Archive | March, 2010

Asking for forgiveness

31 Mar

During an innocent game of Mafia with friends while on vacation, I got overly excited by a friend’s fantastic grammatical construction while intoxicated.

Oh my god, that hit the spot. Really, it was a little bit orgasmic.

Juliana, you need to GET LAID.

Everyone laughed, myself included, but I thought the words rang true. It had been six months, friends, since the sun had shone around those hidden parts and it wasn’t ‘easier to deal with’ as time passed.  I had been shamelessly dabbling with pornography and fantasizing about frolicking naked with a man. I should have sought help right away, but I did the opposite instead.

I met a man on Friday night.  He was funny and laid back and had nice friends. We exchanged numbers and he came to find me on Saturday, the second day of the show, and we spent most of the night dancing together. The devil sure is cunning – he offered me an awkward-dancing rock n’ roller at an electronic music festival who was tall, thin (yet very athletic), three years younger than me and from New Zealand. I can hardly hide my giddiness around an accent, so I should’ve recognized the blatant temptation and run far far away from this wolf in manly lamb’s clothing. But I didn’t do that. I was stupid, very very stupid. I let him kiss me.  We spent a few hours together, talking, dancing, sucking face, and amazing one another with shared personality traits and tastes.  He suggested we go back to his apartment, which was so conveniently located five minutes away and I tried my hardest to resist.

That sounds good, but let’s listen to another 20mins of the Deadmau5 set before we go.

He agreed. Not only did he agree, but he fetched me some water and we sat down together, listening to the music as he put his arm around me.

At his apartment we listened to Faith No More (why is it so hard to find FNM fans in the States?), had a drink and then… we had sex. Full, long-lasting, mutually pleasing penetration and a little sprinkle of this and that. Twice.

The following morning I returned to my friends and tried to keep mum, but they are perceptive and saw right through my wide smile.

Ha ha you had seeeeeeeeeeeeeex!!! How was it, tell me, tell me!

After a shower and over a cigarette, I spared them no details of my shameful encounter.

I sit here, days later, still thinking about that episode. All these years of my adult life have been lived in shame and perversion; when I’m not engaging in obscene behavior, I’m thinking about it, or talking about it, or joking about it. My mother was married with a child when she was my age and lived a righteous life. I’m not sure when I got off a respectable path (if I had to guess, I’d say age 11), but my pleasure-seeking ways are no way to live. Last week was indulgent and culminated in the highest offense against all that is divine: amazing foreplay and sex with a man I’ll never see again. It’s despicable, and I’m so remorseful.

I ask the heavens for forgiveness, I thank my friends for being supportive, and as summer approaches, I promise to make the right choice when such perfectly aligned circumstances present themselves again.

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Fun time detox

30 Mar

I’m suffering from PVR (post-vacation retardation). I’m trying to “hang in there” for my boss, but I must say, this has been the longest work day of my freaking life. I had six hours of sleep, which would be satisfactory under normal circumstances, but truly, I got out of bed this morning and made my way to the shower with my eyes 70% closed. Heard something or other about Ricky Martin being gay on the radio, and now here I am.

I’m not asking for pity. I just want to bring awareness to this condition, as it can severely affect one’s well-being for a number of days, if proper care isn’t taken. The symptoms include, but aren’t limited to:

1. Spontaneous falling-asleepness
2. Ugliness (especially of the face and hair)
3. Mild hallucinations
4. Short-term memory loss
5. The shakes (a result of alcohol and tobacco withdrawal)
6. Caffeine cravings
7. Incoherence / lifelessness of speech
8. Weight loss (don’t mind this one so much. probably a result of #4 – forgetting to eat)

These may not be alarming individually, but together, they are severely debilitating. I have managed to tag 300+ pictures on Facebook today, but my lackluster comments are clear indicators of my condition; where I may, in good health, have created a real LOL in one or two short sentences, I debated, deleted, and finally, defeated, left a shameful few words barely worthy of a ‘ha.’ It would be a real downer if it weren’t for the fact that, thanks to symptom #4, I am also easily distracted. I can’t even remember to remain disappointed at myself for longer than a few seconds. My eyes are drawn to the door, to which I must walk, open, and take even MORE steps to enter the kitchen.

Mmm, the kitchen. There’s probably Passover leftovers. My back hurts. Maybe I can just close my eyes for a little bit. Mmmm… I’ll put my head down too. I’ll hear steps if someone comes this way. Swedish House Mafia and Armin were so good. I looked really nice in that dress. Agh, I want a beer and an empanada and the beach and a book. Can’t believe I finished that book. I thought I was gonna start seeing demons on my shoulder too. They had a lot of sex. I wonder if I would cheat on my boyfriend if I were touring in a rock n’ roll band. I need to pee. It’s all this coffee I’m drinking and it’s not even working. Oh my god, I need to close the month for each of the companies by like, Friday. FUCK, it’s only 12:27????

As you can imagine, the thoughts continued, looming over the happiness I felt less than 48 hours ago. Where there were boys flirting with me, is now my boss with lease contract jargon. The brief , refreshing rain has been replaced by the cold, persistent showers of New England. I’m wearing more clothes than I care to, none as cute as the sarongs I casually wrapped around my neck. I hear silence and the occasional too-loud ring of the telephone (GOD, don’t they know I JUST got back?) instead of sick beats and laughter.

I’ve got a useless, slow brain that refuses to come up with decent closure to this excuse for a blog post. It’s sharp enough, however, to realize it’s time to go home and fucking crash.

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

22 Mar

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).

Deep Thoughts with Butt Baby

22 Mar

women are naturally inclined to be attentive and forgiving. care takers.
men tend to be direct and singularly focused. providers.

men can be quicker decision makers.
women tend to seek more data before reaching a decision.

what men can neglect in their haste,
women might salvage with their thoroughness.

no one is better than the other.
but together, they’re a pretty solid entity.

Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo

20 Mar

It’s finally spring. It’s finally fucking spring!  Where there was gray slush, now are leaves, dog poo, and what looks like phlegm.  Once frozen park benches are now warm under bottoms of the malodorous drunken homeless and of chicos on their cell phones. And I… put on a dress. Maybe because it reminds me of my Catholic school uniform days, or because I crave a little breeze around otherwise mostly covered parts… I love wearing skirts. Paired with my man boots, a pretty flowy dress puts a smile on my face and makes me feel most comfortable. Comfortable enough to take a stroll around town, deep in gay thoughts, not minding if I look like a retard.

There are two songs I’m compelled to listen to, back to back, during my two hour outdoors adventure with the doggie: Sister Hazel’s “All for You” and Blues Traveler’s “Run Around.” I don’t know why. I don’t own any other songs by either, though I enjoyed the whole of the Blues Traveler’s live show at Lollapalooza a couple years back. Nevertheless, I got the pink harness and retractable leash on little Tori and off we were to the park.

She went about her usual business of eliminating all her body’s disposable drops of water on many different spots, marking virtually ALL territory, and rolling around in god knows what. She needs a bath anyway, I’m pretty sure there’s still a faint skunky funk left on her fur.

As for me, I chased her a little, threw sticks she ran in the direction of, but never managed to retrieve, checked my emails and then turned up the volume. With Sun rays recharging my brain, penetrating my skin and warming up chest, arms, and legs that no longer need artificial layers, I smiled. And then I started to sing. A couple of the chicos looked at me funny, so I walked away. Away from them and the homeless and the cute Asian family having a picnic, and the grandpa taking a stroll with his tiny tyke, and the kids passing time, circling around on their bikes. I went to the other side of the park where I hoped no one would hear me, and I sang lyrics to these optimistic and silly little tunes that, in conjunction with the Sun, helped me pause time on happy, careless, and perhaps slightly dumb mode. No matter.

I turned the volume way up and I couldn’t tell how loud I was, but I could feel the openness of my throat and the plentiful air brushing my vocal cords. I walked around some more, chasing the dog, taking some pictures, and still singing.

It’s too nice out for laundry, vacation packing, the mechanic, air conditioning or even to sit here, longing for something I should be finding out there.

A Clockwork Orange

18 Mar

OK, this is my opinion on the significance of the 21st chapter of Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange, which was excluded from earlier American editions of the novel and the film adaptation by Stanley Kubrick (fucking. awesome.).  I’m certain a bazillion people have written about it and it’s probably all over the web, but the same could be said for pretty much everything else in the world, so what am I supposed to do, not speak at all? Ha ha.

Needless to say, but saying it anyway, if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie (WHY?), this will be a super duper spoiler.

I think a reading of the book without the 21st chapter is a deliberate disregard for the central message and debate that Burgess brought to the table. The sadist in us all – that devilish side we so often repress – rejoices in a story that unapologetically affirms: “I’m naturally inclined to ravage you and fuck you for thinking you could ever change me.” Maybe it’s a direct result of America’s persistent Puritanism – the more righteous you try to be, the more obsessed you become with fucked up tendencies (see: Priests with little boys; Mormons and the similarly-crazed; Japanese porn). I feel a lot of people see a villainous hero in the mischievous Alex, the guy you don’t fuck with, who has threesomes with teenagers, the fearless ring leader – and they want to see him wreak havoc.  I feel that way about Freddy Kruger, not Alex DeLarge. Alex is a much more interesting character; he’s charming, cunning, humorous, a mature thinker, and is surprisingly discerning of, and has a passion for, real beauty.  All the while being youthful and carefree (there’s an understatement). I think we forget that Alex is fifteen, sixteen years old at the height of his ‘evil’ – not that age is an excuse for his actions, but to ignore this fact, and his environment, is to reject the effects of nurture and notions of cause and effect. And that is simply naïve and detrimental to the process of understanding oneself and human behavior at large. I can’t know for sure, but I’m willing to bet that, if Burgess wanted readers to extract any one thing from his novel, that it’d be this kind of introspective discussion. That’s what the best literary pieces do.

So he gave us a brilliant set up; a bright and youthful male, in a colorless, hellish, survivalist, brooding environment with absolutely no genuine parental or pedagogic involvement. Add to the mix completely daft, easily manipulated minions and a bit of the hallucinogens… it’s like fucking Candy Land and it’s easy to see – not justify – why Alex turns out the way he does. And what Burgess thrusts upon us at the height of the novel is such a gift; a real picture of the UGLY in people – I’m referring to the government officials and doctors involved in the Ludovico treatment (during and after). The ugly is the enjoyment derived from stripping humanity off another for personal material gains; it’s the incessant desire to oppress and manipulate. These guys are the real monsters in the story, not Alex.

What I love about that 21st chapter is its audacity to proclaim faith in human nature. I’m not talking about Charles Manson types here (though I’m sure someone would be willing to make an argument in his defense) – I’m excluding the people who are actually really fucked up in the head because that requires an understanding, that I don’t have, of repercussions of chemical imbalances and such. But everyone else; I think we all have within us what we need to see life – all life – for what it is: all we have, and equally deserving of existence in all its forms. Once this insanely basic concept is practiced by any one person, the idea of right and wrong takes a waaaaay back seat to simply living decently with yourself and everything else around you. It’s that fantastic concept of self-governance; where there is mutual respect and empathy, there isn’t need for dictation and punishment.  The final chapter alludes to this concept as Alex undergoes genuine self reassessment – maturity, if you will. Do I like the idea of Alex dreaming of a government job and raising a family as the manifestation of this very enlightening personal journey? Not particularly, but it’s a reflection of the middle class dream, and that’s very graspable and relatable, so we’ll leave it be.  It’s probably very smart of Burgess, actually. Or totally ironic?

So yeah. The 21st chapter rocks and that first American editor/publisher was just looking to maximize profits by maximizing shock value at the cost of truth and art.

[mmm… gee  wiz, I can’t think of anything or any one like that *cough* tabloids *cough* Fox News *cough* Lady GaGa]

But then again, I love the movie as it is, it’s brilliant, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect, it stands on its own, and it is so because of how the book was published in the US. So… it is what it is. Didn’t I just say that? What?

If anyone has any thoughts, other than on what I’m wearing right now, I’d love to hear (read) them. Even if you think I make no sense and should shut the fuck up. Just tell me why, at least.

For instance, my friends L.E.O. (that’s his DJing name-acronym that stands for nothing.. except good music) and Dmitriy had the following to contribute:

Leo: Juliana, leave philosophy to men. You were OK being funny. I’m pumping out quotes here.

Dmitriy: I wanna say something funny! I did it. It’s a self-referencing funny statement. It’s an infinite loop.

Then my boss walked in with no shoes or shirt on. True story.

Guest Contributor Time!

18 Mar

I’m lucky to have nice friends who are supportive of my blogging obsession. So supportive, I think my sickness is rubbing off on them.

Olya is a Russian-born, NYC-dwelling smart, sassy, sexy, funny, honest, and FUN girl I connected with through mutual friends. We’re gonna party hardy together in Miami next week – more on that later. She felt inspired last night, and cooked up an awesome piece on being a single girl (with a slight SATC obsession) in NYC. Meet Olya, in her own words.

– – – – –

My best friend gave me the complete Sex and the City series for my 27th birthday and I just can’t stop watching it. It’s addictive.

I moved to New York City in 2006, and though the move was for no particular reason other than a change of scenery and my love for New York, I can’t help but think that the show may have played a part. Of course I realize that it’s just a show and that it’s not real, but still… it is so authentic and inspirational – I think every woman who watches it secretly wants a similar life. The romances, the fashion, the infectious, free spirited honesty of the four women… but yeah, mostly the love life.

It seems like around every corner, the Sex and the City ladies found someone more than ‘decent’ to date. At least for me, the question is obvious: “Where are these men??”

I live in Midtown – it’s a great location. I am well employed, even if kind of broke, but who isn’t these days (in NYC, especially)? I am not unfortunate looking [Juliana interjects: she’s HOT] and have a solid social life. I go out a few times a week and while I get checked out and asked out by “presentable” men, they never turn out to be as they initially portray themselves.

My latest frustrations in the dating department come from two different (yet so similar) jackasses with a love for texting. The first one – we’ll call him Jackass #1 – I met at a friend’s birthday party. We chatted only for a few minutes, but the mutual physical attraction was clear. We exchanged numbers, but as we know –

men no longer call; they text.

He texted a few days later. We had conflicting schedules that week so we just… kept texting. I was running out of patience so I asked if we could meet up for a drink. His response?

No, sorry, I have work until 9pm tomorrow, so I am going to be tired and will just go home to blaze.

SERIOUSLY?? Why the fuck are you texting me, then?

Oh you poor workaholic. I tried to be nice.

How can any normal man respond that way? A few days later he texted again, just to ask how I was doing. A gazillion texts later, there was still no prospect of an actual invitation to meet. I finally stopped responding.

As a woman (and a Piscean) I had to analyze what happened:

Why did he keep on texting me?
Did he just need someone to text to?
Did he want me to bring up going out again?
Did he want me to invite myself to go over his place to “blaze”?

I don’t have the answers. I do know that a man with no balls to ask a lady out is like a man WITH NO BALLS.

Jackass #2 I met on my 27th birthday celebration. He was cute and a bit shy, which I really liked. Again; not much conversation before exchanging numbers and going our separate ways. He texted the following day (I don’t remember the last time a man called rather than texted).

Hey Olya, happy birthday again, what are you doing tonight?

I didn’t want to play any games and had no qualms with seeming “available.” Nothing much planned, just taking it easy.

Nice, me too. Hit me up later.

Umm. WHAT? I will hit you upside the head right about now. NO BALLS.

I decided to ignore the absurdity, but he was back for more the next day.

Hey, we are watching TV at home if you want to stop by. We might also go to the movies later.

OK, really? Who the fuck are “we” and why would I go over your place when I met you for five minutes? I was confused and wondered if he was gay, living with a partner and maybe looking to experiment with a woman – it’s possible my Sex in the City overload is to blame, but it honestly wouldn’t shock me. I was livid and couldn’t let it go for a few hours. I thought about actually calling to let him know that his horrid manners are in need of some polishing.

If both jackasses just wanted to sleep with me, it’s fine – at least take me out for a drink! Alas, men are lazy and have no understanding of chivalry; telephone conversations and getting-to-know-you walks in the park are no more. It’s all been reduced to texting and fucking. To be fair, men aren’t solely to blame – but that is a whole ‘nother topic.

Today I find myself sitting at the computer after work with two open tabs: jdate.com and okcupid.com, while contemplating signing up for Millionaire Matchmaker. Yes, it’s true, I feel just as pathetic as you are judging me to be. But what can I do? The world lives online and if I can’t find a decent man in person, perhaps I can find him on the web.

This isn’t about me being cynical; I still believe that there are great men out there. Nor is it about me being 27 and having a “running out of time” dilemma. I am actually not in the freak out zone (yet) to get married and pop out babies, even though I sometimes contemplate calling losers from my past (the ones who made me throw up a little in my mouth) just so I may go on a proper “date.” But I haven’t and won’t. A little vomiting may be a quick way to lose a few pounds, but I’d rather not mess with my sanity.

So I am giving online dating a shot and still searching – not for a Mr. Right – but at least for a Mr. Right Now. WITH BALLS.