I'm going to do this dumb thing I've seen people do where you write 100 things about yourself because it looks like fun. It's the only meme I will ever participate in on here, so don't be too quick to dismiss me as one of "those" bloggers. I already have a livejournal where I feel free to be one of "those" bloggers, but for some reason, I don't feel like putting this list there, I feel like putting it here.
100 Things
1. I never update my blog or clean my house.
2. This is because I have no motivation or follow-through and
3. I am lazy.
4. Too lazy to even get up and feed the cats sometimes
5. (I have three cats, you know)
6. [Number six is all about my cats]
7. so I live in filth.
8. I don't like when people touch my head
9. Especially from behind
10. so don't do it, ok?
11. I'm afraid of mushrooms, but I'm trying to conquer that fear by eating them in small doses
12. But that kind of empowerment shit never works, so basically I hate mushrooms and also, I don't eat vegetables except onions and salad once I pick out all the gross things.
13. I used to think hating food was a character flaw, but today I decided that's retarded.
14. It's time to go to Copper Cup to get my daily beverage so I'll brb, ok?
15. I'm back.
16. I like to write things like brb in my blog and in e-mails
17. Y'know, because of the irony.
18. Sometimes when I'm all alone, I have conversations with people as if they were there. I practice future conversations, or I go over how I wish something should have gone.
19. I also pretend to tell things to people like my feelings or things from my day because this is how I work things out in my head... as if I were telling someone else.
20. Sometimes this extends to when I am walking down the street or alone in my car with the windows down at a stoplight.
21. People probably wonder who I'm talking to. But I know.
22. When I'm not talking to myself, I'm probably spacing out. Don't be offended, you're not boring, and I care what you have to say. I think I have a problem with my brain.
23. I like meat.
24. It's one of the ways to my heart
25. but
26. If you screw it up, it's a deal-breaker.
27. Pressure's on.
28. Sometimes I say things I don't really mean just to say them. If you question me, sometimes I'll back it up, and sometimes I'll say "Yeah, I don't know why I said that, I just did."
29. Sometimes I really do think I have a problem with my brain (see #22), but sometimes I think that everyone thinks that.
30. Somebody once told me that I think too much.
31. That was like 5 minutes ago, and whether he's right or not, I wanted to mention him here so he would become my third devoted reader.
32. I have two devoted readers.
33. Maybe 3 actually because someone at umich.edu hits me a lot. He/she/it links from my livejournal, but I'm not sure who it might be.
34. Is it you, valentine? Your livejournal is gone, though.
35. I'm obsessed with talking about my crappy blog and its crappy stats.
36. I appreciate the impact everyone has had in making me the person I am today, even those of you who I don't like very much
36b. (almost really)
37. Sometimes I like to go out to bars, find a guy, and tell him lots of lies about myself.
38. In Louisville, I told a guy all about the psychological hurt I was going through as a result of my career as an escort. He bought me drinks.
39. In Chicago, I told a guy all about how I practice some obscure branch of Native American shamanism. It's obscure because I made it up. I said it because his last boyfriend was a Wicca, and he was still wearing the necklace that he got from that guy. He was interested, and he kept asking questions, so it got hard. Later we had sex, and that shut him up.
40. I feel kinda bad about that one because he's actually a nice guy. I wonder if he's over his ex yet.
41. I've worn the same jeans for 7 days.
42. Do NOT judge me. I've been wearing underwear too. Clean every day.
43. Normally, I do not wear underwear.
44. So far I've been working on this stupid like for over an hour, and I'm not even halfway done
45. But I only have 30 minutes left of work
46. (I still haven't done anything in that arena)
47. So I'm gonna try and plow through the rest.
48. I enjoy the taste of blood
49. but I detest the aftertaste.
50. I am almost halfway done.
51. Hooray, I am over halfway done!
52. I've caught myself using lines from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" in conversation without even realizing it because I've seen it so many damn times.
53. Not one-liners or anything noticable... but phrases that you wouldn't think I was quoting unless you know like I do that they're not normally part of my speech patterns.
54. The TV show, not the movie.
55. I'm good at Tetris.
56. In fact I'm probably better than you at Tetris because I'm so awesome at it
57. But only the Nintendo version.
58. But not as good as one of my friends because she can get to level 29. At that point, the blocks fall so fast, you can't get them to the side and it becomes impossible to continue.
59. I wear bronzer.
60. and yes,
61. I know that makes me a total fag.
62. But I'm pale, and I need the healthy glow.
63. OH MY GOD, A BIRD JUST SMACKED INTO MY WINDOW AND SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME!
64. I'm pretty jumpy.
65. I laugh when people fall.
66. And I'm not the only one who does that
67. So don't go all "Oooh, that's so mean" because you find it funny too.
68. Yes you do.
69. This number has been ruined for me because I hate sex jokes and the 6 and 9 don't REALLY look like their having oral sex. Instead, they look like a pair of fetuses.
69. And fetuses don't do that.
70. At least none that I know.
71. Of all things on this earth, the thing that I hate the most is stink.
72. Stink ruins things more than anything. Think about it. If something stinks, it can ruin a party. If you stink, then you can ruin a party.
73. My apartment stinks.
74. I am also afraid of scary clowns (not regular clowns), scary plants (not non-scary plants) and scary spiders
75. But these things are all scary so I'm not a freak or anything.
76. SWM lqqking for same, non-smoker, u b pet friendly, able to stay in and be quiet sometimes but go out and be loud other times
77. Ok, now every 6 and 9 I see looks like a fetus, and I'm starting to feel kinda sick and womby.
78. This is not what I meant/
79. You are what you (excr)eat.
80. I just made that up and laughed at it even though it's retarded potty humor and I even had to spell excrete wrong.
81. I love to use stamp pads, paper shredders, fax machines, photocopiers, scissors, and paper cubes.
82. I'm a secretary at heart.
83. Especially scissors. I love to use the scissors.
84. I used to spend hours at my job at this cafe cutting up old magazines and making things.85. Oops, I forgot to push enter.
86. That's what's sad about the internet. There are no scissors.
87. Somebody should invent virtual scissors where you can open up a webpage and cut things out and make something out of it. That would be cool, but only if there were realistic sound effects. The sounds should be sampled from someone cutting construction paper because that's the best stuff to cut.
88. Sometimes when I'm in someone's bathroom and I don't know them and their toothpaste is sitting there, I'll take it and eat a little.
89. Aquafresh is good
90. but Crest Whitening Expression is my favorite
91. but if you use cinnamon toothpaste, that's kinda gross. I just tried it for the first time recently, and I don't like it because it's not minty and refreshing, it's cinnamony and yucky.
92. Home stretch. See, we're on another set of fetus numbers.
93. I want to set up cameras in attractive people's homes to see what kind of vile bad habits they have.
94. Is that weird?
95. I don't care if you're upset that there are not actually 100 things here because some of them are not actual things. If you don't like it, get your own blog and write your own stupid list in there and follow all the stupid rules. Let's see if YOU can be popular and get 4 hits a day like me!
96. These fetuses got in a fight because 9 was flirting with 6's sister.
97. They're sleeping that way so their butts don't touch.
98. Because that's my least favorite thing that happens when I'm sleeping with someone. I hate when the butts touch, it's so gross and weird to me, I just hate it.
99. Some people have really cold butts.
100.
Oops, I didn't finish. (See #2-3)
This is important
Two posts in one day! Couldn't you just shit?
Keeping it short, Santino Rice from Project Runway has a blog. Mostly he just posts pictures of himself because I guess he thinks we need to see more of him. Check it out.
Warning: If self-important LA people make you itch, you should probably have some cortizone on hand.
Keeping it short, Santino Rice from Project Runway has a blog. Mostly he just posts pictures of himself because I guess he thinks we need to see more of him. Check it out.
Warning: If self-important LA people make you itch, you should probably have some cortizone on hand.
Braaaains, braaai-- oh, my leg, my leg!
Yesterday I woke up with a numbness, and it wasn't the result of poor circulation to my extremities as usually befalls my lanky, awkwardly-sprawled sleeping self. It was that emotional numbness you read about in Dilbert comics and romance novels when you realize you are awakening once again into yet another rerun of that tiresome routine. The day before I had worked 9-5, spending numerous hours obsessively checking my e-mail and blog feeds for something (please, God, give me something) to serve as a temporary distraction. I don't know what I hope to find on the Internet that will breathe new life into my work day, but I am determined that it is there.
That was the day before. And it was the day I could expect to have again. And again. And again. Since I was young, I have been terrified of what was coming, and now it is here: The Daily Grind.
I like routine (enough). I like working. I like libraries. What's going wrong?
I refuse to be bored. I'm a bright, optimistic, and creative young professional. I won't become of those people. You know who I mean. The people that take the rat race at a half-assed jog, not even noticing that they're running down the same street over and over but can't identify a single restaurant, nightclub, or performance space on the entire block. The masses of glassy-eyed, jaded, rank-and-file zombies. The just-trying-to-make-a-living dead.
Do I need a more stimulating job? Because I'm working on that. I believe that one's after-work activities can provide enough challenge and stimulation that the work day boredom is excusable, but mine need some serious spicing up. BAM!
Maybe it's that my general attitude towards life has slowly shifted, and it needs some rewriting. Whatever it is, I'm going to make like a scared, trashy figure skater and beat it down to the ground.
To end with another bad pun, this is an open and shut case of the Mondays.
That was the day before. And it was the day I could expect to have again. And again. And again. Since I was young, I have been terrified of what was coming, and now it is here: The Daily Grind.
I like routine (enough). I like working. I like libraries. What's going wrong?
I refuse to be bored. I'm a bright, optimistic, and creative young professional. I won't become of those people. You know who I mean. The people that take the rat race at a half-assed jog, not even noticing that they're running down the same street over and over but can't identify a single restaurant, nightclub, or performance space on the entire block. The masses of glassy-eyed, jaded, rank-and-file zombies. The just-trying-to-make-a-living dead.
Do I need a more stimulating job? Because I'm working on that. I believe that one's after-work activities can provide enough challenge and stimulation that the work day boredom is excusable, but mine need some serious spicing up. BAM!
Maybe it's that my general attitude towards life has slowly shifted, and it needs some rewriting. Whatever it is, I'm going to make like a scared, trashy figure skater and beat it down to the ground.
To end with another bad pun, this is an open and shut case of the Mondays.
Ill wind blow away
I discovered today that my least favorite weather is wind. Ice, hail, rain, locusts, these things I can handle, but wind totally blows. (Pun intended with apologies.)
Take your umbrella out into a rainstorm and see what happens. Your head may stay dry because rain can't do shit about a flimsy layer of nylon or whatever that stuff is. Last week, I took my big honkin' golf umbrella into a minor rainfall, and the wind just ate that shit up! My umbrella, which has a bit of give for the wind in the form of a bizarre spring contraption, didn't even put it a fight! It just Marilyn Monroed right out, displaying its naughty bits to everyone driving by in their cars.
Not only was I stuck in the rain getting wet, but I was stuck in the rain getting wet and looking like an absolute tool because my industrial umbrella's spring-loaded defense mechanism made it near impossible to close again. I could hear the wind mocking. "Ha ha ha," it laughed. "I am the Power."
Imagine a hurricane without wind. It cannot be! A hurricane without rain, however? "Ha!" says the wind. "Give the rain this sabbath day!" A hurricane without rain is a massive tornado. The world still trembles. New Orleans would still squash the Munchkinlanders. The wind will get you, my pretty. Oh, yes. The wind will get your little dog, too.
Do not counter the immutable truth about the savagery of wind with sissy arguments like "Ooooh, but the breeze on a fall day is so beautiful" or "Oooooh, all my tacky lawn ornaments just love the wind." Wind socks? More like wind sucks! A fair breeze is merely the wind reminding us that while we live in peace now, it can on a whim uproot every tree, home, and mountain on earth. If the wind wanted, it could blow away the Sun. Where would you be then?
You exist on this earth because the wind desires it. The wind plays games with humanity so subtle that we still foolishly believe we are the dominant species. Nonsense! The wind eats species for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. Froot Species turn the wind's milk to blood, its favorite flavor.
Has the wind ever blown sand in your eyes? Has the wind ever made a door slam so hard you jump and cut yourself with a pencil? This is the wind playing its favorite game, Mistress of Pain. The wind plays the role of the beautiful, buxom dominatrix in her Dungeon of Windy Doom. You assume the role of the snivelling, naked slave praying for that which does not exist: the wind's mercy. The wind always wins its favorite game.
Remember the wind, my brethren! Cower in awe and terror! Pay fealty to its mighty fury! The wind is stirring.
Take your umbrella out into a rainstorm and see what happens. Your head may stay dry because rain can't do shit about a flimsy layer of nylon or whatever that stuff is. Last week, I took my big honkin' golf umbrella into a minor rainfall, and the wind just ate that shit up! My umbrella, which has a bit of give for the wind in the form of a bizarre spring contraption, didn't even put it a fight! It just Marilyn Monroed right out, displaying its naughty bits to everyone driving by in their cars.
Not only was I stuck in the rain getting wet, but I was stuck in the rain getting wet and looking like an absolute tool because my industrial umbrella's spring-loaded defense mechanism made it near impossible to close again. I could hear the wind mocking. "Ha ha ha," it laughed. "I am the Power."
Imagine a hurricane without wind. It cannot be! A hurricane without rain, however? "Ha!" says the wind. "Give the rain this sabbath day!" A hurricane without rain is a massive tornado. The world still trembles. New Orleans would still squash the Munchkinlanders. The wind will get you, my pretty. Oh, yes. The wind will get your little dog, too.
Do not counter the immutable truth about the savagery of wind with sissy arguments like "Ooooh, but the breeze on a fall day is so beautiful" or "Oooooh, all my tacky lawn ornaments just love the wind." Wind socks? More like wind sucks! A fair breeze is merely the wind reminding us that while we live in peace now, it can on a whim uproot every tree, home, and mountain on earth. If the wind wanted, it could blow away the Sun. Where would you be then?
You exist on this earth because the wind desires it. The wind plays games with humanity so subtle that we still foolishly believe we are the dominant species. Nonsense! The wind eats species for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. Froot Species turn the wind's milk to blood, its favorite flavor.
Has the wind ever blown sand in your eyes? Has the wind ever made a door slam so hard you jump and cut yourself with a pencil? This is the wind playing its favorite game, Mistress of Pain. The wind plays the role of the beautiful, buxom dominatrix in her Dungeon of Windy Doom. You assume the role of the snivelling, naked slave praying for that which does not exist: the wind's mercy. The wind always wins its favorite game.
Remember the wind, my brethren! Cower in awe and terror! Pay fealty to its mighty fury! The wind is stirring.
Braaaawk! Serious thoughts, braaaawk!
I am feeling a bit off. I have discovered a blog that belongs to an old friend of mine. We were very close during our freshman year of college, but at the beginning of our second year, there was some sort of falling out, and it all went to hell. Don't ask me to explain it because it's complicated and personal, and if I want to talk about something personal, I'll write it in my personal journal.
Anyway, towards the end of our freshman year, she became close with a guy I was seeing and later was not seeing. And then I was seeing him again, and then I was not seeing him again. And so it remains. Now they're best friends and roommates and working at the same place. It's cool.
The reason I feel off about this is because her latest blog entry mentions me (in relation to this guy). Basically, it says what I just said... that she met her best friend through me and yadda yadda. It weirded me out. I don't know why. Don't waste your time psychoanalyzing it because that's what I'm about to do even though I should just shut the hell up.
At first, I found it slightly shocking that I was even mentioned, even if just as a nameless side character in a story about someone else. (Nameless, yes. More on that soon.) I think about this girl all the time. Of all of the relationships I've had and lost, hers is among those that I feel most regretful towards. In fact, I can count on two fingers the number of people I am genuinely upset about losing like that. But I think about her in my own head, and it's private. I've never once considered that she most certainly thinks of me, too. It's silly because she's extremely intelligent and introspective. It just sort of turned me upside-down. Same goes for her best friend (the one I used to date.) When he reads her blog entry, as I imagine he will, he's going to think about me in passing as well.
What's weirdest is knowing for sure that two people who are not in my life are having thoughts of me... and that they're probably not thinking very fond things.
I realized that in this entry, I was just "that guy", significant to her, if perhaps only slightly, but to anyone who hears her story, I'm just some faceless, generic "guy" who played the role of friend, but only as a vessel to meet a better friend. I know I'm overanalyzing it. I know there was no reason to use my name, especially since it was just a passing reference. Hell, look whose name I'm not using! But it still made me think, ok?
Incidentally, I am also not linking to her blog because I'm afraid that she keeps track of links and site stats as closely as I do and that she'll find her way back here and know that I'm having these stupid feelings. I also don't want to keep knowing that she is thinking of me and remembering me in moments about which I am not proud. And I know it's stupid to assume that she follows dorky blog stats as closely as I do, but we really have a lot of bizarre things in common (something with which we were constantly amazed when we were friends), so I'm not chancing it.
This is a new emotion. I guess it's nice that I can still have them. But what it speaks to and what I'm discovering about myself is that I do not handle losing people well. With death, it's one thing. People die, and there may be regrets about things you didn't get to do or say, but there's nothing you can do to stop it. The relationship ends. But with this and with certain other people I have lost in one way or another, there are so many things I know I could have done to try and stop it from going away. Now I have no idea what these people think of me. I have no idea what it could be like now.
I have trouble letting go. I'm sometimes reminded that logic and reason can only go so far in dealing with life. I'm good at those things, and they can make me feel like I've moved on, but then seemingly insignificant things happen and give rise to the spectre of buried emotions I thought were gone. Not to sound overly Chicken Soup for the Soul (though it's probably too late), but people never really leave us. I still love everybody I've ever loved just as strongly as if they were still big players in my life. I'm not always aware of it, but when it comes out, it's unbelievably intense.
I don't think emotions have memories. I don't think I'm simply remembering how I used to love them. It is still very real. All in all, although there is a certain degree of discomfort with this particular situation, I'm extremely grateful to be feeling this way. It's comforting that I can still love people completely.
This entry took a different turn than I expected. Damn, now I'm going to have to go to bed with serious thoughts. Although, I'm actually happy about this. It's something I haven't thought about too much. Writing through it brought a lot of new feelings out, and I feel as though they are things I have spent the past couple of years repressing in one way or another. I haven't expressed it all here, but they're there.
Aaaand, I'm getting abstract in my head and can no longer put a sentence together. Time to go sit with it. Thanks for reading this far. You're obviously very bored.
Anyway, towards the end of our freshman year, she became close with a guy I was seeing and later was not seeing. And then I was seeing him again, and then I was not seeing him again. And so it remains. Now they're best friends and roommates and working at the same place. It's cool.
The reason I feel off about this is because her latest blog entry mentions me (in relation to this guy). Basically, it says what I just said... that she met her best friend through me and yadda yadda. It weirded me out. I don't know why. Don't waste your time psychoanalyzing it because that's what I'm about to do even though I should just shut the hell up.
At first, I found it slightly shocking that I was even mentioned, even if just as a nameless side character in a story about someone else. (Nameless, yes. More on that soon.) I think about this girl all the time. Of all of the relationships I've had and lost, hers is among those that I feel most regretful towards. In fact, I can count on two fingers the number of people I am genuinely upset about losing like that. But I think about her in my own head, and it's private. I've never once considered that she most certainly thinks of me, too. It's silly because she's extremely intelligent and introspective. It just sort of turned me upside-down. Same goes for her best friend (the one I used to date.) When he reads her blog entry, as I imagine he will, he's going to think about me in passing as well.
What's weirdest is knowing for sure that two people who are not in my life are having thoughts of me... and that they're probably not thinking very fond things.
I realized that in this entry, I was just "that guy", significant to her, if perhaps only slightly, but to anyone who hears her story, I'm just some faceless, generic "guy" who played the role of friend, but only as a vessel to meet a better friend. I know I'm overanalyzing it. I know there was no reason to use my name, especially since it was just a passing reference. Hell, look whose name I'm not using! But it still made me think, ok?
Incidentally, I am also not linking to her blog because I'm afraid that she keeps track of links and site stats as closely as I do and that she'll find her way back here and know that I'm having these stupid feelings. I also don't want to keep knowing that she is thinking of me and remembering me in moments about which I am not proud. And I know it's stupid to assume that she follows dorky blog stats as closely as I do, but we really have a lot of bizarre things in common (something with which we were constantly amazed when we were friends), so I'm not chancing it.
This is a new emotion. I guess it's nice that I can still have them. But what it speaks to and what I'm discovering about myself is that I do not handle losing people well. With death, it's one thing. People die, and there may be regrets about things you didn't get to do or say, but there's nothing you can do to stop it. The relationship ends. But with this and with certain other people I have lost in one way or another, there are so many things I know I could have done to try and stop it from going away. Now I have no idea what these people think of me. I have no idea what it could be like now.
I have trouble letting go. I'm sometimes reminded that logic and reason can only go so far in dealing with life. I'm good at those things, and they can make me feel like I've moved on, but then seemingly insignificant things happen and give rise to the spectre of buried emotions I thought were gone. Not to sound overly Chicken Soup for the Soul (though it's probably too late), but people never really leave us. I still love everybody I've ever loved just as strongly as if they were still big players in my life. I'm not always aware of it, but when it comes out, it's unbelievably intense.
I don't think emotions have memories. I don't think I'm simply remembering how I used to love them. It is still very real. All in all, although there is a certain degree of discomfort with this particular situation, I'm extremely grateful to be feeling this way. It's comforting that I can still love people completely.
This entry took a different turn than I expected. Damn, now I'm going to have to go to bed with serious thoughts. Although, I'm actually happy about this. It's something I haven't thought about too much. Writing through it brought a lot of new feelings out, and I feel as though they are things I have spent the past couple of years repressing in one way or another. I haven't expressed it all here, but they're there.
Aaaand, I'm getting abstract in my head and can no longer put a sentence together. Time to go sit with it. Thanks for reading this far. You're obviously very bored.
This is about Naked Lunch; don't read it
I had this really great idea for something to write about, and I thought of all these really funny things to say, but you're just going to have to make it up yourself because I forgot what it was about.
I know what I can talk about. I can talk about this book I've been reading for weeks now. It's less than 200 pages long, and the reason it's taking me forever to finish is because I hate it and it's impossible to read because it doesn't mean anything. There are words, and then there are sentences and paragraphs and entire scenes (many of which have to do with disgusting, deranged sex), and I can make sense of those things, but when you look at the book as a unit, it's this complete mindfuck, but not in the interesting way, in the why won't this crap just end way.
Unfortunately, I get the feeling that other people will like this sort of shit. The book is Naked Lunch. (That link goes to the Amazon.com page, but don't read their reviews, read mine. They are crap reviews. My review is best.)
I read the back of the book and found out that it's about drug addiction. And I could tell the first paragraph was about that, so I guess whoever wrote the back of the book read the first paragraph. I'm not sure where it takes place or who the narrator is or what is real and what he makes up. There are some names that keep coming back, but half the time you don't know who's doing or saying what so nobody gets developed right. I think the themes are addiction and being a psycho. One section had one scene after another of yucky gay sex. At some point, someone thought it was a good idea to catch on fire... but I think he came alive again and turned into his sexual partner who he had just killed. I was reading that part at a Starbucks in the West Village, and I was distracted by an attractive barrista, so I'm not really sure I followed that part as well as I could.
I'm a pretty good reader (because, duh, librarian!) but this book is obviously too hard for me. A lot of people on Amazon.com hate it too, but unfortunately, as previously discussed, those are crap reviews, so you should only take mine seriously. I hate this book, but I'm determined to finish it for some reason. I'm kind of hoping it will come together at some point, but I kind of hope it doesn't because I like to hate things.
This is kind of a crap review too, but I don't care. My mind is going really fast. I wrote a long e-mail to a friend, and then I wrote him another really long rambly one about my night last night, and I'm trying to resist writing another because I realized I left some details out. Anyway, the point is, typing really fast feels good right now even though what I'm writing is bad and pointless and makes me sound like a 16-year-old, which I'm not, I'm 23. So you probably don't believe me when I say I know what a good book should be like, but I do, and Naked Lunch is not it.
I know what I can talk about. I can talk about this book I've been reading for weeks now. It's less than 200 pages long, and the reason it's taking me forever to finish is because I hate it and it's impossible to read because it doesn't mean anything. There are words, and then there are sentences and paragraphs and entire scenes (many of which have to do with disgusting, deranged sex), and I can make sense of those things, but when you look at the book as a unit, it's this complete mindfuck, but not in the interesting way, in the why won't this crap just end way.
Unfortunately, I get the feeling that other people will like this sort of shit. The book is Naked Lunch. (That link goes to the Amazon.com page, but don't read their reviews, read mine. They are crap reviews. My review is best.)
I read the back of the book and found out that it's about drug addiction. And I could tell the first paragraph was about that, so I guess whoever wrote the back of the book read the first paragraph. I'm not sure where it takes place or who the narrator is or what is real and what he makes up. There are some names that keep coming back, but half the time you don't know who's doing or saying what so nobody gets developed right. I think the themes are addiction and being a psycho. One section had one scene after another of yucky gay sex. At some point, someone thought it was a good idea to catch on fire... but I think he came alive again and turned into his sexual partner who he had just killed. I was reading that part at a Starbucks in the West Village, and I was distracted by an attractive barrista, so I'm not really sure I followed that part as well as I could.
I'm a pretty good reader (because, duh, librarian!) but this book is obviously too hard for me. A lot of people on Amazon.com hate it too, but unfortunately, as previously discussed, those are crap reviews, so you should only take mine seriously. I hate this book, but I'm determined to finish it for some reason. I'm kind of hoping it will come together at some point, but I kind of hope it doesn't because I like to hate things.
This is kind of a crap review too, but I don't care. My mind is going really fast. I wrote a long e-mail to a friend, and then I wrote him another really long rambly one about my night last night, and I'm trying to resist writing another because I realized I left some details out. Anyway, the point is, typing really fast feels good right now even though what I'm writing is bad and pointless and makes me sound like a 16-year-old, which I'm not, I'm 23. So you probably don't believe me when I say I know what a good book should be like, but I do, and Naked Lunch is not it.
Pigeon-holed, ass-holed
You may have already noticed, but in case you have trouble figuring these things out, I'm a loser. Specifically, I'm a loser who wants attention for doing nothing. I don't update my blog in days because "I don't have the time to think of anything to say", which translates from my top secret coded language to "I was playing the Sims 2 and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer all weekend." In fact I was doing both at the same time. I have seen Buffy so many times that I can recite the lines along with the characters while simultaneously trapping middle-class suburban families in doorless, windowless rooms and lighting them on fire with a pork chop left on the stove too long. Astonishing, I know.
In between episodes, arson, and romantic turmoil in my all-gay cyber-neighborhood, however, I always found the time to check my Site Meter ratings. That's where the attention for nothing part comes in. I just want you assholes to read me even if I don't update. Read the archives. Already read it? Read it again. Try memorizing an entry or setting it to music. Leave a comment, maybe. I may not have anything to say, and I may suck at saying it, but you'd better show up every day with a #2 pencil ready to absorb the knowledge.
I only get about 2 or 3 hits a day that aren't me compulsively reading my own entries again and again, festering away in my on self-importance. I swear that when I die, I'm going to be leaving a comment to myself on my own blog while admiring to a mirror what I like about my face. And I'll probably be masturbating too. I really am my own best friend.
The point of this that I am still failing to reach is that most of the people who visit my blog come from predictable, boring places. What I rather enjoy, though, are some of the weird searches people use before accidentally coming across me. So far, it's only served to let me know that I have to find some new themes. Most people find me searching for gay porn because of that entry from the other day where I said the words "Bel Ami" and "Falcon" a lot. They must be so disappointed. Hey, I know! Let's piss off a few more:
cock twink slut big daddy having lots of gross sex with other men because his wife is inattentive and shopping for shoes on his dollar so he lashes out and fucks some poor insatiable teenage gay asshole. Oh, and cum bitch wet raunchy minge on my face leaving behind a mildly unpleasant smell and a nasty aftertaste that even brushing can't eliminate.
That's how cheap porn sites troll for hits, right? C'mon, pervs! Read my blog! (I use the term "perv" without judgment.)
My other two favorites:
Some guy found me through a Google Canada search for protruding tailbone, of which I was on the second page. Apparently this is an issue more common than I thought. At least one other person has it... unless the kid I was talking about in the Google-found entry is the same kid who did the search, in which case, I'm sorry I talked about you in my blog. Next time, try not to be such an objectionable asshat.
Lastly, and most commonly, people find me in searches for "rectal hygiene." I've gotten like 4 this week, which is a lot considering my blog is tiny and new, and nobody finds me through anything else I haven't talked about. It's not just from anywhere, though. Only people from Canada and the UK seem to care about this pressing issue. Americans seem too interested in gay porn (though I daresay, if they perhaps spent more time on their rectal hygiene, porn would not be such a necessity.)
Sex and ass. That's apparently all I talk about. At least, it's what I talk about that people want to hear about. Ass and sex, the new focus of this blog. At least the two go together... like chocolate and cream. Oh God, I just went to a bad visual place. Get away from me.
In between episodes, arson, and romantic turmoil in my all-gay cyber-neighborhood, however, I always found the time to check my Site Meter ratings. That's where the attention for nothing part comes in. I just want you assholes to read me even if I don't update. Read the archives. Already read it? Read it again. Try memorizing an entry or setting it to music. Leave a comment, maybe. I may not have anything to say, and I may suck at saying it, but you'd better show up every day with a #2 pencil ready to absorb the knowledge.
I only get about 2 or 3 hits a day that aren't me compulsively reading my own entries again and again, festering away in my on self-importance. I swear that when I die, I'm going to be leaving a comment to myself on my own blog while admiring to a mirror what I like about my face. And I'll probably be masturbating too. I really am my own best friend.
The point of this that I am still failing to reach is that most of the people who visit my blog come from predictable, boring places. What I rather enjoy, though, are some of the weird searches people use before accidentally coming across me. So far, it's only served to let me know that I have to find some new themes. Most people find me searching for gay porn because of that entry from the other day where I said the words "Bel Ami" and "Falcon" a lot. They must be so disappointed. Hey, I know! Let's piss off a few more:
cock twink slut big daddy having lots of gross sex with other men because his wife is inattentive and shopping for shoes on his dollar so he lashes out and fucks some poor insatiable teenage gay asshole. Oh, and cum bitch wet raunchy minge on my face leaving behind a mildly unpleasant smell and a nasty aftertaste that even brushing can't eliminate.
That's how cheap porn sites troll for hits, right? C'mon, pervs! Read my blog! (I use the term "perv" without judgment.)
My other two favorites:
Some guy found me through a Google Canada search for protruding tailbone, of which I was on the second page. Apparently this is an issue more common than I thought. At least one other person has it... unless the kid I was talking about in the Google-found entry is the same kid who did the search, in which case, I'm sorry I talked about you in my blog. Next time, try not to be such an objectionable asshat.
Lastly, and most commonly, people find me in searches for "rectal hygiene." I've gotten like 4 this week, which is a lot considering my blog is tiny and new, and nobody finds me through anything else I haven't talked about. It's not just from anywhere, though. Only people from Canada and the UK seem to care about this pressing issue. Americans seem too interested in gay porn (though I daresay, if they perhaps spent more time on their rectal hygiene, porn would not be such a necessity.)
Sex and ass. That's apparently all I talk about. At least, it's what I talk about that people want to hear about. Ass and sex, the new focus of this blog. At least the two go together... like chocolate and cream. Oh God, I just went to a bad visual place. Get away from me.
Hostel: Read about it from someone else
I saw Hostel last night. It was entertaining... which doesn't stop it from being pretty bad. But I enjoyed it once I pretended Quentin Tarantino's name wasn't on it and started seeing it as cheap, gross violence. It had a good overall theme, which would have been fun to have seen turned into a movie that would do it justice. Oh, and there were lots of boobs if you're into that sort of thing.
So, it was diverting once you got through the tedious and long exposition of the -- and I laughingly use the phrase -- plot. Worth my $8, I guess. But I'm not here to write a review of the movie. And the reason I am not going to write a review is because someone else has written one better than I possibly could. He says just about everything I want to say, but he's hilarious and a better writer. Don't read it if you don't want to know the plot of the whole movie because he basically lays it all out. Though I read the review before seeing it, and I didn't lose much.
Actually, his entire blog is pretty awesome. You should check it out.
So, it was diverting once you got through the tedious and long exposition of the -- and I laughingly use the phrase -- plot. Worth my $8, I guess. But I'm not here to write a review of the movie. And the reason I am not going to write a review is because someone else has written one better than I possibly could. He says just about everything I want to say, but he's hilarious and a better writer. Don't read it if you don't want to know the plot of the whole movie because he basically lays it all out. Though I read the review before seeing it, and I didn't lose much.
Actually, his entire blog is pretty awesome. You should check it out.
I am the best. You are the rest
I was blog bitten! If you're following that link after today, you can find me under January 13, 2006. From what I can tell, they read blogs and share quotes they like! And they like me! They like me like Sally Field!
They quoted something dumb, but I don't care because if you're quoting my blog, there's a 95% chance it's going to be dumb. I feel famous and popular. It's interesting.
Now I'm afraid I'm going to be writing with Blog Bites in mind, spewing off lame attempts at amusing one-liners hoping to get quoted again. Hey, Blog Bites! Look how funny I am!
They quoted something dumb, but I don't care because if you're quoting my blog, there's a 95% chance it's going to be dumb. I feel famous and popular. It's interesting.
Now I'm afraid I'm going to be writing with Blog Bites in mind, spewing off lame attempts at amusing one-liners hoping to get quoted again. Hey, Blog Bites! Look how funny I am!
The Squid and the Whale
Here's the deal. I really wanted to like The Squid and the Whale. I adore Laura Linney and Anna Paquin. Writer and director Noah Baumbach co-wrote The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou with Wes Anderson. The subject matter seemed good, the characters unique. I was excited.
Woe the disappointment.
The film is a "semi-autobiographical" account of the divorce of Bernard (Jeff Daniels) and Joan (Laura Linney), two writers and scholars. Joan's career is on the rise, while the arrogant and childish Bernard's career seems to be dimming. The divorce places a strain on the couple's two sons, Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) and Frank (Owen Kline). Taking sides in the matter, Walt (about 16 years old) chooses his father, emulating Bernard's arrogant, anti-philistine attitude and blaming his mother for the entire ordeal, which lands him in trouble when he realizes he is just as emotionally stunted as his father and he has thrown away a promising romantic relationship because of it. Frank (maybe around 11) clings to his mother, rejecting his father's attitude through open defiance. Though vulnerable and emotional around his family, Frank lashes out through alcohol consumption and sexual deviance.
This is a stunning premise. Unfortunately, after establishing the latent hostility present in the marriage before the separation (using, I might add, some clever devices and brilliant performances by Linney and especially Daniels), the film quickly degenerates into what seems like a forum for Baumbach to work out the issues he has regarding his own parents' divorce. Becoming oppressively autobiographical, it ends up watching more like an angsty teenager's diary: lack of subtlety, poor narrative development, and one-dimensional characters who are not the slightest bit likable (excepting Joan, the mother, whose character was so poorly developed that understanding her is like psychoanalyzing a Dick and Jane book.)
The movie smacks of Wes Anderson's influence, especially in the intellectual, dysfunctional family and the characters of the tennis instructor Ivan (a bland William Baldwin) and Bernard himself, his clueless pomposity tasting vaguely like Bill Murray's Steve Zissou. This type of comparison would have been pleasurable had Baumbach created a movie on par with Anderson. But he didn't.
It's not that this movie was bad. It was just disappointing. Baumbach was onto something great, and it would have been had he not been so stuck in his own experience. As it stands, The Squid and the Whale feels like a Lifetime Original Movie with the eccentric replacing the melodramatic. It would have made a pretty good short story or memoir. Instead, it made yet another movie that everyone but me seemed to like.
Woe the disappointment.
The film is a "semi-autobiographical" account of the divorce of Bernard (Jeff Daniels) and Joan (Laura Linney), two writers and scholars. Joan's career is on the rise, while the arrogant and childish Bernard's career seems to be dimming. The divorce places a strain on the couple's two sons, Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) and Frank (Owen Kline). Taking sides in the matter, Walt (about 16 years old) chooses his father, emulating Bernard's arrogant, anti-philistine attitude and blaming his mother for the entire ordeal, which lands him in trouble when he realizes he is just as emotionally stunted as his father and he has thrown away a promising romantic relationship because of it. Frank (maybe around 11) clings to his mother, rejecting his father's attitude through open defiance. Though vulnerable and emotional around his family, Frank lashes out through alcohol consumption and sexual deviance.
This is a stunning premise. Unfortunately, after establishing the latent hostility present in the marriage before the separation (using, I might add, some clever devices and brilliant performances by Linney and especially Daniels), the film quickly degenerates into what seems like a forum for Baumbach to work out the issues he has regarding his own parents' divorce. Becoming oppressively autobiographical, it ends up watching more like an angsty teenager's diary: lack of subtlety, poor narrative development, and one-dimensional characters who are not the slightest bit likable (excepting Joan, the mother, whose character was so poorly developed that understanding her is like psychoanalyzing a Dick and Jane book.)
The movie smacks of Wes Anderson's influence, especially in the intellectual, dysfunctional family and the characters of the tennis instructor Ivan (a bland William Baldwin) and Bernard himself, his clueless pomposity tasting vaguely like Bill Murray's Steve Zissou. This type of comparison would have been pleasurable had Baumbach created a movie on par with Anderson. But he didn't.
It's not that this movie was bad. It was just disappointing. Baumbach was onto something great, and it would have been had he not been so stuck in his own experience. As it stands, The Squid and the Whale feels like a Lifetime Original Movie with the eccentric replacing the melodramatic. It would have made a pretty good short story or memoir. Instead, it made yet another movie that everyone but me seemed to like.
Porno? Por not!
I went to New York, and now I'm back. During my blogging hiatus, I'm afraid I lost my devoted readership of 1. Woe and betide. Let's move on.
I would like to take this opportunity to comment on an issue of mine that I have as yet not disclosed to many people. It's not embarassing at all, and the reason I'm bring it up now is because I realized that many people probably share the same issue. To put it simply, a lot of the time porn makes me feel bad about myself.
I am, of course, taking about gay porn because 1) I'm gay so that's what I see and 2) the men in straight porn generally do not make me feel bad about anything. Look at these guys. Homosexual men and women have to deal with a unique set of conflicting emotions when looking at attractive people. Gay men have the potential to think "Wow, his abs are hot. I am turned on, and also, I wish I could have abs like that." Every feature on a beautiful man is the cause of both arousal and self-deprecation. You'll be hard pressed to find a straight man looking green-eyed at a woman thinking "I wonder how she gets such toned thighs... and man, I wish my waist were that tight." If you do find him, this is perhaps a man who needs to give some serious thought to his situation.
I will never look like a porn star. I may be tall and have a pretty face, but I can benchpress til Judgement Day, and I'll never even have the body of even those skinny, twinky Bel Ami guys. I'm not built for it. I'm extremely slight. I've gained 15 pounds this year, and I still fit into my extra small Gap t-shirt, though I look considerably less cute in it than I did in the days of yore. (I must say, however, that I'm one of those blessed out-of-shape people who have what is known as "muscle-shaped flab." If I carry myself right and wear the right clothes, I can pass for toned... until I sit down, bend over, jump, move, or forget to suck in for a second.) The point is, I'll never have a "man's" body. I have the most narrow shoulders of anyone I've ever met over 5'8" and a long, oval face. Often mistaken for a woman, I look stupid with muscle since I don't have the jawline, cheekbones, or bone-structure to back it up.
The Bel Ami boys have the most boring sex ever, so it's gotta be their looks that sell. The Falcon men do the same damn thing in every video and generally shoot so little they might as well be impotent, but that's one of the biggest porn studios in the world because their men fit this ideal (and have really great skin).
The worst of it is that I have a great self-image. I look in the mirror every day and think "Yup... I'm still cute!" It's not until I'm making time mid morning that I start to question whether I'm deluding myself.
And I know, I know. I should learn to ignore the pressure to have the perfect Hollywood/Porn body because society and The Man and Mary Kate Olsen and blah blah biddy blah... well that's not the way it works sometimes. Image concerns are real, and they're universal. A thousand people have written about them because a billion people have felt them. The only thing I'm trying to point out here is that battle my mind goes through every time I need a little self-lovin'. "He's hot because he's got everything that I'm not." My body flushes pink as I reach orgasm, but it also turns the proverbial green with envy, and those colors mixed don't make a pretty picture. Just ask the 70's.
And don't suggest that I watch amateur porn because the guys in it are more realistic. Call me weird, but hotter men turn me on more. (That is... unless the sex is good in your suggested amateur porn. People who look like they're really enjoying themselves are the biggest turn-on for me, no matter what they look like. Unfortunately, that rarely happens in porn, so for that, I depend on real life.)
Sorry this isn't the most entertaining, funny, or even well-written blog entry ever. I'll do better tomorrow. This is just something I wanted to talk about.
n.b. The men showcased in the links above are four of my favorite stars. They're pretty mainstream; I don't have very interesting taste. They are, respectively, Mark Dalton (egocentric and hot for it), Matthew Rush (whoa baby, I love his lips), Ken Ryker (a big name in the field), and Lukas Ridgeston (he's, like, totally old and still looks the same). And in case you couldn't tell, yes, I like armpit shots.
I would like to take this opportunity to comment on an issue of mine that I have as yet not disclosed to many people. It's not embarassing at all, and the reason I'm bring it up now is because I realized that many people probably share the same issue. To put it simply, a lot of the time porn makes me feel bad about myself.
I am, of course, taking about gay porn because 1) I'm gay so that's what I see and 2) the men in straight porn generally do not make me feel bad about anything. Look at these guys. Homosexual men and women have to deal with a unique set of conflicting emotions when looking at attractive people. Gay men have the potential to think "Wow, his abs are hot. I am turned on, and also, I wish I could have abs like that." Every feature on a beautiful man is the cause of both arousal and self-deprecation. You'll be hard pressed to find a straight man looking green-eyed at a woman thinking "I wonder how she gets such toned thighs... and man, I wish my waist were that tight." If you do find him, this is perhaps a man who needs to give some serious thought to his situation.
I will never look like a porn star. I may be tall and have a pretty face, but I can benchpress til Judgement Day, and I'll never even have the body of even those skinny, twinky Bel Ami guys. I'm not built for it. I'm extremely slight. I've gained 15 pounds this year, and I still fit into my extra small Gap t-shirt, though I look considerably less cute in it than I did in the days of yore. (I must say, however, that I'm one of those blessed out-of-shape people who have what is known as "muscle-shaped flab." If I carry myself right and wear the right clothes, I can pass for toned... until I sit down, bend over, jump, move, or forget to suck in for a second.) The point is, I'll never have a "man's" body. I have the most narrow shoulders of anyone I've ever met over 5'8" and a long, oval face. Often mistaken for a woman, I look stupid with muscle since I don't have the jawline, cheekbones, or bone-structure to back it up.
The Bel Ami boys have the most boring sex ever, so it's gotta be their looks that sell. The Falcon men do the same damn thing in every video and generally shoot so little they might as well be impotent, but that's one of the biggest porn studios in the world because their men fit this ideal (and have really great skin).
The worst of it is that I have a great self-image. I look in the mirror every day and think "Yup... I'm still cute!" It's not until I'm making time mid morning that I start to question whether I'm deluding myself.
And I know, I know. I should learn to ignore the pressure to have the perfect Hollywood/Porn body because society and The Man and Mary Kate Olsen and blah blah biddy blah... well that's not the way it works sometimes. Image concerns are real, and they're universal. A thousand people have written about them because a billion people have felt them. The only thing I'm trying to point out here is that battle my mind goes through every time I need a little self-lovin'. "He's hot because he's got everything that I'm not." My body flushes pink as I reach orgasm, but it also turns the proverbial green with envy, and those colors mixed don't make a pretty picture. Just ask the 70's.
And don't suggest that I watch amateur porn because the guys in it are more realistic. Call me weird, but hotter men turn me on more. (That is... unless the sex is good in your suggested amateur porn. People who look like they're really enjoying themselves are the biggest turn-on for me, no matter what they look like. Unfortunately, that rarely happens in porn, so for that, I depend on real life.)
Sorry this isn't the most entertaining, funny, or even well-written blog entry ever. I'll do better tomorrow. This is just something I wanted to talk about.
n.b. The men showcased in the links above are four of my favorite stars. They're pretty mainstream; I don't have very interesting taste. They are, respectively, Mark Dalton (egocentric and hot for it), Matthew Rush (whoa baby, I love his lips), Ken Ryker (a big name in the field), and Lukas Ridgeston (he's, like, totally old and still looks the same). And in case you couldn't tell, yes, I like armpit shots.
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