it because it was a drunken party. but later that year at the wedding of a mutual friend it fucking happened again! and every time i run into her i am mortified all over again.

let me just say that you seriously can not touch me at all anywhere right after i have an orgasm. i am so not kidding. even you, with whom i was madly passionately in love and wanted to spend eternity, got the old cold shoulder when you tried to rub my back after.

i seriously don’t think that men understand this. he gets me off (hey, thanks!), then he wants to be the nice guy who cuddles and touches me sweetly in non-sexual affectionate ways. unfortunately for him, for ten minutes afterward i am a fucking bear trap, and i will sever his hand before it touches my extremely oversensitive skin. i curl into a fetal position and turn away from him, and this leads him to believe he did something wrong. but in fact, he did everything right… so far. god help him if he tries to touch me.

excuse me, i have to pee now.

too much! too much! argh!
after i come, don’t touch me!
i’m a big, raw nerve.

my nails are painted
this bronze color called “vegas”
i’m feeling lucky.

first we will convert
to mt. then we can learn
how to skin the site.

you’re still doing it
did you not hear me say to
stop hugging people?!

so-called scientific tests are also utter crap. because they put this little girl alone on a busy street for 20 minutes and filmed her to see how many people cared that she seemed to be alone and without adult supervision. out of 74 people who went by only women ever responded, all the men completely ignored her. and this is supposed to be indicative of some biological thing where men are unable to give a shit about her situation.

here’s a radical idea: perhaps all those men were just stupid fucks who didn’t give a shit about anyone but themselves? how does that prove anything except that possibly they are completely self-involved? and how does biology explain the self-involved women out there? because they definitely exist.

so i’m watching this two hour documentary about how men and women are biologically and hormonally different which speculates on the evolutionary origin of those differences. and for most of it i am very intrigued. they explain how the hormones experienced in utero affect a person’s brain connections in adult life, etc. and of course men are better with spatial tasks and women are better at multitasking. testosterone contributes to a man’s physical virility but can increase the risk of things like autism, while estrogen ensures that women are strong emotionally and intellectually but increases physical problems like breast cancer. and all the researchers agree that women are far superior to men in most of the things that matter: reading people, empathy, caregiving, handling stress, etc. at some point i start thinking wow, that is cool, they have proven scientifically that women are better than men.

then someone says something lame like that a man doesn’t have the biological ability to put himself in the shoes of others and respond according to the empathy he might feel if he did. and that things like trying to discern someone’s facial expression or handling simple household tasks like answering the phone while operating a microwave are utterly beyond him. and that shopping is stressful for him so it’s better if he doesn’t do it at all.

what?!

suddenly i realized that this is the whole idea, to make women feel that since men are so far inferior to us, we can’t possibly hold them accountable for normal human functions, such as helping around the house or understanding why we get pissed when they call us fat. the logical conclusion being that we are required to cut them a ton of slack because they are just stupid and can’t really help it. so when your man can’t bring himself to keep his dick in his pants and commit to being monogamous or getting married, you are supposed to just deal with that. and when he bitches about the way you drive or won’t ask for directions you have to just defer to him, because biologically he has the upper hand. i am fairly certain this documentary was produced and funded entirely by men who feel that it’s unfair for their wives to ask them to watch the kids for two hours.

fuck that shit! i am now a complete conspiracy theorist and have every desire to live the rest of my life as a lesbian.

holy shit i crack myself up.

gawd.
how can guys be so fucking dumb? like, what part of “we are breaking up” do they not understand? and what part of “I like you but don’t want to date you and I need some space” don’t they understand?”

hello boys, it means leave me alone for a while, it does not mean continue to email me every five fucking seconds. if you don’t leave me alone I am going to be a bitch and then you are going to get resentful.
however, if you do leave me alone, we can be friends or something that in a few months.

and also important, stop with the fucking melodrama.
you “wont give up on love” indeed. what?!?!?! (insert scathing sarcasm here) you mean you’ll still believe that two people are capable of loving each other EVEN THO I happen to be a heinous bitch?!?!
why, thank you. that’s big of you.
also, it is a really insightful comment… NOT. I mean, I knew you were a moron. but this is ridiculous!

i’m sure you will find true love… with another total moron!!!
yippee!

if you are reading this and what you read makes you feel bad it is your own fault. you cant pry into someone’s secrets without hearing things that you don’t want to hear.

I once read my boyfriends journal when he was out of town. I give myself credit for only reading a few pages and then feeling lame and putting it back. but from then on I wondered why he thought going to get ice cream with her was better than getting it with me…

as a courtesy to other people i have decided to make a point of taking off my sunglasses before going inside, even if i’m only going to be in there for a minute. last time i wore them into work as far as my office, because my hands were full and it was just easier to wait and take them off at my desk. but on the way there was this lady from another floor who eyed me suspiciously in the elevator. then she goes, “let me guess. you fell down the stairs, right?” with this knowing sympathetic tone in her voice. i rolled my eyes, which i guess she couldn’t see, put down my briefcase and shopping bag, and removed the shades. “no, my hands were just full. but thanks for caring,” i replied.

she got out at the next floor, mortified.

this is not haiku
do not count the syllables
oops, maybe it is.

i watch tv. i read. i go to work. i sleep. i dream. i fuck. i watch people. i listen to music. i read blogs. i hear angst.

this stuff inspires a lot of my posts. does this make me the carrie bradshaw of the internet?

if there are no cool kids for you to envy and despise, are you still uncool?

yeah he can afford to go on a weeks vacation..

BECAUSE HIS MOM PAYS HIS FUCKING BILLS

how is it that men manage to be spys? I just don’t buy it.
not only are they big and unwieldy, but you can hear them like a mile away.

what if you were searching an enemy room for evidence of some kind and you heard someone coming. how will you hide in the china cabinet if you are a big lumbering 6′ dude in a tux?
that’s right, YOU CAN’T!
and if there happens to be an armoire in the room that you CAN fit in, the person entering the room will still be able to hear you.
men breathe really loudly. if you are sitting next to a guy I guarantee you can hear his breath. also, men can’t open their mouths without that ’spittle on the lips parting’ sound. it is very gross and loud.

if perchance the guy manages to get in the armoire AND has his mouth taped shut and has some kind of breath silencer on.. well the person entering the room will still be able to SMELL them. men either smell like cheap shitty cologne (you know, that cologne that some girlfriend gave them in 7th grade) or like that dank musty
‘I picked this shirt and underwear up off the floor and put them on this morning instead of wearing clean clothes’ smell.

go back to your desk jobs and let women get on with it please.

is it completely wrong if i just want everyone to die?

whenever i watch movies where people go crazy and smash things up i really want to be an actress so i can do that too. and not have to pay for the damage. on the contrary, they actually get paid to break shit. what a great job that would be. perhaps i should change my resume, because i have lots of experience breaking shit, although usually it is inadvertent and almost always intangible things like hearts or spirits or chains of good luck. oh, sure, i once kicked a hole in my bedroom wall, and i’ve dropped the occasional teacup. but it would be very gratifying to deliberately break, say, an entire cabinet filled with really expensive china. that’s why when i play video games i never win at all. because instead of hacking and slashing the bad guys, i make my little character smash boxes and barrels and windows instead.

because when the planets align just so there is a weird kind of synchronicity among blogs. (i refuse to use the silly terms “blogosphere”, “blogland”, “blogdom” or any other term that bloggers have coined.)

for there are at least three other blogs that i read regularly which contain current posts relating to people misunderstanding each other on the internet and the ensuing hostility. and two of them don’t even read us, as far as i know. karma, six degrees of separation, planetary influence – it’s all true.

but what i want to know is if the menstrual cycles of female bloggers who link each other are all synchronous, like when they all live near each other or work together in real life. is the transmittal of pheromones restricted to real life contact?

someone get me a grant for some lab research and my own discovery channel documentary.

i brought him burgers and beer for dinner, like he asked me to. between bites, he said, “thanks. it’s good.” i sat down across from him and asked how his day was. he shrugged. we talked about how unreasonably cold it was yesterday, and today. and probably will be tomorrow, too.

i asked if the deal was that he would give 100% if it came up heads and i would give 100% if it came up tails. he thought for a moment, chewing, and said that there was a caveat. i said there could be no caveats if he wanted 100%. he tried to explain the caveat, and i listened. then i pointed out that he couldn’t have it both ways, and didn’t he trust me enough to not need any caveats? he said he did, but that there was a first time for everything. i asked what the offer was, so i could consider it further before agreeing (or not). he said he’d have to mull it over. in that case, i said, it was his move, because we can’t negotiate until there is a definite offer on the table.

then he glared at me and pointed to his food. do you mind? he said. i’m eating.

i had forgotten that thinking and eating are too much for him to handle all at once.

you are thirtysomething now. you are fat, so stop trying to make yourself look thin on your website by photoshopping your picture and only using headshots. do not write that i wish i were you, for i wish no such thing. you are a fat, thirtysomething club kid who looks ridiculous with purple dreadlocks and cannot find a real job. you live with the parents of someone you were friends with in high school. what the fuck is that about? and you changed your name from a perfectly normal one to something retarded that sounds like a cutting utensil. then you claim to have “killed off” who you used to be, and you are “fascinated” that people like me are bored with the whole clubbing soap opera melodrama drug addicted booze infested random sex with strange men and women wearing black to express your angst tattooing your own name on your ass bullshit. don’t you dare fucking call me old. because old is not the same as responsible, which is what i am and what you are not.

and you are older than me anyway, bitch.

there is this woman i work with who was on the phone today and she inadvertently hit the speakerphone button. meaning that everyone within thirty feet heard her entire phone call. not only what she said, because she is loud, but also the client she was speaking to. who, incidentally, called her rude in the first ten seconds of the call. i went over after the call was over fifteen minutes later and asked her to be sure her phone wasn’t on speaker as it might disturb her colleagues (read: people like me who are crunching numbers). she claimed to have no idea that it happened, and i debated whether i should recommend her for a pink slip.

later on she asked one of her nearby colleagues how to do something ridiculously simple that anyone with a year’s seniority knows how to do. this is like someone who’s been at mcdonald’s for ten years asking what goes on a big mac. honestly! i am not making this shit up.

i should have called out sick today.

I am so unbelievably aggravated right now. I am just so frustrated. it is a palpable,
tangible anger floating around me. hippy bitches who see my aura faint dead away.
I just want to cry and kill everyone i see.

when i’m having a particularly lousy day i prefer to feel someone else instead. usually it’s that cute girl on the tenth floor. i grab her ass in the elevator. but only if there is a smarmy man (preferably one who treats his underlings with disdain and whose secretary makes appointments for him to cheat on his wife with his mistress) in the elevator. and she always slaps him. and he never knows why, which is really the very best part. i feign this look of complete shock and he adjusts his tie while freaking out.

however he totally deserved it. and that’s why his collar is suddenly too tight.

the best part is that
nobody can touch me – ha!
my boss thinks i’m great.

re: new management structure
for immediate release

dear colleagues:

effective immediately, please bring every tiny little issue that you have with anyone in the universe about anything imaginable directly to my inbox and leave there for handling. if expeditious handling is required (within 24 hours due to some life-threatening emergency or just for fun) please place it in the other box marked ‘really fucking important’. additionally, if you receive any kind of correspondence from me requesting further information so that i can efficiently solve your problem, do not under any circumstances respond to me. this makes my job more challenging, and everyone knows i love a good challenge.

sincerely,
emmie
senior executive catch-all and woman about town

she seems really boring and full of herself, what is it other people see in her?
he seems too shy, but cute.
he seems like too much of an idiot, what were you thinking?

I also noticed that when you have your moms car you don’t park near me. and I wouldn’t have noticed except that for the last 8 months every time I started parking my car in a different general area, a few days later I would notice that you parking in that general area as well.

it didn’t really irritate me. I just thought it was sort of funny. and I wondered what your motivation was. since I am always here a few hours before you, did just the sight of my car give you a magic little thrill. “wow, earlier this morning her ass was actually touching a seat within that car parked five spots from mine” …?

seriously. I want to know.

i brought cookies to work yesterday to share with my friends. they were really good cookies, about a dozen of them. chocolate chip, sugar, chocolate ones with white chips. and that annoying chick who i don’t know very well because i am unable to tolerate her melodrama and general laziness floated over by our desks. she came over and acted like she had something important to say that necessitated her presence, which never happens except when there is some kind of food to be had. and i am not kidding when i say that she stared at those cookies the entire time she was speaking. then she left. and came back a few minutes later. i finally said to one of my friends

please go give her a fucking cookie before she drops dead of longing because i refuse to have her blood on my hands, jeezus.

which she did. and thankfully it was time for me to leave so i didn’t have to watch them squabble over the remains of the cookie feast.

counting syllables
better than sheep because of
my wool allergy.

when i was a child everyone called me a worrywart and i didn’t even know what that was. at some point doctors told me that my chronic pain was stress-related. i think i was like twelve. they said for me to stop taking everything so personally and i would get well magically. i thought i’d found a balance somewhere.

writing down the things that are in my head is different now. am i being judged? have i been judged all along? how many readers have wrinkled their noses at what i have to say, or removed us from their blogrolls in disgust? more than the number of people who have recommended us to others and are actually entertained by my verbal psychosis?

although there’s not a tight-knit community of posters and commenters who are all warm and fuzzy and supportive around here, i’m okay with that. in fact, i like it that way. there are a few people who leave thoughtful notes when it seems right to do so, and i enjoy reading them, especially if they are witty. the silence that follows a lot of my posts doesn’t bother me at all. it’s okay because i know that people are reading and sometimes a small number of comments makes it easier to say what i want to say.

but it’s weird now because someone responded in a way that no one ever has before, and made me feel defensive, whether that was the intent or not. and i don’t want to feel defensive. that’s not why i post here.

maybe it takes awhile to get over being gunshy…

lots of people do this, not just you. you make some kind of a statement, and i either

a) don’t understand your statement
b) want to know the motivation for your statement
c) interpret your statement the way it sounds

then you either

a) insist that you can’t clarify it
b) refuse to share your motivation
c) say that i misinterpreted it but don’t explain it a different way so i can understand what you actually meant

so if you feel that i have misunderstood either your statement or your motivation, then please clarify it. unless your true motivation was only to irritate me all along.

i said it in comments and i’ll say it again since you obviously missed it:

Jan 13 2003, 04:21 am

i am sorry if i read you incorrectly. but this being the internet, no inflection, etc. etc. your post sounds (to me) a little aggressive. sort of like, oh, sure, you want all that, but if you had it you would take it for granted, because you’re one of those women who think they can do whatever they want and get away with it just because they’re pretty.

emmie

update: this is the part where if you would actually provide an e-mail address, or e-mail me at least, we could hash this out where it belongs.

i feel like from those last couple of posts there’s a crack in the mask, now. i let my ego get the better of me, and i had to rebut, which on one level gratifies me immensely. however, now it is pretty plain to everyone what some of my buttons are, and if you are smart you have also learned a couple of things about me. which mostly defeats the purpose.

hi, my name is carol. i’m 42, and i’ve been divorced three times, most recently because i am a lawyer who just likes to argue all the time. i have loads of issues stemming from my perfect childhood and this blog costs less than a psychiatrist. most of the stuff i write is sheer fiction, except the part about having a pet raccoon.

but not really.

but i guess you win anyway. because here i am, needing to have the last word. justifying myself. just like in real life.

it’s your serve.

to quote a conveniently anonymous reader in comment to my previous post:

and if you got all the things you describe, would you be aware of it? would you feel you were entitled to it? would you reciprocate? would you compromise? and, if you eventually changed your mind about who you are and what you wanted, would you remember? would you recharacterize that time when all that you asked for yourself, when it was all about you, was answered in kind by someone else? would you revise your memories? would you recognize the investment the other person made in helping you? or, would you chalk it up to ‘feminine mystique’?

isn’t ‘feminine mystique’ another way of saying ‘less-than-accountable, less-than-honest’?

1. if someone showed up at my door with a fucking picnic basket i think i would know it.
2. as a matter of fact, i do feel i am entitled to have someone who cares about me. don’t you? isn’t everyone?
3. would i reciprocate? i refer you to the part where “i want to take joy in” doing things “to surprise this person”, such as the aforementioned lingerie shopping and tropical vacation.
4. if i “changed my mind” about who i am? i’m me. about what i wanted? that sometimes happens. would i remember? i have, and i do.
5. there has never, ever been a relationship when it was “all about” me. in fact, most of the time, it has been “all about” the person with whom i am involved. which explains my feelings.
6. why does what i write at my whim bother you so much? did your girlfriend cancel your trip to the bahamas?

no. “feminine mystique” is another way of saying “men generally either can’t or won’t figure women out”. and the use of that phrase on this site is mostly a play on our anonymity.

another way of saying “less-than-accountable” would actually be “anonymous”. which applies to me, also. i am anonymous so i don’t have to explain myself to anyone and can express things which would give most of my acquaintances heart attacks. and you don’t even know me.

who the hell are you to attempt to hold me accountable for anything?

i want to be someone’s priority. i want for them to be sensitive to my feelings and surprise me with a picnic lunch when i am having a bad week at work. i want for them to remember my birthday AND actually get me a present AND have it be something that i did not tell them to get for me. they should know me well enough to pick something clever that i will adore even if it is inexpensive. i would like for someone to take care of me when i am sick. i want to take joy in shopping for sexy lingerie to surprise this person and not have them yell at me about spending too much money. i would also love to plan a surprise vacation to the bahamas or mexico or someplace equally tropical and have this person drop everything to escape with me and for us to wrap ourselves in sand, sun, pina coladas, and each other for ten solid days. i want someone to give me credit for being a mostly good person and for trying really hard, and to encourage me when i don’t feel like trying anymore. i want for them to be interested in me as a person to the point where they would willingly visit my hometown and let me drag them around and show them where i used to go to the movies and where my high school is and where i used to live. and then i want them to rent a car with me and go on a road trip across the country, stopping in all the places we’ve been before to rehash the past and all the places we’ve never been to plan the future.

i do not need someone with a lot of money or a big house or fancy car or expensive things. but i suppose these things are too much to ask.

yes, that was me you saw at the corner gas station yesterday cursing at the pump because i got a java runtime error when i tried to swipe my card. i changed pumps though and the new one gave me trivia questions and offered me a printable 20 cents off snickers coupon.

if you want to suggest a link, that’s cool. but don’t fucking put your homepage down in comments as anals.com or something assholish like that. you will be banned and your comment deleted. we don’t delete comments as a general rule, but neither are we a forum for spammers.

prick.

all brown and dreary
decapitated heads are
just too much for me.

lovely monthly cramps
you double me over, so
i stay home from work.

there has only been one movie that i watched that was so good and yet so bad at the same time. it was very well done but the story was completely fucking disturbing. for this reason i cannot watch that movie “seven” ever, ever again. because i just can’t handle kevin spacey as that bad of a man.

there are some movies and books that effect me so strongly that i am afraid to watch or read them.

i had this friend once who was such an utter freeloader. after i had loaned her money on several occasions and fed her on many others, i stupidly asked her to feed my fish and gave her the key to my place while i was out of town. she did feed the fish, and she emptied my fridge and slept in my bed, too. later when i asked for the spare key back, she pretended she lost it. but then several months later, she called me and asked me if she could crash at my place. i said it wasn’t a good night because i was bringing someone home for dinner, you know? and so she got mad at me and left. but then when i came home, there was a note on the table she’d written before she called. she thought that i would of course say yes and that she would be asleep when i got home, and there was something she needed to tell me. she forgot to take that note with her though.

after that we stopped talking because i waited for her to apologize for her deceit, which she never did. and obviously she still has my spare key.

is this the part where you crucify yourself and play all those whiny country songs so that everyone will pity the voluntary victim? i guess i shouldn’t point out loudly and in an annoyed voice that you knocked down three old ladies as you were running into the street hoping to get hit by that truck. of course, your story will be that you were trying to save them, even though they weren’t even on the street but inside the deli where you were buying your sandwich.

because that might cramp your style. eh?

you are so creamy
and you taste like strawberry
when you’re in my mouth.

that the more available you make yourself to me, the more intense my desire for you to drop off the face of the planet.

right?

I hate emotional fluctuations

the end

oh wait, i also hate happy couples.

the end end

what do I have to do to have a fucking normal life? eh?!

after someone breaks up with you it is not, I repeat — NOT, a good time to show up uninvited at my house when you know I am hanging out with my family and friends. why would you be invited? WHY?!?!?! why would you think it was okay to invade my house and space and life? I didn’t even feel bad ejecting you. well I felt sort of bad but only because you were such a total idiot to have put me and yourself in that situation. geez!

“oh I thought you wanted us to act normal”
ooookay. well is it normal for you to show up uninvited to my house? NO. you played the game with us like twice, once after I practically begged you to come play it. and now you think it is normal behavior? you are an idiot.
also, if you have something to say say it. don’t stand there heaving sighs and smacking your lips. if you think I will hold your hand for one goddamned second you are very very mistaken. if you cant figure out how have a conversation it ISN’T MY PROBLEM.

FUCK OFF

ladies, take my advice. don’t EVER date someone under 30 (35 to be safe). EVER.

I am so aggravated.

why didn’t my horoscope tell me that every person with whom i had a friendship that at some point turned awkward for various reasons would decide to go looking for me, and find me, in the first week of 2003? couldn’t a groundhog somewhere predict that somehow? with today’s technology?

that way i could have ducked off the radar before they found me.

the conversation i overheard this afternoon between a large drama queen of a colleague and another pretty normal colleague almost made me lose my lunch. no seriously. because it went like this.

dramaqueen: (swishing into room) hel-looooooooo!
normal colleague: hi, happy new year. how was your trip back home?
DQ: i’m afraid i didn’t make it (sighing wistfully). i’ve been rather ill.
NC: sorry to hear that… are you feeling better?
DQ: (kissing NC on each cheek) not yet, don’t get too close, i’ve a nasty bug.
NC: …
DQ: i felt like i went twelve rounds with mike tyson and came out on the losing end! (guffawing delicately)
NC: heh. did you have the flu?
DQ: my head still hurts. (pointing) right here, you know, from all the vomiting.
NC: …
DQ: and at one point, i thought my back was broken (mopping brow daintily).
NC: did you fall or something?
DQ: (at top volume) heavens no, that was just sore from the other, the diarrhea (looking as though she is confiding).
NC: …

holy shit. as though the stench which normally emanates from this person when she is fully well isn’t bad enough. some people just should never get out of bed.

ever.

I had brought the bottle of vodka like he asked me.

but when I got home he was hanging by his neck from the rafters. i dropped my stuff and ran in with the door still open. it looked like there was a ball in his mouth or something and I tried to take it out but then realized that it was his tongue. I didn’t call the police because I was too scared. if I called them it would mean he was really dead. I thought I should take him down somehow. but he was high up and he was big and heavy and limp. I called a friend.
“what do I do?” “why didn’t he wait for me to arrive with the vodka? it all would have been okay then. we would have gotten drunk and maybe he would have cried a little and wondered why she had left him. and I would have commiserated and told a few stories of my own. and we would have talked about hope and how when things are really bad you can still have a wonderful moment with a stranger on the train or see a bird in the city and you feel better just for a second. and how those seconds get longer as time goes on. and then you notice that you just flirted with that person who served you coffee even though you felt like you would never love again. until you maybe have at least on the surface forgotten the bad things.”

but no, instead he killed himself.

and I was suddenly raving mad. why would he do that? he knew I was on my way over. I wasn’t even late. had he done it on purpose? is THIS why he wanted me to bring a bottle of vodka? for myself? so that when I found him I could get drunk or something? WHAT THE HELL? his girlfriend was a skag. we all hated her. she had treated him like shit from the beginning! she was some kind of sorority girl. so fucking what if she dumped you you raging idiot. HE WAS A GREAT ARTIST. he was a gentle soul. he had a sweet crooked smile and once he took me to that army navy store and we tried on pants and then bought matching berets his was black and mine was maroon. and I don’t even have that beret anymore damnit.

dude i really hate people like you who want to jump the queue and not wait in line. this goes for you, blue mazda, who rides the shoulder all the way around the loop when the exit is backed up, forcing peaceful tan buick to either let you in or risk complete collision when the shoulder runs out. this also applies to you, my underling, who will page me in the middle of a fucking budget meeting to ask me a question which i could have answered when said meeting was over. and it includes people who call one department and ask to be transferred to another so that their call will go higher in the queue, thus reducing their hold time and adding to the hold time of the 50 people they just cut in front of.

do not fuck with me please. thank you.

get your mind out of the gutter! what is this, a sex blog? okay wait. sometimes it is. but i have always wanted to act righteously indignant. plus this isn’t really that sexual. really.

so there’s this soap that claims to be 99 44/100% pure. and it claims to float. and i want to know what the hell is in that other 56/100%? pond scum? if so then how do they manage the lovely white color? i can understand pure sugar or pure honey or pure cocaine. but how does one purify soap? and if there exist other soaps which are not pure, then what the hell are we all showering with? and are we deluding ourselves that we are cleaner after the shower when in fact we just scrubbed our armpits with toxic waste byproducts or something?

also. if the assumption here is that pure things float. then why is it that bloated nasty fat floats, while sleek muscle sinks like a rock? would a pound of pure sugar float? i do not think so. and if you placed a 99 44/100% pure rock of crack cocaine in some water, it would probably dissolve. and what exactly does that say about its purity?

on a completely unrelated topic, if you people knew that we are all actually one person with several personalities who is just past middle-age and works for a big software company which begins with m and ends with t and has icrosof in the middle, would you ever visit us again?

hi,
I just wanted to thank you for your time this year. I know no one MADE you snoop and pry and follow me around. it take real devotion to snoop through my trash and look through old bills to find my social security number and birthdate. and to wait around at the ATM machine endlessly waiting for me to arrive so that you can watch my fingers as I type in my PIN code…wow, that spells LOVE doesn’t it?and how neighborly of you be concerned about my safety at night, I mean, to creep up on the roof next door and peer into my window at night could have been dangerous for you!
but just so you know, I decided that this year I can take care of myself.
thanks,

yeah, i have a crush on Rudolf Nuryev. so fucking what?

I will chew with my mouth open, drool food down my front and then go to the opera, bite my toenails in public, snigger and point when retards in wheel chairs go by, pop my zits on the train on the way to work, and if I know your wife just died I will still ask about her as if she is alive, I will kick small animals I see on the street and if I see road kill I will run out into the road and pick it up with my hands and stuff it in my purse, I will start shrieking hysterically at random moments in the grocery store and I will run up and lick every fourth stranger I see.

i reserve the right to screen my calls. and if i do not feel like talking to you, you may speak slowly and clearly into my voice mail. and if you are one of the lucky ones, you might just get a call back from me. someday.

i was long and thin, like a split open tree trunk, and i was bound with rope to others like me. i was on top of the pile, and we were all naked on this island where a pirate man accepted five gold coins from passersby who wanted to fuck us. they would browse around like people picking out a christmas tree, and then point to the one they wanted. i was sold to this group of men who fucked me with their fingers, and all i could do was moan through the rope between my teeth. it was clearly wrong to be treated like property, but it felt so fucking good that i didn’t really mind anyway.

suddenly things changed really fast, and he was on top of me, entering me from behind. and i looked around, and i was in my bedroom with my panties around my ankles. and while he was fucking me, i tried really really hard to figure out who the hell he was and how exactly i got there.

it kind of made me realize exactly how fragile my grasp of reality truly is.

even if you speak
no english, when i clear my
throat you should still move.

you probably could secede from the human race if you could prove that congress ratified you illegally. and you could also argue that you are your own free republic and have earned the right to elect your own government to office. but you would have to be really careful not to have any religious basis for your assertion. and if you have a stockpile of illegal weapons you could eventually wind up in a three-week standoff with the government during which many federal agents and some of your population could be killed.

the moral of the story is that secession is okay except where arms are involved, and then it’s just plain dangerous.

when all your most important passwords are either names of your ex-boyfriends or names of certain emotions such as “melancholy” and “demotivation” and “uselessness”, is that a bad sign? could you theoretically enhance your life by changing said passwords to more positively associated words?

it’s okay ellie. just because he is a stalker is no reason to panic.

i do not really feel as though my call is important to you, or that you value my time. your hold music fucking sucks, it is putting me to sleep. do not transfer me to the automated system where i can “self-service” my account. if i could fix your asshole billing practices by pushing numbers on my telephone or visiting your “online customer care center”, don’t you think i would? or maybe you think i count the hours until i can sit here with this fucking phone glued to my ear? don’t lie to me and tell me that you have “experienced overwhelming customer response” to your awesome product. say instead the truth, which is either that you are understaffed because you’re a tightass company, or that all the people calling are complaining because you are fucking them, just like me. don’t invite me to leave a message where one of your “experienced” nineteen year-old telephone twats will call me back in any kind of timely manner, particularly when you know she will do no such thing.

also, here’s an idea: do not make me enter my account number, telephone number, zip code, pin code, mother’s maiden name, and cat’s dick size unless said nineteen year-old telephone twat will have all of this information readily available after i have been on hold for two million years. if she asks me to verify another fucking thing i promise you i will mailbomb her house.

sometimes a world in which we castrate men at young age seems very alluring. it might eliminate the crowds of cheering fuckwits in black berets who are moved to violent adrenilne surges when their pathetic loser C in C spouts a speech written by a person specificly trained to be able to write a speech that rouses the masses of complete and total idoits that people most of this continent.

oh lovely vibrator
with the rotating head
although you’ve new batteries
it seems you are dead.
i would like to mourn you,
but i’m simply too pissed
three weeks it has been
and i’ve broken my wrist.
oh bringer of pleasure
your timing does suck,
cause i’m really horny
but too lazy to fuck.

there are really no gates to my soul whatsoever. all i ever wrote in ninth grade were angst notes to my best friend and suicidal poems involving sharp things and lots of blood. and occasionally snakes of some type, which were always metaphorical beasts anyway.

here is an example:

i will cut you
then you will cut me
and we will bleed
together
like the snake that
sniffs with its tongue at our bones.

okay, i really just made that up. i thought it was funny though.

sorry, you can’t manipulate me.

to manipulate someone requires that you have some deeper understanding of them or maybe even of human nature. but you can’t storm in armed with one measly piece of information you found in a note I wrote in ninth grade and expect to be able to open the gates of my soul.

hey, i googled for you! and i found you, too! in fact, yours was the first resume that popped up in the results! and it gave me all the information i’d ever want about you, except your bust size, which i found out several years ago. remember? that was right before i called you all manner of obscene things which were based solely on my consuming jealousy that you were sleeping with someone else and not me. which was right after you broke up with that person and offered yourself to me. that drove me completely insane and i almost took you up on it too, but something went terribly wrong, although i’m not sure what it was. i know that you really cared about me and that all you wanted was to be my best friend, but my little ego was just too fragile for that. you used to tell me that you loved my brain, but i wanted you to love all of me. i don’t know how i realistically expected you, or anyone, to do that when i kept my heart locked up tight and shielded it with cutting words. we could have been great lifelong friends, you and i, but i fucked it up.

so i just thought i would say hi randomly after we haven’t spoken in like five years.

i was watching this show. and there were all these archaeologists and scientists and archivists and various other -ists. and they were talking about the sex lives of the ancient egyptians and the classical greeks and romans. they told about the different sexual philosophies in china and japan. some famous guy declared that there were 30 sexual positions but then the kama sutra came out and pretty much pissed on that idea. one group said that having orgasms during sex would prolong a man’s life, and that’s pretty much all they cared about. if you had ten orgasms in one session you became immortal, was their idea, but who cares about women? then another group said wait, the family is important, you are more important when you have many many heirs, so go bang your wife a lot. which was a little better. but a different group suggested that if women can have orgasms they will like sex more and therefore be more inclined to have it with their husbands, making lots of babies. also someone else thought that it was good to make women come multiple times without ejaculating, because when women come, they give away their essence which makes men stronger. when men ejaculate, they give away their essence too. so the men spent all this time looking for viagra-type herbal con-cock-tions to increase their stamina.

all the -ists were kind of giggling whenever they would talk about orgasms. one -ist actually stumbled over the word ‘dildo’ while another one who was evidently some sort of priest and scholar, uttered it effortlessly and without shame. they were saying that while greek men were out and about fucking anything and everything they could get their hands on, including defenseless little prepubescent boys (this was apparently called pedastry) the greek wives were supposed to stay home and do nothing all day. and that the men described their wives as sex-crazed because the one time a year they walked in the door, their wives were really really horny by then and wanted to fuck pretty badly. only the men didn’t want to fuck, because they were too tired from fucking everyone else in the country except their wives. then they showed these pictures carved into vases and some walls somewhere that show women dancing around holding two long phallic-shaped things pointing between their legs, one in front and one in back. they suggested that women went shopping for dildos on the isle of lesbos. then they pointed out that lesbos wasn’t really all about lesbianism back then, and that the women of lesbos were the kind of girls who would go to a big banquet and give head to every guy in the room. so i guess they should have called it slutbos instead.

how the hell do people find this stuff out anyway? and how come i didn’t know you could be a stupid boring -ist that makes money and still be studying sex all day? for my career choice would have surely been different.