So, I just realized I'm an atrocious blogger.
I jumped on the blog bandwagon a couple years after it was the cool thing to do. now here I am.
what makes one person's thoughts and opinions and beliefs worth reading? because to be honest, when I stumble across someone's blog, I find myself really not giving a shit. yet here I sit, maybe one day a month, when I haven nothing better to do, writing about some little snippet of my life that I find funny or witty or whatever and it only occurred to me now that most people give as much of a shit about what I think as I do about what they think. Catch my drift? ShitExchange.
Damn you blogging.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
RA of my Dreams
It's recently come to my attention how awesome (some) of my friends are. Not that they aren't all awesome in their own right, but there are a few who have managed, in their two plus decades on this earth to find something they love and stick to it and use it to better themselves and allow it to create opportunities for them. A lot of my boys are all graphic designers. While this in my mind is not something exponentially awesome, it does allow most of them (the graduated ones) to work from home in their pajamas as gross as most of their college days. One even brags of how he pulls off the classy upperhalf, pajama bottomhalf for videochat meetings. However, there are the few, the ones who understand what it is they want out of life and go and make it happen.
My freshman year of college in Vermont, I was privileged enough to have one of the most epic human beings for one very cold semester as my RA. I knew right away that our friendship was something special. He and I would often meet in the common room to drink our tea and exchange embarrassing stories. They always tended to focus around embarrassingly excreting some sort of bodily something-or-other stories, and what strikes me odd about this, is we never seemed to run out of these types of tales. I was the first resident of our dorm who he smoked pot with. And oh what a magical burn cruise that was. I would gladly brave the -32° on the walk back all over again.
Unfortunately, we don't keep in touch much, and whenever we were both in Burlington, we managed to meet up at a party, hug, exchange stories and witty banter, then separate to get shitty with our own little personal groups of friends.
But why I give you back story, is that even though he and I aren't so close anymore, I've followed all the work he has done since graduating.
He's successfully ridden a moped cross country, videoing and photographing the whole thing. He's traveled all over, documenting every aspect of everything around him.
Now, there are many people who do this. (Not the moped thing, obviously. That takes balls and a bit of crazy.) They travel and take videos and photos and bring them back and share them. Yet there is always a lack-luster. A disclaimer inevitably follows anything they show you "You should have been there!"
There's nothing wrong with this. I do it myself quite frequently.
Yet my RA, he manages to bring you with him. His photos reveal a beauty that I don't think is actually visible during the taking. His aren't the 'it's better in person' kind of photos. His are the "I don't know if I actually need to go there and see this because I feel like I already have" kind.
It takes an eye and a talent, and most importantly a passion, to share your TRUE vision of life with the world, and I think it should be acknowledged, praised, glorified and even smoked-up to, when it happens.
So here's to you, RA of my dreams.
You live the life I dream of, with a passion I could not hope to fathom. And you do it earnestly and modestly.
TAKE ME WITH YOU.
My freshman year of college in Vermont, I was privileged enough to have one of the most epic human beings for one very cold semester as my RA. I knew right away that our friendship was something special. He and I would often meet in the common room to drink our tea and exchange embarrassing stories. They always tended to focus around embarrassingly excreting some sort of bodily something-or-other stories, and what strikes me odd about this, is we never seemed to run out of these types of tales. I was the first resident of our dorm who he smoked pot with. And oh what a magical burn cruise that was. I would gladly brave the -32° on the walk back all over again.
Unfortunately, we don't keep in touch much, and whenever we were both in Burlington, we managed to meet up at a party, hug, exchange stories and witty banter, then separate to get shitty with our own little personal groups of friends.
But why I give you back story, is that even though he and I aren't so close anymore, I've followed all the work he has done since graduating.
He's successfully ridden a moped cross country, videoing and photographing the whole thing. He's traveled all over, documenting every aspect of everything around him.
Now, there are many people who do this. (Not the moped thing, obviously. That takes balls and a bit of crazy.) They travel and take videos and photos and bring them back and share them. Yet there is always a lack-luster. A disclaimer inevitably follows anything they show you "You should have been there!"
There's nothing wrong with this. I do it myself quite frequently.
Yet my RA, he manages to bring you with him. His photos reveal a beauty that I don't think is actually visible during the taking. His aren't the 'it's better in person' kind of photos. His are the "I don't know if I actually need to go there and see this because I feel like I already have" kind.
It takes an eye and a talent, and most importantly a passion, to share your TRUE vision of life with the world, and I think it should be acknowledged, praised, glorified and even smoked-up to, when it happens.
So here's to you, RA of my dreams.
You live the life I dream of, with a passion I could not hope to fathom. And you do it earnestly and modestly.
TAKE ME WITH YOU.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Why do they always say "We Got Lucky"?
Today, after my first official day at work (don't get too excited dear reader(s), it's at a deli) I arrived home excited to kick up, relax, eat some hard deserved breakfast (at 2pm) and enjoy myself. However, after a frantic knock at the door, I was informed that my car was on fire.
Lo and Behold, it was. I dialed the dreaded digits 9-1-1 (and yes, I did have to ask "who do i call?!?!?!") and waited the years it took for fire trucks to arrive.
At this point, my car is engulfed in smoke, flames are shooting out from under the bonnet (the hood for all you American types) and the fence around where my car is parked is only fueling the fire. All the while, the neighbors are standing around, taking photos with their snazzy new i-phones and pointing out my misery. (That's right all you motherfucking Sparta snobs, laugh it up.)
Meanwhile, all I can think about is how the fire is going to spread the 1 foot gap between my car and my garage and obliterate the house my mother and stepfather have recently renovated thus leaving us homeless.
ADRENALINE. i was outside standing in the snow for 45 minutes barefoot just watching my car slowly melt.
Later, after the fire department told me it wasn't as bad as it seemed, and that the damage to the house was minimal if anything (needless to say the car was fucking totaled) my stepfather and mother and I pow-wowed around the kitchen island discussing the events of the day.
The phrase that resonated with me most was how they both agreed "We got lucky!"
Yes, I agree, things could have been atrociously worse, I could have been in the car when it spontaneously combusted (and yes folks, during the fire there were two mini-explosions and I did let two, freakishly girly screams escape my being), the house could have been burned to the ground, the neighbors' homes could have gone as well... etc. etc. yup. it could have been extremely bad.
But in my book, your car catching fire is not "lucky"
Lucky is when you have an uneventful day, get to relax after a hard day at work and enjoy the simple things.
I promise you, tomorrow, I will enjoy all the luck I can.
Lo and Behold, it was. I dialed the dreaded digits 9-1-1 (and yes, I did have to ask "who do i call?!?!?!") and waited the years it took for fire trucks to arrive.
At this point, my car is engulfed in smoke, flames are shooting out from under the bonnet (the hood for all you American types) and the fence around where my car is parked is only fueling the fire. All the while, the neighbors are standing around, taking photos with their snazzy new i-phones and pointing out my misery. (That's right all you motherfucking Sparta snobs, laugh it up.)
Meanwhile, all I can think about is how the fire is going to spread the 1 foot gap between my car and my garage and obliterate the house my mother and stepfather have recently renovated thus leaving us homeless.
ADRENALINE. i was outside standing in the snow for 45 minutes barefoot just watching my car slowly melt.
Later, after the fire department told me it wasn't as bad as it seemed, and that the damage to the house was minimal if anything (needless to say the car was fucking totaled) my stepfather and mother and I pow-wowed around the kitchen island discussing the events of the day.
The phrase that resonated with me most was how they both agreed "We got lucky!"
Yes, I agree, things could have been atrociously worse, I could have been in the car when it spontaneously combusted (and yes folks, during the fire there were two mini-explosions and I did let two, freakishly girly screams escape my being), the house could have been burned to the ground, the neighbors' homes could have gone as well... etc. etc. yup. it could have been extremely bad.
But in my book, your car catching fire is not "lucky"
Lucky is when you have an uneventful day, get to relax after a hard day at work and enjoy the simple things.
I promise you, tomorrow, I will enjoy all the luck I can.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
And now for something sure to make you feel a little awkward...
Alright. So. I have a boyfriend. (Don't even get me started on how strange a statement that is for me to make. 6 years of singledom just flew out the window.) And this boyfriend, we're gonna call him Russia, (yup. you guessed it, he was born and raised in Russia) well, Russia, like most other non-American men has not been circumcised. Now, this doesn't bother me. I lived in Italy for two-ish years and dated my fare share of uncircumcised men, and I'm also a bit of a naturalist and believe we should not alter how we were created - at least not to the point of mutilation.
There have been news stories about women in third-world countries who are abused and subjected to clitoral circumcision and it disgusts us more 'refined' folk. Yet we, in good conscience, decide that all little boys with the misfortune of being born should have a little bit of extra skin hacked off of their teeny tiny little innocent penises. (penii? what the hell is plural of penis?) I'm sorry. THAT IS DISGUSTING. We claim it's for cleanliness. Can't you take an extra 2 seconds to clean the folds of your child's genitalia? Parents do it for little girls. And when that little extra-skinned boy gets older TEACH HIM TO CLEAN HIS SHIT ON HIS OWN!!! honestly. people's stupidity just baffles me. Circumcision is penile mutilation, yet it's a common practice (thanks to the Jews. I've been to my fair share of briss' thanks to the the faith of my mother's side of the family, and let me tell you, that is NOT something to be celebrated.) and that somehow makes it okay.
LONG LIVE FORE-SKIN AND OVERLY SENSITIVE MALE GENITALIA.
That is all. And if I ever have a son, you can damn sure assume his dick is not gettin' snipped.
There have been news stories about women in third-world countries who are abused and subjected to clitoral circumcision and it disgusts us more 'refined' folk. Yet we, in good conscience, decide that all little boys with the misfortune of being born should have a little bit of extra skin hacked off of their teeny tiny little innocent penises. (penii? what the hell is plural of penis?) I'm sorry. THAT IS DISGUSTING. We claim it's for cleanliness. Can't you take an extra 2 seconds to clean the folds of your child's genitalia? Parents do it for little girls. And when that little extra-skinned boy gets older TEACH HIM TO CLEAN HIS SHIT ON HIS OWN!!! honestly. people's stupidity just baffles me. Circumcision is penile mutilation, yet it's a common practice (thanks to the Jews. I've been to my fair share of briss' thanks to the the faith of my mother's side of the family, and let me tell you, that is NOT something to be celebrated.) and that somehow makes it okay.
LONG LIVE FORE-SKIN AND OVERLY SENSITIVE MALE GENITALIA.
That is all. And if I ever have a son, you can damn sure assume his dick is not gettin' snipped.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
GrownUp Clothes
I went shopping today.
For anyone who knows me, you know I detest shopping. First off, I have the attention span of a small ADHD child. So staying focused, keeping my eye on that clothing prize, it's quite difficult. Second, well, my breasticles tend to make shopping a nightmare. Things don't fit me. My boobs require plus sizes. (Don't even get me started on bra shopping. My eyes leak. Like a bitch.) My mom always says, we'll take it to a tailor. Fuck that. No. We won't. I'm cheap. I'm lazy. And the last thing I need is 'shopping 2.0 the rise of the tailor' to tailspin me even further into breast related depression. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure my boobs, and not the moon, are responsible for that whole tide thing.) And thirdly, I tend to go a little psycho when trapped in overpopulated, unnatural indoor settings for long periods of time.
So. Anyway. Apparently, because I'm no longer in college and applying for 'grown-up' jobs, my wardrobe needs to be updated. But I like my clothes. I like my hippie-wear, my ratty sweaters, my Montauk sweatshirt which I've had since birth it feels like (even though its been stolen frequently. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.). My clothes define my "I don't care, let's smoke another bowl" outlook on life. Or better yet, my non-conformity to the man, yeah man. I don't believe in cubicles or careers or money. But that's a rant for another time.
Back to clothing.
So, yea. Today, I bought clothes that make me look like an adult rather than a large-breasted awkward child type person. I found myself thinking (while changing in the atrociously lit dressing room) "this can totally double as work clothes during the day and going out clothes for the evening" while looking in the mirror (which, those crafty bastards somehow design to make you look taller and slimmer than you really are, which in the store seems awesome. 'hey everybody, come and see how good i look!' but then as soon as you get home it's like womp wommppppp. 'I've apparently lost 3 inches in height and added them to everywhere else.'). Now, this is a strange thought to be going through my mind considering I am currently unemployed and have no social life whatsoever.
So despite the fact I have nowhere to go, nothing to do and no one to do it with, I can now dress like a grown up.
Damn. It feels good to be a gansta.
For anyone who knows me, you know I detest shopping. First off, I have the attention span of a small ADHD child. So staying focused, keeping my eye on that clothing prize, it's quite difficult. Second, well, my breasticles tend to make shopping a nightmare. Things don't fit me. My boobs require plus sizes. (Don't even get me started on bra shopping. My eyes leak. Like a bitch.) My mom always says, we'll take it to a tailor. Fuck that. No. We won't. I'm cheap. I'm lazy. And the last thing I need is 'shopping 2.0 the rise of the tailor' to tailspin me even further into breast related depression. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure my boobs, and not the moon, are responsible for that whole tide thing.) And thirdly, I tend to go a little psycho when trapped in overpopulated, unnatural indoor settings for long periods of time.
So. Anyway. Apparently, because I'm no longer in college and applying for 'grown-up' jobs, my wardrobe needs to be updated. But I like my clothes. I like my hippie-wear, my ratty sweaters, my Montauk sweatshirt which I've had since birth it feels like (even though its been stolen frequently. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.). My clothes define my "I don't care, let's smoke another bowl" outlook on life. Or better yet, my non-conformity to the man, yeah man. I don't believe in cubicles or careers or money. But that's a rant for another time.
Back to clothing.
So, yea. Today, I bought clothes that make me look like an adult rather than a large-breasted awkward child type person. I found myself thinking (while changing in the atrociously lit dressing room) "this can totally double as work clothes during the day and going out clothes for the evening" while looking in the mirror (which, those crafty bastards somehow design to make you look taller and slimmer than you really are, which in the store seems awesome. 'hey everybody, come and see how good i look!' but then as soon as you get home it's like womp wommppppp. 'I've apparently lost 3 inches in height and added them to everywhere else.'). Now, this is a strange thought to be going through my mind considering I am currently unemployed and have no social life whatsoever.
So despite the fact I have nowhere to go, nothing to do and no one to do it with, I can now dress like a grown up.
Damn. It feels good to be a gansta.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Boy on the Inside. Boobs on the Outside.
For all intents and purposes, I am a boy on the inside. Not that whole, I was born the wrong gender, damn this vagina sort of inside-boy, but rather: I have kicked lovers out of my bed because I'm too tired to pretend to want to cuddle. I enjoy discussing pooping. Cars turn me on. Sex is basic, instinctual and should be practiced at any available moment. I don't cry, my eyes just leak sometimes. I laugh anytime someone uses the word duty or preferably 'duties' (haha duty). Farting is one way to ease your mind, body and soul. But most of all, girls scare the shit out of me.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not literally afraid of females (well not all females). It's just that, well, I understand all the crazy/emotional bullshit that wreaks havoc on the female psyche thus transforming us all into demon-psycho-cunts (i'm sorry if the word offends you, get over it). I think all straight men, whether faithful or cheaters, monogamous or manwhores, cocky or dorky, deserve a big pat on the back or blowjob or whatever would make their day. Kudos to you, you slayers of females, you vag-masters, because it's to you we owe a big Thanks. Without you, I'd be forced to be lesbian.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not literally afraid of females (well not all females). It's just that, well, I understand all the crazy/emotional bullshit that wreaks havoc on the female psyche thus transforming us all into demon-psycho-cunts (i'm sorry if the word offends you, get over it). I think all straight men, whether faithful or cheaters, monogamous or manwhores, cocky or dorky, deserve a big pat on the back or blowjob or whatever would make their day. Kudos to you, you slayers of females, you vag-masters, because it's to you we owe a big Thanks. Without you, I'd be forced to be lesbian.
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