"The greatest adventure is what lies ahead.
Today and tomorrow are yet to be said.
The chances, the changes are all yours to make.
The mold of your life is in your hands to break."
No, I won't tell you who it was, and no, it wasn't Bilbo Baggins.
I move for college tomorrow morning. Try not to post anything too interesting while I'm gone. I'll return to the blogging world once I get things settled and once I think of whimsical nicknames for my roommates. However, knowing me, my first task will be to set up the computer and I'll be back in action by tomorrow night.
But as for right now, I'm a poor gay boy angsting, which means that Godiva Ice Cream, Sex & the City, and Absolutely Fabulous are beckoning.
(PS- Viva la Penis!)
August 30, 2004
August 28, 2004
Medical Fact
The average person's skin has a thickness between one to two millimeters.
I, however, am below average in many different ways.
I, however, am below average in many different ways.
August 27, 2004
Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin
My mom is a librarian, and so from an early age it was distilled in me that reading was comparable to television, if not better. And so, instead of spending the morning watching reruns with glazed eyes, I sat down with Bobbed Hair and Bathtub Gin, a collective biography of "woman writers running wild in the twenties." It emphasized Zelda Fitzgerald (who apparently wrote a collection of short stories), Edna St. Vincent Millay (the poet extraordinaire), Dororthy Parker (the Oscar Wilde of her time), and Edna Ferber (novelist and playwright from my hometown).
I would not recommend the book, as the author has a problem with distinguishing between the four, and they all kind of blur together after a while.
As of right now, in my mind, there was one woman who wrote during the nineteen twenties: a sarcastic flapper slut who gave her name to my elementary school.
And I remember none of the sordid details from when I gave a report on our school's namesake in sixth grade.
I would not recommend the book, as the author has a problem with distinguishing between the four, and they all kind of blur together after a while.
As of right now, in my mind, there was one woman who wrote during the nineteen twenties: a sarcastic flapper slut who gave her name to my elementary school.
And I remember none of the sordid details from when I gave a report on our school's namesake in sixth grade.
August 26, 2004
Ashlee Simpson better watch her back.
Some people are grossly ignorant of the fact that Lester Bangs has been replaced by Chuck Klosterman as the only rock journalist in history who doesn't suck total monkey balls. These people are not my friends.
In this month's issue of Spin magazine (no direct link available, because Spin Magazine is THE MAN), he writes an editorial about his fantasy band: Tony Iomni, Tommy Lee, Bootsy Collins, Prince, and Karen Carpenter, in a band named Doomed Honeymoon.
While I don't exactly agree with his choices (I like boys and therefore do not like Black Sabbath), it did get me thinking about my fantasy band.
Here are the rules, as established by Chuck:
1. You can't take more than one member from any given group.
2. You can't pick Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley as your vocalist.
3. You can't pick Jimi Hendrix as your guitar player.
4. If you pick a bassist who sings, or a guitarist who sings, he or she can't sing in this particular band. They can only play their specific instrument only.
4.5. If you pick Les Claypool or Don Henley, you're a prick.
5. You can't pick John Bonham as your drummer. You also can't pick Animal from The Muppet Show.
After not a lot of debate on my part, my fantasy band would be the female equivalent to The Band, except with more rocking out and more mocking of weaker bands. I think I am cheating with my choices, but I don't care; it's my blog and my band. I began to think about a giant Polyphonic Spree-type extravaganza, but I decided against it. It will already suck at that time of the month with this band, and doubling the members will only lead to trouble.
And so, I introduce to you, the one and only High-Heeled Hellcats!
Lead Singer: Patti Smith (circa 1970)
Backup Vocalists/Gospel Choir: Corin Tucker, Sinead O'Connor, Bjork
Lead Guitarist: PJ Harvey
Guitarist: Joan Jett (circa 1985)
Bassist: Kim Gordon (circa 1990)
Drums: Mo Tucker (circa 1967)
Mixmaster: Kathleen Hanna
Scantily-clad Go-Go Dancer: Jake Gyllenhaal (hey, this is my fantasy here)
My band can totally beat up your band.
In this month's issue of Spin magazine (no direct link available, because Spin Magazine is THE MAN), he writes an editorial about his fantasy band: Tony Iomni, Tommy Lee, Bootsy Collins, Prince, and Karen Carpenter, in a band named Doomed Honeymoon.
While I don't exactly agree with his choices (I like boys and therefore do not like Black Sabbath), it did get me thinking about my fantasy band.
Here are the rules, as established by Chuck:
1. You can't take more than one member from any given group.
2. You can't pick Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley as your vocalist.
3. You can't pick Jimi Hendrix as your guitar player.
4. If you pick a bassist who sings, or a guitarist who sings, he or she can't sing in this particular band. They can only play their specific instrument only.
4.5. If you pick Les Claypool or Don Henley, you're a prick.
5. You can't pick John Bonham as your drummer. You also can't pick Animal from The Muppet Show.
After not a lot of debate on my part, my fantasy band would be the female equivalent to The Band, except with more rocking out and more mocking of weaker bands. I think I am cheating with my choices, but I don't care; it's my blog and my band. I began to think about a giant Polyphonic Spree-type extravaganza, but I decided against it. It will already suck at that time of the month with this band, and doubling the members will only lead to trouble.
And so, I introduce to you, the one and only High-Heeled Hellcats!
Lead Singer: Patti Smith (circa 1970)
Backup Vocalists/Gospel Choir: Corin Tucker, Sinead O'Connor, Bjork
Lead Guitarist: PJ Harvey
Guitarist: Joan Jett (circa 1985)
Bassist: Kim Gordon (circa 1990)
Drums: Mo Tucker (circa 1967)
Mixmaster: Kathleen Hanna
Scantily-clad Go-Go Dancer: Jake Gyllenhaal (hey, this is my fantasy here)
My band can totally beat up your band.
August 25, 2004
Think different; think adverbs.
Last night, I watched a documentary No Logo, based on the book of the same name. It was all about the pervasiveness of company brands, the idea of brand symbology, and their reprecussions on the world market. One of the companies they profiled was Apple.
A fair percentange of my friends are Microsoft-bashers. They seem to feel that Apple is the inherently better of the two brands, citing that Macs don't seem to crash as often, and that there are less security issues. This may or may not be true, but I still hate Apple and always will.
Their company motto is Think Different.
If those motherfuckers can't recognize an adverb when they see it plastered on billboards, magazine adverts, television commercials, sides of buses, t-shirts, ad infinitem, they obviously can't be capable of making a quality product.
And yes, I am one of those geeks who doesn't shop at stores that add a superfluous apostrophe to the plural (cd's, video's on sale) and I do cringe when I work the express lane (15 item or fewer, not less, you corporate bastards!).
And no, I didn't really like this book.
A fair percentange of my friends are Microsoft-bashers. They seem to feel that Apple is the inherently better of the two brands, citing that Macs don't seem to crash as often, and that there are less security issues. This may or may not be true, but I still hate Apple and always will.
Their company motto is Think Different.
If those motherfuckers can't recognize an adverb when they see it plastered on billboards, magazine adverts, television commercials, sides of buses, t-shirts, ad infinitem, they obviously can't be capable of making a quality product.
And yes, I am one of those geeks who doesn't shop at stores that add a superfluous apostrophe to the plural (cd's, video's on sale) and I do cringe when I work the express lane (15 item or fewer, not less, you corporate bastards!).
And no, I didn't really like this book.
August 24, 2004
Found here, though I doubt that I'm a 'bear'
You are an Expressive Sentimental Intellectual Giver. This makes you a Teddy Bear.
Hee! I just want to give you a big squeeze. You are tender, honest, generous and fair. You are an excellent kisser and a sensitive, communicative lover, and you know it. You would never intentionally hurt someone's feelings or overstep his/her boundaries. You have beautiful eyes.
Most people take your laid-back attitude, blazing wit and subtle sexiness and stick you in "friend." But some see your extreme hotness for what it is and latch on. This means you have a few members of your target sex in the bank at all times -- I call this "money in the sex bank" -- but you're too sensitive and thoughtful to exploit them. More than once.
You are so rational and deliberate in an argument that it can frustrate and exhaust your partner. Your fights can take forever, but your press on with them until they are completely resolved and both you and your partner are satisfied. If your partner is weak of will, s/he may just give in -- be wary of this! An emotional or passive-aggressive outburst later will hurt and horrify you.
It is *critically important* that you are able to respect your partner. The moment you lose respect for him/her, you lose everything.
When you make friends, you make them for life -- you can go without speaking to a friend for years and pick up right where you left off. You are completely faithful, both physically and emotionally. You are the second best parent of any type.
If you are male, you have a huge shlong. Just saying.
Hee! I just want to give you a big squeeze. You are tender, honest, generous and fair. You are an excellent kisser and a sensitive, communicative lover, and you know it. You would never intentionally hurt someone's feelings or overstep his/her boundaries. You have beautiful eyes.
Most people take your laid-back attitude, blazing wit and subtle sexiness and stick you in "friend." But some see your extreme hotness for what it is and latch on. This means you have a few members of your target sex in the bank at all times -- I call this "money in the sex bank" -- but you're too sensitive and thoughtful to exploit them. More than once.
You are so rational and deliberate in an argument that it can frustrate and exhaust your partner. Your fights can take forever, but your press on with them until they are completely resolved and both you and your partner are satisfied. If your partner is weak of will, s/he may just give in -- be wary of this! An emotional or passive-aggressive outburst later will hurt and horrify you.
It is *critically important* that you are able to respect your partner. The moment you lose respect for him/her, you lose everything.
When you make friends, you make them for life -- you can go without speaking to a friend for years and pick up right where you left off. You are completely faithful, both physically and emotionally. You are the second best parent of any type.
If you are male, you have a huge shlong. Just saying.
August 23, 2004
PS- Go Rimbaud!
I am willing to turn a blind eye to many artists.
I am willing not to notice that Washington would not have been standing while he crossed the Delaware. I am willing to gloss over the the fact that The King and I was pure fabrication. I am perfectly fine with a few exaggerations in The Crucible. I don't care about any faults in Boogie Nights. I forgive Stevie Nicks for claiming she was part of the Velvet Underground. That's all fine and dandy. I don't mind one bit.
But the producers of Total Eclipse made a grevious mistake when they showed Rimbaud and Verlaine having sex.
Rimbaud was totally a bottom. I mean, he wrote poems about his love of bottoming. His theory on life was to experience every emotion there is, at once, if possible; is there a more 1890s 'bottom' philosophy than that? I didn't think so. He may have topped once or twice, but he makes mention in his journals about how hard it was to walk some days, and there remains to this day graffiti in bars of Rimbaud's anal exploits. Plus, he was nineteen and Verlaine was 34; I don't know much about man/boy love, but I assume that the bear tops the twink, at least in those days.
I'm willing to overlook the fact that movie is about the two greatest French poets of all time and neither of them spend any time writing, but the fact that they didn't even get the sex right means that both hands stayed firmly on my armrests.
Bastards.
I am willing not to notice that Washington would not have been standing while he crossed the Delaware. I am willing to gloss over the the fact that The King and I was pure fabrication. I am perfectly fine with a few exaggerations in The Crucible. I don't care about any faults in Boogie Nights. I forgive Stevie Nicks for claiming she was part of the Velvet Underground. That's all fine and dandy. I don't mind one bit.
But the producers of Total Eclipse made a grevious mistake when they showed Rimbaud and Verlaine having sex.
Rimbaud was totally a bottom. I mean, he wrote poems about his love of bottoming. His theory on life was to experience every emotion there is, at once, if possible; is there a more 1890s 'bottom' philosophy than that? I didn't think so. He may have topped once or twice, but he makes mention in his journals about how hard it was to walk some days, and there remains to this day graffiti in bars of Rimbaud's anal exploits. Plus, he was nineteen and Verlaine was 34; I don't know much about man/boy love, but I assume that the bear tops the twink, at least in those days.
I'm willing to overlook the fact that movie is about the two greatest French poets of all time and neither of them spend any time writing, but the fact that they didn't even get the sex right means that both hands stayed firmly on my armrests.
Bastards.
August 21, 2004
Today's Horoscope
Leo (July 23-Aug 22): Old-fashioned values and manners are seriously underrated by most people, but not you. Your attention to social rules may seem to go unappreciated, but truly classy people take note. You go down on an "A" list of sorts.
Eat that, bitches.
Though I do doubt if I will go down on an A lister unless it is Jake Gyllenhaal. Unless, of course, they mean a certain "A" list blogger, in which case my dreams have been resoundingly answered.
August 20, 2004
Public Service Announcement
Throughout the course of yesterday, be it at work, comments, emails, or AIM conversations, I was called 'bro' or 'brother' by nine different people, none of whom are related to me.
Now, I don't really think that this should make much of a difference, but I would hate for anyone to get the wrong impression, and obviously I must be misrepresenting myself.
I am white.
I am really, really white. Translucent, almost. If I take off my shirt and stand on the pier, I could be used as a lighthouse. I scare little children at haunted houses. I will drive an SUV someday and complain about 'these kids today'. I glow in the dark slightly--you could lift me on your shoulders during a hair ballad and get the same effect as a lighter. I will attend my child's soccer games and cheer far too loudly. I cross the street when I see 'those types of people' walking towards me and make sure never to walk on the bad side of town. I quote things for no apparent reason. I could have my own show on NBC.
I am the blogging world's Ross Gellar. You do not get whiter than I.
I will wear a tweed overcoat with suede patches and make really annoying whiny sounds, but only as a last resort. Please don't make me talk about dinosaurs. I will.
PS-I bet it would be really funny if a bunch of you left a comment and called me a bro. Really, it would. It will show how funny my readers really are, and then you'll get a million blog hits and people will say "oh, his sarcasm!" I bet I bet.
Now, I don't really think that this should make much of a difference, but I would hate for anyone to get the wrong impression, and obviously I must be misrepresenting myself.
I am white.
I am really, really white. Translucent, almost. If I take off my shirt and stand on the pier, I could be used as a lighthouse. I scare little children at haunted houses. I will drive an SUV someday and complain about 'these kids today'. I glow in the dark slightly--you could lift me on your shoulders during a hair ballad and get the same effect as a lighter. I will attend my child's soccer games and cheer far too loudly. I cross the street when I see 'those types of people' walking towards me and make sure never to walk on the bad side of town. I quote things for no apparent reason. I could have my own show on NBC.
I am the blogging world's Ross Gellar. You do not get whiter than I.
I will wear a tweed overcoat with suede patches and make really annoying whiny sounds, but only as a last resort. Please don't make me talk about dinosaurs. I will.
PS-I bet it would be really funny if a bunch of you left a comment and called me a bro. Really, it would. It will show how funny my readers really are, and then you'll get a million blog hits and people will say "oh, his sarcasm!" I bet I bet.
end couplet needs work
ode to my sleeve
Oh how I wish I had your constant strength
to hold my heart so gracefully. Tenderly
it clings to fabric without worry:
you keep it safe (despite your shortened length).
Stitch by stitch by stitch you hold it high
and low. You suffer to its every whim,
I half expect angels to help, or seraphim
to lend a hand, but no--alone, you try
your very best. You have the hardest chore:
to emote and whore and show my every
passing fancy (and I pass a lot of fancy).
You're a flag announcing emotional war
You are the throne on which my heart sits
Thanks for your patience; my heart can be a bitch.
August 19, 2004
mmmmmm. cryptic.
My ears spent the better part of the day burning.
It wasn't as bad as, say, a burning sensation when I pee, or when you get cum in your eye (it BURRRRNS) but it wasn't a pleasant feeling.
I tend to think that most anonymous bitch-slaps are all about me, that's just the way I am; this time I had a pretty good inkling that it was about me, if only residually. I don't know why I feel the need for a mea culpa of sorts.
Was it wrong for me to say it? Probably. Will I say something similar anytime soon? Probably not. Do I still feel the same way? Yeah.
I'm sure a large part of this is location and logistics. The things about which he spends his times ranting have little to no connection to my life. I live in one of those square states in the middle (the one with all the cows), and when I mentioned the problem with youth and tina at a GSA meeting last year, people thought I was referring to the new interim chancellor. I don't think I've ever met anyone with AIDS or HIV. Since I don't really relate to anything he says, his blog sometimes comes across as diatribic against all who don't agree with him, and is therefore not my exact cup of tea. Not an "eewww" but a 'meh.'
I don't mind when people fuck and share (provided, of course, that they are not overweight housewifes with food between their teeth). In fact, you'll find more than a few guys in the sidebar with some interesting stories to tell. I may be celibate, but I still have a working right forearm and a 20-year-old male libido.
Some people say that one of the main perks of being gay is that all the sexual repression and norms no longer have to apply. (Sex with horses, anyone?) Some people go through that stage and decide that it's not for them. Whatever. I still say that some social norms are there for a reason.
I've deified sex with love to the point where even my favorite porn is lovey-dovey. I want that. I want a closed relationship, even though I've never tried an open one and don't want to. There are guys with open relationships in my sidebar, and if it works for them, that's fine. Open relationships are fine and dandy if that's what you want, but they're not for me. I want all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas; I don't want to fuck and run I want to fuck and cuddle. If given the choice between hooking up on a daily basis or having sex with one person, whom I loved, for the rest of my life, well, chain me to those bars of the bed I'm staying at home.
This may, of course, be 20 year old idealism talking, and once I grow up and have gone around the block a few times I might change my tune, but you know what? You don't get romantic ideals from 20-year-olds. That's because they're mocked. So much for not being judgemental. I mean, with ideals such as these, is it any wonder that his blog isn't on my list of favorites? Not all bloggers need to be friends, or need to agree.
I'm sorry, even though I don't think he cares. He's a big boy, with skin thicker than, well, I am. I assume that he gets enought hate mail that a sentence-long blog post agreeing with someone that I don't find his blog sexy doesn't really push any of his buttons. As soon as I write that sentence, the less I think that it's all about me, but it never hurts to completely make a fool of yourself by spilling the guts of your heart in one cathartic mess of a blog post.
I'm a gay boy from Wisconsin with a blog who doesn't get nearly as many hits as you might think. I had no idea that what I say mattered in the slightest.
It wasn't as bad as, say, a burning sensation when I pee, or when you get cum in your eye (it BURRRRNS) but it wasn't a pleasant feeling.
I tend to think that most anonymous bitch-slaps are all about me, that's just the way I am; this time I had a pretty good inkling that it was about me, if only residually. I don't know why I feel the need for a mea culpa of sorts.
Was it wrong for me to say it? Probably. Will I say something similar anytime soon? Probably not. Do I still feel the same way? Yeah.
I'm sure a large part of this is location and logistics. The things about which he spends his times ranting have little to no connection to my life. I live in one of those square states in the middle (the one with all the cows), and when I mentioned the problem with youth and tina at a GSA meeting last year, people thought I was referring to the new interim chancellor. I don't think I've ever met anyone with AIDS or HIV. Since I don't really relate to anything he says, his blog sometimes comes across as diatribic against all who don't agree with him, and is therefore not my exact cup of tea. Not an "eewww" but a 'meh.'
I don't mind when people fuck and share (provided, of course, that they are not overweight housewifes with food between their teeth). In fact, you'll find more than a few guys in the sidebar with some interesting stories to tell. I may be celibate, but I still have a working right forearm and a 20-year-old male libido.
Some people say that one of the main perks of being gay is that all the sexual repression and norms no longer have to apply. (Sex with horses, anyone?) Some people go through that stage and decide that it's not for them. Whatever. I still say that some social norms are there for a reason.
I've deified sex with love to the point where even my favorite porn is lovey-dovey. I want that. I want a closed relationship, even though I've never tried an open one and don't want to. There are guys with open relationships in my sidebar, and if it works for them, that's fine. Open relationships are fine and dandy if that's what you want, but they're not for me. I want all that stupid old shit like letters and sodas; I don't want to fuck and run I want to fuck and cuddle. If given the choice between hooking up on a daily basis or having sex with one person, whom I loved, for the rest of my life, well, chain me to those bars of the bed I'm staying at home.
This may, of course, be 20 year old idealism talking, and once I grow up and have gone around the block a few times I might change my tune, but you know what? You don't get romantic ideals from 20-year-olds. That's because they're mocked. So much for not being judgemental. I mean, with ideals such as these, is it any wonder that his blog isn't on my list of favorites? Not all bloggers need to be friends, or need to agree.
I'm sorry, even though I don't think he cares. He's a big boy, with skin thicker than, well, I am. I assume that he gets enought hate mail that a sentence-long blog post agreeing with someone that I don't find his blog sexy doesn't really push any of his buttons. As soon as I write that sentence, the less I think that it's all about me, but it never hurts to completely make a fool of yourself by spilling the guts of your heart in one cathartic mess of a blog post.
I'm a gay boy from Wisconsin with a blog who doesn't get nearly as many hits as you might think. I had no idea that what I say mattered in the slightest.
August 18, 2004
Anal Carts
At the large, dehumanizing company for which I work there is a multitude of carts available for customers. Two foyers filled with metal carts with red trim. Usually, we have strong, silent, white-trashy guys to bring carts back from their parking lot corrals. Today, however, after one guy told the boss, in not quite so many words, to "take this job and shove it," I had to substitute for a hour.
"You want me to what?"
"It's not hard. Just bring the carts back to the foyer and make sure they're not filled with flyers or anything"
"How butch do you think I am?"
"What?"
"I don't know if you know this about me, but I like boys. Moving large objects across parking lots is not something my people do well."
Fortunately, a few days prior, my friend Anna turned me on to the greatest game when we were stuck in traffic. Yes, we get traffic jams, even in those square states in the middle (the one with all the cows).
You take the name of the car, and add the prefix "anal." It works best with SUVs, but it's usually amusing for all cars.
"You want me to what?"
"It's not hard. Just bring the carts back to the foyer and make sure they're not filled with flyers or anything"
"How butch do you think I am?"
"What?"
"I don't know if you know this about me, but I like boys. Moving large objects across parking lots is not something my people do well."
Fortunately, a few days prior, my friend Anna turned me on to the greatest game when we were stuck in traffic. Yes, we get traffic jams, even in those square states in the middle (the one with all the cows).
You take the name of the car, and add the prefix "anal." It works best with SUVs, but it's usually amusing for all cars.
All right. I admit it--I used cars.com for help with coming up with some of these. I didn't have a pen nor paper on me to keep a list, and talking about cars leaves me drowsy. But there still is a great deal of fun to be had with 'anal'. Heh. This game had me giggling the whole time, even while I was moving carts (though usually only four or five at a time).
Anal Odyssey
Anal Explorer
Anal Cruiser
Anal Avalanche
Anal Trailblazer
Anal Firebird
Anal Magnum
Anal Viper
Anal Canyon
Anal Safari
Anal Rodeo
Anal Wrangler
Anal Probe
Anal Discovery
Anal Eclipse
Anal Frontier
Anal Legacy
Anal Outback
Anal Phantom
Anal Hummer
August 17, 2004
PART DEUX.
I still work for a large, dehumanizing company, but I haven't been blogging about my hatred of customers lately. Here are two little tidbits about customers from the weekend to entertain/annoy.
The first customer, an overweight middle-aged woman, comes to my lane to check out. It's store policy to greet everyone with a smile and ask how they are.
Me: Hi. How are you?
Middle-Aged Woman: I'm fat and sassy.
Me: I can see that.
The next day, another fat middle-aged woman comes to my lane to check out her purchases. (There have been many rotund woman since the previous story, but they were all normal and complacent.) This woman, I should mention, was fat. There is no pleasant euphemism for this woman. She wasn't big-boned. She wasn't pleasantly plump. She wasn't jolly. She was fat.
She buys about $40 of condoms and KY Jelly. Disgusting, but easy to divert my eyes from the packages and check out the semi-attractive father in aisle 8. Again, it's store policy (and good manners) to wish people a good day as they leave the store. As she was loading the bags into her cart, I said "Have a nice night."
Her eyes get wide and she smiles, chunks of bread in her teeth which I haven't noticed before.
"Oh I will. Trust me. I've got the whole night planned. I've already got it set up so that..."
It was at that point of the conversation where I left my register and walked away to aisle 8, where I offered my assistance.
While I may not have any plans in the near future to have sex, I would still like the ability to have an erection, and I'm sure that the conclusion of that woman's sentence would have caused my penis to shrivel up inside my body, and if I ever wanted to have sex, I would have to put my thumb in my mouth, blow, and hope that the pressure would cause my penis to pop outside my body.
There may or may not be an established fetish, complete with online community, for that sort of thing, but I don't want to hear about it. I like my sex fairly vanilla (when I get it, at least).
The first customer, an overweight middle-aged woman, comes to my lane to check out. It's store policy to greet everyone with a smile and ask how they are.
Me: Hi. How are you?
Middle-Aged Woman: I'm fat and sassy.
Me: I can see that.
The next day, another fat middle-aged woman comes to my lane to check out her purchases. (There have been many rotund woman since the previous story, but they were all normal and complacent.) This woman, I should mention, was fat. There is no pleasant euphemism for this woman. She wasn't big-boned. She wasn't pleasantly plump. She wasn't jolly. She was fat.
She buys about $40 of condoms and KY Jelly. Disgusting, but easy to divert my eyes from the packages and check out the semi-attractive father in aisle 8. Again, it's store policy (and good manners) to wish people a good day as they leave the store. As she was loading the bags into her cart, I said "Have a nice night."
Her eyes get wide and she smiles, chunks of bread in her teeth which I haven't noticed before.
"Oh I will. Trust me. I've got the whole night planned. I've already got it set up so that..."
It was at that point of the conversation where I left my register and walked away to aisle 8, where I offered my assistance.
While I may not have any plans in the near future to have sex, I would still like the ability to have an erection, and I'm sure that the conclusion of that woman's sentence would have caused my penis to shrivel up inside my body, and if I ever wanted to have sex, I would have to put my thumb in my mouth, blow, and hope that the pressure would cause my penis to pop outside my body.
There may or may not be an established fetish, complete with online community, for that sort of thing, but I don't want to hear about it. I like my sex fairly vanilla (when I get it, at least).
August 16, 2004
Have you ever...
...written a blog post, then, while rereading it for spelling errors/grammatical atrocities, experience déjà vu? And, searching through your archives, you find that not only did you write a similar post, but it was much better than the one you just wrote?
If I drank, I'd be taking a shot right about now.
For those of you too lazy to click the first link and peruse the archives:
Yes, I really am that pathetic, and yes, I really do need a boyfriend.
If I drank, I'd be taking a shot right about now.
For those of you too lazy to click the first link and peruse the archives:
My back hurts. I sleepdry-humpingspooning a body pillow, onto which I occasionally spray the ex's deodorant.
Yes, I really am that pathetic, and yes, I really do need a boyfriend.
August 15, 2004
A confession
I swear, even after I write this sentence, I will still try and maintain my status as a gay blogger. I don't think that writing this sentence will make any profound change, but I still feel the need to preface this, lest the gay blogging fairy (HAHAHA) comes down with his magic wand (no, it's not what you're thinking) and poof! (heh heh) I become a boring journal of food and angst.
It's not so much a norm against which I'm rebelling, but a more. (Brush up on your sociology terms here.) Not every gay blogger in the sidebar has expressed this sentiment, but enough so that I feel a need to establish my break away from the crowds, in case people think that I too feel that way.
There. I've said it. It feels good to get that off my chest.
I suppose, if pressured by the gay blogging mafia, I could use one of Sissy's terms. He's a prawn: I'd rip off the head and eat the body. But only under extreme duress would I make such a statement. My heart still belongs to Jake, even if he doesn't go shirtless nearly as often as he should.
It's not so much a norm against which I'm rebelling, but a more. (Brush up on your sociology terms here.) Not every gay blogger in the sidebar has expressed this sentiment, but enough so that I feel a need to establish my break away from the crowds, in case people think that I too feel that way.
I don't find Michael Phelps attractive.
There. I've said it. It feels good to get that off my chest.
I suppose, if pressured by the gay blogging mafia, I could use one of Sissy's terms. He's a prawn: I'd rip off the head and eat the body. But only under extreme duress would I make such a statement. My heart still belongs to Jake, even if he doesn't go shirtless nearly as often as he should.
August 13, 2004
Contest time!
There's a meme going around livejournal. You write down a sentence or two, anonymously describing everyone on your buddy list. Then, people leave guesses as to which anonymous comment they are. Here are what people are saying about me.
There is something to be learned here. I'm not sure what. Maybe I should stick this in when I update my biography next time.
I'm sorry guys, but I'm too lazy to write a sentence or two anonymously describing everyone in the sidebar. That'd get boring. Sixty-some sentences? What do I look like, some sort of punk kid with lots of free time and a penchant for Dostoevsky?
I will say, however, that I have developed crushes, at one time or another, on twelve bloggers in the sidebar, most of whom solely on the strength of their words. I've been reading blogs for a little over three years now, so I've had the time to develop and nurture these crushes. I don't think I would recognize any on the street if they walked past, and only one of them lives within a three-state radius. None of them are old enough to be my dad (I think) but less than half are within an acceptable dating radius (i.e. less than 25). But I still get/got a tingly feeling whenever they'd update.
You'll have to guess for which bloggers I had/have the hots. Everyone on the list (except one) has commented at least once, reads one of my blogs, or has added me to their own sidebar list, so chances are it's someone who's reading this right now. Possibly even you!
EDIT: (Responding to the comments)
Note: I'm sure that a few of you are in your mid-to-late thirties, and even though I technically could have been sired at age 15, I'm not into white trash. We're talking about forty-five here for the cutoff.
No, Kevin, it would not explain the erotic photos of me in your inbox. It would, however, explain the erotic photos of you in my dreams. You made the cut.
Sorry K. I promise though, that if lightning strikes me and I become a lesbian, I'll have a wet dream about you. Except I don't think ladies have wet dreams. Oh well. I'd try.
Sorry Frank. I guess you're not the 'crushable' type. You'll just have to settle at having a lot of sex. I sure that could get old after a while, but you're still having sex so don't complain.
Of *course* you're on the list, Faustus. Even though you're one of my blogparents and I'm not into incest, I'd still totally go to third base, if not all the way, with you.
I'll give the full list on Wednesday, or continue updating this post as guesses arrive.
You say exactly what you're thinking, which is usually awesome even though sometimes it gets me worked up a little (which is good for me). I wish I could be as open about stuff as you are. And no matter how hard you try and hide it, you do write good poetry.
If I were a man, I'd poke you with my dick on a regular basis. I mean that in the fondest way possible, because that's what you deserve. Someday the world is going to wake up and realize that it actually is your bitch. I hope I'm around when that happens.
If I was ever going to make a shopping krew, I would want you on it. You’re the first male ever that I brought into Victoria’s Secret and didn’t complain. You’re really fun to shop and hang out with, but I think if I had to listen to the music in your car for too long I would go batshit insane. I hope you have a better year in college this year.
You need to get laid. You also need to write shitloads of poems about me.
Very few people can be good-natured elitists. You manage to pull it off nicely.
Of course I'll remember you. You have bright red jeans and listen to David Bowie. How could I ever forget you?
There is something to be learned here. I'm not sure what. Maybe I should stick this in when I update my biography next time.
I'm sorry guys, but I'm too lazy to write a sentence or two anonymously describing everyone in the sidebar. That'd get boring. Sixty-some sentences? What do I look like, some sort of punk kid with lots of free time and a penchant for Dostoevsky?
I will say, however, that I have developed crushes, at one time or another, on twelve bloggers in the sidebar, most of whom solely on the strength of their words. I've been reading blogs for a little over three years now, so I've had the time to develop and nurture these crushes. I don't think I would recognize any on the street if they walked past, and only one of them lives within a three-state radius. None of them are old enough to be my dad (I think) but less than half are within an acceptable dating radius (i.e. less than 25). But I still get/got a tingly feeling whenever they'd update.
You'll have to guess for which bloggers I had/have the hots. Everyone on the list (except one) has commented at least once, reads one of my blogs, or has added me to their own sidebar list, so chances are it's someone who's reading this right now. Possibly even you!
EDIT: (Responding to the comments)
Note: I'm sure that a few of you are in your mid-to-late thirties, and even though I technically could have been sired at age 15, I'm not into white trash. We're talking about forty-five here for the cutoff.
No, Kevin, it would not explain the erotic photos of me in your inbox. It would, however, explain the erotic photos of you in my dreams. You made the cut.
Sorry K. I promise though, that if lightning strikes me and I become a lesbian, I'll have a wet dream about you. Except I don't think ladies have wet dreams. Oh well. I'd try.
Sorry Frank. I guess you're not the 'crushable' type. You'll just have to settle at having a lot of sex. I sure that could get old after a while, but you're still having sex so don't complain.
Of *course* you're on the list, Faustus. Even though you're one of my blogparents and I'm not into incest, I'd still totally go to third base, if not all the way, with you.
I'll give the full list on Wednesday, or continue updating this post as guesses arrive.
August 12, 2004
post deleted.
There was a post here about my thoughts on the NJ Fey Governator, but I've heard conflicting reports and I don't want to jump the gun on what I've heard. I live in Wisconsin, so chances are, the stories are wrong.
He didn't resign because he was gay. He made some bad choices (possible sexual harassment, putting his lover on the payroll) which would have been bad even if he had been doinking his secretary or babysitter.
That being said, it takes a lot of courage to come out, and I hope he's doing okay. It's hard enough coming out of the closet, let alone on CNN, ABC, FOX, et all.
He didn't resign because he was gay. He made some bad choices (possible sexual harassment, putting his lover on the payroll) which would have been bad even if he had been doinking his secretary or babysitter.
That being said, it takes a lot of courage to come out, and I hope he's doing okay. It's hard enough coming out of the closet, let alone on CNN, ABC, FOX, et all.
Talking to myself
Bob: So, what did you do yesterday since you had the day off?
Bob: Well, I spent the day watching a French pseudo-musical, then I read a little bit of poetry. I bought some flowers for my friend's mom for her birthday, and I drove my sisters to some classes because my mom was having a root canal. I did a load of laundry, cooked dinner (haddock, mashed potatoes and corn), and then I started reading a book on Benjamin Rush, the eternal footnote of the Founding Fathers.
Bob: Wow. That's a lot
Bob: Yeah, well I also went to the library, registered to vote, babysat for my neighbor for a few minutes when she found out her husband was in an accident (he's okay), called/talked to my Senator (the actual guy, not an intern), and started editing a short story I've been working on. I checked blogs throughout the day, too.
Bob: You do realize, of course, that you're probably not getting laid until you're at least thirty, right?
Bob: Oh yeah. Big time.
Bob: Well, at least you'll make one hell of a trophy husband someday.
Bob: Yeah I will. Too bad there aren't any 22 year old sugar daddies in the area.
Bob: Bastards.
Bob: You said it.
Bob: Well, I spent the day watching a French pseudo-musical, then I read a little bit of poetry. I bought some flowers for my friend's mom for her birthday, and I drove my sisters to some classes because my mom was having a root canal. I did a load of laundry, cooked dinner (haddock, mashed potatoes and corn), and then I started reading a book on Benjamin Rush, the eternal footnote of the Founding Fathers.
Bob: Wow. That's a lot
Bob: Yeah, well I also went to the library, registered to vote, babysat for my neighbor for a few minutes when she found out her husband was in an accident (he's okay), called/talked to my Senator (the actual guy, not an intern), and started editing a short story I've been working on. I checked blogs throughout the day, too.
Bob: You do realize, of course, that you're probably not getting laid until you're at least thirty, right?
Bob: Oh yeah. Big time.
Bob: Well, at least you'll make one hell of a trophy husband someday.
Bob: Yeah I will. Too bad there aren't any 22 year old sugar daddies in the area.
Bob: Bastards.
Bob: You said it.
August 11, 2004
there goes the neighborhood.
Remember last month when I posted about my step-cousin who enlisted and was subsequently discharged from the army?
Guess where he's living.
Right across the hall from me.
Also, I talked to my roommate this afternoon.
He's got the "Deliverance" twang. I swear to god, I heard banjos in the background too. Looks like I might be having sex this semester, whether I want it or not.
Guess where he's living.
Right across the hall from me.
Also, I talked to my roommate this afternoon.
He's got the "Deliverance" twang. I swear to god, I heard banjos in the background too. Looks like I might be having sex this semester, whether I want it or not.
August 10, 2004
Thank you cards
Dear Grandma,
Thank you for the lovely (used) phone card. The next time I need to place a phone call and my cell phone isn't working, my dad's government-subsidized phone card isn't working, and my dorm room's long distance package isn't installed properly, I'll make sure to use your gift. Provided, of course, that the call I need to place is less than 16 minutes and is before the expiration date of September 31, 2004.
Thanks again!
Bob.
PS- How's that onslaught of senility treating you?
Thank you for the lovely (used) phone card. The next time I need to place a phone call and my cell phone isn't working, my dad's government-subsidized phone card isn't working, and my dorm room's long distance package isn't installed properly, I'll make sure to use your gift. Provided, of course, that the call I need to place is less than 16 minutes and is before the expiration date of September 31, 2004.
Thanks again!
Bob.
PS- How's that onslaught of senility treating you?
In which that joke really isn't funny anymore
For those of you who read my last post, I'm sorry. (It was a joke, for those of you who didn't scroll down.) As someone who actually did spend time on suicide watch during first semester and has a family history of depression, I should have known better.
Suicide jokes = not funny. Who knew?
For the few of you who didn't scroll all the way down to the end of the post and sent emails, thank you for your encouragement. Even though you're too dumb to read an entire post, I'm glad you're on my sidebar. (I don't believe in using emoticons, but if I did, there would be one here.)
Expect regular posts to return sometime this afternoon.
Also. For the two of you who noticed that I acted more calm than you expected upon hearing that my ex may or may not read this blog.
One of the joys of not audioblogging is that I could be full of an odd combination of anxiety and joy at the prospect of regaining contact with the ex, but as long as the delete key still functions I am able to project the air of 'over him' and maturity that I think will entice him to get in touch with me.
Suicide jokes = not funny. Who knew?
For the few of you who didn't scroll all the way down to the end of the post and sent emails, thank you for your encouragement. Even though you're too dumb to read an entire post, I'm glad you're on my sidebar. (I don't believe in using emoticons, but if I did, there would be one here.)
Expect regular posts to return sometime this afternoon.
Also. For the two of you who noticed that I acted more calm than you expected upon hearing that my ex may or may not read this blog.
One of the joys of not audioblogging is that I could be full of an odd combination of anxiety and joy at the prospect of regaining contact with the ex, but as long as the delete key still functions I am able to project the air of 'over him' and maturity that I think will entice him to get in touch with me.
August 9, 2004
THAT JOKE ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE
This weekend, at my birthday party, shit hit the fan. My birthday have always sucked, but this year's takes the proverbial cake. I learned that a handful of people I know in real life read this blog. This is a blow to me, as now my three close friends are no longer speaking to me. Apparently, I've damaged their trust with keeping this blog. I don't know how they found it, but they did, and it looks like I'm out my three best friends.
I know that I occasionally exaggerate, but I never thought I was doing anyone harm. I didn't even think that I blogged about them all too much; it just festered until months later, when they decided to group up and attack me. (It's my party and I'll cry if I want to now hits a bit too close to home.) I always thought I gave people the benefit of the doubt, and was never too catty towards my friends, but I guess I was wrong. I 'misunderestimated' the power that my words can have, and now I've to live with it.
So I'm closing shop, at least until I beg my way back into my friends' hearts.
I don't know what I'll do if I lose these guys. I don't mention it much, but I'm not exactly the most stable person when depressed. There's a reason why I was put on suicide watch first semester. I hope I can get win them back. If I can't, well, it won't be first time I've tried to shuffle off this mortal coil. I think I've enough practice that next time should be a winner.
I hope to be back, but if not, it was fun while it lasted. I'll see you on the other side, guys.
Good-bye.
PSYCH!!
Consider yourselves punk'd. One of the benefits of allowing myself the weekends off is that even though my birthday did kind of suck (though not to the extent of birthdays previous), come time to write Monday's post, the disappointment had worn off and I didn't really care anymore.
Or, as I posited to my friend Anna: "So what if my birthday sucked and I didn't get anything I wanted. I'm a gay boy with a credit card--wait--why the fuck aren't we at the mall?"
So, after a lovely shopping spree (digital camera, lots of new underwear, possibly my own domain... mmmm), things are looking up. Except, of course, for the things that are not. These things will probably be explained in short posts throughout the week, as most can be summed up in nice little paragraph quips.
NB--The Smiths allusion in the title does not refer to my Ashton Kutcher-like hijinx, but instead to the fact that the ex (or someone pretending to be the ex) left a comment, thereby making contact for the first time in eight months. If it's a joke, it's not a funny one. I hope it's an imposter as I have no idea how to remove everything from the archives that may or may not be completely and utterly embarrassing for me to have him read without removing whole months at a time.
If it is him, however, he should know better than to go months without talking to me, especially if he's been reading this blog from the beginning--the punk.
I know that I occasionally exaggerate, but I never thought I was doing anyone harm. I didn't even think that I blogged about them all too much; it just festered until months later, when they decided to group up and attack me. (It's my party and I'll cry if I want to now hits a bit too close to home.) I always thought I gave people the benefit of the doubt, and was never too catty towards my friends, but I guess I was wrong. I 'misunderestimated' the power that my words can have, and now I've to live with it.
So I'm closing shop, at least until I beg my way back into my friends' hearts.
I don't know what I'll do if I lose these guys. I don't mention it much, but I'm not exactly the most stable person when depressed. There's a reason why I was put on suicide watch first semester. I hope I can get win them back. If I can't, well, it won't be first time I've tried to shuffle off this mortal coil. I think I've enough practice that next time should be a winner.
I hope to be back, but if not, it was fun while it lasted. I'll see you on the other side, guys.
Good-bye.
PSYCH!!
Consider yourselves punk'd. One of the benefits of allowing myself the weekends off is that even though my birthday did kind of suck (though not to the extent of birthdays previous), come time to write Monday's post, the disappointment had worn off and I didn't really care anymore.
Or, as I posited to my friend Anna: "So what if my birthday sucked and I didn't get anything I wanted. I'm a gay boy with a credit card--wait--why the fuck aren't we at the mall?"
So, after a lovely shopping spree (digital camera, lots of new underwear, possibly my own domain... mmmm), things are looking up. Except, of course, for the things that are not. These things will probably be explained in short posts throughout the week, as most can be summed up in nice little paragraph quips.
NB--The Smiths allusion in the title does not refer to my Ashton Kutcher-like hijinx, but instead to the fact that the ex (or someone pretending to be the ex) left a comment, thereby making contact for the first time in eight months. If it's a joke, it's not a funny one. I hope it's an imposter as I have no idea how to remove everything from the archives that may or may not be completely and utterly embarrassing for me to have him read without removing whole months at a time.
If it is him, however, he should know better than to go months without talking to me, especially if he's been reading this blog from the beginning--the punk.
August 6, 2004
Happy Birthday to Me?
Three years ago, on this day, I got food poisoning from my birthday lunch, and spent most of the day on my knees in front of a toilet.
Two years ago, on this day, I lost control of my car, rolled over four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, landed face-down in a ditch, and had to cut myself out of my seatbelt with a shard of the windshield glass. I spent most of the afternoon in the hospital.
Last year, on this day, I came out to my parents.
Using all of the logic I could muster, and following my birthday tradition, I have come up with the following scenarios for today.
A) Cheney stages a coup by killing all 'activist judges' and orders all gays, lesbians, blacks, jews, and hispanics to reservations in the midwest, where he gives us all AIDS-infected blankets.
B) I run into the ex-boyfriend making out with a gorgeous multimillionaire, and, during small talk, he divulges that he is on his way to Hollywood to have sex with Jake Gyllenhaal without me.
C) While walking down the street, I fall down an open manhole, and am sacrificed by the sewer mutants after they castrate and scalp me. They chop me into little bits and circulate chunks of my skin as currency.
D) Fred Phelps orders a hit out on me, and I spend the night tied to a fence while eight- and nine-year-olds throw rocks at my head.
E) The ghost of Napoleon visits me in the middle of the night, chops off my penis, and replaces it with a cheese wheel, while Pat McCurdy sings a song about it to a crowd of drunk frat boys (who later beat me up).
Of course, the tradition could be bucked, and my friends could set me up on a date with a wonderful, charming, intelligent, hung, talented, muscular Adonis and we could have passionate, mind-blowing, marriage-destroying, body-contorting, jaw-dropping, Jesus-praising, eyes-popping, tongue-wagging, dog-panting, stars-seeing, activist judge-praising, positive-superlative sex all weekend long.
Tune in Monday to find out what happens.
(If I get a digital camera, I promise to take pictures of any and all the nasty I get.)
If you are one of my friends and have not made any plans for me to get laid this weekend, I suppose I could settle for a bazillion log hits today. In the end, it's all about the log hits anyway.
Two years ago, on this day, I lost control of my car, rolled over four lanes of oncoming highway traffic, landed face-down in a ditch, and had to cut myself out of my seatbelt with a shard of the windshield glass. I spent most of the afternoon in the hospital.
Last year, on this day, I came out to my parents.
Using all of the logic I could muster, and following my birthday tradition, I have come up with the following scenarios for today.
A) Cheney stages a coup by killing all 'activist judges' and orders all gays, lesbians, blacks, jews, and hispanics to reservations in the midwest, where he gives us all AIDS-infected blankets.
B) I run into the ex-boyfriend making out with a gorgeous multimillionaire, and, during small talk, he divulges that he is on his way to Hollywood to have sex with Jake Gyllenhaal without me.
C) While walking down the street, I fall down an open manhole, and am sacrificed by the sewer mutants after they castrate and scalp me. They chop me into little bits and circulate chunks of my skin as currency.
D) Fred Phelps orders a hit out on me, and I spend the night tied to a fence while eight- and nine-year-olds throw rocks at my head.
E) The ghost of Napoleon visits me in the middle of the night, chops off my penis, and replaces it with a cheese wheel, while Pat McCurdy sings a song about it to a crowd of drunk frat boys (who later beat me up).
Of course, the tradition could be bucked, and my friends could set me up on a date with a wonderful, charming, intelligent, hung, talented, muscular Adonis and we could have passionate, mind-blowing, marriage-destroying, body-contorting, jaw-dropping, Jesus-praising, eyes-popping, tongue-wagging, dog-panting, stars-seeing, activist judge-praising, positive-superlative sex all weekend long.
Tune in Monday to find out what happens.
(If I get a digital camera, I promise to take pictures of any and all the nasty I get.)
If you are one of my friends and have not made any plans for me to get laid this weekend, I suppose I could settle for a bazillion log hits today. In the end, it's all about the log hits anyway.
August 5, 2004
Fair Weather Blogger
For those of you on my sidebar who are going through a tough time.
I am a sheltered pansy and nothing terrible has happened to me in my life. If I knew the words to say, I would say them. As it is, I rarely comment or send introductory emails to people on my blog list, so it's not like I have a solid relationship with any of you, and sending an email along the lines of "Hey, remember me? I heard that your dad died. I'm sorry; that must suck" doesn't really seem comfortable.
I promise I am sending positive karma your way, even if I don't know how to put it into words. At least until tomorrow, when it is my birthday, when I not only expect karma but material goods.
EDIT: That is the worst possible way to end this post. No wonder I haven't gotten laid in months.
I am a sheltered pansy and nothing terrible has happened to me in my life. If I knew the words to say, I would say them. As it is, I rarely comment or send introductory emails to people on my blog list, so it's not like I have a solid relationship with any of you, and sending an email along the lines of "Hey, remember me? I heard that your dad died. I'm sorry; that must suck" doesn't really seem comfortable.
I promise I am sending positive karma your way, even if I don't know how to put it into words. At least until tomorrow, when it is my birthday, when I not only expect karma but material goods.
EDIT: That is the worst possible way to end this post. No wonder I haven't gotten laid in months.
August 4, 2004
About this whole "college" thing...
Yes, I'd like to order a big ball of angst, please, with extra apprehension. Can I, uh, super-size it? Yeah, then I'd like a large side of...um, cold feet and a medium glass of timidity. Then, for dessert, I'd like a giant bowl of heebie-jeebies. Oh, and I have this frequent-customer card thing, so this whole order should be free. Thanks.
August 3, 2004
Ode for Rimbaud
as if i were that guy in study hall
legs spread wide like elvis costello
smelling of cheap success and bawdy brawls
who spends his days forgetting how to shave
nothing more than a piss-off
in a school full of piss-offs
i can feel his radio already deny my station
like he's made a conscious decision
not to listen to the words
coming out of my throat
(but, from the stories i've heard
his antenna, when piqued, can grow!)
animals of yore would mate while running
but he would hold my hand and walk down the street?
while no one's ever serious at seventeen
it must be a grimace to sit ahead of me
the rules say silence, and so we sit stationary
at desks queued for propriety
i would hate to be his mr. superfluous
i could not bear to eat his jelly
if he refused to spread my toast
the guy grew up thinking
that the world revolves around him
but if he thinks his shtick's succeeding
i'm going supernova on him
legs spread wide like elvis costello
smelling of cheap success and bawdy brawls
who spends his days forgetting how to shave
nothing more than a piss-off
in a school full of piss-offs
i can feel his radio already deny my station
like he's made a conscious decision
not to listen to the words
coming out of my throat
(but, from the stories i've heard
his antenna, when piqued, can grow!)
animals of yore would mate while running
but he would hold my hand and walk down the street?
while no one's ever serious at seventeen
it must be a grimace to sit ahead of me
the rules say silence, and so we sit stationary
at desks queued for propriety
i would hate to be his mr. superfluous
i could not bear to eat his jelly
if he refused to spread my toast
the guy grew up thinking
that the world revolves around him
but if he thinks his shtick's succeeding
i'm going supernova on him
August 2, 2004
Metatextualism is hot.
I like blogs that are well written. Almost everyone in the sidebar is gay, or at least bi with a yaoi fascination. There must be something introspective and demonstrative there. I just don't know what.
I read blogs because if I was in that person's shoes, I think they are who I'd be. I read blogs to remind me that sex isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I like prolific blogs. I like blogs that wear their hearts on their sleeves. I read blogs of people older than I am in hopes that I can live that life. I read blogs to lose myself in their lives. I read blogs to catch up on friends' lives. I read blogs because I develop crushes on most of my blogroll. I read blogs to appease my social conscious. I read blogs in hopes that they'll talk about me. I read blogs to steal emotions and lines to use in poems. I read blogs to break the monotomy of my day. I read blogs because I don't have any friends in real life. I read blogs to remind myself that life is worth living and I therefore don't have to kill myself because it will get better.
I read blogs.
I write in blogs because I've read that most writers keep journals and I'm passive/agressive about attention. I write in blogs because it's one of the habits of highly successful people. I write in blogs to garner attention to myself. I write in two separate blogs so the people I don't know can know more about me than my friends. I write in blogs to fish for compliments. I write in blogs to force people to read my poetry. I write in blogs to rub my stats in my friends' faces. I write in blogs to inspire other people. I write in blogs to force my opinions on others, and to force myself to hold opinions. I write in blogs so friends can keep track of me. I write in blogs because my best friend did in 8th grade, and we were always competing as to who wrote the better post. I write in blogs for the stats. I write in blogs to ensure that I always keep writing. I write in blogs to remind myself that something interesting happens to me at least once a day, and therefore I shouldn't kill myself.
I write blogs.
I read blogs because if I was in that person's shoes, I think they are who I'd be. I read blogs to remind me that sex isn't all that it's cracked up to be. I like prolific blogs. I like blogs that wear their hearts on their sleeves. I read blogs of people older than I am in hopes that I can live that life. I read blogs to lose myself in their lives. I read blogs to catch up on friends' lives. I read blogs because I develop crushes on most of my blogroll. I read blogs to appease my social conscious. I read blogs in hopes that they'll talk about me. I read blogs to steal emotions and lines to use in poems. I read blogs to break the monotomy of my day. I read blogs because I don't have any friends in real life. I read blogs to remind myself that life is worth living and I therefore don't have to kill myself because it will get better.
I read blogs.
I write in blogs because I've read that most writers keep journals and I'm passive/agressive about attention. I write in blogs because it's one of the habits of highly successful people. I write in blogs to garner attention to myself. I write in two separate blogs so the people I don't know can know more about me than my friends. I write in blogs to fish for compliments. I write in blogs to force people to read my poetry. I write in blogs to rub my stats in my friends' faces. I write in blogs to inspire other people. I write in blogs to force my opinions on others, and to force myself to hold opinions. I write in blogs so friends can keep track of me. I write in blogs because my best friend did in 8th grade, and we were always competing as to who wrote the better post. I write in blogs for the stats. I write in blogs to ensure that I always keep writing. I write in blogs to remind myself that something interesting happens to me at least once a day, and therefore I shouldn't kill myself.
I write blogs.
Adventures in Babysitting.
This weekend, I had the privilege of babysitting for some friends from church. The mom is a director at a local theatre company, and I've been in a few of her plays. She's a recovering hippie, ex-dead head, and was in a Improv company in Chicago during her youth. I forget the names, but she worked with a few of the early Saturday Night Live-rs before they made their break. Her kids are gorgeous, and have been in a handful of children's plays and commericals.
Molly is eight, Noah is five, and August is eleven months old. I didn't get much of a chance to babysit for them while I was away at college, which made them sad as I am their favorite babysitter. I've a strong background in theatre, especially children's shows, which means I have the best games for dress-up and make-believe. I'm awesome with kids, too, as I have no indie cred to live up to and can therefore be a huge dork.
This story is actually from the last time I babysat them, and I think I may have said something about it on a previous blog, but it's worth the repeat.
While August was taking a nap, Molly, Noah, and I were playing in the other room. After a rousing game of Pirates (where Molly was a kidnapped princess who eventually became a Pirate Queen after displaying her kickass fighting skills against the mean Pirate Noah), we took a slight breather, and started deciding what else we should play.
Ninjas trying to steal some treasure? School in an earthquake? Deep Sea Divers trying to hide from a shark? Astronauts fighting evil aliens? Movie Stars stranded on an island?
Nope. Molly wanted to play house.
"August can be the baby, I can be the little sister, and you and Noah can be my parents."
"OK. Which one of us is your mom and which is the dad?" (Gender roles rarely made a difference in our games--take it from me, the best darn Goldilocks you'll ever see.)
"Bob" (With more than a hint of impatience) "Some families have two mommies or two daddies and it's perfectly normal. They're still a family."
The little brats totally had heaping bowls of ice cream for lunch that day.
Molly is eight, Noah is five, and August is eleven months old. I didn't get much of a chance to babysit for them while I was away at college, which made them sad as I am their favorite babysitter. I've a strong background in theatre, especially children's shows, which means I have the best games for dress-up and make-believe. I'm awesome with kids, too, as I have no indie cred to live up to and can therefore be a huge dork.
This story is actually from the last time I babysat them, and I think I may have said something about it on a previous blog, but it's worth the repeat.
While August was taking a nap, Molly, Noah, and I were playing in the other room. After a rousing game of Pirates (where Molly was a kidnapped princess who eventually became a Pirate Queen after displaying her kickass fighting skills against the mean Pirate Noah), we took a slight breather, and started deciding what else we should play.
Ninjas trying to steal some treasure? School in an earthquake? Deep Sea Divers trying to hide from a shark? Astronauts fighting evil aliens? Movie Stars stranded on an island?
Nope. Molly wanted to play house.
"August can be the baby, I can be the little sister, and you and Noah can be my parents."
"OK. Which one of us is your mom and which is the dad?" (Gender roles rarely made a difference in our games--take it from me, the best darn Goldilocks you'll ever see.)
"Bob" (With more than a hint of impatience) "Some families have two mommies or two daddies and it's perfectly normal. They're still a family."
The little brats totally had heaping bowls of ice cream for lunch that day.
August 1, 2004
i positive emotion you
Bingo (from boy and his toy), otherwise known as the coolest thing to hit the blogiverse since Margaret Cho, wrote me a haiku just now.
While I'm not a big fan of surrealist poetry, I'm pleased never the less. Giddy, even. Well, maybe not giddy, but positive emotion.
I positive emotion you Bingo. Superlatively.
You too should write a poem for me. I promise to positive emotion you, too. You'll probably read this on Monday, so it's not like you'll be doing any real work. Get your asses off of Tribe and put your quills to paper. Consider it an early birthday gift. (PS-Friday, people.) There's no quicker way into my heart (and pants!) than a poem professing your desire for me. We English majors are quirky like that.
Otherwise, I'll be forced to post some of my own poetry, and nobody wants that, now do we?
bookishly loud lean
laconic castaways swirl
lewdly blushing queen
While I'm not a big fan of surrealist poetry, I'm pleased never the less. Giddy, even. Well, maybe not giddy, but positive emotion.
I positive emotion you Bingo. Superlatively.
You too should write a poem for me. I promise to positive emotion you, too. You'll probably read this on Monday, so it's not like you'll be doing any real work. Get your asses off of Tribe and put your quills to paper. Consider it an early birthday gift. (PS-Friday, people.) There's no quicker way into my heart (and pants!) than a poem professing your desire for me. We English majors are quirky like that.
Otherwise, I'll be forced to post some of my own poetry, and nobody wants that, now do we?
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