If I ever wanted to know what it was like to be in a sorority, which mind you, I have never, ever, ever had the urge to do, but for the sake of cultural experiences and being a team player, yesterday was the day to broaden my horizons into this very American phenomenon.
I’m in Tampa, a city, up till a few months ago I could not have picked out on a map, let alone known anything distinguishing about. I have now learned in my ever expanding world that Tampa is the home of strip malls, strip clubs and white people with big boobs, bleached blonde hair and muscle shirts. Here, I look like a freak of nature and they all look normal. In four days in this city I have seen 5 Asian people, excepting the Asian people in the Thai restaurants, sushi bars, and local Asian groceries which is like going to the zoo to see the natives. Not to say that any of this is negative, but ultimately different after leaving a Caribbean Island of blacks and whites and the melting pot of Vancouver where not seeing an Asian person or mixed race couple would be anomaly. Speaking of which, I have not seen any Amer-Asian couples here either... or black and white...
Back to yesterday, there is town event called Gasparelli, where grown adults in their 20-40s re-live their college Greek days in a haze of alcohol and senseless festivities, bonding mindlessly over copious amounts of alcohol, I say mindlessly because with the level of noise and preoccupation in the quest for inebriation nothing of substance would formulate. I have to say I was immensely curious but with definite forebodings as the preparations for the day’s drinking became the focus point of all planning and I got to know the players in the game. This is all under the guise of a parade to celebrate pirates plundering Tampa Bay, truth is more along the lines of a reason for women to dress like slutty wenches and men to act like boorish unkempt pirates with the slutty wenches. Really a good day to throw out inhibitions and be your inner slut.
I met Celia, Latin, high spirited, luscious lips, single mother of a 23 month old child who had my jaw hanging to my toes as she told me about partying with her baby into the wee hours of the morning as it was her given right as birthing being to extend her baby monitor’s range down to the local bar. Ok, I have to say, I am a liberal mom, I’ll hike my kids across countries, demand they eat foreign foods to broaden their horizons and I have a sink or swim, face your issues teaching style, but, this is for their greater good, not mine, I'm not sure where my 5th tequila shot at the neighbourhood bar enables my toddler the next morning when she is off schedule and screaming at her lack of sleep while I fight off a massive hangover and the need to slit my wrists while holding my head in the toilet. Celia is also with Guido, madly, crazy in love with Guido, who broke up with her 2 weeks ago.
Then there’s Guido, exactly as the name implies, lots of hair gel, skinny, huge smile, but likely a big dick. He’s with Celia, but not really with Celia, because he broke up with her in a drunken haze, but they’re still together, but I can’t diss that as my track record on the break up be friends is a long and involved project. However, it seems, Guido, like myself, has some side projects already in works, but unlike me, the current project is still in the works and no where near ending, so my conclusion will be Guido and Celia will stay together as well as Guido and Leila and Guido and Myra and Guido and Reina and Celia will become bitter and hostile bemoaning her lot as a Latina female but will marry Guido.
Then there’s couple B, who I met at the Alumni lunch, the lunch at which I was not an Alumni, and felt yet again, strangely in a different space, rather like an alien stuck on the wall, observing but not quite clicking. Couple B has issues, they’re newlyweds, with issues. She’s beautiful, Latin (Celia's BFF who hates Guido) delicate features, mocha skin, gorgeous hair and pretty smile (an overbite but if you don’t look too hard you wont see it just like her snippy looks she gives her husband while still trying to stay pretty and charming), but also a very dominant personality when it comes to her husband who I daresay is likely henpecked but thinks his wife is probably prettier than he would ever find in the average white girl so he’s in for the ride. He’s your average white guy, kinda cute in the right light but not quite there. I daresay he is probably a swell guy, but not much came through amidst the 4 other strong personalities in the room, and a hazard a guess his wife would withhold sex for the next year if he let his white boy corniness come out too much (which on half a day of drinking was rearing its white head). I hazard she got an almost cute white boy and he got a pretty dime a dozen Latin girl, and they look good in the social perfect world of America driving their Jetta to their cottage in the soon to be perfect neighbourhood.
So this is the group, my group. Nothing like going out with BFFs that you have nothing in common with, and partying with a bunch of Frat kids re-living a dream who you also have nothing in common with forcing Psycho flashback nightmares of your one and only frat party you attended in 1989 where you stood in a beer and puke soaked corner frozen in horror at the vulgarness of your situation while some boy dressed in khakis and a blue shirt tried to dry hump you with his tiny penis while swigging a beer that came from a barrel in a tub.
I am remiss. The Alumni brunch, nothing like my Alumni brunch, but I did get to eat a moundful of breakfast sausages which made me very happy and perhaps I ate away some of my fears but didn’t have enough time to hurl it back down the toilet so then felt like a fat alien for the rest of the brunch listening to drinking, drunk, wasted, totaled, gooned war stories coupled with the best bars, clubs, holes and pubs to frequent if one ever went back to celebrate the glory days of college. I am dying here but I got game face on and the day is young, can only get better.
I managed to excuse myself to pee at least 5 times so as to breathe in the fumes of the bathroom for relaxation and ponder the meaning of my life as I sat on the porcelain throne eking out a few drops so I wouldn’t actually be lying and the preening peacocks in the bathroom not think I was a lesbian hanging in the stalls for a peek of jiggly thigh flesh.
Let me add its cold in the sunshine state, cold, cold, cold and I am severely under-dressed, and wearing a rain jacket 5 sizes too big for me, making my head look completely disproportionate to my body and just god damn ugly too. If anyone knows me, nothing gets me worse than being cold and unprepared, this lack of crucial control is crippling especially while group dynamics take over with no visible leader taking center stage (this would normally be me but thought best to not let my need to organize take over while on someone's turf) while standing in the parking lot watching people tail gate (why tail gate in the rain in a university parking lot, really why tail gate at all?) and no consensus on where to go. With weeks leading up to this event you'd think someone would have made a plan?
Ends up the smashing plan is to walk 2 blocks to the bar to make another plan. Common sense would have said we should have just walked to the bar to begin with before we began to pontificate on the best places to get drunk in Tampa prior to a parade in the rain.
Bar, typical college looking bar, pretty much a bar, wood floors, smelly toilets and a juke box. Pick it up, put it down in any college town and it wouldn’t be remiss. Purpose of bar is to drink as much as possible to be as smashed as possible and grunt and dance with strangers in mock camaraderie in the singular goal of getting shit faced in as loud a manner as humanly possible, while also checking out the opposite sex. I found this highly entertaining as long as no one actually touched me for too long or fell on top of me. I did try to pursue a few conversations but eventually realized the futility of this as no one was here to talk and I just seemed moronic. I would have been better off to grab a random male and shove my tongue down his throat and it would have seemed perfectly sane. I think they call this local customs. This is also where I felt I had leapt back 13 years in time to my dorm of sex and alcohol crazed freshman more stressed about rushing the best sorority and fraternity houses as opposed to actually studying and learning which I thought was the point of university. I could be wrong, if I went into Politics I would have had no need to study and would still be a brilliant Republican.
So now, grab greasy Italian sausage sandwich outside of the bar, still in the rain, to join 8 other breakfast sausages busily entertaining themselves in my burgeoning belly. It was good though, lip smacking grease, pound gaining pork and all. Next stop, parade route where we pass an amalgamation of sorts from pretty half naked blonde co-eds (note it is raining), muscle head boys running after the co-eds with coolers in tow and abs on display, to I-f*#@ked-my-cousin to look like this in-bred types, your standard issue meatheads, your cougars and panthers in heat, your basic issue muffin top girls and beer bellied boys and the list is endless. Who needs a parade with such a variety of intriguingly disgusting humanity?
Parade was not what I was thinking. Parade in my mind is pretty lined streets, pretty policeman smiling, an assortment of eclectic stalls, parents and children, friendly neighbours, food from around the world, and organization. I complain that Vancouver is Pleasantville, and y'know, for all my bitching, there are merits to Pleasantville, its clean and civilized and people are too well mannered to morph into screaming, sweaty apes. So, swallowing my shock, I decided to best indulge as the locals do. The point of the festivities, is to scream, jump, yell at passing floats in hopes of being hurled bead necklaces, which is the epitome of gold. Note, drunk, screaming grown men and women, throwing all sensibilities and decorum into the passing garbage for the chance to have more beaded necklaces then Joe-Bob who's married to Donna-Sue, his sister, screaming blind drunk, sweating like a freakin' pig, shirtless in all acneic glory, with matted armpit hairs stuck together with globules of deodorant letting his bestiality out beside me. There is some excitement in the process of dismantling and releasing one's inner red neck and the grotesqueness of standing beside a living breathing redneck.
There is also the observance of male behaviour in this city. If you are a blonde woman, young and with ample breasts, you are the Shining Star of David in this city, like bees to honey I watched the men walking the parade catch the sight and blindly bee line to the subject with armful of beads in hopes of touching the shiny object of lust. Curious. Very curious. I suppose this is why there are no ethnic groups in sight because you are pretty much ugly, and if you want any sort of self esteem its best to move North to a different state or South to Miami.
Not sure what the point of the floats were other than to throw beads. Some were cool but not overly remarkable and you were so busy hollering for beads you had no time to look at the floats whilst trying to break a back muscle leaping into the air for that $.01 beaded necklace before the next guy. I am sure, though did not witness, that one a many a fight has broken out over a purple plastic necklace.
Parade comes to close and I had in mind night time street party, lights, fireworks, picnics, concerts, performers... bahahahaha, I am an idiot.
We walk and walk and walk and walk to go eat bad Thai food, at which point I am done, past done, overly done and just done. I could not be more done and could only excuse myself to the bathroom once to celebrate my done-ness and enough material to write this tome. Did not help that everyone loved the awful Thai food and I smilingly nodded while grimacing internally and trying to tactfully avoid any conversation at this juncture for fear of imploding. Was quite the conundrum at the end of dinner, as plans were being made, yet again, outside in the cold, as to which bar to next frequent. Let me note, on long, long, long walk to Thai restaurant, same discussion ensued, whilst passing several bars, but due to inability of group to coalesce instead decided to walk half the town before negating all bars in lieu of bad Thai. So, coming full circle, I prayed that end result would bring me home, but if not, I would have to consume quite a bit of alcohol to masquerade any sense of liveliness. I was not going to be the party killer at such an auspicious local event, regardless of wet, soggy, cold state, aching knee, bloated belly from aforementioned sausages and complete and total mental shut down.
I was saved from the dead thanks to Plane boy, who echoed need to get home, and even with a 2 mile walk on pounding knee this sounded like heaven and I was happy to walk on coals just to get rid of the din of banality.
So this ends my cultural foray. Though my tone is very sarcastic and tends to the negative, this will be remembered, likely not to be repeated without better planning and a differing personality set, but there are stories to be told, and jokes to be made, and a story to commemorate. I did forget to mention my pee in the porta-potty which in a Third World Tsunami ravaged country I am happy to do, but in a First world nation there needs to be something more civilized...
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Failure
I saw his face today, across the green murky video camera feed. He somehow looked older than I had ever seen him, the stretch across the lower jaw as you begin to age, the beginnings of age creeping in that I never noticed. But the hardest part was the slackness in the eyes, the emptiness and sadness looking back at me. I wanted to reach into the screen and touch through my sorry, my sorry for everything, my sorry for the hurt, the pain, the broken heart, I am so sorry for the chasm of all that could not be undone. Did I cause the light to go out, for you to lose your spark,
Everything across my screen looked so small and far away, like a tiny fishbowl that I wanted to press my palms onto, to look in, to watch my life without me, how it all could be the same but so different. How unknowing and innocent excepting the knowing in my mind, knowing what I held would change so much and they didn't know, they were all still so happy.
How long do I carry this time bomb of indecision, of fear, of moving forward with no regrets, accepting this as not failure yet feels like the mantle of failure? I know, when I step off that plank there will be no peter pan to swoop in, because heroes only exist in fairy tales, and a mistake in reality is borne by me and me alone.
Why cant I see this as a shining light, as that beacon at the end of tunnel, is it the sacrifice. I read copious amounts that tell me about me, about what I am, about what I do, about what I think, that all of this is normal for me, the instability, the chaos, the impulsiveness, how do you fight against what you are? Where are the words of light, of saviour, that maybe, maybe I can make the right choice, that maybe I don’t have to leave a trail of hurt in my wake. Is it ok, does it make it ok because the books say this is what I do? It’s ok because this is I, this is what I do, this is what I've been given and the children bear the sins of the mother.
There are no answers, just questions and doubts. I am insulated here, hidden, shrouded, but I know I am weak and fragile. Even a tiny sliver of reality jars like a million shards cutting, and I remember, I am not as strong as I wish. It’s good to have the reminder because I get complacent, begin to assume all is well with me, in a vacuum it's easy to be lulled into safety. Reality bit today and I bled.
There are days that I drop tears onto myself...
Everything across my screen looked so small and far away, like a tiny fishbowl that I wanted to press my palms onto, to look in, to watch my life without me, how it all could be the same but so different. How unknowing and innocent excepting the knowing in my mind, knowing what I held would change so much and they didn't know, they were all still so happy.
How long do I carry this time bomb of indecision, of fear, of moving forward with no regrets, accepting this as not failure yet feels like the mantle of failure? I know, when I step off that plank there will be no peter pan to swoop in, because heroes only exist in fairy tales, and a mistake in reality is borne by me and me alone.
Why cant I see this as a shining light, as that beacon at the end of tunnel, is it the sacrifice. I read copious amounts that tell me about me, about what I am, about what I do, about what I think, that all of this is normal for me, the instability, the chaos, the impulsiveness, how do you fight against what you are? Where are the words of light, of saviour, that maybe, maybe I can make the right choice, that maybe I don’t have to leave a trail of hurt in my wake. Is it ok, does it make it ok because the books say this is what I do? It’s ok because this is I, this is what I do, this is what I've been given and the children bear the sins of the mother.
There are no answers, just questions and doubts. I am insulated here, hidden, shrouded, but I know I am weak and fragile. Even a tiny sliver of reality jars like a million shards cutting, and I remember, I am not as strong as I wish. It’s good to have the reminder because I get complacent, begin to assume all is well with me, in a vacuum it's easy to be lulled into safety. Reality bit today and I bled.
There are days that I drop tears onto myself...
Friday, January 15, 2010
Walk Away
I feel like I've lost the upper hand right now and it makes me uneasy. I let down a guard, let a chink through in the wall, just enough to be plugged by a finger but now holding back a torrent. I complain and poke about walls and inhibitions but I know I am full of them myself, I need the ball in my court, firmly in the black and white, once it moves to gray I get unstable and uneasy, as I am now, and not liking it in the least. Am I ready to bolt, maybe I should?
I know I have been reticent to give away emotions or even too much of a sign of affection, what does that mean, it means I am harboring against being held to anything, if I don’t admit, or open to anything vulnerable than nothing can come back to me, no promises means no responsibility, and no responsibility means no guilt.
I'm no Catholic but guilt loves me, I am consumed by guilt and my ability to hurt, I hate hurting people and I absolve myself of this by not, or convince myself that by not committing- I can't commit a crime I never agreed to.
I talk about taking chances and leaps, physically I would do anything for crazy fun; hop a plane to Amsterdam on a whim, ride a motorbike into the nether regions of Vietnam, trek through Panama, meet the strangest of strangers, but the heart and soul, the heart is strongly fortified against risk, some days I can't find it myself, the beating muffled by the layers upon layers of insulation and the soul is just scarred stupid.
I want to say take a chance Vida, you never know, who might be and what might be, but what if it comes to nil and my words are held against me, what if I make a mistake and someone gets hurt? What if I roll full tilt as per norm and again flatten everything like a steam roller, could I live with myself?
I am gutted by indecision, flawed by my impetuousness and doomed by my fears.
I am a horrid person to be with, I am a roller coaster with no end, the turns and twirls exhilarating and tiring all at once, and the ride never ending, I never seem to coast into the final peaceful scenic ride of calm. I personally hate roller coasters, it’s a shame I just analogized myself into one... I personally like the pretty scenic ones with action around me as opposed to sitting in the pit of my stomach as I yet again corkscrew.
So the boy, I feel like I should put a huge "do not cross" yellow sign over me, maybe even wrapped all around me, with a few "danger" signs tacked on for good measure and perhaps crime scene tape as well. Is there a male version of me that somehow could break through my annoying, annoying sense of self-preservation and selfishness? Tame the beast so to speak, make me be alive for someone for a little longer than now, cut through the tape, the insulation, the walls, the hot and cold, the on and off. I quite like the laughs, the smiles, the energy, but what am I doing? I have doubts, I have hesitations, and I am scared of me. The so far beyond me power of me…
Run Forest Run, run away from yourself. I feel that familiar tug in my chest, its uncomfortable, it means there's risk and I am starting to move to close to my fire, care what he does and thinks and I’m fidgeting, I don’t want the uneasiness, I don’t want the unknown and I don’t want to be at the mercy of my thoughts, give it yet another finger hold into me to wring indecision and insecurity. If I cut the cord now, banish the niggling while its still young then maybe I can come away unscathed, and him too... walk away before I know, walk away before I put too much, walk away before I make any mistakes, walk away from risk. Leave the field open, nothing rooted in, nothing sown, just cattle grazing through, and never tilled. Albeit boring and never deep, nothing grows, but nothing to spoil and rot either; nothing to steal, nothing to take, just empty and unfettered.
Excellent Vida, you have now gone from analogizing yourself to a roller coaster, to a roller coaster on an empty, barren field wrapped in police tape with a few cows. Excellent, I feel just smashingly lovely playing in my field of fetid dung.
I know I have been reticent to give away emotions or even too much of a sign of affection, what does that mean, it means I am harboring against being held to anything, if I don’t admit, or open to anything vulnerable than nothing can come back to me, no promises means no responsibility, and no responsibility means no guilt.
I'm no Catholic but guilt loves me, I am consumed by guilt and my ability to hurt, I hate hurting people and I absolve myself of this by not, or convince myself that by not committing- I can't commit a crime I never agreed to.
I talk about taking chances and leaps, physically I would do anything for crazy fun; hop a plane to Amsterdam on a whim, ride a motorbike into the nether regions of Vietnam, trek through Panama, meet the strangest of strangers, but the heart and soul, the heart is strongly fortified against risk, some days I can't find it myself, the beating muffled by the layers upon layers of insulation and the soul is just scarred stupid.
I want to say take a chance Vida, you never know, who might be and what might be, but what if it comes to nil and my words are held against me, what if I make a mistake and someone gets hurt? What if I roll full tilt as per norm and again flatten everything like a steam roller, could I live with myself?
I am gutted by indecision, flawed by my impetuousness and doomed by my fears.
I am a horrid person to be with, I am a roller coaster with no end, the turns and twirls exhilarating and tiring all at once, and the ride never ending, I never seem to coast into the final peaceful scenic ride of calm. I personally hate roller coasters, it’s a shame I just analogized myself into one... I personally like the pretty scenic ones with action around me as opposed to sitting in the pit of my stomach as I yet again corkscrew.
So the boy, I feel like I should put a huge "do not cross" yellow sign over me, maybe even wrapped all around me, with a few "danger" signs tacked on for good measure and perhaps crime scene tape as well. Is there a male version of me that somehow could break through my annoying, annoying sense of self-preservation and selfishness? Tame the beast so to speak, make me be alive for someone for a little longer than now, cut through the tape, the insulation, the walls, the hot and cold, the on and off. I quite like the laughs, the smiles, the energy, but what am I doing? I have doubts, I have hesitations, and I am scared of me. The so far beyond me power of me…
Run Forest Run, run away from yourself. I feel that familiar tug in my chest, its uncomfortable, it means there's risk and I am starting to move to close to my fire, care what he does and thinks and I’m fidgeting, I don’t want the uneasiness, I don’t want the unknown and I don’t want to be at the mercy of my thoughts, give it yet another finger hold into me to wring indecision and insecurity. If I cut the cord now, banish the niggling while its still young then maybe I can come away unscathed, and him too... walk away before I know, walk away before I put too much, walk away before I make any mistakes, walk away from risk. Leave the field open, nothing rooted in, nothing sown, just cattle grazing through, and never tilled. Albeit boring and never deep, nothing grows, but nothing to spoil and rot either; nothing to steal, nothing to take, just empty and unfettered.
Excellent Vida, you have now gone from analogizing yourself to a roller coaster, to a roller coaster on an empty, barren field wrapped in police tape with a few cows. Excellent, I feel just smashingly lovely playing in my field of fetid dung.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Living Pleasantville Hell
I'm in Hell. I think Hell may be nicer, for sure warmer.
I thought this as I drove home tonight, stomach clenched, nauseous, wondering if it was possible to have an out of body moment and have your soul drop through leaving your physical body out smiling, gurgling and pretending that things are just swell in Hellville previously acknowledged as Pleasantville.
I am bouncing off my bubble's walls, and the soap scum skin is starting to wear thin and shrink, making my trajectory tighter, more painful and infinitely less bearable. I've been living in clutter, the clutter of Christmas, the clutter of life, the clutter of ghosts of years past. I keep cleaning, arranging, moving, knowing full and well that no matter how hard I try, it's a mess, a hellacious mess that I just need to sweep into the dumpster and start over. The house is never going to be clean, it will be when my mind is clean, but my mind is soaked in a pail of soggy, brown, dish water blowing concentric bubbles that continue to encase me.
I went to dinner last night, perfunctory, felt like I should, a brief moment where I may have had fun. Outside looking in, it was Desperate Housewives mashed up with The Real Housewives mashed up with a show tune from Les Miserables, further mashed up with Leave it To Beaver.
Truth is, I really don't flipping care what you do, what you want, what you like and what woe is betiding you because if you thought to peer out of your little existence amidst the country clubs, the posh cars, the sniveling children, the square footage, and the best of the best of the best that you can possibly buy of shoes, bags, husbands and divorces to display, you will realize that you are nothing. That substance has molded, is rank and gone to reside somewhere in your 350cc left breast implant, tummy tuck or been sloughed off on your last chemical peel.
I am so tired of the charade, of pontificating on the woes of divorce and lack of men, rich men, to further pad your 5 million dollar home, how bored you are to play tennis everyday, how aghast you are at the incestuous sex lives of your neighbours that you secretly covet, off all the people in their Barbie world with their Barbie toys, the world that you whine incessantly about but would never dream of leaving, your ecosystem of waste and shame and privilege, wrapped up with the golden bow, sparkling smiles, shiny kids and purring hummers. I am just sick as a drive home, wondering how, why, where, and when did I go wrong, how did I end up here, filleted and gutted into a life I don't want, a baby that I would happily throw out with the bathwater.
Of course, it's my fault, I followed the yellow brick road, I veered to the path less trodden but I second-guessed myself and veered back when I should have stayed on the dirt path. I thought I needed Sleeping Beauty's castle, and I never saw the thorny bushes till they pierced right through. I made the mistake, let the rosy glow of materialism and perfectionism cloud me, let my guilt dangle the carrot in front of me, do the right thing, play with the shiny toys, have tea with Barbie. When I was little I used to dismember Barbie and pretend to sell her off as chicken pieces at my marketplace. I should have known better.
So now what? What do I do with the toys, with Ken, with Skipper, the Dream House, the accessories, with the glut of Mattel cluttering my life? They sure are pretty, all lovely, and hollow, aching, and everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Everywhere my head spins and I bounce off the walls and it's still there no matter where I turn, what I hide, where I clean. Or leave, but I can only leave so much, and all the everything just sits there waiting for me like that horrid plant from Little Shop of Horrors, ready to gobble me whole and then spit me out and eat me again and again and again as long as I keep coming back. It keeps me skinny…
I thought this as I drove home tonight, stomach clenched, nauseous, wondering if it was possible to have an out of body moment and have your soul drop through leaving your physical body out smiling, gurgling and pretending that things are just swell in Hellville previously acknowledged as Pleasantville.
I am bouncing off my bubble's walls, and the soap scum skin is starting to wear thin and shrink, making my trajectory tighter, more painful and infinitely less bearable. I've been living in clutter, the clutter of Christmas, the clutter of life, the clutter of ghosts of years past. I keep cleaning, arranging, moving, knowing full and well that no matter how hard I try, it's a mess, a hellacious mess that I just need to sweep into the dumpster and start over. The house is never going to be clean, it will be when my mind is clean, but my mind is soaked in a pail of soggy, brown, dish water blowing concentric bubbles that continue to encase me.
I went to dinner last night, perfunctory, felt like I should, a brief moment where I may have had fun. Outside looking in, it was Desperate Housewives mashed up with The Real Housewives mashed up with a show tune from Les Miserables, further mashed up with Leave it To Beaver.
Truth is, I really don't flipping care what you do, what you want, what you like and what woe is betiding you because if you thought to peer out of your little existence amidst the country clubs, the posh cars, the sniveling children, the square footage, and the best of the best of the best that you can possibly buy of shoes, bags, husbands and divorces to display, you will realize that you are nothing. That substance has molded, is rank and gone to reside somewhere in your 350cc left breast implant, tummy tuck or been sloughed off on your last chemical peel.
I am so tired of the charade, of pontificating on the woes of divorce and lack of men, rich men, to further pad your 5 million dollar home, how bored you are to play tennis everyday, how aghast you are at the incestuous sex lives of your neighbours that you secretly covet, off all the people in their Barbie world with their Barbie toys, the world that you whine incessantly about but would never dream of leaving, your ecosystem of waste and shame and privilege, wrapped up with the golden bow, sparkling smiles, shiny kids and purring hummers. I am just sick as a drive home, wondering how, why, where, and when did I go wrong, how did I end up here, filleted and gutted into a life I don't want, a baby that I would happily throw out with the bathwater.
Of course, it's my fault, I followed the yellow brick road, I veered to the path less trodden but I second-guessed myself and veered back when I should have stayed on the dirt path. I thought I needed Sleeping Beauty's castle, and I never saw the thorny bushes till they pierced right through. I made the mistake, let the rosy glow of materialism and perfectionism cloud me, let my guilt dangle the carrot in front of me, do the right thing, play with the shiny toys, have tea with Barbie. When I was little I used to dismember Barbie and pretend to sell her off as chicken pieces at my marketplace. I should have known better.
So now what? What do I do with the toys, with Ken, with Skipper, the Dream House, the accessories, with the glut of Mattel cluttering my life? They sure are pretty, all lovely, and hollow, aching, and everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Everywhere my head spins and I bounce off the walls and it's still there no matter where I turn, what I hide, where I clean. Or leave, but I can only leave so much, and all the everything just sits there waiting for me like that horrid plant from Little Shop of Horrors, ready to gobble me whole and then spit me out and eat me again and again and again as long as I keep coming back. It keeps me skinny…
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Diversions
Can a dalliance strengthen a relationship? Can finding some fun spark a flame and open your eyes.
Boy is cute, fun and fluffy. Makes me smile, not necessarily my heart beat, but comfortable, entertaining and most of all, light. A nice guy, good to look at, not the best in bed, but workable.
I haven't slept with too many Americans, this has been the first time in 10-12 years, before which I slept with a few with underwhelming results. The first boy I ever slept with was American, and though I loved him, the orgasms and fireworks were non existent, leading me for years to think it was me. The next American down the line, sweet and loving, was a little like a horse with blinders.
Is it true? Do American men understand foreplay? Slow? Do we all need to go leaping for the clit? It's not an on switch, I am not a faucet, nor is it a stress massage ball.
You know, he's so nice, but unattentive in the sack, or maybe clueless, not sure. Maybe he's just not into me, or gay, but I think he may just be American. I checked the polls, American men are in the top 10 worst lovers, primarily for being too rough, which I can attest to. Harder, faster and stronger does not equate to awsome, amazing and awe inspiring.
But I think he can be taught, the first couple of naked moments culminated in a few groping moments, rough, scratchy. I hate to say the second time there was even less foreplay and a direct hit onto my clit like he was scrubbing a stain, which bordered on uncomfortable.
Saving grace, he has a good penis, not overly large or long, just right, good head which made up for the sprint to intercourse. It lasted a mere 5 minutes and the next time perhaps 10 which left a little to be desired damn it.
TBC
Boy is cute, fun and fluffy. Makes me smile, not necessarily my heart beat, but comfortable, entertaining and most of all, light. A nice guy, good to look at, not the best in bed, but workable.
I haven't slept with too many Americans, this has been the first time in 10-12 years, before which I slept with a few with underwhelming results. The first boy I ever slept with was American, and though I loved him, the orgasms and fireworks were non existent, leading me for years to think it was me. The next American down the line, sweet and loving, was a little like a horse with blinders.
Is it true? Do American men understand foreplay? Slow? Do we all need to go leaping for the clit? It's not an on switch, I am not a faucet, nor is it a stress massage ball.
You know, he's so nice, but unattentive in the sack, or maybe clueless, not sure. Maybe he's just not into me, or gay, but I think he may just be American. I checked the polls, American men are in the top 10 worst lovers, primarily for being too rough, which I can attest to. Harder, faster and stronger does not equate to awsome, amazing and awe inspiring.
But I think he can be taught, the first couple of naked moments culminated in a few groping moments, rough, scratchy. I hate to say the second time there was even less foreplay and a direct hit onto my clit like he was scrubbing a stain, which bordered on uncomfortable.
Saving grace, he has a good penis, not overly large or long, just right, good head which made up for the sprint to intercourse. It lasted a mere 5 minutes and the next time perhaps 10 which left a little to be desired damn it.
TBC
Monday, December 21, 2009
Mundane
I've realized, like my heart and soul, my blogs are random, they veer from the extremes of insanity to the mundane of life. I chitter about boys and then dream of technicolour death in the same day. I talk about roses and puppies and blood leaking from my skin. OK, I don't really talk about roses and puppies, usually just bad sex and random experiences that plague my soul.
It's the theatre of the macabre, Sex in the City amalgamated with the Rocky Horror Picture Show bundled up into an inocous package that is me. It's unfair that I look so inocous, like the librarian that by dark is the sexed up tart, I look ordinary, you would never know that I surf porn and dream of oral sex, that if could, I would kick every single pretentious school mum in the ass, that yes, I do want to run you over in my car, and have meaningless affairs with your husbands to occupy my mind. I hate smiling at you over de rigeur conversation over the weather and nodding pleasantly about your lauded volunteer work to turn our children into model citizens driving SUVs and coveting lake houses and second homes. I am sure your husband is having an affair but as long as you have your million dollar home, your daily trainer and Botox you should be fine. I think you're pathetic and myself pathetic for living in your world.
Truth is, I should have been a man. I have commitment issues, neediness makes my skin crawl. No, I don't feel the need to call you when I am away and I don't care what you're doing unless it's titillating. I like to be alone, and I'm selfish, I want you when I do, and when I do you better be on, and if I don't, be gone. I don't crave and covet, unless it's food or a great dress. I like fun and games, I don't want to pontificate on marriage. The big white dress and the Cinderella fairytale (unless he's a sugar daddy) nauseating. Give me a bikini, a beach, tequila, a party and an airplane to an unknown locale where I can find culture and life outside of marketed perfection.
I wonder as I walk down the street whether people can hear the ruminations of my mind, that i feel like a deer in headlights constantly in heat of some form. That I shop savagely for release, that I mingle amongst them for escape, that I'm scared to go home, that work is impossible, and life strangling.
I have a perfect Christmas tree, in my perfect house, on my perfect couch, with my perfect cat, and my perfect car outside. I also have the perfect tan, the perfect look and the perfect job. I am perfectly filled with shit.
I have to go to my perfect life now, so i bid you adieu till later.
It's the theatre of the macabre, Sex in the City amalgamated with the Rocky Horror Picture Show bundled up into an inocous package that is me. It's unfair that I look so inocous, like the librarian that by dark is the sexed up tart, I look ordinary, you would never know that I surf porn and dream of oral sex, that if could, I would kick every single pretentious school mum in the ass, that yes, I do want to run you over in my car, and have meaningless affairs with your husbands to occupy my mind. I hate smiling at you over de rigeur conversation over the weather and nodding pleasantly about your lauded volunteer work to turn our children into model citizens driving SUVs and coveting lake houses and second homes. I am sure your husband is having an affair but as long as you have your million dollar home, your daily trainer and Botox you should be fine. I think you're pathetic and myself pathetic for living in your world.
Truth is, I should have been a man. I have commitment issues, neediness makes my skin crawl. No, I don't feel the need to call you when I am away and I don't care what you're doing unless it's titillating. I like to be alone, and I'm selfish, I want you when I do, and when I do you better be on, and if I don't, be gone. I don't crave and covet, unless it's food or a great dress. I like fun and games, I don't want to pontificate on marriage. The big white dress and the Cinderella fairytale (unless he's a sugar daddy) nauseating. Give me a bikini, a beach, tequila, a party and an airplane to an unknown locale where I can find culture and life outside of marketed perfection.
I wonder as I walk down the street whether people can hear the ruminations of my mind, that i feel like a deer in headlights constantly in heat of some form. That I shop savagely for release, that I mingle amongst them for escape, that I'm scared to go home, that work is impossible, and life strangling.
I have a perfect Christmas tree, in my perfect house, on my perfect couch, with my perfect cat, and my perfect car outside. I also have the perfect tan, the perfect look and the perfect job. I am perfectly filled with shit.
I have to go to my perfect life now, so i bid you adieu till later.
Bitch
I'm on vacation, I haven't left the hotel room in 3 days, I traveled across the country to vacation in self angst, frolick in the surf of depression while sipping sugar rimmed margaritas. At least I wasn't cliche enough to cry into my drinks, instead I lay on the ground wondering how it could come to pass that, 3 days later, I was still in my pyjamas, laying on the ground when there was a bed, watching reality show re-runs on my laptop and serial cop shows on TV simultaneously and haphazardly attempting to do sit ups to somehow feel like I was worshipping my temple of a body in this time of need.
I am not sure how others handle angst but mine is a roiling hotpot of contradictions. I am not sure hotpots actually roil but being so amazingly muddled as I am it was probably the bargain basement model that got recalled for roiling.
What is there to say? That life feels so much better confined to 600 square feet at the Four Seasons with Mariska Hargitay as my constant companion in the quest for serial rapists while chewing on room service tuna tataki and drinking $5 Fiji water.
I was in a relationship with a wonderful man, who, against my will, is patiently waiting in the wings. It's been approximately 3 years together, 2 since he asked to move in and 1 since I have started to splinter. I have a fabulous job that would make you green with envy and I travel to exotic destinations that require bikinis and stilettos in the name of work. I also have 2 adorable, charming, well-mannered children who think I walk on water and I drive a Lexus and live in a 3000 sq ft home in the most coveted area of town. I also have a country club membership and I'm skinny with a great shoe and clothing wardrobe. Go ahead, say it, I hate you bitch.
To top it off, how many people vacation angst at the Four Seasons? Can I be the epitome of pathetic? How many people fly first class, take off for a week, say bye bye to life so they can wallow in 5 star self pity?
The one silver lining of all this is I lost 5 pounds and bought a pair of fuck me heels. That should fare me well now that I have no relationship, have sold my house, am quitting my job and am trolling kayak.com for escape hatches from my self inflicted suburbia of perfection.
Who the hell is this bitch, you may ask yourself, as I do numerous times a day.
The song that comes to mind is Bitch, apropos. Loosely and with much liberty it goes, I hate the world today, it's so good to me but I can't change. I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint. I'm bitch, I'm a tease, I'm a goddess on my knees... I'm your angel undercover. I'm your hell I'm your dream and I'm nothing in between.
I may be giving myself too much credit for the goddess on my knees but it made me feel better so suck it up, how's that for sexual entendre?
I am not sure how others handle angst but mine is a roiling hotpot of contradictions. I am not sure hotpots actually roil but being so amazingly muddled as I am it was probably the bargain basement model that got recalled for roiling.
What is there to say? That life feels so much better confined to 600 square feet at the Four Seasons with Mariska Hargitay as my constant companion in the quest for serial rapists while chewing on room service tuna tataki and drinking $5 Fiji water.
I was in a relationship with a wonderful man, who, against my will, is patiently waiting in the wings. It's been approximately 3 years together, 2 since he asked to move in and 1 since I have started to splinter. I have a fabulous job that would make you green with envy and I travel to exotic destinations that require bikinis and stilettos in the name of work. I also have 2 adorable, charming, well-mannered children who think I walk on water and I drive a Lexus and live in a 3000 sq ft home in the most coveted area of town. I also have a country club membership and I'm skinny with a great shoe and clothing wardrobe. Go ahead, say it, I hate you bitch.
To top it off, how many people vacation angst at the Four Seasons? Can I be the epitome of pathetic? How many people fly first class, take off for a week, say bye bye to life so they can wallow in 5 star self pity?
The one silver lining of all this is I lost 5 pounds and bought a pair of fuck me heels. That should fare me well now that I have no relationship, have sold my house, am quitting my job and am trolling kayak.com for escape hatches from my self inflicted suburbia of perfection.
Who the hell is this bitch, you may ask yourself, as I do numerous times a day.
The song that comes to mind is Bitch, apropos. Loosely and with much liberty it goes, I hate the world today, it's so good to me but I can't change. I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a child, I'm mother, I'm a sinner, I'm a saint. I'm bitch, I'm a tease, I'm a goddess on my knees... I'm your angel undercover. I'm your hell I'm your dream and I'm nothing in between.
I may be giving myself too much credit for the goddess on my knees but it made me feel better so suck it up, how's that for sexual entendre?
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