Well,
This is such good evidence that all storms pass. Al those angry posts of yore, all of them, are nothing like how I feel today. Current mood :) satisfied.
I had a huge steak last night. And some apple pie a la mode. A treat by Monsieur Le Strobel. My buddy.
John Brewer and I had a falling out. But he's moving to Maple Leaf. And oh yeah, we're friends again.
The hair is growing in on my face and it hurts. But I got an appt for Sat March 10th.
The DEMO. Oh my God, the demo. 3 weeks. And I'm getting nervous.
My bills are out of control. Yes, they are. And I'm supposed to get a haircut AND go to yoga tonite. Another 15 bucks. God almighty. How can I do it? There's just not enough money coming in. $12 an hour, minus the rent, lord. My underwear are threadbare. Literally, they are.
But I have enough for cool sunglasses!
Yoga. That's about it. Consistency with yoga. But how will I afford that? Plus Dr. Berman, plus dental appts-- 3 cavities, wisdom teeth extraction, bonding on upper left-- Blogs are nasty places sometimes, ain't they?
But in other news, Jim Drennan, my buddy from UNR, is having a tough time in London. I applied all my pearls of wisdom (beads of sweat equity) from my rough times to his, and it helped him.
And that's it. Job is a bit better. Things are okay. Hair removal-- bills-- demo.
Those are the 3 things on my mind today.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Worthless Post
I laugh. I bear witness to the disintegration of all my romantic relationships.
"Not necessarily a bad thing" my mom's husband replies.
HA HA.
J Brewer, you are a right-wing nut.
B, you are a... I still don't know what the hell you are. That's the problem.
J West, I love you. Still. But the romance has died. Probably a long time ago.
My appointment with Dr. Berman went well last night. It ended with him giving me advice to wear condoms and that's that. Won't need one.
But I am going to keep dating. 1,2,3 dates a month. That would be super awesome!
I'm wearing skinny jeans today. Look cool but feel.... so not cool.
Wrote Brian telling him I miss him. Want him back. Sort of.
Out of the blue I sent him a link and just siad "miss u" at the bottom. He wrote back "I miss you too."
Yeah. Great.
So, that's the way.
I'm sad today. Current mood =(.
"Not necessarily a bad thing" my mom's husband replies.
HA HA.
J Brewer, you are a right-wing nut.
B, you are a... I still don't know what the hell you are. That's the problem.
J West, I love you. Still. But the romance has died. Probably a long time ago.
My appointment with Dr. Berman went well last night. It ended with him giving me advice to wear condoms and that's that. Won't need one.
But I am going to keep dating. 1,2,3 dates a month. That would be super awesome!
I'm wearing skinny jeans today. Look cool but feel.... so not cool.
Wrote Brian telling him I miss him. Want him back. Sort of.
Out of the blue I sent him a link and just siad "miss u" at the bottom. He wrote back "I miss you too."
Yeah. Great.
So, that's the way.
I'm sad today. Current mood =(.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Martyrs Made of Crisco
Like a puppy in an oven,
Our attraction to each other died a slow, roasting death.
yes, it was doused with paint, yes it's nose was melted to the glass.
For a second, I felt as helpless.
But then, I imagined a martyr.
And guess who that martyr was? The puppy.
These situations, where one person is attracted to another intellectually and sexually, these cosmopolitan things are about as substantial as a bag of gas. The only thing is time.
What happened with John Brewer? How did someone I liked so much go so wrong, and I for him, in the span of an hour?
I guess when that thing that divides you is as fundamental to your selfhood as, say religion and politics, it can turn rather ugly rather quick. The knives come out.
The knives always come out.
Why don't we put the knives away, people? It sounds naive, but really. When can we put the knives away?
I feel an urge to write the same email to Brian and John Brewer. They both work inthe same office. They are diametric opposites. And I had strange relationships with both of them. But I want to say thank you. I want to stay friends with them. I want to LOVE them.
Why, why, why in Seattle, do people do this? They simply raze their fondness for someone lickety-split-- there's a cruelness, a coldness, a calculating way to the daters out here. To the people out here. It happened with two of my close friends. Who moved here. They now thrive here. I guess it's because they were built for this place. They were able to carry knives with them all the way.
I can't carry knives. I'm a down-home person who wants to talk about it. I'm warm, I'm earthy, I'm into a person forever. Even if you're wrong for me. I'll still want to laugh with you, and love you, and have a barbecue. I'll want to drink beer on the back of a pickup truck with you. I'll want to count on you-- and let you know you can count on me. These things, these are un- presumptuous things, when you think about it. Yes you can know me. Yes you can know my family. Yes you can be a big, fat, heaping part of my self, like crisco in a cherry pie.
But this don't happen here. Not from my experience. Not yet. Maybe it takes time. But the "Seattle freeze" the hypothesis that dating and friendship making here is murder, not for the faint of heart, seems a noble-little flame, emanating from a scared, naked person on a waterfront pier. Don't be scared, whoever you are-- I'm listening.
Our attraction to each other died a slow, roasting death.
yes, it was doused with paint, yes it's nose was melted to the glass.
For a second, I felt as helpless.
But then, I imagined a martyr.
And guess who that martyr was? The puppy.
These situations, where one person is attracted to another intellectually and sexually, these cosmopolitan things are about as substantial as a bag of gas. The only thing is time.
What happened with John Brewer? How did someone I liked so much go so wrong, and I for him, in the span of an hour?
I guess when that thing that divides you is as fundamental to your selfhood as, say religion and politics, it can turn rather ugly rather quick. The knives come out.
The knives always come out.
Why don't we put the knives away, people? It sounds naive, but really. When can we put the knives away?
I feel an urge to write the same email to Brian and John Brewer. They both work inthe same office. They are diametric opposites. And I had strange relationships with both of them. But I want to say thank you. I want to stay friends with them. I want to LOVE them.
Why, why, why in Seattle, do people do this? They simply raze their fondness for someone lickety-split-- there's a cruelness, a coldness, a calculating way to the daters out here. To the people out here. It happened with two of my close friends. Who moved here. They now thrive here. I guess it's because they were built for this place. They were able to carry knives with them all the way.
I can't carry knives. I'm a down-home person who wants to talk about it. I'm warm, I'm earthy, I'm into a person forever. Even if you're wrong for me. I'll still want to laugh with you, and love you, and have a barbecue. I'll want to drink beer on the back of a pickup truck with you. I'll want to count on you-- and let you know you can count on me. These things, these are un- presumptuous things, when you think about it. Yes you can know me. Yes you can know my family. Yes you can be a big, fat, heaping part of my self, like crisco in a cherry pie.
But this don't happen here. Not from my experience. Not yet. Maybe it takes time. But the "Seattle freeze" the hypothesis that dating and friendship making here is murder, not for the faint of heart, seems a noble-little flame, emanating from a scared, naked person on a waterfront pier. Don't be scared, whoever you are-- I'm listening.
Real Rage
Peeled, paltry, and withered, the African daisies at my office died prematurely after a long weekend in the sun. Their lightning-quick death seems like a cosmic joke, because there they are still eerily fresh and colorful-- kind of dead but smiling.
Like a dolphin slaughter in Japan, they all died together in one big, wild group. But I'm not envious. I'm not into the collective thing.
See, here's the theme for this bit:
"Please Use Revolving Door"
Everywhere you go in Seattle you'll see it. Banks, businesses, libraries. Relationships. Wherever there's a damn revolving door you will use it. YOU MUST: Conserve yourself! Conserve traditional values! There are messages from everybody: Everybody is trying to get you to conserve something!
Shall I conserve myself? Should I-- must I-- dump and dump again to be happy? Should I keep on til I'm-uh happy?
No one lives up to the expectations of the individualistic, intellectual daters in this community-- NO ONE. That means I don't--live up to theirs-- and they don't-- live up to mine.
The story of my Seattle relationships. Plays out like a bunch of silly, dead flowers: They look fresh-- but they're DEAD.
Do not come to Seattle to get married. And if u are "hell-bent" (pardon the pun) on marriage, I suggest going to the Mars Hill church in Ballard. The new-fundamentalist hipster church will make you a fervent believer in NEVER getting married-- it will make you an individualist, a feminist, a Wiccan, even, before night's end.
A muslim. A moroccan. A teletubby. Anything, anything, but a marriageable Christian fuck.
The anti-intellectualism of this neo-church is maddening. The rhetoric is frightening. The way they bash you over the head with orders to procreate, to dress-up like they did in olden days and smile pretty and gap-toothed at a man so he can later have you barefoot an pregnant in his kitchen-- it's terrible, terrible, terrible.
And if there's one thing more frightening than going to the Mars Hill church, it's seeing the guy that you thought was cute, your date who brought you to this thing, poised like marble, like Abe Lincoln's statue, head down in prayer, in harmony with these nuts.
It's the biggest turn-off EVER.
"One person only-- ever-- and kids, kids, kids!"
Yeah, it sounds cute... But What's the price? Tell me John Brewer-- At what price?
At the price of never knowing yourself.
I thought it would be hot to fuck a conservative jock with values. But I got a cult-freak. And my libido turned off. And that was the real beginning of my rage.
My old bf, 40 and wheezing his way to VD and male-pattern baldness (I'm sorry, Babe) was single forever. Which you will read about in my last post. Even though he is a fervent individualist-- je suis ma libere-- he's extreme about it now. Because he's too late.
Tell me Brian, at what price will you never marry?
At the price of knowing only yourself.
Where's the medium? I don't have the answer.
But for John Brewer, yes you say I wished imminent death on you before in a dream, and 'tis apt: Die now. Die during beauty. Your ideals for matrimony, for happiness, OR EVEN STRICT INDIVIDUALISM will only make you fat, ugly, and limp at 40-- you won't know yourself cause you never had time to be acquainted-- and you will hurt, and pine away for the days when the thought of atheism, the thought of real romance beat in your young, muscular breast. And it will be too late.
Like a dolphin slaughter in Japan, they all died together in one big, wild group. But I'm not envious. I'm not into the collective thing.
See, here's the theme for this bit:
"Please Use Revolving Door"
Everywhere you go in Seattle you'll see it. Banks, businesses, libraries. Relationships. Wherever there's a damn revolving door you will use it. YOU MUST: Conserve yourself! Conserve traditional values! There are messages from everybody: Everybody is trying to get you to conserve something!
Shall I conserve myself? Should I-- must I-- dump and dump again to be happy? Should I keep on til I'm-uh happy?
No one lives up to the expectations of the individualistic, intellectual daters in this community-- NO ONE. That means I don't--live up to theirs-- and they don't-- live up to mine.
The story of my Seattle relationships. Plays out like a bunch of silly, dead flowers: They look fresh-- but they're DEAD.
Do not come to Seattle to get married. And if u are "hell-bent" (pardon the pun) on marriage, I suggest going to the Mars Hill church in Ballard. The new-fundamentalist hipster church will make you a fervent believer in NEVER getting married-- it will make you an individualist, a feminist, a Wiccan, even, before night's end.
A muslim. A moroccan. A teletubby. Anything, anything, but a marriageable Christian fuck.
The anti-intellectualism of this neo-church is maddening. The rhetoric is frightening. The way they bash you over the head with orders to procreate, to dress-up like they did in olden days and smile pretty and gap-toothed at a man so he can later have you barefoot an pregnant in his kitchen-- it's terrible, terrible, terrible.
And if there's one thing more frightening than going to the Mars Hill church, it's seeing the guy that you thought was cute, your date who brought you to this thing, poised like marble, like Abe Lincoln's statue, head down in prayer, in harmony with these nuts.
It's the biggest turn-off EVER.
"One person only-- ever-- and kids, kids, kids!"
Yeah, it sounds cute... But What's the price? Tell me John Brewer-- At what price?
At the price of never knowing yourself.
I thought it would be hot to fuck a conservative jock with values. But I got a cult-freak. And my libido turned off. And that was the real beginning of my rage.
My old bf, 40 and wheezing his way to VD and male-pattern baldness (I'm sorry, Babe) was single forever. Which you will read about in my last post. Even though he is a fervent individualist-- je suis ma libere-- he's extreme about it now. Because he's too late.
Tell me Brian, at what price will you never marry?
At the price of knowing only yourself.
Where's the medium? I don't have the answer.
But for John Brewer, yes you say I wished imminent death on you before in a dream, and 'tis apt: Die now. Die during beauty. Your ideals for matrimony, for happiness, OR EVEN STRICT INDIVIDUALISM will only make you fat, ugly, and limp at 40-- you won't know yourself cause you never had time to be acquainted-- and you will hurt, and pine away for the days when the thought of atheism, the thought of real romance beat in your young, muscular breast. And it will be too late.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Al-Chlamydia
If you can imagine this-- that the tantalizing memory of every thrust, every orgasm, every achingly intense moment you and your lover shared, was also being shared by a fanatical group that uses ignorance as a weapon-- you can imagine what terrorism is.
This terrorist was not recruited by Al-Quaida. This terrorist does not want you to change you religion.
It is far more twisted than that.
This mini-terrorist was actually recruited by someone my lover stuck his dick into. And this terrorist wanted him to change partners. Frequently. Which, apparently my lover did with such yes-man enthusiasm that he doesn't have a fuckin' clue about which pussy recruited his dick into Al-Chlamydia.
That's right. My Lover. Without knowing it, I joined.
I am now part of the ring that possesseth the power to destroy another generation by producing infertility in women who go untreated.
I hold the evil weaponry designed to mix tears with the fire that burns through the urinary tract like hot solder.
And I own the most sickening trait of this evil regime: The ability to infect unborn children with the disease I contracted. Children born from Al-Chlamydia infected mothers also suffer the barbarism of this little bio-terrorist, which is the number 1 cause of early infant pneumonia, not to mention conjunctivitis, and other nasty complications during pregnancy.
So, happy Valentine's Day.
I now have played my part in terrorism. And my part in educating against it.
Through ignorance, lack of information, and credulousness, I have become part of something that I never wanted to be: A harbinger and representative of all of those things. Al-Chlamydia is, thankfully, not strongest network of terrorists out there-- and there is a cure for the body. Sometimes, Al-Chlamydia even cures the brain of making the same stupid mistake twice...
But it is deadly stuff for relationships.
So check yourself. This Valentine's Day, give your lover the greatest gift you can: a clean bill of health. A worry-free orgasm. And check with your partner to make sure he/she sees eye-to-eye on this real war against terror.
Stay safe, folks. And enjoy the holiday of love.
Thatcher B.
This terrorist was not recruited by Al-Quaida. This terrorist does not want you to change you religion.
It is far more twisted than that.
This mini-terrorist was actually recruited by someone my lover stuck his dick into. And this terrorist wanted him to change partners. Frequently. Which, apparently my lover did with such yes-man enthusiasm that he doesn't have a fuckin' clue about which pussy recruited his dick into Al-Chlamydia.
That's right. My Lover. Without knowing it, I joined.
I am now part of the ring that possesseth the power to destroy another generation by producing infertility in women who go untreated.
I hold the evil weaponry designed to mix tears with the fire that burns through the urinary tract like hot solder.
And I own the most sickening trait of this evil regime: The ability to infect unborn children with the disease I contracted. Children born from Al-Chlamydia infected mothers also suffer the barbarism of this little bio-terrorist, which is the number 1 cause of early infant pneumonia, not to mention conjunctivitis, and other nasty complications during pregnancy.
So, happy Valentine's Day.
I now have played my part in terrorism. And my part in educating against it.
Through ignorance, lack of information, and credulousness, I have become part of something that I never wanted to be: A harbinger and representative of all of those things. Al-Chlamydia is, thankfully, not strongest network of terrorists out there-- and there is a cure for the body. Sometimes, Al-Chlamydia even cures the brain of making the same stupid mistake twice...
But it is deadly stuff for relationships.
So check yourself. This Valentine's Day, give your lover the greatest gift you can: a clean bill of health. A worry-free orgasm. And check with your partner to make sure he/she sees eye-to-eye on this real war against terror.
Stay safe, folks. And enjoy the holiday of love.
Thatcher B.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)