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Today, I don't want to be loved for who I am. I want to be loved for what I look like.
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I've decided to amuse myself at work by reading the postings on craigslist.com. Occasionally, I find something worth sharing.
From the "Missed Connections" branch of the "Personals" section:
What we need more of is science - w4m - 23
I've seen you around WashU med school a couple of times, wearing an R. Beef shirt. I've tried to say hi, but before I can utter the words "Volvo of Despair", you are gone. Let's be buds. I'll wear my rabbit ambulance shirt.
Part of me wonders if I've seen these two around campus.
Also from "Missed Connections" -
I saw you in a dream
Before you get any bright ideas, no, it wasnt that kind of dream. I was actually being chased through some strange indoor industrialized swamp by trained attack crocodiles, but thats not important right now. What is important, is towards the end, right before I woke up, the overgrown lizards were gone, and you were standing there looking at me as I bled all over the floor. Physically you could be described as about 5'5", 115lbs, long dark hair, a slender face with deep blue/green-ish eyes. You were the most beautiful person in the world, not because you had a body that I could spend entire days perving over (and boy did you, woof), but because your eyes had a meaning, some sort of communication in them. The message I got was "everything is ok", and I want that when I'm awake too.
Cute. Real cute. I bet that used to make the girls back home wet almost istantly. "I saw you in a dream!" Uh huh. I know what you really want while you're awake - an underweight, barely legal sylph who's willing to exchange sexual favors for more of your exquisite bullshit. NEXT.
And furthermore:
you, with the freckle in your eye - m4w - 26
yeah, I still think about you on the daily.
why?
you broke my fucking heart.
Freckle? Eye? What exactly is going on here? And I can tell just by looking at your grammar, Bub, that she left you for a reason.
This next one is from the "Casual Encounters" section:
Married guy in STL Looking to please women - m4w - 29
Want to please women...all types: younger, older, single and married.
Lets have some safe, no strings attached fun!
Will be completely discreet and sexually satisfying. Reply now and lets enjoy! I'm tall, well built and good...
Asshole. Why the hell did you get married? I hope your wife replies to the add!
Here's a few more . . .
Wanted: Man with with non-American accent - 43 (sic)
Looking for a discreet relationship long-term or short term, with a man who must have a real (not fake)non-American accent.Prefer United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, French.
Need something different! Accents excite me.
If you are a match, we'll have a great time.
I am an accomplished professional, pay my own way, love to laugh, love a challenge, physically fit, busy, have travelled alot. If you're out there-say hello!
Hchallo. Mhy naime eeze Mikhael. You ahre mhore byuteeful den da turnip preencess uv legend!
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I have no right to complain, for I was warned many times about the Missouri summer. But it's hot. And I have no air conditioning. No air conditioning by choice. When I moved in, Mr. Morris, the landlord, gave me a choice between a refrigerator or an air conditioning unit in my room, and without hesitation, I took the fridge.
It's not all bad. Sure, I can store and consume my food independantly of the other tenants. And without an air conditioner, I'm saving the earth, being "energy conscious" and all that jazz. Best of all, I don't need an alarm clock, since the heat wakes me up every half hour or so.
Did I mention that my skin looks fabulous? Who needs a sauna?
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I ...
Am: - sticky
- made of trillions of cells
- mean as a hornet going through menopause
Am not: - afraid to participate in amateur night at the strip club
- my brother's keeper
- satisfied with only 16 colors of crayon
Want: - to bite off more that I can chew
- America to legalize marijuana
- to dye my eyebrows blue
Have: - no idea what's going on
- glowstix
- ghonaherpesyphilaids. Damn those Saigon whores!
Wish: - that I could magically remove stains by staring at them
- for whirled peas
- that the fucking rabid squirrel who lives outside my bedroom window would stop breaking into my room while I'm sleeping.
Hate: - HipHop, Rap, and Country music
- that guy who almost ran me over this morning while I was walking
- spiders and those fucking panda bears
Miss: - universe
- understanding
- creant
Fear: - teratomas (TUMORS WITH TEETH AND HAIR IN THEM! God, please spare my precious ovaries!)
- clergymen
- The Village People
Hear: - the lambs; they're screaming!
- my own teeth grinding
- doof, doof, doof, doof, doof doof doof doof doof-doof-doof-doof! TweedleTWEET! TweedleTWEET! doof, doof . . .
Search: - For the perfect martini
- my sole
- my sock drawer
Wonder: - if there is unintelligent life out there
- how long my back is going to last before it gives out
- why a latte costs $3.50
Regret: - saying all those little things I knew would piss him off
- thinking I was so fat when I was so very very very thin
- not punching her lights out sooner
Love: - Bombay Saphire
- Wild Turkey Russel's Reserve
- my ducky
Am always: - unsatisfied
- tired
- worried
Am not always: - welcome
- friendly
- in my right mind
Dance: - as hard and as long as I can
- with glowsticks
- dance revolution
Sing: - the harmony, never the melody
- lower than most women
- only when I'm drunk, seducing someone, or think that no one can hear me
Cry: - at inopportune moments
- when I can't get my way
- during movies
Write: - to live and live to write
- bad poetry
- worse short stories
Won: - your mother's pinnafore during a brandy-fueled game of "strip poker"
- a fat scholarship or three
- a few hearts here and there
Lost: - my first two loves
- to that damned cigarette smoking CHIMP!
- a few languages
Confuse: - the damn squares
- my parents
- wasabi with guacamole only once
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There's something almost infuriating about Asian cinema, and last night I finally figured out what it is. Dead ends. The characters present ample information of varying relevance in every scene. As a result, the viewer is forced to decide whether a particular fact is pertinent to the plot (i.e. worth remembering), or a dead end (don't worry about it and just enjoy the scene).
Asian cinema is full of dead ends - scraps of plot mentioned in such a way as to mimic Western foreshadowing. Western cinema prefers a dynamic, linear plot to an indecisive plot. We Americans like it short and to the point. We don't want to see a single second of movie that doesn't either further the main plot or ply us with low-brow comedy. This is probably why a lot of Americans HATE anime or just don't understand it.
It seems that Japanese filmakers, in particular, like to indicate "otherworldliness" by dropping useless, yet interesting, facts about said "otherworld" into the story. I've noticed this effect several times before - most notably in "Spirited Away" and "Princess Mononoke." Miyazaki loves to do that. It's as if he spent years planning out every detail of a fictional world and can't wait to tell us everything about it. Two hours just isn't enough time!
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This is the saddest thing I've ever read: "Woman on Life Support to Try to Save Fetus."
"Torres collapsed on May 7 after complaining about headaches and nausea. Hospital physicians discovered a melanoma, treated nine years earlier, had recurred metastasized to her brain . . .
"'It's very rare to have placental metastasis, but if you had to pick a tumor that would do this, melanoma would be the tumor that would do this kind of rare thing,' Dr. Hymes said . . .
. . . "If the baby makes it to 25 weeks, as the Virginia physicians hope to do, odds of survival jump to 70% . . .
. . . "Torres' husband told The Washington Post his wife is beginning to look pregnant."
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I decided to dye my hair last night. About time, too. It was started to look like wilted lettuce - brownish blonde fading into sickly greenish blue. Ugh. It hurt just to look at it.
Naturally, I can't dye my hair at home. The landlord would have a fit when he saw all the blue and purplish streaks covering his sink, mirror, floor, tub, and showercurtain. So, naturally, I had to coerce a friend into letting me dye my hair at their place. Mwahahaha!
My friend A--- generously offered his abode for the project. And lo, I turned it blue. And then I remembered that he has OCD and his room looks like a picture from a furnature catalogue.
Bleach. Bleach will hide my shame.
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| How to make a larkin |
Ingredients:
1 part anger
3 parts courage
1 part leadership |
Method:
Add to a cocktail shaker and mix vigorously. Add emotion to taste! Do not overindulge! |
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It's nice, every once in a while, to be reminded of one's place in the food chain. It brings one's ego down to an acceptable level pretty quickly.
While sitting outside yesterday afternoon, I decided to clip my nails before piano practice. A small pile of white trimmings formed at my side on the grass. Within minutes, a caravan of ants had clambored on top of the trimmings and begun dragging them away. For food, I imagine. Building materials, perhaps. Each ant took on his back a piece of my fingernail at least 3 times his length and surely more than twice his weight. I'm sure that my nails have fed the whole hive by now.
I suppose that's one thing I'll have to look forward to as I grow older: ashes to ashes, grubs to grubs.
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Ok, so I'm a dingleberry. I bitch all the time to my friends about how my blog traffic keeps going down and down and down, but forget to update for a week at a time. Forgive me. I'll be sure to post an evocative excuse when I fucking feel like it.
But for now, allow me to entertain you with . . .
THE LARKIN AND LARKIN FLYING NUDE CIRCUS!
This week only, at Bishopsgate - Having been some days in preparation, a splendid time is guarenteed for all!
Larkin and Larkin Flying Nude Circus is a registered trademark of Sicfuque Enterprises, as are all characters, lascivious trapeeze acts, and pasties portrayed therein. All celebrity likenesses are impersonated. Void where prohibited.
DISCLAIMER: Larkin and Larkin Flying Nude Circus is the latest in a centuries-old tradition of entertainment through brutal sensory stimulation. Sicfuque Enterprises accepts no responsibility for claims of damaged hearing, vision, morality, amniotic sac, sinus node, or hippocampus as a result of our patented light and sound display. Claims of damaged property as a result of uncontrolled loosening of bowels or bladder can be directed to the nearest elephant anus.
Step right up and get your tickets now for only $5.00 a head! (Which means half price for ladies!)
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Of course you know, this means war, squirrels. War, I say! And it's your own fucking fault for coming into my room in the first place.
The first night I spent at Mr. Morris's boarding house, I woke at dawn to a rustling noise coming from the window. I opened one eye slightly and spied a squirrel munching through a bag of my precious soy crisps. "FUCKER!" I screamed. The squirrel let out a shriek of its own and darted out the window without a screen.
My room has no air conditioning. The only way to keep it habitable in this summer heat is to open all the windows and turn on all the fans. Thinking that my 5am visitor probably wouldn't come back, having been screamed at and all, I left the window open again. But he did come back. He came at dawn again, rousing me from the depths of REM with his chewing. This time I threw a shoe at him. HIT! But not a good one; he scrabbled away, limping as fast as he could.
That, surely, would be the end of the squirrel's burgling career. I kept the windows shut as a precaution, despite the sweltering atmosphere caused by poor ventilation. No matter how much I suffered, I know the squirrel suffered as well. YOUR SOY CRISP DAYS OF LUXURY ARE OVER, YOU LITTLE SHIT!
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Nope. Last night it chewed through my fucking screen - through metal mesh! It ate right through. No problem. Grapefruit peel, banana mush, honey, squirrel droppings, and cereal everywhere.
This morning, I decided that it had to die.
So I'm going to the hardware store to buy one of those wee-beasty traps and a box of rat poison (if it kills a rat, it'll kill a bastard squirrel, says I!). I'm gonna bait the trap with poisoned peanut butter, leave the window open, and go to bed. When I wake up, I'll have myself a dead or dying squirrel in a neat, disposable container. (without the trap, it might freak out and crawl into a ventilation duct, seeking a place to die. We'd never be rid of the smell.) Repeat for 2 weeks.
WAR, MOTHERFUCKER! YA HEAR THAT YOU LITTLE BASTARD TREE RAT?
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Pwhew. Man I'm burned out. Last night began with lax carding at the 21+ wristband counter, and ended with a ride home on a motorcycle, my arms around a handsome black man's waist. (Yes, mom, I wore my helmet.) Somewhere between the two events, I listened to a lot of local music and jived with the Delmar crowd.
My favorite band of the evening was The Schwag - a Greatful Dead tribute jam-band that played pretty damned well. Alan has turned me on to such things more than I initially expected he would. During The Schwag's first set, I wished he were there with all my little shriveled heart. We would have sat together against the whitewashed wall, very close to the speaker, and danced the whole time. We would have shared a cold bottle of water and laughed at the flocking burnouts and ex-hippies.
But no. Alan has mono. (Oddly enough, I don't.) He's completely housebound for another 2 weeks or so, and quite possibly infectious for some months after. And seeing as I can't afford to get sick for an entire month, a visit is completely out of the question anytime soon. Shoot me now.
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I apologize for the delay in updating, gentle readers. You see, I have been performing important adult functions in the ever-so-cool, Important Adult World. Because I am an adult. Really. I promise.
And if you don't believe that, you can wash your balls with steel wool and everclear.
Like thinking about taxes, for example. Before I lived on my own, I never even thought about bleeding taxes. I mean, honestly, the government takes my money? They wouldn't do that to me! But they do. And just to make their lives easier, I have to keep record of a good number of things - major purchases, doctor bills, pay stubs, etc. Fancy that.
I also buy food, medicine, stamps, dish detergent, fish food, brita filters, sandwich bags, dryer sheets, tin foil, needles and thread, and non-stick cook spray.
And of course, one thing leads to another, so I end up doing all the homey tasks for which the aforementioned items were purchased. Imagine me sewing. (Don't laugh, I rather like it.)
It's a real trip, I tell you, to look back at my childhood from the vista of Important Adult World. I used to fight tooth and nail against cleaning my room. Now, I can't wait to do it on my day off. Back then, it seemed that I would never grow up.
My parents and teachers once regulated every function of my life, from speaking to sleeping, from eating to defecating. Meanwhile, the adults around me enjoyed the freedom of middle age. They belonged to Important Adult World, and I did not. I would remain a grub. At the time, I found this fact desperately unfair.
But at last, I have set foot upon adulthood's soil . . . and . . . well, you're probably expecting me to long for the days of yore, my lost youth,or something like that, but I won't. I love responsibility.
Yes, yes, I can go to R rated movies, and drive, and drink, and party, and get laid, but that isn't what I like best about being away from home. I like working my ass off for a paycheck, buying a bag of apples, and knowing that they are MY APPLES. See that toothpaste? It's MY TOOTHPASTE. I slaved an hour at Modai for that fucking box of cereal. Those socks didn't come easy, either.
It's a good feeling to know that I'm not just a life-sucking tumor on the ass of society. I'm putting something back. I work. I have a job. I'm not a deadbeat or a child. Whoo hoo!
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Needles. Three and one half inch long needles. Twelve of them. In my spine. Or rather, they were in my spine, about two hours ago. How this is supposed to help my persistant back pain, I haven't the foggiest idea, but I submitted to it nevertheless. It was my second session, actually. I even payed for the privilage.
The scent of death is not decay, but rather the sour aromatic chemicals used to expunge pathogens from skin, steel, and linoleum. I lay quivering on the padded table, holding my breath against the creeping of their latexed hands. I lay cold, swaddled in paper, feeling as if I were already dead. They cleaned the skin over my spine.
I saw the delicate filiment of steel streak against his bloodless palm. He held it by the glass syringe, fingers over the little black hash-marks, thumb on the plunger. The needle drew his hand threw the still air, into my skin, down through the muscle, and into the bone. It's tip nestled and sang against the bad nerve.
His thumb pressed the plunger. I gasped at the pressure of fluid against the bad joint - a jet of anesthetic roaring through the ruined alcove between skin and spinal cord. The needle retreated. He began again, two inches farther down the spine.
It hurts. It hurts so much now, I want to cry. I want to cry all night, but there's no one left in town to hear me. The scent has yet to leave me. I still smell of death
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As crazy as it sounds, I can't wait to go back to Modai. They haven't given me any hours since Saturday! I'm going nuts with the inactivity. There just isn't enough social life to fill in the gaps.
I want to work hard. I want to be glazed with sweat and hunched over with fatigue at the end of the night. I want to feel the hours of grueling labor rip at my muscle tissue. I want to see my friends there.
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