How You Doin’ Blondie?


The Bonfire of the Vanities
May 27, 2008, 3:23 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Men, Reality, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , ,

I went to lunch today with my friends, and I seriously thought it would never end. It was torturous. My friends are all beautiful and successful, but they can’t seem to cultivate a healthy relationship with a decent man to save their lives. Of course, I can’t either, but I know this, I’ve accepted this. They, on the other hand, insist on blaming their failed relationships on male incompetence.

 Well today I finally had it up to here. I decided I was sick and tired of listening to them sit around and complain about being single, and double standards, and how men just don’t understand, and all that “female empowerment” bullshit…So I decided to offer my humble advice and said;

“Look, guess what, ladies? Men are not that complicated. 99.9% of the time, you’re the one who fucks things up. So check this out:

 If you don’t want him to treat you like a slut, don’t sleep with him on the first date.

If you don’t want him to tell you your ass is big, don’t ask how you look in those hot shorts.

If you don’t want him to check out your hot friends, don’t invite us over. Or get uglier friends.

If you don’t want him to cheat on you, find out what the fuck it is he’s not getting from you, and give it to him.

And also, ladies, while I’m at it, those women’s magazines you read? Ditch ’em. Don’t believe the hype – you’re not as great as you think you are.”

Picture, if you will, a turd in the town well. That is how it went over. So fuck them. I like hanging out with the angry old men at my local dive bar more anyway…at least those guys don’t buy me drinks with fucking fruit in them.

Advertisements


Pretty In Pink
April 19, 2008, 10:11 pm
Filed under: Anger, Life, Lonliness, Loss, love, Pain, Reality, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I went to Barnes and Noble’s today, and for the first time in my life, I was disgusted by books. Disgusted. Everywhere I looked there was pink and white and cursive script and cutesy designs; “Blonde” and “Sex” and “Beautiful” and “Affair”; skin and breasts and lips.

It made me so sad. And so angry.

Every author was competing for the coveted distinction of being the most renegade, the most taboo.

“Oh, Oh, I know! I’ll write from the perspective of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of the current wife, who approves of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of a single woman who has anonymous sex with multiple partners!”

“Well I’ll be a kept woman”

“Well I’ll be a stripper!”

“I’ll be an prostitute!”

“I’ll be a porn star!”

And on and on and on and on until I just wanted to stand in the middle of the bookstore and cry. I wanted to sob, big heaving sobs that rack your whole body and make you gasp for breath and send torrents of wet, hot, salty, tears running down your cheeks and your lips and your neck.  I wanted to destroy; I wanted to tear each and every single book off of the shelf and rip the pages from their bindings and shred each word, each paragraph into little tiny pieces of confetti and then spit on it, I wanted to spit on all of it. I wanted to cause destruction and turmoil and pain. I wanted those authors to see the fruits of their labor – their lifeblood – desecrated and defiled. I wanted the authors to be hurt, I wanted them to feel violated. And I wanted to stand in the middle of the chaos and scream at them

“ENOUGH! THIS IS NOT A GAME! You take the one thing that brings me joy, you take my one escape, you take the only constant that I have to cling to and you USE it, you USE it and you CHEAPEN it. You CHEAPEN it in the name of your precious creative genius. You enclose yourself in your edgy little writer’s retreat and you say to yourself, ‘How can I be dramatic? How can I be poignant? How can I be utterly unique?’ And you start to brainstorm and the wheels start turning and you start thinking ‘outside the box’ and you start to think about what’s hot and what’s fascinating and how can you really grab someones attention, really force them to look at you and suddenly you think, ‘Sex!’  You think, ‘One of the most forbidden topics!’ You think ‘I’ll write about sex and sluts and prostitutes and adultery, but I’ll disguise all the turmoil and strife and make it cutesy and humorous and lovable, even! I’ll be a real insurrectionary!’

BUT YOU’RE NOT. Are you listening to me? YOU’RE NOT. You write about all these things that you know nothing about and you make your busty blonde protagonist sarcastic and witty and sometimes insightful and largely happy go lucky, as if sure, she knows she might not lead the most normal, average, lifestyle, but she’s happy because she knows what she’s doing isn’t wrong, it’s just different.

And then your book hits the shelves and people love it, they go crazy for it. You’re on Oprah and The View and Good Morning America and The Late Show and people are just in LOVE with your book! How could they not be? Just look at what you’ve done! You’ve made them fall head over heels for the whore of Babylon! You’ve made them root for Delilah! And you’ve done it all without making them feel anything unpleasant, no despair or defeat. You’ve romanticized everything. You’ve cleaned it up. You’ve made it digestible. You ‘left out’ the part where the ‘other’ woman cries herself to sleep at night over the unrequited love she has surrendered her soul to. You ‘forgot to mention’ the part where the prostitute falls in love with a regular guy but watches the relationship deteriorate before her eyes because she doesn’t enjoy making love to him, she’s not even sure what ‘making love’ is.

You make it acceptable and understandable. You rob it of it’s realism. You’re a liar, a thief, and a whore, in every sense of the word.”



The Proverbial Question
April 11, 2008, 2:10 pm
Filed under: Life, love, Questions, Reality, Reflections, thoughts

How do you throw in the towel in a battle with yourself? This isn’t a rhetorical question, I’m not waxing poetic – I genuinely do not know the answer to this question.

Do you sell all your possessions? Do you give the green light to that over-zealous Realtor whose been circling overhead ever since you had that property appraisal done?

Do you give your brother perhaps the greatest gift he’ll ever receive, the black 2007 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 some guy you vaguely remember bequeathed to you in his will? Do you lie when he asks where you got it from? Do you have it garaged until he comes back from Iraq?

Do you sell your G-Class to that hip-hop star down the street who really has no apparent source of income aside from polishing his neck jewelry, but has been lavishing praise upon your monstrosity of an SUV ever since you got it?

Do you finally buy that Ducati Supersport 1000DS you’ve been lusting after for years but never quite had the balls to buy? Do you buy a sidecar for your 80lb best friend/dog? Does the sidecar detract from the coolness of the Ducati? Do you even care at this point?

Do you sell, sell, sell, like it’s a fucking swap meet because the sight of all these THINGS just makes you fucking sick?

What do you do with all the money? Do you buy a Kevlar blanket and new body armor for every single last fucking soldier in your brother’s unit? Do you throw money hand over fist at the non-profit organization, Soldiers’ Angels, you’ve been a member of ever since that fucking horrible day your brother came home with that jar head haircut? Do cry at night because you miss your brother so, so much, and you love him so, so much and you feel like the most selfish, spoiled whore in the world for sleeping on silk sheets while he’s picking sand out of his teeth and dodging mortar attacks?

Do you toy with the idea of enlisting yourself? What would you do with Cody? Who would take care of him? What about those neighbors of yours, the elderly couple who bake things for him? You think they’d keep him while you’re gone?

What if you die? Will it be worth it? Will it mean you’ve at least done something, stood for something, been something other then a fucking wealthy, pretty, waste of space?

Are all these questions things that you’ve very seriously considered? Very, very seriously considered? Are you just about ready to throw in the towel?

Yes, yes you are.



Call Me Reverend Dimmesdale

It makes me slightly ill when I hear about the sexual affairs of married people. The cheating, the excuses, the understandings. It really does make me physically sick. And who am I to react like that? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Isn’t my current boyfriend married and the father of sweet little toddler? Don’t I rationalize it away by saying to myself, “It’s different, they have an understanding?” Don’t I judge others by their actions but myself by my intentions?

So why does it plunge me into such a state of utter despair to bear witness to the infidelity of others?

Because I still have a little bit of hope, that’s why. As jaded, hateful, and bitter as I am, there’s still a little tiny part of me that believes in the traditional family unit, wants the traditional family unit. There’s a part of me that dreams about finding a nice, decent, hard-working, down-to-earth, blue collar guy who thinks the sun rises and sets on me; of finding a man who sees me as the most beautiful woman in the world, and the woman he wants to mother his future children. There’s a part of me that cries sometimes, lamenting the loss of the sacred union and a love that weathers storms and the put-yourself-first mentality society promotes. There’s also a part that hates myself, really and truly hates myself, for the life I’ve made.

I hate you, husband who “works late”; I hate you, housewife with the “personal trainer”; I hate you, unhappily married man or woman, who thinks your time is better spent fulfilling your own desires then working on repairing and stabilizing the relationship, the commitment you’ve already made; I hate you so much it makes me angry, angry and sick to the point of vomiting.

But I hate myself even more.



It’s The Little Things, Really

 



I Really Don’t Like The Fit Of This Shoe…

Harken back, if ye will, to the days of old when I was kind of half-assed chasing my single neighbor, S…it turns out, things might not have been as dead as I thought they were. I was at the local dive bar with another guy, and we were canoodling (does that word sounds as stupid as I think it does?), and who should walk in and sit on the other side of the bar, but S. himself. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, so I turned to wave or something, but he wouldn’t look up or acknowledge me. So I figured ok, cool, guess I “didn’t see him”. So my guy and I carry on, but I can feel S. just boring holes into me with his stare. Eventually we left, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt like I’d done something really underhanded to S…I dismissed the feeling, until today. Saw S. three times today, in the span of about an hour. I waved and tried to make eye contact all 3 times, he ignored me. The second time I saw him, he was driving past my house while I was sitting on the porch. He waved at the neighbor walking past on the sidewalk, but he didn’t wave at me. He didn’t even turn his head in my direction. The third time I saw him, he was less then 20 yards away from me, watching his dog urinate on a tree. I waved, but he “didn’t see me”. He ignored me. Completely.

Fuck. I’m being taught a lesson.

I feel like an asshole.



Whore Redux

Today; “Search Engine Terms: define whore”.

Really?

It was vaguely amusing, now it’s just mildly insulting.

…Oh and honey? If you’re concerned enough to research the formal definition, you’ve probably already been immortalized by Joe Francis.