5-6-2006
Yoga for the Sexually Frustrated
Maybe this makes me weird.
There's this yoga program on Oxygen every day at 6 a.m. I love watching it when I get ready for work. I don't do yoga. I've never done yoga. It's mesmerizing. All the loose fitting earth-tones. Steve Ross' soothing voice. The token fat guy in the group, who while no more limber than a table, is certainly more limber than I. I cannot turn the shit off.
The other morning Steve told his class to partner up. One person sat on the floor while their partner kneeled behind them. The seated person was supposed to bend forward, while the partner pushed their back down. Then Steve says, "some people like to give massages here." Mouth agape, I watched as they flashed to one sweaty girl rubbing another sweaty girl's back. I said, "what the fuck?!" and leapt at the t.v. turning it off. I was never going to make it to work if this kept up.
Yesterday I'm watching, and they're doing stuff I'd never seen before. It looked harder. Steve gets down on the floor to show the class some modified shrieking leprechaun position or something, then he pulls his leg back to his back. "Just keep pulling until you know what happens."
You know what? Again I say, "what the fuck?!" Only this time I say it as I'm leaping onto the floor into the modified shrieking leprechaun and pulling my leg back to my back. How the hell else was I supposed to figure out what, "you know what," was? Was I going to have a mind-blowing orgasm? Were doves going to shoot out my ass? Sadly it seems like, "you know what," is just a nice way of saying, "until you're in so much pain that you want to cry like a little girl." I guess you never know until you try.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
XIV
5-2-2006
Wet T-shirt Democracy
The only thing I needed to accomplish after work today was voting in the primary. I love voting. It's my favorite thing in the world. When I was little, I didn't look forward to my sixteenth birthday like so many other kids. I looked forward to the eighteenth, the point at which I'd finally be able to take part in the democratic process with which I had always been so infatuated.
I have to wear a white shirt to work. Black pants as well. I believe this is called a uniform.
There are some things in this world about which I'm not so bright. Or perhaps I'm just defiant. Yes, let's go with defiant. One of these things is the way I protect myself from the rain. I protect myself with denial. I refuse to carry an umbrella. No one looks cool carrying an umbrella. Well, no one but Charlie Chaplin, and if you notice, he never really had his opened. Anyway, I certainly don't look cool carrying one. Something I came to terms with years ago was that people also don't look cool walking around dripping wet. Sadly, by the time I came to this realization, the no umbrella thing was so deeply set within me that there was no turning back.
I guess the point I'm driving at is, it was raining pretty hard when I left work this morning. Did I let that stop me from my voting destiny? Hell no. Instead I turned lemons into lemonade. I gave democracy something that's very dear to me. Something that I've given less than a handful of people over the course of my entire life. I marched into that polling station shoulders back and wet, white shirt clinging. I let democracy get to second base. It seemed only right after a 25 year love affair.
Call me crazy, but I think that when things work out the way they should in November, my Girls Gone Wild moment at the polls today will be at least partially responsible. Flash the political system, get a governor you can stand. It only seems fair.
Wet T-shirt Democracy
The only thing I needed to accomplish after work today was voting in the primary. I love voting. It's my favorite thing in the world. When I was little, I didn't look forward to my sixteenth birthday like so many other kids. I looked forward to the eighteenth, the point at which I'd finally be able to take part in the democratic process with which I had always been so infatuated.
I have to wear a white shirt to work. Black pants as well. I believe this is called a uniform.
There are some things in this world about which I'm not so bright. Or perhaps I'm just defiant. Yes, let's go with defiant. One of these things is the way I protect myself from the rain. I protect myself with denial. I refuse to carry an umbrella. No one looks cool carrying an umbrella. Well, no one but Charlie Chaplin, and if you notice, he never really had his opened. Anyway, I certainly don't look cool carrying one. Something I came to terms with years ago was that people also don't look cool walking around dripping wet. Sadly, by the time I came to this realization, the no umbrella thing was so deeply set within me that there was no turning back.
I guess the point I'm driving at is, it was raining pretty hard when I left work this morning. Did I let that stop me from my voting destiny? Hell no. Instead I turned lemons into lemonade. I gave democracy something that's very dear to me. Something that I've given less than a handful of people over the course of my entire life. I marched into that polling station shoulders back and wet, white shirt clinging. I let democracy get to second base. It seemed only right after a 25 year love affair.
Call me crazy, but I think that when things work out the way they should in November, my Girls Gone Wild moment at the polls today will be at least partially responsible. Flash the political system, get a governor you can stand. It only seems fair.
XIII
5-1-2006
Appalachian Bubble Bath
I have a lot to write, and not a lot of time to write it. A few casual observations.
The Columbus chapter of the GOP (Grand Old Party, Republicans) is located on the corner of High and Gay. I wonder if W. knows.
Today at the protest that's been outside our building for the last month, one of the men protesting punched one of the women he was protesting with right in the mouth. They called an ambulance and everything. I nearly pissed my pants. I love my job.
When I went to pay my rent today, there was a group of 4 girls and 1 guy just loitering in front of the planned parenthood. Is it wrong that I was having the kinds of thoughts I was having? Like what if they were all there because they had all slept with that guy in the last couple months, and he just called them this weekend to tell them that he has genital herpes, and they had all gone together to get their tests and various creams to help with the sores?
Now I'm in the coffee shop, and the local Scrabble club is here. The guy in the club whom I've always found most obnoxious walked in and announced that he went to this other local Scrabble club meeting this weekend. Then he more or less called the other team a bunch of pussies and morons. It takes a big man to make fun of a fellow Scrabble player. Seriously, Dude. You're world revolves around Scrabble. Ever thought about going out and getting laid? It's a lot more fun, and it might even clear up your acne. I promise.
Anyway, no point to this. It's just feels so wrong to go so long without writing.
Appalachian Bubble Bath
I have a lot to write, and not a lot of time to write it. A few casual observations.
The Columbus chapter of the GOP (Grand Old Party, Republicans) is located on the corner of High and Gay. I wonder if W. knows.
Today at the protest that's been outside our building for the last month, one of the men protesting punched one of the women he was protesting with right in the mouth. They called an ambulance and everything. I nearly pissed my pants. I love my job.
When I went to pay my rent today, there was a group of 4 girls and 1 guy just loitering in front of the planned parenthood. Is it wrong that I was having the kinds of thoughts I was having? Like what if they were all there because they had all slept with that guy in the last couple months, and he just called them this weekend to tell them that he has genital herpes, and they had all gone together to get their tests and various creams to help with the sores?
Now I'm in the coffee shop, and the local Scrabble club is here. The guy in the club whom I've always found most obnoxious walked in and announced that he went to this other local Scrabble club meeting this weekend. Then he more or less called the other team a bunch of pussies and morons. It takes a big man to make fun of a fellow Scrabble player. Seriously, Dude. You're world revolves around Scrabble. Ever thought about going out and getting laid? It's a lot more fun, and it might even clear up your acne. I promise.
Anyway, no point to this. It's just feels so wrong to go so long without writing.
XII
4-24-2006
Phone Sex at Work
Sometimes I'm astounded by my own stupidity.
A woman from our home office called the store today. She sounded very much like this girl at one of the other stores. This other girl and I always flirt in the least sincere, obviously kidding manner imaginable.
Now, the woman who actually called, she's super nice. She's also a real adult. You know, the kind you don't proposition over the phone. Of course, what do I say when she says, "hi Carrie?"
I say, "ooh, I've missed you so much." in a voice that doesn't sound the least bit professional, at least not in my profession.
She says, "what?" I'm still not sure if it was the kind of "what" that someone says when they really didn't hear you or if it was the kind of "what" someone says when they can't believe they heard you correctly.
Sadly, I still thought it was this other person, so I said, "I said I miss you." This time I didn't use my lusty voice but still. . .
"She said, oh I miss you too."
Then I realized it wasn't who I thought it was, so I back-pedalled at the speed of light.
"Oh, well you know, I haven't talked to you in a while, and you were off on Friday, and you should call more often just to say hey, and it's Monday, I'm just feeling goofy."
I kind of feel like curling up into the fetal position.
Alas, this is not that first time I've done something like this. The last time was when I worked at the bookstore. My boss' name was Jeff. I had a friend named Jason. I was waiting for Jason to call. The phone rang. Someone answered it. They called back for me. I said, "is it J-dog?"
They said, "yeah."
I picked up the phone, "hey spooge."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, hi Jeff!"
I think not learning from your mistakes is a textbook symptom of mental retardation.
Phone Sex at Work
Sometimes I'm astounded by my own stupidity.
A woman from our home office called the store today. She sounded very much like this girl at one of the other stores. This other girl and I always flirt in the least sincere, obviously kidding manner imaginable.
Now, the woman who actually called, she's super nice. She's also a real adult. You know, the kind you don't proposition over the phone. Of course, what do I say when she says, "hi Carrie?"
I say, "ooh, I've missed you so much." in a voice that doesn't sound the least bit professional, at least not in my profession.
She says, "what?" I'm still not sure if it was the kind of "what" that someone says when they really didn't hear you or if it was the kind of "what" someone says when they can't believe they heard you correctly.
Sadly, I still thought it was this other person, so I said, "I said I miss you." This time I didn't use my lusty voice but still. . .
"She said, oh I miss you too."
Then I realized it wasn't who I thought it was, so I back-pedalled at the speed of light.
"Oh, well you know, I haven't talked to you in a while, and you were off on Friday, and you should call more often just to say hey, and it's Monday, I'm just feeling goofy."
I kind of feel like curling up into the fetal position.
Alas, this is not that first time I've done something like this. The last time was when I worked at the bookstore. My boss' name was Jeff. I had a friend named Jason. I was waiting for Jason to call. The phone rang. Someone answered it. They called back for me. I said, "is it J-dog?"
They said, "yeah."
I picked up the phone, "hey spooge."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, hi Jeff!"
I think not learning from your mistakes is a textbook symptom of mental retardation.
XI
4-16-2006
He wasn't just an Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical
I've a thought about Jesus
Now, I believe that there was a guy named Jesus. He was probably a pretty good guy. I picture him at a lot of Phish shows. He wore Berkenstocks. Probably smoked a lot of reefer. Of course, like any brilliant politician (and most crazy people) he said a few unpopular things. He pissed the wrong people off. They nailed him to a T. They buried him in a cave. Couple days later, the gals go back to the cave.
"Holy shit. He's not here. He done resurrected, (their English wasnt so hot back then). We gotta go tell everyone!"
So the girls run screaming out of the cave. They tell the town gossip that Jesus is alive and walking among them, and within the hour, the whole fucking world knows about it. There are Jesus sightings all over the place, which I can understand. I mean, have you ever started waving to someone you were sure was an old friend only to realize that it wasnt. You feel pretty lame, but you try to play it off, right.
Well, a few days later, lets say 40, a couple of the gals go back to the cave. One of them wants to carve, "MM + JC 4ever" on the wall. She walks in, and there he is. Just like they'd left him. "Girls, girls! Come quick. It's Jesus. Hes been right here behind the milk the entire time."
"How many times have I told you, sometimes you have to move shit around to find something. It's not just going to jump out at you."
Now the shit really hits the fan. They realize all at once that for the last month, people have thought Jesus was alive. How the fuck were they going to explain that one?
They run back to the old group.
"John, Paul, George, Ringo! Do you guys still keep those journals?"
"Yeah, what of it? We dont want to hear it. We told you. We're not gay. We're just sensitive."
"We don't care about that. Its just we've got some bad news, and we just need to make sure we get it in writing. The Man is dead."
"Yeah right."
"No, we mean it. Really, really dead this time."
"Well, how? Where is he?"
"He was in a . . . uh . . . well, that doesn't matter. We saw him ascend to the heavens with our own eyes."
"Well, did he say anything on his way up?"
"Yes, he said, join me in a few hundred years for a reunion tour. Meet me in Utah."
He wasn't just an Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical
I've a thought about Jesus
Now, I believe that there was a guy named Jesus. He was probably a pretty good guy. I picture him at a lot of Phish shows. He wore Berkenstocks. Probably smoked a lot of reefer. Of course, like any brilliant politician (and most crazy people) he said a few unpopular things. He pissed the wrong people off. They nailed him to a T. They buried him in a cave. Couple days later, the gals go back to the cave.
"Holy shit. He's not here. He done resurrected, (their English wasnt so hot back then). We gotta go tell everyone!"
So the girls run screaming out of the cave. They tell the town gossip that Jesus is alive and walking among them, and within the hour, the whole fucking world knows about it. There are Jesus sightings all over the place, which I can understand. I mean, have you ever started waving to someone you were sure was an old friend only to realize that it wasnt. You feel pretty lame, but you try to play it off, right.
Well, a few days later, lets say 40, a couple of the gals go back to the cave. One of them wants to carve, "MM + JC 4ever" on the wall. She walks in, and there he is. Just like they'd left him. "Girls, girls! Come quick. It's Jesus. Hes been right here behind the milk the entire time."
"How many times have I told you, sometimes you have to move shit around to find something. It's not just going to jump out at you."
Now the shit really hits the fan. They realize all at once that for the last month, people have thought Jesus was alive. How the fuck were they going to explain that one?
They run back to the old group.
"John, Paul, George, Ringo! Do you guys still keep those journals?"
"Yeah, what of it? We dont want to hear it. We told you. We're not gay. We're just sensitive."
"We don't care about that. Its just we've got some bad news, and we just need to make sure we get it in writing. The Man is dead."
"Yeah right."
"No, we mean it. Really, really dead this time."
"Well, how? Where is he?"
"He was in a . . . uh . . . well, that doesn't matter. We saw him ascend to the heavens with our own eyes."
"Well, did he say anything on his way up?"
"Yes, he said, join me in a few hundred years for a reunion tour. Meet me in Utah."
X
4-16-2006
Chicken-fried Jesus
Oh it's Easter. This is a very big holiday for my people. The atheists, that is. "Seriously, he did what? You believe that shit?" I think I was 7 or 8 the first time I had that conversation with someone.
It was my best friend, Joseph Stargel. He's a pretty strict Southern Baptist. I'm really surprised that more people weren't forbidden from associating with me when I was younger.
The first time it was decided that maybe I shouldn't play with someone was, Krista Kettering. Her family was Baptist too. I think I was 6? Maybe a bit younger. She and her brother were explaining to me how Mary was Jesus' mom. I said, so Mary was married to God? They were appalled. They told their mom. It was decided maybe we should all take a break from each other. Now there were two types of logic happening there. On some level I understood that God and Mary must have gotten it on in order to make Jesus, and I guess I thought that only married folk got it on. Imagine that. And I'm the one with questionable morals. Looking back on it, I'm not sure how much stock I put in the Ketterings. I also remember Kyle, the oldest boy telling me that babies came out of their mothers' butts. Then there was the summer that, after a pig roast, they put the head of the pig way up in a tree. It didn't look good, and it stunk to high heaven by the end of the summer.
I really don't want to come off as an ignorant heathen. I've read lots of the Bible. Leviticus 20:13 is my favorite bit (obviously). I went to church every Easter until I was 10ish. I took my mom to mass a few times after she had surgery and couldn't drive herself. I actually enjoy a good Catholic mass. They're much more aesthetically pleasing than the long, boring Protestant services my father used to drag me to.
In lighter news. One night a few years ago, I was sitting with a friend. We started talking about the whole Body of Christ thing. The ol' Holy Communion. We started a list of other ways you could eat Jesus. You know, besides the gross cracker. Here are just a few: Jesus Kabobs, Jesus au gratin, lemon pepper Jesus, Jesus marsala . . . The list goes on and on really. Basically, any way that you could prepare a meat, potato, or pasta, throw our Savior in the mix, and there you go.
Well, that's enough blasphemy for one day. Everyone have a happy Easter, and keep your eyes on the sky for the next few days. Does Christ rise in the east and set in the west, or is it the other way around?
Chicken-fried Jesus
Oh it's Easter. This is a very big holiday for my people. The atheists, that is. "Seriously, he did what? You believe that shit?" I think I was 7 or 8 the first time I had that conversation with someone.
It was my best friend, Joseph Stargel. He's a pretty strict Southern Baptist. I'm really surprised that more people weren't forbidden from associating with me when I was younger.
The first time it was decided that maybe I shouldn't play with someone was, Krista Kettering. Her family was Baptist too. I think I was 6? Maybe a bit younger. She and her brother were explaining to me how Mary was Jesus' mom. I said, so Mary was married to God? They were appalled. They told their mom. It was decided maybe we should all take a break from each other. Now there were two types of logic happening there. On some level I understood that God and Mary must have gotten it on in order to make Jesus, and I guess I thought that only married folk got it on. Imagine that. And I'm the one with questionable morals. Looking back on it, I'm not sure how much stock I put in the Ketterings. I also remember Kyle, the oldest boy telling me that babies came out of their mothers' butts. Then there was the summer that, after a pig roast, they put the head of the pig way up in a tree. It didn't look good, and it stunk to high heaven by the end of the summer.
I really don't want to come off as an ignorant heathen. I've read lots of the Bible. Leviticus 20:13 is my favorite bit (obviously). I went to church every Easter until I was 10ish. I took my mom to mass a few times after she had surgery and couldn't drive herself. I actually enjoy a good Catholic mass. They're much more aesthetically pleasing than the long, boring Protestant services my father used to drag me to.
In lighter news. One night a few years ago, I was sitting with a friend. We started talking about the whole Body of Christ thing. The ol' Holy Communion. We started a list of other ways you could eat Jesus. You know, besides the gross cracker. Here are just a few: Jesus Kabobs, Jesus au gratin, lemon pepper Jesus, Jesus marsala . . . The list goes on and on really. Basically, any way that you could prepare a meat, potato, or pasta, throw our Savior in the mix, and there you go.
Well, that's enough blasphemy for one day. Everyone have a happy Easter, and keep your eyes on the sky for the next few days. Does Christ rise in the east and set in the west, or is it the other way around?
IX
4-10-2006
Clubbing Baby Seals
I fucking love working downtown.
Here's what I saw today.
I'm looking across the street. There's a rather big girl and a scrawny boy. They're fighting, but it looks like play fighting. Then it starts to get kind of intense. Next thing I know, big girl's right boob is completely out of her shirt. It wasn't just sort of out. It was way out. She was wearing a jacket that was zipped up most of the way, so where the zipper stopped was right up under her boob. I'm not doing a very good job of describing it, but just close your eyes and imagine a big, floppy boob suspended, as if independent of the rest of the body, in the middle of someone's torso. Some people should not leave home if they're not wearing a bra. She is one of these people.
Earlier in the afternoon, some crazy woman came into the store. I asked her if she needed any help. She said, "No, I was just outside and I saw the annointing in your cookie jar, so I had to come in. It looked just like the resurrection that I saw in middle school. I just need to deal with this."
It just doesn't get better than the shit I see every day.
Clubbing Baby Seals
I fucking love working downtown.
Here's what I saw today.
I'm looking across the street. There's a rather big girl and a scrawny boy. They're fighting, but it looks like play fighting. Then it starts to get kind of intense. Next thing I know, big girl's right boob is completely out of her shirt. It wasn't just sort of out. It was way out. She was wearing a jacket that was zipped up most of the way, so where the zipper stopped was right up under her boob. I'm not doing a very good job of describing it, but just close your eyes and imagine a big, floppy boob suspended, as if independent of the rest of the body, in the middle of someone's torso. Some people should not leave home if they're not wearing a bra. She is one of these people.
Earlier in the afternoon, some crazy woman came into the store. I asked her if she needed any help. She said, "No, I was just outside and I saw the annointing in your cookie jar, so I had to come in. It looked just like the resurrection that I saw in middle school. I just need to deal with this."
It just doesn't get better than the shit I see every day.
VIII
4-7-2006
Ain't That Just an Uper-cut to the Boob
I've had it in my head the last couple days that I've come down with a touch of cancer. I won't go into the why of the situation. I will say that I kept myself up all the other night freaking out about it. Something weird happens to me at night. I sort of lose all sense. Whatever I'm feeling during the day, I feel deeper at night, and I abandon all perspective and logic. Then the sun comes up, and I become more rational and make fun of myself for being such a tool.
Here's how I imagined a doctor's appointment would go after I got out of bed the other morning and was no longer certain that I was dying:
"What about this lump, Doctor?"
"That's fat."
"Oh, well what about this mass in my stomach? My grandmother had a mass the size of a grapefruit in her stomach by the time they caught it. She dies six months later."
"Those are your abdominal muscles."
"I don't have abdominal muscles."
"Yes you do."
"No I don't. It's a tumor and I'm dying."
"Let me ask you. Can you get yourself from a reclined position to a seated one without the use of a crane or magic?"
"Yeah."
"Then it's not a tumor. It's your abs."
"Huh. Well what about that little bump? What did the biopsy show?"
"When we did the biopsy it burst."
"You mean when you cut it, it spread out and infected an even bigger area with the cancer?"
"No, I mean it was a zit."
"Oh."
I'm going to go home and watch the Gilmore Girls now. That should cheer me up.
Right then, good night, and good luck.
Ain't That Just an Uper-cut to the Boob
I've had it in my head the last couple days that I've come down with a touch of cancer. I won't go into the why of the situation. I will say that I kept myself up all the other night freaking out about it. Something weird happens to me at night. I sort of lose all sense. Whatever I'm feeling during the day, I feel deeper at night, and I abandon all perspective and logic. Then the sun comes up, and I become more rational and make fun of myself for being such a tool.
Here's how I imagined a doctor's appointment would go after I got out of bed the other morning and was no longer certain that I was dying:
"What about this lump, Doctor?"
"That's fat."
"Oh, well what about this mass in my stomach? My grandmother had a mass the size of a grapefruit in her stomach by the time they caught it. She dies six months later."
"Those are your abdominal muscles."
"I don't have abdominal muscles."
"Yes you do."
"No I don't. It's a tumor and I'm dying."
"Let me ask you. Can you get yourself from a reclined position to a seated one without the use of a crane or magic?"
"Yeah."
"Then it's not a tumor. It's your abs."
"Huh. Well what about that little bump? What did the biopsy show?"
"When we did the biopsy it burst."
"You mean when you cut it, it spread out and infected an even bigger area with the cancer?"
"No, I mean it was a zit."
"Oh."
I'm going to go home and watch the Gilmore Girls now. That should cheer me up.
Right then, good night, and good luck.
VII
4-2-2006
I Pee; therefore, I Am
I had what I thought was a brilliant idea Friday. I decided that I don't drink enough water. It's true. I don't. Well, I figured that drinking more water would be the easiest, fastest way for me to be a little healthier. I though, hey you're supposed to drink 8 glasses of water a day. I work 8 hours a day. I know. I'll just make sure to drink a glass of water every hour that I'm at work. Jesus, Carrie, how did you get so smart? Why isn't MENSA knocking down your door? Why are you writing rhetorical questions to theoretical readers?
Anyway, I get to work. I pour my first glass of water. I drink it. I feel unstoppable. I feel like the liver and kidneys that I am constantly abusing are high fiving. "Yes!" they exclaim, "we can get her off the transplant list."
That's how I felt after my first glass. Now, after my fifth glass. Things were a bit different. I thought, is this how models stay so thin? They're so full on water all the time that they're never hungry? Then I thought, fucking Christ. I have to pee again!
Then finally, just before I poured my eighth glass, I had what would have been a magnificent idea a mere 7 hours earlier. I checked to see just how many ounces this cup I was drinking out of held. Everyone knows that when talking about measurement, a glass is 8 ounces. How big was my cup? 16 ounces. For all those fuzzy when it comes to math, I was drinking twice as much as I needed to. I thought I was going to fucking die. It was one of the most uncomfortable stomach experiences of my life.
My conclusion. Water is from the fucking devil. Please, discuss among yourselves.
I Pee; therefore, I Am
I had what I thought was a brilliant idea Friday. I decided that I don't drink enough water. It's true. I don't. Well, I figured that drinking more water would be the easiest, fastest way for me to be a little healthier. I though, hey you're supposed to drink 8 glasses of water a day. I work 8 hours a day. I know. I'll just make sure to drink a glass of water every hour that I'm at work. Jesus, Carrie, how did you get so smart? Why isn't MENSA knocking down your door? Why are you writing rhetorical questions to theoretical readers?
Anyway, I get to work. I pour my first glass of water. I drink it. I feel unstoppable. I feel like the liver and kidneys that I am constantly abusing are high fiving. "Yes!" they exclaim, "we can get her off the transplant list."
That's how I felt after my first glass. Now, after my fifth glass. Things were a bit different. I thought, is this how models stay so thin? They're so full on water all the time that they're never hungry? Then I thought, fucking Christ. I have to pee again!
Then finally, just before I poured my eighth glass, I had what would have been a magnificent idea a mere 7 hours earlier. I checked to see just how many ounces this cup I was drinking out of held. Everyone knows that when talking about measurement, a glass is 8 ounces. How big was my cup? 16 ounces. For all those fuzzy when it comes to math, I was drinking twice as much as I needed to. I thought I was going to fucking die. It was one of the most uncomfortable stomach experiences of my life.
My conclusion. Water is from the fucking devil. Please, discuss among yourselves.
VI
3-28-2006
Liars with Hard-ons
This is great. I'm sitting in the coffee shop. This guy comes in off the street. He sits down at a table with the other guy. The first guy, we'll call him Skippy, slurs to the second guy, we'll call him, Buck, "can I have some money for coffee?" Buck pulls out a five and gives it to him.
Skippy says, "can I keep the change?"
Buck, "sure."
Skippy, "can I come back here and sit with you?"
"Well, I have to study."
"I don't care."
"Well, I need it quiet when I study, so I can't really talk."
Then Skippy stumples away.
I can't tell if Skippy is drunk or just slow. Either way . . .
I don't think Buck knows that I can see it, but he is totally watching porn on his laptop. Like seriously graffic, boy-on-boy porn. Can you imagine what it must be like to be in a "study" group with Buck?
This is the second most fun thing that's happened to me all day.
Liars with Hard-ons
This is great. I'm sitting in the coffee shop. This guy comes in off the street. He sits down at a table with the other guy. The first guy, we'll call him Skippy, slurs to the second guy, we'll call him, Buck, "can I have some money for coffee?" Buck pulls out a five and gives it to him.
Skippy says, "can I keep the change?"
Buck, "sure."
Skippy, "can I come back here and sit with you?"
"Well, I have to study."
"I don't care."
"Well, I need it quiet when I study, so I can't really talk."
Then Skippy stumples away.
I can't tell if Skippy is drunk or just slow. Either way . . .
I don't think Buck knows that I can see it, but he is totally watching porn on his laptop. Like seriously graffic, boy-on-boy porn. Can you imagine what it must be like to be in a "study" group with Buck?
This is the second most fun thing that's happened to me all day.
V
3-27-2006
15 Minutes of Fame
So, I belong to this online writers' workshop, and there are these speedwriting things, and this is one of them that I did. Basically, the prompt was to write about getting 15 minutes of fame. I had 15 minutes to write it, so I couldn't really edit anything, and I use the word, "well," a lot which is dumb, but whatever. It's all written in dialogue, but it's just one half of a conversation. Anyway, as they say on Iron Chef, "Please to enjoy."
funny you should bring that up. yes i am the person who was found trapped under a 700 pound dead guy.
yes, i know his dick was in me when they finally pulled him off me. i swear though that that was just a bizarre coincidense. i'm a lesbian and wouldn't be caught dead (no ill respect to my diseaced counterpart) with a 700 pound man's dick shoved inside me.
now it's true, people don't tend to recognize me much, i mean a picture can only be so big and chances are, no matter how much you enlarge the borders, that fat ass is still going to take up most of the shot.
Surprisingly no, that thing that looks like it might be a foot is actually a discarded chicken breast. Well, no it was grilled. tubby was trying to cut back on his fat intake.
well no, obviously it was too little too late.
no, i don't think that's the kind of thing you should be laughing about.
well, yes I can see the charicature-esque humor in the situation. the problem with that though is, we're not talking about an episode of funky winkerbean, we're talking about an actual human life.
yes, i do realize that i'm going to have a hard time convincing my friends and family that it's not a funny situation.
yes my girlfriend and i are still together.
no, i told you. i'm a lesbian. it was a total accident that that man's dick was shoved inside me.
well yes, that's right. he was wearing a condom.
yes, i had rubbed chocolate syrup all over my hot naked body.
how can you insinuate something like that? I would never seduce any man, much less one who weighed 700 pounds. . . . not even if he did have the hardest, most perfectly shaped cock i've ever tasted--i mean seen--i mean . . .
i'm sorry you were saying?
okay look, that really is uncalled for.
we both know that in a week, no one's going to remember this.
well, yes people will always be able to catch reruns of the the saturday night live parody.
i am aware that my character in the sketch is wearing a t-shirt with a rainbow triangle that reads, "i love sausage."
No, it was just one dim-witted comedy troups interpretation of the events. I am as committed to my girlfriend and my homosexual lifestyle as i have ever been.
aren't you even concerned that a life was lost in this situation.
yes, i'm sure he would have stilled died that day even if he hadn't been playing human pogo-stick with me.
jesus would you guys just leave me alone? I've just lost very dear, well hung friend.
15 Minutes of Fame
So, I belong to this online writers' workshop, and there are these speedwriting things, and this is one of them that I did. Basically, the prompt was to write about getting 15 minutes of fame. I had 15 minutes to write it, so I couldn't really edit anything, and I use the word, "well," a lot which is dumb, but whatever. It's all written in dialogue, but it's just one half of a conversation. Anyway, as they say on Iron Chef, "Please to enjoy."
funny you should bring that up. yes i am the person who was found trapped under a 700 pound dead guy.
yes, i know his dick was in me when they finally pulled him off me. i swear though that that was just a bizarre coincidense. i'm a lesbian and wouldn't be caught dead (no ill respect to my diseaced counterpart) with a 700 pound man's dick shoved inside me.
now it's true, people don't tend to recognize me much, i mean a picture can only be so big and chances are, no matter how much you enlarge the borders, that fat ass is still going to take up most of the shot.
Surprisingly no, that thing that looks like it might be a foot is actually a discarded chicken breast. Well, no it was grilled. tubby was trying to cut back on his fat intake.
well no, obviously it was too little too late.
no, i don't think that's the kind of thing you should be laughing about.
well, yes I can see the charicature-esque humor in the situation. the problem with that though is, we're not talking about an episode of funky winkerbean, we're talking about an actual human life.
yes, i do realize that i'm going to have a hard time convincing my friends and family that it's not a funny situation.
yes my girlfriend and i are still together.
no, i told you. i'm a lesbian. it was a total accident that that man's dick was shoved inside me.
well yes, that's right. he was wearing a condom.
yes, i had rubbed chocolate syrup all over my hot naked body.
how can you insinuate something like that? I would never seduce any man, much less one who weighed 700 pounds. . . . not even if he did have the hardest, most perfectly shaped cock i've ever tasted--i mean seen--i mean . . .
i'm sorry you were saying?
okay look, that really is uncalled for.
we both know that in a week, no one's going to remember this.
well, yes people will always be able to catch reruns of the the saturday night live parody.
i am aware that my character in the sketch is wearing a t-shirt with a rainbow triangle that reads, "i love sausage."
No, it was just one dim-witted comedy troups interpretation of the events. I am as committed to my girlfriend and my homosexual lifestyle as i have ever been.
aren't you even concerned that a life was lost in this situation.
yes, i'm sure he would have stilled died that day even if he hadn't been playing human pogo-stick with me.
jesus would you guys just leave me alone? I've just lost very dear, well hung friend.
IV
3-26-2006
My Louisville Sugar Daddy
I drove all the way from Louisville to Cincinnati sucking on the same Sugar Daddy. Seriously, there exists no harder caramel than the stuff they shove on those cardboard sticks. The best is when the caramel finally gets soft (not soft enough to bite off and chew without removing any fillings you might have) just soft enough that you can make mouth sculptures out of it. The term mouth sculpture has two meanings, both of which I'm making up as I go. One, you can just keep sucking and let the Sugar Daddy form a sort of mold of your mouth. Two, you can actually sculp the caramel with your mouth. I like to think that I caused at least a handful of truckers to swerve off the road when they accidentally glanced what was happening in my car as they drove by. Sorry boys. There's only one Sugar Daddy for me, and oooh is he sweet.
My Louisville Sugar Daddy
I drove all the way from Louisville to Cincinnati sucking on the same Sugar Daddy. Seriously, there exists no harder caramel than the stuff they shove on those cardboard sticks. The best is when the caramel finally gets soft (not soft enough to bite off and chew without removing any fillings you might have) just soft enough that you can make mouth sculptures out of it. The term mouth sculpture has two meanings, both of which I'm making up as I go. One, you can just keep sucking and let the Sugar Daddy form a sort of mold of your mouth. Two, you can actually sculp the caramel with your mouth. I like to think that I caused at least a handful of truckers to swerve off the road when they accidentally glanced what was happening in my car as they drove by. Sorry boys. There's only one Sugar Daddy for me, and oooh is he sweet.
III
3-26-2006
9229 consecutive days without a one-night stand, or . . .
. . . my life in palindrome.
My weekend has gone from worst to first. Melissa Ferrick was so fucking good. I like it when music makes me feel less like shit. It's a good thing.
Hmm, I had lots of profound stuff I was going to put here, but I can't remember any of it now.
I'm knackered. Maybe it'll come to me after I get some sleep.
I will say that there were these two women at the show wearing matching leather vests. I will say that.
II
3-20-2006
Scrabble for Amputees
I'm sitting in the coffee shop, and this group of Scrabble enthusiasts is right next to me. They're here a lot. I'm not sure I've ever been as passionate about anything as these folks are about Scrabble, so I guess I'm happy for them that they have a little club where they can be amongst there own people.
Anyway, what I'm wondering is if there's some sort of support group for Scrabble players who's lives have been affected by debilitating arthritis. I mean those tiles are really small. Do they make giant Scrabble boards with giant tiles for people who no longer have the manual dexterity that they once did? Should I be copyrighting this shit?
How would Stephen Hawking play Scrabble? With a series of blinks that move remote control tiles on an electronic board?
Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one with the courage to ask the tough questions.
I
3-12-2006
Consumption Sucks
So, I've been coughing like someone who's smoked 3 packs a day for 30 years, and it isn't fun.
I can't be sick tonight though, I'm going to a drag show, so TB be damned.
On a more important note, I really think that the November elections are going to go well. Alas, Voinovich isn't up again until 2010; however, we can get rid of DeWine this year. I'm just concerned that since he hasn't done anything overtly horrible, he's going to sail right through. He did vote to confirm Alito though, and I wrote him a nasty letter saying that I wouldn't so much as vote for him for PTA President if he did that.
People become so disillusioned with the state of politics in this country, but really we have all the power. We just have to excersise it, and it huge numbers. If things aren't going the way we want it to, it's because that's the way we let it be.
I'm done preaching now. I've just been a bit riled up for a while.
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