do you annoy me? of course you do.
do i want to kick your ass? most of the time.
does that thing you do drive me up the wall? hell yes.
do i disagree with almost everything you say? totally.
are you cute? not when you’re annoying me. but otherwise, a little.
am i gonna fuck you anyway? yup.

get ready for it.

she knows that you heard she had a boob job. she knows this because every fucking time you see her, you stare at her tits. if you want to know, just fucking ask.

if you’re not going to ask, then fuck off and go do something more interesting with your time.

Holy shit, people, if I say you’re being a butthead I’m not just making it up. You’ve done something that upsets me and makes me think of you as a butthead. I do not say “Hey, how are you, you seem to be a big butthead today!” just like casual conversation. I have a reason for saying it, dammit, and if you fucking dismiss me out of hand like that again I’m likely to snap.

Now back off, walking slowly, hands where I can see them, and do not bother me again until I get a solid 8 straight hours of sleep, which I haven’t had in about a month. And a word to the wise – if it’s you responsible for the fact that I get prematurely awakened, your ass is toast. I don’t care if you’re a telemarketer, the postman, or the cat. You hear me? Zip it and take it out of here.

it occurs to me that many, many people have fallen prey to that nasty urban legend that honking while in bumper-to-bumper traffic caused entirely by a construction crew will make the traffic move faster.

someone’s really got to tell them the truth someday.

it is my theory that when you have a difficult decision to make where someone will always be unhappy, that you should take a third, entirely different road and completely piss off both sides instead.

it somehow just seems better that way.

work? work, you say? um…
okay. but does that mean that
i can’t blog? at all?

Just what in the hell are you supposed to do when you encounter such an odd penis? I’m not talking one that’s slightly large, or gently curved. I mean one that’s 2 inches long, or that’s so bent that it makes a perfect circle. Of course ladies make the best of the situation, but is there anything extra that needs to be done or said or discussed in a situation like that? Not that having a unique dick is a bad thing, but are you so sensitive that you don’t want to talk about it?

Just know that you will always be remembered in a fond light, someone whose penis stood out from the crowd.

I climbed on, hot and sweaty and less than pleased that the bus was over capacity again. This meant that I would have to squeeze myself into the aisle and just try to keep my balance, since all the seats and all the handholds were occupied. I exhaled, hoping it would make me small enough to fit into the small space I could see behind the yellow line. I affectionately refer to what followed as “bus surfing”; having no railng with which to steady myself, I resorted to planting my feet, loosening my knees, and balancing through the curves, stops, and lurching starts.

Every time we took off from a stop light, I’d ride back a few inches and there was something that dug into my hip. Quite uncomfortable. When it happened three or four times I looked back to see what part of the bus was poking me… only there wasn’t any bus there. There was a boy, probably 10 years my junior, with his eyes cast piously upward. The bus was too crowded to see beneath waist level, but I knew that he had the most enormous hardon I’d ever encountered. I sensed that he was squeezing a tiny bit closer every time the bus stopped, until I felt his dick digging into my hip constantly, not just when we took off. Since there were so many stops and starts on this particular route, the pressure on his private self was waxing and waning, sometimes harder, sometimes just a tickle.

The bus began to empty out, and being near the end of its run was not filling back up. Eventually seats opened up and I had to take one. The moans from the boy next to me were making me a little weak in the knees and I couldn’t stand properly anymore. My stop was next. I got off, turning to look one last time at him. He sent me an intense, longing, piercing stare, and I winked at him and stepped off.

every day i smear myself onto a little glass slide and bask in the warm light of the expensive and powerful microscope. i am thankful that i have not yet been disowned. because you see the little nasty part that resembles the beginnings of a deadly pandemic, and it possibly crosses your mind to quarantine me in order to protect yourself and the world’s population. and i lay there, exposed, trying to explain that all the slides have that part in them somewhere, but you only see it on me because you’re looking for it. you’re already in defense mode. but my tiny little bacteria voice is too small to reach your ears, which are miles away and not keen enough. and i cry when i see you putting on that yellow plastic suit, because i know what’s coming. and i don’t want it.

it is just so much worse when you know so much about me.

all you people who were born years and years after me and yet are of completely legal drinking age, just stop it!

i can’t really handle knowing that i’m not of the newest young generation anymore. in my own head i still feel like a gangly fourteen year-old. although when i look at pictures of me from that time i think that i had a cute little body. and that’s probably what got me in all the trouble. it somehow disturbs me to the marrow of my bones knowing that i am the same age that my mother was once, that my grandmother was when my grandfather went to war, that the mothers of my ancestors were this age and had ten strapping boys to work the farm for them so they could feed the hounds and protect their property with some type of clumsy firearm.

i do not want to wind up a senile old woman with swollen ankles who nobody ever talks to.

and he just kept staring at me, caressing my face, and saying

i just can’t believe you’re really here

like i was some sort of goddess fallen to earth or something. i thought he wanted to fuck me, so i said

let’s get naked

at which point i did. he sat there and gaped at me, with his mouth hanging wide open. catching flies or something. i climbed into the bed which belonged to someone else and waited patiently for him to stop having a panic attack.

should i go get something to eat? is this gonna take a while?

he stammered something unintelligible and crossed the room, hesitantly, like he was trying to navigate a minefield without getting his head blown off. i tapped my fingers and lit a cigarette. he felt the need to dim the lights a little.

i just can’t believe that you’re really here

he said, for the dozenth time. and didn’t caress me because he was still well out of arm’s reach of the bed and my face. i french inhaled at him. i must have looked bored, because i was. he finally reached the bed and climbed atop it gingerly, as though it were a china cabinet and i was priceless. i might break.

now that you’re here, how about a massage?

and i rolled over onto my stomach and crushed my cigarette into the ashtray. i lay still, closed my eyes, and waited. i could feel him, hovering, debating, longing, fearing. it was a fantasy, a good one, but in the end he knew that fantasies are usually better left to the imagination. i was almost asleep when he finally worked up the nerve to touch my shoulders with his hands. i felt the soft sleeve of his t-shirt and sighed. he was still fully clothed.

you have a lot of tension between your shoulders

he observed, keenly. he did give a good massage. and after about fifteen minutes of a good massage, he dared to run his hands down the length of my body, so lightly that it almost annoyed me.

is this all you want to do?

he coughed when i said that, and i got up to get him a glass of water. how’d that be? i’m naked and he’s not and he goes and chokes to death on his own anticipation. wonder how i would explain that one.

would you mind if i …

he coughed again.

… go down on you?

as i nodded my head, i noticed he was cringing. i wondered, was he afraid that i’d say it was okay or that i’d rebuke him for asking? he gave a little sigh of relief, then caught his breath again as i reclined and stared at him. with trepidation and desire, he took off his cap and bent his head to brush his lips across my inner thigh.

we spent a couple of hours that way, and he never undressed. at first he would stop abruptly when i moaned, searching my face, afraid he had hurt me or done something wrong. i explained gently that women often moan when something feels good. he paused at times to ask questions, and we launched into a discussion of female anatomy and the art of orgasm. i stressed that he could learn a lot from observing the body language of his partner, encouraged him to pay close attention to nonverbal cues.

not every woman is comfortable enough with her body or with you to direct you verbally during sex

i said, and he seemed to understand.

i didn’t come at all, but it did feel mostly good. he was an eager pupil, though he was always sensitive and asked permission before doing something he hadn’t done before. he spent several minutes at a time opening me, with his fingers, to examine my inner parts, and he asked what they were called, in biological terms. he also continued to repeat

i still can’t believe that you’re here, that you’re letting me be … here

while stroking my clit lightly and lovingly.

let me just say that bruce springsteen is the bastard second cousin of bob dylan. they both have that sort of whacked-out hair thing going, they both are for some stupid reason revered by everyone in the entire world except me as matchless talents, and they both whine instead of singing. plus, it hurts to look at them because they look perpetually in some sort of torturous physical pain. i see bob dylan’s talent as a songwriter at least. but bruce is just an abomination, an ugly carbunkle on the ass of rock n’roll and all that is holy.

however, let me just say that eminem is pretty fucking amazing for a white guy, and that i want to fuck kid rock for no really good reason except… uh. the goatee? or possibly that hat he wears.

on days when my hair somehow behaves just perfectly and my makeup still looks positively dewy after a long day at work i really don’t want to go to sleep and wreck it all. i would much rather stand in my bedroom with my shirt off, staring at the way this bra makes my tits look utterly delectable. and i look at my hair in that mirror like eighty times before i finally call it a night.

but on most days, like today, my skin is at once like an oil slick and a brittle cactus and the part in my hair is crooked. and i wonder how much physical endurance it would require to peel every inch of skin from my face with my fingernails and tear each hair on my head from its nasty little follicle. more, i think, than i could ever muster. but who knows, maybe there is a whole lovely layer of radiant complexion under there. and possibly my hair would grow back in a fabulous color and perfectly manageable.

however people would probably think i was crazy and try to lock me up.

that there is honestly not enough time in the day to write down all the things i really want to. i had this idea for a novel once and i went to all the trouble of writing down the major characters and plot points, right up to how it ended. that piece of paper has been folded up inside my desk drawer for the last three years or so. i got all inspired because i dreamed the plot. and in the end, it’s really just a stupid idea, like soap opera meets fantasy novel where the diva with shiny perfect hair wears armor and battle cries.

i have never actually had one, probably because i would feel heinously guilty about it. and plus i really hate being beholden to anyone for any reason, but particularly for money.

also in my experience the boys that want to take care of you generally also feel the need to teach you something, which is fucking insulting. feed me and clothe me and get me a good computer and fuck me because you want to, not because i clearly need to learn a lesson about life. particularly when all your money comes not from your hard work but your father’s anyway. fortunately i have learned how to drown them out when they start in on

the trick to saving your money is to actually not spend it except when you have to. here, read this book about investing in the stock market or balancing your checkbook. do you have a checkbook? no? i’ll get you one. do you want puppies or rainbows on your checks?

i mean come on. obviously i have some intelligence or i couldn’t have roped your ass into paying for shit.

right?

showering. and men. and men and showering.

I think men use showering and not showing as a form of control in an unstable world they view as dominated by manipulative women who’s only purpose in life is to torment them.
I’ve noticed that many men I have dated stopped showering around about the time I started to lose interest in them. possibly they just gave up. they thought, “oh well, she clearly is about to break up with me. why bother to shower.” as though they wouldn’t normally shower if left to themselves for any length of time.
or maybe they do it as a sort of “fuck you”. like they are thinking, “So you don’t like me anymore, eh? well.. SMELL THIS!”

and then they will try to have sex with you. even though the odors wafting from the unmentionable parts of their bodies are killing all the birds in a ten mile radius and you are gagging and making the international choking sign.

and of course there are the men who have no sense of smell. or for whatever weird genetic reason, can’t smell their own odors.

like right now I know that my armpits smell. I forgot to put deodorant on this morning. but am I wafting my armpits all over the office? trying to have sex with people? no. I am sitting quietly, arms tightly to my sides.

“uh oh”, she said, as she formed several totally inappropriate crushes.

i once tricked myself into feeling attracted to this guy i knew. he was rich and looking to be someone’s sugar daddy. i was broke and needed cash, an apartment, and various other material things. it was also nice to have someone at my beck and call whenever i wanted to hang out or go to a movie or dinner. he even bought me a pager since i couldn’t afford a phone in my apartment, which is pretty stupid if you think about it. but still, it was hot pink and i liked the way it looked. in retrospect i should have had a cell phone or something.

i can’t imagine what i ever saw in him to tell you the truth. because he was nowhere near anything that was remotely my type. i am thinking that at the time i needed someone and i would have felt skeevy about leeching off him. and he would have probably felt skeevy about it too, and all our friends would have been like what the fuck? but when you are someone’s girlfriend nobody can really say hey, how come you take her to dinner all the time? or hey, how come she lives with you and you pay the rent?

it’s all survival really if you think about it. because we both needed something, and unless we thought we were in love we wouldn’t have moved in together or anything like that. and i would have been living on the streets and might have turned out a crack whore or something gross like that.

i accept that he had a purpose in my life. he was good at cards, too. but he was smelly all the time and didn’t see the need for showering, even when he had a girlfriend.

see? i told you i wouldn’t do you any favors, you stupid fuck.

you are a person that i sometimes wish would die. and i hate you for that, because i’m not that kind of person and who the hell are you to make me want anyone dead? and because you’re somehow important in my life, although i wish like hell you weren’t. i have tried to keep you out of my life but it is not working at all.

nobody around you even attempts to put you in your place anymore because it is just so pointless. in fact, they all pretend you don’t exist, which probably fuels your stupid behavior. any attention is better than no attention? they are experienced with this, and do it effortlessly. i am an amateur and don’t have the willpower to do that yet. so when you jab, i jab back. and when you pick on them, i defend them, while they stand stupefied at your ignorance and act like you are invisible. you say ridiculous things to try and get them going, but it doesn’t work. except on me.

the thing that sucks the most is that even if you did die, it wouldn’t solve anything. the wake of dysfunction you would leave behind would probably push us all over the edge, though they won’t admit it. but the same dysfunction turns their home turf into a fucking minefield.

even friendly fire would be a blessing and a curse.

nobody will believe this, but when i was 13 years old i used to talk to this 33 year old businessman on the telephone several times a week. i hooked up with him through one of those telephone chat things, which i found through a guy at school who used to hack the voice mail boxes. the first time i talked to him i had just finished reading mein kampf and found it disturbing that nobody saw the holocaust coming. we talked about world war II for a very long time, and he refused to believe i was only 13. i was stupidly flattered.

he tried to get me to meet him several times, but i refused. mostly because he scared me a little, every now and then he would be horny when i called him and he’d say things that were extremely inappropriate to tell a 13 year old. he would say that he thought i was scared for him to find out i was really an adult and that then he wouldn’t be so impressed by my intellect to try and get me to prove him wrong. he didn’t have my number (this was before caller ID and *69), but he gave me his number at work, at home, and on his car phone. i thought he must have been really rich to have a car phone.

sometimes he would talk to me about his business, but i don’t remember what he did for a living. and i’m sure if he wanted to, he could have easily found out where i lived, because i was stupid and told him my whole name. he would repeat it back to me, and it rolled off his pedophilic tongue in an almost lurid way.

we had a fight after we’d been talking for like a year, and i stopped calling him. he left messages on my hacked voice mail box, but i got busted by my parents shortly after that. they locked me in my closet until i was like 18. and a good thing too, for who knows what he might have done to me had i ever seen him in person.

in retrospect, it seems really fucking sick and makes me wonder if he is in prison somewhere.

this car in front of me is swerving all over the lane and braking erratically. i study its occupants, a man (driving) and a woman (riding shotgun). her sun visor is down, and it has a mirror, in which i can see the reflection of his hand grabbing at her shirt. they are laughing a lot. eventually he wins the battle, and she pulls her shirt down, fully exposing her breasts to him, and me, in the mirror. they are large and look heavy. she covers them after only a moment, and he laughs, then changes lanes. i don’t see them anymore after that.

there is a man in a business suit driving a hummer behind me. he is smoking, and i realize that it’s a cigar, because of the way he puffs on it. when we are stopped, he turns his head to stare at the cigar, rolling it between his fingers. reading the label? admiring its flavor? marveling at how his client got it through customs? (i know how they do that. when they find out you are going to the u.s., they remove the cigar’s original packaging and wrap it in a new package, one that indicates it is not made in cuba. you pay a little extra for this service.)

on the way to the coffee shop, i drive behind a big white bus with a handicapped symbol on the back and the name of a mental institution painted on the side. this bus makes frequent stops is painted just below the lever on the rear door, which i know from seeing it has a mechanical platform in the back. they use it to load people in wheelchairs. it’s full today, like always, and they always go to the coffee shop at the same time as me. maybe it’s like a field trip, or maybe just a break for the driver like they take when you’re riding the senior citizen buses to the poconos or atlantic city.

this is the other reason i wear my sunglasses even when it is not sunny, so i can watch other people and wonder about them.

there is one basic surefire way to get a man into bed. all others are powered by this motif, and this motif alone, which is simply conflict.

strategy: pick a serious fight
start a fight with him about nothing at all. make sure he thinks it is completely out of left field and draws the conclusion that it is obviously because you are a girl and therefore make no sense whatsoever. rather than apologize or try to make up, he is guaranteed to try to fuck you to relieve the tension between you. and it will be some of the best sex you’ve ever had.

strategy: pick a playful fight
start your very own little war of the sexes. take a stereotypical female stance (feminist theory comes in handy here). in an effort to dominate you and prove himself stronger, he will argue the stereotypical male point of view, regardless of whether he subscribes to it. toy with him using man-bashing jabs that are so extreme you probably don’t subscribe to them either. he will resort to physical strength, which is the only arena in which you are (probably) no match for him. he will teasingly pinch you, and if he doesn’t, smack his ass and run away. picking a fight with a towel as your weapon works really well too, and is gratifying for you, until he snares the towel (and you), which is gratifying for him. any sort of tickle-fest or pillow fight will magically result in playfully rough sex, which is also an excellent kind.

strategy: pretend you don’t want him
pretending to be too tired or too preoccupied to make the time to have sex with him will always work. this can be effective on men who are virtually (or completely) unknown to you, but is foolproof when dealing with a man you have already either expressed interest in, had sex with, or committed to. he will again feel the need to dominate you, to make you want what he wants, and will take great care to seduce you. of course it is actually you who have seduced him, but he would rather believe the victory is his. and in the end, you get more sex.

men either fight things or fuck them. and when they cannot win the fight, they resort to fucking. which is convenient when you want to be on the receiving end.

why do people i know feel it nessesary to be constantly telling me the ugly truth about myself? is it that there are more ugly truths about me than there are about other people? or is it that the people i know fucking suck big donkey dicks?

they say that everyone puts on their best face/hair/manners/behavior/clothes while they are dating in order to secure a lasting relationship with the person they are trying to impress. but with regard to physical appearance, and excluding the infamous “love handles” syndrome wherein everyone lets themselves go a little once they’ve caught their prey, it all seems quite deceptive. most women in particular cannot win under any circumstances unless they are fortunate enough to find a man who truly values inner beauty over anything on the outside. supermodels of course have it made, but let’s talk about you and me, because there’s more of us than there are of them. a woman alters her entire physical appearance in anticipation of catching a man. pay attention.

the language factor
we squish ourselves into torture devices devilishly marketed as “lingerie” which is in and of itself insulting to our intelligence. what, because the word is french it defines sexy and must be had? like eau de toilette from a parfumerie? i mean seriously. who among us would rather buy a petticoat or a girdle than a brassiere or a bustier? we must all prefer fromage to cheese, too. oh, wait, food doesn’t have to be sexy because we need to eat. hmmm, except for stuff that comes from a chocolatier which is surely higher class than regular old milk chocolate.

maybe she’s born with it, but more likely it’s maybelline
the idea behind cosmetics began as a way to enhance one’s natural beauty. to look flushed without actually being flushed, because rosy color indicates (in nature) increased blood flow, which alludes to sexual arousal and physical exertion — the latter having a double meaning: either that one has recently exerted oneself while in the throes of ecstasy, or, on a more base level, that one is no stranger to physical activity, which implies a healthy lifestyle and therefore a genetically stable potential mate. meanwhile we have devolved to the point where such coloring is not only permutated into purples and burgundies and wines and pinks and mauves and peaches and taupes, but makeup is beyond “cosmetic” and falls under “hygiene” in most settings. when i show up to work without makeup for whatever reason, i am peppered with questions about my well-being. if i assure everyone that i am well and just chose not to wear makeup, everyone whispers that something else must be wrong for me to have let myself go like that. as though i showed up to work with two mismatched shoes and bed-head and didn’t even shower. nobody looks that good when they get out of bed, or even after they take a shower. we all have big pores (don’t worry, there’s a soap for that) and blotchy patches on our cheeks (there’s a cream for those) and undereye circles (designer teabags, anyone?). we even have makeup techniques designed to look like we’re not wearing makeup. only it doesn’t really, because when we’re without makeup, we don’t look that even or clean or perfect.

the double standard, again
men have the same face when they are checking you out at the bar as they do when they are wooing you into bed as they do when you are dating or fighting or getting married or breaking up. the only variable, short of some recently contracted skin condition or a change in their shaving habits, is their facial expression. women, on the other hand, put on one face to go to work, another face to go out, a different face for church or family gatherings, and a couple of faces which are color-coordinated to our favorite outfits or the current trend on the runways. we also have certain hairstyles for certain events, and we wear water-filled wonderbras when we want to get noticed. when we wind up in a long-term relationship, we feel comfortable enough to let men see our naked bodies, which usually reveal smaller breasts and larger hips, and our naked faces, which reveal all of the aforementioned normal skin conditions. and men let us see their naked bodies, which look exactly the same as they did in that suit, and their naked faces, which look just the same as when we first met.

the biggest lie
many men cry deceit when a woman is not naturally pretty enough to justify her temper, or her eating habits, or the fact that she disagrees with them on nearly everything. they argue bitterly that we go to great lengths to pass ourselves off as something we are not, a crime far more heinous than promising to call and then losing our numbers. to those men i say that if we didn’t put on a prettier face than the one nature gave us, what man would notice us, and why? the obvious answer is that the ones we should want would, for some reason that they can’t quite put their finger on, a reason that isn’t available in a bottle or an exfoliating scrub. and even the ones who do love us for ourselves rather than how we look needle us endlessly about why we spend so much time and money maintaining that appearance. but even if we are prowling for a wham-bam situation, (and why shouldn’t we?) we have to look damn good, while men just have to make sure their hair is cut and their clothes aren’t a complete mess.

hung jury
i don’t know how to wrap this up, except to say that it annoys me and disgusts me, and that whether men or women or the media are responsible for the self-esteem issues and body image or eating disorders in this country is a chicken-or-egg question. what do you think?

possibly he won’t
notice i tortured myself
to look good for him.

let me just say that deciding to have a full leg and bikini wax is a bad idea in and of itself, but to have it done at lunch when you have a hot date after work is just plain stupid. perhaps the only thing dumber is deciding to have it done on that day for the first time ever. ouch. much ouch. there are not enough words in the english language to describe the ouch. and even though they put powder all over you afterwards, there are still little spots of wax which will only attract the nice dark blue lint from your jeans and which you will have to (ouch) scrub off painfully with a brillo pad later in the shower. assuming you actually wanted anyone to see your legs, that is. but if you plan to undress and do the nasty entirely in the dark, then it’s fine. really.

however several hours (12) later all those nasty angry red bumps do actually fade and your skin feels smooth, like if you shaved it and then moisturized it. so, um, next time just shave. and moisturize.

see what happens when you mix up prescription, over-the-counter, salad, and controlled substances in one four-course meal? i’m better today but only because i’m not so much under the influence. regrettably i am still a little under the weather.

i’m cutting back on my salad intake, that should solve the problem.

this site is not gratuitous porn, complete fiction, or complete truth. this site is a place for us to vent, spew, daydream, live vicariously, remember anonymously, play with design, focus on words and their impact. and many more things. we will not be pigeonholed, except when we have to pick a classification for a portal. people think that after reading three pages of posts they know who we are and what we’re about, which is a bad assumption. these things are in our heads, and we want them out, so we can concentrate on things like grocery shopping and how to get promoted at work.

no, we did not get our name from that no doubt song. and yes, you got the lyrics wrong anyway.

You think that if you poof out your shirt like that I can’t see that you have a gut sticking out?
You think that if you comb your hair over I don’t see the growing expanse of skin where hair used to be?
You think that if you wear the cool clothes, I won’t notice you’re not a cool kid?
You think that if you throw some names around, I’ll be impressed?
You think that if you get me to believe today’s story, I won’t mind tomorrow’s bullshit?
You think that if you spray the Ozium on your shirt I won’t notice it reeks of pot?
You think that if you write big words, I will think you’re intelligent and I won’t notice they’re misspelled?
You think that if you bleed me dry, you can find someone fresh and new to replace me?

I see you. I know you. You can’t hide from me. You are Dorian Grey, and I have your portrait in the closet of my bedroom, and I go in there every once in a while to see how ugly you’ve become, and I smile.

i know it was two days because when i woke up face-down on the living room floor, the cat had already been gnawing his way into the kitty treats box and his water bowl was not even a little moist which likely meant he had also been drinking from the toilet. i tried to pick myself up ever so slowly so as not to startle him into pouncing on me and ripping my eyes out with his little kitty claws which can be used as weapons after two days of starvation and thirst. i wonder if he’d claw me to bits if i were to drop dead in the apartment? or possibly he would just cruise around looking for a hole in a wall or a crack in a window large enough to squish his little kitty self through. maybe both but in which order?

he wouldn’t last a day on the outside, my spoiled little pet.

i think that batch i smoked wasn’t entirely pure because i somehow lost track of like two whole days or something. and that usually doesn’t happen when i smoke. of course there was that scary guy at the bar who walked up directly behind me and whistled at me really loudly before walking away and ignoring me completely.

yeah. it can’t have been pure. no more from that source again, ever.

But I really fucking hate people who leave and then reappear like 5 or 10 minutes later. If you are going to leave then please leave and stay the hell gone.

can a person just totally fabricate in their mind an emotional attachment between two people?
or alternatly
can a person just totally fabricate in their mind NO attachment between two people.

and when i say attachment i mean mutual attachment. and maybe it would be better said as “mutual emotional connection”.

my house needs a good cleaning and i mean a good cleaning. does anyone know where i can find one of those maids who cleans absolutely positively every inch of the house? not the kind that you have to clean up for either. oh and if she happens to be totally hot and is into working in the nude, that would be good too. especially if afterwards she will let me make her some coffee and go down on her.

where do i find her? under “domestic services” in the yellow pages?

this week is apparently national maybe-i’m-a-stalker-who-wants-to-hurt-you-or-i-could-just-be-a-weird-guy-you’ve-never-seen-before-that-likes-to-freak-women-out-for-no-good-reason week.

do i get paid time and a half for this?

in the parking lot of the grocery store this morning i walked past a white car with its window rolled down. i was in my own little world, reviewing my shopping list

• cat food
• dog food
• people food
• tampons

when all of a sudden the driver of the car went

whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooop!

it startled me, and when i looked at him he was grinning creepily at me. i looked behind me to see if there was a hot leggy blonde somewhere (there wasn’t). he kept grinning and sped out of the lot. i was so freaked out that while i was shopping i noticed another guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a ski cap who went down every aisle i did. i didn’t think he’d need tampons, but he stopped and looked at them anyway, although he kept his hands in his pockets the entire time. when i moved down the aisle to the facial cleansers, he edged closer to me. i almost ran to the checkout counter, and the cashier looked at me like i was nuts. the guy skirted around me and left the store without buying anything. which surely meant that he already had the rope and duct tape and a rag to stuff in my mouth, and was waiting for me outside in a scary van with tinted windows.

he didn’t kidnap me though. i didn’t even see him again. but it really freaked me out anyway.

the number of absolutely lovely breasts in this town should be illegal or something.

i have read somewhere that having rape fantasies is perfectly normal for girls who have been sexually assaulted or abused. it is believed that such fantasies give the victim a feeling of control over a situation in which they previously had none, which makes a little sense. but doesn’t it make more sense for us to instead be the perpetrator? and i would think that those fantasies would be as asexual as the act of the original assault and be more about control, like the attack. it’s sort of interesting how being submissive gives so many of us a feeling of control. as though in everyday life we are not in complete control of who uses our bodies and for what purpose. i guess some of us aren’t, or haven’t been. but the logical fantasy would seem to be a loving, caring relationship where we are valued for more than our bodies, yet most of us go out looking for exactly the opposite.

being a prostitute or a stripper or a porn star sort of gives us some control, in that we feel we are choosing to use our bodies as we see fit. the question is, would most of us have seen fit to undertake these professions had we never been victimized? i think not. my feeling is that it is more of a defeatist action, wherein we accept that our bodies will be sexually objectified whether we like it or not, and so the real choice is not to objectify ourselves but who is allowed to objectify us. it also sort of deadens the sexual act, which is a psychological protection from being devastated by it again in the future, and soothes us into believing that what happened to us didn’t actually matter that much, and therefore doesn’t hurt so bad.

after i was raped, i spent a lot of time aggressively pursuing every man i came into contact with, whether or not he was my type, and regardless of whether i was attracted to, or even liked, him. several years (and many one-night stands) later, i realized that i had instinctively switched into a “get them before they can get me” mentality. i fucked everything in sight, but at least they didn’t fuck me. it was a very long time before any sex had any meaning, and it was exceedingly difficult to trust someone in bed enough to let go and come, share fantasies, or actually feel a little close to that person. i am fortunate that i am not a drug addict or an alcoholic, and that i have not contracted some heinous sexual disease. my history is torrid, and if i were to list the number of times i have been victimized by different men, you would probably be horrified and i would probably kill myself. the only real way to go about it is to ignore it completely. fortunately i have reached a point where i can do that and still have feelings when it really counts.

this isn’t a post about self-pity or tragedy or guilt. in fact, there’s no emotion in it whatsoever. it’s simply a way for me to comprehend my own behavior in a way that merely thinking about it can’t accomplish. and if any of you are inclined to say something personal or offer condolences in the comments, i will delete them. you are free, however, to respond intellectually to these postures if you so choose.

we now return you to your regularly scheduled vitriol with extra cayenne.

that one where you and your partner are pretending to be parent and child has always freaked me out. seriously, i can even handle the idea of rape or something involving bestiality way before that whole parent thing. i guess the bodily function thing would also probably be on that “um, no” list. for me, i’m saying. however, i am totally down with being beaten, raped, and sold for ridiculously cheap to strangers on the street.

anyone care to analyze that?

success!

i have located a very old bag of peanut m&ms at the bottom of my desk drawer. i am however not entirely sure that they are safe to eat. the most embarrassing thing is that i don’t frankly care.

mmmmmmmmm. peanut.

is it honestly possible that i am here and that there is simply nothing chocolate anywhere within fifty yards? what kind of inhumane working conditions are these, i ask you?!

the only part of you that i want to see is your back as you flee from me in terror.

a number of song lyrics come to mind:

don’t come around here no more
hit the road, jack
goodnight, now it’s time to go home
i’m down to just one thing, and i’m starting to scare myself
don’t bring me down
if that chick don’t wanna know, forget her
you probably think this song is about you, don’t you
you better run for your life if you can, little girl
you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave

etc.

enough already!
you are really creeping me
out. is that your intent?!

but it’s not all about you!

FUCK. get that through your thick skull, would you please? if you do nothing else for me? you’re seriously starting to piss me off, and you wouldn’t like me when i’m pissed off.

consider this your last warning.

now that it is actually happening to me i am WAY more creeped out than i thought.
and i never really thought about it before as something that i would really have to deal with.
i am not sure if i am creeped out, shocked or blindly pissed off or all three rolled into one.

i joked about it, sneered at it and speculated about other people dealing with it.
what should i do? call the police? call my big tattooed burly male friends? get a taser?

i want to dress in a slutty version of a fedex uniform, with too-short shorts and a tight shirt that can’t contain my cleavage, with my hair in a ponytail under a little fedex cap. i want to knock on your door early in the morning while you are having your coffee, and when you say who is it? i will say package for you! when you open the door i will toss my head and bat my eyes at you, and explain that the package is in the truck because it is large and heavy, and since you are such a strapping young man, could you help a girl out? you will nod while staring down my shirt and put down your coffee on the table by the door. then you will follow me to my big truck, and i will take your hand to help myself up into the back, where you will join me. there will be no package for you, not really, but lots of boxes meant to be delivered to other people. i will slam the doors of the truck behind you.

grab you by the collar and kiss you.
throw you down and press my chest into your face.
encourage you to bite the buttons off my shirt.
ravage you.

it will be a most special delivery, i can promise.

you’ll be glad to know
you can stop refreshing now
this is the last ‘ku.

o! i am weary.
coitus interruptus bites!
back to the bedroom.

we try anyway
penetration’s difficult
here in the hot tub.

whoever said sex
is good in a pool clearly
remembered their lube.

i’d better refresh!
emmie is on a haiku
tear again! *click click*

i had my handheld
till it fell in the water –
too much suntan oil.

i want to swim laps
long strokes, up and down the pool
teens collide with me.

basking in the sun
didn’t know that i could blog
from a swimming pool.

My ESP appears to be non-functioning. Please let me know with words what is bothering you. If you skulk around all sullen-like, I will just assume that your hemmorhoids are flaring up again.

if you do it now we can start celebrating waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay early.

yes.

it is absolutely perfect for you to buy me a variety of sexual paraphernalia to add to my collection instead of sending me flowers for my desk and stupid candy hearts with a too-cute teddy bear. after all, a dildo can be eaten over and over.

and it doesn’t even cause acne.

does anyone know where i can find a gold bikini like that one? or perhaps just a girl wearing one who will agree to be chained to my bed and occasionally feed me exotic bite-sized foods from little platters?

i am in fact such a geek that i alphabetized my dvd collection. it took longer than i expected.

do the star wars movies all go under “s” for “star wars”? or do the other two go under “e” for “empire strikes back” and “r” for “return of the jedi”? for that matter, does return of the jedi go under “e” for “ewoks will not make this movie the critical success it should be” or under “l” for “leia’s gold bikini somehow made the ewok thing worthwhile”?

honestly, it’s a damn good thing luke and leia are siblings. because he really does whine entirely too much for any woman’s own good.

don’t you fucking dare act like a stupid fuck and then when i get pissed off you turn it around to make it seem like i am the one who did something wrong.

oh wait, you’re a GUY. you can’t help doing that. but still… fuck right off.

the secret is, that they all hire each other.

when you see that home depot commercial where the wife goes out of town for two weeks and the husband spends that entire time remodeling the bathroom to be exactly the beautiful place she wants it to be while she thinks that he is only playing golf and watching television but when she comes home he looks at her and says

happy anniversary

and she hugs him really hard and says my very own sink! (which is actually a stupid line and a dumb response i mean he obviously deserves a five-hour long fuckfest after all that hard work)

and it makes you cry.

i don’t want to do
it anymore. however,
it is just too good.

now i remember.
when i left the house today
i left the fan on.

you didn’t get it
when you were a child. but i
still need it from you.

sleeping in the sand
the tide drapes across her like
a warm, wet blanket.

you look like you hurt
maybe it’s pleasure. maybe
you just need to sneeze?

that department really does closely resemble the pack of evil lions in the lion king.
all that i know is

it’s too cold
i’m too tired
it’s too early
there’s no really good explanation

for this.

i have a stash of money under my mattress that nobody knows about. and there is this guy that i want to take away somewhere warm with me for a few days. he knows that i do not have much money, because neither does he. but i want to go away with him so badly.

i wonder if i could use that money, since he doesn’t know about it, and tell him that i won something in a raffle somewhere. do you think he would believe me?

that you do projects in the order in which they are due? for example, today you should be working on things which need to be completed by tomorrow instead of something that is due three weeks from now. i understand that it’s more fun to do the other project, but we have these things called deadlines.

this is called prioritizing. look into it.

i went to the cafeteria at lunch today and they were serving this chicken stew with egg noodles. i love egg noodles so much. but i am trying not to stuff my face all the time so i wanted a little soup cup of it. i asked the girl for some, and she told me they only serve it on a plate. i said i would pay the same price, i just wanted less of it in a little soup cup. she eyed me weirdly and went off to ask her manager in some slavic language if that was allowed. he nodded.

so she grabbed this styrofoam container which is the type used for sandwiches and burgers, with the flip-top lid. i stopped her and pointed to the aforementioned little soup cup. i tried to explain that the soup cup has a lid and will not leak the stew out the sides like the burger container. she had to check again with the manager, who knows me, and he nodded again. i watched as she put the noodles in a soup cup and put on the lid, then handed it to me. i was about to say that i wanted some stew on it too, and realized she was putting the stew in another cup. she gave me two little soup cups and sent me on my way.

i had to take out some stew and put it on the noodles, so there was all this stew left over that i had to throw away. i only wanted one soup cup dammit. i mean we are all busy and eating at our desks here, and it has to be portable and not in any way messy!

i hate throwing away food, and i’m mad at her because she made me do it.

I was in line at the cafe waiting my turn to order coffee last weekend… I hate this cafe for several reasons. one, is that it is always full of old people who look askance at me and my weird clothes and hair. two, is that the owner likes to make up rules about ordering and she makes up prices for things on the fly. three, is that the owner is also very loud about the poor children of Ethiopia every damn time I am in there.

so, I am standing in line and there are three men in front of me. I would guess they were 45 somethings, good looking and with that bearing that white 45 year old guys who make a lot of money have.
what I was thinking was, I should like to be the mistress of one of them. yes, I would like to be a kept woman, a women fallen from grace, a women so blind to the proprieties of society that I would flaunt my position to all the world. and why not? men like that could surely afford to pay me for my favors. surely they would like to fuck my young(ish) nubile self.

I would be cheaper than a regular whore I think. all I really want if for someone to pay my car payments or something. there would be days that I would be ‘on call’ so they would be able to call me on their lunch break or when their wife went out to do the shopping. we would meet in a small hotel over by the airport maybe and have a little two hour frolic.

I think some of them would be a little sexually frustrated. their wives are conventional and won’t play the fun games.

“okay, now you pretend to be my slave girl and I have just caught your brother stealing”
and I would fall to my knees and sob and beg for my master to spare my brothers life. “I’ll do anything, please!”
and then he will rip off my coarse slave girls dress, turn me around and hold me up with one arm while using the other to unzip his pants…

maybe the word would get around and he would have a friend or two who also wanted to avail themselves of my services.

that would be good too.

sex with you, by king missile

sex with you is all i want.
sex with you and sometimes food is really all i want.
sex with you and sometimes food and maybe a movie or a play
is all i really want today
sex with you and sometimes food and maybe a movie or a play and sleep,
but not too much at all, is really all i want.
sex, food, movie, play, sleep…
shower, a shower with you and some shampoo would be oh so good.
sex with you and sometimes food and maybe a movie or a play,
some sleep, a shower and a shampoo with you is really all i want.
really.

… he sounds like a frog, and not a cute frog like Kermit, but like a big ugly warty diseased frog.

that the company sends out printed material which makes reference to a website without the http://? ‘http’ is a protocol. and without it, you did not just print a url. because your it department is too stupid to know what a complete url is.

like that one time where an it guy came up and asked to use my workstation to change his internet password. he typed in the url and it returned a 404 error. so he freaked out and asked to borrow my phone (!!!!) to call his helpdesk (the it guy has a helpdesk??) and check the address. when he finally figured out how to actually operate the phone, he told them that the address they gave him wasn’t working. they asked what happened when he entered it, and i said tell them it gives a 404. he ignored me and read aloud to them

http 404 file not found. the requested url was not found on this server.

i rolled my eyes and said again you could just tell them it’s a 404, they must know what a 404 is. and they put him on hold to go ask their supervisor who was probably also incompetent. the it guy said to me

what’s a 404?

and i tried really hard not to scream. they kept him on hold for five minutes, during which time i worked backwards through the hierarchy of the given url and located the correct page. then i told him to give me my phone back, change his shit, and get lost.

a week later a new it guy came up to back up my server. i asked where the old guy was and the new guy said he was fired because he was pretty dumb. i kind of chuckled and told him this story and i was incredulous that he didn’t know what a 404 was, and didn’t the new it guy agree? and the new it guy told me that hardware guys don’t really know the software because it’s not their job. and obviously he never surfs either, or else he uses aol, because he then asked me

so what is a 404 anyway?

there was a really cute intern who made a point of saying hi to me at the elevator today. i was taken aback because i didn’t know him and then i realized that he was in that meeting i went to last week. only last week he was wearing a khaki-colored v-neck sweater and chinos so i didn’t notice him. today he put on a slick hugo suit (charcoal) and wore a shimmery red tie with a crisp blue button-down shirt. and his hair was tousled in that very contrived casual way that is so common in soap opera leading men of my generation. it somehow made him more worth looking at, and i noticed his straight white teeth when he greeted me.

why didn’t someone explain to me the joys of carrying a tiny little $120 designer handbag like three years ago? because i spent all that time lugging around the big tote bag that contained my entire life and some furniture from my apartment.

And I said no I didn’t, and you said yes you did, you broke it, and I said no, I didn’t, it fell off when I picked it up, and you said no, you broke it and you’re going to pay for it, and I said that’s ridiculous, I’m not paying for it, and you said you will too because you broke it, and I said I did not break it, and you said here I’ll just take your keys from you until you give me the money for it, and I said no I won’t, give me the keys, and you said no, and I said *thwap* give me my car keys back, I want to go home, and you said I’ll just throw them in the pool *splash*, and I said *thwap* I can’t believe you, get them out for me, and you said if you hit me again there’s going to be trouble, and I said *thwap* whatever, give me my fucking keys now, and you said *BAM*, and my mouth bled and I said isn’t anyone going to help me, and your three friends said nothing, and the cop said I’d better drop it because I slapped your arm first even though I was the one who ended up bleeding everywhere.

completing a project is better than sex, even really good sex. that’s only because the orgasm lasts a few minutes though. i think if you could somehow tangibly capture an orgasm and keep it as a memento to look at later then you could stroke your own ego over and over. this is why i look at a new template every five minutes for the first three days after i put it up. i like to make things that people like to look at.

i am sure that if i were more talented with manual labor i would be some type of sculptor or landscaper or hairstylist. or maybe i would build model planes in my spare time and be one of those obsessive people that keep them in glass cases without any fingerprints anywhere. i’m so retarded i will eventually professionally bind my portfolio. complete with gilded pages and gold foil stamping on the spine.

having something tangible that speaks of your accomplishments is frankly the shit.

would you please shut the fuck up and let me do my job? because it’s mine and not yours. and it’s mine because i’m better at it than you.

go back to your stupid little desk now thank you.

I’m haunted by men. My first kiss. My first sex. My first punch in the mouth. My first abject humiliation. I latch on to the memory like a dog with a bone and search for names all over the internet, in known sex offender listings, in drivers license records, and I look and look for something to verify that I’m right and that you really are a fucking loser, even though I should know it by the way you so casually and completely ripped me to shreds. That was 10 years ago. That was 20 years ago. That was a lifetime ago. I can’t seem to remember how much of an asshole you are. All I can remember is that after that very first kiss I couldn’t even pee because of how hot I was.

The smell of shit and frustration permeates my nose. I hold a handful of fresh earth to my face and breathe deeply and just smell the decay beneath. The only other different thing that I can smell is my dirty underwear.

Which isn’t that bad, really.

purple.

yeah.

i dont like his voice or his face or his lips or his eyes or how he smells or what he thinks or how he fucks or how he thinks about me or how he lives his life or how he lived his life or what his future will be.

…and he fucking looks like shit in that outfit.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night in a cold sweat. I had had a dream in which I had blogged a very mean entry about someone and forgotten about it and then gave them the URL for the blog.
did I really do it? I wrote a really mean one about this guy I dated a few years ago and I wrote him an email recently. I wouldn’t have put my blog address in there would I? surely that would just be silly of me.

in the dream I sent off the email and the next day realized it suddenly when I saw an email from him in my inbox. before reading the email I franticly went to search through the archives looking for the post.
and all the archives for my blog were in cartoon form for some reason.
but then I opened the email and he had written “your blog is really cool although I didn’t much like the post about me.”

my heart sank.

i am all for people ‘traveling’ as a hobby. but dont make it the ONLY thing that makes you interesting please.

this is why i didn’t tell you, because i knew you would do this. you did it last time and you’re doing it again. i can’t handle it and neither can you. so why don’t you just go back in time and pretend it never happened?

because that usually works, right?

you guys are gonna be in new template heaven. no teal this time though.

just purple.