Saturday, December 31, 2011

Fairy Tale

Most girls romanticize their wedding day.
They imagine themselves smiling big, surrounded by everyone they love.
& everyone they love is dressed like they stepped out the pages of a fashion magazine.
They see gorgeous waiters and waitresses walking by with sparkling glasses of champagne and fancy hors d'oeuvres.
White linens and music.
Shimmering lights blinking against the evening sky.

I know something is wrong with me because this more accurately describes what I anticipate every new years eve.
(My vision of my wedding is a dismal affair full of drunk Latinos I don't know who my mother insists are my relations and my gown stained with barbecue sauce while my new spouse cries in the men's room, in case you were wondering.)

I blame the movies for this romanticized idea of what new years eve should be.
Dammit, how come no one in romcoms ever sits at home drinking Andre with their divorcee mother while she eats lucky charms straight from the box and thrills you with stories of the many elderly Jewish men who hit on her at the synagogue every Saturday? Because that's fucking reality. (Or mine, at least.)

Every new years eve is destined to be staunch failure for me since I have this idea in my mind every year that this will be THE year where I look fucking radiant in my cocktail gown and sip martinis in a room full of swanky strangers who adore me. What is wrong with me?

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Out of Touch

Perhaps taking my mom to see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo on Christmas Eve was a bad idea.

It's not that I didn't enjoy the movie, it's that it sparked something in her; the opportunity to use the film as evidence for her argument that people with tattoos are damaged, broken individuals who self mutilate rather than deal with their repressed issues.

& so the foundation was set for one not so merry Christmas conversation between my sixty year old mother and I:

Mom: Why do you do that to yourself? It's so ugly.

Me: Do what?

Mom: That. *Points at one of my tattoos*

Me: Oh, I like the way it looks.

Mom: I don't. I think it's ugly.

Me: So you've said. Mom, I can wear a sweater so you don't have to look at them.

Mom: One day you'll be my age & you'll regret having tattoos because you'll be ugly.

Me: I'll be ugly anyway.

Mom: Tattoos tell me that the person with them is depressed. That person is basically slitting their wrists but just getting tattoos because it's socially acceptable. They're emotional cutters trying to deal with repressed pain.

Me: Where did you get that? Is this because I took you to see that movie yesterday?

Mom: No. The doctor I work with said it & I've been thinking about it & I think he's right. You need to see a therapist to work through your issues.

Me: I'm fine. I'm not depressed, I'm not damaged. I just like tattoos.

Mom: People like you rationalize that you like tattoos to make it okay.

Me: & maybe people like you rationalize that the only people who get tattoos are damaged so that you can cope with a world run by a generation you don't understand.

Mom: What?

Me: You're old and stubborn. Instead of looking around and taking in the fact that tattoos are a social norm of my generation, you excuse us all as damaged and depressed instead of facing the fact your view of the world is no longer relevant. It's outdated.

Mom: If I'm wrong, tell me why people your age get tattoos?

Me: Your generation painted this picture of what we should be: what's proper, what's right, what's ideal. I think my generation thought your idea of what we should be was repressed and fucked up. It's counter culture.

Mom: Being counter culture is just another way of being part of the culture.

Me: Maybe so. But by us being counter culture, we've changed the whole look of someone in our generation and made it our own. We are abrasive, we're nothing like what you expected. & it's all because one person decided tattoos were cool and we all agreed.

Mom: I'm not having this argument with you. It's not worth it. I wish I were a better mother, maybe that's why you're covered in tattoos.

At the heart of this dialogue is the fact that more than not understanding my generation, I just think my mom doesn't understand me. I know this problem isn't unique to anyone; how many people can say their parents get them at all?

But you know, whatever.

It's still better than this past thanksgiving where our mom gave us her thanksgiving speech while simultaneously shooting herself up with insulin and telling us she thought her diabetes was spreading to her feet.

Merry Christmas?

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

All Over The Place

"& in the end, you have to put the individual ahead of their actions."

This was moral of Chasing Amy, a Kevin Smith film where our protagonist combats feelings of inadequacy when confronted by his beloved's slatternly past.

I'm going to be brutally honest to the point that I not only embarrass myself, but where YOU, my beautiful reader,  actually start to reconsider your opinions of me--and not in the good way.
I stalk the shit out of girls who once dated or fucked my boyfriend.
(& if you just so happen to be stalking me because I now date someone you dated or slept with; or because I have dated someone you once slept with/dated, or are currently sleeping with/dating--you have my permission to do a little touch down dance & thank Baby Jesus that you're not the only crazy fuck out there.)

Whenever these girls turn out to be complete 180s from myself (as I'd like to think so many are because I'm a gawddamn special snowflake), I start to wonder whether I'm even my boyfriend's type...
As you can imagine, this gives rise to insecurity (May I present to you, from the vaults of yore, Exhibit AExhibit B;).  So this film really resonated with me, is what I'm saying. I'm about to take a wide left turn, but before I do, here's why this paragraph is relevant: 

So to tie this all up in a nice ribbon before I move on, I'm going to say that whenever we date someone we should let their past stay in the past. Digging up the past & harboring resentments from acts long committed and dead can end relationships.

Here's the part where I go kamikaze: this doesn't just apply to relationships!
Aha! Way outta left field, what did I tell ya?

Ok, so I was in college the first time I realized something really important: sluts can be good people, too.
I say this with confidence as someone who was in a sorority & had intimate friendships with many a sorostitute, see definition 2, & as someone who was unfairly and wrongly accused of being a whore in high school.

Promiscuity is not and should not be considered a good indicator of whether someone is intelligent, has a good heart, or is a reliable friend.

& on a side note, it's really fucked up that in our society, we create this correlation between a woman's value and her chastity. Republicans, Conservatives, Fundamentalists--take note; the day this government tells me that I can't get access to birth control is the day me & all the unashamed sexually active women in this nation (AND the guys they're fucking) take the streets pitch forks & torches in tow. That's a cause I believe in, motherfuckers.

Anyway, where I'm really trying to go with this is to say that often times, we are illogical when it comes to judging the character of others; we make irrational conclusions about who they are based on the most illegitimate of criteria & rather than focusing on one negative and irrelevant aspect of a person, we should strive to take people on the whole.

To tie this into current affairs, I'd like to bring up the recent Lowe's controversy, wherein Lowe's pulled advertising from a tv show about Muslims in America after being bullied by Christian Supremacist groups, who fail to understand that being Muslim is not a good indicator of whether someone is a good American. The reality of a person's religion tells us nothing (despite what some may argue) about whether someone is a kind neighbor, a dutiful citizen, a valuable part of the community.

We are all a collection of mistakes and bad choices, I think we need to keep that in mind before we jump to undeserved conclusions about other people and ruin friendships, relationships, or even advertising opportunities.

Friday, December 2, 2011

places & adjectives

I once made a girl cry at a party. & then she left.
It was her party.

& though it may sound like a humble brag, readers, I want you to know that I'm not proud of this fact.

I'd like to back up and say that this exchange took place at Texas A&M University.
& if I may understate a fact about this school; there were when I went there, and still are, a lot of white conservative students. A lot of racially sheltered youth.

Case in point: the first friend I made at A&M was a Mexican girl from a neighboring town who later told me that she befriended me because she mistook me for a Black person and found the prospect of her first Black friend thrilling. I never asked her if she was disappointed when she found out I was also Latina, Afro-Rican, if you will. It goes without saying that she had not met all that many Black people prior to coming to college.
But I digress.

Getting back to the story I began this post with:
I made this girl cry because I knocked on the door of the restroom she was inside. As she exited the restroom & passed me, she called me ghetto.
I will never be sure why this unraveled me to the extent that it did.
But unravel me it did.

For some long forgotten reason, on this particular night in 2007, I was wearing a pleated skirt & a neck tie. I'm thinking all the Avril Lavigne jokes I endured that evening as a consequence of this fashion choice had worn down my patience and then this tiny white girl calls me ghetto...

I spun around so fast, I gave myself an acute whip-lash & before I realized it, I was shouting at her,
"Come back and call me ghetto to my face!"
She froze. Probably out of fear.
& maybe I could sense her fear.
I generally wouldn't classify myself as confrontational but I really carped the fuck out of this diem; I walked up to her, looked straight into her pretty green eyes & said, "Tell me to my face that I'm ghetto. And afterwards, tell me why. And it better be not be because I'm brown."

I'm not really sure what I'd expected from her in that instant.
Maybe I'd hoped she'd feel embarrassed or maybe I was looking for an apology.

I definitely didn't expect her to cry.
Or leave.
& I felt pretty shitty moments later when someone told me it was her house & her party.

The worst part is that I've come to realize that in that instant,
when I shouted in this strange girl's face,
pleated skirt & all,
I was playing into her expectations.
She'd unjustly called me ghetto. I'd suddenly become uncharacteristically confrontational.
I think being at A&M long enough had created a chip on my shoulder; a chip where I stored away resentment towards white people. Or maybe I was just a racist.

Anyway, lately I've been getting yelled at by a lot of Black women.
Sometimes, I'm baffled.
I retreat into my mind and retrace all my steps: I look for the exact place where I warranted their sanction.
(The most recent times, strangely enough, had to do with dogs).
In these instances, it's as though these women can sense my intimidation; comparable to the way bears can sense apprehension and menstrual blood.
My a fore mentioned non-confrontational instincts usually mandate that I do one or more of the following:
1. Not pee;
2. Apologize--prolifically;
3. Play dead (this one is generally reserved for actual bear attacks but I keep it as an option, just in case).

Once my aggressor is gone, I often shamefully recount to myself all the things I wish I'd said in my own defense. Or berate myself, "Must you be such an inexcusable little bitch?"
The most recent time this happened, as I was talking into a mirror pretending my reflection was my verbal assailant, I stopped when I realized that I'd called this girl ghetto (in my mind & to myself, of course).

I once heard someone I dislike say, "the ghetto is a place, not an adjective." At the time, I muttered something back about places and adjectives both being nouns and topped it off by calling her a cunt...
but in retrospect, there was something to what she said.

Ghetto is an ugly thing to call someone;
it's accusing groups of people of being inferior or less than people because they're impoverished.

Of all people, I know that poverty is not a fair way of measuring characteristics like kindness, good manners, or intelligence (though it CAN and often is a wonderful way of measuring perseverance).
I know this because both of my parents grew up in ghettos.
Both of them had to work twice as hard to fulfill their dreams and THREE times as hard to make sure that my brothers and I would be free to chase after our own dreams, unencumbered by obstacles like hunger or obligations.

The word, ghetto, was first used in Venice to describe places where Jews lived.
In World War II, it became a term used to describe camps where Jews were confined and often killed.

For me to use this word is doubly insulting to my parents because my mother is VERY Jewish.
So Jewish that she hates everything and her tears are actually ocean water from the Dead Sea.

But also, it's disgusting because ghettos were places where those who were considered to be less than people, to be vile and unworthy, were forced to live.

To call someone ghetto as an insult in the contemporary context is to presuppose things about their family background, to equate them with being less than a person, & overall, to say that the poor aren't people (insert overgeneralized Republican/GOP candidate joke).
Just thinking about it right now leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.

We can lie to ourselves & think it's just a word.
But in truth, this word has racial connotations. I've never heard anyone wield this insult against someone unless the person they meant to insult was more brown than they are.

I think that subconsciously we can all feel the ugliness of this word & that's why we lose our shit or become erratic when someone directs it as us. But acting out over this word should reassure anyone it's being hurled as an insult against of a few things:
1. The person who just called you ghetto is an ignorant cunt;
2. You've just made the wrong move. You don't go around killing people to show that killing people is wrong (unless you're Dexter, a vigilante, or the American legal system). In this same way, you can't beat a bitch for calling you ghetto--the moment you do, you know what happens? She's not just an ignorant cunt anymore, she's an ignorant cunt who's just become self assured that she was right to begin with.

Point being: I'm not going to say it anymore, damn it.

Just a thought

Have you ever noticed how babies all have the same deceptively cute button nose?

I've never met a baby who had an actual nose bridge.

I'm pretty sure it's because God knows we wouldn't like them so much if we knew how ugly their noses would be when they grew up.

Friday, November 25, 2011

TMFFS: Self Deprecation

Something I posted, via a secret group page between Fatty, Krusts, Gaga, & myself.

guys, remember when my bangs were growing out & what a weird time that was for all of us?...

Fatty: It still is.
           JK, Beef. :)

Me: Ha, I know! I really liked your first response though. You're so clever, beef. 

Fatty: Well I meant it haha. Gaga has me paranoid I am going to hurt your feelings now so I said jk. LOL

Me: This post was a joke. I meant to say something weird that would get you all to say mean things back. I thought it would be fun. lol

Gaga: OMG, what did I do?

Fatty: lol I love funny mean stuff. Do another one!

Me:  I once farted while we were all at the club. You guys were all standing close to me. It was so loud in the club that no one heard my fart. Bible.

...Drinking gives me gas.

Fatty: Lmao I am laughing in the walmart line. You are so stoooooopid.

...Life gives me gas.

Me: The board game from Milton Bradley?

Fatty: That too. 

Thursday, November 24, 2011

Gracias, Amigo

Dear Readers,
Today I'd like to say that I'm thankful for you guys.

I know I can be an over-opinionated, heinous, cynical bitch (and if any, this month has put the loyalty of my readership to the test) but thank you for reading anyway.

I don't know how it's happened, but November 2011 has proven to be my most successful month in terms of readership. My traffic sources are actual websites linking me and not google image results of people searching Jenna Marbles or photos of ball sacks--for the first time in a long time.

Well, really for the first time.

What I'm trying to say is: today while you're carving your turducken and surrounded by loved ones, just know that somewhere I'm thinking of you and anxiously waiting for all my family to pass out so I can sneak off to see the Muppets.

& if your family is anywhere near as dysfunctional as mine, know that as you're sneaking gulps of taaka in the guest bathroom, I'm doing the same thing somewhere and thinking of you, reader.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Public Twitter Arguments

This is my second public argument on twitter.
You can read the first, here.

It's worth mentioning that this argument is with the same young lady.
(Who is, in fact, a lady--even if I my disagreement with her beliefs runs deeper than the hole I once tried to dig to China. Oh, the things my brother was able to convince me to do when I was seven (& also, that never actually happened, I just put it there for emphasis)).
Also worth noting is the fact that as I was tweeting, I was still all pumped up from watching Red State (for an in depth review of the film, please read Justin Stoke's review on the same page). It's pretty safe to say that rather than blood, anti-fundamentalist sentiment was coursing through my veins.

The underlying concepts of this film, also touched on in my last post about a twitter argument, were how far the rights of free speech should extend, where the lines blur between religion and morality, but most importantly: that which we all have in common despite seemingly profound differences. I cannot recommend this film enough.

The film, as you may have gathered from everything I've already said focuses on the exploits of a fictional fundamentalist church congregation full of crazy fucks based off of an actual fundamentalist church congregation full of crazy fucks. I will not name this church because they feed off of publicity, regardless of whether the publicity in question is bad or not, & I will not be part of this vicious cycle.

But watching this movie DID make me think for a moment about those people.
You know, the guy standing just within shouting distance at the beach or the club during spring break. He's wearing a sandwich board that says, "REPENT," & telling everyone that they're going to Hell.
Or that group of students literally screaming scripture rife with words about sinning and Hell and repentance as you cross campus with your afternoon cup of coffee.
Thinking about these people, trying to motivate others to be part of their religious beliefs through intimidation prompted me to tweet:

--When people try to motivate others to embrace religion by talking about Hell and sins, I'm reminded of dictators gaining allegiance through fear.

To which, X responded:
--I guess when Jesus preached about Hell, repentance, an sins in the Bible it made him a dictator.

When she got no response (because I wasn't paying attention, not because I was indifferent), she followed herself up with:
--I don't care to force my beliefs on anyone, your life is an answer to the questions u ask and ur choice.
--Just don't act a fool when u stand before God on judgement day and pretend nobody told you. That's all.
--I guess I should be a fluffier Christian and tweet that God loves you. While that is true, He doesn't love our sins.
--I think it is naive to be fluffy about Jesus.
--And naive to think its an easy path to salvation. Doesn't everyone wanna be saved? I sure wanna live forever.
& finally:
--I think its naive to think our souls just die at the end of our life here. There's gotta be a creator. Its written in our hearts.

After seeing all these tweets aimed at me, I responded:
--Whoa, calm down, this is TWITTER.

& while I could have just turned this into a joke (as I am often inclined to do) & said, "your words, not mine," I guess I took this pretty personally. I then said:
--What I meant was that people should have faith founded on gratefulness & love, not fear.

& then I admittedly got pissed & said:
--Jesus wasn't a dictator but people like YOU who bully people into believing what you believe ARE.
(which maybe was taking things too far)

She then said, in answering my first response:

--lol well sure, but from my experience when my friend Jon died, I asked myself these questions and found redemption in Jesus.
--A bunch of saints have had similar encounters. The first level of our version of love is to be selfish. Like being afraid of hell.

& then I said:
Bringing your friend's death up to strengthen your point was a classy choice. I think this has gone too far. 

Looking back on it, I sometimes feel like it was fucked up for me to call her out on bringing up her friend's death. If there's one thing I regret from this conversation it's that I chose to make that move. Who am I to question the validity of her "I should be a Christian" moment?
My grandma found Jesus while she was in prison over the course of twenty years for turning tricks and shooting cops. That's not completely accurate but the point is that (if we do) we turn to God when we're ready for any of a number of reasons.
& I'm sorry for mocking hers.

But I'm not sorry for saying that this form of encouraging people to live Christian lives is perverse, at best. 
I, personally, have always found these despotic tactics to be flawed for this reason:
the way I view God is similar to the way I view my flesh & blood parents--
I know I make mistakes. I'm not the perfect child.
But I've always known no matter what that no one loves me more, believes in me more, provides for me more, no one celebrates my successes or laments my failures with me more than my parents.

Growing up, I did a lot of hard-headed shit.
99 percent of the time, these antics of mine were things that my parents had warned me against.
They knew better, & consequently, I knew better. They wanted to spare me pain, anxiety, embarrassment.
But I am & will ALWAYS be a devout student to the school of hard knocks.
I have to do things my own way. I have to do dumb shit & suffer the consequences of my actions: this is the ONLY way I ever learn anything.
& my parents understand that about me.
They respect it.
I know for certain that I've disappointed them by doing things this way, but my parents are always there when I've irrevocably fucked up and am not only ready to admit it but looking for a way to fix it.

It's in this same way that I navigate my relationship with God.

I seemingly ruin a lot of chances & opportunities that could be good for me only to find that in the eleventh hour, things turn out okay. Better than okay.
Often times I find that these haphazard mistakes of mine lead to wonderful opportunities. & it's like I can finally see the forest instead of just the trees. Sometimes the wonderful places I end up couldn't have happened but for the fact that I initiated some sort of calamity.
& I know that rarely this twist of luck has anything to do with me or my capabilities but rather everything to do with God.
I could go on & on about all the countless times this has happened for me, but for fear of getting even more off track, I won't.
Instead, I'll say this:
when I was small, I got caught all the time doing things I wasn't supposed to be doing.
Doing things my parents had explicitly forbid.
Whenever they caught me, before they could spank the ever-loving-Hell out of me, I'd whimper through manic sobs that I was sorry.
& they would say, without variance, "Are you sorry or are you sorry you got caught?"

My child brain couldn't comprehend the difference.
But there is one.
A big one.
There's a difference in being in disappointed with yourself for doing something you knew was wrong
being sorry that your actions have negative repercussions and consequences you have to answer.

To me, this is the same difference between having faith in God because you're grateful, because you understand that no one could or will ever love you as much,
and having faith because you're afraid that if you don't you'll go to Hell.

& I could be wrong for thinking that fear is an unstable foundation from which to build allegiance or faith.
I'm wrong about a lot of things, as it were.

Monday, November 14, 2011

I don't know how he does it

My boyfriend has a hi top.
He's a total babe but it detracts from his overall handsomeness.
High tops are horrible. On everyone. The only people that like them are:
--slutty hipsters;
--radical Black supremacists;
--other men.
& I was thinking about hi tops today.

Some famous high tops throughout history & pop culture:

a. Bride of Frankenstein:
A lot of elderly women also have this haircut.
My grandmother on my mom's side included.
I guess it was popular in their time.

b. Marge Simpson

c. Gerald from "Hey, Arnold!"

d. Don King

e. Amy Winehouse

f. Classic Troll dolls

g. Kid & Play

h. Gozer from Ghostbusters 1

i. washed up NBA players. (no picture needed, there are far too many to pick just one).

j.  David Bowie

But let's not forget; David Bowie still managed to marry Iman. So who really got the last laugh?

So...babe, if you're reading this,
what I'm trying to say is you're in odd company: most of these people are fictional characters, women, fictional characters who are women, and token Black men.
& David Bowie.

somehow you manage to pull it off.

& even though I'm keeping my fingers crossed that you'll shave it off, you're still the best damn little spoon there ever was.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011


I was asked to write about heartbreak.
Getting over it, more precisely.

Deep reflection on this topic brought to my attention that most of what I knew at one point about heartbreak I've blocked out.
But I will say this:
I've done some crazy shit in the name of heartbreak.

On one such occasion, my then off again/on again announced his intention to be off again to me right as I was leaving for a party. What did I do? I went to the party--as a mute.
You'd think I'd have just skipped the party, but if there was anything at the time that I felt would be worse than having to fake a smile and be surrounded by drunk people, it was having to sit at home, alone, and confront the fact that I was sinking (Metaphorically). And at the same time, I really didn't feel like having to be social; so I refused to talk. To anyone.
I spent the entire party gesturing at things and lifting my eyebrows to people who spoke to me directly. I led an entire room of people to believe that evening that I had taken a vow of silence.

Another time, I spent obscene amounts of money on a week long vacation to London only to spend the better part of nine days laying in my hotel room bed, sobbing into a pillow & relating the sorrows of my failed relationship to a roommate who didn't need to hear my shit.

In middle school, I once called a guy and made him listen to me throw away all the gifts he'd ever given me.

In high school, I told a guy I was pregnant.
I will never get over the shame I've wrought upon myself in that last sentence.
It was the biggest & worst lie I'd ever told & all this time later, the hairs on the back of my neck still stand up when I think about how low I stooped in that instance. Insult to injury: my fake pregnancy did not persuade him to take me back.

Where I'm going with this is that I am ill-qualified to give advice on many things.
Relationships being one of them.
Emotional stability being another.
The rational combination of the two, break ups, being a third thing that I know nothing inspiring or fresh about.

But I have been a party to a number of break ups.
& other people have told me things that got me through break ups.
& those who can't do, teach, gawddamnit so here I motherfucking go.

1. Above all, learn something.
The only good advice I've ever given anyone on this subject came out of mouth with a gust of cigarette smoke. I was admittedly, very drunk. The guy listening to my advice: also drunk. We were sharing a packet of cigarettes at around 4 am and he was going on and on about this girl that broke his heart a few months ago.
"I just thought I was going to marry her," and his voice trailed off.
Bear in mind that I was intoxicated. It is for this reason that I will only paraphrase what I told him.
Basically, if you reference all the mini-stories I told in those first few paragraphs, it is obvious that I was a horrible person to date.  Point blank: I was the kind of person that I now avoid.
Relationships, like most things, take practice. I firmly believe that we all fuck up our first relationships precisely because we don't know what we're walking into.
Every relationship I've been in, I've taken something away from. & the point is that you take something away to apply to the next person & to apply to yourself, in general.
So I'm telling this kid that I used to be fucking nuts about break ups.
I'm telling him that Mr. Flintstone & I's relationship changed me.
& the most important way it changed me was that when we broke up, I stopped needing to do crazy shit to get his attention. I didn't have to name-call, I didn't have to use social networking to tell the world about how he'd wronged me, I didn't obsessively call him to cry about how much I'd loved him.
What made Mr. Flintstone special is that I cared about him to the point that I didn't want to be crazy. I didn't    want to do anything to hurt him. I just wanted to be over him.
That was a first for me.
Through Mr. Flintstone, I learned that I didn't want to be a nut case, I wanted to move on.
Long time readers know Mr. Flintstone & I were on & off for 2 years, give or take. There were a lot of fucking break ups in that time but I walked away from all of those with dignity. At the end, I found that not being crazy over a break up didn't just benefit him, but I could make peace with the fact that I hadn't done anything that was going to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up out of pure shame every time I was forced to look back on it decades later.
Getting back on track, I think that with every break up, walking away smarter re-assures me (at least) that any emotional pain I may go through wasn't all for naught.

2. Don't pick your scabs.
This is practical world advice but also, a metaphor.
It's common sense that if you peel off a scab before it's ready, you'll take longer to heal & that wound will keep hurting.
In the metaphorical sense, I have been a notorious emotional scab-peeler.
Picking the scabs from a broken heart are apt to be things like:
--reading old love letters/texts/emails;
--thinking only of the good times in your relationship;
--watching movies about soul mates who almost break up;
--watching movies about break ups;
--watching romantic comedies;
--going to places that once had significance to your relationship;
--talking about your ex.
If it seems like that's a fuckton of things to avoid, it's mainly because it is.
But for a time, it's necessary. Otherwise you'll end up watching 500 Days of Summer on repeat for eight and a half hours and telling anyone who will listen about how you are Joseph Gordon Levitt. Trust me on this one.

3. Come to Jesus
This is probably a misnomer. My mom became Jewish when my parents started having marital issues. You can turn to God for anything.
But I've digressed far enough.
This section actually has nothing to do with religion except that it's catchy.
As explained under Rule 1, once upon a painful time, I had never romantically cared for anyone more than I cared about Mr. Flintstone. Then one day, this kid with a horrible high top came to San Antonio & he didn't have shit else to do so we hung out. This guy made me laugh. This guy listened to all my stories & thought my jokes were funny. This guy had an elaborate conversation with a crackhead who wanted to tell everyone about how you could rent bikes downtown and that the basket on the bikes was for beer. He liked the same things I liked. He didn't even make fun of me for sitting in whatever that was that stained the back of my jeans.
& then he left.
For days, I couldn't stop thinking about him. I talked to my friends about how that afternoon was unlike anything that had ever happened to me. I said that I thought that was what relationships were supposed to feel like.
At our best, Mr. Flintstone & I had never come close to that chemistry.
It was the straw the broke the camel's back & I ended up leaving Flintstone pretty soon after.
Not specifically so that I could be with that other guy (although, admittedly, that kid was Solo), but because I'd had a "Come to Jesus" moment & realized that I wanted & deserved more from my partner than what Mr. Flintstone & I were capable of achieving together.
For me, each of my break ups has been slightly more painful & each of my exes, I cared for more than the last. It always amazes me to think at the end of a relationship how much I am capable of caring for someone and at the same time scares me to think that if my past patterns ring true, how much more I will care.
Take this knowledge with you & know that as much as you may have loved your ex, you are capable of loving someone else so much more (& you probably will).

4. Believe everything your friends have ever said about your ex.
There were times in my past relationships where I'd be crying to Darlene on the phone & she'd stop me to say, "You do realize he sells pot & works retail?" (Boy can I pick 'em)
The moment you break up with someone is the PERFECT time to take them off their pedestal & acknowledge everything you never liked about them. (Do this, because, if they dumped you they already did this to you long ago).
Sometimes I'd get frustrated with Darlene for talking so much shit about my boyfriends but at the end of every relationship, I realized she was making some very valid points.
I think an important part of the healing process is not to look down your nose at someone or belittle their accomplishments but to stop romanticizing them. Which I guess would have been a sufficient name for this section but potato potawto (w added for emphasis).
No one is perfect. Surely you can think of at least THREE dipshit things they did that gave you pause. & go from there. When you finally stop romanticizing, my experience has been that that guy (girl) you once thought was so fucking special could easily be replaced with most homeless people--they will do anything for $5 and a place to sleep. Often times, they can even be replaced with people who have a place to live! Or a job! Or people who will walk your dog for you when you're watching your favorite show but your dog wont stop dragging his ass across the carpet. The possibilities are limitless!
But really, there are 7 billion people on this planet. Just think about it: the odds are in everyone's favor that all over the world, there are people into the same stuff you're into. People who laugh at the same stuff that makes you laugh. People who like the same flavor ice cream. Whatever it is.
I don't think I'm getting any closer to what I'm trying to say which is this:
I firmly believe that the only people in our lives who aren't replaceable are those who never give us an opportunity to replace them.
& I DID just make that up, suckers.
I smell bumper sticker writing in my future.

5. Don't be motivated by jealousy.
I have fallen prey to this one many a time. Post break up, I'll drive my self positively cray-cray wondering:
what if he meets someone else?
& then what if he takes HER to see that Gwyneth Paltrow movie I wanted to see about the family who adopts all those babies that can talk? Because he told me he didn't want to see it. What makes her so gawddamned special???
& thoughts of my ex lover whisking his new bird to the regal cinema 18 to see Gwyneth Paltrow raise genetically engineered babies from space AND buying said bird popcorn will haunt me for days. weeks even. I'll wake up sweating from nightmares where he asks her to pass him the box of sour punch kids and their hands accidentally brush in the dark.
Don't do it.
You know why?
Because the asshole you dated is going to be the same asshole no matter who he's (she's) dating. For a while at least. People change but they RARELY change over night.
THIS IS A FACT. Your ex will not be a better boyfriend (girlfriend) to the person after you (unless YOU were the douche. In which case, they probably will. BUT if you were a good partner & they flaked on you, they will continue being the same flake they always were until they either get sick of themselves or die alone).

6. Everything passes, eventually.
I read this in Eat, Pray, Love & seriously if there were a 6(b) on getting over heart break, it would be to read that book because Elizabeth Gilbert knows her shit. Digressing. Getting over a broken heart can take a long time & only you know when you're ready to move on & when you're capable of it. Until then, comfort yourself knowing that ALL PAIN, ALL EXPERIENCE is temporary. Even heart ache.

7. This is just one piece of who you are. 
A relationship should just be one piece of your happiness.
You have so much more going for you than your partner. Bible.
Logically, the demise of a relationship should just be one part of your unhappiness.
Seriously, there are going to be days and circumstances that suck so bad.
& rather than thinking that all of this is happening to you as you're going through heart break, think about all the energy you're wasting being depressed on this one thing when you've got such bigger shit to deal with.
Easier said than done.
Put another way, or really a completely different direction altogether,
don't be me.
Don't be that girl crying in your bed in London instead of out seeing a play at The Globe Theater.
Don't spend all afternoon smearing mascara into your pillows instead of walking Abbey Road and shopping your ass off with your friends.
Don't sit in your hotel room alone, spending all your gawddamned money trying to make expensive long distance phone calls just to find out if he's fucking someone else instead of spending all your money underage drinking with all your whoadies in LONDON.
May I repeat, for the cheap seats: LONDON.
I regret that everyday.
& the worst part is: it wasn't his fault. I could have been out having a baller time if I had just gotten my ass out of bed and brushed my gawddamn teeth. If I had stopped crying long enough to realize I was wasting my life.
Refer back to section 6 for a moment.
They are so fucking precious.
Your life.
Every second you spend crying is a moment, a fraction of your already too-short life THAT YOU WILL NEVER GET BACK.
I will never be twenty again, off in a foreign country without my parents for the first time, with a pocket full of   money I could blow on whatever, with a group of people I really liked. That's gone. That was 2008.
Don't do that to yourself.

8. Do what you need to do to let go. & then do it. 
In breakups, people talk a lot about closure.
It's a legitimate concept.
Once, I accidentally engaged a fellow law student in a conversation about her ex boyfriend. It was the first time I'd ever really talked to her but she was telling me how he cut her off cold & she never got to say all the things she wanted to.
Things left unsaid can really fuck with you.
So I suggest saying them.
But not to your ex.
Because you never know how they'll respond or if they'll even bother to.
Instead, I suggest writing what you need to say somewhere only you can read it.
Or to a therapist if you can afford it.
Or to your friends.
I once wrote an email to a douche bag ex.
I never sent it but even just being able to say what I'd wanted to, I felt better.
& the next time we spoke, it honestly felt like I'd already gotten my closure.

& that's all I know, guys.
Try not to judge me for all the dark, embarrassing things I've divulged about myself in this post & know that I only revealed those things out of love for a dear, dear friend who took the time to send me a blog request (unlike the rest of you ungrateful fucks--just joking!).
Happy Tuesday.

Monday, November 7, 2011

Rant: No Shame November

For those of you who have a twitter or are friends with hipsters (whatever, I'm not here to judge), you may recognize the title of this post as a play on No Shave November; a Western World movement where men let their facial hair get luxurious and unruly and which I'm sure my boyfriend will use as an excuse not to get rid of his gawddamned high top.

Wow, that sentence was long.

Anyway. Today I had a semi-shitty day
(I'm getting back to that No Shame November thing in a minute, if you'll bear with me).

I had to leave my weekend with Solo to return to reality. Or something like it.

On my way back, I almost got into two separate accidents.
The first: The car in front of me on the highway is going ridiculously slow, I check my blind spot to switch lanes, look back in front of me & the car ahead of me has slammed on their breaks (for no reason, it seemed). I come within what seemed a mere inch of hitting them but pull into the shoulder lane instead, just in time.

The second: I notice a car full of teenage boys all with shaved heads coming up fast behind me. Before I can accelerate, they pull out from my lane. I relax. Though the lane they are in is clear, the crazy fucks switch back into my lane. They pull up so close to my car that I have to break to not hit them. I honk. The boy in the left hand back window seat flicks me off. The boy on the right hand back window seat climbs out of the car, sitting on the window ledge, and flicks me off while leaning on the top of the car. I laugh. The kid on the right keeps flicking me off. I flick him off. Their car pulls into the lane to my right, slows to my speed and rolls down the driver window. The kid in the passenger seat points his rifle at me. I shrug (not because I wasn't actually afraid because seriously, car full of white kids all with shaved heads, my first thought was skin heads, & that's some frightening shit to me, but because it was just my first reaction). Anyway, they exit a couple of yards later.

Way to fucking go, America. Our future looks bright.
Just when I was starting to think that the world needs guns to protect ourselves from the crazy fucks who drive their car through a Luby's and shoot everyone there, I'm reminded that we wouldn't need guns to protect ourselves if crazy fucks weren't allowed to get guns in the first place.

Then I came home & there was a cockroach in my bathroom. & you guys know how much I hate cockroaches.

& to top everything off, I ordered a blizzard from dairy queen on my drive back & only the top quarter was actually flavored, the other three fourths was just vanilla. What kind of shit is that???

I've honestly gotten way off topic.

I mean for this post to sort of a prologue for things to come.
The next few posts I'm about to write are (loosely) about racism, heartbreak, and constitutional rights.

The fact that I'm tackling such heavy topics makes me uncomfortable & is largely the reason why I haven't published in a little while (that, and laziness).
The reason I'm calling this month, No Shame November, is because I'll probably say things that will make me unpopular. I can live with that.
Don't worry, readers, I'm not planning on taking my blog in a new direction despite the fact that my November line up seems bleak. I'm just having a harder time coming up with dick jokes.

Monday, October 24, 2011


Scene:  Driving with my brother, Ray, & my mom. Listening to the 90's station on xm radio. Song comes on with techno beat & Guatemalan flutes.

Ray: *starts singing Catholic Church hymn*
Me: ...what are you doing?
Ray: This song has Catholic Monks singing on it.
*Catholic Priests begin singing*
Me: ...what? This is so weird. What's happening?
*As part of song, women whispering in French, flutes, techno beat, & Catholic Priests still sounding*
Ray: The 90's were a tough time, Lauren.
Me: How do you even know this song?
*sounds of whales join song*
Ray: Mom used to have this CD.
Mom: I never had this CD.
Ray: Yeah you did. & the music video was all coyotes running through the desert & waterfalls.

You used to play this & the Enya CD all the time when we lived in Virginia.
Mom: Oh yeah! That trip where Lauren threw your shoes out of the car window.
Ray: ...& then I got beat.
Mom: *laughs*
Me: Wait, did that really happen?
Ray: You were always getting me beat when you were little. If you didn't like the taste of your cereal, I got beat.
Me: Ha!
later on, my brother, mom, Solo, & I sat down to dinner where I relayed this conversation to Solo.
My brother promptly found the song on his phone & played the first 30 seconds or so before turning it off & saying, "Well, if you can imagine another 4 minutes of that, that's the song."

Thursday, October 20, 2011

I said

I am not taking my life seriously enough, I said.

Fatty has lately been doing this thing where she'll end sentences with, "I said."
I'm almost positive that every time she does this, she's never actually said the thing she's claiming to have already said.
I asked her once if she were narrating herself.
"Maybe I am, Maybe I'm not."
This could all be a clever Fatty ruse to see how much attention I pay when we talk.
Or she could be a mumbler.
Or she might be narrating herself.

Anyway, I was just narrating myself. Just then. That first sentence.

Because that's how serious I am about this.
That concept deserves narrating.
I am not taking my life seriously enough.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

TMFFS: Running Shit

A friend of mine, Bammy, is expecting.

Today, the fab4 suggested names for said fetus via facebook:

Me: tequoia shaquille or d'evantre shaquille (the middle name is unisex).

Bammy: you are on meth!

Fatty: I will call it Shaq either way.

Bammy: No!!!!

Krusts: No no, shaquita or lavonte.

Fatty: So many options!

Me: Bammy, you are loved. We are all pulling together to come up with the absolute worst names, evar. It's all for you, friend, it's all for you. ♥

...& also: shaquita sounds like taquito. In honor of this conversation, I'm going to name my first born taquito; don't steal it, Bammy!

Fatty: We. Are. Funny.

Bammy: Didn't know ya'll were hitting the dewbie during break!!! I think we have this covered. No help needed. But I'll let you guys know!!!
& poor taquito. Can you give the boy a normal middle name so he can get a job?

Me: taquito shaquille

Fatty: taquito IS normal in San Antonio.

Krusts: Shoot, with a name like taquito he won't need a job!

Bammy: So then what is he going to do, Krusts?

Krusts: He'll run the game, duh! I'm not sure what the game is but I hear lil wayne talk about it so it must be legit.

Bammy: lol, Oh OK!


these are my friends, you guys.

Without a dope beat to step to

I'm sorry that my posting has been a lot less frequent and a lot more sporadic than it was over the summer months.
It's weird: I waste so much time but still am always prevented from doing things I'd like by guilt over the fact that I have things I'm supposed to be doing. Mainly studying. Or slutting it up with Solo. Or doing whatever inane work Solo finds for me as his album release draws nearer (yeah, I'm looking at you!).  Essentially, I'm too busy being guilty about all the things I'm not getting done to actually get anything accomplished.

I have a really great post I'm working on.
It's going to be long.
Full of words.
Seriously, it's going to be some poignant shit.

But, as of now, it's still in the draft phases.

In the mean time, I'd like to say that when I'm on my period, everything pisses me off.
For example, in my 8am course, a student up front was wearing a clown shirt. Like the kind from French films.
This tormented me for the entire two hours.
I was enraged.
How dare she wear a French clown shirt to school!

What an ass hole.

Why this upset me so, I'm still not sure.

Anyone considering law school as a next step or option for the future, be warned: these people will not tell you when your clothes are stupid. Trust no one. These people are out of touch with reality.

I'd like to conclude this shitty post with the following:
I acknowledge that it has been a long time & I shouldn't have left you, without a dope beat to step to, step to...

Thursday, October 6, 2011


Once upon a time, I sent Fatty a text that said nothing but Bee Eff Eff.
It was supposed to be the phonetic spelling of BFF.
Fatty texts me back & is all, "what about it?"
& I'm all, "what about what?"
& she's like, "beef."
& I'm like, "No, I was calling you bff. Not talking about beef."

& so we chanced upon our first best friend nickname; ever since, we've started almost all our texts, conversations, and addressed any and all birthday cards to each other as beef. It's also the caption on most of the pictures we take together.

Anyway. So Fatty has this other best friend, Kitty. Kitty's cool.
She's engaged to this really tall, burly guy. & over lunch the other day, I said, "It's weird to me that Kitty met her fiancee online. She's a pretty girl."
& Fatty was like, "You're so dumb! Kitty didn't meet him online! They met in Vegas! My chicken's really spicy: taste this."
& I said, "I swear you told me they met online. That is spicy."
& Fatty starts cracking up. I don't know why she's laughing. But she's laughing really hard, so hard people are starting to look, so hard that I'm starting to feel uncomfortable. So I ask, "What's so funny, damnit?"

& Fatty's like, "A lot of times I laugh because in my mind, I make up a story. So you said that you thought Kitty met her guy online & I was just imagining her online profile: turn ons--house music, turn offs--man boobs."
This made Fatty laugh even harder.

Later on, via facebook, I told her:
I'm going to set up a fake account as you on
Interests: Pickled garlic, ironing, making dolls out of hair.
Dislikes: Reality shows about birthing.

& she said: But I don't even like to iron.

& I then said: Oh, but you like pickled garlic & hair dolls?

& she said: Ha! & you call yourself my beef.

She cracks me up everyday.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011


I've always, for as long as I can remember, loved October.

I am in love with this month.

I spend all year thinking about October and I adore every second that I'm allowed to live while it's October.

I hope I die on November 1st (in the non-foreseeable future, obvi) because I love October that much.

I guess I've always been quirky.
I absolutely adore the macabre.
Bats, Ghosts, Monsters. <--Every year, I buy at least one thing that I'm going to keep in my house as decoration that's Halloween themed. I almost bought a plush little bat pillow from target the other day.

It's so cute, I might get it anyway. Just for fun.

Anyway. I was trying to trace back my love of this month. 

I thought for a moment of watching Beetlejuice cartoons on Saturday mornings, or when I first saw the Nightmare before Christmas. 

But after some deep consideration, I realized I've always loved October because:

I'm just going to come out & say--my family has from time to time been pretty fucked up.

To say my parents' marriage was, by any stretch of imagination, a happy one would be a LIE. 
To say my brother & I were ever close before 2010 would be a LIE.

But we always came together in October. 

To me, October is memories.

It's when my parents would turn our fold out couch into a bed and cover it in pillows and blankets and the four of us would curl up together in the dark and fall asleep watching scary movies. 

It was my parents' matching cavemen costumes that they'd wear while they passed out candy in our front yard. 

It was camping trips.

It was the one time every year when I'd get to spend the whole night with my big brother & we'd trick or treat.

It was candy apples & my dad taking me to the circus.

It was dumping out our candy onto the carpet and sorting through our treasures together. Mom & Dad would pick out the ones they wanted & my brother & I always shared. 

It was when my mom would bake pumpkin pie. It was trying every year to bake pumpkin seeds but consistently failing.

In Germany, it was when we'd pick apples together and go to the farm far away to pick one big pumpkin to bring home & carve. I still remember falling in the mud every year because my boots would get stuck in the thick mess. 

I could go on. But I think what I'm saying is that October was the one time every year when I could count on my family to be a family. & I love that. 

To this day, I still get excited when grocers put out their big bins full of pumpkins. Or when I catch the scent of pumpkin pie scented candles at department stores. 
I just get overly enthusiastic about this time of the year, & I hope you'll forgive the next 25 days of me rambling about haunted houses and scary movies and scary television shows and blah! I love October!

But I've loved October even before then

Friday, September 30, 2011

Things Couples Do

Me: ... okay, I know this is a movie so reality is thrown out of the window, but I think it'd be weird if people actually said stuff like this.
Solo: yeah, I guess it would be...

Me: wow; she has a gigantic bruise on her leg... ah, that sounds painful! Look at her face, I bet her jaw is sore & her gag reflex is being stimulated simultaneously.
Solo: ...

Me: He CANNOT be comfortable with his back pressed up against those stairs like that.
Solo: Wow, I wouldn't have thought of that. That must be uncomfortable.

Me: eww! Is that really what it looks like!
Solo: I hate close ups!

Me: Is this what you normally do?
Solo: No, usually I select a video a lot faster.
Me: So...
Solo: Well I was trying to be considerate.
Me: Aww, how thoughtful... that guy is REALLY hairy & he's not even in the shot.
Solo: It's not about him.

Solo: ... the sound isn't matched up with the visual.
Me: oooh.  I was wondering where that clapping was coming from...

Thursday, September 29, 2011


There's no way to go about this post without putting someone on blast.
Last weekend, my ex boyfriend & my current boyfriend celebrated their respective birthdays.
No big deal.
In the same city.
Kinda weird.
On the same gawddamned street that everyone who goes to Austin, TX celebrates on.
Only a little bit awkward.
Or a lot a bit.

Anyway, on my end, maybe I made the mistake of ever having said, "Happy Birthday."
Fair enough.
To which my ex responded with something along the lines of, "I'm sorry for how things ended & I miss you."
& though I fumbled for the right response but could come up with nothing better than saying thank you, what I found to be the most frustrating is that I had so much to say.
Five months ago.

At any given point in time over the course of two years, the window of opportunity for which came to a close this past May, an apology would have been relevant.

& what's sad is that I wanted this apology. I wanted him to say exactly what he said.
Maybe a little too much & admittedly for the wrong reasons.
I wanted to hear him tell me that he regretted the way he treated me because my pride was bruised.
Because my ego & I would hypothetically get a kick out of it.
Because I wanted to hang the fact that I was long gone in his face.
Because I wanted to wear his regret and strut around in it and be a gigantic bitch about the whole thing.
& maybe I lied just now when I said I had things to say back in May: I guess I thought I always wanted to say, "HaHA!" or "Omygawddd, it must suck so bad to be you."

But when the moment came & I FINALLY got what I thought I wanted, I realized that ever having wanted validation was so dumb.

I think we both lost on this one: validation didn't feel like I thought it would & he put his "feelings" on the table to find them unrequited & moreover to find that no one really gave a shit.
Which makes me think that there is definitely a cut off point for apologies. You can be so far out from an event that your apology makes no difference.

I've always been one to give a person an apology via email or awkward hallway exchange years after the fact & now I'm thinking that better late than never is a lie in some instances. I think in some instances, the correct idiom might be not to drag a dead horse. Or something like that. That's a popular idiom, right?


I have been useless all day.

I've been at school but I've learned nothing. read nothing. done nothing but play on the internet.

The top button on my blouse keeps popping open & I spent the last 45 minutes making an elephant out of pipe cleaner.

I've been irreconcilably silly all day; posting random shit on my friends' facebooks & facebook creeping on strangers. That last part wasn't really part of that thought but I thought I'd throw it in (also, I used the words part & thought twice in that sentence).

Anyway, I asked Fatty a little while ago:
If guns don't kill people, people kill people
then do toasters not toast toast, toast toasts toast?

To which she responded, "you are so profound."

I thought her response was funnier than my joke.

I was absent once last week & Fatty text me to tell me,
"the guy who just got called on is named Mr. Taint & you missed it."

Earlier today, my friends told me I'm not "parent safe" by which they mean they wouldn't trust me to meet their parents.
They all know me so well.

I've been off my game so much lately. I keep starting posts and then tossing them out because they, like this post, are not that great. I need more funny things to happen to me soon.

Or more profound things. Whichever.
Please forgive me for not having my shit together.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Rant: Good Deeds

I have some very good friends who are very good people.
But sometimes, when these friends would talk about how they won scholarships for all their community service, when they would post pictures of starving strays that they picked up on the side of the highway & took home to feed before taking them to a shelter, when they brag about how they taught indigent children living in squalor in South America how to grow their own corn, I often felt the urge to punch myself in the face.

& I would wonder: is this jealousy? Do I feel this way because I wish I was as good a person?
Would I feel better if I saved a dozen nuns from a burning bus that was about to roll off a cliff?

I'm not sure. & probably jealousy might be part of it.
But the other part is a theory I've been exploring lately & it is this:

There are those among us who do community service for the sake of their own vanity.
This theory isn't completely mine, I came across it while reading The Picture of Dorian Gray.
Some people only do good things to prove to themselves and others that they're good people.
Or maybe they really are good people. I don't know.

No matter what the reason, the world needs more volunteers & even doing something unselfish that's motivated by selfishness arguably benefits everyone involved.

But I still can't help but feel that we should all be able to contribute to society without feeling the need to brag about it.
Once upon a time before facebook, people used to do community service because they knew they could be a part of something bigger than themselves, and this realization was fulfilling without having to seek validation from others.

I wonder if we'll all ever get back to that.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Catch a tiger by the toe

A lot of people don't think of moving into a new apartment as a spiritual experience but over the course of this weekend, I've learned that if you ever want to feel alive the simplest solution is to either jam your toes into a blunt object or drop something heavy onto them.
No feeling has ever coursed through my body so fervently as the pain associated with jamming my toes into whatever solid objects were laying around my apartment.

I say spiritual not because I got high from all the fumes of the various cleaning products I employed to clean up my old apartment (which, I admit, may nonetheless have happened), but because when you're moving heavy boxes of your shit around, you've got a lot of time to to think...or maybe not. Maybe my wandering mind is the reason my pinky toe has turned blacker than coal.

Either way, I learned a lot this weekend & I think it's been good for me. A lot of things have been brought to my attention, things like:
--If you don't make lists of all the shit you don't have now that you've moved, you will make several trips to the grocer only to find you forgot something else...I still don't have paper towels.
--Dusting is absolutely necessary. My life was immersed in dust and I had no idea until I suddenly had to pick up every single item I owned. So, so much dust. I thought I was living inside your mom's cooter for a moment... but I wasn't (Ha, just joking! I just wanted to make sure I still had your attention...& also: Burn!).
--After the fact that you've dropped a canister of clear thumb-tacks into the carpeting while barefoot is a horrible time to be uncertain of the currentness of your tetanus vaccinations.
--Once again, toes are very very vulnerable.
--Taking naps will impede your progress.
--When the well is dry, we know the worth of water. Benjamin Franklin said that and let me tell you now, just how important it is to be precognitive of the fact that you will need toilet paper and trash bags.
--There are some things thumb tacks cannot hold up. Many, many things, as it were.
--Smaller apartments necessitate less furniture. I feel like I'm in a cleaner episode of hoarders. It's actually not that bad but I hope to never have more than two guests at a time or else we'll all be breathing the air directly from one another's mouths.
--It's easy to let your imagination (and paranoia) get the best of you when you move into a place by yourself for the first time after a year. Today Shakespeare and I both thought someone was inside our apartment. We came out of the bathroom draped in a towel and wielding an umbrella as a weapon only to find that the intruder was actually just the sound of thunder muffled from the bathroom door being closed and from having my Pandora on in the background. & when I say "Shakespeare and I," I actually just mean "me" since Shakespeare sensed no danger at all and kept napping on the rug while I panicked.
--It is never okay to nudey skype your boyfriend without first putting up curtains. Their are children on your floor, I guarantee it.

Saturday, September 17, 2011


I read once that in the winter, porcupines are faced with a conundrum:
they can either embrace the chilling temperatures or cozy up to a fellow porcupine.

As you can imagine, porcupines can only take being impaled by one another's quills for so long before each respectively says to himself, "Fuck this," and goes off to brave the winter's cold alone.

 Often times, though, they return to their snuggle buddy (or a new one) to try again, only to fall back into the same pattern of self-perpetuating destruction. Or whatever. I may have embellished that last part.

The point being, I liken myself to the porcupine.
-->& not just because we both have crazy hair.
But because I have a tendency to shun that which could actually be good for me and opt, always instead, to try to go it alone.
Case in point, in 24 years, I've dated TWO men who have actually treated me right. The first of which, regrettably, never really matured into much until the opportunity had casually and calmly slipped away and moved itself to North Carolina. I chose, instead, to spend two years in a relationship where I was basically alone but still savoring that independence and the comfortable distance it afforded me.

I'd like to think I can attribute this baleful behavior to the fact that I am afraid of pricks (which was both a pun on this porcupine thing I'm working on and also prick as in douchebags...but not literal douchebags. semantics). Do I crave to be near not just someone, but moreover, someone like me? Yes. But in metaphorical terms, I can't because of this inane fear of being hurt.

& let me tell you, my fear of needles has pushed me to implausible heights: for example telling someone with the best intentions, "Stop being so nice to me; Stop kissing me so much; You don't have to call me everyday," not to mention, this fear has prompted me in the past to switch birth controls. But I'm getting off topic.

& so I prompt another porcupine to say to himself, "Fuck this," by my own will only to find later that I miss his warmth and to stare into the face of the fact that I will most likely die alone buried under four feet of snow after getting frozen onto a log I didn't know was wet while searching for berries.

This got depressing fast.

Something I really liked

My good friend, Johnathon--who runs the world's CUTEST blog-- left a link as a comment under Companion Piece to a photo that accurately* depicts PMS. I just really liked the picture & couldn't help but share.
The picture is from which I browsed & found sufficiently entertaining.

I'd like to go on the record & say that I liked this picture not only because it describes, for me*, what the spiritual journey to the 28th day of the month can be like but also because sometimes I've found that I am prone to behaving this way despite the fact that I am not PMSing.

Anyway, Johnathon's blog is very wholesome, on top of being adorable, & I highly recommend that you take some time to make your heart smile at his blog.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


While re-reading the post published immediately before this one, or Companion Piece, if you will, I realized I'd left something out.

The fact about girlfriends I'd left out was so important, so mammoth a fact, that it metaphorically round house kicked me to the ovaries.

It was so important that I'm incorporating this addendum in hopes of concluding this now three part series on my knowledge and experience (and clearly lack thereof) on the dating realm at a more honest place.

The fact about girlfriends that I over-looked was this:

Girlfriends queef.

Whenever it happens, if you could lessen our embarrassment by refraining from asking, "was that a fart?" it would be appreciated.

For the record, no one I've ever known has tried to deny farting by asserting it was a queef. But I'm getting off topic.

I now feel like I've better equiped my male readers to go forth and date women.
No need to thank me, just doing my civic duty.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Companion Piece

I'm calling this post Companion Piece because it is a follow up to a post I wrote last month about boyfriends: The Truth about Boyfriends. Shortly after The Truth About Boyfriends was published, I was asked by a friend, who is also a member of my very small circle of readers, to write a follow up to this post but from the alternate perspective; ie, The Truth About Girlfriends.

At first, I was over-joyed at the idea of having a blog concept handed to me. As a sidenote, readers, I LOVE THIS. If you ever have anything you'd like for to me write about, ANY THING AT ALL, please let me know & I'll do my best.

But anyway, while planning for this post, I was very soon confronted by the fact that, never having had a girlfriend, I was not sure what to say about dating girls. So, while thinking of ideas, I consulted a Lesbian friend of mine. My own theories on Western girlfriends were (a la Elizabeth Gilbert) that the Western woman comes off as crazy because of the choices she's confronted with that at one point in time were not available to her gender in this country. My Lesbian friend's response to this was something to the effect of, "No, shut up. Why are you trying to make this so complex? Wasn't your post on boyfriends overly simplified?"

& she was right.

So my beautiful, intelligent, special lady readers, please forgive me for the following:
--I will be over-simplifying our gender;
--It might be funny and stereotypical;
--Everything I write is limited solely & purely to my own experience as a girlfriend and as a friend of girlfriends (as it would be impossible for me to poll all the Western women on the planet to get their input. Maybe not impossible but I still don't want to).

Let's proceed.

In Rant: The Truth about Boyfriends, I put forth the theory that almost all problems you have with your girlfriend can likely be resolved under one of the following three concepts:
I stand by this theory and will elaborate.


As a boyfriend, you are expected to:
(A) Introduce your girlfriend as "My girlfriend, (insert her name here)" to any and ALL women you interact with on a weekly basis and YOUR PARENTS. Your failure to adhere to this rule will get you in trouble.
(B) Remember holidays, birthdays, and special occasions and give her some sort of token (or gesture) that re-assures her you have not forgotten.
(1)These tokens may range from the very casual verbal gesture to the very expensive jewelry type tokens--this will depend on the girl, the occassion, and the amount of time you've been dating.
(C) Admit when you're wrong. This is a big one. I don't mean this in the sense that over dinner at I-Hop the two of you got into a debate over a particular episode of Seinfeld that when googled, proves she was right. I mean when you've failed her, disappointed her, or broken her heart/spirit: YOU'D DAMN BETTER APOLOGIZE & it better be one of the best articulated, most poetic things you've ever said IN YOUR LIFE.
(D) Realize that you are lucky. Girlfriends do hundreds of different things to show their lover that they care; we try to cook things you like, we try to maintain our looks, we try to get better looking, we buy clothes in colors you like, we do your chores while you're at work, we clean our usually disastrous dwellings before you come over, we pick up the bill some of the time. EVERYTIME you notice that we're doing something right, YOU NEED TO SAY THANK YOU. There are NO coincidences with girlfriends; if there's a day where she looks particularly stunning, realize that on that day she went out of her way to look beautiful for YOU, and tell her that she's breath taking. If you don't, she'll start to think you don't notice & it's only a matter of time before she stops making the effort or finds someone who appreciates that effort. Re-assurance goes a long way.


Possibly the most self explanatory of all the pillars to being a successful boyfriend, but often the most violated.
As a boyfriend, you are expected to:
(C) Not be violent;
(D) Keep the flirting with other women to a MINIMUM (if at all) & also out of her sight;
(E) Believe in her abilities;
(F) Back her up in all quarrels that she's involved in but to which you are not a party, even if she is wrong;
(G) Not do things to intentionally hurt her. This includes any of the above listed actions but also;
(1) Name calling;
(2) Being spiteful.
(H) Let her know when it's over in a DIGNIFIED manner. <--It is NEVER okay to just stop talking to your former girlfriend without notifying her of your intent to see other people and stop seeing her.


This is where the comedy of being a boyfriend rests. Girls are nuts; each and every single one of us. To successfully date a girl, you need a fuckton of patience...more than that even & I'm not even sure how much that is.
You will need all of this patience because:
(A) Women LOVE to talk, about EVERYTHING. & the kicker is:
(1) Unless a response is warranted from you, you should NEVER interrupt a woman mid-story. I would guestimate that 40% of the conversations I have with my boyfriend are conversations that I not only dominate but would prefer for him to not engage in.
(2) Where a response IS warranted, there is ALWAYS a right answer. Your failure to provide the response we've selected in our minds as the correct response will lead to trouble.
(3) Where a response from you IS NOT warranted, your failure to show signs that you are listening will. get. you. into. trouble.
(B) Women LIE. Some of the biggest lies they will ever tell are:
(1) I'm okay. Which almost ALWAYS means the contrary & more specifically can mean:
(a) I'm not ready to talk about it;
(b) I secretly think you KNOW why I'm upset;
(c) I don't think you'd understand;
(d) I want an apology.
(2) I didn't snoop through your phone, computer history, etc.
(3) I'm not mad that you forgot how important _____ was to me;
(4) Even though I asked you to be my date at _____, I won't be mad if you don't come;
(5) My feelings won't be hurt if you say you don't like my outfit, makeup, hair, pet.
(C) Women can (& often do) hold onto a grudge FOREVER. As a matter of fact, much like men's ever-expanding list of people and objects they would bone, women keep a list of wrongs you've done to them. Every harsh word you've uttered, every time we've caught you looking at the cute girl at the coffee shop, every suspect phone call--mentally recorded, forever. & unless you apologize, we will hold it against you & bring it up one day four months later when you accuse us of forgetting to refill the ice tray.
This one is tricky.
We understand that once you've fucked up and apologized, there's nothing left for you to do. I once reminded a boyfriend of mine how much it killed me to know that he cheated on me--everyday for three months, EVERY OPPORTUNITY I GOT. He later told me that my refusal to forgive him and moreover, my desire to punish him everyday encouraged him to keep cheating because he felt since he was still being punished, he might as well continue to commit the crime. While he was just a dirty cheater and clearly full of shit, there are several things that can be learned from this:
(1) You don't deserve to be punished for things you've already apologized for;
(2) If she's still punishing you, she hasn't gotten over it;
(a) at this point, it's time to break up. There are some wounds time can't heal and resentment only makes them deeper. It IS ENIRELY possible to shatter a relationship beyond repair and once two people have reached that point, the best thing for everyone is to amicably part ways.
(D) Girlfriends NAG. A lot. Most of the time, our nagging is not even rationally related to what we're nagging you about. A nag from your girlfriend could mean anything:
(1) I'm still mad at you for that thing earlier today/last week/last month;
(2) I thought we were about to have sexy time--what are all your friends doing here?;
(3) I want some attention, dammit!/ I feel like you take me for granted;
(4) I'm having a bad day & taking my aggression out on you because I'm sure you'll put up with it;
(5) But sometimes, & rarely: I'm nagging you about something you actually deserve to be nagged about.
--> The thing about our nagging is if you're patient (hence why nagging is listed here), we will probably apologize once we've realized what big ass clowns we were. A woman who nags you incessantly without ever apologizing is immature--you should tell her and then LEAVE HER.
Inexplicable nagging could also mean:
(E) PMS. This is REAL. All women respond to PMS differently but it's something to look out for.

& Finally, to add a little humor to this post:
Girlfriends are Humans & People:

This means:
(A) They fart more, eat more, and KNOW more than they will ever admit to you;
(B) ALL OF HER CLOSE FRIENDS know the size, color, and girth of your penis as well as what the first time you've had sex was like and likely, what several subsequent sexual encounters between the two of you have been like;
(C) We burn ourselves all the time trying to cook, do our hair, light candles;
(D) If it ever seems like any of our friends don't like you, it's because everytime we get mad at you, we run & tell our friends how much of a dick you can be sometimes. As much as we try to undo this, our friends will always think you're an ass for pointing out that we gained weight over Christmas break.