Well kids I have news. I am going to take a break from my regularly scheduled blogger and begin to participate in nanowrimo, National Novel Writing Month. I will be doing this over blogger, so what you will be treated to is the story as I write it. No editing (to speak of) just me, splooging a story out on the page. It goes from November 1st -30th so I will probably not be blogging on here for awhile. Instead all my energy will be concentrated on achieving 50,000 words before November 3oth. The gauntlet has been thrown down.

The site is http://jessbook.blogspot.com

I haven't written anything yet, but you please offer feedback as you read, be it there or here.

Let the games begin.

Well, here is how I’m seeing things. It is 2:03 pm by my clock at work and I have one more hour to go. I am, therefore, going to write this blog, email it to myself and post it when I get home. By the time you read this blog (whomever the faceless mass of “you” may consist of) it will have completed quite the cyber journey. It makes a body tired just thinking about it. But perhaps that is just me. But I’m the only one keeping myself company right now so I am, therefore, the only one that counts.



Wow, I am off to a wordy, rambling start. Not good kids, not good. I do believe last night I left you all a treat as I attempted to pass the time away at class. Why is it real life persists in intruding upon my dreams? Always this business of working, and learning, and improving one’s self. Never time for playing, writing and, in general, living in a world of fantasy.



Oh, we’re up to 2:07. I swear this building is in a different time continuum. Perhaps all office buildings are. The day slows to a grinding halt when you are at work. It doesn’t matter how much work I do, or how fast I work, or how hard I work inevitably, 3:00 or 3:30 (depending on what time I make it in the morning) simply will not come fast enough. But, once I go home the evening hours seem to fly by with nary a minute to enjoy them. How is this possible? I am sometimes convinced that being an adult is something forced upon the rest of us by boring, bitter people, angry that they are boring and bitter and thus must make the rest of us suffer.



Whew, more rambling. This is what happens when I write at work. But, the time is now 2:11.



So I do have one thing of value worth mentioning. Christopher Reeve died. Two nights ago Larry King Live did a tribute to this man and in the background the crowd cheered him on while shaking “Bush-Cheney” signs in their hands. People gave a tribute to Christopher Reeve while endorsing President Bush and his Vice President. Perhaps you aren’t aware of why this makes me seethe. I will explain.



Christopher Reeve was paralyzed from the shoulders down. His one hope for a cure not only himself, but countless others like him, as well as thousands of cancer patients was stem cell therapy. He fought with every ounce of considerable power at his disposal for the necessary funding and governmental support of stem cell research. President Bush offered him a paltry sum more to appease the uneducated masses than to offer any true support to stem cell research. Reeve is on record countless times as saying “if only we can get the funding”. At what point does it seem like a good idea to tribute a man while endorsing the one person he fought most obviously against? How is this acceptable?!



Stem cell therapy was Christopher Reeve’s one true hope for walking again. Bush would not support it. Stem cell therapy is the key to improving and saving the lives of millions of people around the world. Bush will not support it. It is a free country. You can support Bush if you so choose, but don’t you dare shake a Bush sign and say you are sorry Christopher Reeve is dead! Don’t you dare pay tribute to that man and vote his nemesis into office. And nemesis is certainly what Bush was to Reeve. Whether the two got along or not, stem cell therapy is the next big break through in our world and Bush is the most obvious opposition right now. The man is simple minded and an idiot. No matter what arguments you make for Bush you cannot argue those two facts, because that is what they are, facts. He is not a smart man.



I’m not saying you can’t support Bush (though it is unfortunate if you do). Everyone is entitled to their opinion, even the KKK. But be aware of what you are doing when you shake a sign and cheer someone on. Holding a Bush sign at a Christopher Reeve tribute is like wearing an “I love the Romans” button to a Christian Church. It just doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.



Well, the time is now 2:25 pm and I have acquired more work. So I’m off to do my work and I bid you all adieu.

Okay, I've put up with all I can, and I cannot put up with anymore. Here I sit in my Access Class, paid for by work which is really the only thing that makes it tolerable. I am bored beyond my mind! Granted, I have learned a lot, but my patience is not so great that I can sit here for three hours. It is mind numbing and tedious. I have no patience. I want it all and I want it now!

You will have to forgive me on this post. It is rather hard to type quietly and get my thoughts out before they run away. I am also trying to pay attention when necessary. It is all very time consuming and irritating.

So I have discovered lately that my blog readers are far more varied then I had ever imagined. I know who you are now (some of you) but no, I will not censor. This is after all, my place to rant, be crude, and in general spout views, thoughts and ideas that might not be classroom appropriate. I haven't apologized yet for who I am, I don't imagine myself beginning now. Besides, I wouldn't be nearly as much fun if I thought about what I was saying before I said it now would I?

I am in a very odd mood of late. Which might not be surprising, but you must remember I only blog when I'm in a very odd mood. What is strange is that this mood has persisted.

Oh joy! He is going to call it a night soon! I am very thrilled. Unfortunately I was just getting ready to start blogging...I'm not sure I will have a chance now. In all honesty I owe you all a nice long provocative blog. Or at least something to muddle on for the next few days.

I think I will preview myself by stating a few topics I look foward to covering:

1) I am no longer Christian. That is not to say I am not spiritual, but my spirituality no longer falls in the realm of Christianity.
2) You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink. No matter how much you may want to shake sense into someone it is not always your place to do so. I will delve into learning that lesson later.
3) I am a big coward. I think perhaps I have doomed myself to spinsterhood. My self-defense mechanisms work so darn well I just don't think I have it in my to lay it all on the line and risk friendship, future and happiness.

So these are some topics I wish to discuss in the future. This can remind me of what I owe you a blog on and perhaps I will expand on these topics in the future.

I suppose I should pay attention for the last thirty minute of class. I bid you adieu and wish you many orgasms in your near future.

:)

This blog I am going to discuss the merits of masturbation. That’s right, I said it. MAS-TUR-BATION. I know you all aren’t shocked. There is no way I have any room left to shock anyone that’s read more than three of these posts. But I don’t think I have yet dedicated an entire post to the wonder that is masturbating. Heaven knows it deserves it. I speak from experience, believe me. You can’t not fuck me the week before my period. I will masturbate. I know, I’ve seen me do it.

At this point, perhaps there are a few moans of "over-sharing" and I ask you why is that? We all do it. And if you don't, that only explains your surly behavior. It’s not something I enjoy nearly as often as I would like, after all I have a roommate. And, while I miss him terribly when he is gone, at least I don’t sit around the apartment with him complaining about my horniness. I can take care of it myself.

But the terrible thing is even I feel like I’m pushing boundaries here. I feel slightly ashamed talking so candidly about my solo affairs. I have no trouble relating my bad sex stories (I would say good, but with a few exceptions my good ones are lacking). So how is it that I can discuss so candidly my experiences of dickie-doos and limp dicks and short dicks and perfectly good dicks attached to perfectly terrible people and I shy away from the topic of masturbation? If I were talking about a man yankin’ the crank it would not seem nearly like such a taboo discussion.

I have a theory. (Did you doubt me?)

Until the age of eighteen and even for a few years following, female masturbation seemed the height of grossness to me. I played around as a kid (because all kids do and if you try to argue you’re just fooling yourself) but by the time I was old enough to truly enjoy the activity I had shied away from it as something disgusting and improper. Amazing isn’t it, that I would harbor thoughts of propriety? But there you have it. Even in the sanctity of my bedroom, alone and undisturbed I could not bring myself to discover what feeling good truly was. I knew my brother did it and most every male in my acquaintance but for females it remained something dirty. Something bad girls did. I, unfortunately, was not yet bad. But, about eighteen I finally gained enough insight into my feelings of restlessness to put two and two together. Or two to one as the case may be. Very logically I thought to myself "hm, boys masturbate. Girls masturbate in porn. Shouldn’t I be able to masturbate? How do I accomplish this? I guess you just…go for it." You think I’m exaggerating. I’m not. I had no idea. Filled with the world of chick flicks and trashy romances where beautiful idealistic virgins are just waiting for their passion to be tapped by a skilled, worldly man I assumed deep down that when I found a man to share intimacy with he would show me the ropes. I would touch him, he would touch me everyone goes home happy.

Two problems with that thought process (at least). 1) The amount of men in this world who can do you right when you don’t even know what you like is so small as to be a thing of dreams. I’m not saying they don’t exist, I’m saying you’ll never meet them unless you’re a character in a Danielle Steele novel. 2) Since when did my body become something only a man could enjoy? It’s my body. I think that gives me some rights in the orgasm department. I love men, goddess knows, but the clitoris is a finicky creature. I need to keep my finger on her so that I can help him (or them) along when the time comes. Yes, that pun was intended.

Why is female masturbation such a harder concept to accept than male masturbation? This isn’t a problem that affects older people; usually by the time you hit your twenties you’ve figured it out. But what about young adolescent girls? Why do we hide the knowledge of sexual pleasure from them? It isn’t that I think fathers are sitting down with their sons explaining the rudiments of stroking one’s penis, but hell, I’m a girl and even I knew how a guy got the job done. I just figured people had sex, guys stuck it in and some magical fairy godmother of sex would wave her wand and grant me an orgasm.

I missed out on a good six or seven years of stroking the beaver due to that little misnomer. You better believe I’m pissed about that.

Even today girls and women will reply with "ooh, that’s gross!" when questioned about masturbating. Where do they get that ridiculous idea?! The clitoris is a beautiful thing and there is none so beautiful as your own. Use it, learn it, love it ladies.

I think part of the problem with masturbation is that there is something pathetic associated with it. If a person has to please oneself they are lacking because they have no on else to do it for them. That mentality applies to both men and women. And it’s bullshit. I don’t care who you are, you are never going to be ready to do me each and every time I need to be done. Why shouldn’t I spare you and save myself? And how are we to help others love our bodies if we don’t even know how to do it ourselves?

Now, I think sex is something you have to learn on your own. Not understand, the education should come from the parents, but you don’t know it until you do it. And learning is half the fun. The same holds true for masturbation. No one can sit you down and explain "first you stick your hands down your pants and then you…" No, not going to work. But it is a topic that should be addressed during "the talk". Or, in the case of those of us that were fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have multiple talks, should be addressed somewhere along the way. When you give your kid the adolescent, funny feelings talk just throw masturbation in there. Don’t draw a map but tell your kid what the word means, what it is and that it is a natural thing. Not to mention it will help keep them happy. I mean honestly, they won’t get pregnant, they won’t catch std’s and there will be a release for all that tension inside them they have no idea what to do with. It isn’t the people that embrace sexuality that are freaky, it’s the people that repress it. Just try to argue with me.

So, obviously I am pro-masturbation. I have to admit I’ve lost my shyness by the end of this. And for all you men out there feeling grossed out by this discussion just think of it this way. The more I know about myself means the easier it is for me to show you what to do (or do it myself) and the more time we have to get to what makes you happy. You get yours, I get mine, we both go home happy.

You cannot tell me that is a bad thing.

A lesson is always waiting to be learned when you least expect. I have learned two over the course of five days, one at work late last week and one just now while playing piano. Neither lesson had anything to do with what I was doing at the time, and yet my mind just seemed to wander on its own, released by my consciousness to seek whatever knowledge it would. And, in an instant, my inner self grabbed the knowledge and slammed it in front of my eyes, undeniable. That’s the beauty of activities like playing the piano, instead of forcing your conscious mind on the unconscious you are focused, attentive, so the rest of your mind can do what it will. That is when I always learn the most necessary, and painful, life lessons.

I wonder about my Grandma Dee-Dee a lot. She lost her husband while she was in her forties. She went to work outside the home for the first time in her life, finished putting two kids through school while watching out for the first two and lived her life to all appearances like everything was fine. How do you do that? How do you lose the love of your life while there is still so much life to live? And knowing that you are going to lose them early, lose them having had only enough time to love with them with all your soul, but not enough time follow after, can you give everything you have?

You have too, because to short change your love is to deny yourself and your match all that can be. But every day is bittersweet because you know it will end. At least if you don’t know you can just live. But maybe if you do know you can make more of it. It’s a twisted thing—you have to love them completely because there is no other choice, but you know one day you will be left alone. A cold spot in the bed next to you, no hugs or gentle kisses on the brow, no passionate nights in the cold of winter. Vision is a terrible thing sometimes, and while it is necessary to accept certain aspects of life it is not easy. Knowing that the person you love more than any other life on Earth will leave you stranded without his or her physical presence is a disturbing thought.

I have years of repressed emotion built up inside of me. Any one who knows me to any degree won’t be shocked by that knowledge. I’m the coolest person you know until you say the wrong thing at the wrong time of the month and I try to kill you. Not because I’m truly angry at you, but because you tapped a hidden vein of aggression from who knows how long ago. You become the easy target. To lose someone I planned my life around would destroy me if I don’t learn a better way to cope with my self. I understand now that crying isn’t a bad or evil thing. It isn’t weak or symbolic of manipulative female. It just is. Expressing your anger or discomfort or disappointment or sadness is necessary for a healthy life. It makes some people uncomfortable but that is why one has friends.

I have gone through some of the hardest times of my life alone to prepare me because, ultimately, I have only myself to rely on. I have friends and family I would die for in an instant but there is no one that can support me when I am at my lowest. I would drain them dry. But I have to learn to lean on them. It is something every human being must learn if they are to have a healthy life. To put absolute faith and trust in another human being to help us hold ourselves up when we will surely topple without their love. That is an enormous amount of trust to place in another person, especially knowing that they might not be there forever. As I face that thought I find myself torn between wanting to curl up in bed and cry or just sit here and cry (don’t worry I’m not crying). It is such a horrible thought. And yet, people take that chance every day. And they live fuller lives because of it.

I don’t think it is because of the adolescent immortality syndrome, but rather because they all know something I only truly learned today. To love someone fully and share his/her love in return is worth all the pain of loss. You’re never truly alive until you hand your life over to someone else’s hands. Heartbreak is a bitch, but I’ll take that over regret any day. I never regret doing something. I just regret being too scared to do what I truly wanted to. I will not be too scared to love.

Big words, but can I live up to them? I suppose we’ll find out in twenty years or so.

I am a crazy bitch. Now, when most people make that statement it is accompanied by a smirk or a smile and everyone understands that said person is not a crazy bitch in truth, just having a bad day (week, month, whatever.) I am not just having a bad day, week or month (because I am but that isn’t the sole culprit) I am a co-dependent, neurotic, crazy, chic. And, unfortunately, it’s not the cute crazy so I don’t even think it will get me laid.

Co-dependency: I’m going to do {insert emotion, action, feeling, whatever here} for you no matter if you asked me to or not. Then when you do not show appropriate {insert whatever emotion, action, feeling I think should be shown here} to me I will become angry, hurt, and upset. Yeah, cause that makes perfect sense. I know it’s crazy; I know I can be crazy. Does that stop me from being crazy? No, I’m still crazy.

Are you sensing a theme here?

Now, in my defense (because I can’t just tear myself to pieces without rationalizing at least a little bit) I have had good reason this particular bout of pms to be co-dependent. I’m not saying I was justified, but I do feel as if at least a small part of my craziness was earned. I mean, when your good friends have a habit of disregarding you while in you are in the room to seduce/make out/or screw the guy that happens to also be in the room it can hurt your feelings. Being the third wheel is never fun, especially when you’re supposed to be with people that include you. It feels like shit, I’m not going to lie to you.

But, that being said, I can accept that and move on. I don’t think it is egotistical of me to say I can deal with most any situation and move on, because I have and I will. I’m a survivor. My friends mean too much to me to let stupid shit ruin our time together.

Now I know what you’re all thinking—I should stop being so damn defensive and live life a little. The comment that was added to the last post (and I loved it by the way, that’s why I switched to a template where comments were available) said something to the effect that shouldn’t I let the tingle in since that is what makes life worth living? Here is my answer to that.

The tingle is never not there. I can’t change how I feel—it isn’t possible. People who say they can or do are lying to you. Feelings and emotions are beyond anyone’s control. What I can change is how I act. It’s not that I don’t feel the tingle or try to protect myself from the tingle, it is that I refuse to shortchange myself anymore with silly games and substitutions. Yes, passion is what makes life worth living; living on the edge is what reminds you you are alive. But I want to live on the edge for a purpose. I want to risk my life and/or emotions knowing that I am doing it for a greater gain. I’ve had my fun in and out of the bedroom. I’m too old to keep convincing myself the moment will last forever. It won’t; it never does.

If I can’t have it all, I’m not settling. I’m worth more than that and my life is worth more than that. I get plenty of excitement just living—I love life and I love people. But I am not going to keep hurting myself hoping a knight in shining armor is going to save me. Knights don’t exist any more and we sometimes forget that those we love are people too. We want them to be greater than they can be. We want them to be superhuman and always say and do the right thing. That isn’t going to happen. It never has and it never will. When you love someone you have to love all of them. Otherwise you’re living in a fantasy—I have movies for that. I don’t need to delude myself with the mundane stuff too. Accepting someone’s flaws takes a lot of the spark out of it. Accepting someone is no more or less than anyone else removes all those wonderful elements that keep us coming back to chick flicks and trashy romance novels. But loving someone truly offers something a movie and a book and a fling can never give you—contentment. Knowing that I love someone completely, accepting all that he is, fills me with a much greater energy than simple passion. It is a thought that makes every day a little bit easier to handle. It is something that could destroy me and I accept that too. Should I ever love and be loved back I will not run from it but I will embrace it. I will not cheapen it with childish antics and silly games of seduction, but I will lock the bedroom door and alternately make love and fuck the shit out of him until neither one of us knows who is who and where one ends and the other begins. I will not settle for less than that. I will not make believe that is there when it isn’t.

And if it is there I will not ruin it by treating it like a drunken fling. That is not something you fuck with be it yours or someone else’s. If that regulates me to living my life alone so be it. I am happier knowing it exists and just isn’t in my cards than I ever would be trying to force it into existence. I accept myself and others as we are, completely, as humans. I’ve found life to be a whole lot better when I just let myself live my own life instead of trying so hard to live someone else’s.

I had a realization the other night. I know you all love my realizations. A lot of comment has been made at different times in my life about "I’ll find the right guy", or "it’ll all work out" (blah, blah, blah, life is fuzzy bunny rabbits and pink cotton candy). But I know now what I couldn’t explain, but have always known inside. I know why I think I will never marry and most likely, never engage in any sort of long-term relationship. I have no patience for drama.

I don’t like it, I don’t court it, and I don’t put up with it. When it comes to picking up a guy most girls play "the game" with their big eyes, and meaningful looks, and seemingly casual touches (or sometimes bold strokes depending on the situation). I don’t do that. If I decide you need to know I want you I’ll tell you. If I decide I want to suck your dick or fuck you I will. There are no play-tender moments; there are no misleading words. I can’t do it.

Now, does this mean I don’t crave some sort of tender loving relationship? Of course not, I am human after all, but I cannot come by it through dishonest means. I cannot substitute a session of fucking for my need to "make love". That’s part of the excitement for some people, the thrill of the chase and all that. I don’t have the time or the patience for chase. I’m too fat and too lazy to chase anybody or anything for more than a couple of steps. There is too much to do in life and too much to see for me to waste time playing with you and your craziness. Can’t do it. Even in friendships I can’t stand it. I want to laugh, have fun, make good crazy stories that are backed up by an honestly good time, not the two of us playing the "who can be badder (or crazier or whatever you feel like being)" game. I know what I am. Why do I need to compete with you?

But people want that thrill. People want to run around the room after each other teasing with words and touches and glances and riding the edge of what might happen. The adrenaline rush of what could occur is so addictive that cutting to the point takes all the fun out of it. I understand that, I have even been there, but always when the rush is over you’re left with nothing. You’ve got nothing more substantial to hold on to but the imaginings of the night before that burn away in the morning sun. I’m not going to waste mental energy trying to hold onto a mirage for adrenaline’s sake. For just about everyone in this world that cuts me out of the picture. Everyone uses sex and the thrills of sex to fill the urge of feeling loved for a night. I refuse. I’m not going to pretend I care about you if I don’t, and I’m not going to degrade my feelings for you with meaningless sex. Self-awareness is a deadly thing. That means people who want to play the game with me are left finding comfort with someone else and those I might spend time on never try as I never offer them the rush.

I’m not a completely honest person, I lie when I think it saves everyone pain (though inevitably it doesn’t) but false emotions hold no nourishment for me. They degrade me as a person and lessen me as a woman. That’s not true of everyone, but it is true for me. I will never marry because I will never ensnare or entrap. I will never lead anyone on a merry chase to my bedroom or run after a possibility to his. It just isn’t going to happen. I will fuck when I’m horny and sleep alone that night. Nothing but drama comes from playing games and pretending life is anything different than what it is.

I don’t do drama and I refuse to compromise.

Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t say "ooh," and "that’s too bad" or "she’ll learn". You don’t know what I’ve learned. You don’t know what I know or who I am—certainly not better than myself. I will not run away from happiness if I find it with another person, but I will not try to turn some cheap imitation into the real thing so I can fill that imaginary need of having to be loved. I’m loved by my family and my friends. I don’t need a significant other to qualify me as a woman and human being. I am content with who I am and life offers me enough excitement without me creating more because I can.

So I suppose the point of this statement is to tell you don’t worry about me. Don’t think you know what’s good for me or what will happen or what I will learn. I do not presume to predict your future so please, offer me that same courtesy. It’s fine for the rest of the world to play the game, but trust me—I’m fine without it.

"Are you some sort of feminist?"

This was the question asked of me today. It wasn’t the question that left me speechless, it was the disgust that fairly dripped off the word feminist. I might have expected that from a man. I do work in a machine shop in the middle of the Bible Belt. But the comment did not come from a man. It came from a woman.
It came from a woman who is only twenty-nine—too young not to have felt the tremors of women’s liberation. It came from a woman who, while not a genius, is certainly not mentally deficient—smart enough to understand the inequalities that wrack our world for every human being. It came from a woman. This is 2004. The 21st Century and women still view the word feminist as something dirty. They speak of it in hushed tones and whispers; they liken it to Leprosy, a disease that if it gets a hold of you will be the cause of your banishment and eventual painful, deformed, lonely death. 2004 and this is still an issue.
We forget when something isn’t on the news or plastered on a billboard or painted across the naked body of a supermodel that it still matters. We forget that just because we aren’t directly affected by it every day (or obviously affected in this case) that our lives are still changed. We forget our past.
I had my roommate read my Hooter’s blog the other night and it sparked quite a conversation. He is not biased or bigoted in any way. I have never witnessed him mistreat a woman or felt judged by him concerning how I look or act. In fact, he might be the only man I have ever known with whom I have felt so at ease, it doesn’t even bother me to cry in front of him. With the exception of a few family members I have never felt I could cry in front of anyone and not be judged as weak.
And yet, this friend of mine, this fantastically intelligent man for whom I hold the utmost respect did not agree with my view of Hooters. He would never take a woman in there given a choice,but he felt no sympathy for the women working there because they made the choice to do so.
I would say that is a reasonably general consensus. I myself have even written those women off as just a different breed of female than myself. But what if the problem isn’t that they make the choice willingly, but that they simply don’t know any better?
Consider this:
When the Europeans came to this country they bought Manhattan and most of New England from the Natives for jewelry and toys. It was a monstrously vicious deal that led (in part with many other events) to the eventual downfall of the Natives of North America. No one ever says of those original natives that it was "their own fault." No one ever argues that "they made the choice so I feel no sympathy for them" because we all know they were taken advantage of. And yet, they did make the choice. They were completely aware that the land was being exchanged for the trinkets and items given to them by the Europeans. They knew the white man would live there and they would move on. To them it seemed like a good idea. But it wasn’t their fault because the entire situation was so completely foreign to them. There was no possible way they could have been prepared for what was coming. They were taken advantage of by people in power, and anyone that disputes that is someone incapable of dealing with reality.
Trading with the natives was easier than fighting them. Giving them the illusion of "bartering" allowed them to feel empowered and in control of the situation. It was okay that they gave that little bit up because they still had so much more land to hold on to.
But don’t you see? As women when we use our bodies for power we mimic those original natives. We allow ourselves to be objectified (sell Manhattan) and used (sell New England) and trick ourselves into feeling empowered by the situation and until we find ourselves living in poverty on a withered reservation that used to be our soul. We think that because this rich white man is drooling all over us and handing us so much of his money that we have used him. We have got the best of him. It’s okay that we work at Hooters or fuck a guy here and there because we’re working our way to the top. We never see the prize for what it is. Cheap plastic trinkets that appeal to only us and our fellow girlfriends. That man has more money and power at home than we can even imagine and thus it is not possible for us to comprehend that what he uses to buy us, our bodies, our integrity, costs him no more than that pathetic jewelry cost the first European settlers.
Women have fought so hard for so long and we have underestimated our enemy. Our greatest enemy is not men, but ourselves. We have lost sight of the point of feminism. We have become so wrapped up in our own anger and hurt that we just want to hurt back. We think we can become the subjects instead of the objects if we work at a place like Hooters. We think by strutting our stuff in a restaurant, or mud wrestling, or posing half-naked on the cover of a magazine, or bragging about our abilities to give the best blow-job that we have gained something. But we haven’t. We’ve gained nothing but crudeness. Like a two-year old placated by a plastic toy after a temper tantrum we have allowed the inequalities against which we fought to silence us. Feminism isn’t a fight of women against men—it isn’t about getting back at anyone or starting a war.
It’s about waking up and realizing that all PEOPLE are created equal.
Sex is fun and sex is exciting and sex should be something we embrace and enjoy. It is not a god-damned power trip. It should not be a tool or a weapon or a way to get ahead. Women fight against each other to be the prettiest and the smartest and the most fun and the most pleasant and never realize they’re miserable. Human beings are extraordinary creatures and yet we constantly urge ourselves to be lower than what we are. And then, in moments of extreme arrogance we have the gall to state we "don’t feel sorry for her/him because s/he made that choice." If you see a child about to hurt herself because she hasn’t learned not to play with knives do you take the knife away? Or do you stand back and scoff, feeling superior because "she made the choice" to play with the knife? What sort of pompous asshole are you to assume that just because you know the truth you are relieved of the responsibility to ensure everyone knows the truth?
Why do we abandon people to stupidity instead of trying to lead them away from it?
Now, I know I have stated multiple times I hate stupid people and they do annoy the piss out of me. There is nothing more frustrating than a person that won’t wake up. No genetic reasons, no traumatic childhood, just plain stupid. It’s frustrating and it’s a bitch but I am not going to stop fighting for awareness just because the people around me refuse to admit we’re standing in shit.
And this is a fight for awareness. This is a fight for a willingness to make things better. There is nothing wrong with living the life you lead so long as you choose to live that life freely. The reasons we don’t take home Hooter’s girls and strippers to mom is that they are childlike in their lack of awareness. They are infants on their spiritual journey. Most men wouldn’t admit or even realize that is why they cannot take those women seriously, but that is the truth. On a subconscious level men see the truth of it. They know what is being done to these women and placate themselves with the conscious idea that "she choose to do it."
Why won’t you consider settling down with a girl like that? Not because she’s easy, or a whore, but because you recognize the fundamental lack of perception a woman has to have to behave that way. Whore and easy are just the easiest, least threatening titles we can all attach to them to make us feel better.

This isn’t a rant directed at any one person or even any one thing, unless that thing be inequality. This is a soulful plea for all of you, male and female alike, to open your eyes to the world around you. Stop putting things in the easiest perspective. Please, stop judging and making excuses for why others behave the way they do. We are all responsible for each other because we are all part of the same race. Responsibility has nothing to do with guilt. I will not feel guilty when you cut yourself with the knife. But I will feel guilty that I laughed at you while you played with it instead of trying to take it away. I can only affect those few people around me, but I am now begging you. Listen to what I’m saying. If you can think of a twenty-nine year old woman saying the word feminist with disgust and not feel horrified by that concept, then reevaluate yourself. Why doesn’t that bother you? Empowerment comes from within. Everything else is only material. Don’t you want your fellow human beings to be empowered? Don’t you want to be? Why are you fearful of the truth?

The truth will set you free and it will beat the shit out of you doing it. But at least you will heal from that fight cleanly instead of dying slowly, your own wounds festering inside you until you collapse upon yourself. A great oozing wound where a soul used to be.

I found it was easier to be a woman when I stop listening to men telling me how. I found it was easier to look at myself when I stopped basing my worth on my judgement of others.

"The Glass Bracelets"
I know I can only speak for myself
but after reading a simple story in The News
wish I could speak for a ninety-four-year-old woman
who on a day of the full moon of Magha in 1907,
at age seven, was led by her parents
to the Saundatti Temple of Karnatakaa
and given to the Hindu goddess Yellamma:
the childish glass arm bangles broken,
a nuptial necklace given her—
wedded to the deity Dev, Murali must never
marry a mortal, has never washed or cut
her long hair, a stiff mat of gray—
her duty was forever to be fucked
by those who came to the Temple.
At onset of menstruation the child was,
and still is, auctioned for the privilege
of tearing her hymen often times
by one with syphilis or gonorrhea—
virgins believed to be a certain cure.
It is difficult for me to like men at times,
any man, when such atrocities are sanctioned
by the religious. Atrocities for male pleasure.
And I doubt a woman concocted
the legend of this goddess. I am fucking mad
and want my daughters
to never leave our small Brooklyn apartment
though I know any room can be the residence
of secrets—like that of a man in Ocala, Florida
infecting six of his fourteen children
with venereal disease, fathering his daughter’s babies,
beating their faces, beating their faces. This
while the religious target abortion clinics
and rude art. Who
can believe in a god in such a world
when god is made by man for men –
I will not respect a moment of silence
in my children’s public school for the sake
of semi-automatic politicians wishing to purchase votes
with their small public piety.
And if you think this is not a poem
because I’ve ranted without benefit of a metaphor
think again: the story of Murali
is the story of any infant female or male
until the arteries of the status quo, of the silent,
of those who silence, or those who seek
solution in prayer, of those who limit choices—
until the varicose veins of the "religiously correct"
are slit and drawn. Until then
you, reader, are the five-year-old boy,
genitals severed and flesh neatly
folded back into a tiny cunt, or
the ten-year-old girl with second-stage syphilis
now lodged in her central nervous system.
Hear me: I will not pray. I will not pray.

~Kimiko Hahn

Hopefully you are all looking at a shnazzy (sha-naz-y) new template as you read this. I felt I was falling behind in the blogger world so I shut my eyes, held my breath, and leapt out into the world of new templates. I’ll let you know how the landing is.
Oh my, my, my there is so much to relate and so little time. I have been remiss in my stories and now I fear I have too much to possibly catch everyone up on. Let’s start with a quick synopsis hm?

1) I will not be attending school as I have decided I do not want to be a teacher.
2) My duties at work are shifting to include more responsibility; I now work overtime, and I’m hoping for a raise.
3) I saw the Metallica/Godsmack concert and it was fabulous other than the fact that Lars is an absolutely terrible drummer.
4) I have decided that all men are hopeless and I will now be a lesbian.
4 ½) Just kidding on #4—I just like to harbor the idea of lesbian lovers every now and then. Keeps things fresh and exciting. Unfortunately we all know (as it has been stated on here multiple times) I love the cock and will not be giving it up ever.

So what do you want to hear about? I won’t go into number 1; it seems pretty self-explanatory to me. Number 2 is exciting only to me and those who benefit directly from the hoped for increase in wages. Number 3 was going to be a blog topic, and might still, but not tonight. And number 4 is beaten into the ground. I mean honestly, how many times do any of you want to read me stating the obvious? As much as I love men they will never be as good in bed as my vibrator and I just need to accept that and stop trying to make trashy romance novels a reality. It just isn’t fair to anyone (me least of all).

So instead I will say this. I just drove through an absolutely horrific thunderstorm that turned a hour drive into a hour and forty-five minute drive. I am tired, cranky, and suffering from EBS (explosive bowel syndrome). I know you are all wincing over that last remark, but don’t play all high and mighty with me. We’ve all had a little EBS in our lives at some point or another so don’t act disgusted that I brought it up. So rather than me ranting on about something I have neither the energy nor the drive to rant on about I will begin the first of my new habit on my new template. I will leave you with a poem. Enjoy.

The Pope’s Penis

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate
clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a
halo of silver seaweed, the hair
swaying in the dark and the heat—and at night,
while his eyes sleep, it stands up
in praise of God.

~Sharon Olds

I am a terrible person; I know this. I haven’t had time to return phone calls, sleep or eat. So please—too all my friends out there who I said I would call and didn’t I’m sorry.

Work has been absolutely insane. Completely and utterly, beyond a shadow of a doubt out of control. Am I making my point here? I know I am not the only one with a busy schedule, heaven’s knows of at least one other person working as long of hours as myself, but I’m still trying to cope with it all. It’s not the hours; I don’t mind working hard when necessary, but the craziness of the task that has been set before me. The boss has decided that since I’m “smart” I can micromanage the company for him. Yeah, me. Quite the micromanager huh? If only he knew. Hopefully he will never learn different, but that means I need to pick up some organizational skills quick. That’s where all the craziness comes in.

On another note (it’s been awhile, a lot has happened) I am no longer attending college. I have my bachelor’s and I don’t want to be a teacher. Why spend the money if it does me no good? I’m getting more money and hopefully (if I can conquer this demon at work) I will have a wage/salary I can be proud of. I like my job so money is the only real issue here.

This is a hurried update you understand, since I don’t really have any time to make a full out blog.

I will tell you this story, though.

Part II

I went in last week, to the health clinic. I give the lady my tag stating that I am here for the test results and she asks me to take a seat. Now, I have already waited two weeks for this bastard test and now I have to sit another ten minutes. Following that a morose looking woman walks up and asks me to follow her back to a room. She stares at me solemnly, not even the hint of a friendly smile, and places a folder down in front of me. She compares the tag on the folder to the tag I brought in, asks me if my name and information is correct and then, only then, opens it up. It’s like some crazy macabre game: how long can she last before she snaps? Instead of just saying “you’re negative it’s all good!” she just runs her finger across the page and makes me find the damn thing! I was so pissed. Mostly I was pissed at myself for worrying as much as I did, but I won’t take blame for that. It’s a big deal, negative or not.

So—all is good in my world right now. I have, of course, left a number of stories, tales and thoughts out (it’s been a hell of a two weeks) but those will be forthcoming soon. In the meantime I bid you all adieu and apologize once again for my tardiness in communications.

Phht!

I am sitting at work now, writing this.  I have twenty-five minutes to use up you see before I leave.  As it is work has been exceptionally dull and it has occurred to me throughout the day that I should write this, but I have neglected to do so until now.  There is only one thing I can write about today.  Something exceptionally personal to me and normally I would not choose to share it with any who read this, but I think this is a subject that might do everyone some good.  This blog is only Part I you understand.

Today I go for my first HIV test.  Part II will conclude with the results.

I have extremely mixed feelings about all of this.  I have not been “loose” or “foolish” but neither have I been a fanatic with the use of condoms.  I do not think I have HIV, but neither did my two uncles.  One is now dead of AIDS some ten years past; the other still lives with the HIV virus.  Uncle A was what one would kindly refer to as sexually active, what one would meanly call a slut, in the 80’s.  He contracted some multiple strains of the virus and was dead in what seemed no time at all.  Uncle B has been in a monogamous relationship some twenty-years, but five or six years ago was having trouble with his partner and involved himself in a one-night stand.  He now tests positive for HIV.  With examples such as that in my life how can I not be tested when I too have had sex without a condom?  It doesn’t matter how small the chances—it matters that it only takes one mistake to ruin your life.  I have to know because to subject others to my body when it might be infected is foolish and murderous on my part.  I cannot accept that.

What angers me the most about all of it is that were circumstances different I might very well still be a virgin today.  While I have never referred to my first time as rape, it certainly wasn’t consenting either.  I was extremely drunk, you understand, and trusted the wrong person.  I wasn’t particularly attached the idea of being a virgin so it wasn’t the act that bothered me half as much as the fact he didn’t use a condom.  I have given blood since then and blood is required to be tested by law, at which point I would have been notified had anything turned up, but that isn’t the same as a test.  The idea that one night of drunken stupidity, misjudgment on my part, may have cost me my life and could lead to me destroying the lives of others will not let me rest.  A bit melodramatic perhaps, but read the previous paragraph.  Two people I love have suffered due to one mistake.  How can I play the odds when so obviously the odds are stacked against me?

So the worst part by far is the waiting.    Now that I have decided it must be done it is all I can think about.  Before I just pretended it didn’t need to be done.  But I am too smart, and have been too dumb in the past, to ignore the necessity.  So now I go.

Perhaps you will judge me based on this blog—perhaps you will be angry with me for getting so personal on you.  I know not.  But I know there are others in my situation be they someone reading this or not. 

I do not regret my sexual history—at least not usually.  Now I just hope the price isn’t too high for my lack of belief that playing with fire gets you burned.  One night of being too drunk with the wrong guy and now here I sit typing this.  For any other fat girls out there reading this please take this to heart: don’t count on your weight to save you.  When a guy decides he needs a vagina to fuck he doesn’t care how big the exterior is surrounding it.  Especially if you’re too drunk to catch on to what’s going on until it’s too late.

Well, I have attempted to allow you all to post comments on here, if you so desire.  As best I can tell if you click on the time, next to my name at the bottom of each blog it takes you to a screen where you may “post comments” at the top.  This might bear some investigation.  I make no promises about it working.  Hopefully within a month or two I will have cable modem or DSL and will be able to fix these things much more easily from my home computer. 

So my roommate left for California on Tuesday.  Normally a trip to California would be something about which to rejoice, but this trip, not so much.  California is just a stop, you see, on her way to Iraq.  I am still confused about how I feel.  Not that I should necessarily feel anything.  I am not the one going, after all, so why should it matter to me? 

My ambivalence of feeling, stems from the knowledge that she and I aren’t friends, so much, as family.  While we knew each other previously to first living together three years ago, we weren’t close.  Suddenly there we were together, all the time, and we became what I could only call sisters.  But this is different than when two girlfriends call each other sisters; this was more, well, real if you can believe it.  Families aren’t friends by default you understand.  You love each other because you are family.  Hopefully you like each other too, but that isn’t a requirement.  With my roommate it is much the same relationship.  Living together has forced us to get along, and over the span of three years we have developed a mutual respect, and perhaps even love, for one another, the love of family members.  It is odd.  When she left on Tuesday morning and hugged me goodbye I believe that was the first time we had ever hugged.  That is an odd thing for two females who are as close as we are.  But we are both more male in our relationships than female.  At least stereotypically speaking.  We don’t talk about feelings so much as rant about them.  We don’t hug or do each other’s make up.  We each have our own space and that is that.  If there is a problem it is mentioned and dealt with.  If there isn’t we sit in companionable silence.  Not your two typical female roommates.

And now she is gone.  I have a new roommate to replace her absence and I love him; I know I will enjoy living with him, but it isn’t the same.  He is a friend.  She was family.  He means as much to me as she does but I can’t joke with him about periods, or yeast infections, or how my boobs look.  While we are open with each other there are certain things he simply will not understand.  I cannot walk through the door and say, “man, you ever just want a good deep dickin’?”  The dialogue will not be the same.  He can understand, but being a straight male will not really want to discuss it, and I would not ask that of him.

And the crux of it all is, while I sit in my abode missing my roommate, she will be off at war running into god knows what.  There it is.  I’ve said it.  I’m worried about her.  I do not want to spend a year hearing over the news only that “another marine was killed today” and not knowing who.  I do not want the stress of thinking where will she march today?  Will anyone blow up a car by her?  I do not want her to have to go through that.  War is somehow easier to stomach if no one you care about is involved.  If it is something removed, something seen only through pictures and read about only through third person news stories it is not so real.    Now it is suddenly, uncontrollably, in my face.  And I do not like it.  More than that I do not want my dear friend to experience it. 

The crap of it is she was already there once.  But that was a year ago before things got so messy.  That was before beheadings and car bombs and everything else.  It was no less real then, but somehow it seemed more like a game.  Or perhaps I was too young then to appreciate the gravity of the situation. 

I don’t know if this war needed to be started, but I know now it needs to be finished.  We have destroyed a country and her people for better or for worse.  I don’t want to see my roommate march off to danger and sandstorms and ugliness, but I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror if I condoned the abandonment of the people in Iraq.  I don’t know what the solution is.  I think perhaps there isn’t one.  We, as a country, have lumbered into quicksand and now I can only hope my roommate doesn’t have to be hurt or killed as we vainly struggle trying to get out. 

Lord and Lady guide us.  We need all the help we can get.

Oh nothing makes me want to smoke as much as marching band. I have been smoke free for three days, however, so I fight the temptation. Thankfully, everyone around me is attempting to quit as well so that makes things much easier. I’m not sure I am strong enough to survive the stress of little shitheads and friends enjoying nicotine without me. I admit it: I’m just not that good.

So speaking of marching band, yes it is that time for me. Not for me to march (that time is long past) but for me to teach the youngin’s how to count to four. That’s right, one, two, three…and four. It seems simple, truly it does, but trying to get a fourteen-year-old to count out loud takes jedi powers I have not yet mastered. This one kid, whom I thought was cute before tonight shrugged at me. The bastard shrugged at me!! AAHHH!!!! I was ready to kill him. I don’t think he realized how close he was to permanent maiming. I know, shrugging doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but let me explain.

I was attempting to communicate to him that I cannot help him if he doesn’t tell me what he doesn’t understand. So I ask him, ‘do you know what I mean when I say count?’ and he says ‘yes.’ I then ask, ‘do you understand how to count?’ and he says ‘yes.’ So the next logical question is ‘why don’t you count?’ He shrugged. I wanted to shake him until he understood.
I know more than you do! I wanted to scream at him. Do what I say and stop being a bratty teenager!!! Unfortunately phrases such as that are frowned on in the classroom. And, this kid seems like the type that might have crappy parents so I will have to watch myself. Obviously I shouldn’t be a teacher.

And that brings me to my next point of the night. (Oh such a good transition, enjoy it with me.) Do I really want to be a teacher? Is it really worth the school and the tests and the paperwork and the bullshit? I mean honestly. Does anyone know what they want to do at twenty-three? I know whom I want to sleep with, but I don’t plan on garnering a harem until about thirty. Maybe my priorities are backwards.

Wait, I got off track…

Work has been insane lately. I have been handed more responsibility, and I am now signed up for a 401k plan. That doesn’t mean I will stay there any longer than usual, I doubt I’ll last the five years it will take to be vested, but I am officially saving for retirement. If that is not a sign of adulthood, hell if I know what is. But a machine shop worker is not my goal in life. I don’t want to have the word "assistant" in my title for the rest of my life. I plan on attending school in the fall and seeing where that gets me but I’m not sure about the spring. I don’t want to work where I am forever, but I’m not sure teaching is the right route either. Graduate school would be nice, except then I’m back to being poorer than I am now. Why can’t I be happy and make money? Is it feasible for me to garner enough experience I could move some place larger and find big bucks and a career that challenges me but doesn’t drive me crazy? I might find happiness as a college professor, but at this point, the idea of pursuing masters and a doctorate seems daunting. I like school, love it in fact, but I like the financial independence of a career. Except right now I’m not very financially independent as I am dirt poor. Thank goodness I have such wonderful parents.

I suppose what this all boils down to is this—if any of you have figured out what you want to do with your lives do two things for me. 1) Tell me how you figured it out so I can maybe figure mine out and 2) go do it. For Christ’s sake if you are lucky enough to have even an inkling of what makes you happy you owe it to the rest of us to make it work for you.

I promise I am not above living vicariously through your happiness.

Did you know I have been blogging for over a year now?  Well, of course you know as you can see the dates on the screen, but I simply must point it out.  It is amazing!  That’s all I’ve got really, I’m not drunk, just tired.  And yet, still I sit here typing….

I do wish sometimes there were a message board on this thing—I would be interested to know who actually reads this bastard and what they think.  Have I ever pissed anyone off?  My instinct would be yes, but one never knows.  I always think I aggravate people more than I do.  Apparently I fade into obscurity fairly easily.

For instance, the other weekend I was talking with an old comrade from school and I asked him to tell me honestly if people ever ranted and raved about me.  Had I left any bad feelings behind?  He thought about it for awhile and said no, I was just that drummer girl who was a music major.  Now I suppose this is good in that I made no enemies, but I never riled anyone either.  I left no mark or memories so strong that people remember me.  I find that terribly depressing. 

Do I affect anyone I know really?  Is anyone I talk to or correspond with a better person for knowing me?  Or am I just one more of the crowd?  Everyone likes to think their special.  Everyone wants to be remembered but we aren’t.  Or, at least, I’m not.  How disappointing.  Many call me blunt, but am I truly?  Some day I would like to take a poll?  Have I ever been truly blunt with you?  And did it serve a good purpose?  That is what I would like to know.  Should anyone reading this have a way to contact me feel free to answer that question.  I would like an answer.

I am blunt because I have no patience for politics or games.  Tact has its place, and truth be told I can be quite tactful when necessary, but I don’t lie and I don’t fake.  I can’t be anything but blunt because my body language gives me away.  I feel like less of a person if I tell someone what s/he wants to hear instead of what I believe to be true.  Nine times out of ten I hold quite a bit back because I don’t know everything, therefore, no one needs to be burdened with uncensored me, but I would say I lay it out pretty straight.  It has only been in the last year or so that I have begun to watch what I say to certain friends.  It has only been recently that I learned fully the repercussions of having a big mouth.  I’m still struggling with how I want to handle that. 

Life is simpler if you cut through the bullshit.  If you can just talk to each other like adults it saves so much time.  But who wants to hear the truth really?  Or the truth as it is seen by the person presenting it.  Most times I do not.  I want to live in my own happy world; I admit it.  But wouldn’t it be better if I weren’t working under false assumptions.  Is it not better for me to know how you really feel so I can go away if needed or stay close of wanted?  That just seems like a better way to do things.

I haven’t got much tonight, I’m too tired and too burnt out from work for much.  I apologize that this is all I’ve got, but I’ll build on it.  I think this idea has some merit.  And if it doesn’t, I won’t remember it in the morning anyway. 

That’s why I’m perfect.  I keep forgetting my faults. ;)

I have been asked in the past if PMS is a real thing. My answer is, oh dear god, yes. I am a crazy bitch.

That being said, we’ll move right along. I apologize to any men that stumble across this. But in the words of Margaret Cho I really don’t talk about menstruation that much, considering how often it happens.

My time of going to work at 4:00 in the am is almost done. I’ll probably still go in at 6:00 am just because I’m used to getting up early now, and I really like being able to leave at 2:30 or 3:00. I find it nice to have an afternoon to play with. I tend to buy comic books with my hard-earned birthday money, but these things they happen. Besides, Wolverine is hot. And Gambit, and Colossus, and Angel, and…oh never mind.

Wow, the construction men are pouring cement outside my window. If they weren’t all big, sweaty, and able to kick my ass I might have to throw a spoon at them. Oh the joys of living in a city. Helicopters, ambulances, construction…and movie theatres, twenty-four hour restaurants, lane bryants, comic books stores…yeah it’s worth it.

So I am twenty-three now. It is certainly an odd age. I’m too old to be young, and too young to be old. I am officially fading into obscurity. It was a very odd birthday—I spent most of it feeling guilty. That was unfortunate. Next year I will definitely try harder not to pms on my birthday. I felt guilty, because for the first time I asked for specific things for my birthday that I actually needed. Not just wanted, but needed. And I didn’t get any of them. I got something very nice that was very expensive and very impractical for me at this point in my life. I couldn’t even fake it for the parents while opening the present. How bad of a daughter am I? Anyway, after a whole lot of drama and questions and anxiety that was wholly unneeded things have been straightened out. I now have all I could ever want and need, am fully aware of the awesomeness of my parents and can’t help but feel guilty over the whole thing.

I am such a girl. But hey, that’s not a bad thing. That’s just me right? I know this. And tomorrow when everything straightens itself out internally the world will make sense again. I promise. It better, or I’m going legitimately crazy. That would be unacceptable. I can’t afford the amount of Dairy Queen it would take to make me better if that were the case.

There are times I forget that not everyone is like me.  There are more times I forget that is okay.
 
I despise passing judgment over people, and yet I do it.  Consistently whenever I’m aggravated I judge others, my friends, my co-workers, my family for how they choose to live their life.  It is not a good habit.  It is not even a habit I am aware of often, but the danger of being close to someone, or wanting to be close to someone, is that emotions continually get in the way.  My perception is skewered by what I feel, or want to feel, and I forget to look at things equally.  I still stand by my belief that assholes are assholes, but perhaps it is not my place to hate them for that.  Perhaps it is not my place to be angry with them for that.  I have only myself to blame.  Expecting someone to be something they are not is doomed to failure.  I know this and yet, I have done it.  When did I forget that to love someone is to accept him or her for all that s/he is?  Compromise is key but an asshole smiling is still an asshole.   It is not my place to judge that.  It is my choice to accept it or move away.
 
I don’t know if I can accept it.  And I’m not sure I have the strength to move away.  While I have moments I might fairly be described as a bitch and I would not say I’m an asshole.  I simply see no point in living if I’m not having fun.  That doesn’t mean I am unaware of what goes on around me.  That doesn’t mean I don’t know how hard life can be.  It means I choose enjoyment.  It means it is simply not in my nature to be an unhappy person. 
 
I cannot hate a person for what s/he is.  I cannot expect him or her to change on my or anyone else’s behalf.  I can be a friend.  I can put up with the crazy and the surly and the mood swings and the tears as long as I am able.  After that I don’t know.  I’ve maintained friendships that might seem odd, at the least, to an outside observer.  I suppose I just think everyone wants to be loved.  At some point I need to accept that not everyone wants to be loved by me. 
 
Maybe assholes aren’t assholes.  Maybe assholes are just assholes to me.  Hmm, nothing personal I hope.  But just as they shouldn’t change for me, I have no intention of changing for them.  I suppose I better find the strength to move away.

I dedicate this blog to all you assholes out there.

Who is the greater fool: the fool or the fool who follows him?

If you know someone to be mean-spirited, an asshole, know them to always do their best to ruin all the enjoyment of others, know them to suck the fun out of living why do you keep talking to them? Why do you continually ask for their opinion on a situation? Or, in some cases, not even ask for an opinion; simply offer a statement of plans laying out a good time. You lay yourself out like a sacrificial lamb.

“Here!” You say. “Here I am! Here is all my joy, all my hopes, everything I look forward to in life! Take it, take it upon your altar and slaughter it! Please!”

Why do this? You know the outcome; you know the consequences, why lay down upon the altar and act surprised when you see the knife descending?

Because none of us who aren’t assholes can help it.

We live our life joyously. We enjoy simple pleasures and look forward to simple times. The idea that someone would not be happy for us, as we have been happy for others our whole lives, is so foreign, so abominable that we simply cannot comprehend it. In our souls is an innate belief that if we just keep being a good friend, a good lover, a good relative the asshole will come around. We keep offering harmless anecdotes about nothing more complicated than laughing. We keep supporting and loving and sharing and listening because that’s what we do. Our mistake is made when we expect said asshole to listen to us. Our mistake is made when we expect said asshole to support and love and share with us. It isn’t going to happen. Some people are pretty; some people are ugly. Some people are nice, and some people are assholes. It is the way of the world. It has taken me twenty-three years to learn this.

What aggravates me is that assholes do not have to be that way. Something in their development went so awry that they are unable to allow others joy. I suppose that is what makes them an asshole. But this idea is so alien to me! Why can’t you be happy? Why can’t you say, “Hey, that sounds like a good time for you. Enjoy yourself.” What is so frightening or threatening or Goddess only knows what about people having a good time? Always the asshole picks it apart. Always the asshole finds a reason that what is being done is stupid, or inefficient or wasteful. Always the asshole is an asshole.

It makes me angry. I wouldn’t say this is over-reacting on my part. I wouldn’t say I’m just pmsing. I would say this is very real annoyance in my life. Assholes need to be banished to their own little island where they can be mean and spiteful to each other. Where their bitchy, nagging habits won’t attach to me like leeches settling down for a feast. The worst part about assholes is they turn the rest of us into assholes if we let them. So surrounded are we by negativity that we finally give in and become negative ourselves.

Well screw you guys I’m not doing it. You want to be an asshole to me fine. But I’m still going to have a good time and there is nothing you can do about it. You can be an asshole, but I will point you out for the petty, insecure creature you are. It’s not my problem I like my life. It’s your problem you hate yours.

Go fix yourself. I’m not playing your games anymore.

I saw King Arthur today. Personally, I thought it was fabulous. Not because I believe it is historically accurate, though it is certainly the closest thing to the truth I have witnessed yet, but because of the message it depicts. Arthur and his knights were people. Simple men who rose above what was expected of them. Men and women (Guinevere to be exact) that fought on behalf of those that couldn’t. They showed their strength of character and strength of spirit. I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

And yes, I intentionally put "fucking" in there because, honestly, I felt it was appropriate.

That is the kind of person I want to be. I want to have that sort of fortitude that I can do what needs to be done. But how does one reach that? How do you give up what you hold most dear to fight for something bigger than yourself? How do you recognize the need? In hindsight it is always so obvious what should have been done. How I should have acted, but how do I make the decision I need to when I need to?

There is no answer to this question. I realize that but it does not stop me from asking it. It is my belief that, if I am aware of the challenges ahead of me, hopefully I will recognize them when they come my way. And, if I recognize them, hopefully I can meet them in the manner I wish.
I’m not a particularly strong person. I’m not anyone special persay, or deserving of recognition in the history books. We all may be the stars of our own lives, but I recognize my life is only a supporting actor to others. I’m okay with that; I accept it. By accepting it I gain power over it and can help those around me as best I can. But remembered or not I want to die knowing I fought for something greater. I do not know if my battles will be fought physically or verbally—there is no way to tell. But I do know this, no one controls who I want to be. No one decides what I can and can’t do. I have the power to grant or deny myself happiness.

I can’t say I will never fail those I love. I have in the past and, invariably, I will sometime in the future. But, I can say I will always try to make it better. If it is in my power I will do it. If it means my life so be it. I am the master of my fate and there is no reason not to achieve what I desire.

Why live if you’re scared of tomorrow? Why live if you don’t want to change?

None of us is perfect so how can we resign ourselves to stay the same person forever?

Don’t you want to be better than you are and do better than you have done?

Go out and do it. You can give the world excuses why you aren’t, but you know better.
 
Don’t live a half-life. You don’t know if you’re going to get another one.

Ah, it has been awhile. I have had several requests to update this dear blog and I admit I am surprised. I figured I had faded into obscurity. Cheers for all of you reminding me why I started this damn thing.

Where to start? I believe a tale of sweet irony is a wonderful beginning. I have had the pleasure of getting to know a very special child in recent months. My roommates daughter to be exact. She is an amazing child, truly. Rambunctious, spunky, intelligent and completely out of control. My first weekend baby-sitting her made me wish to call my parents and apologize profusely for everything I ever put them through.

It’s an amazing thing, spending time with children. I see my own childhood rearing up to slap me in the face every time I’m jumped on, poked, prodded or begged. And I’m nothing but an innocent bystander. I ask you, am I really parent material? I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see. No matter how irritated I become I can never be angry, because she is simply being what she is twelve. How can I be angry at someone for being what they are? I can’t.

I had a particularly fun time buying her comic books the other day. I’m always happy to create another addict. The world is decidedly short of smart, female comic book readers so it gives me great pleasure to swell the ranks just a little bit.

I am back on my comic book kick you see. With the release of Spider Man 2 (fabulous movie) and my re-entry in the world of X-Men I am fully immersed in the world of superheroes once again. So much so, in fact, that my dear roommate and I have brainstormed the idea about writing our own story. What idea have we brainstormed you ask? Well, let me tell you. I’m not sure we could ever sell it, or that anyone would ever want to buy it, but I would really like to write a story about and an ugly heroine. A super-powered, butt-kicking, smart, strong, intelligent, fully capable, ugly heroine.

There is no movie, book or comic book that addresses how it is to be ugly in this world. What it would be like to save the lives of person after person that ignores you on the street and laughs at you behind your back or simply doesn’t see you. Spider Man addresses it to a point. Peter Parker is a dork, after all. But even him, like all other characters, becomes handsome (or beautiful) before the story is over. Unattractive characters are typically comic relief or a foil for the lead character to grow. If they are the leads themselves they progress through some physical change which leaves them attractive when all is said and done. What about a woman that isn’t pretty and isn’t ever going to be pretty? What about a woman that saves the world on a bi-weekly basis but can’t get a date for Saturday night? She’s funny, witty, strong, and fun but who really wants to kiss her? What about her story?

So I think I might try to tell that because all women, pretty or ugly have an ugly girl inside them. Why else would female after female sit around a table and bitch about her weight or her face or her boobs? A precious few of us have accepted the ugly girl inside. And maybe none of us have accepted her fully.

That’s the story I want to tell. I just hope I have the talent to do it.

Oh dear lord save me from the chick flicks, especially the really good ones. I’ve been reduced to a blubbering mass on the couch repeating “that was so good” over and over. But what can I say? I have no defense of my girliness…I am after all a girl. Sometimes I fool people into forgetting that, but sit me down in front of a good movie with only myself for company and rest assured. I put all my girlfriends to shame. Yes, I am pathetic. Hear me roar.

I have had many thoughts since the time I wrote last. Always I mean to write them down, and always I do not. I know a definitive is a very powerful word choice, but in this case it applies. I do always mean to write them down and I always do not. In any case I shall get to the point.

I have so many things I could ramble about so forgive me if this drags on. I keep deleting what I type in an effort to save you all from reading information you have neither want nor need to know.

I had a most interesting weekend. Most of it was somewhat pointless and would not translate to here, but one observation would. I shall attempt to do so. When in the presence of a particular friend of mine I almost always am in the presence of his girlfriend as well. She is a fabulous female and, in general, has brought a happiness to my friend I have never seen. I will always be thankful to her for that. She is, however, slightly younger than the rest of us, a fact I forget easily. There was a moment, though, that has prompted me to ponder her youthful outlook on life.

She has a tendency to speak her mind very quickly and very forcefully. If she feels someone is offensive or issuing unwarranted cruelty she is the first to speak up—defend those unable to defend themselves. I admire that about her. I remember a time when I spoke up quickly, almost instantaneously upon being riled. At times as I watch her proclaim her beliefs I wonder what happened. Where did my youthful enthusiasm go? Where did all that fire, the passion that had me fooled into believing I could change the world run off too? When did I stop defending my friends from other people and even from themselves? When did I start letting people use me, trick me into believing that I was nothing special? I thought I could take on the world at eighteen. I was going to play in the Boston Symphony and write movie music and win a literary award. I was going to do it all.

At twenty-two I’ve discovered I have to fight with myself to write, or play or pursue anything. When my friends are insulted I shake my head and think “that’s life”. It takes a sermon on the mound to inspire me to any great heights of anger, happiness, or excitement. I wouldn’t say I’m frigid, more, burnt out.

But here my thinking continues, because sometimes you can’t defend your friends or save the world. Sometimes the world is filled with colors of grey instead of black and white. There have been multiple times when I couldn’t find a right answer. Sometimes, even though I love someone completely, I cannot defend him or her. Sometimes my friends mess up and no matter how much I love them or know they didn’t mean too, I can’t fight their battles for them. The only option is to stay silent because there is no defense.

I suppose what it boils down too is this: I have the passion and the impetuousness I always did but patience has proven a greater ally than any the older I get. The world doesn’t change over night and no matter how furiously I practice or type or live I am not going to change it. But I can change my part. I can accept the people around me completely for who they are. I can be there for them when they need it. I can listen and sympathize and pretend to sympathize when necessary. I can just keep giving and hope that, for those people who have never had unconditional love, they will learn that it exists, in friendship, in family, and in love.

I think that at this point I would classify as a cynical optimist. An oxymoron perhaps, but a true one none-the-less. I have seen enough, lived enough, to know happy endings don’t come easy and sometimes not at all. But no matter how bad, things work out in the end. Sometimes you have to push them a little bit, sometimes you have to chase them but eventually when it is all said and done I reach a point when I can look back and smile. I can take a breath, relax and feel good that I have learned something.

I don’t know what is the correct path, passionate youth or restrained old-age but I know I work well somewhere in the middle. My passion is still alive, I simply hold it closer to my heart than I used too. I’ve learned that not everyone sees the world the way I do and that’s okay. I know that my life isn’t always going to work out the way I might like, but I can do my damnedest to ensure my friends’ lives do. It won’t change the world but it might make someone smile and that’s a start. That is definitely a start.

I severly dislike people. Apparently when I sign into yahoo messenger I am signed on to a network where people can find me. Fine, great whatever. So a random person says "hi". "Hi," I reply. What follows is a severely one-sided conversation with me talking and him saying only "can I have your picture?" "Can't wait to see that picture." Now, I'll send him my picture, I don't care. I'm just sitting at home on a Thursday night on the computer. Why not waste a little time chatting. But you know what? Why start a conversation with someone if you don't want to talk? Why say "hi" if you have no intentions of following up? Why refuse to talk until you see a picture and find out if the person meets your physical standards. HELLO?! It's the fucking internet people. We are not here to find soulmates. You do not meet soul mates over the computer. You don't even find good dates over the computer. Instead you find someone that maybe makes you smile a little bit why you waste your thursday night, sign off when you're tired and never think of them again. That's how it is supposed to work. This is not a match-maker to help us find our "other half". And no offense, but if you are contacting random people over the computer asking for pictures you don't really have any ground to judge others.

Yeah, I'm blunt. Yeah I'm tactless. It's a fucking internet chat. I barely tolerate word games in person I am not going to participate in them online for people I neither know nor care about. But the question of the night is this, why talk to me in the first place? Why initiate conversation? Why?! Why are boys dumb? I have no interest in stroking your ego, meeting out back of McDonalds to suck your dick or pretending I'm Carmen Electra so we can have cyber sex and you can splooge all over the screen pretending it's my face. No thanks, I'll pass. Obviously I need to find the little button that does not automatically sign me in and not participate in random internet chats anymore. It seems I truly am old and the days of the casual chat are gone. Now everyone wants to meet someone great and funny and witty. Well fuck all y'all I know enough great, funny, witty people and I have no need of the internet to provide me with more of them. I played the internet game awhile back and it blew up in my face. Now I'm pissed off because I'm not playing the internet game and stupid people are still messing up my night with their inanity. Guess what, I'm not going to cater to your thoughts. I am what I am and it that scares you or unnerves you or bothers you I am not sorry. I am a hell of a lot of woman, physically and mentally. Take it or leave it, but if you can't handle it leave me the fuck alone. Good-bye.

Marriage: 1) The state of being married 2) a wedding 3) a close union

That is the definition from Webster's New World Dictionary. At what point in that definition is it stated or even implied that same sex marriages are not an option? Why do we as human beings continue to presume we have the right to dictate the lives of those around us?

I do not understand. I simply cannot comprehend the judgemental mindset that others have. At what point do they think they know what is best for me or my friends or the American public? This isn't war, this isn't an issue of national security, this is not a situation of taxes or economy. This is a purely private issue. People involved in long-term "close unions" are denied the basic rights of heterosexual couples because they cannot be legally married. That's bullshit.

Love is love. I don't care who you are, what you wear or who you like to fuck. As long as it's a perosn and not an animal where is the problem? Our job as humans is not to do God's job for him/her. Our job as humans is to keep an eye on our fellows; do our best to improve the lives of those around us. We don't have to agree with the decision made by our neighbors and we certainly don't have to like it, but if it doesn't harm anyone what right have we to dictate the behavior? I know, some conservatives will argue that homosexuality is a danger and a threat to the family lifestyle. They are ignorant. It is as simple as that. Homosexuality is no more a threat or a moral failing than heterosexuality. Homosexuals do not procreate (at least not with each other) but aside from that their lifestyle is no different from that of a heterosexual. Where is the problem? Why all the debate and angst and amendments?

I am so furious I find myself having trouble forming a proper argument. It is a fight that can never be won. People are stupid and they always will be. I'm so tired of the shallow, judgemental behavior. I am so tired of biting my tongue when stupid people say stupid things. I'm so angry at watching intelligent people, those I know and even like in some cases, engage in the same behavior. Why is it so amazingly hard to simply accept people for what they are? Always judgement must be passed--how they talk, how they look, how they eat, how they sleep. How about if someone is a good person, a truly good person, the rest of it is inconsequential? Yeah, it matters if you are going to marry the person but we aren't talking about you getting married here. We're talking about letting a happy couple live together in the manner they see fit with equal rights. This is the god damned United States of America and we can't accept everyone for who they are. If you don't see a problem with that then you I don't think you know what it is to be American.

Oh holy hell, I have good stories from this weekend! I suppose I shouldn't sell myself in the first line because the stories aren't that fabulous but more odd...oh well, I'll tell the tale you decide.

It all started Friday afternoon--I leave work and return a voicemail to my soon to be sister-in-law to discover two things. 1) my brother has a job as football coach and 2) they have decided to move the wedding up a year. Now the first is cause for great cheer the second is cause for extreme action. We now have three months to get this thing planned. Looks to be interesting. So Saturday comes, I go into work for a couple of hours before meeting my mother and sis and heading to the bridal shop. A hellacious car ride later we are trying on dresses and doing the crazy wedding dress dance. A whole lot of squeezing, pinching, sucking in and sweating later a wedding dress had been found. Three dresses after that we had the bridesmaid dresses. It was absolutely amazing. For those of you whom have never shopped for wedding apparel you might not understand the sheer magnitude of this task or the extreme luck required to find both wedding dress and attendants dress in one day. But we did. And it was all pretty and flattering. I still can't believe it.

Saturday progresses we go to dinner, everyone goes home and around 9:00pm I fall asleep on the couch, move to the bed at 10:30. Looks to be a normal, lame saturday night right? Oh wait, there's more.

2:00 am the lights flip on and I hear my roommate yelling something at me. Waking up more than a little bit groggy I finally understand she is telling me to get up and get dressed. We are going out. I don't go out after going to bed. I definitely don't wake up at two in the morning to go out. However, go out I did. Her latest internet boy knocks on the door, walks in looking like a hippie hoodlum and we're off to see my friend's band playing at a bar down the street. Here I shall digress to give you a little bit of backstory.

My roommate has taken to the yahoo personals scene. While it hasn't yielded anything fruitful yet, it has certainly provided some funny stories. I shall refer to these gentlemen as #1, #2 and #3. #1 was a perfectly nice man that was perfectly not her type. Scrawny, boring and sheepish she would have broken him in half long before anything exciting was ever considered. #2 was a self-proclaimed straight man who had the soundtrack to "Beaches" memorized. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions on that one. #3 showed up at our door last night at two in the morning. He is a gym teacher who supposedly does 150 push-ups and 1000 sit-ups a day. He would qualify as "wiry". He is also the former lead singer of a heavy-metal band, has a crazy old army jacket he bought from the salvation army and a weird hair on top, bald on the sides haircut. None of these things are particularly negative--they simply aren't my roommate. He couldn't be more not her type if he were a woman parading as a man.

So, we are now at a bar watching the band. It's mostly late nineties, early 00 metal music and I don't mind because I love that shit. My roommate, however, was less than the thrilled. The crowd...the crowd is where the true story lies.

I have always wondered, through my sci-fi/fantasy novels, what it would be like to meet zombies or brownies. I met both last night. The crowd moved like half-dead animals, hypnotized by the screaming music pouring from the speakers. Everyone moved in time, dancing in exactly the same way, their bodies contorted in perfect unison to bounce back and forth with the bass drum pounding into our guts. It was amazing and scary at the same time. But then I looked around and saw by the door a most unbelievable sight. It was a large man, probably somewhere around six feet two inches or so in bib overalls. His outfit was inhanced only by the straggly, long gray hair lying lank on his shoulders. He also had a large brown birthmark on his forehead. All of these characteristics separated would be nothing amazing, but too see such a person, encompassing everything at once blew my mind. You just don't see people like that normally. I was worried for a moment I had never truly gotten out of bed.

We make it home safe and sound, lay around and talk as best we can with our ears ringing louder than the phone and eventually go to bed around five or five thirty. It was two this afternoon before I awoke again. Not ten minutes after getting out of bed I drug my foot across a nail sticking up from our tack strip and ripped an inch long chunk of skin off my foot. That one hurt. When you gash yourself within ten minutes of getting up just go back to bed. There is never a more clear cut sign that the day just isn't going to go your way.

So that is my weekend story. I don't know why I was so worked up over Valentine's day, after all it's just a day like any other. But I'm a woman and I think I'll pull that excuse out again to cover my ass. Maybe I'm just a crazy bitch...nah, couldn't be. I'm entirely too sweet natured for that. ;)

Alright, I make no apologies about the words that are on this page. Read at your own risk.

I absolutely *hate* valentine's day. I hate it with a passion I normally reserve for comic books, movies and men. I think what I hate the most, however, is that no matter how hard I strive to be a strong, independent woman this stupid, contrived "holiday" makes me feel like less of a person for not having anyone to romance me. Every valentine's day I have to watch all the couples around me jump off the bridge of stupidity as they try to woo each other with expensive romantic gifts and heartfelt cards written by Hallmark. And despite knowing that to spend money on valentine's day is stupid and meaningless, I still would like to jump off the bridge just once. Just to see what it's like. I suppose having never received flowers in my life the cliche is a little less over done for me, huh?

The really odd thing, though, is that more than romance and flowers and chocolate all this gooey, lovey-duvy, bullshit just makes me horny. How does that work out? Cuddle time is fantastic but can I please have lots and lots of sex first? Is that too much to ask? Where is the middle ground for women anyway? The gender roles have been so amazingly blurred in the last thirty years that I feel myself at a loss for how I am "supposed" to act. I think it is a marvelous thing men can be more open with their emotions and women need not feel strapped into certain behaviors but now what do those of us do that straddle the gender role line? How does a woman communicate wanting the shit fucked out of her one night and to be held tenderly during a heart-to-heart conversation the next?

I'm supposed to cook, and be sensitive, and like kids. I cook only so much as is required by my budget, I'm oversensitive one week of the month, a rock the other three and kids are only cool when they are happy and quiet. I am every other woman in the world.

We are all crazy and horny and cry-babies and incredibly strong. We all wish that in this crazy world of fucked up relationships and Hallmark romance men would read our minds. Trust me, we want nothing more than to tell you exactly how we feel but we're scared, pure and simple. Just like you we've put it out there and been shot down. Just like you we don't know when to be tender or forceful or open or hold back. The emotions of human beings are a mish-mash of evolution, enivronment, and personality. I don't have the answer, but I'm not anything special. Just one more woman who is waiting for a mind reader to come sweep her off her feet. Yeah, that will happen. When penguins fly.

Wow, so I've been here three weeks? Seems like longer. While it has started to feel like home I find myself still surprised by the skyline. I walked out of the riverplex (ymca on steroids) and after the initial shock of being cold looked up and had a moment of confusion as I wondered what all the big buildings were in the night sky. It occurred ot me after half a second that those were my buildings. I'm not in Mac-town anymore.

So how is my new life you ask? Well not to bad, could be worse. I have a job now; I am an engineering assistant. How is that for employemnt with an english degree? I remember people telling me I could have any manner of employment--I didn't believe them until the past two weeks, however. On the plus side I like it significantly more than my old job of secretarial duty. The pay is more, I'm paid overtime when deserved and I'm busy all day. There is definitely something to be said for that. As for my job duties they seem to vary. I have turned into one of those people who doesn't have a job description. What I do is so random and specialized I'm not sure I could explain it properly. I'm going to turn into the crazy old aunt with a job the nieces and nephews can't understand.

Oh sweet jesus. I must interrupt this regularly scheduled blog for a rant brought on by an instant message.

I'm going to attempt to sum up the conversation that has provoked this rant. My dear friend has questioned me if she should "allow" her boyfriend to travel to Cancoon with a female friend of his for spring break. She will not be joining them for whatever reason and she now finds herself in a quandry. Myself, knowing the fellow would say let him go. Trust has to be present for a relationship to work and since they are long distance anyway it isn't as if he hasn't had plenty of opportunity to cheat. Her problem arises because she doesn't trust "any girl in Cancoon". All this angst over this? Not to be cynical but either he loves her or he doesn't. Either he'll cheat or he won't. If you love someone you have to trust them not to break your heart. That's the plain and simple shitty truth of that folks. More often than not your heart gets broken but hey, it's not really love if you don't lay it all out there, and who wants to have a relationship halfway?

It's all so fucking retarded. Excuse my language but that is the simple truth of the matter. People just don't communicate. I am as guilty as the next person I will admit it. All the thoughts, and feelings. Two people love each other, care about each other, want to be together. 1 + 1 = 2 right? If only! Instead there are mind games and bullshit and what ifs. Fuck that. There was a time in my life when I didn't put up with that. I think it's time I found my way back.

So I just watched Pleasantville for the first time. It was somewhat humorous--it didn't quite make the statement as well as I thought it would, however. At the end of the movie you are supposed to feel good about emotion. You are to feel life isn't life with moods and rain and sex. Good message, but I didn't enjoy the spoon-feeding. I don't like it when the moral of the story is laid out like a children's story at the end. Just takes something away I think, but that is only my opinion.

Wow, the pro-choice dinner thing is on CSPAN-2 right now. There is a subject that has been beaten into the ground. But I have to say I am glad there are still people out there willing to fight. I've taken my right to choose for granted my entire life. It was legal when I was born and it never occurred to me through my youth that it might become illegal again. After all, if a woman didn't want to have a baby that should be her choice right? I don't need to spout philosophy--everyone has heard it all before. But I have to give my nod to the people still fighting the good fight because no matter what you believe a person should at least have a choice. You never know the circumstances behind her situation.

Okay, that isn't a real rant because there is no reason to rant on that subject. It was sparked only by the speeches I am listening to as I write. I could change the channel but hey, I'm not that motivated.

Oh my goodness, my friend is watching True Life--I'm getting breast implants on MTV. Now the first problem with this scenario is she is watching MTV. There is never anything good on MTV, except the music awards. The second problem is that someone is allowing her breast implant surgery to be filmed. The real problem, though, is that someone wants breast implants at all. Reductions are understandable. Sometimes a reduction is a necessity. But implants? First of all the only reason for an implant is to look better. You only want to look better for other people. What an idiotic reason to do something. Not because you will feel better, not because you will live longer, not because you will have greater stimulation. Nope, in fact you'll have less stimulation and in some cases silicone leaks into the chest. Hello?! Does this strike anyone else as lunacy? Goodness gracious what is the world coming to when we have bothered to take the time to invent such surgery? People are dying from diseases we have no cure for, children are starving and money is being spent on breast implants and better technology for those implants.

It's the same thing as televisions in cars now. Why do we need tv's in our cars? Why? Short of a twenty hour car ride it is not necessary. I do not understand. The time and effort spent to do this...it is wrong and wasteful. We should be developing cars that don't require gasoline, not making them more frivolous. Honestly, I'm not a tree hugger but come on people. Is all this really necessary? Aren't there better uses for our time?

Oh goodness. I hate people. Nothing new there. I would offer a really good rant about lesbian bullshit but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty. It will have to wait for another day. In the meantime I will bid you adieu, find the energy to shut off the angry women on the television and go to bed.

If I lived in middle-earth I would definitely be an Ent. When you finally get me worked up I'm all sorts of scary, but I'd much rather sit around the forest and not do anything to hasty. We musn't be hasty my precious.