Mar/083
What Kim Kardashian and I have in common
Besides having a big ass, that is. Apparently according to this clip from her reality show, Keeping Up With The Kardashians, Kim & I are both just like "007". As in, we are both hella nosy.
I'm not gonna lie: I found out who my ex started boning after me when I checked his voicemail and heard a voicemail from Not Me that sounded innocous, but since I speak girl, I was able to detect the sing-songy I have a crush on you I'm insecure about calling you so I'm going to leave this excessively long message about nothing OMG PLEASE CALL ME BACK subtext.
Less psychotically, I used to have this roommate who was a total manwhore on Craigslist m4m and he used my computer to check his email once and stupidly let Firefox save his password. I was able to follow his dirty exploits for months afterwards and learned he used every opportunity to have dudes over when me and the other roommate were out of the apartment.
And what have I learned from all this breaking and entering? Mostly shit I didn't want or need to know. I already knew the ex had a new girl because he told me and I already knew gay roommate was a manwhore because I could hear it next door. The rest were just details.
What are some questions you didn't really want to know the answers to, but asked anyway?
Jan/081
Day 4: My Year Long Obsession
I'd like to tell you about another cringe inducing story from my past. When I first moved here, I was dating this guy I had met on Nerve named Ash. I was 20 and he was 31. Ash was very different from my previous boyfriends, who consisted of a socially inept dude who refused to ever leave his parent's house, was on so much Paxil he refused to sleep with me and who had been in college for something like 7 years. After that, there was my very sweet, but very, very 420 friendly Canadian boyfriend who broke up with me after I went to visit him because he was having a meaningful phone relationship with a crystal meth addict who he had never met.
So you can imagine what my 20 year old brain, fresh in the Bay Area after years of being cooped up in my parent's house and then the bubble of Oberlin College, felt when I had this tall, dark, handsome, broad shouldered stranger by my side every other weekend (he lived in Sacramento) (what can I say? if you are hot, I will travel.) with not only a real job, a well decorated apartment and the clincher - ACTUAL sexual prowess. He had the skillz to pay the billz. Young enthusiasm can only take you so far, know what I mean?
My very naive, stars in my eyes reaction to what I now realize was an ideal friends with benefits setup is that I fell completely and utterly in love with him and by that I mean, he made me completely insane. If there is such a thing as penis power, he had it over me. He made me so nuts that when I found out he was totally cheating on me - via finding the girls Livejournal bookmarked on his computer and her romantic, saccharine descriptions of their time together, including one entry that made me want to vomit called "The Massage", rather than confront him and dump his ass, I decided to become her friend and rub my relationship with Ash in her face. She lived in New York, so she didn't have the access to him that I did.
Jan/087
Day 3: My Dispatch from Crazy Town
As we all know, I love the Craigslist. You never know what you're going to get when you post on the CL and that to me, is part of the fun. And I can't knock it - I owe my life in San Francisco to Craig. I used to get my coffee from the same place that Craig Newmark does and I loved seeing him in the morning, reading the paper. Thank you Craig for housing, love, bad dates, furniture, and the occasional gems that make me happy Gmail has an archive function. Like, the following, inspired by Jezebel's brilliant Crap Email From A Dude
Now, I had corresponded with this person a handful of times over the course of one evening and he seemed cool, if not a little overly demonstrative. But hey, I am a woman and I love flattery. Bring it on. The following day, I was in my friend's car when I recieved the following dispatch straight from Crazy Town:
Jan/082
Ghosts of New Year’s Eve Past
New Year's Eve has been one of the biggest let downs of life as an adult (along with working a real job, having a real relationship & having a credit card). When I was a teenager, I just imagined that my New Years' Eve would involve shindigs of the Paris Hilton variety: being in the club, in the VIP, drinks on me (or rather, drinks on YOU), etc, etc. Instead, New Year's Eve has usually involved me being guilt tripped into hanging out with my family and quietly getting drunk in a corner while the 8 billion children in my family run around, high on Pepsi.
The first time I had a solo New Year's was when I went to visit my Canadian boyfriend (and yes, he did exist!) and my mother was INCREDIBLY pissed at me for a variety of reasons, mostly involving a certain medication I was taking to prevent pregnancy and the reasons for taking such pills and the fact that I was leaving her to go spend days unsupervised with some dude (and thus necessitating such pills).
Well, she kind of won that one because my new year's that year consisted of me accompanying him to a house party full of boys who thought playing video games and watching others play such games was acceptable party behavior (this was before the Wii, of course). I remember standing outside in the cold after the party was over, waiting for him to get the car and looking up at another house party where they were blasting Destiny's Child's hit "Say My Name" and wanting, so badly, to be there instead in a room full of what I'm sure where my people: gay guys and women who know that it's not a party until you listen to some cheesy pop music. He dropped me off at the hotel and went to do more lame partying while I watched Law and Order into the wee hours of the morning. When he finally came back, he tried to kiss me reeking of Alize (we were 19). I pushed him away, thinking: bitch, please. I came all the way from New York City, you take me to some terrible party full of losers and now you want to try to get with me reeking of 14 year old girl booze? No way.
This year, it was good. Full of laughter and cheer and good feeling. No kissing, but that always felt trite to me anyway, and just like I can't be having some dude trying to get up on me reeking of Boone's Farm or whatever, I can't be having no triteness.
Nov/071
Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world.
Excuse the reference to the most cliched song of the past year, but it's the only way I can describe how I feel about a recent happening in my little world, which basically consists of me only going to places in a 5 block radius. One of those places is the grocery store across the street from my house, which despite my promises to make the trek to Trader Joe's because it is the most expensive grocery store in the universe I still go to, sometimes multiple times a day. Across the street will win over saving money any time.
So, the discovery is that a young gentleman who I had once blown off via Myspace was now, horror of horrors, working at this grocery store. He was someone I had communicated with because of a Craigslist personal ad (my chosen Internet poison of choice) way back in January, which was my first real month of living Post BreakUp and where the only man I needed to be interacting with was my computer. In other words, I was a total wreck and in absolutely no shape to be even considering going on a date. While he was very nice over the phone and we totally had stuff in common, I had a boy like freak out and wrote him a rejection email over the dreaded Myspace.
11 months later, fool is bagging groceries at the one place I frequent more than the karaoke bar. Thanks, world. When I stopped in today after an uncontrollable urge to make my own bagels, the store was so empty he ended up checking me out. In the grocery checking sense. In the other sense, he did not make any eye contact with me at all, instead choosing to stare at the empty space directly opposite me. I vow to never prepare my own bagels again. Isn't that what living in a big city is for, anyway?
Aug/070
in the night, in my dreams i talk to you
My blog posts lately have resembled long IM conversations with myself. I apologize.
6:12am, I am ignoring the fact that I am back at the cube farm in a few hours.
I was going to post something making fun of the Bicycle Music Festival that I accidentally attended part of at Dolores Park on Saturday except I re-read their mission statement and it doesn't seem that funny anymore. Oh yeah, except that part about how their "bicycle based music" is the ultimate democracy. Or as they say, "With the power of audience veto built in to the festival, it quite literally puts all the power in the hands (and feet) of the audience: democracy at its healthiest you might say."
I might say that, but I won't.
Ride your fuckin' bike if you want to, I don't care but the whole thing (especially the awful song lyrics about the bike revolution) just made me want to drive. Mostly because I am very contrary. And because I think mass transit is more important.
I BRIEFLY contemplated following the bike music festival to gestalt haus (their next spot) to pick up some environmentally friendly booty, but then I realized I'd have to talk to them, so I got drunk at Fly Bar instead.
I prefer skateboarders and reckless drivers, anyway.
Aug/074
adventures of vegan produce guy
My nap only sleep schedule ROCKS, you guys. Especially when I chase my dinner with Norco the world's most wonderful opiate and sleep from 9pm-2am. Woo! Move over Vicodin, there's a new pain killer love in my life.
I write to you today, dear Internet to share a link with you. A link so painfully close to something I have been experiencing in my own life that I refuse to close it out of my Firefox tabs out of fear that I will never see it again. It is from McSweeney's, and can be accessed in its entirety here. It is called Passive-Aggressive Vegan Grocery Cashier: A Day in the Life.
This is my absolute favorite part:
12:50 p.m. Customer comments on "Go Veg!" sticker, which is on my water bottle under counter. I give short discourse on Marxist view of man-vs.-animal struggle, especially as it pertains to bovine lactation exploitation. I "accidentally" spill his container of feta on floor. He informs me he will no longer shop here. I congratulate his grass-roots activism against the grocery industry.
--
I only wish I had been funny enough to think of something like this first. I think if my personal vegan grocery store cashier guy (or produce guy, actually. VPG for short) were to keep a journal of his interactions with me, it might go something like this:
30 July
Hung out with Maria tonight. Had to hold back my tears as she destroyed the environment with the three cigarretes I watched her smoke on her stoop. Almost lost it when she told me what she had had to eat that day. Left some brochures for her in a copy of Lucky Magazine I saw in her room. Wish she would stop buying things. She showed me some things she bought at some big box store and I reminded her that capitalism creates products she doesn't need and that by buying these items, she participates in the machine. She responded by punching me in the face. But, it reminds me: I must let her borrow my copy of No Logo.
Anyway, VPG and I have a relationship based on mild antagonism (for what I'm sure are obvious reasons), so he will for sure counter with some kind of joke about my meat-eating, US Weekly reading, lame sitcom watching ways. I predict that our several months long text message flirtation will end soon anyway, as he is moving on to Super Hippie Land (aka a co-operative grocery store rather than the giant corporate place he works at now) and will for sure find some chick named Rainbow Giver and they will live a wonderful, morally uncomplicated life of bike riding, raw food and composting. And that is okay.
I doubt Rainbow Giver will leave the lyrics to Buy You A Drank on his voicemail, though. Then again, most women don't appreciate misogynistic, offensive rap lyrics as much as I do.
Jul/077
Guys & Dolls
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I watched the infamous HBO Real Dolls (NSFW) documentary years ago and like most people, think of the Real Doll and its users as either rich sex addicts or as a punchline. But I stumbled onto this link via Jezebel yesterday morning of a BBC special (the link above will play the whole movie, which is 45 minutes long, totally worth it) made on hardcore Real Doll users expecting to be disturbed, but came away from it just feeling really sad for these guys, especially Davecat who gives us some of the movie's most cringe inducing moments, like when he "makes out" with his real doll. The British hang glider also made me feel bad, especially when you realize why he is so obsessed with his real dolls; the sad fool just hasn't gotten over the death of his momma.
Davecat was the one person in the movie that really stuck with me because I knew so many guys like him in high school and in fact, I even dated a guy very similar to him for like, six months. You know the type: uber-geeky, talks in puns & obscure movie quotes, loves British humor, insists on using British spelling and slang, complete japan-o-phile (but usually sticks to anime and japanese chicks), probably spends a lot of time playing video games and/or D & D. So, I hunted down his blog and it made me feel even worse because I KNOW if this guy had just gone to the right college he would have found the LARP/Ren Faire girl of his dreams. Or at least had sex with one. That's practically the point of small liberal arts colleges - to get nerds laid.
So, on the one hand, there's the usual feminist party line of how these guys can't deal with actual women with brains and demands and how disgusting that is but on the other hand, if these guys are so scared of relationships with actual women and would rather hang out with their real doll, then yes, get them out of the dating pool so I no longer have to deal with their bullshit. You don't want to deal with me and I sure as hell don't want to deal with you. So, really, have at it! Get your Real Doll and go to motherfuckin' town!
I mean, everyone has to get theirs and if this is how you're going to get it, then DO IT and spare us "organic" (what Davecat calls flesh & blood women) bitches your neuroses. Which is worse: guys blowing their money on real dolls or on "pick up artist" courses?
On a final note, I was blown away by how hot the Real Dolls creator, Matt McMullen is.
Total tat/skater boy hot, but still: smokin'!
Jul/073
One Hot Broad
When I was in high school, there was this kid named Gregory who was pretty much your standard Knicks-obsessed, baggy jean wearing (or rather, overall with only one hook on as we did in the late 90s), black male high school student who dropped like the N-word like his life was one long Ku Klux Klan meeting. So, he talked like every other 16 year old black kid in NYC. With one exception. Instead of using the word "bitch" or "ho" like his pals, he constantly referred to women as "broads". For real, like this : "Naw man, that broad be trippin'!" It was the weirdest anachronism. Where did he learn it? Was he secretly listening to Frank Sinatra on his walkman?
In any case, I have been mildly obsessed with the word ever since. It's my favorite way to describe sassy bitches who like to make out. The word "slut" is so ugly and reminds me of girls who travel to Los Angeles and end up up making gonzo porno movies like Cream Pie Cuties 10. Broad is perfect. It makes you feel like you look like the beautiful Ms. Hayworth in the picture above. At least that's how it makes me feel.
So, 4 years ago, when I was 21, I had a mild addiction to posting and responding to personal ads on Craigslist. I had this temp job where I was so much more competent than the person I was subbing for (just by virtue of being able to use a computer and not do my nails at the desk all day) that I was able to get away with doing about 30 minutes of work and then email with hot dudes all day long. Or odd San Fransisco types who ALL work in IT (except, coincidentally, the guy I ended up dating for 3 years). So I set up this fake email account to ward off the crazies, called onehotbroad AT yahoo.com. Ha ha, I am so clever.
I start emailing with this 50 year old ex-punk rocker who tells me he is going to take me on a tour of strip joints and to a bunch of bars in the Tenderloin. Of course, this all sounds AWESOME to me. Man twice my age taking me to the sketchiest places in San Francisco that I met off the Internet? COUNT. ME. IN. We go on the date, stopping at the Gold Club, the Lusty Lady and a bunch of other places that I can't remember because I was completely and utterly wasted. So wasted in fact that somewhere between the tenderloin and north beach, I break my left foot and don't feel a fucking thing.
A few weeks later, I am house bound in my third floor walk up in the Mission, going stir crazy and rocking a gigantic plaster cast and as usual, decide to entertain myself by posting an ad on Craigslist, asking for correspondence. I get a flood of emails, one from my 50 year old friend, who proceeds to write me about the night we had (not knowing it was me he was writing to) in his usual verbose, exaggerated fashion. I mostly skim it until I read one part, in which he claimed that I had "mis-represented" my looks by calling myself a "hot broad" in my email because I was such an obese cow. Because you know, email addresses are things to be taken seriously. I am often surprised that Laura isn't a penguin, but actually a woman. Odd.
I never wrote to him or responded to any of his messages ever again. But I do continue to call myself a hot broad, at least on ebay, where it matters most. For this blog, I am SHARP, because I want to climb the blogosphere ladder based on my ability, not my sluttiness. I hope it can be done.