This guy called me last week while I was in the waiting room of my doctor's office. I texted him back saying I couldn't talk because I was at the doctor.
Guy: "Ew. The vag doctor?"
Me: "You're mature."
Guy: "Ask him if he has any information on labia reconstructive surgery. Then say, 'but it's not for me. it's for a friend.'"
Conversations like this make me wonder why I'm not a lesbian...
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
If
If I were a color, I’d be somewhere between deep purple and magenta red, puffs of anger enhancing my darkness.
If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.
If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.
If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.
If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.
If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.
If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.
If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.
If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.
If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.
If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.
If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.
If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.
If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.
If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.
If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.
If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I need a break.
I have a tendency quit books right before the end. Not quitting for good. I see it more as a break. Like I reached a good stopping point with less than a chapter to go. I had ten pages left in Helter Skelter for a year and a half. And those are a pretty significant ten pages. But I'm like, "damn, I've had enough reading for now" even though a reasonable part of me is like,"seriously? you've got ten pages to go?!" And often times I'll find a new book because, hey, I'm almost done. All the while, I'll have every intention of finishing the old one soon. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not.
In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.
I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).
Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.
I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.
In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.
I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).
Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.
I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The Tide is High
I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I need to be reminded of it every day?
This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.
Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?
This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.
Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?
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