Coffee Rhetoric: confused
Showing posts with label confused. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confused. Show all posts

February 03, 2010

Just Drive

I feel like I've reached an impasse. A never-ending maze with an elusive exit. So many decisions, so many things to nibble away at, but I'm completely deadlocked. People, places, and things never cease to perplex the hell out of me. And at times, it's overwhelming. I've had moments where I've attempted to check out, but alas, to no avail, because worries, my thoughts continue to plague me. I manage to be aloof in certain aspects of my life i.e., dating; wishy washy suitors, and an endless supply of assholes. In other aspects? Not so much; opportunities, my livelihood, my future. 
Ofttimes I think I have a dubious guardian, who loves toying with me and seeing me grapple with the worst luck! Or perhaps I'm an unwitting contestant in some twisted reality television program, where the masses are watching me wrestle and fight my way to the top. I don't know, but I continue to shadowbox. To bob, weave, sidestep... dance... twirl my way to what I feel is rightfully mine! I'm at a loss right now. I don't know how to plot my next move but I do know that I'm ready for my turn. I'm thinking. I'm pondering. I'm pissed. Intense game of mind play at work. Please do not disturb!
The fight continues. This is round 20.

November 01, 2009

Sick

I've been out of the loop for the past few days and was in the midst of catching up, when I stumbled onto this sick and twisted story.
Since the depravity of it all speaks volumes in and of itself, I'll keep mine turned down low mostly because I'm rendered speechless and am perplexed by growing violence toward young women, somehow serving as a blueprint for budding manhood and coming of age, as well as the disintegration of healthy sexuality and precociousness. I will say that my stomach turned even tighter, because it reminded me of this disturbing film I blogged about, that I probably won't ever watch again.

July 04, 2009

It's Alive!!!!!

This past week, I have made valuable use of my time. I cut up some juicy and delicious fruit, I saw Corey Holcomb headline a comedy show, I hung out with a great friend, and I'm sorta doing some household projects... oh yes, and I'm looking for a new job because I got laid off Monday. Here's my word: Why is it when you're laid off, people retreat from you as if you have the damn Bubonic Plague or they tsk as if you're a charity case or on the cusp of needing anti-anxiety meds? Or they feel compelled to forward any and every job posting to you, not keeping in mind that you've got this?
I understand that people mean well, but I am doing remarkably well. I got laid off from a JOB. A job that wasn't my dream career. I'm being compensated for it, it happens to the best of us, I'm optimistic, and I truly believe in the old adage that when one door closes, a window opens someplace else. Perps, look around you! In case you haven't noticed, we're living in shaky economic times. It is happening universally. I'm not the only person in history who has been laid off. I am confident that even in these times, I will find a new job soon. I had been looking prior to learning that the organization I worked for was in dire financial trouble. I am not a charity case. I am not expecting anybody to pay for my drinks, look after me, or help me with my rent and bills, so you don't need to retreat or head for the hills. I'm not about to emotionally implode either so no need to avert your eyes away from me.
Oh, and if one more person says, "Awww, have you been looking? What are you looking for? You'll find something soon" I'm going to stick my finger down my throat and vomit on them. It has only been a week! Making me feel as if I should be feeling like a steaming hot piece of shit only makes you look ridiculous in my eyes. I have a caring family, who lives nearby and an awesome true blue so if I need to vent or need help with anything, I'm all set. Attempts at helping me and then questioning whether I know what exactly I want to do with my life is nothing short of condescending and rude. It's akin to kicking a person when they've stumbled and then holding your food against their throat while they're struggling to get up and dust themselves off to fight back. I know how this process works. You want to help me? Offer to provide me with a reference like other level-headed folks have already done. Treat me as you once did when I was employed. If you run across something you THINK I'd or would be a good fit... go ahead and forward it, but don't make it your personal mission to be my career counselor like I'm wayward and pathetic. It may be hard for some folks to wrap their mind around the fact that I'm doing great and that I am actually pounding the pavement, but that is my reality. I'm sorry if you haven't grasped that yet. And one other thing... you don't have to avoid me, because chances are I am stoked about never having to work with or interact with you again and you need to realize what climate we're living in. The folks that matter and who can appreciate how to network with me in a productive manner, have my contact information and know how to reach me (this includes those who want to hang out and have a great time as well). And to those who don't know how exactly to interact with me anymore... if I need your help or advice... I'll offer it to YOU.
That is all.

June 20, 2009

"I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!"
Alice, Alice in Wonderland

April 30, 2009

Bus Tales: Kindly Shut The Hell Up

Dear Ranting Woman on the 7:55 AM Farmington Ave/Downtown Bus:
Every morning, regardless of whether I want to hear it or not, when I board the bus I can always count on you to go off on some random, loud tirade about any number of topics. None of the dots seem to connect, no one pays attention or responds to you, but you sit there... loud and pretentious with your raggedy, discount bin Beauty Max wig on... hootin' and hollerin' about the minutia. Eyes bugged, mouth twisted as you "hmph" and "tsk" about welfare recipients, how you don't go to work to pay for lazy women who push out "baby after baby", what a great job you think former jailbird Governor John Rowland did implementing whichever program he deemed necessary, so forth and so on. What the hell are you on about lady???
Its barely 8AM in the morning! Many of us are caffeine deprived, harried from rushing out the front door, and chomping at the bit to get to work or to the nearest Starbucks so we can get some delicious, robust java in our systems. We are mentally trying to prepare ourselves for the busy workday ahead of us, but we can't concentrate on our thoughts because you're flapping your gob nonstop. You sit there with a book open on your lap, but never really focusing on its contents, as you run your pie hole about a bunch of trivial B.S. that none of us want to hear, so early in the morning. The banality of your ranting makes me feel uneasy, not to mention it irritates the hell out of everyone else. I saw that man sitting next to you, giving you the side-eye a few mornings ago. He couldn't scramble off of the bus fast enough, when it was his turn to get off. And what about the two women trying to carry on a convo betwixt and between one another, with their indoor voices? You just kept talking over them with your loud, obnoxious, deep monotone. A succession of doo-doo on top of stupidity. Interrupting them. They finally gave up and sat quietly for the remainder of the bus ride, their mouths in tight lines!
Two A.M.s ago, imagine my despair and annoyance when I couldn't untangle my effing ear plugs so I could drown you out with my music! This morning however, I made quick work of detangling and plugging in prior to the bus's arrival. I was ready for you! Lo and behold, as soon as I boarded, you started running your mouth and wagging your be-wigged head, talking about (to no one in particular): "I gotta try to put mahself in a good mood!! Gotta see if I can get in a GOOD MOOD this mornin'!" Lady PLEASE! My fingers could not push the volume button up quick enough to drown out your hot garbage. Also, riddle me this: Why sit there with a damn book open on your lap, if you have no intention of sitting quietly and reading, til your damn stop comes up?? Do you wake up in the morn, look at your dry, haggard reflection, and wonder aloud, "I need to figga out how I'm gon' annoy and disturb the bus passengers taday? What can I ramble on loudly about... Hm, let me see-eee" ???? Methinks you do.
Listen, shut the HELL up, because everytime you go proselytizing and preaching about whatever it is you deem necessary to yell about, you effing put ME in a bad mood, and I have to re-route and reshuffle my own thoughts prior to my arrival at work. I pity the fool co-worker who has be within earshot of your nonsense, because I'm sure your fuckery spills over off the bus and within the confines of your place of employment.
Shut it!
Thanks
xoxo
Coffey

November 29, 2008

Bus Tales: Black Friday

Oh yes. It is the return of Bus Tales indeed. I've never really paid much attention to the day after Thanksgiving so aptly dubbed Black Friday. See, while I can appreciate an excellent deal, and love sales more than the next spender, I'm not a shopaholic. In fact, I hate shopping and do it online in the quiet sanctity of my home, pants optional. I cannot stand large crowds or places where massive groups of people congregate, and so I avoid places like parades, festivals, strip malls on the weekend, crowded elevators (if I can), buses packed to capacity (sometimes I have no choice), and spaces of the like.
INTRO: Friday, Early AM- Late Afternoon
Yesterday, my sisters were up at 4:30AM primed and ready to go huntin' for great post-Thanksgiving deals. I turned over and went back to sleep on my mother's chaise lounge. As the day progressed, I rocked back and forth, going through cell-phone withdrawal, because I lost mine last Saturday. I felt discombobulated (I've grown so attached) and cut off from the rest of society without it, but I sat and lazed about... procrastinating over having to go out into this Black Friday world where folks were getting stomped to death by crazed lunatics trying to purchase $300 computers and being shaken down by sneaky perps lying in wait, ready to rob happy shoppers swinging their bags in the crisp, autumn air. It was late in the afternoon, and my sisters still hadn't arrived.
I waited. And pissed around. Procrastinated. Waited... before finally deciding to go shower. Bathed and freshly scrubbed, I still did eff all. I effed around on my mom's computer. I ate more Thanksgiving desserts, while web surfing and emailing folks back and forth. Finally at around 3ish, my sisters returned. Frazzled and spent. I slowly got up from the computer and shuffled around deciding it was now or never. I figured the bulk of the crowd had probably dissipated. My mother shook her head at my late start. I shrugged at her. Needless to say, the mall was besieged by manic shoppers, large baby carriages, and mischievous teenagers meeting to do who knows what. I saw the diablo in everyone's eyes. I weaved in and out of bodies, trying hard to duck heavy, swinging shopping bags... throbbing and bursting at the seams from marked down merchandise! I suddenly felt faint. Faces started to bleed together, eyes became large and black, no whites to speak of. I started to sweat in that hot mall and undid the top button to my coat. My kneecaps started to go numb. I knew T-Mobile was just around the corner and I hung on for dear life as I forced my legs to work at a feverish pace so I could do my business and get the fuck out of there.
Needless to say, the BUS ride to the mall and back was just as harrowing...
PROLOGUE
The bus was packed to capacity. I sat there in my seat as standees weaved unsteadily in front of me. Afraid that someone might fart in my face, step on my foot, or fall in my lap, I clutched my purse tighter. I put my leather gloves on. I took them off. One talkative guy sporting a plaid ivy cap, backpack and a limp arm (with a hand that had loooooong nails) who'd tried to engage me in conversation earlier at the bus stop about his early shopping experience, stood up front and ran his mouth to the bus driver (an attractive, full-figured, middle-aged Black woman) about a wide array of interesting topics. They included but aren't limited to: his taste in women, his dark side, how he was writing a book on numerology, philosophers, his temper, his aversion to spicy women and how they gave him heartburn, his preference for MILD women, more about his dark side, how he was a true artiste who had to go to school for it and hated anyone with natural talent and no passion, the 8 Guinness stouts he drank during Thanksgiving, a cat he had named Baby who knew how to doo-doo in the toilet and used to lick his face and massage his back, and subjects of the like. He went on and on.
Suddenly, I noticed a rather slight man running alongside the bus and then finally in the street, risking the risk of getting hit in the process. The bus driver cursed him before deciding to pull over and stop for him. Breathless and toothless, he complained about her not stopping initially... she told him to shut the hell up and be thankful that she stopped because she "didn't have to" and to stop "figuring" (he said he figured she didn't want to stop for him) and sit down somewhere. He kept muttering. "You're STILL complaining," the driver noted, in disbelief. He laughed, embarrassed at being scolded and squeezed up front with the rest of the standing bodies. I kept my eyes averted to the floor of the bus. Trying desperately not to give in to PSIS. The bus jerked forward, then stopped for a woman with a thick West Indian accent and close cropped hair, which she wore in a natural. She squeezed on and engaged the driver, the man with the limp arm, and the toothless complainer in a spirited conversation about Thanksgiving, the curried coat she said she'd made for herself, her divorce, and her upcoming Christmas trip to Jamaica.
"Oh, I wish I was going there!" the toothless man said excitedly. "Now Jamaican women are HOT!!!" he continued.
The limp arm man chimed in, agreeing. The West Indian woman chuckled with satisfaction. She turned to show her appreciation, unfortunately and much to my chagrin (because I'd been looking at the back of her head through the sea of standing bodies)- she was the exception. Weeell, the woman was attractive in that avante-garde Wandaesque (from In Living Color) but not as extremely fugly way, if you're into that, definitely no Grace Jones though. She had on a nice, stylish warm down coat, however and her accent was nice. She made her way off when her stop came up and bid the front of the bus revelers adieu. Still amped, the toothless man continued to cackle and talk about women with Limp Arm... suddenly an unused crack needle fell out of his pocket. No one seemed to notice but me. Due to my neuroses (read: keen eye), I always tend to note the minutiae. I was riveted and enthralled by the crack tool. I looked at the needle then back at Toofus. I looked across at a guy with black rimmed eyeglasses (and equally as amused by the cracktacular goings-on up front)- to see if he had noticed. He seemed caught up in the rapture of the conversation unfolding up front, so I don't think he did. I stared back at the crack needle. See, judging from Toofus's skinny build (he said he was 140 pounds during parts of the animated chatter), piss poor dental hygiene, and over excited demeanor I was 110% certain he wasn't a diabetic. He cackled, his body shook. He appeared antsy. Suddenly he caught my gaze, looked down and finally noticed he'd dropped the host to his lil piece of crack heaven on the floor. He hurriedly picked it up and nervously shoved it back in his jeans pocket without missing a beat. I smirked. This time he shoved it deep down, ensuring it was nestled and safe in the confines of his pocket. His stop finally came up, he quickly said his goodbyes and pushed off taking one last, brief look at me.
We'd finally made it to the mall, where I struggled and elbowed my way towards my destination...
Epilogue
The bus ride back to my mother's house was relatively normal until the bus picked up passengers from Vine Street, sometime after 7:20pm. One guy under the influence stumbled on, he stood up front fidgeting inside his coat picket. "I got my bus card driver, I ain't tryin' to get a free ride," he promised. "You can sit down and look for your card," the driver advised and lurched forward. The man stumbled up front, right across from me and next to an extremely large man in a red Salvation Army apron (one of the annual holiday bell ringers stationed outside major spots trying to raise money for the organization, no doubt). " 'Scuse me" Drunk Puss said to the man, who moved over, allowing Drunky more space. He continued to fiddle for his bus card. He looked across at me. I turned away quickly and closed my eyes. "Hey Miss!" I pretended not to hear. Kept my eyes closed. " 'scuse me, MISS!" ... my eyes stayed closed. "MISS!!" I finally opened my eyes and slowly turned in his direction. "I like your boots!" I blinked lazily at him. Disinterested. "They're so shiny, and nice, and full of goodness..." I turned away from him and closed my eyes once more. He continued to spout a bunch of ridiculous and drunk banter as he dug 'round for his bus pass... A man with a cane (who smelled like a booze fiesta) also stumbled on and plopped down next to me- (Liquor, meth and crack must've been marked down as well, because folks under the influence were out in droves). Drunk Puss was apparently familiar with the new passenger, stood up to greet and fell on top of the old man, knocking into my shoulder in the process. I sighed heavily, irritated, and squeezed my eyes shut tighter, and put my hand over my face to block the pain of this circumstance out. "Oh, I'm sorry!" Drunk Puss said to his acquaintance.
"I love you man, but not THAT much."
He found his bus pass and FINALLY made his way up to settle his fare. He plopped back down and caused some more drunken damage. Finally the bus driver jerked forward and pulled over to the side of the road. He switched on the light up front. Sighing and anxious to get home, I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, annoyed by the slight delay. I heard the driver whispering on the emergency phone. Probably about Drunk Puss, to a supervisor. A preemptive measure perhaps? He sat there for about five minutes, " 'scuse me driver, is there a PROBLEM!" Drunk Puss yelled up at him. The driver didn't answer. "Hm. Should I get OFF??" he yelled. Someone from the back of the bus answered, "Yes!" Passengers snickered.
The resident drunk passenger finally stumbled off shortly after the driver took off, much to everyone's delight. I'm starting to truly understand WHY the day after Thanksgiving is called Black Friday. It is undoubtedly a dark, scary experience. I'm none too worse for wear, however. And am furnished with a new cell phone to replace the lost one. I did this all for technology. ...

November 26, 2008

Busy B

Ugh. I've been busy. STILL trying to settle into my new crib! It's in disarray and we simply CAN'T have that. Hanging up pics have been a nightmare. The walls are made out of concrete apparently and I've bent several dozen picture hangers attempting to do so. Now it's time for plan B.
I cannot WAIT to get the internet up and running in ma maison. La maison de Coffey. AND I lost my phone this Saturday and cannot WAIT to get it replaced TOOT SUITE (did I spell that correctly??). The details of how I lost it shall remain murky, for now. In any event, I had it deactivated, especially since someone found it in a snap and decided to start immediately texting to someone in Mauritania! I'm back to my poor bachelorette ways (not that I had any affluent or well off ones to begin with) and do look forward to gorging myself on free Thanksgiving food.
I shall return, and will update as often as possible in the interim. Bises. P.S. Read this

June 26, 2008

Intellectualizms

I'm no prude. My mouth and mind emit and harbor some rather colorful and randy thoughts and commentary. That aside, every now and again I will meet the acquaintance of a phrase or piece of slang that'll make me either giggle with glee, shrug my shoulders indifferently, or roll my eyes, perplexed by its sheer stupidity. Yesterday was no exception, for I recently discovered the term "No Homo." Which has been in use for some time, apparently. Ridiculous and awkward sounding... its meaning is even more nonsensical. Urbandictionary.com basically defines No Homo! as a phrase one shouts out after having inadvertently said something, well, 'gay'. Anonymous contributors offer up a wide array of witty examples (and I'm copying and pasting them verbatim. Grammatic errors and misspellings intact) such as: Hay man, pass the nuts. No homo and I cornered him in my room and nailed him with a board. No homo. Or my personal favorite: 'yo homie, i just spent five hours talking with my man on the phone, no homo'
Apparently, yelling out "NO HOMO" after having made an ambiguously homosexy sounding comment, is supposed to cancel out a heterosexual man's femme side or make him seem even more virile. How butch. Non? I opine that it's just another way for some chauvinist, insecure fuckknob- (conflicted over his own sexuality)- to unnecessarily assert his manhood, because he may perhaps (I'm just speculating) harbor some deep, dark, sexy fantasies involving Leather Bear Daddies, lithe... sinewy Twinks, and silicone butt plugs.
What better way for a man to feel like a MAN than to indulge in a daily dose of homophobia? It's simply not enough to hoot and holler in a strip club or pour Cristal and money all over a hooker, for that's just a whetting of the MAN'S appetite for destruction. I'd be willing to wager that this term is born out of the RAP (notice I said RAP and not Hip Hop) culture of posturing, dick swinging, and champagne dreams and delusions of making it rain on some ho's. Just saying... NO HOMO!

May 04, 2008

Evermore Curiouser...

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. `Who are you?' said the Caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, `I--I hardly know, sir, just at present-- at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' `What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. `Explain yourself!' `I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, `because I'm not myself, you see.' `I don't see,' said the Caterpillar. `I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, `for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.' `It isn't,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; `but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?' `Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar. `Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; `all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.' `You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. `Who are you?' Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation. Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such very short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, `I think, you ought to tell me who you are, first.' `Why?' said the Caterpillar. Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, she turned away. `Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. `I've something important to say!' This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again. `Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar. `Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could. `No,' said the Caterpillar. Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, `So you think you're changed, do you?' `I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; `I can't remember things as I used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!'
-Alice in Wonderland, chapter 5: Advice from a Caterpillar

April 12, 2008

Umm....

This past week I've been home from work, coughing up my last lung... grimacing at what's been coming up out of my throat, blowing my nose, taking any drugs and cough sizzurp (yes I said sizzurp) I can get my hands on, whining and cursing my illness for I haven't been this sick, in a long time. ... I feel a lot better and felt inspired enough to compose a witty blog post. But, I just realized that today is April 12, and I haven't done my damn taxes yet. ... Shit. Maybe I should get on that like, now before The Man shakes me down hardcore.

March 15, 2008

The Gods Must Be Crazy

Why must the universe remind me, once a month, for one long excruciating and uncomfortable week, that I'm a woman. More importantly, why must I suffer for that very reason???
I planned on waking up early, this fine Saturday morn, to attend a St. Patty's Day brunch (complete with mimosas) at my workplace, but the powers that be had other plans for me... and it involves throbbing delicates, bloat, sore lower back, and a cramping lower tummy. This is what my weekend will end up being like (see below)... hope yours is just as pleasant. Men you just don't wanna know. You've no idea at'all. That's it...

December 23, 2007

@!*!!

I blog alot about trying to slay some of my personal demons... but I honestly feel like up against a real, literal one that has decided to use my nose, ears, and head as its own personal condo!
I'm still in the throes of this massive sinus/head cold I have! I'm no stranger to sinus issues. In fact, I may just have a deviated septum (deviated septum = Hollywood actresses' new excuse to get rhinoplasty. P.S. What the hell is a deviated septum??). Anyway, self-diagnoses aside, methinks this is the worst sinus cold I've had in a long time! My head, nose, and ears are on effing fire! It's very uncomfortable, I haven't slept in about two days, I've thrown every thing I've had at it! We're talking heavy artillery! I was making progress yesterday. Everything started to clear out. I was in good spirits (figuratively and beverage wise), I could breathe freely, and I was relieved. This early morning (we're talking 3AM) I woke up, feeling like someone had poured acid in my nostrils as I slept. Now I can't breathe or taste (VERY unfortunate), my eyes are running, my gums are sore, I can't stop sneezing, and I'm very discombobulated. I'm typing slowly in an effort to cut down on grammatical erros and to formulate intelligible sentences here. We're talking THAT discombobulated. In fact, I'm so out of touch with reality that I actually sat there and watched Danielle Steele's Star on the tele. The WHOLE movie! While inside, I asked myself "why?" over and over again.
Ugh. Yes, I'm a whinger when I'm ill only because I don't get colds very often! But seriously, this is some serious bidness. It's like the demon was being pushed out of my system and on the way to the exit (blown out on a Kleenex basically) it caught hold of some rung or ledge, and is holding on for dear life... sharp nails and all. I just drank some hot miso soup for breakfast and downed some mango nectar (which has vitamin C). My goal is to have this monster slain by or before Tuesday!

Wish me luck. Im gonna go lay down and do some more whining.

UPDATE: The horrible force that has me feeling like a steaming pile of dog dookey, is called Sinusitis. Oh joy! "Nose irrigation" with a saline solution is recommended. Mine isn't particularly acute, so I gots it covered. Just sprayed some saline up the ol' nostrils. And I must say, it offered a bit of a reprieve from the intense inflammation.

December 20, 2007

Sick

Whine, whine, whine, whinge, whine. So I'm afflicted with a horrible sinus/head cold. I woke up with sore joints, my head felt too large and heavy for my voluptuous body, my sinuses were on fire, etc etc etc. I felt like I was in a horrible, dark haze of pain and suffering and couldn't claw my way from the depths of it. Finally I forced myself up and at 'em, whincing from the effort. I haven't been sick with a cold in a looong time. I love the babies, but I suspect being around them as often as I have been, has made me a host to their cold germs, unfortunately. I've been coughed, hacked, and sneezed upon. Unfortch toddlers and 8 month olds know fuckall about covering their mouths and lathering up with hand sanitizer. Having made it past the first hurdle: getting up and shuffling to the loo, I couldn't be bothered with coffee, so I made some vanilla-ginger-chai tea with a generous helping of honey and French brandy. Mango nectar, lots of water, and Airborne coupled with hot miso soup just wasn't cutting it... so after I wrapped up an excruciating job interview (excruciating, because my ass was sick and sniffling through the whole process, and I know my breath reeked of mentholated cough drops), I ambled on over to CVS Pharmacy to stock up on some major drugs. Intense sinus relief nasal gel by Zicam and some REAL sinus medication... the kind the drugstores hoard behind the counter, and you can only purchase with a valid picture ID, because it contains Pseudoephedrine HCI... and since it's used to make meth and is considered a narcotic. "At least your puff ball (piled and pinned on top of my head) is perfectly round" opines my younger sister. In addition to my horrible cold, I'm also a victim of pre-menstrual bloat, my bra feels ten sizes too small and is digging into my flesh, the dirty pillows are sore and swollen and I'm extremely gassy. Ah. The joys of being made a special lady once a month. So toss in some Maximum Strength Pamprin into that crazy pill stew and expect me to be extremely hopped up and lucid this fine evening and subsequent day. Oh yes, despite my possibly contaminating the staff's board room in which I was interviewed in, I was propositioned by the CEO, who made me a lucrative job offer. I sniffed and accepted. ;-)

November 10, 2007

The Disintegration of Sexy Times

I've always been indifferent toward porn. It has never prompted any deep desire in me, during my precocious pre and late teen years to watch out of curiosity, amid all the salacious buzz. Sneaking a peek at the erotica on Cinemax after 11pm, finding and then reading Jackie Collins's titillating plots, Erica Jong's Fear of Flying, and the illustrated educative wonderment of The Joy of Sex was it for me. I didn't watch hardcore porn until I was in college... with my best friend. We watched out of sheer boredom. We walked down to the town's local video store and picked something from the late seventies/early eighties, much to the cashier's amusement. It featured an interracial raunch fest. Basic man on woman boning. Nothing too shocking or sexy and void of anything particularly depraved and disgusting. The usual cheesy fare, in fact. Neither of us found the antics sexy or arousing. We laughed raucously and critiqued the clownery of it all. Pure comedy. We decided perhaps we were too intellectual and snotty to get it. Other then a porn clip online here and a legitimate art house flick there- (most recently the movie Short Bus, which featured unsimulated sex)- it hasn't interested or enticed me since. Despite the rash of filmed celebrity sexploits being "leaked" online. Over the years... after having watched and read a great deal of "behind the scenes" documentary style films and books, I've came to the conclusion that porn is not erotic, is silly, quite frankly, ridiculous. Most of the pornographic material being released is filmed and produced by men. Men and their distorted visions of how women should look, what ridiculous sexual positions we should be bent in, and how we should act. Despite rumblings to the contrary, I doubt any of the women acting in these films have any actual orgasms. Hair flinging, head whipping, and high pitched 'O' and fuck yeaaah sounds, I'm sorry but the orgasm is fake. All in all, it's harmless fun for the lonely, lecherous, and in some cases... the socially inept. I've never been one of the protesters screaming for the industry to be banned. That being said, a lot has changed with the porn industry. The ever increasing advances in technology, the internet, video cameras, webcams, and the like have made porn more accessible and more achievable for aspiring porn mongers. Any amateur can film their sexual exploits and upload them onto Xtube or Pornotube with relative ease. In turn, the industry has become a virtual free for all. College fraternity houses host parties where group sex and orgies abound, while their peers (men and women spectators) stand off to the side, cheering the guerrilla fuckfests... clutching beers, fists pumping in the air. All in front of the camera and easy to view over the internet. These "gonzo" type films have raised the stakes... and the stakes have become even more disturbing and depraved in their delivery. The acts women subject themselves too is enough to make the most hardened, difficult to offend person cringe. And it takes a lot to make me want to gag and then vomit in my mouth or turn away with disgust. Some of it is downright perplexing. Such as the compelling documentary Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, which documents- Grace Quek's (Annabel is her porn name)- rise, exploitation, and eventual retirement from the porn industry. Annabel allegedly pioneered the whole "gang bang" trend in the industry. Nothing was too graphic or hardcore for Annabel. She performed a diverse array of hardcore sex acts, including "triple penetration." Annabel's motives for starring in The World's Biggest Gangbang were troubling as the documentary delved into her past. Needless to say, this current wave of pornography breeds misogyny and encourages violence toward women. Spat on, slapped, pissed and defecated on, penetrated and fisted in every orifice by several different men at once... It's sickening. And it's distressing. Particularly the gonzo films featuring Black, Brazilian, and Latino women. Men take trips to urban areas (usually scouting in a van of some sort) in search of "Black ghetto sluts" willing to oil up, shake, and then spread their cheeks in a seedy looking hotel room, on film. The perpetuation of sexual stereotypes frustrate the hell out of me. Two steps lower and more debased than the garbage shown in rap videos. And those in and of themselves are bad. I'm open and believe in people having the right to engage in whatever consensual sexual act they desire... but some of this stuff is troubling, notwithstanding my liberal stance. And it's not behind closed door. I think challenging what's wrong with the porn industry as it depicts itself today, does not a prude or anti-sex type make. I do believe there's something wrong with people who don't challenge this sort of behavior, the women who willingly subject themselves to this sort of humiliation, and the men who encourage them to do it or who are sitting at home with their hand down their boxers watching it and then thinking it's okay to go out and mistreat women, outside the realm of that business. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that the behavior in these gritty porn movies- the degradation, the abuse, the spitting, skull f*cking, quadruple penetration, crude talk, choking etc. are anti-sex. Here's a small snippet from Robert Jensen's book, Getting Off:

It hurts to know that no matter who you are as a woman you can be reduced to a thing to be penetrated, and that men will buy movies about that, and that in many of those movies your humiliation will be the central theme. It hurts to know that so much of the pornography that men are buying fuses sexual desire with cruelty.

It hurts women, and men like it, and it hurts just to know that.

Donkey punched, penises rammed down their throats until they puke, heads dunked in toilet bowls while they're being reamed from behind, faces saturated with semen and pee, wanting to jizz on a woman's face... Is this the type of sexual interaction men are craving to have with women?? Do you all secretly fantasize about making some woman vomit, while you force your penis down her throat? If so perhaps I should get my delicates stitched closed and look into becoming a nun.
Read a more substantial excerpt from Jensen's book here.
Also read this Money Shot entry, from October 29 blogged by Girl with a One Track Mind.

October 31, 2007

Keeping a List

This past week coupled with this present week has been rather interesting, to say the least. For 3 consecutive days in a row, I've slept under a full moon... literally hovering o'er my head, just outside my window, In all its resplendent glory. I don't know if my moon has anything to do with the strange haps, but I'm convinced that I'm the only one who proceeds through life as if I'm an unwilling cast member in some Twilight Zone episode. Let's explore this short (but indelible) diary of occurrences. Shall we? Oh let's!
Saturday, 5:15PM:
As I was walking from the bus stop in front of Bushnell Park, en route to my apartment building a couple of blocks away, a shuttle driver pulls over and implores me to hop on for a free ride. I told him I was only mere inches away from my building, but he insisted. He said he wanted to "kidnap" me, so I rode the loop downtown with him. During the course of the ride, he suggested that I take some of the brochures from off the dash to read about the latest and greatest the city was offering. I obliged him, fully aware of his motivation. I stood up quickly, snatched some literature up, and sat down just as quickly. Seconds later, Driver would remark, "I just wanted you to stand up, so I can look," to which I remarked dryly, "I know. I figured I'd humor you, and let you get a quick peek. " Embarrassed and surprised by my response, he chuckled and said nothing more.
Monday, mid-Afternoon:
The Fire Marshall is scheduled to come test the museum's fire alarm system. It's difficult for him to focus on the matter at hand, because he finds my scent alluring. So alluring in fact, that he keeps sidling next to me and sniffing me. Deep inhalations of breath. While the few who notice, stand by, looking flummoxed by his behavior. He suggests that I work behind a cage, because men such as himself, are likely to pounce on me for smelling so good. I shrug indifferently. And manage a tight smile... or was it a grimace? His task complete, the Fire Marshall heads out and on his way. But not before walking over to where I'm working for one last, hearty sniiiiiiiiifffffff.
Wednesday, 9:15 AM, This Hallow's Eve:
As I'm standing at the bus stop, a white man (attractive and rather sane looking) around my age walks by me, towards the Holiday Inn Express... on his cell phone. Not finding what or who he seems to be looking for, he heads back in the opposite direction from whence he came but not before stopping and telling me how much he likes my shoes. In fact, the conversation went as follows ...
  • Perv: Hi, I really like your shoes. They're so hot.
  • Me (hiding behind large, dark shades): Thanks
  • Perv: They're smokin' Hot. They're so sexy. Listen, I'm sorta into shoes. Well... I have a bit of a shoe fetish.
  • Me: Do you, now?
  • Perv: Yes. Um, actually, can I take a picture of your shoes. They look so hot.
  • Me: No.
  • Perv: Please? I really like them. They look so hot on you. I would love to take a picture of them.
  • Me (considering an asking price): Umm. No.
  • Perv: Okay. Sorry to bother you. Have a great day. Bye!
Until this morning, I honestly didn't think my existence and interaction with the male populace could get any stranger. ...

October 22, 2007

Full Speed Ahead on the Ignoramus Express

This is why race matters continue to fester. And why I become a little more bitter (with a dash of militancy thrown in for good measure) and a little less hopeful. Racism and bigotry in varying degrees continue to percolate, because many members of the majority refuse to acknowledge or accept the fact that people with dark skin, are not intellectually inferior. And have the capacity to excel and be successful. People like this piece of shit are archaic (but unwelcome) artifacts, that need to be buried for good with the rest of the fossils. UGH! Maddening!

October 12, 2007

Why?

I've been busy trying to improve the quality of my life. Unfortunately this process doesn't involve marathon sex, fruity (but potent) cocktails adorned with fruit, Oxycontin, yachts docked on the Mediterranean, whippits, or having acquired a wealthy sugar daddy. In any event, in the midst of all this business I've noticed a few things that have left me-- well-- flummoxed. Firstly, while standing in my small kitchenette sipping a cup of coffee, I noticed the pot's instructions warned against holding the coffee maker's glass carafe over someone's head. Umm, is this a serious and common occurrence amongst coffee pot owners? Do people usually deliver a swift blow to the head, knocking their loved ones, cheating husbands, and philandering boyfriends unconscious? Sure offers another alternative to dumping a pot of hot grits on someone's lap. Whilst on the bus recently, I also noticed a small baby store in the heart of the inner city, called Half on a Baby. I'm speechless. R. Kelly aficionados will understand my dismay.

October 01, 2007

Where I Converse with Myself

Dear Self,
You drink massive amounts of coffee and water. And you have somewhat of an overactive bladder, particularly during those pre-menstrual days where ten times on the hour, every hour seems pretty typical. Par for the course, especially this past week and then today. You are aware of this, self. So why? WHY did you think it was a wise idea to wear your black, pin-striped high-waisted, nautical pants?? 12-plus buttons to fiddle with. Self, your fingers seem awkward and big, when you're making that mad dash into the loo, to get to the bog pan in time to avoid an embarrassing situation that'd send you home early. Fingers don't seem to want to cooperate and you're tempted to just yank down the flap of your trousers, sacrificing all 12 plus buttons. But you clench those kegels-- along with all the other muscles south of the border tightly, to keep from regressing back to your years as a toddler. Sometimes it just isn't practical for one to enslave her (or his) to fashion.

August 04, 2007

Bearded Lady

I hate body hair. I've been an avid shaver since the age of 12 and use depilatories and creams (provided they're safe, hypoallergenic, and wont skin me alive). I don't get hair on my legs but I shave the imaginary ones I know are there anyway. The only visible hair I acknowledge is the thick, coarse mass on my head. Luckily I'm not a woman who requires electrolysis, monthly bikini waxes, and who needs to shave her chin. I think my complex about body hair developed during my middle-school years.
Whilst taking a pre-pool shower before the required swim class I resented in the most violent of ways- (we had to get suited up and then rinse off, in a communal shower- any body lotions perfuming our persons, before diving in the pool, so as not to get residue in the water)- I happened to look to my immediate left at one of the more popular girls in my class, rinsing off and talking animatedly to her friends while they waited to walk with her to the swimming pool. She wasn't addressing me at all. She didn't even look in my direction but that didn't stop me from looking in hers, to listen to whatever superficial rant she was rambling on about. I hate myself terribly because I also happened to look down. In the Netherlands, I noticed she had a thick, black, coarse Chia Pet growing out the sides of her green one-piece. The beast couldn't be contained, and so it snaked it's way from each side... mocking me. I was horrified. I averted my eyes quickly and scurried to the pool. Needless to say, that experience scarred me. I rushed home right after school, found a men's Bic razor in the medicine cabinet, and shaved my delicates, arm pits, legs, you name it, I shaved it off. I shaved it off and never looked back. I shaved with passion unbridled.
Fortunately I have minimal amounts of body hair and shave the ones that sprout up a couple times a week. As far liking men with massive amounts of body hair and unruly beards, I prefer long, unkempt beards and hairy backs. That being said, I met a good male friend of mine for a drink a few days ago (his treat). My dear friend. Attractive, well dressed, with a keen fashion sense. My friend of the nice light brown skin (a result of Italy intermingling with Africa). I feel confident relaying this story because I know the likelihood of him reading it is... well... not very likely as he's not technologically savvy nor does he have access to the internet and rarely ever web surfs (knocking on wood). My dear, attractive sweet friend. Whom I've known for a spell and who I always suspected was closeted behind thick winter sweaters, coats, button downs, shoes, and summer apparel. Tucked waaaay in the back behind the "in case I run out of laundry" wear. His choice. His demons to slay. I stand behind him regardless. I just would like to see him happy. I'm a huge supporter of his (prospective) brethren. They make my heart dance and sing. I understand why they choose the rainbow as their symbol. I'm a self-described hag and think it's important for people to be themselves and not hide what they can't help being. I keep my mouth shut regarding such matters, because it's not my place to dictate to someone when they should be themselves. Anyway, my dear friend seemed rather flirty and touchy-feely... leaving me flummoxed. He threw me off even further by relaying an erotic dream he had about me. Despite my confusion, I responded the way any mature adult would. ... "EWWWWWWW!!!!! UUUUGHHHHH!!!"
"You weren't saying that in the dream." He said, coyly.
I clasped his hand in one of mine and used my other to pat his, platonically and friendlike and then quickly changed the subject. I turn 30 in a matter of days. Lately, I've been singing the praises of singledom. I enjoy my solitude more and more and appreciate it for what it is. That being said, I'm not dead nor am I desperate. I don't want to live out the rest of my single days playing a beard. It's not a lifestyle I envisioned for myself and it'd make for a pretty inactive and boring sex life, no? That charade would also be murder on my drain pipes and a bitch to sweep up, as it'd grow wilder and more bedraggled... becoming evermore out of control and hard to manage, that not even Nair or Epilady would be able to contain it.