Wednesday, June 20, 2012


I found a beetle in my hair today. I had it done up all fugly in a topknot and when I took it down and ran my fingers through it, a metallic full-sized beetle fell out and scuttled away. Utterly horrific. I mean, it was probably relieved to finally escape, but seriously, how disgusting is that? How totally out of control of my life am I when I can't even stop relatively large insects from residing inside my hair? Fuck.

Like, it's hilarious that I've been moaning about how guys won't respect me when I'm pretty much on the same playing field as a spiderweb. When I get depressed about my career and money situation, all I need to do is remind myself that there are literally bugs chillin in my hair. So unprofessional. Reality check, noted.

I wish I could tie the beetle into what I want to say next but it would be a bit heavy handed to write "much like the bug living in my hair, my obsession with unavailable men lingers..." But anyway, the boy mentioned in my last post must've been summoned by the undead spirits of Blogspot because he ended up texting the next day and we made plans to finally see Moonrise Kingdom even though I assumed I would never hear from him again.

It would be nice if I could feign surprise or outrage at the fact that those plans never materialized but I'm pretty much numb to it now. Like, convicted murders have girlfriends and wives while on death row. Do I gotta catch a charge before I'm allowed to fall in love?  Anyways, he blew me off again and then asked me to hang out "next week" for the billionth time.

I started to feel like I was swallowing my pride each time I would respond to his texts or make efforts to see him again but it's actually my excess of pride that kept me going back for more abuse - my brain just refuses to believe that I could be rejected. *Cognitive Flare* They must be just be reallllly busy! Psh. You got bugs in your hair, girl.

Anyway, the last time I texted him I said "Sure, obviously I'm amazing at rainchecks!" and he got all indignant, which is rich considering the number of times he has straight up blew me off after I shaved my legs and made my bed and everything.

So, that is all to say...


Monday, June 11, 2012

Call Me Maybe

I just need to quickly thank Carly Rae Jepsen for her commitment to archaic lyrics. I don't know if I could've dealt with a megahit single called "Text Me Maybe," even if it's true that everyone under the age of 25 refuses to verbally communicate on their phones. We all know rappers and hip hop artists often date themselves by including references to things like Beepers, T-Mobile Sidekicks, and defunct phone providers (who could forget the classic yet distractingly irrelevant moment from "Bills, Bills, Bills" when Beyonce crooned "tell MCI to cut the phone poles"). In this case, it's sort of punk of Carly Rae to subvert the popular technology of our times (Skype, Gchat, Facebook, etc) in favor of a method that allows for actual, nuanced communication.


Seriously though, fuck texting. Like, unless you're my gay friend [name redacted] who uses an average of 18 Emojis per text, I probably have no idea what the hell you're talking about. This is especially true when it comes to dudes I want to kiss on the mouth. Forget what's lost in translation, it's the things that are added in translation that you need to watch out for. 

For example, on May 23rd at 9:19am I texted the boy whose apartment I just left "Bye! Have a good day :)"


Did you notice the extra exclamation mark on the end of his response??? 

OBVIOUSLY he loves me, why else would he take the extra effort to type out egregious punctuation? The sickening depths to which I read into that exclamation point at the time are scary to look back on. 

Then, in addition to the myriad ways you can lose your shit over interpreting a text, it's also impossible to send one without first tirelessly running through every possible permutation of what you're trying to say. Good luck trying to avoid sounding clingy, detached, desperate, slutty, awkward, eager, bored, etc. because no matter WHAT kind of text you decide on, as soon as it's sent you'll INSTANTLY REGRET IT.

My fav ladyblogger CRUMPETS explains this phenomenon best:

Would our hearts, minds and vaginas be in such turmoil if people still called each other? Probably not, because we'd have awesome things like a live dialogue, speech inflection, and verbal cues in the mix to cut down on our anxiety. I'm not trying to imply that every girl feels this way, but I know that I've recently been driven mad by trying to keep things going via text (even though it's hard to do when guys ignore your 4am emoticons. Sorry, but what could be more romantic?).

Like, I know it's dumb, but it hurts when a guy just up and ignores a wild boar you typed out just for him. Yes, psychotic infatuation can survive these kinds of indiscretions, but can love?

Apparently not, since the relationship I used in this case study has slowly been fizzling out since May 23rd's extra exclamation point. Plans have been scheduled, canceled, and rescheduled to no avail due to the fact that he's constantly busy with rehearsals and music and "weird plays." So Brooklyn. After the third time he claimed to be "busy as all hell" I vowed never to text him again. I know from previous experience that it doesn't take this much effort if a boy is actually interested in you but I can't help but feel tempted to text him just one last time. Luckily, I brought my laptop to a cafe with no WiFi today so I had plenty of time to mull it over in TextEdit:

The answer that will preserve my dignity is obvious, however, the horrible, ill-fated choice I will make is still undecided. Whatever. Can't help but feel that this could all be avoided with a simple phone call. Ring Ring Ring Ring. If only life were so easy.


Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Prison Letters

Instead of sitting around feeling rejected, heartbroken and drunk, I decided to soothe my mind by taking up a new hobby: writing to prisoners!

I woke up at the ungodly hour of 7am on Saturday morning after an entire Friday spent day drinking, bashing around Manhattan and falling on my ass in marble hallways. Hungover, with no hopes of getting back to my dreams, I took refuge in the inner recesses of the Daily Mail website after fate caused me to click something linking to that Miami bath salt cannibal story. From there I discovered Luka Rocco Magnotta, a Canadian gay porn "star" who was on the run in Europe after killing his lover from Hong Kong with a pick axe and then fucking and eating his corpse...on videotape.  I totally want to put an exclamation point at the end of that sentence but I feel like it would be excessive. So I won't! 


Anyway, there's rumors that Magnotta, despite his professional and personal proclivities towards men, was at one point romantically linked to my favorite serial killer Karla Homolka (wiki). Despite some of the shit she did I can actually see how under the right circumstances her crimes could be considered at least a little bit sexy. I realize that's totally fucked up and wrong and sickening but like, with the right charismatic dude leading the way, maybe kidnapping a bunch of young virgins could be considered hot (in a fantasy context)? Of course, actually acting on these "kinks" and killing and raping a bunch of innocent girls (including your own teenaged sister) just to get your S.O.'s dick hard is reprehensible. Duh. I've read almost all of the court documents that are available to the public and it's fascinating how an otherwise competent person could unleash all this evil and carry on living like it ain't no thing. I feel like I'm rambling now (thanks be to wine), but there's this home video of the couple dubbed "the fireside chat" that was shown during her husband's trial and, if the transcripts are to be believed, it's pretty vile. They film this role-play that is basically the pinnacle of subversion where Karla performs fellatio on Paul while pretending to be her dead sister. I quote: "I love licking your ass, Paul. I'll bet Tammy would have loved to lick your ass. I loved when you put Snuffles up her ass." So um, JESUS CHRIST. This world is insane.

When I got home from work today I decided to read some more about this lovely couple, you know, to clear my head, but I think I've exhausted every internet resource on their crimes!!! There's literally nothing on the WWW for me to learn unless I go on Amazon and order some shitty crime paperback about the case which would be pointless since I could write a shitty paperback about this myself by now. "Killer Kink" "Unholy Union" "Beware of Blonde People." So, with this, my solitary source of happiness and entertainment, almost extinguished, I decided to take matters into my own hands. After reading through years old forums filled with misspelled posts by the biggest retards you can imagine, all clamoring to write serial rapist and brutal murderer Paul Bernando a letter, I, a logical smart young lady, finally unearthed the address of his home at Kingston Penitentiary. After many attempts at writing a letter with the right balance of levity, condemnation, forgiveness and sexual charge, I settled on the following:

Do you think he will respond?