Route 6b Northbound, 8:37am, W 4 W
You: the blonde, fresh out of high school chick with the compact mirror and green purse sitting next to
Me: the young brunette in office attire
Hey, we all need to do our makeup in the morning – and with your face, frankly, I get it. I myself have been known to touch up my lip gloss from time to time, squished between an aging alcoholic and a school bound punk riding the bus on my way to work. So I didn’t bat an eye when you took out your compact and generously reapplied your eyeliner – okay, maybe I raised an eyebrow when you took out the foundation to smear over your numerous blemishes, and my lips may have started pursing when I saw your hands slip “subtly” down your shirt to readjust your assets. But for Christ’s Sake, tweezers? Really? Jesus woman, do you really think we want to know how much of your eyebrows you need to pull out before you resemble anything more human than a dolled-up squirrel?
Anyway – you all-natural beauty, you – I wanted to apologize for standing so abruptly when some of your eyebrow hairs landed on my blazer. I really didn’t mean to bump the sharp end of your tweezers into your eye like that. My bad.
Showing posts with label On Idiots. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On Idiots. Show all posts
Thursday, 7 October 2010
Friday, 15 January 2010
Silly Woman
The other day I was munching on my lunch and flipping through the Martlet when I came across a read so compelling, I nearly walked into a truck, two people, and summarily ended up falling into a pond (I’d say puddle, but no one calls something two feet deep a puddle). I am, of course, referring to “La femme de la revolution.”
Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.
I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.
Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?
Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.
In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?
Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.
I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.
Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?
Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.
In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Cleaning Tips for New Roomates
- it is possible to keep everyone from knowing your on the rag if you actually wipe the blood off the toilet seats
-you can avoid weeks of disgust by simply mopping the dog piss off the floor
-the fantastic colour of the marble floor really comes out if you ash cigarettes and joints not around the tray, but in it.
-if a rough schedule for taking out the garbage is hard to hammer out with the roommates, an excellent timing indicator is the rotting juice that eventually forms around the bottom of the garbage bag
-a good way to show your appreciation for a job well done is to avoid walking over a freshly mopped floor in sand caked shoes
-carrying that bucket of your overcooked, three week leftovers all the way to the door does not actually mean that it’s been taken care of
- while the effort to cook and actually make use of our minimal kitchen is appreciated, it would be better were you to actually eat what was cooked, as opposed to letting in biodegrade in a pot for a week
- you’ll feel much better the morning after if you actually empty the garbage bin you used to throw up in
- sweeping every four or five days is not actually considered “excessive” in most households.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Untamed Directions
The other day I discovered that my hair first thing in the morning vaguely reminds my roommate of how complicated travel plans can become. The mirror before my morning coffee regularly reflects a mess of different choices and different directions I could take. Would it be best to head east, like the strand at the very back of my scalp? Or perhaps a trip, imitating the curl above my left ear, to Costa Rica and back would be the best way to go? In the end, most people would just sigh, wash out the tangles and do their hair exactly as they would any other morning. I, on the other hand, am left to struggle with the sort hereditarily stubborn hair that refuses to settle into any sort of decent direction and accept that I simply have to go with it; I simply have to take the course plotted by the rooster’s crest I awake to.
My compulsion to get up and leave has proven itself to be, like my hair, something I find uniquely difficult to tame. The very idea that I am stuck in one town for the next three years to do something as inconsequential as “graduate” strikes me as the sort of tragedy books are written on; or rather aren’t, considering the lack of inspirational new terrains or languages left to conquer in Victoria. Instead, I’ve taken it upon myself to scrape my already liver-drained bank account empty and go anywhere at any time the student life will let me.
The itch to follow the kinks in my early morning tresses began to really bite early last year and I started soliciting friends to follow me to Mexico; mundane and touristy but something I had yet to get a taste of (besides, who wouldn’t love to spend a solid week tequila soaked on a beach?). And did I ever fucking solicit; you could have probably seen the knee high boots and neon belly tops on Google Earth. Of course, I got plenty of offers; a little nudge from one friend proclaiming how much they’ve always wanted to visit Mexico, another saying they’d long dreamed of spending spring break on a beach and yet one more who nearly drooled as much as I did at the idea of unlimited drinks. But, somehow, whenever it came time for me to walk into the travel agency’s office and take a stab at my credit, the friend mysteriously came down with an inability to pull their shit together.
So I sat myself in front of a pitcher. Hey, if I couldn’t drown myself in tequila for spring break, I planned on spending plenty of time with the Canadian alternative. Dejectedly sprawled in a booth at my local pub and drawing borders in the foam at the bottom of my pint, it came to me that this was not the first time I had been forced to curb my wanderlust after a partner in crime had come to their senses. Other people had incomes they couldn’t put on hold, a second half they couldn’t peel from their hips, or, you know, shit to get done.
And yet none of this seems to have even the slightest effect on how I wake up every day. I still can’t get that cowlick to sit smoothly on my neck, deny myself an opportunity to be anywhere unfamiliar, or come close to comprehending why so many people can’t push themselves outside of their home circle. Why bother with all the wistful sighs and talk of packing up your suitcase if you can’t even bring yourself to get a passport? Then again, that leaves the untold stories, untamed hair and uncharted men for me.
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Smack That!
What better way to say “I miss you” than to leave an impression that results in a week of soft cursing whenever you sit your sore behind down? Ask this of the average, female, humanities student and all you will get are several raised eyebrows and a few outraged gasps. According to a group of women in one of my English classes (whose collective refusal to admit make up may be a good idea and razors a fantastic one negates any desire to associate with them outside class discussions), a firm smack to the ass is not the way to win a girl’s heart.
“That’s supposed to be endearing?” she says, tugging at her calf length, burlap skirt.
Well, obviously. How else would a long-lost friend reaffirm his love for me than to assert how fantastically bootilicious my behind is? Truth be told, I like knowing that what my mama gave me is thoroughly appreciated, be it by friends or otherwise. It is those moments of feminist outrage that I (as unlikely as it may sound) feel the pangs of pity for the “oppressed sex,” although, coincidentally, considering how oppressed I’ve been feeling of late, I’ve begun to believe that there is quite possibly a third gender previously unknown to science- the otherwise labelled women’s studies major.
Between the extensive collection of bruises gathered during gameplay that may have one day been limited to me and the assortment of free drinks gleaned by lounging over the bar, I would be betraying myself were I to even nod in the direction of those who cry for female justice. Even with tits I could make a fortune (were my career ever to become one), I could buy and drink as much alcohol as the next guy, and I could uphold laws should I ever desire to; granted, the fight for feminine equality could still make some advancements were the access to male changing rooms remains limited. For that, I might consider not crumpling the petition sheet.
“But how do you justify the objectifying?” they might cry. Perhaps, biology may have something to do with it; our very own ogling of male muscles during sports games, the enthusiasm over the hard angle of a jaw, or for the less aggressive madames, the way the male lips curve over the words “make love to me!” I was once told that humans have been biologically designed for reproductive purposes, but that would be as ridiculous as believing in the existence of evolution. Astoundingly enough, science also states that an entire one hundred percent of the population is devised of males and females (although, should my earlier hypothesis be proven true, I will have to admit the aforementioned fact should no longer be considered as such) and therefore an equivalent percentage of human interaction is based on the genders of the involved persons. Thus, the demand for the cessation of both ogling and objectifying is not only a doomed battle, but one that would leave me without the wolf whistles, ass grabs and free drinks that not only add spice to my evenings, but flavour to my subsequent stories.
The feminist crusade to see a world of complete and utter equality is one that is about as completely and utterly useless as the laundry basket in my room. What kind of fun are we expected to have if we are forced to pretend that there are no subtle imbalances in the game play between dudes and broads? That I couldn’t swing my hips to get a door opened or cook dinner for the spell of solid biceps simply because we are all supposedly equal is just fucking ridiculous. I am about as equal as I ever want to be, being the “good looking broad” that I am and about as uninsulted by that statement as the next girl, and I could not possibly bring myself to sympathize with a chick who believes her breasts to be in the way of her future or who finds insult in a cat call. So they want all up on that hemp-covered ass; where’s the offence in that?
“That’s supposed to be endearing?” she says, tugging at her calf length, burlap skirt.
Well, obviously. How else would a long-lost friend reaffirm his love for me than to assert how fantastically bootilicious my behind is? Truth be told, I like knowing that what my mama gave me is thoroughly appreciated, be it by friends or otherwise. It is those moments of feminist outrage that I (as unlikely as it may sound) feel the pangs of pity for the “oppressed sex,” although, coincidentally, considering how oppressed I’ve been feeling of late, I’ve begun to believe that there is quite possibly a third gender previously unknown to science- the otherwise labelled women’s studies major.
Between the extensive collection of bruises gathered during gameplay that may have one day been limited to me and the assortment of free drinks gleaned by lounging over the bar, I would be betraying myself were I to even nod in the direction of those who cry for female justice. Even with tits I could make a fortune (were my career ever to become one), I could buy and drink as much alcohol as the next guy, and I could uphold laws should I ever desire to; granted, the fight for feminine equality could still make some advancements were the access to male changing rooms remains limited. For that, I might consider not crumpling the petition sheet.
“But how do you justify the objectifying?” they might cry. Perhaps, biology may have something to do with it; our very own ogling of male muscles during sports games, the enthusiasm over the hard angle of a jaw, or for the less aggressive madames, the way the male lips curve over the words “make love to me!” I was once told that humans have been biologically designed for reproductive purposes, but that would be as ridiculous as believing in the existence of evolution. Astoundingly enough, science also states that an entire one hundred percent of the population is devised of males and females (although, should my earlier hypothesis be proven true, I will have to admit the aforementioned fact should no longer be considered as such) and therefore an equivalent percentage of human interaction is based on the genders of the involved persons. Thus, the demand for the cessation of both ogling and objectifying is not only a doomed battle, but one that would leave me without the wolf whistles, ass grabs and free drinks that not only add spice to my evenings, but flavour to my subsequent stories.
The feminist crusade to see a world of complete and utter equality is one that is about as completely and utterly useless as the laundry basket in my room. What kind of fun are we expected to have if we are forced to pretend that there are no subtle imbalances in the game play between dudes and broads? That I couldn’t swing my hips to get a door opened or cook dinner for the spell of solid biceps simply because we are all supposedly equal is just fucking ridiculous. I am about as equal as I ever want to be, being the “good looking broad” that I am and about as uninsulted by that statement as the next girl, and I could not possibly bring myself to sympathize with a chick who believes her breasts to be in the way of her future or who finds insult in a cat call. So they want all up on that hemp-covered ass; where’s the offence in that?
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Thank You for Calling
Slipping into student life has not only altered my definitions of socially–acceptable existence (regular showering or eating things other than carbohydrates are no longer categorized as requirements, but time consuming luxuries) but that being flat broke sucks. Somehow, despite my earlier beliefs, spending your time studying or consuming alcohol does not lend itself to a full wallet. Discovering that my meagre funds were slowly funnelling out of my savings account and into my liver, I decided that it was past time to invade the working world. So invade I did.
The glory and triumph of being marginally successful only lasted so long; working in a call center may have successfully ruined my faith in humanity. One would imagine that informing people of the reason as to why their money is no longer available to them would at least evoke some sort of measure of thanks; unfortunately, this is not the case. Upon presenting a surprisingly large number of customers with the specifics, I am all-too-often met with a firm front of disbelief and a contrived conviction that I am making things up just to fuck with them. Congratulations retards; that is exactly what my plan is.
Despite the very solid fact that I am actually paid to pass on the correct information to those who assault me with questions and concerns, common belief dictates that those of us who you call for information, in reality, have none. The number of times each piece of knowledge is repeated to each individual client only serves to punctuate our uselessness to the customer, as well as the uselessness of their cognitive abilities. Subsequently, it turns out that most people have no idea how many numbers to read when asked for eight, nor that I actually need to hear them to be able to know what they are.
Unbeknownst to most callers, the mute button is one of our favourite tools. While they are kindly reminding me that honesty is important to the health of a relationship or asking what on earth we are doing as a country to charge such high rent, I get to giggle silently on the other line without penalty. The mute button could only have been installed to allow us to remain professional while informing the customer that all of their funds have gone to porn sites, alcohol and True.com. The customer may be mid-rant, but we are catching up on the latest gossip with our coworkers; you may think that you’re complaint about the fees charged is one that sets you apart and gains our respect, but it’s about as significant to my day as the sandwich that I ate earlier. In fact, less so (it was a damned good sandwich).
Thank you for calling customer service, please hang up; we really don’t give a shit.
The glory and triumph of being marginally successful only lasted so long; working in a call center may have successfully ruined my faith in humanity. One would imagine that informing people of the reason as to why their money is no longer available to them would at least evoke some sort of measure of thanks; unfortunately, this is not the case. Upon presenting a surprisingly large number of customers with the specifics, I am all-too-often met with a firm front of disbelief and a contrived conviction that I am making things up just to fuck with them. Congratulations retards; that is exactly what my plan is.
Despite the very solid fact that I am actually paid to pass on the correct information to those who assault me with questions and concerns, common belief dictates that those of us who you call for information, in reality, have none. The number of times each piece of knowledge is repeated to each individual client only serves to punctuate our uselessness to the customer, as well as the uselessness of their cognitive abilities. Subsequently, it turns out that most people have no idea how many numbers to read when asked for eight, nor that I actually need to hear them to be able to know what they are.
Unbeknownst to most callers, the mute button is one of our favourite tools. While they are kindly reminding me that honesty is important to the health of a relationship or asking what on earth we are doing as a country to charge such high rent, I get to giggle silently on the other line without penalty. The mute button could only have been installed to allow us to remain professional while informing the customer that all of their funds have gone to porn sites, alcohol and True.com. The customer may be mid-rant, but we are catching up on the latest gossip with our coworkers; you may think that you’re complaint about the fees charged is one that sets you apart and gains our respect, but it’s about as significant to my day as the sandwich that I ate earlier. In fact, less so (it was a damned good sandwich).
Thank you for calling customer service, please hang up; we really don’t give a shit.
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Save This, Greenpeace
Growing up, my brothers and I were subjected to a household of a mere five TV channels, not including the French one (which doesn’t count either way simply because it isn’t the superior language of English). Sunday mornings spent flipping desperately through the few stations we had access to taught me that not only are Sundays the most entertainment-devoid day of the week, but that there are a lot of causes you can support for the low, low cost of $19.95 per month. Moving to Victoria, however, has expanded my childhood knowledge and taught me that nearly everything which has suffered injustice is worthy of a band of official supporters. Personally, I have been accosted by those for abortion, against abortion, for sex, against whales, for marijuana, against evangelical movements and for polyamoury, amongst others. It has come to my attention, on the other hand, that there is a gaping hole in the repertoire of causes for creatures.
What of the paramecium?
Somehow society and the intellect of the scientific community have been avoiding the terrible truth of the abuses that happen in high school and first year biology courses everywhere. While I am generally not one to sign petitions or protest for any cause that does not directly involve me, my life or my personal comfort, the abuse of the paramecium is simply appalling. Compared to the imprisoned paramecium, the supposed ‘suffering’ of whales is an over romanticized notion of non-existent neglect. Whales already enjoy the freedom of nearly 68 percent of the Earth’s surface area along with international protection as opposed to the unregulated airtight glass slides that the paramecium is imprisoned within. Millions of the creatures are subjected to constant observation and manipulation under deathly bright lights; all of them are left to dry out and die. These injustices have become so normalized that somehow the end of feminism is a greater cause than that of stopping our teachers and roommates from continuing on this massacre of the noble single-celled creatures.
It is time that Sunday mornings (long abandoned by the hopes of even remotely interesting programming) be dominated by unfortunate and ignored causes, such as the promotion of meat consumption and egocentrism, for the low, low cost of a working TV. Forget starvation in downtown Calgary; I would rather spend my beer money on saving the paramecium.
What of the paramecium?
Somehow society and the intellect of the scientific community have been avoiding the terrible truth of the abuses that happen in high school and first year biology courses everywhere. While I am generally not one to sign petitions or protest for any cause that does not directly involve me, my life or my personal comfort, the abuse of the paramecium is simply appalling. Compared to the imprisoned paramecium, the supposed ‘suffering’ of whales is an over romanticized notion of non-existent neglect. Whales already enjoy the freedom of nearly 68 percent of the Earth’s surface area along with international protection as opposed to the unregulated airtight glass slides that the paramecium is imprisoned within. Millions of the creatures are subjected to constant observation and manipulation under deathly bright lights; all of them are left to dry out and die. These injustices have become so normalized that somehow the end of feminism is a greater cause than that of stopping our teachers and roommates from continuing on this massacre of the noble single-celled creatures.
It is time that Sunday mornings (long abandoned by the hopes of even remotely interesting programming) be dominated by unfortunate and ignored causes, such as the promotion of meat consumption and egocentrism, for the low, low cost of a working TV. Forget starvation in downtown Calgary; I would rather spend my beer money on saving the paramecium.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Racing Stripes
Dear Fashionable Gentlemen;
We know that you primp, preen and hone yourself to as close to perfection as your physique and modern cosmetic technology will allow you. By ‘we’ I mean the female population in general and we, the part of the female population that appreciates your efforts to catch our interest, can completely sympathize with the pains you put up with simply for our benefit (I suppose it’s really all to your benefit if you are getting the attention, but that’s beside the point.). Regrettably, a sizable share of you has taken the task of preening too far. Luckily for you, however, a large proportion of the above mentioned women who, as much as this may personally bewilder me, more than simply value those of you who are well groomed, but swoon over men with perfect tans, frosted tips and that oh-so masculine diamond earring hanging off of your earlobes. Fine; I’m sure your matching tans and Luis Vuitton purses will look great together.
Over time, I have learned to repress my gag reflex (as it really is rather unhealthy to heave so often) when I happen to run into those of you who spend more time on your two inches of one hundred and fifty dollar hair than I did on my entire outfit before heading to the bar that night. Despite obvious distaste and a general disapproval for men who remind me more of my female friends than of those with bits that dangle, I have come to accept that you will forever be a part of the social scene. The past three years or so, however, have brought a new idea to the ‘fashion’ stage that has left me completely bewildered and near incapable of speech. It is just that horrendous.
Why the fuck would you shave racing stripes into the sides of your heads?
Do they make you go faster? (which is not something you should be advertising to get sex anyway) Is it perhaps an accelerator to your love lives that I have failed to notice? I suppose it is plausible that in my distaste for men like you, I have somehow managed to block an innate female draw to men with stripes by their temples. That must be it! The patterns you dropped your last pay cheque for (or had your mother cut in her kitchen) must be some sort of archaic natural symbolism designed to draw us females into your arms and bedrooms. Better yet, it is entirely possible that those outlines were not even a result of conscious design but rather that of a vicious street fight in which you were repeatedly knifed across the temple and nowhere else, thanks to your incredible testosterone drive and the inevitable defeat of your attacker.
…Right. As a gesture of peace, however, I wholeheartedly allow you to take those excuses as your own and run with it if you still feel the need to flex your waxed, cheddar-coloured arms and zoom by us ladies at the bars. Whenever you see any of us smiling at you from the dance floor, try not to ponder too deeply into whether we’re smiling at you or if we are really reading the message shaved into the side of your head; you’ll just end up lowering your hard earned self-esteem.
We know that you primp, preen and hone yourself to as close to perfection as your physique and modern cosmetic technology will allow you. By ‘we’ I mean the female population in general and we, the part of the female population that appreciates your efforts to catch our interest, can completely sympathize with the pains you put up with simply for our benefit (I suppose it’s really all to your benefit if you are getting the attention, but that’s beside the point.). Regrettably, a sizable share of you has taken the task of preening too far. Luckily for you, however, a large proportion of the above mentioned women who, as much as this may personally bewilder me, more than simply value those of you who are well groomed, but swoon over men with perfect tans, frosted tips and that oh-so masculine diamond earring hanging off of your earlobes. Fine; I’m sure your matching tans and Luis Vuitton purses will look great together.
Over time, I have learned to repress my gag reflex (as it really is rather unhealthy to heave so often) when I happen to run into those of you who spend more time on your two inches of one hundred and fifty dollar hair than I did on my entire outfit before heading to the bar that night. Despite obvious distaste and a general disapproval for men who remind me more of my female friends than of those with bits that dangle, I have come to accept that you will forever be a part of the social scene. The past three years or so, however, have brought a new idea to the ‘fashion’ stage that has left me completely bewildered and near incapable of speech. It is just that horrendous.
Why the fuck would you shave racing stripes into the sides of your heads?
Do they make you go faster? (which is not something you should be advertising to get sex anyway) Is it perhaps an accelerator to your love lives that I have failed to notice? I suppose it is plausible that in my distaste for men like you, I have somehow managed to block an innate female draw to men with stripes by their temples. That must be it! The patterns you dropped your last pay cheque for (or had your mother cut in her kitchen) must be some sort of archaic natural symbolism designed to draw us females into your arms and bedrooms. Better yet, it is entirely possible that those outlines were not even a result of conscious design but rather that of a vicious street fight in which you were repeatedly knifed across the temple and nowhere else, thanks to your incredible testosterone drive and the inevitable defeat of your attacker.
…Right. As a gesture of peace, however, I wholeheartedly allow you to take those excuses as your own and run with it if you still feel the need to flex your waxed, cheddar-coloured arms and zoom by us ladies at the bars. Whenever you see any of us smiling at you from the dance floor, try not to ponder too deeply into whether we’re smiling at you or if we are really reading the message shaved into the side of your head; you’ll just end up lowering your hard earned self-esteem.
Monday, 21 January 2008
Blood Spatter on the Rose Petal of My Heart
Please, recognize the humour in this... this is by no means the way I would spill my heart out on the internet (which I'm very pleased to say I've never done). I think if I were to do as much, I would have to be no older than 14, and the final result would be much more obscene. Kindly see 'Option C' for further background.
today marks the third dark day in a week of oppression. i do not know how my soul could possibly take this much cruelty and confinement, but somehow i think i have inverted myself so as to protect the preciously soft material that forms my heart. i can not bring myself to understand the motives of the bodies that gave me life. yes, i say bodies because i believe it to be quite impossible to so thoroughly lack compassion as a proper live human being; and worse yet, to show compassion for the vampiric creature with whom i share no more than name.
that beast believes herself to have the power to speak of my whereabouts to our unfortunate creators, despite my obvious instructions and faith in her silence. she can consider herself cursed from this moment on- she no longer has a brother. and thus, while she lays unsuspectingly in the laps of my guardsmen; i will exact my revenge. how many people, i wonder, has she told of her youthful bedwetting problems? … all the while they dote over her despicability and ignore my need for affection; even if the ones i require care from seem to lack that human quality.
“i’m not okay,” to quote the brilliant gerard arthur way who, incidentally, is slandered inappropriately by those who can not seem to bring themselves to understand the way he touches so many broken souls. where would i be without his beautiful music? unemotional and more alone than i am now, without a doubt. i would still be mourning that cruel bitch who had the nerve to steal the pure virginity of my lips and then tell the clandestinites of our institution of conformity that i did not suck face properly. how is my soul ever supposed to find its bloody twin in this tainted environment! speaking of conformity; we the clandestinites have made a movement for individuality and expression; no more shall we capitalize. it is an elevation of one idea above another, the escalation of one’s blood over another’s, the assertion that one sibling is better than the other. and so capitalization will become a thing of the past.
my spirit is now too heavy with emotion and i have bared my beating heart for too long; i must leave you until later and cleanse my blood of today’s injustice.
**dark~nymph**
~*ps. i got tix to good charlotte’s show! =D itll be nothing but babes!*~
today marks the third dark day in a week of oppression. i do not know how my soul could possibly take this much cruelty and confinement, but somehow i think i have inverted myself so as to protect the preciously soft material that forms my heart. i can not bring myself to understand the motives of the bodies that gave me life. yes, i say bodies because i believe it to be quite impossible to so thoroughly lack compassion as a proper live human being; and worse yet, to show compassion for the vampiric creature with whom i share no more than name.
that beast believes herself to have the power to speak of my whereabouts to our unfortunate creators, despite my obvious instructions and faith in her silence. she can consider herself cursed from this moment on- she no longer has a brother. and thus, while she lays unsuspectingly in the laps of my guardsmen; i will exact my revenge. how many people, i wonder, has she told of her youthful bedwetting problems? … all the while they dote over her despicability and ignore my need for affection; even if the ones i require care from seem to lack that human quality.
“i’m not okay,” to quote the brilliant gerard arthur way who, incidentally, is slandered inappropriately by those who can not seem to bring themselves to understand the way he touches so many broken souls. where would i be without his beautiful music? unemotional and more alone than i am now, without a doubt. i would still be mourning that cruel bitch who had the nerve to steal the pure virginity of my lips and then tell the clandestinites of our institution of conformity that i did not suck face properly. how is my soul ever supposed to find its bloody twin in this tainted environment! speaking of conformity; we the clandestinites have made a movement for individuality and expression; no more shall we capitalize. it is an elevation of one idea above another, the escalation of one’s blood over another’s, the assertion that one sibling is better than the other. and so capitalization will become a thing of the past.
my spirit is now too heavy with emotion and i have bared my beating heart for too long; i must leave you until later and cleanse my blood of today’s injustice.
**dark~nymph**
~*ps. i got tix to good charlotte’s show! =D itll be nothing but babes!*~
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