Birthday Fuck

Playing early 90s racing video games where chunks of meat hit your windshield when you drive into an animal (like a dinosaur) in a laundromat on my birthday.

That’s unfortunately 157 characters so twitter would not allow that to be my status, but it is my status in terms of what status technically means. This is one thousand times better than my last birthday when I had one friend and we went to a whiskey bar and forced ourselves to “hit on girls.” By which I mean we started by offering to not by some girls drinks because of both our belief in gender equality and our other belief in not spending the little money we had.

The birthday before that was spent uncomfortably implying to a girl that she should have samurai training videos at home.

I’m gonna try to not think I should have birthday sex today. It only causes problems, but I also am faced with the fact that I’m another year older and have still had way less sex than I would like to be true.

Indignant, Lonely, My favorites, Selfish

When Did I Become Such a Pussy?

I don’t mean a pussy like a female reproductive organ. I mean a pussy like the tapered piece of wood that you hit with a stick in order to hit it again with the stick in a game of tipcat.

I used to stand up for my beliefs. Back when my beliefs were stupid and annoying and made other people feel bad about themselves. But people needed to feel bad about themselves because they were making mistakes. I made mistakes too. I make mistakes too.

I still make mistakes. That’s important. You also kept making mistakes, but I stopped pointing it out. It’s not that I stopped caring. I still get frustrated and walk out of rooms just to stare at walls breathing deeply until I calm down. It’s that I stopped showing my reaction. Instead I sit idly by while I get flipped in the air and then batted away as far as can be batted. Then instead of hailing insults in my wake at my assaulters as I fly through the air I simply wait until I land and the bets have been placed on how far I have flown.

That joke will be funny to the one person who is googling the rules of tipcat while knowing the basic elements of the game and stumbles across this blog instead and finds themselves intrigued by the title because they are sexually frustrated because they haven’t gotten any in a while and are trying to keep their mind off it by researching 17th century children’s games. Well first of all that didn’t work, pussy. You haven’t gotten any because you are ugly and you refuse to get a haircut because you think that that will be compromising some part of your identity when the reality is that getting a haircut will just stop offering you the excuse that people don’t like your hair and that’s why they won’t sleep with you.

Second off: Fuck the rest of you that didn’t get it. Not that you should have gotten my joke, but more that I don’t give a fuck about you. I’ve given too much of a fuck about you for a while.

Did you read my last post? It mentioned Glee.

When did I become such a pussy?

People need to be tested. People need to be uncomfortable. People need to feel like shit. People need to feel bad about themselves. People need to be like me.

I had forgotten that. I had forgotten how important it is for me to to force everyone to be more like me.

Do you wanna see the first paragraph of my novel? I don’t give a shit. Read it:

“I am a prophet and this is my religion’s bible. My religion’s Bhagvad Gita. My religion’s Koran. My religion’s text in story form that explains the philosophies by which a member of my religion should live their life.”

The dude who wrote that wasn’t a pussy because that dude wasn’t scared of everybody’s reaction because that dude wasn’t so desperately lonely that he held onto any basic element of friendship that would make him feel like he wasn’t running wildly through a blank hall of broken ears unable to hear his screams. So he screamed softly the things that those ears wanted to hear. Well now I’ve whipped out my dick and you all are going to get earfucked.

1. You can’t get laid. Neither can I. Neither can people in Darfur. That person near you doesn’t want their genitalia near your genitalia, and that doesn’t mean anything more than the fact that they don’t want their genitals near your genitals. That isn’t some great indignance against society. Mostly this guy is a douche.

2. You’re a mother of an upper-class white kid with a nanny, you aren’t saving the world. In fact you are probably causing a lot of pain to the world with your 6 foot by 23 foot stroller made of petroleums made of dead pelicans. By the way six people died to make your engagement ring and you are complaining about your $50 haircut – you are a piece of shit.

3. Stop telling me that this silence is awkward. I know. I’m in it. I probably made it awkward in hopes that you would stop trying to talk to me.

4. Doing drugs doesn’t make you cool. Doing cool things on drugs makes you cool. Stop bragging about how much you smoked, drank, or at what time you did. Start bragging about how you need an alibi, you don’t know where parts of your body are, or you feel like you invented wormholes with your emotions.

5. Saying “fag” ironically isn’t subversive. Your existence is subversive – in that it subverts intelligence. I don’t think I used the word subvert right.

I think I’m less of a pussy now and more of stick.

Lazy, Media, Pathetic

AHH.. My Life is Over

I went outside and walked in the park sometimes. I wrote a little bit every once in a while.

That was before the incident.

Now I lay bedridden with my laptop bag molding at the foot of my bed and my clothes covering up the floor so that “stay out of the lava” is a really easy game. It’s scary how much this incident has affected me. It’s frightening to notice that the only outside I’ve seen has been what can be glanced at over my shoulder and out my window. It saddens me to think of how little of the outside world I really know.

The incident I speak of is Premier Week. I had to watch Glee, Castle, and Chuck over the past two days and I did not enjoy a single moment of any of it. This new influx of television added to my already annoying obsession with drafting fantasy basketball teams has made me some sort of hybrid between a hermit and a hobo. A hobo because I’m sure that a hermit at least finds the time to shower or eat, but the internet is not allowing me to. All the wonderful auction style drafts and pre-rankings I can do, all the hulu and megavideo I can watch. This is terrible. My life is over.

Attention Whoring, Lazy

I Write Therefore I Are

These are the things I’m “writing:”

1. A Novel

2. A Book of Short Stories

3. A Play

4. A Sketch Show

Here is what I am writing:

1. A Blog Entry About How I’m Not Writing The Things I Need To Be Writing

I think the reason that math resonated with me so much at such a young age was because the journey involved a conclusion. I was always working toward a goal – and I accomplished that goal. When you write a term paper, you could always go back and edit it and make it better, but when you discovered the reason that you could prove that two angles were congruent, they were congruent – that was the end of the game.

My blog entries are like math in that they end when I finish writing them. I don’t even go back and read/edit. I just spit them out and there they are. My novel is long. My play can always be fixed. My book of short stories only has half a book of short stories and I don’t know what stories are left. My sketch show is barely started. These have no end in sight and therefore I do not work toward an end. Seeing is believing and without believing than there is no doing because I do therefore I am. Something like that.

Here I can quickly rant against some sexist shit I see, or complain about how far away everything that isn’t in my bed is, or subtly imply that not enough people want to sleep with me without having to think and there will be a beginning and an end. It gets posted on the internet and that is its end goal. Bigger projects have no conclusion – I don’t get to reap the benefits of my 1/4 finished novel.

I don’t have an ending to this entry.

Come to Storytelling at Perch tonight.

Indignant, My favorites, Nostalgia

Mi Shiledhode dRaweings

Look at all the funny words that Lady Gaga had on her set at the Target Center. “Death Cases” sounds like the plural of some sort of briefcase full of death. Then we get a series of words associated with pain. Then “Children.”

Agreed, Lady Gaga.

Children should definitely be associated with pain. Which I know because I work in Park Slope. They are all a bunch of explativenouns and they need to be put in a dumpster with purell and razor blades. Purell because they are always sick. They are disgustingly sick. They just snot all over everything that they eat. Can things go into their mouths without snotting all over them? I hate them.

Don’t worry, I hate myself more.

My childhood drawings:

You know that your teddy bear can’t walk, and torsos aren’t half the size of necks, right? God you suck at coloring, and nobody knows what an Adventhr is.

Wait, which airplane did you take: The one where everyone died, or the one made by retarded MC Escher? Good thing you wrote the airline on the airplane, otherwise people would be confused.

First off, just cus you can’t pronounce r’s doesn’t mean you can’t write them. Also, are you descended from giant-giraffe hybrids? And you are gonna stick with that way of drawing airplanes – as if they are made of cardboard in the 6th dimension. Some strange architecture, btw.

Yeah we went there, but then I guess we drank some Alice in Wonderland potion, took up the entire house and then set it on fire. Also, I don’t think more than one person could fit in there, And why is that person smiling?! If I were as big as a house, I would be scared.

Pigs? More like sparrow-ladybug mixes in blackface. Also, did you run out blue ink after “We saw” or does pigs just always need to be in brown. I’m not criticizing, just wondering the artistic merit of your choices.

That is (a) a gross game of uno (b) a bizarre way of spelling “play” and (c) a fuckload of yellow.

AND THEN WE LOST OUR ARMS!!!! And, you don’t need to draw eyes coming out of a head like springs just to show which direction that a person is looking.

The interesting architectural decisions continue, this time with a table that is also taller than my grandmother so that we bake by blindly moving ingredients around on a table that we can’t see.

That made a travel journal? That trip must have sucked.

When? Where? What were you “kuting and pasting?” And does that picture correlate at all to the words being said above it? Details, you need details.

I agree with abortion, only partially because I think a woman should have the right to choose. Partially for other reasons.

Lazy, Nostalgia

Tornado Story

I woke up from my nap to the sound of crashing and the warm green/pink glow of the sky barely lighting up my room. I thought I was awake, but as I looked outside and saw rain drops moving right to left and left to right as much as they were going up and down I began to realize I was dreaming. Wind howled through the barely cracked window my roommate had forgotten to shut. I shut it. This sight was incredible. A tree was swinging back and forth as if it was one of those inflatable punching bags and you had just given it the “perfect” punch. I knew I was dreaming because every once in a while a flash of light would make not just the sky light up but also my entire vision – why was someone playing with the lights in my room? Someone must have been cooking because this light was accompanied by loud crashing sounds. I knew I was dreaming also because I had less clothes on then when I went to bed.

I wanted to go outside and be a part of this, but I knew the second I took my eyes off of this beautiful green blue sight, it would stop because my dream would be punishing me. I watched instead. I watched as the tree masquerading as a boxing toy snapped in half and threw itself to the ground. I watched as it ended. That quickly.

Then I realized it wasn’t a dream. I had just woken up to a tornado.

My sophomore year of college I had my first tornado warning and my first instinct was to chase it. I still had that instinct and had I known that I was awake, I think I would have chased that instinct (and that tornado). This is because I will do any amount of work to get a good story.

I just went to get a library card and was told I needed a piece of mail and my ID. There is a piece of mail in front of me. I have my ID in my pocket. The library is a 4 minute walk away. I’m not getting my library card until 2011. What good story will come from my getting my library card?

At least I’m not these douchebags, bro:

I Don't Know What the Fuck This Is

How I Got Fired

What does it mean when you wake up at 6am after going to sleep at 9pm and then watch 3 and a half hours of Veronica Mars?

Let’s put aside the fact that I’m sick. That my head is pounding and my nostrils feel as though I’ve been trying to snort flubber. That my back doesn’t have muscles that aren’t in knots anymore. That I really need to do laundry today.

Let’s put aside the fact that Veronica Mars made me cry. Twice.

Let’s focus on what’s important. That I was illegally terminated (2c)* from a job that I was good at and passionate about.

Let’s focus on the fact that two days ago I gave a 16 year old my bracelet pretending that it had no emotional significance to me just because I had used the bracelet as a distracting device throughout our sessions, and by allowing her to wear it I was giving her a tool that will help her do better on the ACT, yet I was forced out of my only substantial income because of this blog. Because this blog is somehow so outlandishly offensive that I cannot appropriately teach children.

Defending the validity of my writing’s social and political value is something I could do in my sleep, so I won’t bore myself by doing it awake, but rather I will discuss our society’s unfathomable obsession with forcing people to fit into a box.

“It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with the love affair I have with my penis. People hate my love affair. People don’t want to like the relationship I have with my penis – they want to think it’s clichéd and annoying and that I just want to gross everyone out.” This was one quote specifically pulled out as inappropriate “for an educator working with teenagers.” This quote is from a blog entry about being uncomfortable. About how making people uncomfortable through art is important because we need to be more comfortable being uncomfortable. Because being uncomfortable is holding us back.

You don’t have to agree. Neither does the mother whose daughter I was supposed to teach before she called in the tutoring agency and demanded my termination. That’s okay.

Mr. Rush was my theater teacher in High School. He both considers himself a Christian and was one of the best teachers I had. Do I agree with the fact that he believes in some magical drunk Jew who thinks he can walk on water? No. Does it matter? No. He wasn’t teaching me how to think, he was teaching me how to read Shakespeare – and he knew a lot about reading Shakespeare. My job as an educator was to teach test prep and math. I am great at both of those. I taught a kid who was counting on his fingers in order to add two plus three to do eight digit long division in 3 one-hour sessions. Does the fact that I struggle with masculinity affect that ability to teach? No.

I’ve been asking a lot of rhetorical questions that I’ve been answering for you with the simple sentence of “No.” Is that because I don’t think you know the answer? Maybe. I worry because I’ve lost complete faith in humanity. I’ve lost all ability to trust that people are good and that they can judge circumstances with reason. I’ve taught in some form or another for 6 years. Sometimes for good money, sometimes for no money, sometimes for very little money – always because I care deeply and passionately about education. Because I didn’t necessarily get the education I thought I deserved because teachers were too quick to judge my lack of note-taking or my curiosity. Also because I was a bratty little child who got easily pissed off when teachers judged me and started judging them back. As I said, I’ve been working with children for 6 years and have never had a complaint about the way I dealt with children. I have received many compliments and thankful letters, but never a single complaint. Now I have. From a person who I never taught. From some woman who derailed my entire life because she made the assumption that writing about feminism through a male perspective (which will necessarily include references to my penis) says more about my ability to teach children than the 6 years I’ve spent teaching children.

I haven’t told my parents because I don’t want them to worry, and in reality they need not because I’m white in America with a college degree. I’ll be fine. I’ll get another job and in 4 to 5 months I’ll be back to teaching enough to pay rent. But I shouldn’t have to do this. I shouldn’t have to hide one thing I do in order to do another. They have absolutely nothing to do with each other. I’ve never ranted about masculinity in the midst of teaching derivatives. There’s no reason to. I’m not hired to discuss my penis. I’m hired to discus math.

I’ve always said that safety and privacy are the two things we worry about far too much. We fight wars for “safety” and only end up killing more than we are saving. We demand constant “privacy” despite the fact that the only reason we are embarrassed is because of the person who is judging us, not because we are actually ashamed of what we do (and if you are actually ashamed then you shouldn’t be doing it).

Our world is changing and information about people is far more easily accessible. We have to adapt to this change because we can no longer hide in the dark and pretend that all people in positions of authority have perfectly clean lives that agree with all of your sensibilities. Does the guy who gives you your morning bagel agree with your position on gay marriage? You don’t know? Why not?

I understand that teaching is different because you are trusting this person to take care of your child, but as I said before I’ve been teaching for six years and that should far outweigh the fact that I make jokes about my dick when I’m on stage in front of a bunch of drunk college kids.

At this point I feel like I’m going in circles because I’m too mad. I don’t get mad. I typically get passionate. The two things I will get passionate about at the mere mention of the subject are comedy’s place in society as a method of broadening our understanding of the human condition and teaching.

Am I not allowed to do the two things I’m passionate about? I guess this is one more rhetorical question to which the answer is “No.”

*Thanks Daniel

Depressed, Nostalgia, Pathetic

Me: In Cars

Instead of discussing the New Orleans style flood of emotions that has occured upon coming back to Maine – a place I’ve hated my whole life – to realize that it is simultaniously as beautiful as everyone says it is and as horrible as I always said it was, instead of discussing the fact that the familiar water pressure of my childhood shower nearly brought me to tears, instead of discussing how free food and Tivo is making me rethink every decision I’ve made in life, I will be discussing why I don’t like to drive.

Driving is boring.

I love how in New York no transportation is wasted. I get on the subway only to write, read, and occasionaly masturbate. I can do none of those things while driving. Driving takes up the entirety of my energy. I have to stare at a road and hope that my destination comes quickly. In the car I had in high school I could adjust the display so that it would show how many miles per gallon I was getting at each second. I used to turn that on and then try to be the most efficent driver I could be. The problem occurs when you crash because you are paying attention to a small digitally displayed number as opposed to the road.

$3000 is the amount I’ve lost because of speeding tickets and cars I’ve crashed. That is about 10 times the amount of money in my bank account. Being back in Maine frightens me because most of this money was spent here as I would drive 80 mph on roads I knew well at 2am where the only other car out was the cop who pulled me over. This is why I moved to New York – so that I wouldn’t have to drive anymore.

I hate driving.

I also hate crying in the shower because the water pressure reminds me of waking up for high school, but I do it anyway.

Indignant, Media

Me: In My 20 Somethings

I haven’t read this now stupid-famous article.

Everybody my age has and has an opinion. I am my age and I have lots of opinions. I should have an opinion on it. I do.


Two writers I respect dearly in their 20 somethings wrote responses that were both reasonable and mildly whiny. These are just two of hundreds of articles written about how the New York Times has misrepresented the almost youth of our country. Beyond the written responses, my peers love to run up to me with their first New York Times Magazine every screaming “did you see this shit?!?!?” Eh.

I feel like from the criticism I’ve heard, and quotes that have been pulled out for me that Arnett (the psychologist who headed up the study) and Henig (the writer of the article) has done a poor job understanding the issues facing a 20 something group heading into a dying job market and using their white privilege to be comfortable while they try out different career paths besides working in offices – which are also dying of people because technology has made most offices near unnecessary. This is not the 20 something’s problem. The fact that they are waiting tables and tending bars or travelling to poor areas and teaching Math and English is not a problem. Those are fine professions. The fact that they aren’t doing what they will be doing in 20 years is not a problem.

The problem with 20 somethings is that they respect 40 year olds.

You remember when you were a senior in college and you were at some party with some freshman and the freshman started talking about how good they were at beer pong and then they told you some story about some beer pong experience they had in high school? Do you remember how the story ended? No. You know why? Because you stopped paying attention because you were like: “This fucking child doesn’t understand what they are saying and there is no way they are going to surprise me with some childish story about how they got drunk in their parent’s basement.” That’s fair. You were probably right. You might not have been. That kid with the almost facial hair and the hair that’s too long for the first time because mommy hasn’t forced him to cut it and he doesn’t need to because he’s trying to save money now, which is why he just spent $40 on alcohol tonight could have a badass story about drinking out of solo cups. Probably not. But maybe.

40 year olds like Jeffery Arnett think of us the same way. When we say we are trying to find ourselves he sees himself at our age and wishes that he had learned the things he knows now, then. I look back to every point in my life and wish I had the knowledge that I have now – that’s part of living: Regretting.

So, now Arnett is looking down at 20 somethings for shit he wishes he hadn’t done, just as we’ve all looked down at freshman for staying with their high school boyfriend, or getting too drunk, or being annoying and stupid. Part of life is hating younger people. They are stupider than you because they haven’t experienced what you have experienced. That doesn’t mean they are wrong – they are simply gaining those experiences that you already gained.

People can’t learn calculus before they learned addition. Their is no hierarchy, one just comes before the other.

Sure, Arnett is a dick for demanding that 20 somethings act differently, but we are being annoying and whiny for giving a shit what he thinks. Also, just as Arnett is painting all 20ers with the same brush in his article, we are painting the New York Times readers and writers with a broad brush by assuming that they all agree with Arnett’s “findings.”

Let’s all chill out. We’re only 20 something.