Because I'm a good Asian, and I think this Lent thing is getting to me and I'm becoming a good Catholic, I always have feelings of guilt. And right now, I'm wondering if those thoughts are justified. I recently gave Trigger the heave (can't really call it breaking up. You can't really break up with someone you're not together with. What's the term for not sleeping together anymore?) via e-mail. And I'm not sure if that's wrong. Pisser had told me that like, 42% of breakups happen online. Maybe I'm a product of my generation (yikes!), but before there was all of this techno-crap (remember when speak 'n spell was new and cool?), one was required to have "the talk" in person. A phone call was not good enough, you had to do it face to face, preferably in a crowded restaurant so no one can cause a scene. Now, we can't even pick up the phone to say, "I met someone else", "I'm gay", "I'm sleeping with your best friend". No, we e-mail each other with well planned out (usually) verse, essentially saying, "it's not you, it's me.", "I'm gay", "I don't like your mother", or my personal favorite, "We're in different areas in our lives right now". We can't say face to face, "You've really turned into a porker" (although how many times did I bring that one up, exSG?), "You're annoying", "I hate how you squeeze the toothpaste", or my favorite, "I will NOT be ignored, where's your rabbit?". Is this acceptable? Is the electronic way the preferred method for both sides? I don't know if Trigger is offended of my actions or if he really doesn't care either way, we weren't in a crowded restaurant for him to cause a scene in. Now, even a phone call is too personal. We're can we go from here? What's less personal than e-mail? A quick pager message? Or my previous method of gathering my belongings and moving out without saying anything except something from the post office about forwarding my mail?
Getting close and personal is so not cool anymore. Kind of sad isn't it?
|
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Yes kids, it's that time again. It's Lent! Now I am by no means a religious person, I just like the idea of Lent. Rather, the idea of sacrificing a luxury. I like the idea of a ritual. The sacrifice for atonement, that just makes me feel guilty. I don't even know the entire story behind Lent, and I really don't care ("Jesus died for your sins!" Well it was wasted on me. He would've done better to have fucked the whore), it just seems like a good idea. So I'm going to try. Now there's the traditional sacrifice of red meat, but we all know that won't last a couple days with me. So here are some options of what I can give up for Lent:
* Fried food. But I think I'll last about as long as I could with red meat.
* Sugar. As long as altoids don't count, I might be able to pull it off.
* Sex. An obvious choice. Since I'm not sleeping with Trigger anymore, and there's no one in sight, this one can be really easy.
* Porn. Nah, that's too easy.
* Internet purchases. It would be good for my wallet. I just noticed, I have internet purchases (granted, a lot of them are school related) at least once a week.
* Lottery tickets. Someone in one of my classes is giving up lottery tickets for Lent. But I guess that one can't apply to me, seeing as I buy one maybe twice a year.
* Seething hatred for California. Sorry, that one just can't be helped.
* Chicken pot pies. But that will make me VERY cranky during PMS time.
I really can't think of anything I should be giving up for Lent. I'm pretty good nowadays. As much as I still want to sometimes, I've given up smoking for at least 5 years. I don't drink like I used to. I don't do drugs like I used to. All of my excesses are usually food or animal related. I can't turn down food and I can't turn away from an animal. I've become a nuisance to the school groundskeepers as I bring huge bags of granola for the squirrels, cats, and raccoons that populate the campus. I also put all of my nonexistent money into the dog park, contributing trees and stuff. I buy too much crap for my dog and my mother's dogs. That kind of excess. But otherwise, I can't think of anything 'sinful' to give up. I can't give up anything animal related. No sense in making the animals suffer for my sins.
I guess I'm going to have to think about this a little longer...I'll think about it while I munch on a twinkie and have a beer.
Any suggestions?
|
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
It's raining! I can be happy again!
|
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
And the forecast says....
Sunny and miserable.
I think I have reverse seasonal afflictaion disorder. I was having such a jolly weekend, and now, it's sunny and I'm down. This is another reason why I will never survive in LA. That, and the fact that I think I may have slept with everyone here. If I'm running into my first, the others can't be far behind.
I already miss the rain, where afterwards, the smell of sunscreen has dissipated by my home, and the only scent left lingering in Hollywood is the perfume and piss running into the gutters. The stupid people are all inside because it just won't do to get their hair wet and trucker caps do nothing to protect it. The girls slip in their platforms and their makeup is ruined. But alas, the rain comes but once every two years or so, so I have to enjoy it while I can. But deep down inside, I know bathing suit season is just around the corner.
|
Monday, February 23, 2004
Ah, the first time. What happened again?
I think I saw the first boy I ever had sex with at the dog park today. I can't be sure because I was mesmerized by hunky dog park boy and his dog, but then realized he is an irresponsible dog owner and am now completely unattracted to him. But back to my first time...I didn't get to talk to him, I was chatting with the crazy lady that's always there, and doing laps with my dog. I didn't realize that might be him until the second or third lap. And then, I wasn't sure if it was him and I didn't want to ask, "Hey, have we fucked before?" Because I'm tired of using that line. Why don't I remember him, you ask? It was my first time. That's supposed to be the special sex that you remember forever. Yeah yeah yeah. And that was also 17 years ago. I can't remember where I put my keys today, how am I supposed to remember some average white boy from 17 years ago? I bet I'm going to forget my last sex over the next five years. I remember it being pleasant, for a first time experience anyway. About 7 years ago, I ran into him while visiting, and he mentioned something about having a 'partner', while dressed in a shiny shirt and sporting a Caesar haircut. He pretty much screamed "I'm queer!". Now, he looks like he's in his mid twenties, with mutton chops and a spare tire. But he has a dog, that's a good thing. Wouldn't that be funny, hooking up with my first time? No not really.
|
Friday, February 20, 2004
Being, as I usually am, not clued-in to the scene, I haven't been aware of the new hairless trend, or rather, the *desire* for hairlessness. That is, hairlessness in ladies. Down there. In the cootchie region. The notion of a smooth, hairless (I think: prepubescent) nether region turns men on. Not that I find it that odd, I just had no idea that the positive response with the male gender was so widespread. I remember on one of my initial dates with Trigger, I think it was our second (after already having slept with him on our first. Hussy, I know), when the subject came up, leading me to believe he might be somewhat of a pedophile. Hey, after two dates, you still can't know. I know you're also wondering how in the world the subject of a shaved cootchie might have up. A man blurting out, "I like a lady who's shaved down there" is something other than your average non sequitur. But that's how it happened. Granted I was sporting the little schoolgirl outfit, so it's not as inappropriate. Hell, we had already had sex, whatever.
Then, last night, while carousing with a flock of young men, the subject again came up, and there was widespread consensus on the appeal of hairless ginny. My mother (not that she takes part in that kind of depilatory process) suggested the attraction of cleanliness (but most boys are dirty) plus the ladies like to hide the fact that they are going grey. I still think it's all about having a little girl.
Now comes the part about the whole process of hair removal from that nether region. One would NOT want to slather creams on a sensitive mucus membrane like that. Talk about begging for trouble. Apply a hair removing cream there and you'll be putting on a different kind of cream later. Shaving is not an option either, never point sharp objects down there, pencil dicks excepted (but who would want one of those?). So it comes down to waxing. PULLING THE HAIR OUT AT THE ROOT. And to be completely bare, you have to go towards the t'aint (you know, that place that t'aint your front end and it t'aint your back end, but a useless place in which to rest your tongue when you've run out of things to do. Kind of like purgatory.). And things get extra sensitive there. Especially when it comes to ripping out hair follicles with hot wax.
So the question is: Is that pain really worth happy booty? Would I really want to subject myself to the Korean sadist who would love to make me cry Japanese tears as short lived revenge on what my people did to her people because Trigger wants a squeaky clean crotch? Does he deserve it? Not at this moment. But what if he should step out of character and do something nice? Should it be considered? And will that perpetuate the assumption that women should be doing that for their booty? Okay, so that's many questions.
But my answer: If it gets me more head...maybe.
|
Monday, February 16, 2004
While forced to socialize with a gaggle of gorgeous girls (say that fast ten times), I am reminded of one of Los Angeles' biggest personality flaws: The pretty girl/pretty boy phenomenon. I don't know why it's localized in LA, but I'm sure it's been experienced by everyone, no matter the locale.
Apparently, life is hard if you're attractive in LA. Pretty women always assume if a man is talking to them, they're getting hit on. It doesn't seem to matter if the man in question is married, or so old it's obvious that nothing physical can happen, they are obviously hitting on the pretty girl. The pretty girl can't get away from the lascivious men. And the men are all so, AVERAGE, how dare they try and talk to the pretty girl! The pretty girl will roll her eyes or get up and walk away. There is no such thing as 'just being friendly', because the pretty girl is always in demand. And the average women, the pretty girl has to watch out for them too. The average woman is manipulative and is looking to bring the pretty girl down. The average woman is obviously jealous of the pretty girl. The group of girls MUST be laughing at the pretty girl. What else would average women talk about? But the pretty girl doesn't mind, the average group of women wouldn't be able to identify with her pretty problems. What is the pretty girl to do? God, or a really good plastic surgeon has made her this way. Why does everyone think the pretty girl is stuck up?
Because she is.
The pretty boy phenomenon is pretty much the same, with less neurosis. There is intense competition within the pretty boy clique. The pretty boys stick together because they have to keep an eye out to see what each other is up to. There is no threat from the average man, because the average man is probably intimidated by the pretty boy. The average girls are all staring and dying to talk to the pretty boy. The women all want the pretty boy. So he will act aloof. Not much in the noggin, but who cares? The pretty boy is attractive.
I don't know why this annoys me so much. Maybe it's the assumption that everybody is judging them by their looks constantly. Granted, I should be one to talk, I judge people all the time, but not about their looks, but about their stupidity. Because let's face it, most people are stupid. I want to throttle most of the pretty boys and say, "I'm not attracted to you, you idiot, I like smart burly guys, not pussy ass bitches!" And I want to tell most of the pretty girls, "I'm not jealous of you, unless you just won the lottery, I actually pity you!"
Ah well, now that I'm starting to geekify myself again, I will be surrounded by socially awkward eggheads that think a LAN party is the social event of the season.
|
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Despite being single in LA, and dating someone who fears intimacy so much he will have nothing to do with me until all of the red and pink disappears, I had a surprisingly pleasant VD. No burning or itching, no ostracization from the general public, no copious weeping from my single female friends, no panic attacks from my male friends in relationships, no unpleasant odor (except for the back of the bar where I was parked, but that's how it always smells there).
I had two pleasant surprises for VD. I actually received flowers. No, not from Trigger, he fears VD like I fear children. No, not from the ex, he would never buy me flowers even when we were together. No, not my family, they don't do family-bonding stuff like that. I got flowers from a torrid affair after the ex. He was a long distance liaison that didn't last due to my former Trigger-like commitment practices, and now I'm angling to ensnare him once again with elaborate holiday packages so I can get the hell out of LA and be a kept woman (well, not really, but more so than I am now). I don't know if he just sent me the flowers because I sent him boxes of baked goods for the past holidays and VD, but the gesture was well appreciated anyway. See, I am a girl. Just give me my space.
Secondly, I got a visit from an old friend from San Francisco. We used to work together a lot when we were working in film. Then she went to live in another country to get away. Yeah, I wanted to get away too, but I only made it as far as LA. Well, she got deported back, so she went back to SF, but is wandering around trying to figure out what she wants to do now. But that's not the pleasant surprise. The pleasantness is hearing all of the unpleasantness that is going on in San Francisco since I left. And all of the unpleasantness going on in the film industry up there also. I know that's horrible, me obtaining glee from other people's misery, but the news is justifying my move and departure from the film industry. It seems some of the more successful filmmakers are foreclosing on their houses. Some have had cars reposessed. The less successful crew members have discovered the joys of working retail or service. Some film school classmates are on a first name basis with their student loan officers. All in all, it was a very good decision for me both financially and mentally, to get out of film.
So yesterday wasn't as bad as I thought. Instead of feeling bad about being single, I received a notion that perhaps someone is thinking of me, and there is still a chance of life with a partner. And I don't feel like society looks down on me because I'm single, society looks down at all of my previous co-workers because they picked a horrible industry in which to work in.
|
Saturday, February 14, 2004
While a passenger in the car of an acquaintance of mine, we were listening to the radio, what station, I couldn't tell you. Some mainstream, commercial, clear channel, type station. Apparently, Liz Phair has a new album, or semi-new. It sounded like little Avril Lavigne to me. So my mainstream friend is going on and on about how she loves Liz Phair now. This woman wore Candies in the 80's, listened to Madonna while I listened to Prince. She "doesn't get" the Onion, thinks Shakespeare is genius, but only when it's been made into a movie starring Julia Stiles. So she loves Liz Phair now. "I'm so into indie rock now. I'm so Indie and alternative", she says. "!!!??!?!!", I say. I'm sorry, but that's like saying, "I'm open-minded and tolerant, I knew a black person in college."
|
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Well kids, it's back to school time. Yes, back to being "the old lady" in my geekfest classes. Back to pretending I might be smart. I know I promised all those listers out there that I would try and post at least every three days, but now I'm going to have to rescind that promise while I try and better myself. So now, instead of talking about crap that only my friends (who don't read this blog hopefully, because I'm usually making fun of them) or other film people will understand, I'll be talking about science-y stuff that only geeks will understand. Way to ostracize and marginalize!
Yes, it's time to stop hiding behind my blog. It's a pathetic excuse to make my life seem worth while. Because people read my stuff, it must be important! Nah, I'm just procrastinating all of my real responsibilities. So I can no longer promise every three days. Don't worry, I will still post. There has to be something vaguely amusing, or at least something that proves that your life is more interesting than mine.
Five days until school starts. I'll try and think of a witty anecdote by then. Well, then again, VD is coming up, I might have something then, at least something homicidal.
|
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
After finishing our jaunt at the dog park, and going to my purple Honda Civic hatchback, I pull out my car keys and try to open the door of a silver Lexus. I'm not exactly sure what drove me to do that, except that I'm a little spacey from lack of sleep and lack of fried food products in my system. I don't know anyone who owns a Lexus, and it certainly doesn't look like my car, but being at the dog park, it probably holds a similar scent. I wonder if my key had fit, if I would have driven away with it?
|
Saturday, February 07, 2004
No, not of the venereal sort, but it is of the same effect, somewhat. It's communicable, often sexually transmitted, and leaves a nasty discharge. It will send you to the clinic, but most likely for therapy rather than antibiotics. Either way, everyone's happy when it's over. With this form of VD, the burning sensation doesn't last as long, but there are no creams for relief. Yes, kids, I'm talking about Valentine's Day. That day that both singles and couples of my age group alike have come to dread. The single women feel obligated to find someone to have on that day, and if they don't they feel bad about it. The men in a relationship have intense pressure to be romantic and make grand gestures when they just want to sit around. Women in relationships hope for those grand gestures and are severely disappointed when it doesn't happen, and all she's left with is a box of Whitman's chocolates and dashed hopes for a romantic evening she's read about in a Harlequin novel with Fabio on the cover. The only ones who come out relatively unscathed are the single men. They just reap the benefit of women throwing themselves at them at a last ditch attempt to find a man for the holiday.
Now for some Jerky history:
When Jerky was still a fresh piece of meat, rather than this dried up slab of flesh, she would be one of the kids in grade school that always received a Valentine that said, "My mom made me give this to you". She also had wonderfully creative friends that could make tasteful cards that could also double as a decorative centerpiece, all made out of construction paper and glitter. Jerky, on the other hand, her artistic endeavors always turned out like something an 80 year-old woman from Jersey would be wearing at bingo during the holidays in Atlantic City.
Then during middle school, when notions of romance were budding in little girl's minds, the thought of VD became more important. That is, until Matt Dunn said to Jerky, "Ew. No, I won't be your Valentine. I don't like you." in front of everyone in the tetherball line.
In high school, Jerky and her friends were too cool for VD. It's just so not punk rock.
After high school, it was off to college in the free love city of San Francisco, where VD really is a dis-ease, a white, patriarchal, corporate ruse to gather more profit from the masses by honing in on the insecurities of women and their weakness for romance. Damn the man!
After college, while settled into a long term relationship with the not-even-remotely-romantically inclined ex, VD became a rote affair of dinner, then back home to ignore each other. Each hoping the other had too much to drink so there would be no sex involved. Business as usual.
And now...Now, Jerky is older, and (somewhat) wiser, and is once again attempting to shield herself from this fateful day. She realizes this is difficult while surrounded by women in their 30's, either desperate for young romance or babies. It is arduous to not get caught up in the melee of cute fuzzy things and lots of chocolate. As unaffected and detached as Jerky seems, she also likes to receive gifts, hold hands, and have wall pounding penetration with her knees at her shoulders sometimes. To indulge in that feeling of helplessness that makes her want that guy to pay her rent and fix her toilet forever. But while observing her girlfriends and the women of America whip themselves up in the VD frenzy, it makes her realize she just might be rescuing herself and be better off by just fucking herself.
No, this has nothing to do with Ms. Jackson or bedfellow Mr. Timberlake. Come on people, get over it! It's just a little tittie. Granted, she has a nice rack, it's not like she has boobs that people will be talking about, not the kind that make people exclaim, "She's got nipples the size of silver dollars!". No, people are talking about the fact ONE was exposed during a football game. Whatever. Go home, talk about how upset you are that Gephardt's out of the race, talk about how VH-1 programming is getting worse than MTV (how many times do we need to watch I love the 70's/80's?), talk about that not-so-fresh feeling, just get over the whole Janet-Justin mammary affair, jeesh. Oh yeah, and leave Martha alone too. Okay, my brief statement about how this is not about Janet's aureole has turned into a statement about it.
This is about poor, abused, misrepresented Trigger. Delicate Trigger, who so often gets to be the butt of my stories, but never the hero. And this time, in my diatribe about the personals, I have painted him as someone with "no redeeming qualities", which I assure you all, is not true, and was not my intended objective. Quite the contrary, he is a very fine young man, if a bit on the sensitive side. The true purpose of that statement was to relate the fact that I began an affair with him despite the derivations of my usual preferences. And a very pleasant affair it has been, and I hope continues to be so. But because our relationship is casual, I continue the search for the perfect sugar daddy.
So please excuse my indiscretion and impropriety, I meant no offense. My talent as a writer has become apparent. So I shouldn't waste my time, and I should just hit those personals instead...
|
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
With my hearty breakfast of grapefruit and cottage cheese resting in my frustrated gastrointestinal tract, I'm having a difficult time trying to concentrate. Because of a momentary slip-up at Tito's Tacos (damn you Trigger) last weekend, and a predicted slip-up at Dinah's fried chicken forthcoming, I've relegated my appetite to the stock foodstuffs that are diet cuisine. Thusly, I've become one surly-ass mutha fucka. AND I'm still soft and squishy, so what's the point??? I've also been sneezing uncontrollably, leading me to believe that I'm allergic to grapefruit. Shucks.
So what's the point of my low blood sugar tirade? I CAN'T REMEMBER, I DON'T HAVE REAL FOOD IN MY BODY.
|
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Because I'm lazy, I turn to the personals for all of my dating needs. It's so much easier than going out putting in effort to find out he's married, gay, and/or not interested. So I save my forty bucks in drinks and sit at the computer in my ratty old robe and peruse the quasi-intellectual hipster sites to find me some booty. It's not all that bad, I met Trigger and the Rocket scientist via personals. And the others, well, they make for good party stories.
There was a moment a while ago that a bunch of friends and I were all single and went on a heavy duty dating campaign. We tried all the dating sites and each of us fell into the ones we liked best; salon, jewdate, match.com, and for our freakish friend, Yahoo personals. We even did three-minute dating (ten minutes is way too long, and this way you meet more people in a single event), but our freakish friend can be such a buzzkill and ruined most of the night for us.
From those escapades I met the Rocket Scientist then Trigger, and a couple of others not really worth mentioning, but will maybe be anecdotal blogs during the slow season. The rest of girls went through similar experiences, thus slowing our dating frenzy somewhat. And now, about half of the girls have settled in somewhat with their prospective others, and the rest of us are trying our luck again. I like to think of the rest of us as having higher standards.
Here's the thing about personals that get me: 90% of men that respond don't really read the ads, I think they just look at the picture and a couple of choice statements, usually filtering out content that doesn't deal with sex or sports. Which means for me, they just see a picture. This is (more or less) what I wrote about me: *I hate children *I love fried food and meat *I'm probably smarter than you, and if not, I'm going to act like it. *I will never choose you over my dog *I can probably kick your ass *I really don't care about manga and anime *I'm unemployed *I hate men that think reading poetry aloud to women is sexy *I am not easily impressed. And so on in that matter. I know, I'm a real catch, why am I still single? And this is (more or less) what I wrote about what I'm looking for in a man: *Hair with no product *NO ACTORS *Not a big friggin' pussy ass whinny bitch *A job. *Japanatics *not looking for men who taught English in Japan and think they're hot shit with the Asian ladies. See? I'm not asking for much. How hard can that be? Apparently, impossible.
So what do I get? *Actors *Dirty old men *Japanatics *lonely old men *socially awkward geeks *Men who write me poetry *Creepy old men *Geeky japanatics *the unemployed *Pussy ass whinny bitches *Men who taught English in China and think they're hot shit with the Asian ladies. (And I can tell you, every single one of them are big morons. They get the Asian ladies from Asia, because the ladies don't know any better. They think the silly American is being funny, but no, they really are idiots. It just translates a lot differently over there. The ex's brother has to be one of the biggest numbnuts I've ever come in contact with in my entire life, we're talking bumbling idiot on the verge of being "special", and after teaching English in Japan, married a hot Japanese girl and stayed in Japan, probably knowing that she might come to her senses and see that he actually is a moron according to American standards. Poor girl.)
The rocket scientist seemed like a good prospect at first. An engineer about to start the NASA training program, steady job, rides a motorcycle. But after a while I realized: He's 5 years younger than me, he's obsessed with cartoons (would stop a conversation because a particular cartoon was on), wanted to get married immediately, and wouldn't put out. Then Trigger came into the picture, but I don't know how because there were actually no redeeming qualities that would make me want to meet him; he works in film, he's mostly unemployed, he had longish hair with gunk, and he's a japanatic. Go figure. I guess I'm a sucker for..for...?
