I’m a slave for you

Not gonna lie; I am a stuff junkie. When I was a kid, my parents taught me to be resourceful, and to have fun without the latest and greatest toys. Sure I spent many hours with Mario and Donkey Kong, but I spent many more riding my brother’s recycled bike (dad and I painted it, changed the seat, and added a horn and basket), playing with the dog, and making up games. I’d run through the back yard, in between corn and coffee plants, chanting like a little Indian girl hunting white people. The dog was either my wolf companion or my horse. Imaginary rivers and quicksand were crossed by swinging from liana or my rope. Whole afternoons would go by, spent outside, until a crusty and hungry mini-me returned home for the evening. I can’t remember caring for many material things; I was satisfied with my cheap watches and a few Nintendo games, though I did wish Freddy Kruger’s replica glove weren’t so expensive.

Then we moved to the US – just as I hit puberty. To make up for my accent and small boobs, I needed gorgeous hair, the prettiest skirts, the most bad ass leather jacket, the newest sneakers, the best this, the best that… as my mother eventually began denying me all of my wants and needs, I started working at age 14, so I could afford all the shit I wanted. God only knows how many thousands of dollars were spent on teen magazines, beauty products, jewelry, clothes… I remember watching shampoo commercials and running to the bathroom to check myself in the mirror; I’d run my fingers through my hair, angry that it wasn’t as shiny, thick, or straight like the model’s. I’d make weekly lists of shit I needed so I could run to the mall after payday and spend my check on the stuff – stuff that would become obsolete weeks later.

When it wasn’t clothes and beauty products, it was gadgets or home furnishings; but there was always something to buy.

It wasn’t until after college that I really began to assess my slavery to stuff and my easily persuadable personality. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, but it’s true; I’m fairly gullible and impressionable. I tell myself that these traits go hand in hand with my optimism and the big heart I carry on my sleeve, but still… the truth is, I’m not like my mom, who can walk through any store and barely blink at the shelves, focusing solely on the specifics of her list. On a grocery shopping  mission, it is not unlikely that I’ll find myself sucking my thumb or twirling my hair, staring at crayons and erasable markers, convincing myself that drawing pictures would be incredibly therapeutic IF ONLY I had the glow in the dark glittery glue.

I know myself too well, and at least I have that on my side. I can’t tell you how much more pleasant my life has been since I cut out television (commercials), and celebrity-centered news, online shopping, women’s magazines, and ‘casual’ trips to the mall. I don’t know what Vogue wants me to Buy, Keep, or Store, I don’t know what Posh was wearing when she went out for brunch on Saturday, and I haven’t a clue how quickly the new wireless home theater systems can deafen me. I stay away from stores like a lap-band fattie does from sugar, and when I do go I clutch to my list.

Unless I don’t make one. Unless I foolishly tell myself that I’ll just “pop into Target and Sephora real quick” for a computer cable and some foundation. “Twenty minutes, and I’ll be home before dusk for a jog with Tori.”

I found the foundation. I also found lipgloss and $100 worth of perfume. I found the computer cable, along with a new bath curtain, wastebasket, soap dispenser, play-doh, more nerf gun ammunition, Starbucks coffee, a $20 mug, organizing boxes, tanning product, and whatever the fuck else. It’s absurd and I’m ashamed. I’ve put aside some stuff to return over the weekend, and I’m hoping this relapse is an isolated episode. But my oh my, how pretty does my bathroom look.

This sucks, thanks for reading

I’m pretty fucking angry. I’m angry because I’ve forgotten how to write. Or how to entertain myself while writing. And I’m now a certified lame-o for boo-hooing about my writer’s block when I’m not even a goddamn writer to begin with. I’m just a chick with a blog.

I’m also pretty fucking angry at how shallow I am sometimes. I choose to twirl my hair and think about how much I enjoyed being sexually harassed by a New York City bartender instead of working on an overdue spreadsheet. I click on the Lindsay Lohan throws glass at girlfriend’s head headline before reading what Stephen Hawking thinks about our attempts to communicate with aliens. And fuck it, yes, I go to the gym because I want to be healthy and live a long life, but more than that, it’s because I want a really hot body.

I’m angry because I’ve yet to begin researching the fourth dimension theory that is so imperative for the brilliant sci-fi thriller that’s in my head. I read a little here and there, but the info I want is inside books found at the library. The library where I owe $60 in lost titles. They aren’t lost, really, they’re just somewhere in my apartment. My apartment that is perpetually messy, since I’ve decided not to clean until it’s time to start packing for my move. My move into the new place I’ve yet to measure out to ensure I can bring all of my furniture. All the furniture I’ll probably end up selling in order to get brand new stuff because I’m a spoiled brat who spends on furniture and tattoos when she should be saving her money with a credit union that is less likely to fuck her over if financial reform doesn’t pass or gets pissed on by republicans, thus enabling irrational booms to plummet a decade from now, wiping everyone else’s savings except for mine.

I’m angry when I read the disgusting lies uttered by republicans trying to shut down the financial reform bill. Bull-fucking-shit such as claiming government should simply allow banks to fail, that existing derivatives contracts should be exempt from new regulations, that the proposed bill will hurt the markets beyond repair… are you confused?

So am I. But I’m not confused enough to know that we will NEVER allow banks to fail within our existing system, where they’re too powerful and hold too much of our money without any backing. Because if we did let them fail, the fuckers at the top would wipe their hands clean and take their business elsewhere, while Americans scramble through another recession. And do you know what derivatives are? If I’ve got an apple, you and I are gonna bet on the FUTURE VALUE of that apple. If my apple’s worth $5 or more in 2015, you pay me $1. If it’s worth less, I pay you $1. That’s how these institutions make money. Does that sound like some crazy game made up by a four year-old? Yes, it does. But did you know it’s a HUGE market that is largely UNREGULATED? Did you know that Warren Buffett himself once called derivatives “weapons of financial distruction?” Did you know that one of the measures republicans want to stop is of forcing these institutions to set aside their own bailout money in case of severe loss in their derivatives investments? Doesn’t that sound like it makes sense? Well, the republicans don’t think so. Apparently their outrage at bailing out the banks one year ago was… for show. To rally the American people against the democratic president and gain support for themselves and their money grubbing friends.  Who would’ve thunk?

I’m angry that people like the Arizona governor exist and that she has supporters who somehow can rationalize the legalization of racial profiling, abuse of power, and violation of civil rights. I’m angry that a guy like John McCain, who once seemed like a good dude, has actually supported this law because he’s so happy that this shit is happening under Obama’s watch and may score a few conservative votes now that he’s left behind Palin’s dust.

But mostly I’m just angry I can’t just burp a blog post like I was doing two weeks ago. Hopefully my writing class starting next Thursday will get the juices flowing again. Either that or I haven’t been watching enough porn.

You’re so lame… you probably think this post is about you

I’m not mentally prepared for vacation.  OK, that didn’t work.

I’m pretty tired and I want to make sure I get a good night’s rest on my first night of vacation. Nope, still not good.

I’m a creature of habit and I enjoy being alone… WTF? no.

I’m feeling pretty fucking lame and so incredibly lazy, I wonder if I’ll have the energy to walk to the bathroom when the need arises. Well aware there is no excuse for my behavior, but I’ll continue to engage in it for the duration of the night.  That’s better.

It is true that I chose to smoke some weed and watch Anchorman at 11 last night when I should’ve been packing and tidying up my apartment. It is not at all false that I had only three hours of sleep before hurrying to catch a taxi and make it just in time for my flight. It would be accurate to state that my friends and I have been talking about and looking forward to this break for AT LEAST the last eight weeks. And yet… it is my first night in Miami and I’m in the condo by myself in “lounge boxers” and tank top, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer. Just as I would’ve if I were home – really, the only thing missing is Tori at my foot. I thought of watching a little TV since I don’t have cable at home, but had to shut that off too.

So I took the day off to travel to Miami and do the exact same thing as I do when home. And yes, alone. Because everyone else is using common sense and is out and about, soaking up the carefreeness in the air.

There is no particular reason; I’m not sad, I’m not depressed, I’m not PMSing. I’m pretty freaking content, actually. We’ll just call it a glitch -  a Butt Baby malfunction that will surely be adjusted by sunrise.

From tomorrow on, I promise to be just as absurd, inappropriate, kittenish, and friendly as I’m supposed to be. Because it’s who I am, really – a miracle baby, born from the butt to bring joy and nonsense to all those she befriends (and hell to those she doesn’t… but that’s *so* rare). Just not tonight, I guess. Tonight I’m lame (and loving it).