Archive | April, 2010

My library lover

30 Apr

I enjoy the library. My town’s is a sound, stoic structure housing billions of words of wisdom. I wish I  could grind all the books in the non-fiction section, pack the goods into a giant bowl, and puff a little, every night. I’d live perpetually high on knowledge. Instead, in this dimension, I visit the building and take out a modest 3-4 books every few weeks, generally following a theme. This month I’m feeling particularly atheist and insignificant so I’ve chosen The God Delusion, A Briefer History of Time, and a collection of poems by Jewel. She wrote them in the back seat of her car, and hummed the words as lullabies to calm herself to sleep during her lonely, homeless years.

It’s only Monday and I finished reading my last 4 books on Saturday, but the new batch will have to wait until the weekend. Because Saturday is a safe day.

Three months ago I did my library run straight after work, as usual, note card with call numbers in hand. Walk in, retrieve, check out, done. Except this time. It was a Friday in early June and I was just getting used to warm sunshine during after work hours, so while my mood was chipper, my wardrobe was stuck in winter. Baggy jeans held up by an embroidered hippie belt, filthy Converse high tops, a faded black tank top and a plaid button down with rolled up sleeves. Preferably, my hair should’ve been washed that morning. The neighborhood female lumberjack is not the girl you hit on at the library, if hitting on girls at the library is your thing – dirty nerd. It was my routine and I thought nothing of it until I saw him; until I realized he was the only person on the other side of the checkout counter. A quick scan of his hands showed no sign of marriage.

Fuck, he’s hot. I glanced quickly at the self checkout station behind me – two people in line – and I was next to be helped by him. If I go to self checkout I’ll look like an idiot. What the fuck? Just check out the stupid books, you ass, you came here for them, not to find a boyfriend.

Hi, can I help you, he asked with raised shoulders and hands on the counter, impatient with my aloofness.

Hiiiiiii… returning these and taking these. OW! I stood paralyzed, my gaze shifted to the ceiling, holding my uterus.

Hey, you all right? Something wrong?

My uterus is falling out and I didn’t wash my hair this morning. I usually look better than this, I PROMISE! Oh, I’m fine, just… a weird… stab feeling inside. Nothing – nothing at all. It’s NOT GAS! It’s clumps of blood travelling down the straw between uterus and cervix!

Oh. OK. nice titles you got here, doing research for school?

Oh no, I’ve been out of school for a while. These are just for fun.

Well, I hope you’re gonna put Ted Kennedy aside tonight, ’cause it looks wicked nice out there.

Ha-ha, yeah, no, definitely. What about you, do you get to leave soon?

Yes, as a matter of fact, in about 20 minutes. I love volunteering here but no Friday nights and weekends for me. Oh, looks like you have a $6 fine, these books are a few days late.

Oh shit, I didn’t bring my wallet with me.

That’s fine, you can pay next time.

Awesome, thanks. Well, enjoy your weekend. Let’s hope the weather holds up!

Yep, yep, you too. Night! He raised his arm slightly to give me a half wave good-bye. As I walked away I noticed the ink of a tattoo inside his bicep and the hemp and leather bracelets he wore on that left arm. Then I tripped. I tripped on my own unhemmed, baggy pants, and the sound of my left foot stomp, as I caught my ground, echoed throughout the foyer and was surely heard from the checkout counter. Don’t look back, just keep walking. Just go, the mind-voices whispered.

Seriously? Did you have to trip? You fucking loser? If you hemmed your pants like every decent person does, if you’d just washed your hair this morning, if you’d taken the fucking Midol instead of insisting on being anti-over-the-counter-drugs, none of this would’ve happened. I think he was flirting with me. Was he flirting with me? Who cares, I fucking blew it. I’m a freak with dirty hair and he knows I don’t have any plans for tonight.

The self-hate speech went on until I reached the car and decided; stop it. No stranger is worth this agony. Even if his beard was perfectly fuzzy, his bracelets were cool, his smile was warm, and his shoulders were wide. Even if he volunteers at the library and plays guitar in his free time, and once played in a metal band but now is totally way more mellow. Fuck it, I’m coming back on Monday.

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This sucks, thanks for reading

26 Apr

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.

Netflix hates me

25 Apr

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.

22 Apr

Are you stupid? Do you see a ‘No Turn On Red’ sign anywhere? Fucking drive, you asshole. Oh no, you’re really old. I’m sorry, old man. You shouldn’t be driving, you know.

Hellooo? It’s fucking green, you idiot. Oh, you’re gonna slow down on purpose, I see what you’re doing. I’m gonna find your mother and piss on her, you son of a bitch.

I say these things – rather, scream them – at least once a day from the safety and anonymity of my moving vehicle. The windows are closed so no one actually hears my words, but they see my mouth moving and my hands banging the steering wheel. I wouldn’t blame them if they called me crazy because I’m sure I look it when my rage escalates so quickly, for barely a reason.

My family tells me when I was little – 3 or 4 – I would get very angry very quickly, to the point I’d find myself unable to respond in any way but by screaming: “I AM ANGRY!” as my veins attempted to break free from the skin on my neck. I would scream it as I raised my hands and curled my fingers into a tight semi-circle of hatred. Except I had a lisp and my own way of pronouncing certain words, so instead of saying “estou nervosa!” I’d yell “estou lervosa!” That, of course, was just one more reason for my brother and sister to make fun of me, at the height of my rage, forcing me to stomp outside and scream at the top of my lungs. I often relied on my dog to lick my face and calm me down, which she always did, reinforcing my conviction that my only chance at happiness would be to run away. Girl and dog, free from bullying siblings and parents who enjoyed watching the scene so much that by the time they ordered the elder children to stop, the young’n had already suffered irreparable damage.

I’ve gotten my self (and friends) in uncomfortable situations that could’ve been avoided had I simply ignored and walked away. But I couldn’t shut it, clearly, and when I encountered an asshole, I made sure to express my opinion in the least possible respectful manner. And I was ready to scrap if needed be.

It wasn’t always like this. Moving to the U.S. at age 12 and not speaking the language forced me to become a spectator and an imitator. I wasn’t barking orders at the boys, as I’d often do during Catholic school recess; I was now sitting on the sidelines, trying to pick out one word out of ten, and watching for clues of how and when I was to react. Eventually I overcame the “language barrier,” and my overt confidence was back in full force. The shy kid who’d spent many lunches at the library was now very vocal about the vapidness of 90% of the high school student body and my own intellectual superiority.

I remained that way for years, encouraged by the fact my family and I have a serious problem discussing “feelings.” In fact, I don’t think it’s possible to mention the word in my house without hearing: For fuck’s sake, what kind of esoteric shit are you reading? Quit the stoner talk. My brother was the worst – unless I was going through a truly upsetting situation, he’d greet me with Hello, giant whale. Such greetings invariably resulted in mini fights when I was younger because, like most girls, I desperately wanted to shed the unnoticeable extra 5lbs I perpetually carried around my waist.

Most of the time, what irritated me greatly deserved no more than a mental note of its occurrence. When a friend annoys me, I don’t go into a diatribe about his extensive disregard for my friendship; it’s exhausting. It creates weirdness. It leaves both of us very upset. Instead, I curl my fingers, as I did at age 3, and tell him through mock-clenched teeth, “You anger me!” This prompts him to call me crazy, and laugh at my ridiculousness. I laugh too, and then explain what it is exactly that he did to offend me. And when I overreact, my friends tell me, “hey lunatic, you’re overreacting.” I find it very hard not to smile and simmer down after that.

At the end of the day, I want to be disgustingly happy. I want to smile and shed tears of joy at the drop of a pin, without fear of being ridiculed, underestimated, misunderstood, or whatever else. I want to be a source of positivity for others. It doesn’t mean I’m reaching for people-pleaser status – I don’t think that’s possible for me, actually. I’m simply looking to remain honest yet respectful of my surroundings. I strongly believe that in most cases, anger is a shield for my ignorance or insecurity. I prefer to make note of my reaction and ask “why.”  Why does X all of a sudden anger me? More often than not, it’s due to my own shortcomings. And that, friends, is how lessons are learned. I’m not perfect, and I don’t operate this way all of time. But I try, and I find myself happier each day, I know I’m succeeding.

Except when I’m in the car. There is no excuse for your fuckery, and I will make it known loud and clear. And if you’re not elderly, with child, or driving one, the finger I display as far out my window as I possibly can, will deliver the message.

We’re all perverts

17 Apr

Growing up, I shared a bedroom with my sister while my brother – the only boy and the eldest kid – had his own room. Especially during his tween-teen years, the entire family was happy for the fact that he had a private dungeon to hide in and contain his death metal, body odor, and attitude. Except for me. I thought my brother was the coolest ever and wanted to be a girl version of him. I’m sure the fact I had a huge crush on his best friend added  fuel to the fire of my fraternal infatuation.

My brother was protective of me, which was good when I was in trouble with bigger kids, but not so great when I hung out with boys at school dances.  There, he and his friends would follow me around, crossed arms rested on puffed out chests, making sure I wouldn’t get too cozy with any boys. I was around 10 years old,  and though I had already kissed my cousin a few times, I was positive no one knew about it – I would’ve kicked his ass if he ever told a soul. While I kind of wished my brother would leave me and my friends alone, I was happy that he cared enough to pay attention to me.

In his teenage years, my brother hid a stash of porn magazines in his closet. I’d snoop around his bedroom, looking for what he was reading, listening to, drawing… I wanted to know what I had to like in order to be cool too. I guess it didn’t suffice that I was already a fan of Guns N’ Roses and Metallica, and had a yellow belt in TaeKwonDo from the same school where he trained.

The porn ‘zines were hidden in the bottom of a box filled with boy crap, all buried under clothes. Yes, I dug deep. Obviously I was good at it because he still doesn’t know.  The black and white photos told stories of lingerie-clad babes somehow lost in the woods, and found by one or a few hunter-types. There also were school girls coming of age together while the parents weren’t home, housewives who offered more than lemonade to their hard-working pool boys… all sorts of original, compelling and realistic scenarios. Brazilian television programming had pretty racy content but I’d never before seen explicit sexual imagery. I liked it.

My mother rarely ever censored films at home. I remember picking out Christiane F. at Zebra, our local video rental store (aptly decorated in zebra stripes), as my brother protested our mom’s leniency with this particular title. One glance at the back cover and I was sold: “sex,” “prostitution,” “heroin,” “death,” “David Bowie.”  It turned out to be an excellent film with imagery that remained ingrained in my brain for years to come, warning me of the dangers of drug abuse. It also got me into David Bowie and enamored with European nightclubs.  I watched Disclosure at age 11 with my mother sitting five feet away from me; I used to talk a lot during movies, but was speechless as Demi Moore sort of raped Michael Douglas… with the power of boobs, or something.

I wasn’t a shy kid and I indulged my curiosity.  I’m still like that.  So it’s undoubtedly with a bit of a proud grin that I present to you a selection of internet search terms used by individuals ’round the world who ended up on my blog. The content may not have been exactly what they were looking for, but the mere fact they landed here makes me happy.

russian pornhub
dirahea sex video [sp]
huge titted moms
verbal sex tape
http://www.porn in the douche.com
daft sex ass ebony
twizzlers +side effects on male libido
toilet sex girls good [sp]
beeg friends hot mom deep throats her so [sp]
boy eating man diarrhea
slash penis
genital tatoos [sp]
seeeeeeeeeeeeeex
sex pictures&pictures
inspirational words for menstruation
picking out groupies

I embrace my audience and will feel thoroughly accomplished when someone searching for “japanese octopus sex” skims through my silly words and leaves a comment.

Saint Juls

16 Apr

Grab your vomit bucket. Yes, the trash can will do.

I’ve decided to volunteer my time to someone else. I don’t know whom just yet, so I figured we could embark on this journey of discovery together. Like a reality show. A reality blog post of love and unity and benevolence. Robin at TwentySomething Test Dummies is a Big Sister to one lucky little girl and, after reading her post on what volunteering does for her, I was reminded of the extent of my self-absorption and how, if I want to go Heaven, I better use my spare time wisely.

I’d searched through Volunteer Match before but never made the commitment. Now I’m ready. Maybe because I’m getting old and afraid of dying without having lived a life with purpose, or maybe… I don’t know, I don’t care, I feel good about trying to be good, so let’s get on with it.

5K Run for Success
WOAH THERE! I mean, I wanna help, but preferably while sitting. Next.

Tutoring ESL to Adult Learners
I’d be good at that. The memories of answering “YES!” to “Which bus are you taking home, sweetheart?” are vivid still, and working with adults who wipe their own noses sounds noble and hygienic. We’ll save this one.

Personal assistants
Fuck… You. Next.

Food Pantry Volunteer
Food pantry run by Catholic Charit… NEXT.

Help at the 12th Annual Charles River Cleanup
Last summer, after a couple of hours of kayaking on the Charles, my partner and I flipped our kayak on purpose and swam to dock. I got a rash from that water. Now I just feed ducks from afar. Next.

Get Crafty as Top Cookie Sellers are Honored
Trust me, no one wants me in charge of cooking anything to be consumed by strangers without their signatures on liability waivers. I’m a good veggies chopper, table setter, and (albeit reluctant) efficient dish washer. Next.

[break for facebook check; Barbara commented on my link]

Assemble Lego Science Kits
That sounds fun, until I act out the first day in my head:
Welcome, go ahead and jump right in! Little Timmy needs to finish his DNA model, will you give him a hand?

Right… DNA is the double-stranded one, unlike the RNA, which is not double. It’s single. So, there you go, Timmy. Think of two snakes having sex while on  adderall somewhere without gravity. What, amino acids? OK. Hold on, Timmy, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a second and I’ll be right back.
Next.

Volunteer for the EMA Fund
We are an all-volunteer reproductive justice organization, committed to making abortion services accessible to everyone in Eastern Massachusetts.
FUCK YES. Save. My goddamn uterus, goddamn it. Vagina power!!

Host Families for International Students
Do Tori and I count as a family? Will the student be a very attractive heterosexual male? Oh, they’re underage? Fine, next.

Dog Walkers at Local Shelter
Fuck. I was bound to come across it. A kennel filled with neglected pups desperate for a belly rub and a cookie. They will bark and cry when I pick one over the other, and will be sad when I put them back in their cages. I’m not sure if I’ll feel fantastic for giving the little guys some love, or if the whole experience will only help me drop 20lbs with depression-induced starvation and fatigue, but… I should give them a call at least. Save.

ESL Tutor in Wellesley
If you’re familiar with the town of Wellesley, you will have laughed as I did. It’s one of the most affluent towns in the Metro Boston area. How about they help me?

I’ve had enough, and I haven’t even done anything. Stay tuned as I hope to recount my first day helping a chico spell out “lovely breasts, young lady,” harassing protesters with words from the Satanic Bible as I enter an abortion clinic, or as I get dismissed from my dog walking duties for depressing the dogs with my nonstop crying.

I liked you, now what?

13 Apr

The drive was deliberately slow.  I was showered and ready to go quicker than I expected to, and sitting around waiting for the clock to hit 7pm was the most stressful thing I could do at the moment. I grabbed the keys, kissed the dog’s muzzle, and started driving 21 minutes ahead of schedule.

The highway was avoided and I took Commonwealth Avenue instead. Suburban living can be nice when you have time and gasoline to spare; a street like Comm. Ave. will take you from blue-collar Waltham, through affluent Newton, Boston College, Kenmore Square, and finally into Back Bay –  where tourist cameras and Bostonian briefcases clash along narrow sidewalks. Thanks to the red lights, construction delays and adventurous pedestrians (there’s no way they would do that in New York), I arrived at the restaurant just four minutes early. Thank you, Spring, for allowing me to enjoy a cigarette outdoors.

Truthfully, I was nervous. He was funny, interesting, and attractive and I was fostering a four-day crush that started three seconds after we met.  He had caught me off guard; I was accompanying a friend to an event “for just an hour or so” before heading to the usual Saturday night spot. When we locked eyes and shook hands, I decided I’d have to talk to him for as long as I was there.

He wasn’t hot. It was the way he looked at me. He dared to stare longer and sincerely. It puzzled me and made me giddy. So naturally, I moved to the other side of the room  because, if there’s a chance he’s interested, I’d rather not be approached right now. Right now I would mess up my own name, forget my age, where I live, stutter like the 12 year-old immigrant my subconscious cannot evict… I needed to move away, shake my wrists, take a hit of the bong going around, and discuss some very serious political topic with another person. After a few minutes of regrouping, I would dazzle him with… something. I hadn’t decided yet. Either that or my conversation mate would excuse himself mid-sentence and my secret admiree would accost me a second later.

Oh hey!

So how do you know our friend David? Did you go to high school with him too?

Yep, yep, I did. Um, no, actually, we went to college together. And then I became friends with his high school friends too, because we all went to college together and now we’re friends. All of us. [WHAT?]

After forty minutes of chatting, I could tell he was a really nice guy.  He was actually listening to all of my words, laughing occasionally, and contributing clever words of his own. A passerby would conclude that we were indeed, a man and a woman engaged in conversation. Once I realized that, I glanced at my watch and was relieved to learn it was time to go. He and I hugged good-bye and his embrace was comfortable, his scent was pleasing, and again, he disarmed me with his gaze just before wrapping arms around my waist. I needed to get into the car and away from there.

Uuummm… sooo… I kinda liked your friend.
Duh, you guys talked the whole time. What’d you talk about?
I dunno, everything. You know.
Right. Did you give him your number?
No, I wanted to get away. I’ll add him on Facebook.
You’re very strange.
LALALA!!!!

I’m great on paper (or on a computer screen). In person, I’m a native gibberish speaker – if I like you. And since I had liked him, the stomach pain I was feeling while smoking a cigarette outside of the burger joint I picked as our meeting spot was… uncomfortable and undesired. Hopefully it would force me to eat less.  I lit my second cancer stick and raised my head to find him, crossing the street, looking as cute as he did while smiling and shaking my hand the other night. He removed the cigarette from his mouth. His eyes were tiny and child-like mid-smile and I decided to take that as reassurance. If we’re actually here, it’s because we both chose to be. Perhaps I should relax and have a few laughs?