Archive | June, 2010

Oh hai

30 Jun

The blood rushed through the streams between her legs, colliding at the tip of her skin, like heartbeats sending heat down to her pussy. She could feel the weight of her legs, spread semi-open on the bed, as the muscles relaxed and sank into the cushion. She realized she’d been circling her right nipple with her middle and index fingers, pinching it every so often. She ran her thumb down her breast, onto her ribs, and to the lace tip of her blue and white polka dot underwear. Her index finger made the journey back up her stomach, through the belly button until she cupped her whole right breast with her hand. The sight of the red polish on her trimmed nails made her smile.

She knew he’d love that. She knew he would love to be the one circling and pinching her nipples, running his thumb down her stomach, and index finger around the belly button; filling his hand with her breast. While her pussy pulsates and she bites her lower lip in a plea that he keep going.

Isabel had been observing him for as long as she could remember. His boyish posture at the dinner table, the dorky jokes that made her laugh, his propensity to think carefully before speaking, as if every word deserved careful consideration. Their time alone was non-existent, as men and women were never allowed to mingle without chaperons. But weeks ago his eyes sought hers even as his glass toasted another man’s. Since then, they’ve stolen their moments alone with glances.

Every Friday night, for one hour before supper, men and women convened by the lake. Verbal exchange between the sexes was kept at a supervised minimum; she made conversation and played with the girls. Yet her sight and mind were fixed on his shoulders; the tanned skin glimmered under the West-setting sun as he chased the kids in the water, and picked them up, flexing his biceps, flaunting the shoulders. At night, when she laid unfocused on the book in hand, running her fingers over her body, she thought about his stomach, chest, arms. She’d never seen them, but knew they would be strong. And warm too, she thought, if they had the chance to press against her soft skin.  She imagined his shoulders swelling and tightening as they might if he picked her up, put her back against the wall and wrapped her legs around his waist. Isabel imagined them kissing frantically, playfully biting, tongues grinding – fast breaths as their brains decide which part of each other’s bodies they want to touch the most.

His hands cup her breasts as he sinks his head into his shoulders, knees bent to kiss, lick, and suck on her tits. His hair is too short for her to grab onto, so her fingertips find their way to his back; she squeezes the muscles as she throws back her head with a whispered moan.

He brings her legs down, and her feet touch the floor. His hand roams every inch of her right side as he slides it from her cheek to her neck, shoulders, breast, stomach, and hips.  His fingers press her to open her legs, which she does quickly. She moans deeper. For so long she’s craved that strong, calloused hand between her legs and it’s here now – her body is hot and the tip of her fingernails dig into his shoulders. She bites and kisses his chest, excited, wet, impatient for him to put his skin inside her. He breathes in her ear as he moves an inch of her underwear away with his index and middle fingers and runs them over her skin. It spasms, moist. She wants to seize his hand and push it up against her skin, but he moves before she does – he swiftly grabs her hips and turns her around. She responds by spreading her legs, arching the back, and turning her head so her lips can find his. He drops his jeans, and through his boxers, he makes her feel his cock, as he rubs it against her ass. She offers it to him, forearms and left cheek on the wall, legs quivering with anticipation.

Advertisements

I’ve been eating da poo poo

30 Jun

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.

I never felt this much alive, motherfuckers

30 Jun

Seven, friends, was my age of enlightenment. I was seven when a desperate little fish flopped around on the pavement, gasping for air, just seconds before Roddy’s piano exploded. PETA’s been pissed since then, yet I – the super animal lover – paid no mind to the suffering fish. I cared only about the auditory orgasm I’d just experienced; the song Epic by Faith No More was everything my polka-dot-lycra-shorts-wearing self craved. The music video played on MTV Brasil 24/7, and the videos for From Out of Nowhere and Falling to Pieces (my favorite of the three) were also popular. FNM exploded in Brazil, and is a band still adored in South America and Europe – not sure why Americans never gave these guys the attention they deserve.

Hours were spent in front of the living room TV, banging my head, playing air guitar, jumping from couch to couch, trying to recreate the melody-followed-by-screaming that only Patton can come up with; the man is a beast of a vocalist. I also took cue from him when it came fashion; for a while he sported the half shaved hair-do, which I felt compelled to duplicate. I stood by the sink at 8 years old, with my pretty hair tied in a high ponytail. With a fine comb, I separated it into two sections: everything above the line, which was at mid-ear, was left untouched – everything below it, I cut and then shaved off. I wore my Last of the Mohicans cut proudly to school, but none of my dumb friends knew who Mike Patton was, and I struggled to make that trend popular. I got one girl on board, though.

Nowadays I leave the hairdos to the stylist and the head banging mostly for driving. The insulation of my moving vehicle permits me to scream as loud as I can too, something I couldn’t always get away with at home.

thanks, Mitya, for my BLURRY picture with Mike Patton. Hmpf.

Faith No More remained a favorite band throughout the nineties until the fuckers broke it off in 1998; I was barely 15 and never got to see them play live.  I did catch Mike Patton in concert three years ago on his Peeping Tom tour and ambushed him after the show; we spoke a bit in Portuguese and a bit in Italian, but I was too sober to offer him my panties.

Just kidding, I was pretty drunk. But you see, I do actually go for the music. It was for the music that I sat out in front of Chicago’s Grant Park gates at 9am on August 6, 2006 until they opened at 11am. I and another few hundred lunatics engaged in a mad dash to Lollapalooza’s main stage, where the Red Hot Chili Peppers would be playing that day – at eight o’clock at night. A couple dozen kids had gotten to the park earlier than me, so they reached the stage before I did, leaving me in a third standing row. “Amateurs,” I thought. “I give them till 3pm.”

I’d overestimated their endurance, because at around noon, they started disappearing. “I’m just gonna go get some water,” one said. “I’m gonna go check on my friend,” said the other. I saw the weakness in their eyes; they were dehydrated under the scorching sun and had brought no food. As each  of them took a step back, I took one step forward. By 1pm, I had my stomach against the barrier and was face to face with stage security. I’d brought one litre of water with me and two muffins. It was hot, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to drink too much water or else I’d be jumping not for the music, but against my bladder. I made friends with a security guard who was kind enough to order me a veggie burger and throw some water on my face every now and then. Around 6pm I decided I needed a nap, if only to forget about the pain my poor boobs felt, being squeezed against the barrier by the big, drunk dudes behind me. I turned around to face the crowd, back flat against the barrier to keep my spot, and sat on the ground, head between my knees. I napped for thirty or so minutes until the crowd started pushing hard again.

Queens of the Stone Age preceded the Peppers, and by then, I was all sweat; mine and everyone else’s. I was jumping and singing – probably to Go With the Flow – when I felt warm liquid running down my right leg. I stopped for a second to make sure I wasn’t peeing on myself – nope, not my urine. I looked to my right, and a kid looking like he was about to pass out said, “sorry, dude, I had like, 8 beers.”

Peppers at Lolla ’06 – I took it!

I thought I might mind getting peed on, but I didn’t. I laughed at him, and helped push him up so he could get carried out by security before passing out. I minded the crowd surfers’ kicks to my head more. Only for a second though, because the Peppers were on fire, and I had the best seat in the house.

My girlfriends were at the show too, but they thought my “first row or nothing” approach to concerts was “crazy,” so for that little adventure I was on my own. As I’ll be this Friday too, when Faith No More play at the Williamsburg Waterfront in Brooklyn. I’m getting to New York around 11pm on Thursday, and will be up and out my friend Inna’s door around 10am of Friday – with a litre of water, couple of sandwiches, iPhone… in line for my first ever Faith No More concert.

Anyone who knows me should be picturing me screaming and smacking my skull right now, because that’s what I feel like doing at the thought of Friday night.

I’m not sure

28 Jun

For those of you unlucky enough to not have been brought up watching the glory that is football (you know.. the game where the foot makes contact with the ball 99% of the time? I think you Yanks call it soccer), I’ll remind you: the World Cup is on.

[cue vuvuzela iPhone app]

Unlike the baseball World Series event that features teams from all over the world of the United States of America, football features teams from all over the world of the world. And Brazil will win.

When I was a teenager, I had a Brazilian flag hanging in my bedroom – I know, super ghetto. I am positive that there are pictures in my parents’ home office of me standing in front of it, full-on red lipstick, long earrings, and some kind of too-tight frilly top, posing like the little slut I used to be. Just kidding, I wasn’t a slut, I just dressed like one. And danced like one. And kissed lots of boys like a slut might. Really, not a slut. What IS a slut?

The Brazilian flag came in handy during World Cups past; at house parties or restaurants, I’d wear a tight soccer jersey, some kind of too-tight bottoms in white or yellow, Brazilian flip flops, Brazil flag earrings… I’m surprised I didn’t dip my whole body in green paint. Now I… eh. It’s tiring. My excitement for the game is the same, but I don’t feel the need to be a physical embodiment of my country’s flag.

Maybe it’s because of my apathetic feelings when it comes to nationalism; I don’t feel a desperate fervor for Brazil or the United States. Since moving to the US, I’ve had to check many boxes for the purpose of ‘fitting’ into something. I am apparently NOT white, as I’ve been told (in Brazil I’m considered white), but I’m also not Hispanic. Being the obnoxious little  thing I am, I generally mark “other,” and if there’s room I write in “Latin American non-hispanic.” BECAUSE WE’RE NOT ALL THE SAME, ALL RIGHT?

For when I’m asked “where are you from?” I have two sets of answers:

“Boston” or “I was born in Brazil, but I live in Boston”

The first answer I supply to the creepo at bars and clubs, as I stick my butt out  and away from him, fingers interlaced, in prayer mode, blocking access to my crotch. “Boston,” I say with a firm nod. “I’m gonna go stand over there now. It was nice to meet you.”

The second response is my attempt to concisely convey: “hey, I’m not American, which makes me fabulous and exotic, able to whisper sexy things in your ear that you cannot understand, thus turning you on more,  and now that we’re on the subject – I may or may not moan a little different than a white girl would.  But yea, I live in Boston, and this is my home. Thank god for first world amenities.”

In essence, I’m confused. Brazilians don’t think I’m “Brazilian enough” – maybe because I choose clothing that allows for breathing, because I don’t tell everyone about my business, because I haven’t made out with every one of them, because I don’t go to church, because I don’t eat steak… I don’t know. There must be a long list of my inadequacies. Yet I don’t feel American either.

When driving with a friend who’s also as Brazilian as me (moved to the US at age 5), I spotted what I deem to be an iconic symbol of American life; a  modestly sized pale yellow ranch style home, with immaculately kept landscape, colorful flowers in window boxes, and an American flag displayed by the front door.

“Look at that house,” I said. “It’s so… friggin’ cute.”

Barbara laughed and said I sounded pissed and envious. I wasn’t. I was really in awe of the sight, as I had been at age 12. Homes without seven-foot gates, without yard walls of cement with broken pieces of glass atop, that impede thugs from invading the property; without bars in every window, without five locks in each door – the ranch style home will probably always look a little foreign to me. As will colloquial baseball references, turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy, tailgate parties…

I don’t feel particularly Brazilian nor American. Except during the World Cup.

I have Cup memories from 1990, at age 7. 1994 was my favorite; our dream team included captain Dunga, and I tooted my green and yellow vuvuzela out the living room window like the pest I’ve always been. Painted sidewalks, flags, music, noise, laughter, insanity. I may not have the same environment now, but I’m still a fan of the sport. I am not ashamed to admit that I broke two plates when we embarrassingly lost the trophy to France in 1998, nor to admit I cried when we lost again to France in the quarter finals of the 2006 games. It’s more than a sport, it’s an extension of our lifeline. Reason goes out the window and I find myself defending Brazil in internet forums and harboring evil feelings towards anyone who disagrees.

I’m not quite sure what the point of this rambling is, but I do know I must go; the second half of Brasil x Chile is about to start. I need some water, as I’ve already abused my throat with enough screaming, and I need a fan to cool off my ungirly sweating. I’m ready for motherfucking Chilean tears. Sons of bitches.

The world doesn’t deserve to have me as a mother

25 Jun

OK, so sure, I’m only 26, ehhh, 27, and there’s plenty of time to change my mind. But as it is, I truly can’t see myself being anyone’s mother. Let me rephrase: I can. I’d be a damn good mommy. I’m kind of awesome in that way. But I don’t think I want to. First, were I to be a mother, I’d want a husband to help me raise the little thing. I’m not quite sure I want a husband, so without step 1, I can’t really get to step 2. I’m not looking for eternal solitude; I’d enjoy a partner for sexy time, support, conversation, mutual nose picking, and the like, but marriage *scares* *me.*  I am *scared.*  [Shudders] I have this inexplicable, Catholic schooling residual fear of divorce that, coupled with my ever-growing doubt in man’s ability to remain faithful, makes me push the whole idea away. And there’s the important question: Why? Why get married? Why spend thousands of dollars doing something exactly like other people do, stressing yourself out for months, stressing yourself out on this Big Day that goes by so fast, you barely remember to breathe, where you have to promise to love and be faithful to someone FOREVER in front of A BUNCH OF PEOPLE who are there to eat the food you pay for and then complain about it later? No. I’m going to scream.

[pause for screaming]

I want to fall in love, respect, and admire someone, share a life with him, that is ours. That doesn’t need to come with a $10,000 price tag and outside scrutiny.

Back to motherhood. I remember quite well how I reacted in middle and high schools, when the Health teacher forced us to watch a video of a lady in labor. My breathing sped up, as did my heart beat (as they’re both doing now, as I think of it), I got dizzy, tears streamed down my face, and I had to leave the classroom.

[pause for screaming]

It looks painful, terrifying, evil, torturous, anxiety-inducing. Not to mention that your vagina will never look the same. Your body will never be the same, as it wouldn’t were you to get run over by a truck. Birthing a child = truck through vagina. Not good.

Babies sure are cute, and I kinda wanna chew on their fat little knees and cheeks, but that doesn’t mean I want one 24/7. What an amazing job it is, to raise a human being, to teach it all things about the world, to instill in it concepts like honesty, loyalty, humility, empathy, etc. It is a truly admirable, lifelong endeavor-accomplishment thing. But I can be so noble as to help those who are already living. I can make a commitment to making the world a better place. Without a child I have greater individual freedom; I’d like to think that I can accomplish a lot with that, and I rather believe I will.

I look at my parents, two people whom I greatly admire, and I wonder where they’d be and what they’d have accomplished had they chosen to not have children – I’m sure glad they didn’t, but still… I think their life would’ve been incredibly purposeful and exciting in many ways. I want that for myself, I think.

Though, to keep this bit truthful, I should also admit to my fears; my fears of not living up to my expectations of a great parent, of feeling pressured to choose between what I want and what’s best for my kid, and my fear of losing rationality and spending a good chunk of my life being the ‘overprotective’ type. I think all parents – as they are mere human beings – struggle with these thoughts.

If you don't love me, you have no heart

I’m a very loyal type; can’t nobody talk about my mamma, my daddy, my sister, my brother, my boyfriend, my good friends… I sure also get overprotective with my dog. She’s not ‘all there’ emotionally and probably gives off an insane vibe to other dogs, because calm ones tend to start barking and/or pick fights with her after a few seconds of sniffing. She’s uneasy around people and animals, at least until she’s established her status as alpha female. As such, when we go to the park every evening, I probably get as anxious as she does. She goes off leash and likes to circulate a perimeter around other pups; oftentimes they come over to her, give her a sniff, and she growls at them. If they become submissive, they’re immediate friends. If not, a short fight ensues. But sometimes, well adjusted dogs don’t pay her any attention. She walks around, tail wagging, watching from afar, and no one notices.

What the fuck, you stupid dogs? Why don’t you wanna say ‘hi’ to Tori? She wants to play. COME PLAY WITH MY DOG.

I don’t voice it nor do I act on it, but I think to myself; “If I have this ‘why won’t your kids play with my kids’ mentality with my dog, god forbid I ever have real kids of my own.”

Instead of killing someone, write a blog post!

23 Jun

Welcome to the show. It’s that time of the month, and I am filled with self loathing. It matters not that a cute girl stares back at me in the mirror; I’m still fat and ugly and, given the right combination of drugs, would take immense crotch-wetting pleasure in shaving my head and banging my umbrella on someone’s car window.

Aside from being the most vile looking creature this side of the Mississippi, I’m also stupid and incompetent; the proof is in the eight blog post drafts sitting to the right of the screen, as I type these pathetic words.

It is scientifically proven that to make one feel better about herself, she need only put someone else down. I’ve been running through scenarios in my head that might help brighten my mood, and the recurring one is this: run into the packed J.P. Licks of Newton Centre (full of yappy, rich housewives and their bratty kids) and yank the hair of as many of them as I can before a light goes off in their vapid brains guiding them to try and stop me. I’m not talking about the little pull on a few strands that you do to a friend sitting in front of you in class – I mean grabbing a handful of hair, dragging that hand down to waist level (along with her head), then flicking her nose with the other hand.

I did that once – except instead of flicking the nose, I punched her face repeatedly. It wasn’t my fault.

After theater rehearsal one afternoon, I got on the packed school bus and sat way in the back; it was the only seat left and, of course, was right in front of a pea-brain monstrous Hispanic chick and her big-hoop-earrings-wearing, finger-snapping friends. The whole ride they talked shit about me, pulled my hair, and at one point, one of them took my basketball from my lap. I kept quiet the whole time, ’cause I was alone, these creatures were bred for fighting, and my face was rather pretty. Finally, the Monster Chica and her friends got up to get off at their stop; one of them threw the ball back on my lap and I was relieved at the thought it might all be over. But of course, Monster Chica, the last one to leave, stomped on my foot as she walked away. I lost it. I threw my backpack and basketball down, got  up, and kicked her in the back. She turned around and for a second I almost shat my pants. At least 30lbs heavier and four inches taller, she came at me and all the kids got up, yelling “Fight! Fight!” She began scratching my face. 30 extra pounds, and all she could do was scratch my face and my shoulders. I was pushing her face away with my hands, when I grabbed a hold of her hair with my right hand. I pulled her head down to my waist, and proceeded to punch her temple and cheek with my left hand – four or five times. I brought her head back up and kicked her in the stomach, called her a bitch, and sat back down.

Other than the time I made a girl bleed while sparring in TaeKwonDo, that was my most victorious moment. This massive, scary looking chick was standing in the middle of the bus, shaking, holding her ear with one hand – I guess her earring got caught in her hair as I yanked and held it, and a bit of her ear was ripped. I watched as she got off the bus and stood on the sidewalk, still shaking.

No one. ever fucked. with me. again.

I feel better now.

Things I would do if I had a time machine

16 Jun

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.