Okay, reading the last post, I can come off as blaming Frito-Lay and Coca-Cola and restaurants and mega-factory-farms and ...
Okay, this, this shit that we're all mired in, it isn't any of their fault.
It's our fault.
Look, Frito-Lay and Coca-Cola and McDonalds and your local Irish Pub, and, and ... sbux (Oh, God, I'm crying!) are in business to make money, and they make money by serving us what we want, and the successful businesses are the best servers.
So. It's not their fault I satiate my tongue with salt and sugar until I desensitize it. They are just giving me what I want, and when I want more, they give me more. If not them, then somebody else would step up and serve me, because, God-damn-it, it's my American-born right to be pleasured, and right now, at that.
Oh, and to be clear, I'm not writing this footnote to defend Corporate American, Inc, nor am I writing it because I'm afraid of being sued by them.
The ones who are afraid are them, not me.
First of all, if they sued me, they'd lose their shirts in legal fees.
But that doesn't give me carte blanch (that is Latin) to slander: if I want to be responsible (for, like, my health), well, responsibility is everywhere in my life, and I can't say that it's McDonalds fault for the diabetes epidemic.
Nobody forced me to supersize my order, nor even order in the first place.
And, in fact, these corporations, following the profit motive (because if they don't, then they won't be corporations for long), also are good citizens, like I try to be, too.
After all: I don't own foundations to assist orphans or save polar bears or any of that.
But they do.
So, they are there, and they serve the mass of people, and they serve them very well, indeed, and are justly, or magnificently, compensated for it.
And I still want to have a choice in my life as to what I put into (any part of) my body.
How can I do that with these megaliths overshadowing everything?
Easy. You live in the city, like I do? Easy.
There are nooks everywhere. Restaurants cater to their clientele. So: live a little. Go to a hole in the wall ethnic place and do a quick check of the patrons. More than 50% white? Well, they are now catering to middle America. Move on.
But if you go to an Afghani place, and there are all locals there, or if you go to a Vietnamese place, and they're all Vietnamese, or if you go to a Korean place, and they are all Han.
Then you're onto something. Something good.
Then, ... well, usually it's a mistake to ask the waitress what to get in these places, and here's why.
She'll look at you (at me), and say, 'Hm, white girl wants ...' and suggest something vomitous that one of the usuals wouldn't be caught dead eating.
No, you're American, you're rude, by definition, so: use it.
Point to the next table and say, 'I'll have what they're having.'
If the waitress looks shocked and says, 'No, no! You no like that!'
Then you've probably struck gold.
Or you'll hate it, but at least you tried something you never tried before.
That's a win in my book, either way.
USUALLY you strike gold.
I went to an Afghani place, and said I wanted a pita sandwich, and the owner said, 'No, you want the lamb kabab!'
And I was like, incensed! but then I saw all the patrons eating kababs, so I was like, okay, you're the boss.
He was. SO. RIGHT!
Okay, that's the city: eat the real ethnic food.
But you say you don't live in the city.
Sister, then you've won, big time.
You do have a farm near you, did you know you can order directly from them?
You win.
And then, your yard? All that space, that city dweller me doesn't have.
Just try a 6-sq foot garden, just start it, and then, a year later, you'll be like, '`phfina, you can't touch me for the food I make, and it's so easy to do. Why aren't you doing it?'
Yes, there's a McDonalds and Walmart in your town, or tri-town area, but just because you don't have a Thai restaurant or whatever, you're not deprived. You, too, don't have to go to McDonalds nor Walmart to get everything you need, when you can go to your local farm or you can be your local farm, for goodness sake!
You know, I think, part of the reason for this food-crisis we're having, is because we are so blessed with bounty, we don't even see the beautiful because the plentiful satiates then dulls our senses.
All you have to do to see is to take a wee bit of time, and to look, and to see.
... and then, when you see beauty, to be grateful for what you've seen.
We are not slaves to Corporate America, Inc, nor to Gov't regulation ... they are so big and grand, and care about the little mouse that is me insofar only as much as it can get me to give myself, my body, and my mind to them, so they can continue to exist.
That's why Corporate America, Inc, is afraid, and always will be: they are there to serve, and nobody knows that better than them, even little me, a (willing) Corporate slave of one of them, didn't get that until now.
Their jobs, their existence depends, always depends on a happy consumer.
So, we don't get all Fight Club on them. We don't need to.
An educated consumer? The one who says, "Hm, I want to taste the taste of tomato in my sandwich, not this bland cardboard taste"?
Who votes with his feet?
One of them?
Pfft! Who cares!
But one becomes two, and two, three, and three, more, and more, a movement, and that's how sbux started, one cup at a time. That's how Whole Foods started, that's how Walmart, that's how all of them started.
And that's good.
And that works well enough.
And then, there are the people who stand up, and say, "I am going to make that sandwich I want to eat."
And that's how 5 guys started, and now they are growing across the country.
And you read this, and you say, "But not me."
You say that. "Oh, I can't write like you." "Oh, I can manage a restaurant, but I can't own one and sell the food I already make with my own hands because ..." or "Oh, I'm not going to vote for any of the candidates: they are all crooks."
But what about you? Forget the 'if not you, then who?'
Forget that.
Just this: the next time you say 'If I were running this country, ...'
Or: "Who's the manager here, do you call this service?"
Or ... whenever you're not getting served the way you want...
Do you know people are paying good money, feeling exactly as you do, and they are willing to pay 8x the price they are paying for a cup of coffee made the way they really want it, not that dishwater they are drinking right now.
Or WHATEVER it is that you are settling for as a consumer.
Are you going to live a 'settled for' life?
Yes, you are. But now you know that you are settling for, every day, several times a day, you do settle for.
Knowledge, ... sight, ... is a beautiful, cursed thing. Because you see now what you see, and what you do with it: you either leave well enough alone and settle for 'Well, that's the way things are, ...'
Or, you're going to plant the first apple seed on your walk across the country,
Or, you're going to design clothes that are both elegant and comfortable and fashionable and affordable,
Or, you're going to run for State senate, and lose, and then, like Lincoln, run for President: the first woman President of the United States: you,
... and change the world.
-----
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our mind
Woh, have no fear for atomic energy
'Cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time
How long shall they kill our prophets
While we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say it's just a part of it
We've got to fullfill the book
Won't you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
'Cause all I ever had
Redemption songs
BOB MARLEY - REDEMPTION SONG
Thursday, March 1, 2012
8th day of Lent (a Rant)
WARNING: This isn't going to pretty, and there's no redemptive, cathartic moment.
Do you know what really pisses me off?
Yeah, `phfina! the crowds, in ecstasy, cheer, what really pisses you off?
Well, okay, since you're so insistent in your demands, I'll tell you. What really pisses me off is ...
Food.
Look, okay, I haven't been hungry, at all, in a while, but, no, I can't be caught not eating because ...
... and no I don't suffer from anorexia, thank you for your concern ...
... Just because. Because everybody eats, and don't you want to be like everybody?
Yes, I do. @_@
What's wrong with you, `phfina?
Look, I don't have all week to get into that, so let's stay on the topic at hand.
Okay, so I had a bowl of cereal and an omelet yesterday morning. Healthy breakfast, yes, and 2 pm rolls around, and I'm still not hungry, at all ... but, I gotta eat, because I gotta eat, otherwise, people will notice.
And we can't have that.
SO, I go down to the cafeteria and get a roast beef sandwich, ...
And here it comes, ladies and gentlemen,
And I bite into the thing, and ... nothing.
It had NO taste whatsoever! And you know why?
Why, `phfina! Why!
I'll tell you why! Because it was processed from source to consumer, that's why.
Look, okay, I'm not a health food nut, okay? I'm not a granola girl, but by God, this kind of food is turning me into one.
What kind of food, you ask?
(`phfina waits for you to ask, you give me that 'asking' look, which I'll have to settle for, I suppose)
This kind of food: Amerkan kind of food.
I mean the bread: meh.
But the roast beef? It was probably cornfed and factory processed, the poor cow, so it probably had more carbs than the bread did, pound for pound, because it was absolutely tasteless, and then the sandwich, heavy on the carbs, had one tomato slice.
Let me tell you about the tomato slice. I looked at it.
Can anyone spell HGH for me?
Jesus-God! I could actually see the bubbles of nitrogen quick-expand it into 'maturity'? No not that, because it was red-dye colored! SO OBVIOUSLY so that it was a grey-green red.
There was absolutely nothing nutritive in that tomato. NOTHING!
That sandwich.
God!
That sandwich exemplifies one side of the equation of: give the people ('cattle' or 'rabble') what they want.
Absolutely bland, absolutely tasteless, with enough high-corn-syrup energy to get the 'fuck-me-up-the-ass, boss' secretary through her utterly bland, faceless, boring day, another day in her pointless life as a consumer who's job it is to keep Corporate Food America so deep in profits they ...
... I can't come up with a witty analog as my mind has been stulified into submission. 'Must consume more empty calories!'
The other side of the equation is this: 'Oh, you want to taste your food? We'll put some taste (salt and sugar) in your food!'
You go to restaurant these days and you can actually brush off the salt encrusting every item of food fast-food served to you.
And why?
Why, `phfina!
Thank you.
You know where restaurants make all their money?
The drinks.
Do you know how much it costs to produce a glass of Coke(™)? With — get this — 5 TABLESPOONS of SUGAR! in EACH glass?
Less than a penny.
How much did you just spend for that drink with your meal?
Free refills? FUCK the free refills. The refills are FREE for THEM!
Do you know what it costs ME for you to get your free refills?
Diabetes, kidney and liver failures leading to insulin shots, and medical emergency procedures (operations, dialysis, and what-all else) that I have to pay for with money I DON'T have in my company-'sponsored' health insurance 'premiums'!
'Pre' as in 'pre'-shock before I die looking at how much we are all paying for the sum total of this world-wide now epidemic of gluttony of the senses.
Oh, but we're not at a restaurant, ... we're at an Irish pub now, being served what?
Fried fish and chips, of course.
And beer. And beer. And whiskey with the beer.
When I go out to eat, I want to drink, and drink and drink.
Do you know how much it costs to produce a bottle of beer? The beer company owned by ... wait for it:
Frito-Lay and the Coca-cola company.
Don't believe me? Look it up by tracing the chain of holding companies to the source company.
It costs about the same to produce a can of beer as it does to produce a can of coke (or 'Coke(™)') (they are as equally addictive anyway, so it doesn't matter which one you call it. I know, and more on that in a mo')
But how much did you just pay for that beer? $5? $6? $7? Or for the 'hand-crafted': $8, $9, or $10?
What the fuck is 'hand-crafted' beer that's been so mass-produced that it ends up right the fuck in front of you in a restaurant that buys it, along with a hundred other restaurants that buy it, to so conveniently serve you your fucking 'hand-crafted' beer?
Okay, real reason for writing this post.
I don't know if I'm supposed to say, but I'm going to Hell anyway, so what does it matter?
I gave up drinking booze for Lent.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, I've been dry. And for a few days before Lent, because I didn't know I was gonna do this, so I didn't go Mardigras crazy, ...
... like I did with my other vices ...
for that.
I was going to go on a water-and-light-fast diet for Lent, and, for the light fast, I'm doing that, anyway, because why? Because I haven't been hungry for days.
Actually I think I'm sick...
And DON'T GO THERE on the 'yeah, we know you're a sicko, you crazy bitch,' this post isn't about that if if you want to read about that ... well, read any of my other posts...
... as I've lost my voice and stayed home today from work, not even getting up until 11 am, but guess how many calls and emails I got from HR and Payroll and Accounting about this, that, and other.
I mean, GOD! I'm gonna die someday, people, can't you do your jobs one day without my help?
But the water fast?
Here's where I'm back to the coke. Or Coke(™)
I went on a water fast Ash Wednesday.
And got a caffeine headache so bad it almost was a migraine.
Yes, I get migraines. Stress, don't you know.
So, I'm back on coffee and diet, DIET, cokes, but I ...
I can't taste the coke anymore.
I'm addicted. I've been trained to be a good little addicted consumer.
But, so, hm, how to salvage the unsalvageable?
Besides the 2012 Armageddon.
Listen, people, I'm gonna start packing my own lunches, and I don't care about the office talk about "oh, look at `phfina, she 'packs her own lunch'!" Gossip can subdue other people, but I sick of being a slave to Food, Inc.
And, really, folks, look at buying from ... idk ...
Okay, my nieces, they grow their own peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers and carrots, they gave me some.
You know what real pepper tastes like? It doesn't taste like airy cardboard. It tastes like pepper: sweet, juicy, delicious.
THAT's what real food tastes like.
They grow these things in their backyard, in 'Square-foot gardens' 2 feet by 3 feet. That's all the room you need to start getting your own health back!
Now for the drinking thing: I actually don't miss it. I actually didn't notice that I didn't miss it until I wrote this entry. It's like I psyche myself into thinking 'I need a drink' ...
Are you an alcoholic, `phfina?
Yes, thanks for asking. Do you feel better than me, knowing that you got me to say I'm an alcoholic?
'Are you an alcoholic?' You know, people who ask that question, all concerned, so that they can know you're an alcoholic, but then don't take the only next step, and put their whole life on the line to save you?
The can go FUCK THEMSELVES!
FUCK I want a drink so bad right now.
You know why I gave up drinking for Lent, even though I don't drink every day, and I don't need it, and all the other excuses I tell myself every day?
Because of Saga.
She read my entry, Party Girl, and you know what she did?
She became ... No, she is. She is a strong person. And she wouldn't let me get away with me shitting on myself.
She stood, and she asked me not to drink, because she loved me, and didn't want me to throw away my life, like she seen her sweet, smart friend do, and she did this when it was inconvenient, and impolite, and she got the sharp edge of my tongue.
But she did it, she put her life on the line, for me.
And what did I do?
'Eh, I don't have a problem.'
And kept drinking, sometimes. Well, continued to drink, okay?
So now ... eight days, no alcohol.
For you, Saga.
But why? We're not together anymore, right?
Saga. I love you, and I want you to see that I've 'moved on' and that I'm 'better.'
I have moved on. I try not to think about you every day so much, and hurt myself. And I'm 'better,' see? I'm not drinking now.
So, will you please move on, and be better? no, not better: Happy.
'Happy' in that you know you've done good and you are good. You've done the right things, made the hard choices, and now, ...
Now you have your life ahead of you, and I so, so desperately want you to be happy in the life you choose now.
Are you already, and you haven't written, because I'm a footnote, and there's nothing to say anymore? I hope so, God I hope so.
I hope it isn't that you can't write to me because you are hurting inside, that I hurt you, and all you think you'll get from me is spite, anger and recriminations. I have, and will always, admire, respect, and love you. You are a light to the world, Saga, you were my light, my reason for living when I had no reason for more than a year, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Please, Saga, know that. Know what you've done is good and right. Know that I admire, respect and love you.
8th day of Lent. No drinking. Not for me. I could care less about me. For you, Saga.
Now, as for the I'm going to Hell bit, that's a two-liner.
Anytime you put anything that you have to have in front of God, you're a goner.
I tried giving up coke, and my body just said nope.
I didn't even try to give up masturbation, a grievous sin, and thinking about not even trying to give that up has got me stripping in bathrooms and coming up with such lurid images that I've rubbed myself raw these last few days.
I am utterly hopeless and a lost, damned soul. It says it right there in the Bible, where Jesus, no, St. Paul says that's the worst sin, because the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit and anything you do to yourself (and he mentions masturbation) to defile that temple is a direct sin against God.
And if God said, 'Don't masturbate for one day and you get a free pass into Heaven'? I'd be like, 'reverse-Lot' where I'd try to 'jew' him up? "When you say 'don't', God, is it okay if I do it just one time?" "How about two?" "Three?" "Five?" "Ten?"
... "Fifteen?"
"God, is it okay if I do it just fifteen times today, because just thinking about not doing it has got the endorphins going and, ... well, you know ... kitty needs pats!"
I am an addict. A slave to booze, coke, and kitty.
A modern day girl, a faceless consumer, right out of Atlas Shrugged.
And you hold out such hope from my redemption.
Silly you.
Do you know what really pisses me off?
Yeah, `phfina! the crowds, in ecstasy, cheer, what really pisses you off?
Well, okay, since you're so insistent in your demands, I'll tell you. What really pisses me off is ...
Food.
Look, okay, I haven't been hungry, at all, in a while, but, no, I can't be caught not eating because ...
... and no I don't suffer from anorexia, thank you for your concern ...
... Just because. Because everybody eats, and don't you want to be like everybody?
Yes, I do. @_@
What's wrong with you, `phfina?
Look, I don't have all week to get into that, so let's stay on the topic at hand.
Okay, so I had a bowl of cereal and an omelet yesterday morning. Healthy breakfast, yes, and 2 pm rolls around, and I'm still not hungry, at all ... but, I gotta eat, because I gotta eat, otherwise, people will notice.
And we can't have that.
SO, I go down to the cafeteria and get a roast beef sandwich, ...
And here it comes, ladies and gentlemen,
And I bite into the thing, and ... nothing.
It had NO taste whatsoever! And you know why?
Why, `phfina! Why!
I'll tell you why! Because it was processed from source to consumer, that's why.
Look, okay, I'm not a health food nut, okay? I'm not a granola girl, but by God, this kind of food is turning me into one.
What kind of food, you ask?
(`phfina waits for you to ask, you give me that 'asking' look, which I'll have to settle for, I suppose)
This kind of food: Amerkan kind of food.
I mean the bread: meh.
But the roast beef? It was probably cornfed and factory processed, the poor cow, so it probably had more carbs than the bread did, pound for pound, because it was absolutely tasteless, and then the sandwich, heavy on the carbs, had one tomato slice.
Let me tell you about the tomato slice. I looked at it.
Can anyone spell HGH for me?
Jesus-God! I could actually see the bubbles of nitrogen quick-expand it into 'maturity'? No not that, because it was red-dye colored! SO OBVIOUSLY so that it was a grey-green red.
There was absolutely nothing nutritive in that tomato. NOTHING!
That sandwich.
God!
That sandwich exemplifies one side of the equation of: give the people ('cattle' or 'rabble') what they want.
Absolutely bland, absolutely tasteless, with enough high-corn-syrup energy to get the 'fuck-me-up-the-ass, boss' secretary through her utterly bland, faceless, boring day, another day in her pointless life as a consumer who's job it is to keep Corporate Food America so deep in profits they ...
... I can't come up with a witty analog as my mind has been stulified into submission. 'Must consume more empty calories!'
The other side of the equation is this: 'Oh, you want to taste your food? We'll put some taste (salt and sugar) in your food!'
You go to restaurant these days and you can actually brush off the salt encrusting every item of food fast-food served to you.
And why?
Why, `phfina!
Thank you.
You know where restaurants make all their money?
The drinks.
Do you know how much it costs to produce a glass of Coke(™)? With — get this — 5 TABLESPOONS of SUGAR! in EACH glass?
Less than a penny.
How much did you just spend for that drink with your meal?
Free refills? FUCK the free refills. The refills are FREE for THEM!
Do you know what it costs ME for you to get your free refills?
Diabetes, kidney and liver failures leading to insulin shots, and medical emergency procedures (operations, dialysis, and what-all else) that I have to pay for with money I DON'T have in my company-'sponsored' health insurance 'premiums'!
'Pre' as in 'pre'-shock before I die looking at how much we are all paying for the sum total of this world-wide now epidemic of gluttony of the senses.
Oh, but we're not at a restaurant, ... we're at an Irish pub now, being served what?
Fried fish and chips, of course.
And beer. And beer. And whiskey with the beer.
When I go out to eat, I want to drink, and drink and drink.
Do you know how much it costs to produce a bottle of beer? The beer company owned by ... wait for it:
Frito-Lay and the Coca-cola company.
Don't believe me? Look it up by tracing the chain of holding companies to the source company.
It costs about the same to produce a can of beer as it does to produce a can of coke (or 'Coke(™)') (they are as equally addictive anyway, so it doesn't matter which one you call it. I know, and more on that in a mo')
But how much did you just pay for that beer? $5? $6? $7? Or for the 'hand-crafted': $8, $9, or $10?
What the fuck is 'hand-crafted' beer that's been so mass-produced that it ends up right the fuck in front of you in a restaurant that buys it, along with a hundred other restaurants that buy it, to so conveniently serve you your fucking 'hand-crafted' beer?
Okay, real reason for writing this post.
I don't know if I'm supposed to say, but I'm going to Hell anyway, so what does it matter?
I gave up drinking booze for Lent.
Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, I've been dry. And for a few days before Lent, because I didn't know I was gonna do this, so I didn't go Mardigras crazy, ...
... like I did with my other vices ...
for that.
I was going to go on a water-and-light-fast diet for Lent, and, for the light fast, I'm doing that, anyway, because why? Because I haven't been hungry for days.
Actually I think I'm sick...
And DON'T GO THERE on the 'yeah, we know you're a sicko, you crazy bitch,' this post isn't about that if if you want to read about that ... well, read any of my other posts...
... as I've lost my voice and stayed home today from work, not even getting up until 11 am, but guess how many calls and emails I got from HR and Payroll and Accounting about this, that, and other.
I mean, GOD! I'm gonna die someday, people, can't you do your jobs one day without my help?
But the water fast?
Here's where I'm back to the coke. Or Coke(™)
I went on a water fast Ash Wednesday.
And got a caffeine headache so bad it almost was a migraine.
Yes, I get migraines. Stress, don't you know.
So, I'm back on coffee and diet, DIET, cokes, but I ...
I can't taste the coke anymore.
I'm addicted. I've been trained to be a good little addicted consumer.
But, so, hm, how to salvage the unsalvageable?
Besides the 2012 Armageddon.
Listen, people, I'm gonna start packing my own lunches, and I don't care about the office talk about "oh, look at `phfina, she 'packs her own lunch'!" Gossip can subdue other people, but I sick of being a slave to Food, Inc.
And, really, folks, look at buying from ... idk ...
Okay, my nieces, they grow their own peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers and carrots, they gave me some.
You know what real pepper tastes like? It doesn't taste like airy cardboard. It tastes like pepper: sweet, juicy, delicious.
THAT's what real food tastes like.
They grow these things in their backyard, in 'Square-foot gardens' 2 feet by 3 feet. That's all the room you need to start getting your own health back!
Now for the drinking thing: I actually don't miss it. I actually didn't notice that I didn't miss it until I wrote this entry. It's like I psyche myself into thinking 'I need a drink' ...
Are you an alcoholic, `phfina?
Yes, thanks for asking. Do you feel better than me, knowing that you got me to say I'm an alcoholic?
'Are you an alcoholic?' You know, people who ask that question, all concerned, so that they can know you're an alcoholic, but then don't take the only next step, and put their whole life on the line to save you?
The can go FUCK THEMSELVES!
FUCK I want a drink so bad right now.
You know why I gave up drinking for Lent, even though I don't drink every day, and I don't need it, and all the other excuses I tell myself every day?
Because of Saga.
She read my entry, Party Girl, and you know what she did?
She became ... No, she is. She is a strong person. And she wouldn't let me get away with me shitting on myself.
She stood, and she asked me not to drink, because she loved me, and didn't want me to throw away my life, like she seen her sweet, smart friend do, and she did this when it was inconvenient, and impolite, and she got the sharp edge of my tongue.
But she did it, she put her life on the line, for me.
And what did I do?
'Eh, I don't have a problem.'
And kept drinking, sometimes. Well, continued to drink, okay?
So now ... eight days, no alcohol.
For you, Saga.
But why? We're not together anymore, right?
Saga. I love you, and I want you to see that I've 'moved on' and that I'm 'better.'
I have moved on. I try not to think about you every day so much, and hurt myself. And I'm 'better,' see? I'm not drinking now.
So, will you please move on, and be better? no, not better: Happy.
'Happy' in that you know you've done good and you are good. You've done the right things, made the hard choices, and now, ...
Now you have your life ahead of you, and I so, so desperately want you to be happy in the life you choose now.
Are you already, and you haven't written, because I'm a footnote, and there's nothing to say anymore? I hope so, God I hope so.
I hope it isn't that you can't write to me because you are hurting inside, that I hurt you, and all you think you'll get from me is spite, anger and recriminations. I have, and will always, admire, respect, and love you. You are a light to the world, Saga, you were my light, my reason for living when I had no reason for more than a year, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Please, Saga, know that. Know what you've done is good and right. Know that I admire, respect and love you.
8th day of Lent. No drinking. Not for me. I could care less about me. For you, Saga.
Now, as for the I'm going to Hell bit, that's a two-liner.
Anytime you put anything that you have to have in front of God, you're a goner.
I tried giving up coke, and my body just said nope.
I didn't even try to give up masturbation, a grievous sin, and thinking about not even trying to give that up has got me stripping in bathrooms and coming up with such lurid images that I've rubbed myself raw these last few days.
I am utterly hopeless and a lost, damned soul. It says it right there in the Bible, where Jesus, no, St. Paul says that's the worst sin, because the body is the temple of the Holy Spirit and anything you do to yourself (and he mentions masturbation) to defile that temple is a direct sin against God.
And if God said, 'Don't masturbate for one day and you get a free pass into Heaven'? I'd be like, 'reverse-Lot' where I'd try to 'jew' him up? "When you say 'don't', God, is it okay if I do it just one time?" "How about two?" "Three?" "Five?" "Ten?"
... "Fifteen?"
"God, is it okay if I do it just fifteen times today, because just thinking about not doing it has got the endorphins going and, ... well, you know ... kitty needs pats!"
I am an addict. A slave to booze, coke, and kitty.
A modern day girl, a faceless consumer, right out of Atlas Shrugged.
And you hold out such hope from my redemption.
Silly you.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
A(n Im)modest Proposal
No thanks to Jonathan Swift, that meanie.
You all know it's Lent, right? That special time in the Christian calendar when you spend 40 days and nights praying and fasting.
They even made a movie about it.
Um.
So, what am I giving up for Lent?
Well, what not to give up is the more à propos question for me (and, yes, that is French, and, yes, I am using it correctly, 'cause I looked it up in the dictionary and everything).
I mean: hm, drinking? masturbation? self-flagellation? drinking? cussing? drinking? mastur-mastur-masturbation?
Then I came up with the purrrfect one. It's so good, everybody should take this one on:
I'm going to give up wearing clothes to work.
I mean, okay, all buildings are climate controlled, so all I have to do is book it to the bus, then metro, then bus to get to the nice, toasty-warm office building.
Okay, so the streaking laws are kinda strict in the Commonwealth of Virginia (and I suppose where you live, too), so I guess I can wear some clothes going to and from work (a trench coat, anyone? With a raspberry beret?), but after that, baybee, when I get to my office, they have a coat closet in the main area, see? and there's where Imma gonna take off my coat, and ... 'show and tell'?
'Know all, see all,' is how it is with me, baybee. Let's not keep secrets, shall we? If you had had any questions, all you now have to do is look, baybee!
Same with you.
Like, this resolves ALL sorts of issues people deal with every day.
And what kind of issues? STUPID issues! Like:
"Is she a ... natural blond?"
Well all you have to do now is look south and check.
"I wonder if she ... shaves ... her ... you know?"
Well, now you know.
And it ... 'it' meaning 'stupid questions' ... are not just limited to guys. Take our gender, the chick gender, for example.
I mean: what's our first nervous breakdown of the day?
You know what I'm talking about, girls.
Guys open the fridge, and hang by the door for a half-hour, wondering what to eat.
MEN!
But girls are worse, not by the fridge: by the closet.
You open up the closet, and blouses are stuffed in there so tightly they are cause the door to burst open, but what do you lament every morning:
WAIL! "I haven't a THING to wear!"
And now that's really the case if you take on my lenten abstinence.
"Check out that nekkid chick," is all you'll be hearing all day, every day.
Wonder if boyz be checking you out? Wonder no more.
But it goes so much deeper than that, right, girls?
They say: 'The clothes make the man'?
I say: Bullshit!
No: women are defined by what they are wearing, particular by what designer label the clothes are wearing that they are wearing.
*sigh* All this writing of the word 'wearing' is wearing me out.
"Oh, look, she carries it well when she wears outfits from Judy's"
"So, you buy off the rack ... from the salvation army? Or do you dumpster dive, you tramp?"
Of course, we girls don't say that ... out loud. But that look. That disparaging look.
And then we look in the mirror, after we look at a girl wearing a simple white blouse and a string of pearls, that she bought from Nieman Marcus ...
... and we say that, and much worse, to ourselves.
Empowering, being nekkid, there's now one less thing that we can degrade ourselves ... and others ... about.
"But, `phfina, I don't have that supermodel vogue bod!"
Heh! You're saying that to ME? I mean, I went to Tysons mall last weekend, and every single boob check I did (and I did more than 50, thank you for asking), I ended up failing.
No, strike that: one pre-pre-teen had smaller titties than me.
Big win. @_@
C'mon, girls! We're our own harshest critics and worst enemies!
Another empowering point. Everybody now can see you, see me, that is, exactly as we are, and exactly as we aren't. And, you'll be confronted at every second, to have to love yourself as you are, I mean: getting really honest with yourself.
So there's that: the self-love thing.
But then, you know, we girls are always wondering ...
... cause that's what we girls do ... all the time: wonder.
And the things we wonder, I swear!
"... does he like me?"
So hard to tell ... that is: with clothes on.
Now, it'll be hard, but not to tell, if he likes you.
And if you're still not sure, just rub up against him
You'll know, either way.
And, I think, I'm not talking from first hand experi...
... wait, actually, I am.
Whether a guy likes you or not, the little guy down there likes you.
My kitty likes getting pats.
He doesn't have a kitty: he has a snake. It LIKES getting rubs.
It really does, girls.
I know.
And so, you'll know if he likes you or not, just by, a little girlish simper and a quick package check. Failing that a body to full body rub will get you the answer you need.
OR! it will tell you if he has erectile dysfunction, which amounts to the same answer. Cause ... well, okay, holding a guy's hand at an art museum is one thing, but it's not the same thing, you know, for ... you know, what happens between the sheets, and if he's not putting babies in you, good, long, and hard, then ... well, he can be a guy friend, I suppose, or you can have ... scintillating intellectual conversations with him.
Um, ... yeah.
And, well, that gets right back to the guys. You know how they're always talking manly shit about their things, right? Well, now, that cuts out that bullshit at the watercooler. Permanently.
gf is NOT impressed with your non-tree-trunk little weenie speaking louder than your he-man chest-thumping.
I tell you what.
So, paradoxically, being nekkid at work will cut out a lot of the bullshit at work, so people can actually, SHOCKER! do work at work.
And then, well, there's always the janitor's closets, for when, guy, sees girl, likes girl, so (instinctually) indicates.
They hop into the closet, and then, get back to work, him leaking a bit, and so is she.
THINK of the population problems!
I mean, in Europe, there are now towns that are deserted. And 'How the west was won?' In the midwestern Unites States, they are closing down schools, and then, soon after, they close down the towns.
Problem solved in a few years.
AND, ... well, wearing all those clothes all the time, guys get repressed ... and go ape-shit nuts, and grab the secretary, bend her over the desk and fuck her up the ass.
Hard.
To avoid the paternity issues, don't you know.
Not that I would know that ... personally.
Well, now, there's no avoiding it ... you know, her ... you know, staring right at you, and she gets in a crowded elevator, and what do you know! his snake just so happens to slither right up into her happy place.
See all the problems my simple solution solves? It gets rid of all these stupid ambiguities, solves depopulation issues and keeps workers calm and content and productive at work.
Now, some of you girls (5%, right?) are saying to me: 'But `phfina, guys aren't my thing! A guy snakes me, I swear to God!'
Easily solved. Just carry scissors. He'll get the idea when he approaches and you open them in front of your hips. Snap them a few times for emphasis. Guys aren't subtle, but he'll get the hint. He will.
"But `phfina, that solves nothing for me. I mean, your straight girl can tell if a guy likes her, but with girls, it's harder."
No it isn't. Same method applies, too: rub up against her. You'll know if she likes you after your full-lip-lock-French-kiss. You'll know, 'cause you'll either get the pullback and the two tight slaps across the face, or you'll find yourself in a full-frontal nelson hold on the floor with her.
Or first the slaps, then the nelson. That's when, when you eventually take a break for air, to growl a 'feisty bitch' in her ear that you nibble and give her a love-smack on the heinie. Feisty girls like a little discipline, I've found.
Now, yes, girls are complex beasts, and have their own monsters to deal with, so she may struggle and slap and pinch you because she's struggling with her own acceptance of her up-until-now undiscovered sexual orientation.
So: help her. A few more kisses, and she'll be at peace with herself, and more than willing to learn about herself from somebody more experienced in these ways ... that is: you.
See?
Somebody give me the Nobel peace prize right now ...
Why? ... 'cause okay, these stupid ethnic issues.
Okay, so this Arab guy is killing Jews, and vice versa. Oh, well: I don't even have to look outside my own back yard with the Orange and Green Irish killing each other.
Well, weapons, when fired, get really hot.
You touch somebody's butt (now nekkid) with your rifle muzzle you've just fired, ... they'll let you know. That's one solution.
The other solution is, okay: hot babe on the other side of the DMZ. You gonna shoot at her, or, you gonna jump ranks and shoot in her.
Uh-huh. Thought so.
And then, her kids? They're yours, too. And you're not gonna be shelling building on the other side, 'cause your kids are in that building.
"Visualize world peace"?
It's easy if you try ... to see them all ... nekkid.
;)
"So," you say, after reading all that above, in your self-righteous affrontry, "`phfina, put up or shut up, biatch! I hear a lot of talk from you, but I bet you're not doing what you're sayin'! Strip it or gag it!"
I respond: "Quit writing my story ideas!"
(Or actually: please do write my stories! You write them better, anyway)
And then I actually retort: "Oh, yeah? Who said I haven't? You? You work where I do? Well, you can shove it, yourself, 'cause guess what I did!"
Uh-huh. I did.
This is what I did: ...
... no, I didn't get nekkid at the office, not at my desk, ... nor at my office ... technically ...
... because, technically, the bathroom ... well, it's shared for the whole floor, see? So it's not technically part of our office, see, and ...
"`phfina!" You cry, shocked now, "You didn't get really strip down to your all-together in your office bathroom."
Yep, I did.
Wanna peek?
YOU PERV! I KNEW you would wanna. You pervy perv!
So, ya know ... (God! I'm blushing so hard, thinking about what I did!) ...
So, I can't just write something demanding and pushy, like I always do, unless I'm more than just 'willing' to do it, too, but that I actually do DO it.
So, I went to the little girls room, outside our office, that sterile, cold, taupe-colored industrial place that they probably have the exact same designs for our prison systems (and no, I never want to verify that supposition, thank you) (although they do say the smex is plentiful there, but I don't wanna be the bitch to some mamma named 'Bertha,' with three murder convictions under her (copious) belt and a desire to act out her snuff fantasies on me, thank you)
(I say 'thank you' a lot, ... I'm polite like that. Particularly when I'm so hard embarrassed and want to talk about anything other than the topic at hand ... or in hand, that topic being me. *sigh* Back on topic)
... and picked the 4th stall in, and ...
stripped.
I took off my blouse, kicked off my black flats (that I keep stashed at the office, 'cause like hell am I gonna wear those during my commute and get the 'Oh, look at that poor girl who just fell flat on her face onto the rain-slicked concrete sprinting to catch her bus, the poor thing! Hey, girl, I hope those papers whipping away aren't all that important, are they? Are they your school homework?' and I'd die as I answer, 'No, only the original invoices and payroll I worked all night on, no biggie ...'), peeled off my (nude) stockings (slightly sweaty and girl stinky) (ewww). (and 'Nude' is a color, okay? JEEZ!)
The floor was cold and hard on my bare feet.
Then came the skirt. (Yes, I own skirts now, as I have to represent, so shut up). (no, it's not a micro nor a mini. Ankle-length and business drab grey: there is NO WAY I'm showing off my knobby knees, thanks)
Then all that was left were the bra and panties. Unhooked the bra, and peeled that off, and it felt wonderful, you know how it feels when elastic digs into you so long you don't notice it anymore, that is, until you relieve the pressure. That's what it felt like: a relief. But it was also weird and scary. If I were found out now, I'd be not only fired, but also arrested.
I didn't feel brave. I felt scared out of my mind, and my ears went into overdrive trying to listen for the sound of heels on the floor outside the bathroom.
Just one more article of clothing. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, and, phffft, they were off, around my feet, and I kicked them onto my shoes.
Yup, I checked: I'm a natural brunette. No doubt about it.
Well, what are you supposed to do in the bathroom, girls?
I was a complete mess, on the inside, ready to puke from fright, but, you know, I did my business.
Nekkid.
And, while that was going on, as is recommended by the AMA or whoever prints those helpful informative waterproof placards you hang on your showerhead, I did a (very quick) breast exam.
No cancer. Well, no new lumps, anyway. I made sure.
I did have something that I'm absolutely positive that most girls in the world don't have there.
I'm not gifted with a c-cup, but I do have more nerve endings, and super-concentrated, right at the tip, too, but all around that general area. I know that for a fact. They were all super-stimulated, and I could feel the impulses emanating from every single one of them.
*whew* Um, did they turn up the temperature (from like 3 degrees above absolute zero in our bathrooms for some God-forsaken reason)? Or are my cheeks burning off from the sunburn I don't have?
I would love to report that, having done my business, and making sure I'm squeaky clean, that, in my newly liberated state, I went all the way, being in a heightened state of excitement.
I hope I don't have to explain the euphemistic implication of 'went all the way' to you. And if I do, then I'm going to slap an 18+ parental guard on my site, I swear!
But, no: I didn't.
What I did do is that I think I broke the world record in getting redressed, and, maybe, I put a dent in the next stall door, banging open my own stall door to get the hell out of the stall where absolutely nothing went on out of the usual and why do you ask, officer?
So, um, so much for the liberating experience of stripping down and showing all your all of what you're made of.
Woman power!
Yeah, right.
I wonder ...
'Cause that's what we girls do: we wonder, all the time, about ... 'stuff.'
I wonder if ... if everybody else was nekkid, would I be embarrassed for not being nekkid?
I wonder.
No, I don't.
'Cause, putting myself in that situation, you know that dream where you're back in college, and you come into class, wearing only panties, and if your dream is generous to you (which it never is. Dreams are such jerks!), a (totally sheer) camisole and you find it's the final exam that you totally didn't study for, and the very first question is this essay question where you have to rederive Euclid's 5th axioms using conic sections, or if essays are your bag, it's a multiple choice question where option A is three paragraphs long, but B and C are 5 paragraphs and D is 'none of the above' and E is 'All of the above' and you get sick to your stomach wonder if you pick E, because A, B, and C all sound reasonably right, does that mean you're also picking D, which is 'none of the above' and you don't want to point that out to the prof, because he's going to pissed at for you, again, asking those rebellious questions in class, and if you go up to his desk you know he's totally going to stare RIGHT THERE right through your see-through pink panties that are enscribed, embarrassingly, with the word 'HOT!' RIGHT THERE!
And if he's not staring there, it's because he's already got you bent over his desk, with the ruler raised for the 11+ spank on the pain scale.
And that's when you wake up?
Why did I just write all that?
Oh, yeah: So, in Ma Femme est une Actrice, Gallic guy walks onto the movie set and everybody else is nekkid and he's the only one who's clothed. I mean EVERYBODY! The boom boy, the cue girl, and of course, the principles, in bed, ...
One of whom is his wife.
And the security guard confronts him: "Eh, mate, waddaya want?!"
Nekkid.
That's when our dude faints.
That is EXACTLY what I'd do.
I'd walk into the office and Jackie (my new hot azn chick boss) (cause Janet moved to Texas to be with her GRANDKIDS!!!!) would greet me from her desk, nekkid, and I'd ...
And about then is when I'd wonder why did everything go dark and why is everybody standing around me, asking me if I'm okay? ... nekkid?
That's when I'd really freak, and run, probably not screaming, cause I wouldn't want to draw attention to myself, see? and run outside, seeing everybody else nekkid.
And faint again, hitting my head on the hard, smooth, cool marble floor.
Hmmm, feels like Rosalie.
But that's another story.
Um ... happy Lent everybody! 'Cause remember what this all is for, or: "I'm strippin' for Jesus!"
Um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU?
(`phfina streaks off)
You all know it's Lent, right? That special time in the Christian calendar when you spend 40 days and nights praying and fasting.
They even made a movie about it.
Um.
So, what am I giving up for Lent?
Well, what not to give up is the more à propos question for me (and, yes, that is French, and, yes, I am using it correctly, 'cause I looked it up in the dictionary and everything).
I mean: hm, drinking? masturbation? self-flagellation? drinking? cussing? drinking? mastur-mastur-masturbation?
Then I came up with the purrrfect one. It's so good, everybody should take this one on:
I'm going to give up wearing clothes to work.
I mean, okay, all buildings are climate controlled, so all I have to do is book it to the bus, then metro, then bus to get to the nice, toasty-warm office building.
Okay, so the streaking laws are kinda strict in the Commonwealth of Virginia (and I suppose where you live, too), so I guess I can wear some clothes going to and from work (a trench coat, anyone? With a raspberry beret?), but after that, baybee, when I get to my office, they have a coat closet in the main area, see? and there's where Imma gonna take off my coat, and ... 'show and tell'?
'Know all, see all,' is how it is with me, baybee. Let's not keep secrets, shall we? If you had had any questions, all you now have to do is look, baybee!
Same with you.
Like, this resolves ALL sorts of issues people deal with every day.
And what kind of issues? STUPID issues! Like:
"Is she a ... natural blond?"
Well all you have to do now is look south and check.
"I wonder if she ... shaves ... her ... you know?"
Well, now you know.
And it ... 'it' meaning 'stupid questions' ... are not just limited to guys. Take our gender, the chick gender, for example.
I mean: what's our first nervous breakdown of the day?
You know what I'm talking about, girls.
Guys open the fridge, and hang by the door for a half-hour, wondering what to eat.
MEN!
But girls are worse, not by the fridge: by the closet.
You open up the closet, and blouses are stuffed in there so tightly they are cause the door to burst open, but what do you lament every morning:
WAIL! "I haven't a THING to wear!"
And now that's really the case if you take on my lenten abstinence.
"Check out that nekkid chick," is all you'll be hearing all day, every day.
Wonder if boyz be checking you out? Wonder no more.
But it goes so much deeper than that, right, girls?
They say: 'The clothes make the man'?
I say: Bullshit!
No: women are defined by what they are wearing, particular by what designer label the clothes are wearing that they are wearing.
*sigh* All this writing of the word 'wearing' is wearing me out.
"Oh, look, she carries it well when she wears outfits from Judy's"
"So, you buy off the rack ... from the salvation army? Or do you dumpster dive, you tramp?"
Of course, we girls don't say that ... out loud. But that look. That disparaging look.
And then we look in the mirror, after we look at a girl wearing a simple white blouse and a string of pearls, that she bought from Nieman Marcus ...
... and we say that, and much worse, to ourselves.
Empowering, being nekkid, there's now one less thing that we can degrade ourselves ... and others ... about.
"But, `phfina, I don't have that supermodel vogue bod!"
Heh! You're saying that to ME? I mean, I went to Tysons mall last weekend, and every single boob check I did (and I did more than 50, thank you for asking), I ended up failing.
No, strike that: one pre-pre-teen had smaller titties than me.
Big win. @_@
C'mon, girls! We're our own harshest critics and worst enemies!
Another empowering point. Everybody now can see you, see me, that is, exactly as we are, and exactly as we aren't. And, you'll be confronted at every second, to have to love yourself as you are, I mean: getting really honest with yourself.
So there's that: the self-love thing.
But then, you know, we girls are always wondering ...
... cause that's what we girls do ... all the time: wonder.
And the things we wonder, I swear!
"... does he like me?"
So hard to tell ... that is: with clothes on.
Now, it'll be hard, but not to tell, if he likes you.
And if you're still not sure, just rub up against him
You'll know, either way.
And, I think, I'm not talking from first hand experi...
... wait, actually, I am.
Whether a guy likes you or not, the little guy down there likes you.
My kitty likes getting pats.
He doesn't have a kitty: he has a snake. It LIKES getting rubs.
It really does, girls.
I know.
And so, you'll know if he likes you or not, just by, a little girlish simper and a quick package check. Failing that a body to full body rub will get you the answer you need.
OR! it will tell you if he has erectile dysfunction, which amounts to the same answer. Cause ... well, okay, holding a guy's hand at an art museum is one thing, but it's not the same thing, you know, for ... you know, what happens between the sheets, and if he's not putting babies in you, good, long, and hard, then ... well, he can be a guy friend, I suppose, or you can have ... scintillating intellectual conversations with him.
Um, ... yeah.
And, well, that gets right back to the guys. You know how they're always talking manly shit about their things, right? Well, now, that cuts out that bullshit at the watercooler. Permanently.
gf is NOT impressed with your non-tree-trunk little weenie speaking louder than your he-man chest-thumping.
I tell you what.
So, paradoxically, being nekkid at work will cut out a lot of the bullshit at work, so people can actually, SHOCKER! do work at work.
And then, well, there's always the janitor's closets, for when, guy, sees girl, likes girl, so (instinctually) indicates.
They hop into the closet, and then, get back to work, him leaking a bit, and so is she.
THINK of the population problems!
I mean, in Europe, there are now towns that are deserted. And 'How the west was won?' In the midwestern Unites States, they are closing down schools, and then, soon after, they close down the towns.
Problem solved in a few years.
AND, ... well, wearing all those clothes all the time, guys get repressed ... and go ape-shit nuts, and grab the secretary, bend her over the desk and fuck her up the ass.
Hard.
To avoid the paternity issues, don't you know.
Not that I would know that ... personally.
Well, now, there's no avoiding it ... you know, her ... you know, staring right at you, and she gets in a crowded elevator, and what do you know! his snake just so happens to slither right up into her happy place.
See all the problems my simple solution solves? It gets rid of all these stupid ambiguities, solves depopulation issues and keeps workers calm and content and productive at work.
Now, some of you girls (5%, right?) are saying to me: 'But `phfina, guys aren't my thing! A guy snakes me, I swear to God!'
Easily solved. Just carry scissors. He'll get the idea when he approaches and you open them in front of your hips. Snap them a few times for emphasis. Guys aren't subtle, but he'll get the hint. He will.
"But `phfina, that solves nothing for me. I mean, your straight girl can tell if a guy likes her, but with girls, it's harder."
No it isn't. Same method applies, too: rub up against her. You'll know if she likes you after your full-lip-lock-French-kiss. You'll know, 'cause you'll either get the pullback and the two tight slaps across the face, or you'll find yourself in a full-frontal nelson hold on the floor with her.
Or first the slaps, then the nelson. That's when, when you eventually take a break for air, to growl a 'feisty bitch' in her ear that you nibble and give her a love-smack on the heinie. Feisty girls like a little discipline, I've found.
Now, yes, girls are complex beasts, and have their own monsters to deal with, so she may struggle and slap and pinch you because she's struggling with her own acceptance of her up-until-now undiscovered sexual orientation.
So: help her. A few more kisses, and she'll be at peace with herself, and more than willing to learn about herself from somebody more experienced in these ways ... that is: you.
See?
Somebody give me the Nobel peace prize right now ...
Why? ... 'cause okay, these stupid ethnic issues.
Okay, so this Arab guy is killing Jews, and vice versa. Oh, well: I don't even have to look outside my own back yard with the Orange and Green Irish killing each other.
Well, weapons, when fired, get really hot.
You touch somebody's butt (now nekkid) with your rifle muzzle you've just fired, ... they'll let you know. That's one solution.
The other solution is, okay: hot babe on the other side of the DMZ. You gonna shoot at her, or, you gonna jump ranks and shoot in her.
Uh-huh. Thought so.
And then, her kids? They're yours, too. And you're not gonna be shelling building on the other side, 'cause your kids are in that building.
"Visualize world peace"?
It's easy if you try ... to see them all ... nekkid.
;)
"So," you say, after reading all that above, in your self-righteous affrontry, "`phfina, put up or shut up, biatch! I hear a lot of talk from you, but I bet you're not doing what you're sayin'! Strip it or gag it!"
I respond: "Quit writing my story ideas!"
(Or actually: please do write my stories! You write them better, anyway)
And then I actually retort: "Oh, yeah? Who said I haven't? You? You work where I do? Well, you can shove it, yourself, 'cause guess what I did!"
Uh-huh. I did.
This is what I did: ...
... no, I didn't get nekkid at the office, not at my desk, ... nor at my office ... technically ...
... because, technically, the bathroom ... well, it's shared for the whole floor, see? So it's not technically part of our office, see, and ...
"`phfina!" You cry, shocked now, "You didn't get really strip down to your all-together in your office bathroom."
Yep, I did.
Wanna peek?
YOU PERV! I KNEW you would wanna. You pervy perv!
So, ya know ... (God! I'm blushing so hard, thinking about what I did!) ...
So, I can't just write something demanding and pushy, like I always do, unless I'm more than just 'willing' to do it, too, but that I actually do DO it.
So, I went to the little girls room, outside our office, that sterile, cold, taupe-colored industrial place that they probably have the exact same designs for our prison systems (and no, I never want to verify that supposition, thank you) (although they do say the smex is plentiful there, but I don't wanna be the bitch to some mamma named 'Bertha,' with three murder convictions under her (copious) belt and a desire to act out her snuff fantasies on me, thank you)
(I say 'thank you' a lot, ... I'm polite like that. Particularly when I'm so hard embarrassed and want to talk about anything other than the topic at hand ... or in hand, that topic being me. *sigh* Back on topic)
... and picked the 4th stall in, and ...
stripped.
I took off my blouse, kicked off my black flats (that I keep stashed at the office, 'cause like hell am I gonna wear those during my commute and get the 'Oh, look at that poor girl who just fell flat on her face onto the rain-slicked concrete sprinting to catch her bus, the poor thing! Hey, girl, I hope those papers whipping away aren't all that important, are they? Are they your school homework?' and I'd die as I answer, 'No, only the original invoices and payroll I worked all night on, no biggie ...'), peeled off my (nude) stockings (slightly sweaty and girl stinky) (ewww). (and 'Nude' is a color, okay? JEEZ!)
The floor was cold and hard on my bare feet.
Then came the skirt. (Yes, I own skirts now, as I have to represent, so shut up). (no, it's not a micro nor a mini. Ankle-length and business drab grey: there is NO WAY I'm showing off my knobby knees, thanks)
Then all that was left were the bra and panties. Unhooked the bra, and peeled that off, and it felt wonderful, you know how it feels when elastic digs into you so long you don't notice it anymore, that is, until you relieve the pressure. That's what it felt like: a relief. But it was also weird and scary. If I were found out now, I'd be not only fired, but also arrested.
I didn't feel brave. I felt scared out of my mind, and my ears went into overdrive trying to listen for the sound of heels on the floor outside the bathroom.
Just one more article of clothing. I hooked my thumbs under the band of my panties, and, phffft, they were off, around my feet, and I kicked them onto my shoes.
Yup, I checked: I'm a natural brunette. No doubt about it.
Well, what are you supposed to do in the bathroom, girls?
I was a complete mess, on the inside, ready to puke from fright, but, you know, I did my business.
Nekkid.
And, while that was going on, as is recommended by the AMA or whoever prints those helpful informative waterproof placards you hang on your showerhead, I did a (very quick) breast exam.
No cancer. Well, no new lumps, anyway. I made sure.
I did have something that I'm absolutely positive that most girls in the world don't have there.
I'm not gifted with a c-cup, but I do have more nerve endings, and super-concentrated, right at the tip, too, but all around that general area. I know that for a fact. They were all super-stimulated, and I could feel the impulses emanating from every single one of them.
*whew* Um, did they turn up the temperature (from like 3 degrees above absolute zero in our bathrooms for some God-forsaken reason)? Or are my cheeks burning off from the sunburn I don't have?
I would love to report that, having done my business, and making sure I'm squeaky clean, that, in my newly liberated state, I went all the way, being in a heightened state of excitement.
I hope I don't have to explain the euphemistic implication of 'went all the way' to you. And if I do, then I'm going to slap an 18+ parental guard on my site, I swear!
But, no: I didn't.
What I did do is that I think I broke the world record in getting redressed, and, maybe, I put a dent in the next stall door, banging open my own stall door to get the hell out of the stall where absolutely nothing went on out of the usual and why do you ask, officer?
So, um, so much for the liberating experience of stripping down and showing all your all of what you're made of.
Woman power!
Yeah, right.
I wonder ...
'Cause that's what we girls do: we wonder, all the time, about ... 'stuff.'
I wonder if ... if everybody else was nekkid, would I be embarrassed for not being nekkid?
I wonder.
No, I don't.
'Cause, putting myself in that situation, you know that dream where you're back in college, and you come into class, wearing only panties, and if your dream is generous to you (which it never is. Dreams are such jerks!), a (totally sheer) camisole and you find it's the final exam that you totally didn't study for, and the very first question is this essay question where you have to rederive Euclid's 5th axioms using conic sections, or if essays are your bag, it's a multiple choice question where option A is three paragraphs long, but B and C are 5 paragraphs and D is 'none of the above' and E is 'All of the above' and you get sick to your stomach wonder if you pick E, because A, B, and C all sound reasonably right, does that mean you're also picking D, which is 'none of the above' and you don't want to point that out to the prof, because he's going to pissed at for you, again, asking those rebellious questions in class, and if you go up to his desk you know he's totally going to stare RIGHT THERE right through your see-through pink panties that are enscribed, embarrassingly, with the word 'HOT!' RIGHT THERE!
And if he's not staring there, it's because he's already got you bent over his desk, with the ruler raised for the 11+ spank on the pain scale.
And that's when you wake up?
Why did I just write all that?
Oh, yeah: So, in Ma Femme est une Actrice, Gallic guy walks onto the movie set and everybody else is nekkid and he's the only one who's clothed. I mean EVERYBODY! The boom boy, the cue girl, and of course, the principles, in bed, ...
One of whom is his wife.
And the security guard confronts him: "Eh, mate, waddaya want?!"
Nekkid.
That's when our dude faints.
That is EXACTLY what I'd do.
I'd walk into the office and Jackie (my new hot azn chick boss) (cause Janet moved to Texas to be with her GRANDKIDS!!!!) would greet me from her desk, nekkid, and I'd ...
And about then is when I'd wonder why did everything go dark and why is everybody standing around me, asking me if I'm okay? ... nekkid?
That's when I'd really freak, and run, probably not screaming, cause I wouldn't want to draw attention to myself, see? and run outside, seeing everybody else nekkid.
And faint again, hitting my head on the hard, smooth, cool marble floor.
Hmmm, feels like Rosalie.
But that's another story.
Um ... happy Lent everybody! 'Cause remember what this all is for, or: "I'm strippin' for Jesus!"
Um ... WHAT'S BEHIND YOU?
(`phfina streaks off)
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Comfort(ably numb)
Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone at home?
Come on, now
I hear you're feeling down
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again
Relax
I'll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts?
There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are the only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become comfortably numb
Roger Waters, Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"
— `phfina diatribe:
I am, truly, dead.
Today ... was February 14th, now it's the Ides of February, and I find myself wishing my name was Julian or Julia and I was a special mayonnaise salad, and it was a month later so my big hulking buddy could do me a favor.
You'll get that later. Or you won't. Not only do kids these days don't read, they also don't make associations of what they haven't read to their lives.
One of the many reasons why were are all swimming in this cesspool.
GOD! I'm old to be saying: "In my day ..." and "kids these days ..." ... what a year does to you!
Did you know today was St. Valentine's Day?
I didn't.
How could I not?
My nieces gave me a card with a poem the older one wrote:
Roses are Red
Violets blue
Honey is sweet
& so are u.
Isn't that sweet?
But it didn't register, even the heart shape it was cut out into and the hearts inscribed in red pencil on it. I said: "Oh, how nice!" and that was that.
At work, in a predominately female profession with three super hot azn chicks, were flowers give and displayed? Oh, yes! Was there much cooing and preening going on today about all that? Oh, yes! Did I notice a whit of it?
No. I went through my day today in a fog. I got home, I don't know how, I could've been mass murder serial raped for all I know on the way home, because I went right to bed and pulled the covers over my head and went right to sleep.
I haven't slept in the past two days. Wonder why.
Last week was the story of the leper. How they were to be cast outside the camp and how they had to wear a bell and proclaim: "Unclean, unclean!" And the priest, Fr. P., told the story about St. Damien journal as he tended to the lepers, and how he knew he had caught the disease when he spilled hot water over his feet from his tea kettle ...
... and he saw it happen, but felt nothing.
And Fr. P. went on to explain how that is what sin is, you commit a sin, you feel pain or guilt the first time, but then the next, it's less, then less, then less, ...
then nothing.
I felt nothing today. Things happened around me, but I wasn't aware of any of it. I wasn't aware I was breathing, or that I had a heartbeat.
Do you know when I realized it?
A friend.
A friend told me Saga was thinking of me, and today, and how she forgot about today being St. Valentine's day, and how I so generously forgave her that.
This year, there was no St. Valentine's day. There was no generosity on my part, and nothing I could forgive.
But this mutual acquaintance told me Saga has things to say to me, and that's when my dead heart quickened.
Oh, what cruelty! Why am I given a heart that must beat on? Where everything I do hurts somebody, and if I choose the path of no-doing, I hurt everybody?
And that's when I realized I was dead today, when I felt my heart beating at the mention of Saga, and things she has to tell me.
You have to be alive, to realize you are dead. Another cruelty.
Of course, when somebody says, 'I have things to say to you,' that means something. For them. And for you.
You know what that mean. It means they say their cathartic things, and then they are forever free. Released of the burden of these things, these horrible things they've been holding onto, about you ... about me, that is, and they will say these horrible things, aimed right at that dead, cold, still beating heart, and then released from their burdens they skip off, happily, into the sunset.
And then you, me, I mean, are left behind, with that burden, forever knowing what you were to the person who was and is everything to you.
Saga, say your things to me, be released from these burdens, and then be free, skipping off into the sunset, happy and content.
Me, I'm fine. In fact, ...
I'm comfortably numb.
I don't feel my cheeks, my tongue is thick and useless, and my arms are two stone weights I can barely move. All I am is a funeral waiting for the actual date to make it official.
'Date.' Heh.
Happy St. Valentine's day.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Today's First reading
Job [`phfina] spoke, saying:
Is not man's life on earth a drudgery?
Are not his days those of hirelings?
He is a slave who longs for the shade,
a hireling who waits for his wages.
So I have been assigned months of misery,
and troubled nights have been allotted to me.
If in bed I say, "When shall I arise?"
then the night drags on;
I am filled with restlessness until the dawn.
My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle;
they come to an end without hope.
Remember that my life is like the wind;
I shall not see happiness again.
Job 7:1-4, 6-7
— `phfina's analysis
I've been praying a lot these days, and I've been reading from the book of Ecclesiastes, `cause, you know: it fits.
Saga asked me: 'What do you want me to do?'
Because why? Because I said, don't do things for me or because of me, don't be afraid of me: write to me, or don't write to me, as you want to. And I said: 'Listen to your heart.'
Big mistake.
Her heart told her that I will move on with my life.
Well, no duh.
That's what it is, isn't it, to be alive: you're in movement. Only in death do you stop moving completely. So, Saga — wise, insightful Saga — listened to her heart, and saw me, and said, 'she'll move on.'
It wasn't the response I was hoping for. It wasn't the response I wanted.
But it was a real, heartfelt response from her.
So, now: the question is on me. What will I do?
I know what I want to do. And I know the fairy tale movie thing to do: 'And `phfina somehow righted every wrong, swept the fair maiden Saga off her feet, and rode off into the sunset where they lived happily ever after.'
But then there's the `phfina alternative. Find somebody, find anybody willing, shoot up, with shots, and shots, put her hands around my neck, and beg her to strangle me as she fucks me to death.
Go out with a Big-O bang, totally numb, whimpering into the darkness of death.
And then there's the Saga response: life goes on, and so will you.
I think. I think her response is the saddest, because there's no remorse in it. I mean, there is, and reading her words, I can feel her heart break in every word, as I feel mine, breaking with hers. But, so what? You mope, and you cry, and you then get up, take a shower, and go to work, and go to school, and life goes on, and so what.
Why?
Why, Saga?
Why did you tell me you love me? Me: weak, little, frail me? Knowing my psychoses? Knowing, in advance, what this break up was coming? And why? Because girl after girl you've left, because 'it's not right,' this forbidden love, 'it's not right.'
Did you want to be able to look back and say, 'And this one, this one was my lover for a time'? And: 'she wrote me things, such sweet things, such naughty things, that I will always treasure'?
No, you didn't say that. You took a risk, and dared, and hoped, and filled me with such hope, and life, Saga, life for more than a year where all I had had was emptiness and despair, and a sure knowledge the only way out was out, and it wasn't how, it was just a matter of when.
And then you came into my life.
But with all those girls before, when you left, and left, and left them when your conscience gnawed away at your soul that what you were doing was wrong.
Did you think, when you blurted out, in anger, that you loved me: 'This will be different'?
Doomed from the start.
There is no 'different.'
Here's why. 'Different' is 'well, she'll be different than the other girls' or 'I'll feel differently' or 'the situation will be different.'
'To be different' is 'to compare' and 'to compare' always has as its basis the thing you want to be different from.
So, what's always in front of you, for 'different', the thing you want to be 'different' from. The 'failure' and with that in front of you ...
Doomed from the start.
One thing never changes in 'it'll be different.'
You.
You look for a different relationship, a different girl, a different job, a different major, ...
but you're always there. And so what happens? Just like the last job, you get those prying curious people who annoy the hell out of you, just like the last girl 'God, I hated that when Sophie did that, would you just say what you mean and stop hemming and hawing like stupid little girl who can't make up her mind?'
They are all the same, because ...
Because you are there, and you haven't changed, and you make them into the exact same circumstance you just ran away from because you couldn't stand anymore the situation you created, and everybody was your puppets, pulled by your string.
You know this, Saga! You commented on it yourself when, in Bells are Ringing, poor Sam ate the bitter words of her own regrets about heartbreak in relationship after relationship, and here she is now with Chris, looking for something 'better' something 'different' when Sam is still the same old panther Sam, hunting down sweet, tender Chris girls, knowing they will, each and every one of them, break her heart.
'Different' doesn't work.
'Better' ... isn't.
'Change' never happens.
The only thing that works?
You.
You have to become new. Not different. Not 'not like I used to be,' but ...
New.
You have to become a person you love, admire, respect, and are happy with when you see her in the mirror.
Then what's different?
Absolutely nothing.
People are still people. It's still cold and grey outside.
But you.
You are new. And the cold and grey are ... a delight. The cold makes you feel alive, and joyful.
And people? What they do is funny, now, or sweet, or silly.
And that girl.
That girl, so intense, with her penetrating blue eyes and straight black hair and no fashion sense whatsoever, but there's something about her that ...
I've got to get that girl into my bed, because her words have already captured my heart, and I've got to fuck her brains out until she's beyond exhausted, so she no longer thinks and thinks and thinks herself into her sadness, and hold her through the night, cuddling with her, kissing her hair and she moans in her nightmares, ...
and love her.
Right or wrong?
I don't know.
You don't either. You know now, because nearly everything you do is wrong, you being you.
But when you are a new you.
Then what is right? What is wrong?
What is wrong, for me now, is living in bleakness, and agony, and is it wrong to love and to be loved?
Yes, it is wrong to love, and to be loved.
Because to love and to be loved ends up in sadness, and heartbreak, and Saga says she can't love me, it's wrong.
I can't ask her to love me. To ask her to do this would make her sad and conflicted, and if I asked her to do this for my happiness, I'm saying my happiness is more important than her life.
What do I want to do?
I want to ask her to throw aside her scruples, and to love me, and fuck her compunctions. I NEED LOVE HERE!
But what about her? Wasn't it agonizing, this period of reflection, and then this conclusion that she just so loved to be brave enough to tell me? And do I honor her, her insights, her wisdom, by saying: "Fuck that, and fuck me, right now, cause I need to be held, goddamnit, and I need you to tell me what you have told me time and again, because without you I'M NOTHING!"
What do I do? Oh, God, what do I do?
Well, right now: I'm doing the taxes. And I'm stuck, cause writing down those numbers, so clinically, and seeing all that money going out, and seeing so much less coming in.
I'm stuck.
I write down those numbers, and I measure my worth.
Is there such a thing as a 'negative yardstick'?
In this post-Ayn Rand world, our worth is in what we produce or what we consume ('mooch'). And the producers? Live the high live with soirees and fetes and hobnobbing with other producers.
And the moochers...
Soylent green.
It's starting to happen. It's been happening in the 3rd world, it's happening in the Old World. It's happening here.
And how we eat people is to force the wife into prostitution or the daughter or to become a boy so 'he' can work in the ... um, sneaker factory or farming in WoW or work in the sulfur mines or ...
Or work for the producers as fuck-me-up-the-ass-boss secretaries.
It's in Ayn Rand's novel, but it's not fiction, not anymore.
So that's what I'm doing.
And Saga is right.
I will move on.
Hell, there's already a line forming, and if there weren't all I'd have to do is go to the meat market, whichever one works, Whole Foods or a gay bar, or hell, the super bowl's tonight, and I'm Irish, a pub will do very well, and 'whistle' by batting my eyelashes and get bent over the produce counter by one of the producers.
Producers don't waste time with dinner on the first 'date' anymore. It's a waste of time and money for a good old hard fuck that is there for the taking, whether she wanted it or not, and obviously she did.
Back to taxes. I have the hard task of writing numbers in column A (income) and column B (deductible expenses) and coming up with a number in column C (taxable income) even though B is greater than A.
Not so hard to do: just be honest. I'm not a zero; no: 'zero' is too high for me.
I'm a loser.
Friday, February 3, 2012
A panther from a pvssy's view
Hm, how do I write a post that I didn't write?
So, you want to know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
Besides ask her? (And if she says, 'no' that means: no. It doesn't mean: slip a date-r4pe drug into her drink).
For me: I'm easy (and I'll write that post, too, my dears), all you have to do is to listen, to tell me what I've said, and then to say you understand.
That's how I write this post.
So, I got this PM. And I got permission to post it here. Here it is:
-.-.-.-
"Hey, it is I pussyninja.
I was skimming through a long list of pms after a few months of disappearing, wallowing in my own fucking darkness, and I noticed you pm'd me back. Thats a treat. So as I said, im skimming through these pm's and it just amazes how so many people on here "pretend" like they know you, like they care but turn around and say,"hey, sorry to hear about so and so, when are you going to update?"
Shakes head. The masses, these sick, selfish individuals who refer to themselves as human beings have no regard towards others whatsoever. Its a slap in the face when you think your getting encouraging pms, words, but instead you get threats, pleas, and utter bs.
I think the funniest thing ive read so far is,"Hey, so sorry to hear that you broke up with your girl, but if your still alive, can you update?"
If you're still alive can you update. In other words, if I havent blown my fucking head off, can you please humor me with an update.
No, I cant. Why? Because im not alive, im dead.
Its not their fault though, that their selfish and ignorant towards the things around them. Like the world, like my fucking time and schedule is suppose to coincide with theirs. I'll update when I fucking feel like it. I'll update when im happy. When my every waking thought is not of her, the selfish fucking bitch that made me fall in love. Made me think she cared and then ripped my heart out. Made me this, a waste of fucking space.
But its not her fault though. No, its human nature. Its human nature to be selfish, self-absorbed. Its human nature, more so for us, for women, to lure naive little lambs in to their world, make me, I mean them, think you care, cause really, why would they think otherwise after a year of I loves you, I miss yous and a bunch of other bullshit? Why would they think otherwise when after you decide you're done playing games, after you change your "in a relationship" status to "single"? Why the fuck would they think otherwise when that same status goes from "Single" to "in a relationship" not even a month later? No, no, why on earth would I think otherwise?
Fucking bitch.
Ive come to the conclusion that our gender, females, are so much more selfish then men. We take what we want with a touch, a whisper, a lie, with whatever need be, and when we're done, when we've got what we wanted we leave. We abandon without remorse. I dont know, maybe im wrong? Maybe im just mad cause im hurting? Who cares? I dont, and im pretty sure you dont either. I dont even know why im venting to you, you probably have more important things to do. I dont. Nope, I have all the time in the world to just sit in my lonely fucking corner, breathe in the darkness until I can practically taste the hollow shell/brains on in my mouth. My hand is practically reaching for the invisible gun right now, but ya know? I couldnt pull the trigger. Why? Because im pussy, because I care too much. I care too much about who and what id leave behind.
You know what my mom said to me the other day? She said "what happen to the happy girl I knew? The one you used to be.."
That girl is dead. Thats whats happens when you a years worth of love, happiness, 10 page fucking love letters and countless expensive gifts to someone, only to have it spit back in your face. You wanna know whats much worse than wiping lies off your face? The memories.
"Whats happiness to you?" She asked, and like an idiot I said her. I said what was in my heart, cause I was love stricken fool.. so in love with a idea of love. I suppose its always like that you first time around though, but I wished now that I had said," Happiness to me would be erasing you from my mind. Its be going back in time, not stumbling upon your shitty story and not pming you every fucking day."
Thats happiness to me. A world of happiness.
Its probably for the best anyway, or least that what she said. That she couldnt be honest with her parents and neither could I. And maybe so, but why start another relationship with another girl if thats the fact. Why "pretend" with that girl, when you know you're just gonna do the same thing?
Sigh.
I used to like to pretend. Pretend that i was happy behind a big smile. Pretend that everything was okay, by laughing, by telling jokes and writing mediocre stories for "fun." Pretend that I was normal, that I didnt notice how fair the female species was, but like so many other things in life, theres comes a time when you have to stop pretending, when you gotta wake up.
Am I ready to wake up? I dont know. All I know is suffering, pain, misery, sorrow. And im tired. You ever been depressed for no apparent reason? I suffer from that sometimes, way before any of this, and more so now. But I'll endure it like I always do. Smile and laugh through it all.
But enough of my dreary ass life. How are you doing? How are things with the one chick? I forgot her name, but the one that stole you from me lol, that hurt. The laughing out loud I mean. I do hope you're doing way better than me. I hope you're alive, well, and happy. I could use some happiness. Maybe you could reflect some of your on to me? Well despite this awkward, somewhat therapeutic rant, I must say I feel a little better lol. So sorry to take up your time. Guess I'll go tend to the greedy masses and update."
-.-.-.-
What do you think?
You know what? I don't care what you think.
What I think is this: I wish I was half a pussyninja. I wish I had half her insight, half her heart, half her burning passion, half her bold (and bald) (and ribald) honesty. I wish.
And I'm grateful I have the eyes to see these admirable traits in her. I'm grateful I'm alive now, so I could read this. I'm grateful I have the courage to respond to her (in a very `phfinaescque way), and get her analysis of me, which follows:
-.-.-.-
You are beyond naughty phfina, lol. Smh, I totally smack myself reading this a did a bit of laughing, though it hurt, myself. In a good way of course.
Was it good for me? Lmao, I wasnt aware that we were acting upon our undisclosed desires. But from what I gather, you made it good enough for the both of us. Lol, smh.
Glad I could make someone erm...happy for the time being. Especially after actually reading your profile.
You are, well, a very deep individual. Is what I will say since there arent really words that can describe you, your thoughts and personality. And I like you like that, the way you are. Your honest. You speak from the heart and dontgive a shit what people think.
Thats hot, lol.
[edited]
And okay, dont take this the wrong way, but I kinda laugh when I read the part about the stairs. I know, I know, im an ass. Its true, asks my friends. I laugh at shit like that. I feel so bad too. So after I got all my giggles out,
I wonder to myself, "Is she okay?"
Smh, im an ass. But you are okay right? Nothing broken? I stubbed my toe a few days ago and it hurt like a bitch, so I can only imagine what something like that feels like.
Smh, still, im an ass for laughing.
Do forgive me.
so, one random thought. A couple just came into my job a a little whiles ago. Ya know, the typical young and in love, gotta hold hands and cheese like theres no tomorrow?
Yeah, that bad. It was like a slap to the face. I wanted to throw up, regurgitate and throw up again.
Pathetic, I know.
Then I thought to myself,"Why am I raining on their happiness? Its not their fault that their idiot. That they have no clue as to what they got themselves into."
And then I sighed. And prayed that it wouldnt be like this forever, that I wouldnt be all anti and "I hate love".
Anywho, can you post my little rant?
Sure, phfina. You can have anything you want from me. And take that however you want sweetness, EXCEPT, for in a sarcastic or mean way. I would never be mean to you;)
Did I mention that im tired? Cause I am, im tired as shit and insomnia, smh, insomnia is a bitch
-.-.-.-
Did you get that she wrote her first PM to me before she read my posts where we both said the exact same things, me saying them in my way, she, in hers?
Reading her words, I'm filled with ... hope.
Hope.
I mean, okay, I'm hot? (Damn straight! (Or 'gaie' as the case may be))
And I 'don't give a fuck what people think'? Actually, I do give a fuck. I care, very deeply, about you and about what you think.
I also take fucks.
Happily, in fact, as it's been, oh ... um, well, never mind.
But not that ... (I'm hot?)
But that, what, she is living in her stew, yes? Yes. But what does she do? Rain on some happy couple's parade?
No. She looks beyond herself, by looking into herself and seeing who she's being, and then she chooses to let other people have their happiness.
Oh, ... my God!
Do you know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
You know: your world is all you, and your suffering and your pleasures. I know it too: I hear it all day, every day from everybody I meet. How very interesting, your concerns about you and your mistreatment. Must be, the way you go on about them to yourself and to every poor schmuck forced into hearing range of you.
But rise above, and see other people. Really see them, and then reach out, reach out of yourself, and ...
And, suddenly, your world isn't only more than twice as big as it was, with whole new vistas to explore, and the sun has finally come out and you feel its heat and its warmth by the glow suffusing your face, ...
Yes, all that happens, too.
But.
But you've just, by dropping that woe-is-me cold and cloudy demeanor, and replacing it with actual joy, self-discovery, ... actually living, right here, right now, ... you've just illuminated at least one other person's life, and maybe you've changed the course of history, because what can that one other, or several other, or many other, person(s) do?
Oh, and she wrestled in school, so she's got a hard body, so she has that going for her, too.
'LOL' smh and :p
p.s. smh, gerund: look it up in urban dictionary.
p.p.s. I like the 'svck my hair' definition, not the one everybody else 'like'd. I'm a very visual person, so I ... visualized what that would be ... you know ... like.
p.p.p.s. oh, and if she thinks she can wrestle the `phfina down, then I'll just have to aikido her ass into submission; I've dealt with plenty of bigger, stronger girls who thought they could easily have a turn on top of weak, frail, little, toppy `phfina. School was in session for them, and prof. `phfina learned them real good. I tell you what. After all, I fvcked nearly the entire girls' rugby team in school (not at the same time, mind you, but ...), and they were ... you know, mean, tough girls on the field, and total putty in my (very naughty) hands. I can just as easily rename this post as '`phfina verses pvss-in-boots ninja' but that would be a one-liner: '"I win; no surprise. Questions? No questions, just see the 'I win' part."
That's just an FYI for ya, Ms. thinks-she's-all-that-Ninja.
Oh, and she did correct the 'regurgitate' comment, which was very sweet and shy of her.
I LIKE sweet and shy girls.
Mm-hm.
Um, where was I? Oh, yeah, but I was like, 'honey, you can spit (regurgitate) but with you, 'smh' 'cause my hands wrapped around your head are pushing it right. in. there, ... all you are gonna do is swallow, babes.'
I think maybe that's when her bulging eyes popped out of her head.
Any questions? No questions: see the 'I'm hot' part of this post.
Steamy, in fact. TsSsSsSsSsSs!
p.p.p.p.s. :p
So, you want to know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
Besides ask her? (And if she says, 'no' that means: no. It doesn't mean: slip a date-r4pe drug into her drink).
For me: I'm easy (and I'll write that post, too, my dears), all you have to do is to listen, to tell me what I've said, and then to say you understand.
That's how I write this post.
So, I got this PM. And I got permission to post it here. Here it is:
-.-.-.-
"Hey, it is I pussyninja.
I was skimming through a long list of pms after a few months of disappearing, wallowing in my own fucking darkness, and I noticed you pm'd me back. Thats a treat. So as I said, im skimming through these pm's and it just amazes how so many people on here "pretend" like they know you, like they care but turn around and say,"hey, sorry to hear about so and so, when are you going to update?"
Shakes head. The masses, these sick, selfish individuals who refer to themselves as human beings have no regard towards others whatsoever. Its a slap in the face when you think your getting encouraging pms, words, but instead you get threats, pleas, and utter bs.
I think the funniest thing ive read so far is,"Hey, so sorry to hear that you broke up with your girl, but if your still alive, can you update?"
If you're still alive can you update. In other words, if I havent blown my fucking head off, can you please humor me with an update.
No, I cant. Why? Because im not alive, im dead.
Its not their fault though, that their selfish and ignorant towards the things around them. Like the world, like my fucking time and schedule is suppose to coincide with theirs. I'll update when I fucking feel like it. I'll update when im happy. When my every waking thought is not of her, the selfish fucking bitch that made me fall in love. Made me think she cared and then ripped my heart out. Made me this, a waste of fucking space.
But its not her fault though. No, its human nature. Its human nature to be selfish, self-absorbed. Its human nature, more so for us, for women, to lure naive little lambs in to their world, make me, I mean them, think you care, cause really, why would they think otherwise after a year of I loves you, I miss yous and a bunch of other bullshit? Why would they think otherwise when after you decide you're done playing games, after you change your "in a relationship" status to "single"? Why the fuck would they think otherwise when that same status goes from "Single" to "in a relationship" not even a month later? No, no, why on earth would I think otherwise?
Fucking bitch.
Ive come to the conclusion that our gender, females, are so much more selfish then men. We take what we want with a touch, a whisper, a lie, with whatever need be, and when we're done, when we've got what we wanted we leave. We abandon without remorse. I dont know, maybe im wrong? Maybe im just mad cause im hurting? Who cares? I dont, and im pretty sure you dont either. I dont even know why im venting to you, you probably have more important things to do. I dont. Nope, I have all the time in the world to just sit in my lonely fucking corner, breathe in the darkness until I can practically taste the hollow shell/brains on in my mouth. My hand is practically reaching for the invisible gun right now, but ya know? I couldnt pull the trigger. Why? Because im pussy, because I care too much. I care too much about who and what id leave behind.
You know what my mom said to me the other day? She said "what happen to the happy girl I knew? The one you used to be.."
That girl is dead. Thats whats happens when you a years worth of love, happiness, 10 page fucking love letters and countless expensive gifts to someone, only to have it spit back in your face. You wanna know whats much worse than wiping lies off your face? The memories.
"Whats happiness to you?" She asked, and like an idiot I said her. I said what was in my heart, cause I was love stricken fool.. so in love with a idea of love. I suppose its always like that you first time around though, but I wished now that I had said," Happiness to me would be erasing you from my mind. Its be going back in time, not stumbling upon your shitty story and not pming you every fucking day."
Thats happiness to me. A world of happiness.
Its probably for the best anyway, or least that what she said. That she couldnt be honest with her parents and neither could I. And maybe so, but why start another relationship with another girl if thats the fact. Why "pretend" with that girl, when you know you're just gonna do the same thing?
Sigh.
I used to like to pretend. Pretend that i was happy behind a big smile. Pretend that everything was okay, by laughing, by telling jokes and writing mediocre stories for "fun." Pretend that I was normal, that I didnt notice how fair the female species was, but like so many other things in life, theres comes a time when you have to stop pretending, when you gotta wake up.
Am I ready to wake up? I dont know. All I know is suffering, pain, misery, sorrow. And im tired. You ever been depressed for no apparent reason? I suffer from that sometimes, way before any of this, and more so now. But I'll endure it like I always do. Smile and laugh through it all.
But enough of my dreary ass life. How are you doing? How are things with the one chick? I forgot her name, but the one that stole you from me lol, that hurt. The laughing out loud I mean. I do hope you're doing way better than me. I hope you're alive, well, and happy. I could use some happiness. Maybe you could reflect some of your on to me? Well despite this awkward, somewhat therapeutic rant, I must say I feel a little better lol. So sorry to take up your time. Guess I'll go tend to the greedy masses and update."
-.-.-.-
What do you think?
You know what? I don't care what you think.
What I think is this: I wish I was half a pussyninja. I wish I had half her insight, half her heart, half her burning passion, half her bold (and bald) (and ribald) honesty. I wish.
And I'm grateful I have the eyes to see these admirable traits in her. I'm grateful I'm alive now, so I could read this. I'm grateful I have the courage to respond to her (in a very `phfinaescque way), and get her analysis of me, which follows:
-.-.-.-
You are beyond naughty phfina, lol. Smh, I totally smack myself reading this a did a bit of laughing, though it hurt, myself. In a good way of course.
Was it good for me? Lmao, I wasnt aware that we were acting upon our undisclosed desires. But from what I gather, you made it good enough for the both of us. Lol, smh.
Glad I could make someone erm...happy for the time being. Especially after actually reading your profile.
You are, well, a very deep individual. Is what I will say since there arent really words that can describe you, your thoughts and personality. And I like you like that, the way you are. Your honest. You speak from the heart and dontgive a shit what people think.
Thats hot, lol.
[edited]
And okay, dont take this the wrong way, but I kinda laugh when I read the part about the stairs. I know, I know, im an ass. Its true, asks my friends. I laugh at shit like that. I feel so bad too. So after I got all my giggles out,
I wonder to myself, "Is she okay?"
Smh, im an ass. But you are okay right? Nothing broken? I stubbed my toe a few days ago and it hurt like a bitch, so I can only imagine what something like that feels like.
Smh, still, im an ass for laughing.
Do forgive me.
so, one random thought. A couple just came into my job a a little whiles ago. Ya know, the typical young and in love, gotta hold hands and cheese like theres no tomorrow?
Yeah, that bad. It was like a slap to the face. I wanted to throw up, regurgitate and throw up again.
Pathetic, I know.
Then I thought to myself,"Why am I raining on their happiness? Its not their fault that their idiot. That they have no clue as to what they got themselves into."
And then I sighed. And prayed that it wouldnt be like this forever, that I wouldnt be all anti and "I hate love".
Anywho, can you post my little rant?
Sure, phfina. You can have anything you want from me. And take that however you want sweetness, EXCEPT, for in a sarcastic or mean way. I would never be mean to you;)
Did I mention that im tired? Cause I am, im tired as shit and insomnia, smh, insomnia is a bitch
-.-.-.-
Did you get that she wrote her first PM to me before she read my posts where we both said the exact same things, me saying them in my way, she, in hers?
Reading her words, I'm filled with ... hope.
Hope.
I mean, okay, I'm hot? (Damn straight! (Or 'gaie' as the case may be))
And I 'don't give a fuck what people think'? Actually, I do give a fuck. I care, very deeply, about you and about what you think.
I also take fucks.
Happily, in fact, as it's been, oh ... um, well, never mind.
But not that ... (I'm hot?)
But that, what, she is living in her stew, yes? Yes. But what does she do? Rain on some happy couple's parade?
No. She looks beyond herself, by looking into herself and seeing who she's being, and then she chooses to let other people have their happiness.
Oh, ... my God!
Do you know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
You know: your world is all you, and your suffering and your pleasures. I know it too: I hear it all day, every day from everybody I meet. How very interesting, your concerns about you and your mistreatment. Must be, the way you go on about them to yourself and to every poor schmuck forced into hearing range of you.
But rise above, and see other people. Really see them, and then reach out, reach out of yourself, and ...
And, suddenly, your world isn't only more than twice as big as it was, with whole new vistas to explore, and the sun has finally come out and you feel its heat and its warmth by the glow suffusing your face, ...
Yes, all that happens, too.
But.
But you've just, by dropping that woe-is-me cold and cloudy demeanor, and replacing it with actual joy, self-discovery, ... actually living, right here, right now, ... you've just illuminated at least one other person's life, and maybe you've changed the course of history, because what can that one other, or several other, or many other, person(s) do?
Oh, and she wrestled in school, so she's got a hard body, so she has that going for her, too.
'LOL' smh and :p
p.s. smh, gerund: look it up in urban dictionary.
p.p.s. I like the 'svck my hair' definition, not the one everybody else 'like'd. I'm a very visual person, so I ... visualized what that would be ... you know ... like.
p.p.p.s. oh, and if she thinks she can wrestle the `phfina down, then I'll just have to aikido her ass into submission; I've dealt with plenty of bigger, stronger girls who thought they could easily have a turn on top of weak, frail, little, toppy `phfina. School was in session for them, and prof. `phfina learned them real good. I tell you what. After all, I fvcked nearly the entire girls' rugby team in school (not at the same time, mind you, but ...), and they were ... you know, mean, tough girls on the field, and total putty in my (very naughty) hands. I can just as easily rename this post as '`phfina verses pvss-in-boots ninja' but that would be a one-liner: '"I win; no surprise. Questions? No questions, just see the 'I win' part."
That's just an FYI for ya, Ms. thinks-she's-all-that-Ninja.
Oh, and she did correct the 'regurgitate' comment, which was very sweet and shy of her.
I LIKE sweet and shy girls.
Mm-hm.
Um, where was I? Oh, yeah, but I was like, 'honey, you can spit (regurgitate) but with you, 'smh' 'cause my hands wrapped around your head are pushing it right. in. there, ... all you are gonna do is swallow, babes.'
I think maybe that's when her bulging eyes popped out of her head.
Any questions? No questions: see the 'I'm hot' part of this post.
Steamy, in fact. TsSsSsSsSsSs!
p.p.p.p.s. :p
Monday, January 30, 2012
"I fell down some steps"
I fell down some steps.
People are very curious about this. Why? Is it like watching a train wreck? So the fuck what! Who the fuck cares! I fell down some steps. Big deal.
I fell down a whole flight of steps. The very first step on my cheap second, that is top, floor, of my cheap apartment, my foot didn't catch on that little metallic thingie/edge, that would have had me slide down face first on my belly down the steps, no: my heel landed exactly where it would slide, skid over the top of that metal thingie, and I spend a whole flight trying to catch hold of anything as I screamed, "oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" as my whole body tensed itself, trying to save itself from this unremitting agony, until I finally did flip over and land on the floor with my face -- BANG! -- and cried and cried and cried until some nice Korean people from the ground floor came rushing out with their cell phones calling emergency.
Boy, did I scream then! I screamed that I was okay, and I wasn't hurt, and I was okay, and I dragged my sorry ass back up those self-same steps back to my tiny, shitty, oops I meant: 'efficiency' place and pull the covers over my head and went to sleep and didn't wake up for a day. A whole day.
Why was I going out?
Well, when your girlfriend tells you she wants to be friends now, and she wasn't your girlfriend, she was the reason you were alive for a whole year, and ...
Well, I was a little ... euphoric ... from emotion, so I decided to self-medicate. Alcohol is a depressant, you see, so I could be back on an even keel after a few drinks. The dive they call a restaurant/bar in our little dive town has 'happy' hour where they serve mixed drinks for one dollar.
By the way: I'm a cheap date. One beer, and I'm drunk. A few drinks? You ever read Salinger? He wrote Sappho's poem: "Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenters!" as only he could write it. THAT's what'd happen to me. What happened to Buddy after one, very strong, Tom Collins.
Yeah, I was going to self-medicate, then maybe cross the street, and maybe this time God wouldn't stop that oncoming truck, and then everybody's problems would be solved, and it wouldn't even be a suicide, it'd just be some stupid fucking drunk girl crossing the street, crushed under a moving van.
Happens every day.
So, God might've taken preemptive measures, again, on my sorry ass, and had one angel push me down the stairs, and ... but it was okay, I was fine, because the floor caught my fall.
I had a big black and blue shiner that screamed 'SPOUSE ABUSE!' for any and all on-lookers for a few days.
And, well, tensing up like that, and having stair after stair hit tensed muscles like that.
And my tailbone.
Yes, my pride was injured, but then, I couldn't walk for a day, and then running? jogging?
I tried, but I couldn't the pain was general: all over my body, and then 'specific': like, super intense in my neck and back. It was fine walking, but when I tried to push myself, even a little bit, I saw stars through my tears.
And the bruises on my knees and hips.
But why didn't I go (back) to the hospital?
"I fell down some steps."
I fell down some steps.
Yeah, right.
How many times a day do the orderlies hear that lie? In Fight Club, you know: the movie that Saga quoted the 'I haven't been fucked like that since grade school' line, the protagonist used that line, that lie, to justify his beatings, on himself.
In 'Fried Green Tomatoes,' there was some falling down some steps, right, Ruth? But it was because her husband pushed her down them, and she almost lost her baby that way.
And let's not forget the best seller, 22 million copies at last count a few years ago, where Alice DID fall down some steps and crash through a window to cover up the fact that Bella was tortured by James, ... remember how he snapped her leg in half? ... so that she and Edward could live happily ever after?
Stairs, and falling down them, cover up a whole host of sins, of evils.
"I fell down some steps."
I go to the hospital, and say that line, and you know what they would think, and you know what they would do. And they I would have the police over at my house, and more people would be in my life, in my shit, and see just another example of an aborted abortion: poor white trash just taking up space, living in the ghetto.
You know what 'ghetto' is? No, it's not where (now) the Koreans live. It's not where the Black lived in Harlem. No, it's where the Nazis gathered the Jews ...
... collecting them, so they could exterminate them.
And the questions they would ask: "Please give the name of your cohabitating partner. Has he assaulted you before?" He? HE? HE?
Or: "What are the names of your parents? Are you house sitting here? Have you been disciplined by them before this badly? What high school do you go to? Wait: did you graduate grade school yet?"
Yeah: I fell down some steps.
Oh, but I'm fine now. You know why: because I didn't go to the hospital, and have a police report filed against me: Jane Doe, poor white trash, so nobody knows that I can't pay the rent, that I can't go out with the gang from work for lunch, cause I can't pay with credit card and I don't have cash, and if I lose my fare card, I don't have cash to get a bus ride then catch the metro rail, then catch the next bus: two and a half hours to get to work, two and a half hours to get home to get paid a 'fuck me up the ass, boss' secretary's pay that doesn't pay the rent, so, no I don't go to sbux anymore for that $4.25 cup of coffee I don't have the money to buy.
You see: I'm fine. Nobody knows about me; nobody cares, so I can just be a little mouse, shivering in the barn; getting by.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
So, now, when I go down the steps, what I don't do is this: I don't check my email on my phone, I'm not getting any I need to read, like when I needed to read the email when Saga sent it. I don't think thoughts that cloud my sight. Like nearly every thought I think to myself and how I deserve this life I'm living, and I don't even deserve that. No, I grasp firmly on the rail with one hand, and hold the wall with the other, and nudge out my foot, reach out to that first step, and then I tentatively rest my foot on the first step, testing to see whether I rest there, or if I go flying, high as a kite, bonk-bonk-bonk, all the way down.
If I rest there, nobody comes running out their doors, nobody notices. Nobody cares. Nothing to care about.
Being noticed, falling, flying down a flight of stairs, get you noticed, and being noticed ...
I'm tired, and it's not even noon yet. This writing stuff. Wheee! So fun!
And a little tiny voice just now, just fucking right now, whispered in my head: "Saga noticed you."
I have to go to the bathroom now. I don't want my coworkers seeing me crying. They might notice.
People are very curious about this. Why? Is it like watching a train wreck? So the fuck what! Who the fuck cares! I fell down some steps. Big deal.
I fell down a whole flight of steps. The very first step on my cheap second, that is top, floor, of my cheap apartment, my foot didn't catch on that little metallic thingie/edge, that would have had me slide down face first on my belly down the steps, no: my heel landed exactly where it would slide, skid over the top of that metal thingie, and I spend a whole flight trying to catch hold of anything as I screamed, "oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" as my whole body tensed itself, trying to save itself from this unremitting agony, until I finally did flip over and land on the floor with my face -- BANG! -- and cried and cried and cried until some nice Korean people from the ground floor came rushing out with their cell phones calling emergency.
Boy, did I scream then! I screamed that I was okay, and I wasn't hurt, and I was okay, and I dragged my sorry ass back up those self-same steps back to my tiny, shitty, oops I meant: 'efficiency' place and pull the covers over my head and went to sleep and didn't wake up for a day. A whole day.
Why was I going out?
Well, when your girlfriend tells you she wants to be friends now, and she wasn't your girlfriend, she was the reason you were alive for a whole year, and ...
Well, I was a little ... euphoric ... from emotion, so I decided to self-medicate. Alcohol is a depressant, you see, so I could be back on an even keel after a few drinks. The dive they call a restaurant/bar in our little dive town has 'happy' hour where they serve mixed drinks for one dollar.
By the way: I'm a cheap date. One beer, and I'm drunk. A few drinks? You ever read Salinger? He wrote Sappho's poem: "Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenters!" as only he could write it. THAT's what'd happen to me. What happened to Buddy after one, very strong, Tom Collins.
Yeah, I was going to self-medicate, then maybe cross the street, and maybe this time God wouldn't stop that oncoming truck, and then everybody's problems would be solved, and it wouldn't even be a suicide, it'd just be some stupid fucking drunk girl crossing the street, crushed under a moving van.
Happens every day.
So, God might've taken preemptive measures, again, on my sorry ass, and had one angel push me down the stairs, and ... but it was okay, I was fine, because the floor caught my fall.
I had a big black and blue shiner that screamed 'SPOUSE ABUSE!' for any and all on-lookers for a few days.
And, well, tensing up like that, and having stair after stair hit tensed muscles like that.
And my tailbone.
Yes, my pride was injured, but then, I couldn't walk for a day, and then running? jogging?
I tried, but I couldn't the pain was general: all over my body, and then 'specific': like, super intense in my neck and back. It was fine walking, but when I tried to push myself, even a little bit, I saw stars through my tears.
And the bruises on my knees and hips.
But why didn't I go (back) to the hospital?
"I fell down some steps."
I fell down some steps.
Yeah, right.
How many times a day do the orderlies hear that lie? In Fight Club, you know: the movie that Saga quoted the 'I haven't been fucked like that since grade school' line, the protagonist used that line, that lie, to justify his beatings, on himself.
In 'Fried Green Tomatoes,' there was some falling down some steps, right, Ruth? But it was because her husband pushed her down them, and she almost lost her baby that way.
And let's not forget the best seller, 22 million copies at last count a few years ago, where Alice DID fall down some steps and crash through a window to cover up the fact that Bella was tortured by James, ... remember how he snapped her leg in half? ... so that she and Edward could live happily ever after?
Stairs, and falling down them, cover up a whole host of sins, of evils.
"I fell down some steps."
I go to the hospital, and say that line, and you know what they would think, and you know what they would do. And they I would have the police over at my house, and more people would be in my life, in my shit, and see just another example of an aborted abortion: poor white trash just taking up space, living in the ghetto.
You know what 'ghetto' is? No, it's not where (now) the Koreans live. It's not where the Black lived in Harlem. No, it's where the Nazis gathered the Jews ...
... collecting them, so they could exterminate them.
And the questions they would ask: "Please give the name of your cohabitating partner. Has he assaulted you before?" He? HE? HE?
Or: "What are the names of your parents? Are you house sitting here? Have you been disciplined by them before this badly? What high school do you go to? Wait: did you graduate grade school yet?"
Yeah: I fell down some steps.
Oh, but I'm fine now. You know why: because I didn't go to the hospital, and have a police report filed against me: Jane Doe, poor white trash, so nobody knows that I can't pay the rent, that I can't go out with the gang from work for lunch, cause I can't pay with credit card and I don't have cash, and if I lose my fare card, I don't have cash to get a bus ride then catch the metro rail, then catch the next bus: two and a half hours to get to work, two and a half hours to get home to get paid a 'fuck me up the ass, boss' secretary's pay that doesn't pay the rent, so, no I don't go to sbux anymore for that $4.25 cup of coffee I don't have the money to buy.
You see: I'm fine. Nobody knows about me; nobody cares, so I can just be a little mouse, shivering in the barn; getting by.
Out of sight. Out of mind.
So, now, when I go down the steps, what I don't do is this: I don't check my email on my phone, I'm not getting any I need to read, like when I needed to read the email when Saga sent it. I don't think thoughts that cloud my sight. Like nearly every thought I think to myself and how I deserve this life I'm living, and I don't even deserve that. No, I grasp firmly on the rail with one hand, and hold the wall with the other, and nudge out my foot, reach out to that first step, and then I tentatively rest my foot on the first step, testing to see whether I rest there, or if I go flying, high as a kite, bonk-bonk-bonk, all the way down.
If I rest there, nobody comes running out their doors, nobody notices. Nobody cares. Nothing to care about.
Being noticed, falling, flying down a flight of stairs, get you noticed, and being noticed ...
I'm tired, and it's not even noon yet. This writing stuff. Wheee! So fun!
And a little tiny voice just now, just fucking right now, whispered in my head: "Saga noticed you."
I have to go to the bathroom now. I don't want my coworkers seeing me crying. They might notice.
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