Tonight I watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory . I like it so much better than the original when it was called “Black Hole Sun” by Sound Garden. I mean, Chris Cornell is fine and all, but a 3.5 minute video just can’t compete with this 1hour 46 minute spectacle. So anyway, I loved this movie, I thought Michael Jackson did a great job reprising Gene Wilder’s role as Willy Wonka. Gee whiz, this is his greatest role since “Smooth Criminal”, isn’t it?
I’d like to say to all those people who loved Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory so much that they are boycotting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. THIS IS NOT A REMAKE. THIS IS TIM BURTON’S GENIUS ADAPTATION OF THE ORIGINAL CHILDREN’S STORY AS WRITTEN BY ROALD DAHL. Golly, the movies even have different names if you haven’t noticed. And if you cared so much about remakes, where were you when they were remaking, “Dukes Of Hazzard” “Bad News Bears” “The Honeymooners” and all those other great remakes. Go fight those battles. Now, that’s a fight worth fighting.
So, where was I? ...I watched this movie in Pasadena and here are some tonight’s highlights:
Everyone in Pasadena is ugly or has whack style. Some are really lucky and are some combination of the two. I swear this girl had a khaki mini-skirt, black thigh-high fishnet stockings, those pink polka dot flats that are supposed to look like a hybrid Converse Chucks and ballet flats, and a plastic Hello Kitty purse. Honest to God, this actually HURT my feelings.
Don’t ever go see a movie the same day a Black movie’s opening weekend. I truly I thought I was going to the BET awards: people had their hair all did up and all the boys were wearing their longest t-shirts and basketball jerseys.
Who wears stilettos and fancy tops or dresses to the movies? Everyone, that’s who.
Note to Pasadena: Ten Thousand Fashion wrongs don’t make a right.
Riddle me this? When did they start serving soda in KFC buckets. Yea yea yea, we all know, soda is big nowadays. I’m not buddist, but I’m not kidding you, this soda cup was a KFC 15-piece bucket in another life.
I remembered for the first time ever that movie popcorn makes me sick and want to vomit BEFORE I ordered it and ate the whole bag. I actually ordered nachos this time. Note to self: Movie nachos make me sick and want to vomit. Never ever order again.
“From the Makers of ‘Mean Girls’ and ‘Freaky Friday”” does not incentivise me to see your movie. Mark Ruffalo and Napoleon Dynamite do.
The only thing that is as bad as seeing “Harlem Nights” in Richmond (think: Oakland on a country budget) on the opening night (which I actually did) is sitting next to two emo boys who thought they did the best Napoleon Dynamite impersonations and were apparently triggered to demonstrate this at the site of Jon Heder.
I’m a sucker for Romantic Comedies.
I’m a sucker for John Cusack.
How badly to I want to see “40 Year Old Virgin”????
HURRY NOVEMBER HURRY!!! It’s both my Birthday AND the next Harry Potter movie. God blesses us TWICE in one month. Thank you sweet Jesus.
Thinking about “The Chronicles of Narnia” makes my bladder twitch. (That means good.)
Who cruises Colorado Ave. in Pasadena on a Friday night in a teal Toyota Paseo? First of all, get out of my way. Second of all, didn’t they recall all Toyota Paseo for ugliness? Third of all, get out of my way.
So…true story. Once upon a time, I was working on Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley at a little store called Futura. One day I was wearing a dress and started my period. So I crumpled up toilet paper and wedged it in that tender spot between my panties and my no-no parts. And I ran across the street to the bodega, except in California they’re called convenience stores, but they’re not really very convenient cos they don’t ever really have shit. Anyway. As I’m running across what could be likened to Melrose or Vermont or Hillhurst right on those two blocks that are mad busy or 8th street for you NYers, someone taps me on my shoulder and tells me I’ve dropped something. Laying in the middle of that part of the street that connects to the sidewalk is this bloody tissue. So awesome.
Well tonight, a full two days after my period was over, I use the rest room and I realize that my period has decided to come back for an unrequested encore performance. I was like, “FUUUCK, YOU AGAIN?!?! And in my favorite panties to boot. Or course I’m wearing a skirt cos it’s hot as Jessica Alba’s ass in Sin City out here. And of course I have to crumple up tissue and shove it in my panties. I walked around all night like my knees were fuse together at birth like that little mermaid baby.
So as I’m drawing this blog to a close, I’ve got “Forensic Files” playing in the background to combat the silence of my room. PINKY PROMISE-I just saw a commercial for Restless Leg Syndrome. They’ve even got a foundation Are you kidding me? Next thing, you’re gonna tell me is Alcoholism is a disease. Well, me personally, I’m gonna start a foundation called Jerk Magnet Foundation. Whose in?
Tonight is weird, I’m going to sleep now before it gets any weirder.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
It’s Getting Hot In HEERRE
It’s too hot to even smoke a friggin cigarette.
Everything on TV is a damned re-run, I’ve had to resort to watching the Travel channel.
I just took a cold shower and for no good reason, it’s so depressing.
The last couple of nights we’ve been having blackouts. LA is so lame. When they had black outs in NY, it turned into a city wide block party. But NOOOoo! For me? I go out on my patio to smoke and am told by my neighbors that I shouldn’t be outside in the dark by myself since there have been rapes and robberies in the area in the last few weeks. Good god.
Of course during one of the black outs, my latest guilty pleasure, RockStar INXS, was running so I didn’t get to TiVO it. Now I’m short an episode.
My latest delicious piece of man-meat makeout pie is a forty year-old divorcee with a baby and living in an apartment. Ugh.
He’s also got the same exact birthday as me. So, we’ll either kill eachother. Or kill eachother.
I’m scrolling through my channel menu and seriously considering watching I Want to be a Hilton.
I have to watch Tarzan (yes the feature animation), Herbie (with Lindsey) and Shark Boy and Lava Girl for work this weekend. Anyone who tells me my job is easy, bite me.
I just found out that my latest comedian crush, the host from E! Channels “The Soup”, is married.
I hate all my clothes.
I hate my feet.
My brother’s birthday is tomorrow and I have to stay in LA recruiting influencers for this Jamba Juice program that I’m working on.
I’ve officially seen every episode of Law and Order AND Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.
Vincent D’Onofrio is no longer cute to me.
My friend bought a
I have my second job interview for a new job one week from today.
I’ve spent the last two weeks sleeping next to a pile of shit I haven’t sorted thru on the side of the bed that used to belong to my lover.
I haven’t yet filed my taxes.
I haven’t yet completed my application to refinance my house because I haven’t yet filed taxes.
Interest rates are rising. Fuck you very much, Bush.
I need to buy toilet paper, Q-tips and cotton balls. Every week, Albertsons has a sale on all my favorite brand name paper products. Every week but this week.
I have a pimple on the side of my nose that neither wants to surface and graduate to a white head, nor go away. I HATE YOU UNDERCOVER PIMPLE, I HATE YOU!!!!
Something in my refrigerator stinks, and I can’t figure out what the fuck it is.
I found out the hard way that my legs sweat. Add that to the growing list of wierd things on my body that sweats. Those that say Asians don’t sweat, you lie. May God strike you down.
I don’t know, but I think I got most of it out. Thanks for listening. Now go away.
Love,
Genevieve
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Gambling Addiction
My mother is a funny lady, smart and experienced, kind and sweet. I should learn a lot from her experiences but I’m stubborn, hard headed, determined and a bunch of other things you could read about here. She loved my father very much and he loved her. They were so in love with each other it was retarded. My dad, he was such a romantic. He sang to my mom all the time, he was always looking at her like he was lusting after her. All along he was cheating on my mother with so many women we lost count. Eventually, he left us for one of those ladies.
In my adulthood, I’ve done everything in my power to fulfill my Oedipus complex and date people just like my daddy. Except a helluva a lot less attractive, a helluva a lot less charming and a helluva a lot less attentive.
After my daddy left us, my mom started dating a guy named Mark. She wasn’t in love with him, but she kept him around to keep her mind off my daddy and his new young girlfriend, Sheila. Keep in mind my mother, my father, Mark and Sheila all worked at the same branch of the Post Office and saw each other daily. It was like “ER” where everyone sleeps with each other in the workplace except with real hurt feelings. Mark was this banal, boring guy who looked like Jack Tripper with Cliff Clavin’s personality, it was so odd to me how my mother could go from the crowd pleaser that was my daddy to Cliff from Cheers. 19 years later, my stepfather, Mark and my mom are so in love with each other is sickening. They’re always laughing and kissing and making me nauseous and shit. It’s really gross.
My mother has since told me “A woman and a man are different in that a woman’s heart can learn to love a man that is good to them.” She’s always advised me to date the men that I may not be crazy about and give the guys who are good to me a chance. I met her halfway on this. I date men just like my daddy and date men just like my stepdaddy. I’m a fool for those like my daddy and a bitch to those like my step daddy. Go figure.
The whole point of this blog is to give everyone access to the one piece of advice my mother gave to me that always resounded with me and many of the girl friend’s I’ve shared this with/ My mother’s a gambler so bear with this analogy.
Bad men are like slot machines.
You go up to a slot machine with $20 in quarters. You stay and spend $19.75.
You’re on your last quarter and right when you’re ready to leave empty handed the slots spit out $15 in quarters!!! WOOT! YOU’RE RICH, MAN!!!!!
So you stick around. And you stick you’re quarters in and every once in a while, you get $5, $2. Little by little, you stay in the hopes that the big pay out is right around the corner.
Hours pass, and you lose your whole wad. At the end of your day, you’ve only lost $20, but you’ve lost something you can’t get back, your time and your hope.
I hope you are all smart enough that I don’t have to break this down for you. Figure it out.
In my adulthood, I’ve done everything in my power to fulfill my Oedipus complex and date people just like my daddy. Except a helluva a lot less attractive, a helluva a lot less charming and a helluva a lot less attentive.
After my daddy left us, my mom started dating a guy named Mark. She wasn’t in love with him, but she kept him around to keep her mind off my daddy and his new young girlfriend, Sheila. Keep in mind my mother, my father, Mark and Sheila all worked at the same branch of the Post Office and saw each other daily. It was like “ER” where everyone sleeps with each other in the workplace except with real hurt feelings. Mark was this banal, boring guy who looked like Jack Tripper with Cliff Clavin’s personality, it was so odd to me how my mother could go from the crowd pleaser that was my daddy to Cliff from Cheers. 19 years later, my stepfather, Mark and my mom are so in love with each other is sickening. They’re always laughing and kissing and making me nauseous and shit. It’s really gross.
My mother has since told me “A woman and a man are different in that a woman’s heart can learn to love a man that is good to them.” She’s always advised me to date the men that I may not be crazy about and give the guys who are good to me a chance. I met her halfway on this. I date men just like my daddy and date men just like my stepdaddy. I’m a fool for those like my daddy and a bitch to those like my step daddy. Go figure.
The whole point of this blog is to give everyone access to the one piece of advice my mother gave to me that always resounded with me and many of the girl friend’s I’ve shared this with/ My mother’s a gambler so bear with this analogy.
Bad men are like slot machines.
You go up to a slot machine with $20 in quarters. You stay and spend $19.75.
You’re on your last quarter and right when you’re ready to leave empty handed the slots spit out $15 in quarters!!! WOOT! YOU’RE RICH, MAN!!!!!
So you stick around. And you stick you’re quarters in and every once in a while, you get $5, $2. Little by little, you stay in the hopes that the big pay out is right around the corner.
Hours pass, and you lose your whole wad. At the end of your day, you’ve only lost $20, but you’ve lost something you can’t get back, your time and your hope.
I hope you are all smart enough that I don’t have to break this down for you. Figure it out.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Cannabis Ettiquette
THE DOs AND DON’Ts OF SMOKING WEED WITH ME OR BEING AROUND ME WHILST I’M IRIE
Don’ts
1) Don’t introduce me to people. When I’m lit, I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone and when I look at the floor when you introduce me to so and so, so and so is gonna think I’m weird.
2) Don’t leave me alone in a room full of people I hardly know. I’m a social retard.
3) Don’t try and have a conversation with me if I don’t know you very well. We’ll end up having a profoundly pointless conversation about a fence. It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. And we’ll both be trapped. I guarantee this will be equally awful for both of us.
4) Don’t tell me my eyes are red. I already know. And now I’m paranoid. Thanks a lot. Now you’ve ruined my high.
5) Don’t ask me to make any decisions for the group. We’ll end up doing something really lame. And I’ll feel horribly about it and keep apologizing until you are all annoyed with me.
6) Don’t take me to the mall. I’ll think everyone knows I’m stoned and get super wigged out.
7) Don’t take me to 7-11 or any other fluorescent lit small places at night. I get all light sensitive and blind.
8) Don’t be a cute boy I like and talk to me for the first time. If you liked me to begin with, you won't like me anymore.
9) Don’t ask me if I’m ok. If you ask me, I won’t be. The conversation will go a little something like this: "Are you ok?" "WHY?! Why? Do I look like I'm not ok?" "No I was just..." "WHY??WHY?? OH GOD I GOTTA GO HOME."
10) Don’t let me use my phone to call boys. Friends don’t let friends drink and dial; this also applies to being stoned.
Do’s
1) Do take me to Walgreens or Rite Aid. So fun.
2) Do drop me off on a dance floor. I will boogie by myself and not try to pick fights with people who bump into me like I usually do when I’m sober.
3) Do give me a karaoke mic. Actually, sober or drunk, this is always a “Do”.
4) Do let me be with my close friends and make everyone laugh. I swear, I could make a killing in stand-up if only the audience were full of my close friends.
5) Do take me to Cold Stone or Baskin Robbins. So right. I’d love you forever and ever.
6) Do take me to a movie that I wouldn’t see otherwise. Actually any movie that’s either funny or exciting. Slow, depressing movies won’t cut it ok?
7) Do make out with me…mmmMmmmMmm, everything feels so swirly and yummy.
8) Do give me little detailed projects like cutting squares out of fabric. They will all be PERRRFECT.
9) Do let me watch TV, especially The Simpsons, Family Guy or South Park. Duh, for obvious reasons.
10) Do buy me sodas, waters, and other non-alcoholic beverages. All the moisture gets sucked out of my body and when I’m toe’ to the flo’ weird things happen like when I smile, my lips stick to my teeth and I get that whole Fireman Bill (Jim Carrey’s “In Living Color” character) thing going on. It’s really funny for you but it’s kinda uncomfortable.
Thank you for your time and patience.
Don’ts
1) Don’t introduce me to people. When I’m lit, I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone and when I look at the floor when you introduce me to so and so, so and so is gonna think I’m weird.
2) Don’t leave me alone in a room full of people I hardly know. I’m a social retard.
3) Don’t try and have a conversation with me if I don’t know you very well. We’ll end up having a profoundly pointless conversation about a fence. It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. And we’ll both be trapped. I guarantee this will be equally awful for both of us.
4) Don’t tell me my eyes are red. I already know. And now I’m paranoid. Thanks a lot. Now you’ve ruined my high.
5) Don’t ask me to make any decisions for the group. We’ll end up doing something really lame. And I’ll feel horribly about it and keep apologizing until you are all annoyed with me.
6) Don’t take me to the mall. I’ll think everyone knows I’m stoned and get super wigged out.
7) Don’t take me to 7-11 or any other fluorescent lit small places at night. I get all light sensitive and blind.
8) Don’t be a cute boy I like and talk to me for the first time. If you liked me to begin with, you won't like me anymore.
9) Don’t ask me if I’m ok. If you ask me, I won’t be. The conversation will go a little something like this: "Are you ok?" "WHY?! Why? Do I look like I'm not ok?" "No I was just..." "WHY??WHY?? OH GOD I GOTTA GO HOME."
10) Don’t let me use my phone to call boys. Friends don’t let friends drink and dial; this also applies to being stoned.
Do’s
1) Do take me to Walgreens or Rite Aid. So fun.
2) Do drop me off on a dance floor. I will boogie by myself and not try to pick fights with people who bump into me like I usually do when I’m sober.
3) Do give me a karaoke mic. Actually, sober or drunk, this is always a “Do”.
4) Do let me be with my close friends and make everyone laugh. I swear, I could make a killing in stand-up if only the audience were full of my close friends.
5) Do take me to Cold Stone or Baskin Robbins. So right. I’d love you forever and ever.
6) Do take me to a movie that I wouldn’t see otherwise. Actually any movie that’s either funny or exciting. Slow, depressing movies won’t cut it ok?
7) Do make out with me…mmmMmmmMmm, everything feels so swirly and yummy.
8) Do give me little detailed projects like cutting squares out of fabric. They will all be PERRRFECT.
9) Do let me watch TV, especially The Simpsons, Family Guy or South Park. Duh, for obvious reasons.
10) Do buy me sodas, waters, and other non-alcoholic beverages. All the moisture gets sucked out of my body and when I’m toe’ to the flo’ weird things happen like when I smile, my lips stick to my teeth and I get that whole Fireman Bill (Jim Carrey’s “In Living Color” character) thing going on. It’s really funny for you but it’s kinda uncomfortable.
Thank you for your time and patience.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Friday, July 08, 2005
Work in Progress
God, I have a sweet job. I work for Disney. I get benefits. I work from home a lot of the time. I watch movies. I pull clips. I get to take people to dinner and lunch on Disney’s dime. I get my internet paid for. I get taken to lunch by cute vendors vying for my business. I have the greatest boss on earth. She literally rules. We go to the magazine stand at lunch and marvel at the latest celebrity gossip. We eat M&Ms all day and send eachother funny things that may not exactly be Disney appropriate. I’m well compensated. I work hard and I have a lot of fun doing it.
Yesterday I told my boss I was applying for a job within Disney that I may likely get with the very team I was part of before I landed before my sweet job. I did a bit of crying. I experienced immediate regret. This new job means working on product that I’m not necessarily crazy about. It means moving from my office back into a cube. It means going from working in my pajamas a few times a week to going into the fluorescent depths of cubicle hell five days, 40 plus hours a week.
Am I crazy? The answer would be yes, maybe.
But no. It’s a strategic move, really. Currently, I’m having fun fun fun. A year from now, very likely, I’ll be having fun fun fun. Two years from now, good ole times. This can go on forever. I will, however, be in the same position I am in now, working for the same woman, forever and ever. Her boss is not going anywhere, my boss is not going anywhere, so we'll be staying in the same squares that is the chess game of our lives. My life would move laterally into the future. This doesn’t sound too bad, but I’m trying to have a career not just a job. For chrissakes, I’m a homeowner, I’m thirty one years old, I need to have a job that reflects this, a job with a future. Therefore I’m going to eat shit and do the thing that grown folks do and make an investment in my future. I’m going to strap on my pumps and cardigan every day and look towards growing in my career.
I have also made this decision with my personal life. I’ve been involved in a series of lovely relationships with beautiful fun men who make me laugh and make me feel sexy and make my feel good allover. I can see myself having fun with these (types of) guys forever. I see me laughing with them for weeks and months to come. I even fool myself into thinking that this is enough.
I’m only kidding myself. It’s time to make an investment in my future and start looking past the next good time. I’m standing still and my feet are starting to hurt.
I’m not 20-something anymore. There’s got to be something bigger out there than fun. Fun is overrated anyway. Here’s to the next big thing in my life, may it be a big career move or finding someone who won’t have to have the “not ready” speech with me. I originally penned that speech. I know it line by line. I even know all the micro-writing between those lines. The loopholes and the footnotes were all written by memories of the first guy whose heart I broke when I left him behind in SF while I made my way out to NY to start what would become my 10-year era of fun.
Its funny how you spend your life not being ready and when you are ready you spend your time convincing yourself that the not-ready guys and the fun jobs are just riding tandem with you while you ride the fun wave towards someone and something bigger. The only problem is that space in your life is already taken, temporarily, yes, but taken nonetheless. And there’s no room for ready guy and great job in your full car. So I’ll be riding dolo for a little bit. And I’ll be making major renovations to my life.
Let the fun end and the growing begin.
Yesterday I told my boss I was applying for a job within Disney that I may likely get with the very team I was part of before I landed before my sweet job. I did a bit of crying. I experienced immediate regret. This new job means working on product that I’m not necessarily crazy about. It means moving from my office back into a cube. It means going from working in my pajamas a few times a week to going into the fluorescent depths of cubicle hell five days, 40 plus hours a week.
Am I crazy? The answer would be yes, maybe.
But no. It’s a strategic move, really. Currently, I’m having fun fun fun. A year from now, very likely, I’ll be having fun fun fun. Two years from now, good ole times. This can go on forever. I will, however, be in the same position I am in now, working for the same woman, forever and ever. Her boss is not going anywhere, my boss is not going anywhere, so we'll be staying in the same squares that is the chess game of our lives. My life would move laterally into the future. This doesn’t sound too bad, but I’m trying to have a career not just a job. For chrissakes, I’m a homeowner, I’m thirty one years old, I need to have a job that reflects this, a job with a future. Therefore I’m going to eat shit and do the thing that grown folks do and make an investment in my future. I’m going to strap on my pumps and cardigan every day and look towards growing in my career.
I have also made this decision with my personal life. I’ve been involved in a series of lovely relationships with beautiful fun men who make me laugh and make me feel sexy and make my feel good allover. I can see myself having fun with these (types of) guys forever. I see me laughing with them for weeks and months to come. I even fool myself into thinking that this is enough.
I’m only kidding myself. It’s time to make an investment in my future and start looking past the next good time. I’m standing still and my feet are starting to hurt.
I’m not 20-something anymore. There’s got to be something bigger out there than fun. Fun is overrated anyway. Here’s to the next big thing in my life, may it be a big career move or finding someone who won’t have to have the “not ready” speech with me. I originally penned that speech. I know it line by line. I even know all the micro-writing between those lines. The loopholes and the footnotes were all written by memories of the first guy whose heart I broke when I left him behind in SF while I made my way out to NY to start what would become my 10-year era of fun.
Its funny how you spend your life not being ready and when you are ready you spend your time convincing yourself that the not-ready guys and the fun jobs are just riding tandem with you while you ride the fun wave towards someone and something bigger. The only problem is that space in your life is already taken, temporarily, yes, but taken nonetheless. And there’s no room for ready guy and great job in your full car. So I’ll be riding dolo for a little bit. And I’ll be making major renovations to my life.
Let the fun end and the growing begin.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Aesop Made Aeasy
Once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl. One day, she picked up a shovel and she put a perfect hole in the ground. She looked at it and felt unreasonably accomplished. So every single day, she came back and she dug her hole a little deeper. One shovel load a day.
People would walk by and ask her why she was digging a hole, what she was looking for and everyday she’d reply “Oh just because.”
Everyday, a shovel full.
A shovel full.
A shovel full.
One day she realized she was in her hole, knee-deep and six feet around. She had put a lot of work into making this immaculate hole. She was plenty proud of herself that she had gone this far along. Patiently digging her perfect little hole in the soft brown earth, just because.
Just then, a man walked by and said, “What are you digging for?”
The little girl shrugged her shoulders and she replied “A buried treasure.”
At that point, he jumped in, joined her and with his bare hands started clawing away at the ground. Cradling the dirt in a hammock made out of the bottom of his shirt, he and the girl would empty out the earth. Working silently side-by-side, carving out into the soil, making their way to their buried treasure, content to inch towards what he thought was their common goal.
One day, as they stood waist high in their masterpiece. A woman walked by and she said, “What’re you looking for?”
The man replied “A buried treasure!”
The girl added “With Gold! And, umm….DIAMONDS!”
“Diamonds!” The woman leapt in, she filled her purse full of soil and dumped it out, over and over again. They worked together, all three of them.
The woman’s mind consumed with thoughts of being adorned in Diamonds.
The man, inundated with dreams of opening a secret buried treasure.
And the little girl?
Her mind was empty. Save for the idea of making this perfectly circular, deep, endless hole.
Days passed and an elderly man on a cane walked by. Their heads just above the ground level, they all looked up and smiled. He said “What’re y’all digging for?”
The man said “A buried treasure!”
The woman said “WITH DIAMONDS!!!”
And the little girl said “AND a map to the fountain of youth!”
Just then, he slowly ambled his way down into the hole, helping them by loosening up the packed soil with his cane.
He tired quickly but was motivated by the idea of perennial youth and eternal life.
The woman's mind glittered with diamonds.
The man's mind eager to find the buried treasure.
The girl’s mind? Empty, except for the thought of this beautiful hole in the ground.
Everyday, they loosened up the earth, everyday, they poured the earth over itself, purseful, by shirtful, by shovelful.
One day, a young woman with a long face walked by. All she saw was dirt flying over the edges of the hole in the ground.
Curious, she poked her head in and saw the four covered in dirt, burrowing into the ground. She asked “What are you guys doing?”
The man said “Looking for a buried treasure!”
The woman said “Full of DIAMONDS!”
The elderly man said “And a map to the fountain of youth!”
And the girl added “And all the secrets to finding love and a direct link to a man’s heart!”
The young woman’s face brightened up and she dove in, her mind swirling with romantic thoughts of finding her true love.
Days passed. Maybe months, maybe even years.
One-by-one, her co-conspirators left her. Defeated and deflated when with each uncovered inch, they found nothing.
But the little girl, she continues to dig in her six foot wide perfect hole. Her hair matted with dirt. Her eyes greying and her skin jaundiced from lack of sun and light. Her nails chewed away. Her pretty dress soiled.
She’s in there alone except for a shovel and her thoughts.
Thoughts swirling about her head of finding a buried treasure replete with diamonds and eternal youth and true love.
The moral of the story is, if you lie long enough, even you will start buying into your own bullshit.
People would walk by and ask her why she was digging a hole, what she was looking for and everyday she’d reply “Oh just because.”
Everyday, a shovel full.
A shovel full.
A shovel full.
One day she realized she was in her hole, knee-deep and six feet around. She had put a lot of work into making this immaculate hole. She was plenty proud of herself that she had gone this far along. Patiently digging her perfect little hole in the soft brown earth, just because.
Just then, a man walked by and said, “What are you digging for?”
The little girl shrugged her shoulders and she replied “A buried treasure.”
At that point, he jumped in, joined her and with his bare hands started clawing away at the ground. Cradling the dirt in a hammock made out of the bottom of his shirt, he and the girl would empty out the earth. Working silently side-by-side, carving out into the soil, making their way to their buried treasure, content to inch towards what he thought was their common goal.
One day, as they stood waist high in their masterpiece. A woman walked by and she said, “What’re you looking for?”
The man replied “A buried treasure!”
The girl added “With Gold! And, umm….DIAMONDS!”
“Diamonds!” The woman leapt in, she filled her purse full of soil and dumped it out, over and over again. They worked together, all three of them.
The woman’s mind consumed with thoughts of being adorned in Diamonds.
The man, inundated with dreams of opening a secret buried treasure.
And the little girl?
Her mind was empty. Save for the idea of making this perfectly circular, deep, endless hole.
Days passed and an elderly man on a cane walked by. Their heads just above the ground level, they all looked up and smiled. He said “What’re y’all digging for?”
The man said “A buried treasure!”
The woman said “WITH DIAMONDS!!!”
And the little girl said “AND a map to the fountain of youth!”
Just then, he slowly ambled his way down into the hole, helping them by loosening up the packed soil with his cane.
He tired quickly but was motivated by the idea of perennial youth and eternal life.
The woman's mind glittered with diamonds.
The man's mind eager to find the buried treasure.
The girl’s mind? Empty, except for the thought of this beautiful hole in the ground.
Everyday, they loosened up the earth, everyday, they poured the earth over itself, purseful, by shirtful, by shovelful.
One day, a young woman with a long face walked by. All she saw was dirt flying over the edges of the hole in the ground.
Curious, she poked her head in and saw the four covered in dirt, burrowing into the ground. She asked “What are you guys doing?”
The man said “Looking for a buried treasure!”
The woman said “Full of DIAMONDS!”
The elderly man said “And a map to the fountain of youth!”
And the girl added “And all the secrets to finding love and a direct link to a man’s heart!”
The young woman’s face brightened up and she dove in, her mind swirling with romantic thoughts of finding her true love.
Days passed. Maybe months, maybe even years.
One-by-one, her co-conspirators left her. Defeated and deflated when with each uncovered inch, they found nothing.
But the little girl, she continues to dig in her six foot wide perfect hole. Her hair matted with dirt. Her eyes greying and her skin jaundiced from lack of sun and light. Her nails chewed away. Her pretty dress soiled.
She’s in there alone except for a shovel and her thoughts.
Thoughts swirling about her head of finding a buried treasure replete with diamonds and eternal youth and true love.
The moral of the story is, if you lie long enough, even you will start buying into your own bullshit.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Twelve Year Old In A 31 Year Old Body
I got such a fantastic compliment from a stranger the other day. He said I was a 12 year old in a 31 year old body (I’m paraphrasing, but this is the gist.)
Remember when you were 12 years old?
You were in 6th grade, excited about getting into Junior High and the stoked about being the OG sixth grader in school ruling the kingdom of elementaryhood. God it was an awesome time. I didn’t have to worry about my period being late, the political correctness of waiting for a guy to call me vs. calling him, having multiple partners and getting tested.
But back when I was 12 and I was beautiful with my side ponytail and rocking Izod and no one could tell me anything, cos I knew it all. I guess some things never change!
For me, it was 1985 and “Live Aid” and “USA for Africa” was put together to raise money for the starving children in Africa. “That’s What Friends Are For” raised awareness for HIV and AIDS and “Sun City” hipped the globe to Apartheid and South Africa’s racist policies. This was back in the day when artists cared about people, unlike contemporary artists who are only inspired by themselves. (Sigh) The South African Government offered Nelson Mandela his freedom if he renounced violence, but he refused because he stood behind his principles and understood that sometimes violence is a necessity.
Technology was bubbling under: Microsoft finished it’s first version of Windows thus irreversibly altering our lives, Hewlitt Packard launched it’s brand and Macintosh went back to the drawingboard on their price points.
It’s the year scientists found the hole in the ozone layer, and everyday we were scared shitless about a nuclear attack and how to make ends meet as lower/middle class people. We were moving from the Reagan Dynasty and ushered in Bush Era Part One. Rich people were richer and poor people were…well? We were poor.
But I was 12 and that was the beautiful thing, because I had nothing to worry about: I was cute with my side ponytail, buckteeth, and ashy knees. I was invincible.
Musically Frankie told us to “Relax” and I listened to everything my sister listened to cos she was (and is to this day) the coolest person I ever knew and she was still around. Me and my sister would uprock to “I Feel For You” by Chaka Khan only to turn around and begin our unflinching addiction to the second wave of the British Invasion.
I was twelve and in love with myself, in love with the Jim McMahon of the Chicago Bears, in love with MTV, in love with my sister and in love with life. The beautiful psyche of a twelve year old is impenetrable.
I recently turned 31. I’m blessed to have groups of friends who love and adore me. Some accepted the occasional wrath with my love unconditionally and some people disappeared. Some people disappeared for a little while only to come back and love me more than ever.
There are the lifers, who knew me as a child and are part if my family to this day. They knew me as my past self, the self that lived in the shadow of the sister I worshipped and were there for me when I had to unexpectedly say goodbye to her forever.
There are the 10 year plussers, who knew me in my Berkeley/Oakland/SF/Reggae Dancehall Girl/Revolutionary days, armed with words sharper than any machete and more fatal than any AK. Together we were ready to change the world. Some of us moved to NY together, some of us see eachother only when I’m where you be or you be where I be, but we never forgot eachother. Even thru new residences, lovers, careers and haircuts we are still there like whoa.
There are my NYers, who knew Genevieve the Brooklynite, riding the train with knitting needles, or a book, but always available with an ear and a smile. I was there at the club to dance with you, on the other end of the phone ready to dispense advice to you, with my sewing machine and scissors ready to make an outfit for you. It was in NY that I developed the wise spirit because my own personal experiences were those that great stories and greater lessons were made of. I suffered and cried and hurt and grew and learned on an intimate level more in those 8 years than any other time in my life.
There are my LA loves who are imperfect in perfect ways and perfect in imperfect ways my heart: never ceases to love you. For all your stories and all your tears and all our falling out laughing and all our stepping on eachothers’ feet dancing, and all our gorging out eating and all our smoking out twerping, this continues to be a fabulous ride that I don’t want to get off of. In my old age, I’ve grown intolerant of people and volatile. Consequently, some friends I’ve lost. There is only one person I regret losing and only one person I am grateful to be exercised of. But everyone else was just a casualty of life.
There are the online friends that write in to me, encourage me and inspire me. The internet is a fascinating place. I feel like I know you. I feel like I can call you "my friend." Thanks to you those of you who have confirmed for me that which I wanted to believe all along. Thanks for the external voice that provided the push and support. Love, love. One day when I get published, it will be because of your collective unbiased kudos.
There are my work associates that I am proud to call MY FRIENDS. Everyday that I have been a functioning gainfully employed tax-paying adult, I've had a job that I loved going to everyday. I know this is rare. But I do count my blessings that the people that I see everyday at my job now and in everyjob I've had in the past, have touched my life in a beautiful way. I've always felt appreciated by the people I work with and I leave of trail of smiles wherever I go. On my birthday this year I was called by every boss I had in the last eight years. I go to work knowing that one spends too much time at work to not enjoy your surroundings. God bless making money and loving the time you spend doing it.
Then there are the Klingons: Pronounced "Cling-Ons"-Those who come out of nowhere and cling onto you like a parasite and try to suck you dry of your energy and life force. Synonym leech, parasite. You can never avoid Klingons in any stage of your life. They seem to infiltate for forever. Just try to recognize them when they apparate. They are prone to wreak havoc in their own lives and ultimately, yours.
So now I’m in the beginnings of my 31st year. 2004. This is the year that I bought a house, got a fantastic new job and all my best NY friends came to LA to join me to usher in the new era of Los Angeles. This year I loved a man and he loved me and even tho it didn’t work out, I realized that even the one that wasn’t “THE ONE” can be a man that you can love with all your might. This is the year that I learned there were still lessons I needed to learn like:
-some people don’t want to be saved
-some people just want an audience
-love can be easy (as in, it doesn't have to be hard.)
This year I learned the hard way that sometimes I’m hard on my friends because when I’m disappointed in them, it’s only cos I’m reliving the disappointment I had in myself when I made those same mistakes. It’s always easier to project anger externally. To those people, I am sorry.
This year I learned that, even in my perfect imperfection, I’ve still got a lot of learning to do to. But unlike other people, you’ve got to want to learn and not keep reliving the same mistakes over and over again.
To summise, I am happy to be a 12 year old living in a 31 year old body. 12 was a radical time for me. And 31 is a radical time for me. Radical Squared, rules!! It’s far better than being a homeless person, living in a 25 year old body and a broken down, non-operational truck. (Counting my blessings, God, each and every one.)
Peace and blessing to all the life-learners.
Pray that those who wish to continue suffering, SUFFER IN SILENCE.
Amen.
Remember when you were 12 years old?
You were in 6th grade, excited about getting into Junior High and the stoked about being the OG sixth grader in school ruling the kingdom of elementaryhood. God it was an awesome time. I didn’t have to worry about my period being late, the political correctness of waiting for a guy to call me vs. calling him, having multiple partners and getting tested.
But back when I was 12 and I was beautiful with my side ponytail and rocking Izod and no one could tell me anything, cos I knew it all. I guess some things never change!
For me, it was 1985 and “Live Aid” and “USA for Africa” was put together to raise money for the starving children in Africa. “That’s What Friends Are For” raised awareness for HIV and AIDS and “Sun City” hipped the globe to Apartheid and South Africa’s racist policies. This was back in the day when artists cared about people, unlike contemporary artists who are only inspired by themselves. (Sigh) The South African Government offered Nelson Mandela his freedom if he renounced violence, but he refused because he stood behind his principles and understood that sometimes violence is a necessity.
Technology was bubbling under: Microsoft finished it’s first version of Windows thus irreversibly altering our lives, Hewlitt Packard launched it’s brand and Macintosh went back to the drawingboard on their price points.
It’s the year scientists found the hole in the ozone layer, and everyday we were scared shitless about a nuclear attack and how to make ends meet as lower/middle class people. We were moving from the Reagan Dynasty and ushered in Bush Era Part One. Rich people were richer and poor people were…well? We were poor.
But I was 12 and that was the beautiful thing, because I had nothing to worry about: I was cute with my side ponytail, buckteeth, and ashy knees. I was invincible.
Musically Frankie told us to “Relax” and I listened to everything my sister listened to cos she was (and is to this day) the coolest person I ever knew and she was still around. Me and my sister would uprock to “I Feel For You” by Chaka Khan only to turn around and begin our unflinching addiction to the second wave of the British Invasion.
I was twelve and in love with myself, in love with the Jim McMahon of the Chicago Bears, in love with MTV, in love with my sister and in love with life. The beautiful psyche of a twelve year old is impenetrable.
I recently turned 31. I’m blessed to have groups of friends who love and adore me. Some accepted the occasional wrath with my love unconditionally and some people disappeared. Some people disappeared for a little while only to come back and love me more than ever.
There are the lifers, who knew me as a child and are part if my family to this day. They knew me as my past self, the self that lived in the shadow of the sister I worshipped and were there for me when I had to unexpectedly say goodbye to her forever.
There are the 10 year plussers, who knew me in my Berkeley/Oakland/SF/Reggae Dancehall Girl/Revolutionary days, armed with words sharper than any machete and more fatal than any AK. Together we were ready to change the world. Some of us moved to NY together, some of us see eachother only when I’m where you be or you be where I be, but we never forgot eachother. Even thru new residences, lovers, careers and haircuts we are still there like whoa.
There are my NYers, who knew Genevieve the Brooklynite, riding the train with knitting needles, or a book, but always available with an ear and a smile. I was there at the club to dance with you, on the other end of the phone ready to dispense advice to you, with my sewing machine and scissors ready to make an outfit for you. It was in NY that I developed the wise spirit because my own personal experiences were those that great stories and greater lessons were made of. I suffered and cried and hurt and grew and learned on an intimate level more in those 8 years than any other time in my life.
There are my LA loves who are imperfect in perfect ways and perfect in imperfect ways my heart: never ceases to love you. For all your stories and all your tears and all our falling out laughing and all our stepping on eachothers’ feet dancing, and all our gorging out eating and all our smoking out twerping, this continues to be a fabulous ride that I don’t want to get off of. In my old age, I’ve grown intolerant of people and volatile. Consequently, some friends I’ve lost. There is only one person I regret losing and only one person I am grateful to be exercised of. But everyone else was just a casualty of life.
There are the online friends that write in to me, encourage me and inspire me. The internet is a fascinating place. I feel like I know you. I feel like I can call you "my friend." Thanks to you those of you who have confirmed for me that which I wanted to believe all along. Thanks for the external voice that provided the push and support. Love, love. One day when I get published, it will be because of your collective unbiased kudos.
There are my work associates that I am proud to call MY FRIENDS. Everyday that I have been a functioning gainfully employed tax-paying adult, I've had a job that I loved going to everyday. I know this is rare. But I do count my blessings that the people that I see everyday at my job now and in everyjob I've had in the past, have touched my life in a beautiful way. I've always felt appreciated by the people I work with and I leave of trail of smiles wherever I go. On my birthday this year I was called by every boss I had in the last eight years. I go to work knowing that one spends too much time at work to not enjoy your surroundings. God bless making money and loving the time you spend doing it.
Then there are the Klingons: Pronounced "Cling-Ons"-Those who come out of nowhere and cling onto you like a parasite and try to suck you dry of your energy and life force. Synonym leech, parasite. You can never avoid Klingons in any stage of your life. They seem to infiltate for forever. Just try to recognize them when they apparate. They are prone to wreak havoc in their own lives and ultimately, yours.
So now I’m in the beginnings of my 31st year. 2004. This is the year that I bought a house, got a fantastic new job and all my best NY friends came to LA to join me to usher in the new era of Los Angeles. This year I loved a man and he loved me and even tho it didn’t work out, I realized that even the one that wasn’t “THE ONE” can be a man that you can love with all your might. This is the year that I learned there were still lessons I needed to learn like:
-some people don’t want to be saved
-some people just want an audience
-love can be easy (as in, it doesn't have to be hard.)
This year I learned the hard way that sometimes I’m hard on my friends because when I’m disappointed in them, it’s only cos I’m reliving the disappointment I had in myself when I made those same mistakes. It’s always easier to project anger externally. To those people, I am sorry.
This year I learned that, even in my perfect imperfection, I’ve still got a lot of learning to do to. But unlike other people, you’ve got to want to learn and not keep reliving the same mistakes over and over again.
To summise, I am happy to be a 12 year old living in a 31 year old body. 12 was a radical time for me. And 31 is a radical time for me. Radical Squared, rules!! It’s far better than being a homeless person, living in a 25 year old body and a broken down, non-operational truck. (Counting my blessings, God, each and every one.)
Peace and blessing to all the life-learners.
Pray that those who wish to continue suffering, SUFFER IN SILENCE.
Amen.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Top five reasons you should always use a rubber
Top five reasons why girls should have protected sex EVEN (ESPECIALLY) with their boyfriends:
5. The girls they were with RIGHT BEFORE YOU. Case in point, my exboyfriend’s lover RIGHT BEFORE ME was a 50-something year-old stripper. She works at the Star Strip on La Cienega and Beverley. Two words for you, Missus Stripper, “Retirement Fund.” Seriously, check her out. She looks like the Evil Witch from OZ sans green makeup.
I’m not kidding, field trip there and I’ll pay for everyone’s way in if you don’t believe me. Plus if you were ever wondering what your mom looks like naked, this is your chance. She gets TOTALLY naked ya'll. So back to my point. BEFORE YOUR BOYFRIENDS BECAME YOUR BOYFRIENDS, they slept with skanks. Strap a rubber on.
4. The girls they are with WHILE THEY ARE STILL FUCKING YOU RAW. Case in point, my ex-boyfriend’s recent who-knows-what-the-fuck-to-call-it. She has three kids and is missing her two side front teeth. If you’re a skater or a surfer, you probably already know who she is. She’s Marc Gonzalez’s sister. Yea, and if you know who she is, you know she weighs about 175 lbs and is about 5’4” tall.
Anyway, you’re boyfriend? He’s fucking her too. And he’s fucking HER RAW, too. And he wants to come home to you and stick his dick in you now. So strap a rubber on.
3. The OTHER girls they are fucking in addition to the missing tooth girl maybe for their birthday now that they are not fucking you. Now, your ex-boyfriend, is fucking some random girl who is willing to get her pussy and their sex act photographed and advertised on an online community. Proof:
She’s easy and she’s at a hotel with your ex-boyfriend having unprotected sex and now he’s passing on whatever he’s got to her and she to him. So now this ex-boyfriend and many like him are going to want to eventually end up being your new boyfriend with their rock band called The V.D.’s. So please, when you meet him and the many like him, strap a rubber on.
2.HEY! Sometimes, YOU wanna fuck around on your boyfriend too. But when you and your BF are having unprotected sex, it makes it really hard to put a rubber on the one you’re gonna fuck around on him with. But of course you do, because you are a responsible cheater, but it sucks because he’s got a balloon on his dick and it feels like it. So to get used to the feeling of a rubber by always using a rubber.
1. NUMBER ONE REASON WHY YOU SHOULD ALWAYS USE A CONDOM. I have two people that are very close to me that are attractive and healthy and social and fun and smiling and partying and whooping it up all the time. They run in separate circles and do not hang around with eachother. One is a man, one is a woman. Both are super totally fuckable and hot. Both are HIV positive. One of them is totally forthcoming and honest one of them is not.
So always, ALWAYS ALWAYS use a rubber.
If you need me I'll be at the clinic getting tested.
5. The girls they were with RIGHT BEFORE YOU. Case in point, my exboyfriend’s lover RIGHT BEFORE ME was a 50-something year-old stripper. She works at the Star Strip on La Cienega and Beverley. Two words for you, Missus Stripper, “Retirement Fund.” Seriously, check her out. She looks like the Evil Witch from OZ sans green makeup.
I’m not kidding, field trip there and I’ll pay for everyone’s way in if you don’t believe me. Plus if you were ever wondering what your mom looks like naked, this is your chance. She gets TOTALLY naked ya'll. So back to my point. BEFORE YOUR BOYFRIENDS BECAME YOUR BOYFRIENDS, they slept with skanks. Strap a rubber on.
4. The girls they are with WHILE THEY ARE STILL FUCKING YOU RAW. Case in point, my ex-boyfriend’s recent who-knows-what-the-fuck-to-call-it. She has three kids and is missing her two side front teeth. If you’re a skater or a surfer, you probably already know who she is. She’s Marc Gonzalez’s sister. Yea, and if you know who she is, you know she weighs about 175 lbs and is about 5’4” tall.
Anyway, you’re boyfriend? He’s fucking her too. And he’s fucking HER RAW, too. And he wants to come home to you and stick his dick in you now. So strap a rubber on.
3. The OTHER girls they are fucking in addition to the missing tooth girl maybe for their birthday now that they are not fucking you. Now, your ex-boyfriend, is fucking some random girl who is willing to get her pussy and their sex act photographed and advertised on an online community. Proof:
She’s easy and she’s at a hotel with your ex-boyfriend having unprotected sex and now he’s passing on whatever he’s got to her and she to him. So now this ex-boyfriend and many like him are going to want to eventually end up being your new boyfriend with their rock band called The V.D.’s. So please, when you meet him and the many like him, strap a rubber on.
2.HEY! Sometimes, YOU wanna fuck around on your boyfriend too. But when you and your BF are having unprotected sex, it makes it really hard to put a rubber on the one you’re gonna fuck around on him with. But of course you do, because you are a responsible cheater, but it sucks because he’s got a balloon on his dick and it feels like it. So to get used to the feeling of a rubber by always using a rubber.
1. NUMBER ONE REASON WHY YOU SHOULD ALWAYS USE A CONDOM. I have two people that are very close to me that are attractive and healthy and social and fun and smiling and partying and whooping it up all the time. They run in separate circles and do not hang around with eachother. One is a man, one is a woman. Both are super totally fuckable and hot. Both are HIV positive. One of them is totally forthcoming and honest one of them is not.
So always, ALWAYS ALWAYS use a rubber.
If you need me I'll be at the clinic getting tested.
Monday, July 04, 2005
I’m in love with a Crackhead and he only calls me when he wants to fuck, but he’s SOOOO HOT!
Imagine I’ve just revealed this news to you. What would you say?
I’m surrounded by beautiful women, with decent jobs, decent means and a decent standard of living. We happen to spend a considerable amount of time running in a scene where most people are semi-to-unemployed, drug-using, lost souls with little direction and even less money. Sorry if I’ve offended anyone, but truth is truth. How is it that the women that I hang with waste their time and energy and consequently MY PRECIOUS TIME AND ENERGY pining over men with zero duckets and oscillating interest?
I’m reading this really horrible book right now that my boss gave me. It’s called “He’s Just Not That Into You.” And even though I’m completely humiliated that I admit reading such a trendy book in an open forum, this book, if read by all woman, would cause an emotional revolution. You know, I don’t even want ALL women to read it. I just want all my female friends to read it. It would save all involved parties a lot of time.
I’ve always been a huge proponent of not playing games. Because once you play games you subscribe to the notion that game-playing is acceptable and for all intents and purposes you may as well say “LET THE GAMES BEGIN!” I’ve always lived by the “If you want to call him, call him” rule. This applies to people that are dating. Not people who have broken up with their retarted boyfriends or girlfriends and are still trapped in the revolving door of codependency. To those people I say, DEFINTIELY DO NOT CALL HIM/HER. But if you’re dating someone and you had a good time the night before and you want to call him and say I had a good time, but instead you call me and we spend the evening dissecting all the subtle nuances of his body language and analyzing all possible repercussions of calling him before he calls you, I’m STILL gonna end it with, “Call him if you want to call him. SHEESH.” This isn’t the presidential election. We don’t need to have a debate about the pros and cons. If a man gets scared away because you called him first, guess what? He’s Just Not That Into You.
It’s a very liberating, empowering thing to grasp. A man that likes you isn’t going to shy away because you called him first or left him a comment on his myspace profile. So you don’t need to call in forensics to comb over the evidence and give their opinion.
Point number two, and this is two-fold point. As I have mentioned before, I have beautiful, upstanding female friends that I surround myself with. Why do they and women like them waste time with LOSERS? And, as if wasting your time with losers just to fuck them isn’t bad enough, why do they waste time with LOSERS who don’t even have the decency to grab onto said amazing woman, hold her tight and say “HOW GOD? HOW DID I EVER DESERVE SUCH A MARVELOUS CREATURE?” No, they waste time with losers who don’t call when they say they will, or only call after 11pm, or try to fuck you even tho they’re homeless and ain’t got shit to offer (emotionally or otherwise) and play retarted games like let other girls flirt with them in front of you or get all suspect when they use your computer at YOUR house by minimizing browser windows when you walk by or other dodgy behaviour.
LADIES!!!! HEAR MY CRY! Dating the Bad Boy is soooooo passe’. Why do you want to be so text book? Why do you want to be a Typical, Stupid Girl. There’s no reward in the dating the Bad Boy. There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There’s nothing but a lot of heartache and wasted energy and effort. There’s nothing but a future full of self-loathing and self-doubt. What in God good earth would make you so fucked up in the head that you think dating a bad boy is fun and exciting? What is so got-damned fun and exciting about worrying about other girls, diseases, waiting by the phone, being used for your body, money and time? What’s so fun about not knowing where you guys stand, about being unsure, about questioning everything and not ever really knowing anything? Do I need to make a “HI, IT’S OBVIOUS I HATE MYSELF T-SHIRT” and give them out as prizes, cos I promise you that that’ll be the only thing you’ll come out of those relationships with. I take that back, you could walk out with a VD or a Baby. Good times.
Secondly, WHAT IS SO SEXY ABOUT A MAN WHO DOESN’T HAVE A JOB or LIVES ON PEOPLE’S COUCHES or AT HOME WITH MOM AND DAD or SELLS DRUGS TO GET BY or USES GIRLS TO GET BY?
From where I stand, one of two things is going on. You either think you can’t get better or you think you can fix a bad boy. What is missing in your life that you feel that this is the best you can do? What’s missing in your life that you feel you want to save a man like this from himself? I’ve got news for you, YOU WILL NEVER DO BETTER AS LONG AS YOUR WALKING AROUND HATING YOURSELF. You’ve heard the saying that men = dogs. Dogs can smell these things. Any man worth loving is not going to want to love your broken ass not matter how fine you are. And a man looking to seize an opportunity to take advantage of your broken spirits will sniff you out from a mile away and use and abuse you girl as long as you are willing to stick around and be used or until he’s tired of your broken ass. Secondly, before you go fixing bad boys FIX YOURSELF. Look in the mirror you self conscious little girl! God! Bad boys can be fixed, yes, but they fix themselves. And usually they fix themselves when the RIGHT GIRL COMES ALONG. And if you have to make an attempt to fix him, guess what? He’s Just Not That Into You.
I’m over this subject.
NEXT!
I’m surrounded by beautiful women, with decent jobs, decent means and a decent standard of living. We happen to spend a considerable amount of time running in a scene where most people are semi-to-unemployed, drug-using, lost souls with little direction and even less money. Sorry if I’ve offended anyone, but truth is truth. How is it that the women that I hang with waste their time and energy and consequently MY PRECIOUS TIME AND ENERGY pining over men with zero duckets and oscillating interest?
I’m reading this really horrible book right now that my boss gave me. It’s called “He’s Just Not That Into You.” And even though I’m completely humiliated that I admit reading such a trendy book in an open forum, this book, if read by all woman, would cause an emotional revolution. You know, I don’t even want ALL women to read it. I just want all my female friends to read it. It would save all involved parties a lot of time.
I’ve always been a huge proponent of not playing games. Because once you play games you subscribe to the notion that game-playing is acceptable and for all intents and purposes you may as well say “LET THE GAMES BEGIN!” I’ve always lived by the “If you want to call him, call him” rule. This applies to people that are dating. Not people who have broken up with their retarted boyfriends or girlfriends and are still trapped in the revolving door of codependency. To those people I say, DEFINTIELY DO NOT CALL HIM/HER. But if you’re dating someone and you had a good time the night before and you want to call him and say I had a good time, but instead you call me and we spend the evening dissecting all the subtle nuances of his body language and analyzing all possible repercussions of calling him before he calls you, I’m STILL gonna end it with, “Call him if you want to call him. SHEESH.” This isn’t the presidential election. We don’t need to have a debate about the pros and cons. If a man gets scared away because you called him first, guess what? He’s Just Not That Into You.
It’s a very liberating, empowering thing to grasp. A man that likes you isn’t going to shy away because you called him first or left him a comment on his myspace profile. So you don’t need to call in forensics to comb over the evidence and give their opinion.
Point number two, and this is two-fold point. As I have mentioned before, I have beautiful, upstanding female friends that I surround myself with. Why do they and women like them waste time with LOSERS? And, as if wasting your time with losers just to fuck them isn’t bad enough, why do they waste time with LOSERS who don’t even have the decency to grab onto said amazing woman, hold her tight and say “HOW GOD? HOW DID I EVER DESERVE SUCH A MARVELOUS CREATURE?” No, they waste time with losers who don’t call when they say they will, or only call after 11pm, or try to fuck you even tho they’re homeless and ain’t got shit to offer (emotionally or otherwise) and play retarted games like let other girls flirt with them in front of you or get all suspect when they use your computer at YOUR house by minimizing browser windows when you walk by or other dodgy behaviour.
LADIES!!!! HEAR MY CRY! Dating the Bad Boy is soooooo passe’. Why do you want to be so text book? Why do you want to be a Typical, Stupid Girl. There’s no reward in the dating the Bad Boy. There’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There’s nothing but a lot of heartache and wasted energy and effort. There’s nothing but a future full of self-loathing and self-doubt. What in God good earth would make you so fucked up in the head that you think dating a bad boy is fun and exciting? What is so got-damned fun and exciting about worrying about other girls, diseases, waiting by the phone, being used for your body, money and time? What’s so fun about not knowing where you guys stand, about being unsure, about questioning everything and not ever really knowing anything? Do I need to make a “HI, IT’S OBVIOUS I HATE MYSELF T-SHIRT” and give them out as prizes, cos I promise you that that’ll be the only thing you’ll come out of those relationships with. I take that back, you could walk out with a VD or a Baby. Good times.
Secondly, WHAT IS SO SEXY ABOUT A MAN WHO DOESN’T HAVE A JOB or LIVES ON PEOPLE’S COUCHES or AT HOME WITH MOM AND DAD or SELLS DRUGS TO GET BY or USES GIRLS TO GET BY?
From where I stand, one of two things is going on. You either think you can’t get better or you think you can fix a bad boy. What is missing in your life that you feel that this is the best you can do? What’s missing in your life that you feel you want to save a man like this from himself? I’ve got news for you, YOU WILL NEVER DO BETTER AS LONG AS YOUR WALKING AROUND HATING YOURSELF. You’ve heard the saying that men = dogs. Dogs can smell these things. Any man worth loving is not going to want to love your broken ass not matter how fine you are. And a man looking to seize an opportunity to take advantage of your broken spirits will sniff you out from a mile away and use and abuse you girl as long as you are willing to stick around and be used or until he’s tired of your broken ass. Secondly, before you go fixing bad boys FIX YOURSELF. Look in the mirror you self conscious little girl! God! Bad boys can be fixed, yes, but they fix themselves. And usually they fix themselves when the RIGHT GIRL COMES ALONG. And if you have to make an attempt to fix him, guess what? He’s Just Not That Into You.
I’m over this subject.
NEXT!
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Psych Wards
You know what I hate more than Asian Fetishists, who support Bush and the occupation, type LiKeThIsAnDLiKeThAt, don’t own a passpost, leases a bling custom vehicle and lives at home?
The person I hate more than that person is the bitch that cries WOLF.
Ladies, ladies ladies. I love you. This is in no means a message to any one, two or three women. This is a general call for ALL WOMEN TO GET IT TOGETHER. Put up or Shut up. And I do mean SHUT UP.
Last week, I got out bed, rushed to the side of a friend I love very dearly because her and her boyfriend broke up. I spent the evening eating brownie sundaes at Swingers (messing up VERY BADLY at my South Beach Dist BTW) and being a very good friend.
I sent her home and I went home, bellies full, hearts and spirits strong. At about 230am, I was in bed trying my hardest to get to SLEEP. At 230am, her boyfriend came over and they were having make up intercourse.
YAY FOR THEM! Bad for me.
This is just the most recent of instances. I’ve saved people from abusive relationships, moved women out of their shared houses, driven hundreds of miles for women, spent countless hours on the telephone hanging on the every word, held women as they contemplated suicide, prayed for women, cried for women, moved women in, laid in bed with women while they wept, woken up the in the middle of the night to be there, got up really early in the morning to be there, ran two miles when the car service company was late, bought contraband and brought it over in an effort to relieve the pain and embarrassed myself to make women laugh thru her tears. I’ve done everything a friend should do to be a friend and yet 99.89 percent of the time, the dumb bitches Just. Keep. Going. Back.
Let me give you a little history about myself. I’m not perfect in relationships. I had some bad ones and I’ve had some good ones and I’ve had some where even under the most intense CIA interrogation I would deny. But I’ll tell you one thing, FOR THE MOST PART, I didn’t go crying all types of nonsense and all the while carrying on a relationship the person I’m complaining about. For crissakes, most of my friends didn’t even know me and my last boyfriend were broken up until I got calls from people telling me he was seen at ASR with the ugliest of ugh-bots. Then and only then was I forced to reveal the break up. In 1997, I went thru a sudden and acute case of 2 year insanity-itis when I was dating a guy who cheated on me like he had a personal quota. I suffered in silence knowing full well, I wasn’t strong enough to leave him. And when we did break up, again, no one knew until I was moving in with my new boyfriend.
There should be a rule. If you tell all your friends you’ve broken up with someone, we friends get to stab you repeatedly if you two get back together. Just in the arms and legs or something. Nowhere, you know, fatal. It should be a law. Not just a rule. If should be a law that for every hour that we have to listen to you cry, complain, cry, get encouraged, cry, have epiphanies and cry again, I get to stab you in the calf one time for each hour.
I know this sounds severe, but I also have to say that when a man hurts my friend and when that friend comes to me crying, that man has hurt ME. And when that man hurts ME, I’ve got to hurt that man. Or, I’ve got to hurt SOMEONE.
You know what ALSO bugs me out. Women want to talk all kinds of shit about their men and then expect me to be all “HI (Boyfriend’s name here)! HOW ARE YOU? Yea, like OH MY GOD! That’s a nice sweater vest.” Ladies, this is REALLY ANNOYING.
I’m supposed to know your man cheated on you, has no redeeming qualities, trampled on your spirit, given you low-self esteem, abused you and/or has been telling you he wants to fuck me, yet I’m supposed to be like, “Hey Yea, let’s have brunch at Millie’s, OK? COOL!”
OK so I’m gonna break it down.
1) A man is going to treat you like shit if you LET HIM TREAT YOU LIKE SHIT. I mean, I’d shit on you too, if you let me. Ultimately, if you are in a relationship where the man is treating you like shit, it’s YOUR FAULT. SORRY!
2) If you are unhappy with the way your man is treating you, give him the benefit of the doubt and TALK TO HIM. If he doesn’t comply or make an effort, LEAVE HIS ASS. Men are wired differently than women. They don’t want to talk, they don’t want to discuss or weigh the pros and cons, they don’t want to hear about your feelings. Speak to them in a language they understand. Man language is also referred to as “Action.” The action word they understand the most and is universal and not specific to race or culture is called “LEAVE HIS ASS.”
-Leaving his ass means NOT TALKING TO HIS ASS UNTIL HE IS BEGGING TO HAVE THAT TALK YOU WANTED SO BAD. Any man worth his salt and that would have been willing to make SOME changes in the first place would come back at this point willing to do what you want to reconcile.
-If he doesn't he would have never changed for you to begin with and good riddance to bad rubbish.
-Don’t let them come back just cos he said “Sorry.” That’s not gonna cut it.
-Just cos he came back after you left his ass, it doesn't mean he fixed shit, it just means he wasn't finished shitting on you and/or he wasn't ready to let you move on with YOUR life.
3) If after insert time frame of 2 years or more here that shit head still has no redeeming qualities and you have no kids and you’re still young and beautiful and you aren’t financially dependent on him, LEAVE HIS ASS FOR GOOD. This is what I like to call “to the curb with that one.” What exactly is there that you are trying to fix? Do you really have such low self-esteem that you’d want to stay with a man like that anyway?
4) THE GOLDEN RULE Unless you are one million percent sure you are not going back to him, don’t come crying to us, your best friends, cos guess what? It HURTS our feelings when you go back to them and we know what they put you thru. AND another added benefit when we are talking about me is that I begin to think you are PATHETIC and question is I even want to be friends with you anymore. YEA! DOUBLE WHAMMY!
Post Script for the Men:
I am not gay and I am not a man-hater. I sometimes WISH I was a man so I could have beautiful adoring women worship the ground I walk on to the point of embarrassment. I mean, the things we women do for the sake of love is crazy. If anything I think women are chumps, not men. Men are just opportunistic. Anyway, everything I say about men in the above passages are all specific to the testimony of the complaining women and not a sweeping generalization on men.
Post Script for the Women:
The doctor is no longer in. I will no longer be taking appointments or listening to sob stories. If your matter is urgent please call my message service at 1-800-I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck
Love,
Gen
The person I hate more than that person is the bitch that cries WOLF.
Ladies, ladies ladies. I love you. This is in no means a message to any one, two or three women. This is a general call for ALL WOMEN TO GET IT TOGETHER. Put up or Shut up. And I do mean SHUT UP.
Last week, I got out bed, rushed to the side of a friend I love very dearly because her and her boyfriend broke up. I spent the evening eating brownie sundaes at Swingers (messing up VERY BADLY at my South Beach Dist BTW) and being a very good friend.
I sent her home and I went home, bellies full, hearts and spirits strong. At about 230am, I was in bed trying my hardest to get to SLEEP. At 230am, her boyfriend came over and they were having make up intercourse.
YAY FOR THEM! Bad for me.
This is just the most recent of instances. I’ve saved people from abusive relationships, moved women out of their shared houses, driven hundreds of miles for women, spent countless hours on the telephone hanging on the every word, held women as they contemplated suicide, prayed for women, cried for women, moved women in, laid in bed with women while they wept, woken up the in the middle of the night to be there, got up really early in the morning to be there, ran two miles when the car service company was late, bought contraband and brought it over in an effort to relieve the pain and embarrassed myself to make women laugh thru her tears. I’ve done everything a friend should do to be a friend and yet 99.89 percent of the time, the dumb bitches Just. Keep. Going. Back.
Let me give you a little history about myself. I’m not perfect in relationships. I had some bad ones and I’ve had some good ones and I’ve had some where even under the most intense CIA interrogation I would deny. But I’ll tell you one thing, FOR THE MOST PART, I didn’t go crying all types of nonsense and all the while carrying on a relationship the person I’m complaining about. For crissakes, most of my friends didn’t even know me and my last boyfriend were broken up until I got calls from people telling me he was seen at ASR with the ugliest of ugh-bots. Then and only then was I forced to reveal the break up. In 1997, I went thru a sudden and acute case of 2 year insanity-itis when I was dating a guy who cheated on me like he had a personal quota. I suffered in silence knowing full well, I wasn’t strong enough to leave him. And when we did break up, again, no one knew until I was moving in with my new boyfriend.
There should be a rule. If you tell all your friends you’ve broken up with someone, we friends get to stab you repeatedly if you two get back together. Just in the arms and legs or something. Nowhere, you know, fatal. It should be a law. Not just a rule. If should be a law that for every hour that we have to listen to you cry, complain, cry, get encouraged, cry, have epiphanies and cry again, I get to stab you in the calf one time for each hour.
I know this sounds severe, but I also have to say that when a man hurts my friend and when that friend comes to me crying, that man has hurt ME. And when that man hurts ME, I’ve got to hurt that man. Or, I’ve got to hurt SOMEONE.
You know what ALSO bugs me out. Women want to talk all kinds of shit about their men and then expect me to be all “HI (Boyfriend’s name here)! HOW ARE YOU? Yea, like OH MY GOD! That’s a nice sweater vest.” Ladies, this is REALLY ANNOYING.
I’m supposed to know your man cheated on you, has no redeeming qualities, trampled on your spirit, given you low-self esteem, abused you and/or has been telling you he wants to fuck me, yet I’m supposed to be like, “Hey Yea, let’s have brunch at Millie’s, OK? COOL!”
OK so I’m gonna break it down.
1) A man is going to treat you like shit if you LET HIM TREAT YOU LIKE SHIT. I mean, I’d shit on you too, if you let me. Ultimately, if you are in a relationship where the man is treating you like shit, it’s YOUR FAULT. SORRY!
2) If you are unhappy with the way your man is treating you, give him the benefit of the doubt and TALK TO HIM. If he doesn’t comply or make an effort, LEAVE HIS ASS. Men are wired differently than women. They don’t want to talk, they don’t want to discuss or weigh the pros and cons, they don’t want to hear about your feelings. Speak to them in a language they understand. Man language is also referred to as “Action.” The action word they understand the most and is universal and not specific to race or culture is called “LEAVE HIS ASS.”
-Leaving his ass means NOT TALKING TO HIS ASS UNTIL HE IS BEGGING TO HAVE THAT TALK YOU WANTED SO BAD. Any man worth his salt and that would have been willing to make SOME changes in the first place would come back at this point willing to do what you want to reconcile.
-If he doesn't he would have never changed for you to begin with and good riddance to bad rubbish.
-Don’t let them come back just cos he said “Sorry.” That’s not gonna cut it.
-Just cos he came back after you left his ass, it doesn't mean he fixed shit, it just means he wasn't finished shitting on you and/or he wasn't ready to let you move on with YOUR life.
3) If after insert time frame of 2 years or more here that shit head still has no redeeming qualities and you have no kids and you’re still young and beautiful and you aren’t financially dependent on him, LEAVE HIS ASS FOR GOOD. This is what I like to call “to the curb with that one.” What exactly is there that you are trying to fix? Do you really have such low self-esteem that you’d want to stay with a man like that anyway?
4) THE GOLDEN RULE Unless you are one million percent sure you are not going back to him, don’t come crying to us, your best friends, cos guess what? It HURTS our feelings when you go back to them and we know what they put you thru. AND another added benefit when we are talking about me is that I begin to think you are PATHETIC and question is I even want to be friends with you anymore. YEA! DOUBLE WHAMMY!
Post Script for the Men:
I am not gay and I am not a man-hater. I sometimes WISH I was a man so I could have beautiful adoring women worship the ground I walk on to the point of embarrassment. I mean, the things we women do for the sake of love is crazy. If anything I think women are chumps, not men. Men are just opportunistic. Anyway, everything I say about men in the above passages are all specific to the testimony of the complaining women and not a sweeping generalization on men.
Post Script for the Women:
The doctor is no longer in. I will no longer be taking appointments or listening to sob stories. If your matter is urgent please call my message service at 1-800-I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck
Love,
Gen
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Debunking CockTales
All this cock-talk has inspired me to write another blog. In fact, I’m going to stay home instead of wishing Frankie Happy Birthday, (again,) in lieu of writing this little tid bit of information and watching the Ray Charles television special. I don’t know why I’ve decided to reinvent myself as some sex expert, so I’ll say that this is a general analysis of an accumulation of various conversations I’ve had with different women, of different ages, colours, sizes, geographic locations, cultures, sub-cultures and wealth. This is NOT LAW and I’m NOT A FOR REAL PRO. So you could either take what I say or leave it. You can leave your own opinions, or you can tell me you think I’m wrong. I really don’t care, but when I read my comments I hope that it’s to either feel good about myself or learn something new. I’ll try my best to not to over generalize and I’ll use words like “OCCASIONALLY” and “SOMETIMES” to keep everyone’s feelings safe.
Lesson number one: Super-Size Me! No Thanks..
Too much of a good thing is only too much, nothing else. Well, I should elaborate on this. Men with big dicks, you’re not Gods. You’re just men with big dicks. And you don’t necessarily fuck so great, but E for effort! So, regular-dick-sized men, don’t feel so bad. SOMETIMES men with big dicks can’t get super-stiff. And a semi-woody is as useful to me as Nader in this election. I don’t want it. In fact, leave. You gotta do the whole magician stuffing the kerchief in a clenched fist trick. It’s not fun and you know what? When it’s soft, WE CAN’T EVEN FEEL IT, NO MATTER HOW BIG YOU ARE. Yea…. OCCASIONALLY, men with big dicks have been known to think that sticking their big dicks in is the prize. Like, “TAH-DAH! Aren’t you thankful to have my big dick in you?” Yea?…No. You better move that thing, or I’m going to ask you to get out. Then there’s the intrinsic generosity that men with Big Un’s have. They have been known to SHARE their gift of big-dickedness with others. It’s a very kind gesture and all, but no thanks. I don’t really like sharing.
As a note to the ladies who say they only want to fuck men with big dicks: try kegel excercises, it works. Gimme a break with that whole big dick elitism. A dick is a dick is a dick. It’s the guy behind the dick that’s doing all the work.
Lesson number two: Race Relations.
Black men? Myth.
Latino men? Myth.
Jewish men? Myth.
Italian men? Myth.
Asian men? Myth. Not that I’ve ever met an Asian man that wants to fuck me. But I do have a black female friend who now dates exclusively Asian men. And she (and other FOAMs: Fans Of Asian Men) told me that they, as lovers, overcompensate for their cultural low sexual expectations and WORK IT OUT. Cool. How she ever got an Asian guy to date her, I’ll never know, Asian men are attracted to me like they’re attracted to the atom bomb. They’re not.
As in life, color doesn’t matter. So don’t tell me just because I’ve dated Black men before that I did it for dick size. For a good two years, I was invisible to everyone but Black men. And fuck it if I’m going to go for two years without sex.
And to put another Black Myth to rest, yes, they do eat pussy.
Lesson number three: Average need not be
Yea, yea, yea, the average dick size is 6 inches and whatever. Truly, size doesn’t matter, unless you’re really, really small. Then umm, it does matter and please learn how to eat pussy. But average is great. Average is totally cool with most women. What I need to know is does it get stiff? Can you break down my door with it if I’m locked out? Now THAT’s what I want to hear. If your dick doesn’t get stiff, One, I’m insulted and sex is gonna be LAME. For both of us and Two, as I already mentioned, I don’t feel you.
No, literally, I CAN’T FEEL YOU.
So Average Guys, love your dicks. Your dicks RULE. Learn a few positions other than doggie style, missionary and me on top. Grab my ankles and pull them up the air like your were changing my pampers. Choke me, come in from the side, switch it up, go crazy! We’re here to have fun and your average size dick is not going to get in the way of any of that! AWESOME!
Lesson number four: FORE!!!!!
This is for the Non-Jewish Europeans and West Indians. You’re so fucking lucky, man. The head of your dicks is encased in a warm little flesh turtleneck, protected from bouncing around in your boxers and getting callous to the sense of touch. I just moved here from NY. I’ve been lucky enough to take lovers whose parents didn’t mutilate their penises for the sake of a false cleanliness. (Jewish people, it’s part of your culture/religion so that last sentence does not apply to you.) Anyway, you all may be “Eyyyywwww”ing me and wincing, but fuck you. Men with their foreskins are JUST AS CLEAN as men without. AND when it’s erect it looks EXACTLY the same. AND because their dicks have a whole other level of sensitivity, sex with them is RIDICULOUSLY SEXY. Yummm….Any Europeans reading this, call me. I’m free on Wednesday. I’ll put my thing down flip it and reverse it.
Anyway, I hope this helps in SOME WAY. I'm sure I'll add to this some day. But right now, Law and Order is on. And I've got a mystery to solve.
POST-WRITING PREDICTION: Most men will not comment except to say "I HAVE A BIG COCK AND I KNOW HOW TO FUCK AND MY DICK CAN TOO GET STIFF!!!" Most regular dick-sized men aren't going to freely chime in and cheer "I LOVE MY REGU-DICK!" It's ok, I understand. i love ya'll anyway!"
Lesson number one: Super-Size Me! No Thanks..
Too much of a good thing is only too much, nothing else. Well, I should elaborate on this. Men with big dicks, you’re not Gods. You’re just men with big dicks. And you don’t necessarily fuck so great, but E for effort! So, regular-dick-sized men, don’t feel so bad. SOMETIMES men with big dicks can’t get super-stiff. And a semi-woody is as useful to me as Nader in this election. I don’t want it. In fact, leave. You gotta do the whole magician stuffing the kerchief in a clenched fist trick. It’s not fun and you know what? When it’s soft, WE CAN’T EVEN FEEL IT, NO MATTER HOW BIG YOU ARE. Yea…. OCCASIONALLY, men with big dicks have been known to think that sticking their big dicks in is the prize. Like, “TAH-DAH! Aren’t you thankful to have my big dick in you?” Yea?…No. You better move that thing, or I’m going to ask you to get out. Then there’s the intrinsic generosity that men with Big Un’s have. They have been known to SHARE their gift of big-dickedness with others. It’s a very kind gesture and all, but no thanks. I don’t really like sharing.
As a note to the ladies who say they only want to fuck men with big dicks: try kegel excercises, it works. Gimme a break with that whole big dick elitism. A dick is a dick is a dick. It’s the guy behind the dick that’s doing all the work.
Lesson number two: Race Relations.
Black men? Myth.
Latino men? Myth.
Jewish men? Myth.
Italian men? Myth.
Asian men? Myth. Not that I’ve ever met an Asian man that wants to fuck me. But I do have a black female friend who now dates exclusively Asian men. And she (and other FOAMs: Fans Of Asian Men) told me that they, as lovers, overcompensate for their cultural low sexual expectations and WORK IT OUT. Cool. How she ever got an Asian guy to date her, I’ll never know, Asian men are attracted to me like they’re attracted to the atom bomb. They’re not.
As in life, color doesn’t matter. So don’t tell me just because I’ve dated Black men before that I did it for dick size. For a good two years, I was invisible to everyone but Black men. And fuck it if I’m going to go for two years without sex.
And to put another Black Myth to rest, yes, they do eat pussy.
Lesson number three: Average need not be
Yea, yea, yea, the average dick size is 6 inches and whatever. Truly, size doesn’t matter, unless you’re really, really small. Then umm, it does matter and please learn how to eat pussy. But average is great. Average is totally cool with most women. What I need to know is does it get stiff? Can you break down my door with it if I’m locked out? Now THAT’s what I want to hear. If your dick doesn’t get stiff, One, I’m insulted and sex is gonna be LAME. For both of us and Two, as I already mentioned, I don’t feel you.
No, literally, I CAN’T FEEL YOU.
So Average Guys, love your dicks. Your dicks RULE. Learn a few positions other than doggie style, missionary and me on top. Grab my ankles and pull them up the air like your were changing my pampers. Choke me, come in from the side, switch it up, go crazy! We’re here to have fun and your average size dick is not going to get in the way of any of that! AWESOME!
Lesson number four: FORE!!!!!
This is for the Non-Jewish Europeans and West Indians. You’re so fucking lucky, man. The head of your dicks is encased in a warm little flesh turtleneck, protected from bouncing around in your boxers and getting callous to the sense of touch. I just moved here from NY. I’ve been lucky enough to take lovers whose parents didn’t mutilate their penises for the sake of a false cleanliness. (Jewish people, it’s part of your culture/religion so that last sentence does not apply to you.) Anyway, you all may be “Eyyyywwww”ing me and wincing, but fuck you. Men with their foreskins are JUST AS CLEAN as men without. AND when it’s erect it looks EXACTLY the same. AND because their dicks have a whole other level of sensitivity, sex with them is RIDICULOUSLY SEXY. Yummm….Any Europeans reading this, call me. I’m free on Wednesday. I’ll put my thing down flip it and reverse it.
Anyway, I hope this helps in SOME WAY. I'm sure I'll add to this some day. But right now, Law and Order is on. And I've got a mystery to solve.
POST-WRITING PREDICTION: Most men will not comment except to say "I HAVE A BIG COCK AND I KNOW HOW TO FUCK AND MY DICK CAN TOO GET STIFF!!!" Most regular dick-sized men aren't going to freely chime in and cheer "I LOVE MY REGU-DICK!" It's ok, I understand. i love ya'll anyway!"
Friday, July 01, 2005
The famous...
So ummm...Yea, Asian Fetish....
So the other day, I went out on a date with a man. A White Man. THE MAN for my revolutionary brothers and sisters. So anyway, as I’m out on a date this man, he’s telling me about his ex girlfriend, and he prefaces it with saying “So my ex-girlfriend, she’s Korean….” And so on and so forth. It starts to hit me, and I’m trapped, and I don’t know what to do short of throw my salad against the wall to cause a diversion and run for the door.
“Genevieve,” I say to myself, because that’s my name, “you’re with a Rice King. Stay Calm and try not to act overtly Asian and inadvertently getting him aroused.”
“Rice King” see “Asian Fever,” see “Yellow Fever,” see “Asian Fetish,” see “G.I. Joe.”
After he drones on about his car, a new convertible beamer with some type of flecked paint and expensive rims (strike one,) about his job as a radio promo guy for a record label “I’ve got the best job in the world!” (strike two,) about his exgirlfriend, she’s Korean, if you didn’t already know (strike three) he begins to tell me about his LOVE of Asian culture. YOU’RE OUT!
He then proceeds to tell me that it’s not that he has an “Asian Fetish, per se,” (Insert image of overly-tanned, beamer-owning, Radio Promo Guy, with Asian Fetish doing the universal sign for quotation marks here.) “It’s just that I LOVE Asian culture SO MUCH, I mean, I even bought a 6 hour special on PBS about Chinese History. Do you know the oppression that the Chinese have been thru with (so and so) and (so and so) and then (something else) happened. It’s so rich. I just really need to be with someone who understands it. I mean, I probably know more about Asian History than the average Asian American but it’s important to me that Asian history is something the person I’m with wants to learn about.”
(Me. Gaping open mouth. Inability to contribute to conversation for the first time in the history of Asian Man.)
Here the clincher. “Also I just don’t find your typical American White or European woman attractive. Asian and Latin women are soo….”
You guessed it. The “E” word.
“Exotic.”
Me: “Wow, look at the time. It was nice having dinner with you. Let’s talk sometime in say, the year of the dog.”
Ok I didn’t really say that, but how great would it be?
So then, I go out on a date with a whole other different guy. Yes, white. Who’s really great so I’ll try to not rip on him so much. He’s a divorcee and he was married to a Japanese woman. They met while he was teaching ESL (English as a Second Language.) Six years later they divorce. Why did they divorce? Because she never bothered to learn English. She always spoke a badly broken form of English.
So I’m trying to figure out if I’m attracting Asian Fetishists because I am Asian or is Asian Fetishists are attracted to me because I am Asian. What came first, the chicken or the egg?
Or am I a White Boy fetishist? Or maybe I have Asian Fetishists Fetish. And is it only an Asian Fetish because the man is not Asian himself? I don’t know.
What I do know is that I just really hope this whole Asian-thing is a phase. Like Trucker hats and Ugg Boots.
But for you Asian Fetishists out there, here are some guidelines:
1) Don’t blow your entire knowledge of the (Insert appropriate Asian dialect or language here) on us. We are not impressed that you know how to say “Hi. I Love you and you’re beautiful” in Cantonese or Tagalog or Japanese. Those are the phrases you need to know if you’re propositioning a prostitute in their country or origin. Guess what guys, we speak PERFECT English. In fact, we speak Engrish BEDDY GOOD. PLEASE TO TALK TO US IN ENGRISH.
2) Don't tell me you love (reading of menu from Filipino restaraunt here) but give me the only American-friendly options like: Lumpia, Pancit, Adobo. We have a lot more than three dishes guys. And no, I won't cook for your ass. So Don't ask.
3) Don’t give me a history lesson on my culture. I don’t go around telling you about the Revolutionary War and the Declaration of Independence.
4) Please don’t call us “EXOTIC.” I’ll hurt you. I swear I will.
5) Please don’t get tattoo’s of our words and phrases on your body. If you want to eternally communicate “Strong” “Bold” “Persevere” or what have you on your body, Old English letters and cursive is so nice. Plus half the time, SURPRISE! You’ve actually just tattooed something stupid on yourself like “HARD” “LARGE” or “SUSTAIN.” ALSO, guess what? YOU’RE NOT CHINESE!
6) It's not special that you know how to use chop sticks. Over 1 billion people in one country alone know how to use chopsticks and they learned them at about the time you were using a sippy cup.
7) Don’t advertise your Asian Fetish by telling us about your Asian ex’s. We WANT to date you, but it makes it hard when we can’t help but feel we’re taking part of your geisha girl fantasies. It’s a free country, you can have your Asian Fetish, and I can have my choking fetish and we can all live together side by side. Just don’t tell me about it. If you do we can’t help but be conflicted. “Does he like me cos I’m Asian? Or does he like me because of me? Does he like me because of my slanty eyes? Or does he like me because of ME? Is he trying to figure out if my slit is sideways? Or is it ME?” Guess what guys, if I’m out with you, chances are you're well on your way to laidville. Half the battle is already won. You don’t need to make me feel special by expressing your love of my culture. And you'll increase your chances of me and you doing the funky monkey dance ten-fold if you keep your Asian Fetish where it belongs. In the closet.
Love,
Gen the angry asian girl.
So the other day, I went out on a date with a man. A White Man. THE MAN for my revolutionary brothers and sisters. So anyway, as I’m out on a date this man, he’s telling me about his ex girlfriend, and he prefaces it with saying “So my ex-girlfriend, she’s Korean….” And so on and so forth. It starts to hit me, and I’m trapped, and I don’t know what to do short of throw my salad against the wall to cause a diversion and run for the door.
“Genevieve,” I say to myself, because that’s my name, “you’re with a Rice King. Stay Calm and try not to act overtly Asian and inadvertently getting him aroused.”
“Rice King” see “Asian Fever,” see “Yellow Fever,” see “Asian Fetish,” see “G.I. Joe.”
After he drones on about his car, a new convertible beamer with some type of flecked paint and expensive rims (strike one,) about his job as a radio promo guy for a record label “I’ve got the best job in the world!” (strike two,) about his exgirlfriend, she’s Korean, if you didn’t already know (strike three) he begins to tell me about his LOVE of Asian culture. YOU’RE OUT!
He then proceeds to tell me that it’s not that he has an “Asian Fetish, per se,” (Insert image of overly-tanned, beamer-owning, Radio Promo Guy, with Asian Fetish doing the universal sign for quotation marks here.) “It’s just that I LOVE Asian culture SO MUCH, I mean, I even bought a 6 hour special on PBS about Chinese History. Do you know the oppression that the Chinese have been thru with (so and so) and (so and so) and then (something else) happened. It’s so rich. I just really need to be with someone who understands it. I mean, I probably know more about Asian History than the average Asian American but it’s important to me that Asian history is something the person I’m with wants to learn about.”
(Me. Gaping open mouth. Inability to contribute to conversation for the first time in the history of Asian Man.)
Here the clincher. “Also I just don’t find your typical American White or European woman attractive. Asian and Latin women are soo….”
You guessed it. The “E” word.
“Exotic.”
Me: “Wow, look at the time. It was nice having dinner with you. Let’s talk sometime in say, the year of the dog.”
Ok I didn’t really say that, but how great would it be?
So then, I go out on a date with a whole other different guy. Yes, white. Who’s really great so I’ll try to not rip on him so much. He’s a divorcee and he was married to a Japanese woman. They met while he was teaching ESL (English as a Second Language.) Six years later they divorce. Why did they divorce? Because she never bothered to learn English. She always spoke a badly broken form of English.
So I’m trying to figure out if I’m attracting Asian Fetishists because I am Asian or is Asian Fetishists are attracted to me because I am Asian. What came first, the chicken or the egg?
Or am I a White Boy fetishist? Or maybe I have Asian Fetishists Fetish. And is it only an Asian Fetish because the man is not Asian himself? I don’t know.
What I do know is that I just really hope this whole Asian-thing is a phase. Like Trucker hats and Ugg Boots.
But for you Asian Fetishists out there, here are some guidelines:
1) Don’t blow your entire knowledge of the (Insert appropriate Asian dialect or language here) on us. We are not impressed that you know how to say “Hi. I Love you and you’re beautiful” in Cantonese or Tagalog or Japanese. Those are the phrases you need to know if you’re propositioning a prostitute in their country or origin. Guess what guys, we speak PERFECT English. In fact, we speak Engrish BEDDY GOOD. PLEASE TO TALK TO US IN ENGRISH.
2) Don't tell me you love (reading of menu from Filipino restaraunt here) but give me the only American-friendly options like: Lumpia, Pancit, Adobo. We have a lot more than three dishes guys. And no, I won't cook for your ass. So Don't ask.
3) Don’t give me a history lesson on my culture. I don’t go around telling you about the Revolutionary War and the Declaration of Independence.
4) Please don’t call us “EXOTIC.” I’ll hurt you. I swear I will.
5) Please don’t get tattoo’s of our words and phrases on your body. If you want to eternally communicate “Strong” “Bold” “Persevere” or what have you on your body, Old English letters and cursive is so nice. Plus half the time, SURPRISE! You’ve actually just tattooed something stupid on yourself like “HARD” “LARGE” or “SUSTAIN.” ALSO, guess what? YOU’RE NOT CHINESE!
6) It's not special that you know how to use chop sticks. Over 1 billion people in one country alone know how to use chopsticks and they learned them at about the time you were using a sippy cup.
7) Don’t advertise your Asian Fetish by telling us about your Asian ex’s. We WANT to date you, but it makes it hard when we can’t help but feel we’re taking part of your geisha girl fantasies. It’s a free country, you can have your Asian Fetish, and I can have my choking fetish and we can all live together side by side. Just don’t tell me about it. If you do we can’t help but be conflicted. “Does he like me cos I’m Asian? Or does he like me because of me? Does he like me because of my slanty eyes? Or does he like me because of ME? Is he trying to figure out if my slit is sideways? Or is it ME?” Guess what guys, if I’m out with you, chances are you're well on your way to laidville. Half the battle is already won. You don’t need to make me feel special by expressing your love of my culture. And you'll increase your chances of me and you doing the funky monkey dance ten-fold if you keep your Asian Fetish where it belongs. In the closet.
Love,
Gen the angry asian girl.
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