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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Won't You Be My Neighbor

This is what I look like right this very second (this photo now with more grain!):


Note the mixture of pissed offedness and curiosity. And this is what it sounds like in my apartment office right this very second. While I would love it if there actually were a herd of rabid donkeys in my office right now (because frankly writing about how that situation came to be would be way more interesting that this post), that, my friends is what it sounds like when my upstairs neighbors make whoopee and the uncomfortable look expressed above is how I feel when I hear what is clearly deviant piggy sex (since normal people making love don't sound like a barnyard on fire) between two (or more) vile people going on above me. Put that sound clip on repeat for 97 FUCKING MINUTES AND COUNTING, imagine a guy who looks like Matt Pinfield (featured here for no reason at all as a snowman):

"knocking boots" as my grandmother would say with a twenty-something version of Izma from The Emperor's New Groove:

And voila, you have a recipe for one of the most uncomfortable Wednesday nights you will ever experience without the aid of qualudes.

What's interesting about my upstairs neighbors is that they're not good looking or nice or useful as people really at all. In fact, with their stupid 4AM James Blunt-inspired kareoke sessions and unending supply of vomit-tinged cigarette butts, I would say they're just the opposite. Yet somehow, they've managed to take all of the energy that most of us spend on not being societal succubi and have harnessed it into multiple-hour, no-holds-barred donkey noise-riddled sex that sounds like it can only be rivaled by actual multiple-hour, no-holds-barred intercourse involving real donkeys.

A sharp contrast to this would be my bedroom life where the vast majority of time spent in the proverbial sack is spent between talking about how many kinds of salt we have in the house (7...seriously) and whether or not we know anyone who might conceivably have more kinds of specialty salt in their home (the answer is no...or is it? Duh, duh, duuuuuuuuuhhhhh!). While researching a story today, I came across this and the hardened realization that yes, even the chess club is getting more action than I am is enough to make me weep lonely, celibate tears at my desk. Unfortunately nobody can hear them thanks to the asses up above.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

It's times like these that I wish I could write about work because man oh man was it Awesometown, USA this weekend. I love visiting New York because it's just this mammoth explosion of a city that includes everything you want and don't want out of life with a thick, protective coating of pretention on top. Whereas Paris weirdness comes from it being a big city and from it being populated by the French, who are naturally strange anyway, New York attains a level of weird that's way above the level you would expect for a city of only 8 million people. One thing I love about New York that ONLY happens in the Big Apple is the fact that when I'm there, I routinely get complimented for things I am not currently doing. This weekend I was complimented for:

* Not cursing out a bouncer when he asked for my ID
* Not dressing like a slut
* Not being mean to a taxi driver

In Richmond, I am normally only complimented on things I am doing not just right, but above and beyond right and often times, not even then. Being thanked just for not being a jackass kind of makes you feel a little bit better than everyone else.

For me, the real draw to New York is the number of awesomely weird things there as well as the number of freaks who, like me, truly truly appreciate them. This weekend I saw a band called Satanicide (featured below):


Note the man dressed like a woman in the background. He was the group's token dancer. I wasn't sure whether or not I was going to like Satanicide until the lead singer came out and said, "Here's a song about my two favorite food groups: pussy and ice cream" then proceeded to play an 80's hair band-style song about said food groups. Other highlights of the trip included watching a man have meat thrown at him on stage, witnessing an all-out yelling match between an old lady and a college boy in an Italian restaurant (when the college kid told the woman she should "go back to Brooklyn," the woman chimed in with "You should go back to the ocean" and then there was complete silence for a good minute and a half until the yelling resumed), going to a birthday party with a kid I've never met for a kid I've also never met from New Zealand, attended a second party that had a serious air-eoke tournament going on where this man rocked the air guitar:


and getting told by some guy that I'm "totally makeoutable with." That's nice, I guess.

In short, the weekend rocked harder, dare I say, than a hurricane. Coming home is so overrated.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

In New York until Sunday. Behave yourselves children.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

A Terrible Follow Up to the Last Post

Does listening to 80's Michael Jackson's Dangerous creep anyone else out? The opening monologue haunts my nightmares along with Kathy Griffin and Kirsten Dunst's teeth.

Yesterday was Father's Day. Up until the last few years, Father's Day gave me a very visceral reaction, the same kind of reaction I feel during turbulence on a plane or whenever I know that someone I love is gravely disappointed in me. All I can think about on Father's Day is how much I want to throw up, just so I can directly see my insides pouring out. They are anyway, I'd just like to see some physical proof of it to know I'm not crazy.

My own father left when I was 14 and in retrospect, what impacted me the most wasn't really that he left because I had been expecting that for a long time, but rather that my family didn't know where he was for four months. Four months. That's a long time and an even longer time when you consider it in terms of negatives, of going without sweets or television or anything you love for that length of time. What feels strange is that looking back, nobody ever went to look for my dad. The idea never crossed my mind. There was never a missing persons report filed. We never tried to call his friends or family or drive by his favorite hangouts. I don't think this was done, or rather not done, out of spite or anger, although I admittedly harbored those emotions for a very long time. Finding my father just didn't seem relevant.

I don't think we looked for him because in a way, there was nothing to look for. When I was young, I remember or perhaps built up my father as being this sort of Byronic hero - a noble person with good intentions buried in a checkered past he couldn't leave behind. He spent his nights hanging out in casinos and pool halls, telling wild stories about his life, of cooking sparrows on the streets because he was too poor to buy a meal, of getting flown to the French Riviera in a private jet for poker tournaments, of killing people in Asia, of conning the civil service system into giving him a job underage. Some of his stories are completely true, some are partly fabricated and I was never able to pick out who my father truly is amidst the inconsistancies.

As I grew up, I began to notice that my father had a knack for casually mentioning major life-altering surprises at inopportune moments. As if "I've had five heart attacks in the past two years" or "You have a sister. She's 18" were as insignificant as reading aloud your grocery list. When your experience of another person is nothing but surprise after surprise no matter how much time you spend with them, finding out "who are you?" becomes less of an answerable question and more of a bottomless pit.

Even living with him, I never knew who he really was and at times, I think he didn't either. When he finally did leave, he was just gone and that inevitable fact had been creeping up on our family for so long that I think my mother and I just desperately tried to acclimate ourselves to a new life, much in the same way that you try to force yourself to get used to living in a new city or going to a new school. For me, my father had always been lost. It was just as fitting for him to physically walk away as it was for me perpetually dream of spraying my insides all over the floor.

Yesterday when I called my father to wish him a very Happy Father's Day, he said in his usual hickory-smoked voice, "Here's the plain and simple truth Chris, I miss you very much." I felt my stomach spin over as I said, "I miss you too."

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Reason #6587939 Why I Love Meltingdolls.com

This

Monday, June 12, 2006

Hardened Proof That I'm a Jerk

I'm currently working on a project about cancers in women and in doing research I found a site that features this illustration:
As someone who has had numerous cancer cases in the family, I understand the importance of education and awareness, but really, is the drawing of the bloody nipple 100% necessary? You can look at this picture and know that somewhere, some schmuck has really thought about it and has said to their intern "Hey, throw in a nipple oozing with blood. That'll get their attention." If I ever make a horror movie, it's most definitely going to include at least one scene that you think is going to be all sexified, but then the chick(s) starts oozing blood and maybe some ectoplasm via what my sixth grade social studies teacher once called "the bathing suit parts" instead. I smell a summer blockbuster.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Conversations From Today

Random Guy at Dog Park: You new here?
Me: Sort of, I've only had the dog about 2 months. I'm newish.
Random Guy: How's it working out, the dog?
Me: It's good. She's like the Lexus of dogs. The only issue we've had is that she doesn't play well with small dogs. I don't know how to break her of that
Random Guy: You could always dress up like a small dog and kick your dog's ass.
Me: ................
Random Guy: Awkward silences are what I do best.
Me: Dude, you have no idea who you're talking to.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

I Got Tagged

Sent by Val

Ten Things I Love:
1. Anything by Waverly Films, like this
2. The Tao of Physics
3. The keytar
4. David Cross
5. People who have mind-blowingly awesome projects, like this guy and this guy and these kids.
6. Ira Glass and his hottiness kickass radio show.
7. Social documentaries, in particular this one, this one, and this one.
8. Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet album
9. Devil's Food cookies - sweet petunia, has a better food ever been invented? I think not.
10. The fact that I own all of the following:
* 1 Eye of Thundera sword, modeled here by my friend Zach and some guy I met this weekend while watching a human beatbox perform (true story!). Chris and I brought random guy home for mojitos:

* 1 book on how to play the Air Guitar complete with inflatable air guitar (excerpt below):

* 1 package of cat anus stickers:

One would think that the most uncomfortable part about owning cat butt stickers would simply be having adhesive cat asses in your hand, but you'd be wrong. The most uncomfortable part of owning cat butt stickers is this tiny illustration:

I don't know which cat private part is being referred to here, but I do know that I will not be enjoying it like the drawing indicates.

Ten Things I'm Fascinated By:
1. The Sex in the City phenomenon - nothing makes me want to die more than the thought of Carrie Bradshaw gettin it on. Nothing.
2. Fundamentalists and zealots
3. Human beatboxes - where do all of those sounds come from?
4. Robots and their Olympic games
5. The hilarious downfall of Britney Spears...honestly, it's like watching my own parents' divorce, where did it all go wrong?
6. Homophobia
7. How my boyfriend manages to get chin or chest hair on literally every surface in our tiny apartment except for the bathtub where instead, there's rotted meat.
8. How Kathy Griffin keeps resurfacing on television no matter how many times I think the American public has finally defeated her. She's like Lex Luthor.
9. The space-time continuum
10. The Swedish language. I have no idea how anyone learns Swedish. There are no separate words in this language. Never ever have I heard a language that when spoken properly sounds exactly the same as when completely made up by a muppet. Once I had a Swedish friend who told me how to say "My melons are too big for just one hand" in her native tongue (additionally she also taught me to say, "My boyfriend possesses a very large tennis racket" and "In my sleeping quarters, your mother is like a wild puma"). If you're interested in how to say all of these expressions, fill your mouth with honey and peanut butter. Try to talk. You have just mastered Swedish.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Things I've Learned at 24

Eating nothing but ice cream all day long may sound like a good idea, but in reality, is not. Sure, it may taste delicious and make an edible substitute for turning on the air conditioning, but late at night, when you're sitting around watching the latest X-Men movie (because you've finally told your boyfriend that you can no longer accommodate his stupid schedule, you need some red hot mutant action RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND), you might get a migraine in the theatre and then you might have to pull the car over on the way home...twice...and you might realize at that point that nothing negates the awesomity of red hot mutant action like dry heaving...dry heaving because you're a stupid, stupid girl.