Yeah, Great Blog…

I’m a pretty awful person when it comes to most things. I’m cynical, I have a very raw sense of humor, and I hate political correctness. But every once in a while something comes along that blackens my heart a little more, though on a much different level. This is one of those things.

15-year-old Lawrence King was murdered at school on February 12, 2008. Friends say the reason was his sexual orientation and gender expression. Make sure Lawrence is not forgotten.
~Remembering Lawrence King

It’s hard to hear about things like this. You hope–you pray–that the world is changing. There are even things that tell you a new direction has been taken, that things will get better, but then something like this happens.

Lawrence King was shot in the head for asking another male classmate to be his Valentine. Listen to what Ellen has to say above, because she says it all. The fact that we live in a world where the fear of being gay or being associated with people who are gay is WRONG. It is truly saddening, and one more life has been wiped from this earth. Who knows what Lawrence would have become later in life? Now, we’ll never know.

Hopefully we will see a time when these kinds of stories don’t pepper the headlines.

RIP Lawrence. The above header image is in memory of you. It’s not much, but I think you would have appreciated it.

Hello guys!

For my first post here we are going to talk about something very near and dear to my heart. That something is lube. Now, I don’t know much about straight sex, but I do know a lot about lesbian sex and anal sex, so I know lube. Aren’t you happy to be reading this?

First of all, let me just talk about sex positive sex toy stores. If you don’t purchase your goods from a reputable, thoughtful caring sex toy store you are doing no one a favor. So if you’re going to spend the money you might as well spend it somewhere nice. (I recommend Babeland for info, photos and web design, but purchasing at Blowfish for prices. That is just me.)

Back to lube. In my opinion the MOST important aspect of sex is proper lubrication and sometimes that just doesn’t come naturally.  For those times you will need to keep a good lube around. There are several different kinds of lubrication: water-based, flavored (which I don’t quite understand), silicone, and oil-based. They all have their different advantages and disadvantages.

1. Water-based - My personal favorite.  I will detail a little more in this, but I like water-based as long as you get a good one.

2. Flavored - One of the more unnecessary products out there. The only use I can think it would have is if you are trying to mask the taste of something… but if you don’t like the taste of vagina or penises, maybe you’re in the wrong business, you know? I guess you could use it for rimming, but really a clean ass, unlike a vagina, tastes like nothing. Perhaps that is more for another day.

3. Silicone is particularly problematic because if you are using it with silicone toys (the safest material for toys) it can cause damage to your toys. Otherwise it is a superior lubricant. More expensive though.

4. Oil-based - They pretty much suck. They aren’t really made for sexual activity and they can destroy latex. Leaving you wide open for an STD. Good for male solo masturbation only.  They could be used for anal sex, but that would be an unwise choice. Plus water-based lube Maximus does a much better job.

I have tried probably about 30 different lubes since I became sexually active and only one has proven itself to be consistently up to the task. That lube is Liquid Silk. It’s awesome! It feels like the real thing! It rocks! Plus at $13.95 for 250 ml it’s really not that expensive. If fisting and anal is more your thing you are better off getting Maximus. It’s the same lube just stronger.

Hooray for lubricant!

This headline jumped out at me when I went to check my email today…

Kindergartner Suspended for Mohawk Haircut

You know what… I went to a public school, and I saw a LOT more distracting things than a little mohawk.  If you look at the picture in the link, the kid wasn’t even wearing it spiked.  It’s just lying flat.  Is his hair green or blue or pink?  No.  Is it set in foot high spikes?  No.  Any glitter?  I don’t think so.

What the fuck is wrong with people?  The kid is six years old, and it makes him happy.  Who cares?  I think this is more a matter of the principal showing the parents who’s boss.  What, they didn’t listen to her first two warnings about how they can cut their own son’s hair?  How DARE they!  She’ll show them and suspend the SIX YEAR OLD FROM KINDERGARTEN.  Smart.

Modern day propoganda by communist China.  Apparently, the antelope DON’T roam…

http://online.wsj.com/public/resources/documents/info-antelope0802.html

China built a 1,200 mile long railroad that connects the rest of China to Tibet.  Some people said that the train would disturb the mating grounds of an endangered species of antelope, but the above image (link) miraculously surfaced shortly after the train made its maiden voyage in 2006, showing the antelope and the train in peaceful harmony.

It’s a fake.  Figures.  Sounds like something Bush would do.

I just sent out invitations to my sister-in-law’s baby shower. Every fricken blasted polka-dotted envelope is now in the mailbox, being carted along to its assigned recipient. Now, if you know me even a little bit, you know that this quite an ironic situation, because I don’t like babies. They scare me.

And let me tell you why.

Let’s overlook the fact that they poop on themselves and puke on anything colorful. I’m pretty sure that babies, for all their height deficiencies, are secretly geniuses.

Think about it: all they have to do is scream, and they get every single capable adult in earshot doting on them. They don’t even have to walk or feed themselves! Worry about what to wear the next morning! And when a baby wakes up in the middle of the night because they have to go to the bathroom, they don’t have to lie there debating whether to get out of bed like we do. All they have to do is pee on themselves and then someone is there immediately to clean them up! Life doesn’t really get much better than that.

Another reason that babies are actually smarter than adults: they have us convinced that being fat is good. In fact, the chubbier the baby, the cuter it is! No one likes a skinny baby! Full grown women, for all their education and worldly wisdom, have never been that clever. If women were smarter than babies, then we’d be saying, “Oh my god, I look so emaciated today. I have to start eating more pasta and ice cream.” But alas, the babies have beat us at this one too.

So, women of the world, let’s learn a lesson from these teeny weeny geniuses. I know you can’t remember the last time you pooped your diaper, but try to go back and get into the mindset of when you were a baby, because this was the era of your life that you were smartest and most perceptive. Together, we can resolve to change the way our bodies are perceived. NO we will not go to the gym! Just PASS ME THE TWINKIES.

It occurred to me last night that there’s no reason why I should be fat. When you think about it, there are about 6 billion people on the planet. Now, you could take all of my excess body weight and disburse it equally amongst every person across the globe, and there wouldn’t even be a calculable difference in their weight, but I’d be able to be skinny. Or, how about this: why can’t I donate my fat to children in Africa? I mean, they’re needy, right? Can’t they use some extra weight? We’ve all seen the pictures of them with their ribs sticking out, stomachs sunk in, and absolutely no meat between their skin and bones. Wouldn’t they benefit a lot from something I could do without?

What would I do with my newfound bod? First, I’d buy an entire wardrobe of Armani. Second, I’d have sex. Lots and lots of sex. Like, slut sex… you know? Just 24/7, revolving door, fuck ‘em and leave ‘em kind of sex. And I’d enjoy every minute of it. Third, expand my wardrobe to include Prada… and maybe Gucci. Maybe. Fourth, I’d probably flaunt it, everywhere. I’d flirt with everybody. Oh, and just for a change of pace, I’d have a little a lot more sex.

How can we go about setting this charity up? I think we could, you know, help a lot of needy people with this.

Yesterday I brought in a poem of mine called “Almost Special” to the Boston Poetry Meetup to be workshopped.  The far superior poets ripped it apart, as was expected, but I was absolutely dumbstruck by a comment that kept being echoed by each group member, “This is too familiar and easy to dismiss.”

My poem is told from the first person perspective of a woman who is being attacked by her ex-boyfriend, when her cell phone’s ring tone startles him, giving her a chance to escape.  In the end, she is left questioning her feelings and choice not to seek help. 

I was astounded at how all of the men in the group were adamant that this was a story they had heard a million times before and as such could not be affected by.  Is this really true?  Are we so desensitized to violence that we fail to feel when human suffering is portrayed?  I just cannot accept that speaking out about victimization isn’t still a taboo.  There are definitely people in this world who do not believe that such issues should be discussed.  Just because we have Public Service Announcements and special guests on Oprah doesn’t mean that people aren’t suffering in silence in part due to a society that still refuses to accept how often these crimes are committed.  We do not live in a perfect world where abuse survivors can heal peacefully. 

I think that people might think they know the story of the typical person affected by violence, but in reality it is impossible to truly understand how someone else has experienced an event.  Each person’s feelings and reactions are unique.  There are trends of course, but these only offer a pin hole sized view into a life tainted with violence.  My poem was intended to give a slightly broader view into this one character’s experience.  I cannot accept that I should rely on language trickery to keep the reader interested.  I must work harder on accessing the reader’s compassion and horror, that much I can accept, but to admit that my subject is not engaging is something I cannot do. 

Perhaps my opinion is irrevocably tainted by the experiences I have had.  It is difficult for me to imagine a life not skewed by trauma, I suppose this is my burden to overcome when crafting my stories and poems.  How can I penetrate this blanket of apathy that I have never had the luxury to be wrapped in?

Part of me wants to respond with another poem so graphic and disturbing that it could not be ignored, but only wearily dismissed with a “that’s just gratuitious violence” whisper.  However, that would be too predictable and not playing fair exactly.  I need to learn how to elicit a desired reaction with craft, not shock value.   

So, I took the same quiz that Liz did below (”How Girly Are You?”), just for shits and giggles.  (Mostly for the giggles.)

You know what?  It insulted me, too!  I couldn’t believe it…!  I mean, I laughed at poor Liz’s results, because, you know, it was pretty damn funny.  But I didn’t expect THIS.

Here are my results:

You Are 48% Girly

You’re a little girly, a little boyish, and probably a whole lot indie.You have your own unique style, and it pretty much defies gender lines.

My style defies gender lines?  What the fuck does that mean?  Apparently, I’m Pat.

On a slightly more hilarious note, I have the SafeSearch feature on Google turned off.  I couldn’t remember the name of the movie with Pat in it… so, in my infinite wisdom, I just did a general search for “Pat”.  This is the very first image result (definitely not work safe, and you probably shouldn’t look at it if you’re, you know, easily offended… and, if that’s the case, you probably shouldn’t be reading this blog, anyway):

Show Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow ▼

Oh, and I took Liz’s own Ultimate Girly Quiz, and scored 239487129185.  I said “yes” to six of the twelve questions… besides the obvious one, I’ll let you decide for yourself which other five I chose…!  And, no, I won’t be killing myself anyime soon.  Sorry, Liz.

A website insulted me yesterday. And I’m not talking about reading something someone wrote and being insulted by it. No, I’m talking about a website asking me questions about myself, judging my answers, and then making fun of me because of my responses! Unbelievable.

Let me tell you what happened: I was clicking around online and I came across a “How Girly Are You?” quiz. Well, I was curious, so I took the quiz and answered all their inane questions (Do you take care of your toes? Do you like puppies? GAGGGGG ).

So I submitted the quiz, and this is what that asshole website said to me about my answers:

You Are 16% Girly

Um… you’re a guy, right? If not, you’re the most boyish girl in the world. And for you, that’s probably the ultimate compliment.

See what I mean??? That is SO RUDE! I mean, I don’t care about the low score. I’ve gotten bad grades before. But what is their deal, putting some ugly chick with a skateboard up on my computer screen? And they called me a dude. Absolutely unforgivable. No, website, that is not a compliment.

I’m feminine! I swear! You can definitely tell I’m a girl from probably like… two miles away. At least. Girliness oozes from my pores. I just get made fun of because I’d rather invest my money than spend it all getting my nails done. Anyway, nail salons are ultimately a waste of money because I’d just mess them up rock climbing anyway. See what I mean? I’m just being practical!

So in retaliation, I’m going to make up my own version of the Girly Quiz. Take this if you dare:

The Ultimate Girly Quiz 

1. You own at least one article of clothing that says Princess on it. [1 point]
   
2. Your boyfriend is way lucky to have you. [1 point]
   
3. You have been in a fight with at least two of your close friends in the past month. [1 point]
   
4. You couldn’t lift anything heavier than shopping bags… even if you tried. [1 point]
   
5. You’re on your third box of Crest Whitestrips this month. [1 point]
   
6. It’s okay to wear Uggs with sweatpants. [1 point]
   
7. It’s okay to wear Uggs. [5 points]
   
8. You can’t live without your Tiffany’s. [1 point]
   
9. Your flat iron is your life. [1 point]
   
10. You’ll pay any amount of money for anything, as long as it has those Coach C’s. [5 points]
    
11. You can’t walk out of your house without at least a half inch of bronzer on your face. [1 point]
    
12. Everyone is jealous of you. [239487129176 points]

Now, add up your score. If you have two points or higher, you should kill yourself now.  And, no, you’re not allowed to go to the salon first.

I never want to be awake to see my clock say that it’s anywhere between 3 and 5 AM. I want to be dead to the world at these hours, every day, no matter what the circumstances.

Which is why I was absolutely livid when I was jerked out of a deep blissful sleep early this morning at 3:30 AM. This is Dead Time for Liz. If she is not asleep at this time because of you, SHE IS PISSED.

So, as I said before, I was woken up at this ungodly hour by someone buzzing my apartment from the lobby one story below. And I’m not talking about one polite buzz, either. I’m talking about someone standing in front of the button repeatedly pounding the thing with all their might.

I’ll be honest – I was terrified. The first thing that actually popped into my head when I heard the grating buzz was that scene from Law and Order: SVU where someone sticks a toothpick into Olivia’s buzzer and when she comes down (gun in hand) to see who it is, she finds a corpse on her doorstep. So, yes, for a few minutes I was convinced that someone was downstairs with a corpse trying to send me a threatening message.

So I was hiding under the covers when one of my roommates gets out of bed and presses the speaker button.

“Hello?” Groggily and a little pissed.
“Heyyyyyyyyyyyy this is your neighborrrrr from apartment four,” a low voice slurred, “I’m locked out and I can’t find my keys so please please pleaaaaase can you buzz me in?”

Great. A college kid drunk almost beyond comprehension. My roommate did end up buzzing him in. You should have heard him trying to get up the stairs. I heard the stumbling from my bed, even with the front door closed and locked.

I was not entirely convinced that this was the end of the episode. Maybe all the banging and scuffling that I heard through the ceiling over my room gave me a clue. It was a weird thumping, like someone banging themselves against a door…

Despite all the racket above me, I had just managed to doze off when I heard a tapping at our front door. I lay completely still, straining my ears and wishing that I was just hearing things. No such luck. That definitely was a distinct knock.

So I crept out of bed and and snuck a peek through the peeophole. Drunk mid-twenties college student swaying in front of our door. He was skinnyish with light hair and lots of zits. Didn’t seem too threatening, so I cracked the door open and glowered at him through the slit.

Just for the record: it was four o’clock in the morning by then, and I am wearing cutoff sweats and a baggy tank top, and I had gone to bed without blow drying my hair so it resembled an unwashed and abused wig more than anything else. Between the hair and the scowl, I was a sight to behold.

He said nothing at first; I guess he was waiting for me to speak. Wrong move. I was not going to speak first. If you wake me up at this inhuman hour, you sure as hell better be prepared to speak first.

When his delayed reaction time finally clicked in and he finally realized that he was going to say something, he began to speak: “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I will never knock on your door again.”

This was going to be quite a conversation, I could already tell. “You’re locked out of your apartment?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

“When are you roommates getting home?”

“Never.”

Silence.

“So… I guess this means that I’m going to sleep in the hallway tonight.”

“Well, dude, you rang our buzzer at 3:30 in the morning and you smell like booze and I don’t even know who you are so… I guess that’s a yes.”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’ll bake you a cake tomorrow. That is, if I ever get into my apartment.”

So I closed and locked the door, then went back to bed and lay down. I heard him walk back up the stairs and continue banging on his door.

I couldn’t fall back asleep. I kept on thinking about that poor kid (he seemed harmless enough) just crashing in the hallway, huddled outside his door.

But then I thought about me and my two (female) roommates. Anyone would tell you: inviting a blacked-out drunk male stranger to stay in your apartment is not the ideal situation, to say the least. Right?

I was acting to keep my roommates and myself safe. Not only that – but what kind of weirdo knocks on the door of people he doesn’t even know and asks to stay on their couch?

But then… He’s sleeping in the hallway! No one’s sleeping on our couch! WHAT WOULD JESUS DO???

Eventually I fell asleep, despite my tormented conscience.

When I woke up the next morning, I went upstairs to see if he survived the night. Sure enough, there he was, curled up in the hallway, feet dangling off the stairs, snoring. I tapped his foot. No response. But at least he was breathing.

I went up to check on him again when I was leaving for work. He was gone. Hopefully one of his roommates found him when they were leaving their room.

I actually think I’m going to stop by his apartment (you know, after all of this I’m still not even sure he lives in our building) and finding out a little biographical information about this character. I mean, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open after last night’s mayhem. Maybe hearing his story will numb the bitterness in my heart.