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.