On the second grade playground, two "play-leaders" of a higher grade, got into an argument over who the cutest second grader was, me or Gwen Guererro. The play-leaders in question were popular twin cheerleaders. I can't remember what the outcome was, but that was the day that I learned a lesson that would stay with me forever.
I am cute.
Unfortunately, that is not the healthiest lesson to learn nor the healthiest place to learn it. Yet, this new found knowledge was not lost on me. However, it did lie dormant until I got boobs.
From adolescence to my early 20s, I used my boobs and my cuteness for evil. I had no code of ethics, and everything was fair game.
That was a regrettable time, and the ethical backlash was so intense it resulted in my hiding under layers of baggy, unwashed, unisex attire until I felt that I had somehow paid my penance.
Now, my work keeps me mostly covered up. And when I get a chance to release the combination of confident 2nd grader and 25 year old sex beast, it is so explosive that people who see me every day don't recognize me.
It is a phenomenon I call closet bombshell.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Just when you thought you liked me.
So, I'm at work, and I'm manning the register, which looks out onto the atrium/dining room just outside the cafeteria. Most of the cashier shift involves staring out into the atrium/dining room. Snoresville, to say the least.
A customer comes in and purchases a cup of ice for 10 cents. She's obviously ill, her walk is pained, and she is on her way to dialysis. She ambles past the cash register and into the atrium, and almost immediately passes out. She falls hard and suddenly.
If you've ever seen a legitimate pass-out, you know it's not all "I got the vapors" and then a gentle drop to the floor like a feather. It's a lot more like a tree being snapped off of it's trunk, and falling headfirst to the ground.
It is disturbing to see someone pass out, it's infinitely more disturbing when that person is frail, dying and probably has no business walking around in the first place.
However, in the course of these events, the sick woman falling face first onto a hardwood floor, and taking out 2 chairs and a table on the way down, was surprisingly the least disturbing.
The most disturbing of these events is that i stood and watched. I watched her walk like an unsteady, malnourished baby deer, I watched her knees buckle and give way, and I watched her face slam into a table edge, before coming to rest on the cold shiny floor.
And she just laid there, not moving.
And I just stood there, watching.
Several employees in the periphery ran to her aid, fanning her, checking her vitals, bringing her back to life. A security guard rushed to provide a wheelchair for her, my co-workers rushed to the dining room to mop up her spilled ice. Rush, rush, rush.
And I just stood there, less that 5 feet away, and did nothing.
I am losing my faith in humanity, and it's my own fault. I was the closest to that fallen woman. That fallen woman who is probably somebody's mother, somebody's daughter, somebody's sister. What if it was my sister. Would I just stand there like some asshole?
Fuck.
A car collided with my moped a couple of years ago, and as I lay on the ground, dizzy and hurt, I could hear the screech of tires as people pulled over to help me. Several people milled around me, trying to protect me. I handed my phone to someone I had never seen before and instructed them to call my boyfriend. And they did. My phone rang again, and I handed it to another nameless, faceless person. It was my job calling. Someone who had never met me, who didn't even know my name explained to my boss that I had just been in a serious accident.
Someone took off my helmet and stroked my hair, and told me evrything was going to be okay.
When it was finally my turn to pay it forward, I just stood there. Not frozen, not scared, just completley uninterested.
I think I even caught myself rolling my eyes.
And that is why I am probably going to hell.
A customer comes in and purchases a cup of ice for 10 cents. She's obviously ill, her walk is pained, and she is on her way to dialysis. She ambles past the cash register and into the atrium, and almost immediately passes out. She falls hard and suddenly.
If you've ever seen a legitimate pass-out, you know it's not all "I got the vapors" and then a gentle drop to the floor like a feather. It's a lot more like a tree being snapped off of it's trunk, and falling headfirst to the ground.
It is disturbing to see someone pass out, it's infinitely more disturbing when that person is frail, dying and probably has no business walking around in the first place.
However, in the course of these events, the sick woman falling face first onto a hardwood floor, and taking out 2 chairs and a table on the way down, was surprisingly the least disturbing.
The most disturbing of these events is that i stood and watched. I watched her walk like an unsteady, malnourished baby deer, I watched her knees buckle and give way, and I watched her face slam into a table edge, before coming to rest on the cold shiny floor.
And she just laid there, not moving.
And I just stood there, watching.
Several employees in the periphery ran to her aid, fanning her, checking her vitals, bringing her back to life. A security guard rushed to provide a wheelchair for her, my co-workers rushed to the dining room to mop up her spilled ice. Rush, rush, rush.
And I just stood there, less that 5 feet away, and did nothing.
I am losing my faith in humanity, and it's my own fault. I was the closest to that fallen woman. That fallen woman who is probably somebody's mother, somebody's daughter, somebody's sister. What if it was my sister. Would I just stand there like some asshole?
Fuck.
A car collided with my moped a couple of years ago, and as I lay on the ground, dizzy and hurt, I could hear the screech of tires as people pulled over to help me. Several people milled around me, trying to protect me. I handed my phone to someone I had never seen before and instructed them to call my boyfriend. And they did. My phone rang again, and I handed it to another nameless, faceless person. It was my job calling. Someone who had never met me, who didn't even know my name explained to my boss that I had just been in a serious accident.
Someone took off my helmet and stroked my hair, and told me evrything was going to be okay.
When it was finally my turn to pay it forward, I just stood there. Not frozen, not scared, just completley uninterested.
I think I even caught myself rolling my eyes.
And that is why I am probably going to hell.
Monday, October 12, 2009
It's the #3 ranked haunted house in the nation.
Ah, my birthday weekend. Let's talk about it.
My friends and I finally gave in to popular temptation and shelled out 20 bucks for the " Scream at the Beach" Halloween event that occupies the parking lot of the Jantzen Beach Mall every October. The theme of this years haunted house appeared to be "Attack of the Drama Kids". From every darkened corner lurked a 15 year old, screechily performing as if their lives depended on it. I screamed till I choked, for nothing is quite as frightening as a shitty teenager on full display, like an angry peacock, getting paid to punk you.
((Fun Fairs like this one are some of the most sociologically interesting examples of youth culture. Observe the native pimply teenager in it's most desired, if not natural, habitat. Relieved of parental supervision for the most part, these teenagers are volatile kegs of hormonal discord. Oh my god, am I wrong to love it so much?))
Upon exiting the haunted house, we found ourselves deposited on the theoretical doorstep of a good old fashioned carnival. Within minutes i had a face full of radioactive-green cotton candy.
I approached the ticket booth, slid my cash across the counter and through a mouthfull of cotton candy, ordered my ride tickets. The charming lady of distinction behind said counter looked at me through evil carnie slits, which I assume are the equivalent to human eyes, and picked up a big-ass pickle on a stick. She never broke eye contact with me as she took a huge sloppy bite out of that pickle.
So she's looking at me while she fights a pickle off of a popsicle stick with what's left of her teeth, and I'm looking at her while I brainlessly shove cotton candy at my mouth, with only 75% of the candy actually making it inside.
You wonder, "was that weird?" the answer is "yes, it was very fucking weird".
Later that evening, as i was simultaneously eating an elephant ear and a caramel apple, it occurred to me that all the elements of a perfect birthday were present. The fist fulls of sugar, the racing, blinking, hyper-colored lights, the creeping chill of fall in the air, my friends concerned faces as I approached what was clearly a heart attack or a minor stroke, it was the perfect birthday storm.
My tongue has been sugar swollen all weekend. It is a small price to pay.
My friends and I finally gave in to popular temptation and shelled out 20 bucks for the " Scream at the Beach" Halloween event that occupies the parking lot of the Jantzen Beach Mall every October. The theme of this years haunted house appeared to be "Attack of the Drama Kids". From every darkened corner lurked a 15 year old, screechily performing as if their lives depended on it. I screamed till I choked, for nothing is quite as frightening as a shitty teenager on full display, like an angry peacock, getting paid to punk you.
((Fun Fairs like this one are some of the most sociologically interesting examples of youth culture. Observe the native pimply teenager in it's most desired, if not natural, habitat. Relieved of parental supervision for the most part, these teenagers are volatile kegs of hormonal discord. Oh my god, am I wrong to love it so much?))
Upon exiting the haunted house, we found ourselves deposited on the theoretical doorstep of a good old fashioned carnival. Within minutes i had a face full of radioactive-green cotton candy.
I approached the ticket booth, slid my cash across the counter and through a mouthfull of cotton candy, ordered my ride tickets. The charming lady of distinction behind said counter looked at me through evil carnie slits, which I assume are the equivalent to human eyes, and picked up a big-ass pickle on a stick. She never broke eye contact with me as she took a huge sloppy bite out of that pickle.
So she's looking at me while she fights a pickle off of a popsicle stick with what's left of her teeth, and I'm looking at her while I brainlessly shove cotton candy at my mouth, with only 75% of the candy actually making it inside.
You wonder, "was that weird?" the answer is "yes, it was very fucking weird".
Later that evening, as i was simultaneously eating an elephant ear and a caramel apple, it occurred to me that all the elements of a perfect birthday were present. The fist fulls of sugar, the racing, blinking, hyper-colored lights, the creeping chill of fall in the air, my friends concerned faces as I approached what was clearly a heart attack or a minor stroke, it was the perfect birthday storm.
My tongue has been sugar swollen all weekend. It is a small price to pay.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Young Professionals of Portland
I have emotional attachments to the piles of random crap in my house. No emotional connections are stronger or more disturbing than the ones I have with my clothes. Piles and piles of memories choke every inch of bedroom floorspace. The closets replete with apparel that has not seen the light of day in years.
I supplemented my closet with 2 full sized garment racks a few years ago, as if I could solve my hoarding problem with proper storage. It did get several of the piles of clothes off of the floor, but it wasn't long before new clothes took their place.
I knew I had to purge my wardrobe. I've known it for years. I've avoided it for so long.
The miniskirts that comprised most of my wardrobe for the bulk of my 20s are inappropriate for a Portland dwelling 31 year old. Same goes for sparkly camisoles and sundresses with spaghetti straps. If you can only wear an item of clothing for 3 months a year, but shouldn't have been wearing for it the last 7 years anyway, it's time to put in a bag and put said bag on the curb.
But, I looked soooo cute in that polka dot mini, and I scored so hard when I would wear that gold sequined tank, and that denim mini dress was my go-to outfit for-evah. I let go of several miniskirts and sequined cami's a few years ago, after my first full year in Portland and Oh My God, it was as painful as childbirth (probably).
Miniskirt girl has to grow up sometime and miniskirt woman does not sound charming or sexy.
I turned 30 one year ago next week. So I've had an entire year to live in total age-denial. I rode this last summer out in ridiculously "hot" pants, (denim underwear with pockets is more like it) and the bitter end of my vast miniskirt collection. I knew that this was the last summer I could get away with such fashion shenanigans.
So now, as I look at 2 bags full of cute, girly clothes, and one bag full of stilettos so high they double as torture devices, I am confident that in 31 years, i have finally learned how not to look like a total skank.
I supplemented my closet with 2 full sized garment racks a few years ago, as if I could solve my hoarding problem with proper storage. It did get several of the piles of clothes off of the floor, but it wasn't long before new clothes took their place.
I knew I had to purge my wardrobe. I've known it for years. I've avoided it for so long.
The miniskirts that comprised most of my wardrobe for the bulk of my 20s are inappropriate for a Portland dwelling 31 year old. Same goes for sparkly camisoles and sundresses with spaghetti straps. If you can only wear an item of clothing for 3 months a year, but shouldn't have been wearing for it the last 7 years anyway, it's time to put in a bag and put said bag on the curb.
But, I looked soooo cute in that polka dot mini, and I scored so hard when I would wear that gold sequined tank, and that denim mini dress was my go-to outfit for-evah. I let go of several miniskirts and sequined cami's a few years ago, after my first full year in Portland and Oh My God, it was as painful as childbirth (probably).
Miniskirt girl has to grow up sometime and miniskirt woman does not sound charming or sexy.
I turned 30 one year ago next week. So I've had an entire year to live in total age-denial. I rode this last summer out in ridiculously "hot" pants, (denim underwear with pockets is more like it) and the bitter end of my vast miniskirt collection. I knew that this was the last summer I could get away with such fashion shenanigans.
So now, as I look at 2 bags full of cute, girly clothes, and one bag full of stilettos so high they double as torture devices, I am confident that in 31 years, i have finally learned how not to look like a total skank.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
My colors are "blush" and "bashful."
In a bit of a funk one day, I decided to watch "Steel Magnolias" for the billionth time ( women of a certain age, you know what I'm talking about, Pink is all our signature color) Steel Magnolias is one of the ladies-only-weepy-rejoicy-way-beyond-chick-flick-in-that-i -mean-men's-eyes-will-melt-if -they-try-to-watch-it-unless-they-are-gay-and-maybe-still-then-movies.
I just want to break some crucial plot points down before i tear this film favorite a new asshole.
M'lynn (sally feild) is the mother to hyper-diabetic Shelby (julia roberts)
Ousier (pronounced Weezer, and played by Shirley Maclaine) is their loud, brash codgery neighbor and Clairee (Olympia Dukakis) is her rich, fabulous, oldest friend.
They all meet at Truvie's (Dolly Parton) Hair Salon, where Truvie and Annelle (Daryl Hannah) aqua net their glorious southern belle hairdos into oblivion.
Okay, now that we're caught up on the basic framework, let's discuss (and by discuss I mean read my point of view and mine alone) some details.
WARNING spoilers ahead!!
Shelby's getting married to a young delicious Dylan McDermott, but oh dear, she's just so sick with the diabetes.
My'lynn is just so worried about the fruits of their marriage ie; bebehs, seeing as Shelby's just so sick with the diabetes.
All these other bitches are doing shit too, and a good hour of their drama consumes screen time, but hey everyone, don't forget, Shelby's just so sick with the diabetes.
The she gets pregnant and oh no, she's just so pretty and just so sick with the diabetes.
Here's where I'm gonna get pissed.
Shelby dies when her hyper-diabetic kidneys quit that bitch. She dies and her stupid little toddler-baby is all "wahhhh, wahhhh" cuz that little fucker can't talk. Shelby dies because, and you can quote me here, SHE IS A SELFISH CUNT.
If every medical professional in the modern world told you you'd be an asshole to have a baby, that you would DIE from motherhood, that you would orphan your child and devastate your whole damn family, how much of a hurry would you be in to get knocked up?
Personally, I'd be out there in Malaysia or Thailand Angelina Jolie-ing the fuck out of some precious caramel colored orphans.
I never before held Shelby's condition and subsequent death against her. Those "Steel Magnolias" were the facets of womanhood embodied. Sure, they were 2 dimensional southern caricatures,but they were relate-able nonetheless. Shelby represented youth. Capricious and altuistric, naive and genuine. Shelby is a beautiful tragic creature, and you helplessly watch as she flouts the restrictions of her hyper-diabetes. She just rubs your face right in it, because you may not be a southern belle, a smart sassy hairdresser, a lovable curmudgeon, or a wealthy southern landowner, but damnit, you were young. You could relate to Shelby more than any other character, because you were both young. And she left you, so she could birth a kid. A kid she KNEW she wouldn't see grow up. Isn't that just as frustrating as anything?
What a shitty bitch.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Soup du Jour
Blogging from work is weird. I get this half hour lunch break, and usually i would spend it reading underneath my favorite oak tree across the parking lot, but the weather has taken a sharp turn into fall, and my ass would get wet if I sat beneath that tree today.
So instead, I am sitting at a computer used by god knows how many individuals, typing on keyboard that had received god knows how many filthy fingers, clicking a mouse that has sat beneath many a polluted palm.
Gross, I know. Not unlike using the computers at your public library, possibly after someone has shat their pants in the seat beside you.
I suppose some more productive lunch break activities would be;
So instead, I am sitting at a computer used by god knows how many individuals, typing on keyboard that had received god knows how many filthy fingers, clicking a mouse that has sat beneath many a polluted palm.
Gross, I know. Not unlike using the computers at your public library, possibly after someone has shat their pants in the seat beside you.
I suppose some more productive lunch break activities would be;
- Scanning the job boards for more substantial work, ie: career ( what's that word mean?)
- contemplating article ideas to potentially sell to one of the weeklies
- inking the comics for the next "success zine"
- taking a walk
- actually eating
Maybe part of my problem is that I would so much rather complain about all the things I want to but can't (won't) do. It's so much easier to talk a buch of rad shit than to do a bunch of rad shit.
Personally, I'm more capable of taking a rad shit than anything else.
Yet another thing I could spend my lunch break doing.
Crap (literal and figurative) aside, I am sitting here at this moderately gross computer, writing a moderately gross blog, wondering, yet again (you'll notice it's a theme) "what the fuck I am doing with my life?"
This morning, I almost cried when the ingredients I wanted to make soup with were unavailable. I almost cried at work. I had to put my head between my hands and lean on something. Who the fuck am I? What the hell kind of work ethic sets you to crying when there's no potatoes left for your baked potato soup?
Why do I care? I don't get a fucking "soup bonus". I'm not a prima donna, and I'm definitely not spoiled, I'm a hard worker, and I care about having a job, so I care about keeping my job. How does that translate to crying in a pantry over nothing?
(In case you're wondering, it has nothing to do with the menses. Beacuse, yes, the menses will get my tear ducts a percolatin', but that's not it, I promise.)
Am I really this unhappy? Fuck.
BTW, I made artichoke bisque, and it's awesome.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Fuck you facebook, you're breaking my heart.
I'm thinking of breaking up with technology. It's been cheating on me..WITH MY PARENTS!!!
Hello, all our mothers are on facebook. Why are our mothers all on facebook? Is this weird to anyone else? I don't need my mom reading all those personal quizzes I'm always taking about what "true-blood" character I am. .
Mom, stay the hell away from my facebook, and if you even think about "tweeting", I'm gonna break your computer by smashing it with my computer.
Similarly, I couldn't help but feel a little offended when my Dad got a iphone. What the hell does he need an iphone for? Here I am with a flip phone from the fucking 90s, and my 62 year old father is you-tubing Beyonce videos on his next generation i-fucking-phone.
Dad, if see you downloading anymore useless "apps" I'm throwing your iphone in the ocean.
Technology, stop giving my parents bedroom eyes, or i swear to god, I'll cut your dick off.
Hello, all our mothers are on facebook. Why are our mothers all on facebook? Is this weird to anyone else? I don't need my mom reading all those personal quizzes I'm always taking about what "true-blood" character I am. .
Mom, stay the hell away from my facebook, and if you even think about "tweeting", I'm gonna break your computer by smashing it with my computer.
Similarly, I couldn't help but feel a little offended when my Dad got a iphone. What the hell does he need an iphone for? Here I am with a flip phone from the fucking 90s, and my 62 year old father is you-tubing Beyonce videos on his next generation i-fucking-phone.
Dad, if see you downloading anymore useless "apps" I'm throwing your iphone in the ocean.
Technology, stop giving my parents bedroom eyes, or i swear to god, I'll cut your dick off.
With respect to Bill Murray
I am unresponsive, barely able to identify the people who surround me. I am somehow on my feet, moving among them. I'm trying to acknowledge them, but the most I can manage are pained groans, grunts, sniffles etc. Sounds and smells are familiar, but I am associating them vaguely with discomfort and bitterness. The recognizable taste of sour bile, and coppery blood rises in my throat. Instead of alarm, it instead raises in me only the same malaise affiliated with all these aforementioned symptoms.
That's right ya'll, it's 7 am and I'm at work!
Yea, yea, I know, nobody really likes their jobs. that's why we've designated them "jobs" rather than "careers". Everybody stumbles blearily through their 20s and early 30s, lost in a string of meaningless 9-5 gigs, paycheck to paycheck, happy hour to happy hour. I accept there there are exceptions to the rule. Young upstarts who got into the ivy league of their choice, talented, driven individuals who succumbed to none of the chagrin I myself have nested in so deeply.
Seriously, fuck them. Fuck them and all their dumbass achievable goals.
To this day, I have not seen one former classmate on MTV. I have read no books penned by my so-called peers. There is not one supermodel or reality tv star among my graduating class.
However, all the marine biology majors, aspiring teachers and beauticians are now basking in the glow of their well won careers. Well, good for them. I'm sure they don't wake up each morning re-realizing the grim certainty of $10 an hour, that becomes maybe $8.50 after taxes, translating into rent, booze, and bills and nothing more. No investment, no equity, no new car, no vacations, no future.
It's groundhog day except not funny.
All of your dreams are bullshit. Everything you wanted as a child is never going to happen. Unless your ultimate dream was absolute mediocrity, or you got into the aforementioned ivy league school, you are completely fucked. Wanted kids before 30, but not before you got that dream career? You lost. Wanted to be a young fabulous mother, possibly write the great American novel from your cushy home office? You lost, you fucking loser.
I am finally accepting these facts. I will not be a young fabulous mother. I will not win an MTV music award. I will not pen the great American anything. The best i can do is wake up every morning, stumble through this god forsaken routine, and accept that tomorrow will be exactly the same.
Until my book deal.
That's right ya'll, it's 7 am and I'm at work!
Yea, yea, I know, nobody really likes their jobs. that's why we've designated them "jobs" rather than "careers". Everybody stumbles blearily through their 20s and early 30s, lost in a string of meaningless 9-5 gigs, paycheck to paycheck, happy hour to happy hour. I accept there there are exceptions to the rule. Young upstarts who got into the ivy league of their choice, talented, driven individuals who succumbed to none of the chagrin I myself have nested in so deeply.
Seriously, fuck them. Fuck them and all their dumbass achievable goals.
To this day, I have not seen one former classmate on MTV. I have read no books penned by my so-called peers. There is not one supermodel or reality tv star among my graduating class.
However, all the marine biology majors, aspiring teachers and beauticians are now basking in the glow of their well won careers. Well, good for them. I'm sure they don't wake up each morning re-realizing the grim certainty of $10 an hour, that becomes maybe $8.50 after taxes, translating into rent, booze, and bills and nothing more. No investment, no equity, no new car, no vacations, no future.
It's groundhog day except not funny.
All of your dreams are bullshit. Everything you wanted as a child is never going to happen. Unless your ultimate dream was absolute mediocrity, or you got into the aforementioned ivy league school, you are completely fucked. Wanted kids before 30, but not before you got that dream career? You lost. Wanted to be a young fabulous mother, possibly write the great American novel from your cushy home office? You lost, you fucking loser.
I am finally accepting these facts. I will not be a young fabulous mother. I will not win an MTV music award. I will not pen the great American anything. The best i can do is wake up every morning, stumble through this god forsaken routine, and accept that tomorrow will be exactly the same.
Until my book deal.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Controversy face
Recently, I introduced the term "rape face" to my circle of friends. Several of the ladies I know and love picked up on the term immediately. Little definition was necessary, and they were able to take the new terminology forth, and use it in their everyday lives.
The gentlemen of the lot, they were a bit more apprehensive. They wondered, did they have a rape face? Were they looking at someone with a rape face? I attempted to assuage them, reassuring them that they all had likeable, even loveable faces.
To be clear, I am not really making light of forced sex, assault with cock, etc. I am simply calling out creepy-ass dudes for having creepy-ass faces. Let's just fucking call em like we see em okay? I'm not going to accommodate some socially stunted loser when his goddamn eyeballs are hanging out of his head shooting laser beams into my nipples.
People, please, don't get me wrong, these rape faces i speak of should not be confused with "felony face", "junkie face", or even the dreaded "adulterer face". All these faces, though they definitely share attributes, are essentially different.
Lets talk about what makes a legitimate "rape face", shall we?
First, the eyes. When you look into the eyes of a friendly companion, you feel warmth, compassion, humor, all the things you may find desirable in a persona grata. The eyes of old rapey over there are bulging out of his head with a feigned interest in every tiny mono-syllable that escapes your lips. The irises are veiled thinly from hyper attention to each minor movement of your face and upper body, darting from right to left eye to mouth to neck to chest to mouth to chest to mouth to chest to mouth (repeat indefinitely, or until you slap him)
The mouth of rapey la'rue is looser than a drunk japanese businessman on payday. He will tell you any damn fool thing that pops into his head. Personal tragedies? Check. Confidential family secrets? Check. Mundane news of the day? Check. He so desires your rapt attention, that he will run his mouth non-fucking-stop until you either palm his face and walk away, or palm his face and walk away.
Every time you walk past a rape face, you will hear a familiar intake of breath. He is sniffing your hair, girl. Your best bet at this point is to whip around, face him, and holler" ARE YOU SMELLING ME?". Regretfully, this will not deter Mr. Rape-ola, but it will expose his creepy-osity to all bystanders.
Creeps exist in all strata of society. Females of the species are perfectly capable of rape face. I myself could have been considered moderately rape-y at one time or another( insert liquor bottle heeere). Again, I'm not accusing anyone of sex crimes or assault of any kind, I'm merely pointing out a certain type of creep. A creep that I simply cannot abide. I mean, seriously, do you have a goddamn piss-boner? Why are you jumping around like that?
So there, i guess that about covers it. Chances are, you probably don't have a "rape face". It's far more likely you're just ugly. (unless you're my friend, everyone knows all my friends are fucking gorgeous)
The gentlemen of the lot, they were a bit more apprehensive. They wondered, did they have a rape face? Were they looking at someone with a rape face? I attempted to assuage them, reassuring them that they all had likeable, even loveable faces.
To be clear, I am not really making light of forced sex, assault with cock, etc. I am simply calling out creepy-ass dudes for having creepy-ass faces. Let's just fucking call em like we see em okay? I'm not going to accommodate some socially stunted loser when his goddamn eyeballs are hanging out of his head shooting laser beams into my nipples.
People, please, don't get me wrong, these rape faces i speak of should not be confused with "felony face", "junkie face", or even the dreaded "adulterer face". All these faces, though they definitely share attributes, are essentially different.
Lets talk about what makes a legitimate "rape face", shall we?
First, the eyes. When you look into the eyes of a friendly companion, you feel warmth, compassion, humor, all the things you may find desirable in a persona grata. The eyes of old rapey over there are bulging out of his head with a feigned interest in every tiny mono-syllable that escapes your lips. The irises are veiled thinly from hyper attention to each minor movement of your face and upper body, darting from right to left eye to mouth to neck to chest to mouth to chest to mouth to chest to mouth (repeat indefinitely, or until you slap him)
The mouth of rapey la'rue is looser than a drunk japanese businessman on payday. He will tell you any damn fool thing that pops into his head. Personal tragedies? Check. Confidential family secrets? Check. Mundane news of the day? Check. He so desires your rapt attention, that he will run his mouth non-fucking-stop until you either palm his face and walk away, or palm his face and walk away.
Every time you walk past a rape face, you will hear a familiar intake of breath. He is sniffing your hair, girl. Your best bet at this point is to whip around, face him, and holler" ARE YOU SMELLING ME?". Regretfully, this will not deter Mr. Rape-ola, but it will expose his creepy-osity to all bystanders.
Creeps exist in all strata of society. Females of the species are perfectly capable of rape face. I myself could have been considered moderately rape-y at one time or another( insert liquor bottle heeere). Again, I'm not accusing anyone of sex crimes or assault of any kind, I'm merely pointing out a certain type of creep. A creep that I simply cannot abide. I mean, seriously, do you have a goddamn piss-boner? Why are you jumping around like that?
So there, i guess that about covers it. Chances are, you probably don't have a "rape face". It's far more likely you're just ugly. (unless you're my friend, everyone knows all my friends are fucking gorgeous)
Sunday, September 27, 2009
ass-intervention
In two weeks, I will be celebrating (?) my 31st birthday. Maybe this year I can get my goddamn shit together. I think I'll start by making this birthday ALCOHOL FREE.
Admittedly, I love the sauce. I love knocking back beers with my bros, I love cocktailing the evening away with my ladies. Being soused has eased my transition from young idealist to bitter dowager so painlessly that I hardly even noticed my dreams withering away like old lady titties.
A few nights ago I accidentally butt-dialed my fiance while getting shitfaced with my buddy, Patrick. For those fortunate individuals who are not familiar with the term "butt-dial", let me enlighten you.
Butt-dialing is a phenomenon occurring when the pda-style phone is placed in the back pocket of jeans, with all of it's navigation buttons exposed, and when your drunk ass is sprawled on someones stoop, buttons can be activated and calls can be made.
Craig spent 20 or so minutes listening to me and Patrick drunkenly rant about such academic and inspirational topics as "puppets who puke" and "where the hell did all that beer go?"
That, however, was not the main issue, as butt dials are a part of life these days, bound to happen to any blackberry owning individual. The main issue was the embarrassment that shot through me when I heard that I had unknowingly drunk dialed my future husband.
What had I said? I had no idea. I could recall little of my evening on Patrick's porch.
But, this is no rare occurrence. In fact, I can hardly recall some of the best moments of my life. To me, celebration has become synonymous with fall down, laugh till you puke, chug-it-like-you-love-it, drrruuuunkkk. Now, that's not necessarily a bad thing, I mean, I'm pretty sure I still hold the Long Beach kegstand record. And It's not a bad feeling to have a hometown bartender remember your name after you've lived in a different state for 3 years.
My close personal relationship with beer is not the issue that I am dealing with on the eve of the anniversary of my 21st birthday.
At 31 years old, it is my opinion that the antics that were permissible, if not encouraged at 21, are no longer cute. Passing out on the bathroom floor at 21 is funny. Ha ha you learned something, shake it off, get ready for sociology or philosophy 101.
Passing out any floor at 31 is cause for alarm, possibly intervention.
I should know, at this point in my life, when i am no longer lubricating the social situation, but rather drowning it, choking it, inducing it to vomit, then letting it pass out on the bathroom floor.
My fabulous friend, booze, has been by my side for some of the best moments of my life. Sure, it's done me wrong a few times, but all good friends have their ups and downs. Lately though, those same libations have been leading me down a disgusting alley that smells like rat shit and hobo vomit.
That alley seemed so interesting at 21 years of age. That was before my beer goggles went all prescription on me.
Thus, 2 weeks from my 31st birthday, I will be forgoing the champagne shower, the cocktail marinade, the beer bath. I will be enjoying birthday activities that, at least this year, I will remember.
Wish me luck!
Admittedly, I love the sauce. I love knocking back beers with my bros, I love cocktailing the evening away with my ladies. Being soused has eased my transition from young idealist to bitter dowager so painlessly that I hardly even noticed my dreams withering away like old lady titties.
A few nights ago I accidentally butt-dialed my fiance while getting shitfaced with my buddy, Patrick. For those fortunate individuals who are not familiar with the term "butt-dial", let me enlighten you.
Butt-dialing is a phenomenon occurring when the pda-style phone is placed in the back pocket of jeans, with all of it's navigation buttons exposed, and when your drunk ass is sprawled on someones stoop, buttons can be activated and calls can be made.
Craig spent 20 or so minutes listening to me and Patrick drunkenly rant about such academic and inspirational topics as "puppets who puke" and "where the hell did all that beer go?"
That, however, was not the main issue, as butt dials are a part of life these days, bound to happen to any blackberry owning individual. The main issue was the embarrassment that shot through me when I heard that I had unknowingly drunk dialed my future husband.
What had I said? I had no idea. I could recall little of my evening on Patrick's porch.
But, this is no rare occurrence. In fact, I can hardly recall some of the best moments of my life. To me, celebration has become synonymous with fall down, laugh till you puke, chug-it-like-you-love-it, drrruuuunkkk. Now, that's not necessarily a bad thing, I mean, I'm pretty sure I still hold the Long Beach kegstand record. And It's not a bad feeling to have a hometown bartender remember your name after you've lived in a different state for 3 years.
My close personal relationship with beer is not the issue that I am dealing with on the eve of the anniversary of my 21st birthday.
At 31 years old, it is my opinion that the antics that were permissible, if not encouraged at 21, are no longer cute. Passing out on the bathroom floor at 21 is funny. Ha ha you learned something, shake it off, get ready for sociology or philosophy 101.
Passing out any floor at 31 is cause for alarm, possibly intervention.
I should know, at this point in my life, when i am no longer lubricating the social situation, but rather drowning it, choking it, inducing it to vomit, then letting it pass out on the bathroom floor.
My fabulous friend, booze, has been by my side for some of the best moments of my life. Sure, it's done me wrong a few times, but all good friends have their ups and downs. Lately though, those same libations have been leading me down a disgusting alley that smells like rat shit and hobo vomit.
That alley seemed so interesting at 21 years of age. That was before my beer goggles went all prescription on me.
Thus, 2 weeks from my 31st birthday, I will be forgoing the champagne shower, the cocktail marinade, the beer bath. I will be enjoying birthday activities that, at least this year, I will remember.
Wish me luck!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)