I’ve been eating da poo poo

my brain as of late

Friends, I sit here with the movie Bicentennial Man in the DVD player and the Edward Bernays’ book Propaganda next to me. I don’t want to give my attention to either of them. For too long I’ve been consuming nothing but politics and economics, save for the occasional Youtube video. I’m listening to Glenn Beck in the morning, Democracy Now, Cato Institute, the Economist, BBC Radio 4 5pm news, Project Syndicate, then Sean Hannity. Free time’s consumed by The Week, Z, Progressive magazines… and when I get home I read fucking Chomsky and watch dystopian sci fi that makes me fear for my life and our children’s. Or horror. Or some kind of very sad tale involving orphaned children. I can’t buy a fucking tomato without thinking about the farmers who grew it; does it come from Monsanto seeds? Is there toxoplasma in my brain? How does Glenn Beck, with all the drugs he must take, not pop a downer to complement the speed he’s clearly taking? When will Alan Greenspan die? Why isn’t Paul Krugman running our economy? How many happy ending massages has Sean Hannity gotten from a male masseuse? Why are the Arabs incapable of joining forces and actually standing up to Israel? Do people really think Republicans support American troops?

It’s too much, friends. Worse still is that this news gorging makes me really tense, which in turn, exacerbates my sexual frustrations. It’s becoming a real problem.

Here’s what you and I are going to think about right now: Fun. Sunshine. New neighborhood.  Grab your bong, joint, pipe, or vape, and come sit here next to me. I got some amazing haze last week, and I love sharing.

Sunshine. The motherfucker is elusive in New England, but my condominium has a pool, which makes it easy to take advantage of whatever sun we do get. My Russian neighbor appreciates my commitment to vitamin D consumption. Andrey is a ginger who lives on the first floor; thick Russian accent, a man of few words and many cigarettes. He followed me to the pool on Saturday and Sunday and offered me watermelon. It was sweet, but he is a full blown ginger – and a Russian – so I kept my headphones on.

I have another suitor: he’a rapper who walks down the streets making gang signs that point to his crotch, swinging side to side as he walks, rapping out loud. He does all that while staring at me when we see each other. I saw him at the dog park a few days ago and he said “What’s up, beautiful, nice dog,” with penis-pointing hand gestures. He’s about 14.

My downstairs neighbor I never met, but I do know he/she likes ordering pizza after getting baked, while the neighbor to my left prefers to cook once he’s high. He’s European and says “cheers” every time I thank him for holding open the door. He also tends to forget his key in the outside lock. I let him know every time.

As far as Tori’s new friends go, she’s taken well to Buca (like the drink Sambuca), a one year-old poodle/beagle mix. Buca barks in Tori’s face, infuriating her until Tori finally starts to play chase. I like Buca’s parents a lot; Richie talks a mile a minute and wears the most expensive looking earrings I’ve ever seen. His husband is hilarious, always forgets to bring a lighter with his cigarettes, and seems to be perpetually buzzed. I’d like to have a drink with Richie and his husband while Tori and Buca run around the yard.

The dog park’s great because there are some secluded woodsy areas where weird shit goes on. I once saw a pimp collecting money from his ho, a couple of teenage kids fondling one another by the rocks, and just last week, I spotted three guys hanging out by a tree. As I got closer, I could see one of them was just watching, another was videotaping, while the third guy was moving slowly from left to right, eyes closed, face down, with wires that hung from a tall branch, connected to hooks that dug into the skin on his back.

home

It has been a month since my move, and the guys at the liquor store know me too well. Yet still, I’m back in the city, and there’s not one crush-worthy boy in sight.  I thought I might resort to some online retail therapy to soothe my sexual and political frustrations, but I can’t; I refuse to shop expensive labels, and my favorite cheap stores don’t pay their workers nearly enough. My mother thinks I’m an idiot. I think I need sexy time.

Things I would do if I had a time machine

1. Have sex with a caveman

I’m a huge fan of the movie Quest for Fire. I can relate to the prehistoric dudes’ struggles, especially as I am currently without a lease for a parking spot in Boston, and am forced to squeeze my car into absurdly tight spaces, or very far away spots, then having to walk a good five minutes to my building every morning and evening. It’s tough, but I will persevere until a condominium lot spot opens up, just as the cavemen did, until they learned how to make fire to keep warm, cook, intimidate rival tribes, etc.

In any case, the movie features strong, dark, not-too-tall, hairy types often fighting one another, hunting, hiking through mountains, and scratching  and adjusting themselves. Eventually they meet a chick from a different tribe; her people aren’t nomadic, and they make sophisticated weapons, pottery, etc – they’re much smarter. Well, the main hairy dumb caveman of the movie saves her life and then decides he’d like sexy time in return. At first she’s not so keen on the idea, but he’s strong, so she eventually stops resisting. They travel together for a few days, because she’s lost her tribe, and they kind of fall for one another. One of my favorite scenes in the whole movie is of them having sex. The caveman’s brother watches as the couple gets it on. It’s pretty raw and rough and doggie style (think monkey sex) until this one moment when she stops him, turns around, lays on her back, and invites him back in. At first he’s like, WTF, but he learns to like it. And that’s how the missionary position came about.  Minus the part about being raped, I guess you could say it’s a tiny fantasy of mine to have sex with a beefy caveman.

2. Tell my 15 year old self to only dye the hair blue ONCE

I went through an anarchist punk rock phase while in high school. I had piercings and blue hair, and the reviews were mixed: my mom thought it was awesome, my friends thought it was crazy, and teachers either loved me or really disliked me. The ones who loved me knew I was polite, smart, funny, and helpful. The ones who didn’t sent me to the principal’s office for barely a reason. There, I would argue my innocence and point out the ridiculousness of making me, a good, peaceful student miss valuable class learning time because the teacher disliked my opinions and my blue hair.

I liked having blue hair. It confused Christians and annoyed Brazilians, which I loved, because the Brazilian sub-culture of my Metrowest Boston high school was incredibly stifling. It also made me feel pretty badass; until my hair fell out, that is.

Four times, within a couple of months, I bathed my hair in peroxide to immediately after coat it with blue dye. On the fourth go, my hair started falling out. What didn’t fall out was so horribly damaged that I decided to chop it all off. I was left with a very short grey cut (a washed out blue), that turned into a mullet as it grew out. At first I was like, “Yeaaaah, fuck it!” and wore my hair in spikes, held up by glue. But as time wore on and hormones took over my brain, I suffered with that incredibly unattractive hair cut, having to flirt extra hard to kiss the boys I wanted to kiss. I had to get them to talk to me first; my smile and sense of humor had to fight off the damaging impression left by the hair.

They were a tough few months. There’s got to be a dozen more boys out there I would’ve kissed, if I’d only kept the hair melting peroxide to a minimum.

3. Make my online diary private

There is a website hosting a diary that I kept many years ago, while in college. I found it today, and to my dismay, it’s completely accessible to the public. I don’t know the password for it and no longer have the email account I used to create it, so I can’t take it down. After reading the entries, I pretty much feel as though there’s a written word type sex tape of mine floating on the interwebs. I was madly in love with a boy, had quite the sexual appetite, and thought it might be a good idea to share with the world many details of our sexcapades. The diary also chronicles my undiagnosed insanity with intricate descriptions of my homicidal fantasies, and my attempts at hacking my boss’ computer, sprinkled with positively unintelligible advice to human kind as to how we can make world peace a reality. And then of course there are the day-to-day tidbits such as:

mmm i just picked my scab and a lot of blood came out. i didn’t know what to do so i did what i used to do when i was little. i licked it! it stopped bleeding.

i’m at work and i think i might explode. i ate 3/4 of a gigantic freaking italian sub with a pound of salami, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, onions and MAYO that i made sure to smear all over the thing. i’m gonna die. i feel my arteries clogging up and the blood pumping so slowly i feel i can’t breathe and oh! my heart stopped. oh my god, i’m gonna puke. and the sub’s looking at me saying “eat me, eat me” but i say, STOP, PLEASE STOP, I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!!! i finally just wrapped it back up and put it out of my sight. i am so thirsty but i can’t even drink my fresca, ’cause i’m so full. i wanna lay down on the floor and sleep.

Mostly I wish I could take it down because I think I’m just as strange now as I was then, except I filter my thoughts slightly more effectively.

This concludes the shittiest post I’ve ever written. Thanks for reading, you are really nice.

Netflix hates me

There's something wrong with you, New Zealand

I have a problem with Netflix. Sure I’ll still recommend to everyone because it’s kind of the best thing ever, but it’s also kind of not.

I spent the last 3 days drinking, smoking weed, chain smoking cigarettes, and mostly AWAKE. Today I woke up at noon, fooled around online for ten minutes and decided I wasn’t ready to face the day. It was nearly 7pm when I felt I might be able to support my whole body on my own two feet.

The shower and change of clothes made me feel a little lighter, but my head somehow is still heavier than normal. And it feels kind of empty. I’m afraid I might’ve done permanent damage. Lest you call me a pothead; I drank way more than I smoked. So if anything, it’s alcoholic you’re going for. In my opinion, I’m just a trooper.

Feeling awake yet incompetent, I looked to Netflix for help. I have a 2-at-a-time plan, and have been making an effort to get only one serious/depressing movie delivered each time, the other being slightly less demanding of me. I hadn’t been home since Thursday so I expected to find two titles in my mail: a depressing one and a comedy, In the Loop. Something engaging yet lighthearted.

But that title isn’t with my mail. For some reason Netflix only sent me one movie, and it isn’t a fun one. Drugstore Cowboy is a Gus Van Sant movie about junkies. I’m slightly catatonic right now as a result of assaulting my own body with drugs, so the last thing I want to sit through are dark images of what drug addiction does to a person.

Thanks a lot, Netflix. Now that I’m finished writing, I’m stuck watching my dog lick her paws until I muster the courage to look through my own DVD collection.

Things I don’t understand

I slept for 12.5 hours last night and woke up before the alarm of slavery sounded. Stuck my nose to the window, felt the warmth of Spring Sun around my nostrils and thought, “By golly, what a joyous occasion, to rise alert on this exquisite morning. Tori, let’s go for a long walk.”

Girl and dog bounced down the street in glasses and harness, respectively, forcing a smile out of every passerby’s lips with our morning gaiety. During our forty minute walk, I removed my pullover to hug the sun rays with every pore, and to minimize the sweating. I also used the time to think about things I don’t understand.

1. Boob jobs
Call me old school, but I truly believe there’s nothing more appealing than a natural girl. Small boobs, big boobs, fat nose, Christy Turlington’s nose, big booty, pancake butt… whatever. A natural girl with a pretty smile wins over silicone for me every time. And I’m not even into chicks.

Posh. I'll take the 1.0, please!

Super cute VS Super scary

I get it BOOBS = FEMALE in the male mind. You wanna grab them and… stuff. But that’s just it; they may look all big and womanly, but hopefully you’re gonna be touching them too. These things don’t look very soft and feminine. They’re scary torpedoes that may cause injury depending on the activities in which you three choose to engage.
Oftentimes  if you look carefully from the neck down you’ll see flat, flat, flat, BOOM, giant balls! What’s feminine and delicate about that? I’d rather see small, pretty, soft boobs. There may not be enough surface area for certain games, but they sure are cute and harmless! Perhaps if I were flat-chested or a mother of many children I might have a different opinion. But for the most part – and certainly in the illustrated cases – I just don’t get it.

2. Time

Even Einstein struggled with this one for years, so I don’t feel bad. But honestly… time, man. It ASTOUNDS me how religiously we live by and depend on this concept we don’t even really understand. I have to be at work at 9am, I’m annoyed if I can’t leave at 5pm, I get anxious if I’m not in bed by 12am. I’m often yelled at for being late, and I make my daily decisions taking the time into consideration first. I get it – it’s paramount to civilization. To produce X, we need Z number of laborers present and working. How do we achieve this? We give them an easy-to-grasp measurement by which they’ll be held accountable: clock-in time. But the reality is, time is a concept; a measurement of a phenomenon as we perceive it. The only reason it’s noon right now is because the Earth turns on its axis at about 1,500km/hr where I live. If it moved faster, it would be another time, another, day, another year. Everything would be shifted. Time is fucking relative to where you are, where you’re going and how fast you’re getting there. And if I finally succeed at building the at-speed-of-light boat I’m fixing up in my backyard, I’ll be fucking timeless, bitches. More untouchable than Sean Connery. You know what’s really messed up? I think all this stuff I just wrote is kind of right. Actually, I bet it’s ridden with flaws. But the truth is, time isn’t what you and I live by; it’s much more complex, it kind of pisses me off, and I just don’t understand it.

3. Pregnant woman fetishes
This confounds me. I’m a sexually open-minded individual. I have some unorthodox predilections of my own, but really? Pregnant ladies? Every time I see a “preggo video” screen freeze, I shudder. Good god, she’s pregnant! Get her a pillow and some lemonade! She could pee at any instant! OK, maybe that’s part of the appeal… What about BBWs, or Big Tits videos, do they not suffice? What is it, about the pregnant woman? Is she extra horny? What if she cries in the middle of sex? It can’t be super comfortable managing an 8 month belly and 4 penises. Pregnant women should be wearing yellow frilly dresses, pink lipgloss, and small flowers on their unprocessed hair, showing just a hint of the fantastic cleavage that comes with motherhood. Not fishnet tights and jizzed out hair. I truly don’t get it.

I would *honestly* appreciate some insight into any of the above-mentioned topics.