Attention Whoring, Lazy, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia

I Like My Women

One of my favorite games to play is “I Like My Women Like I Like My Nouns.” It’s a game I came up with in high school wherein the participant starts off by saying “I like my women like I like my (fill in the blank with a noun)” and then continues to explain by offering one to three adjectives that are funny. If it makes too much sense with both women and the noun then your joke is obvious and boring, and probably a little sexist. If it makes too little sense, you are an attention whore. It’s a beautiful game of understanding expectations and their relation to comedy.

Summer after graduating high school I was hanging out with some of the other teachers at the arts camp I taught at. We were at one of the richer kid’s summer house on the water. I felt uncomfortable because while I was “friends” with all these people, everybody else was closer friends than I was with anybody. Except Jon. Jon and I were friends. We both felt uncomfortable because we assumed no one wanted us there. My problem (as if there is only one) is that I get indignant when I wrongfully assume I am unwanted. I decide if I’m not wanted for no reason, I’ll make sure there is a reason. I started playing “I Like My Women Like I Like My Noun” by announcing that “I like my women like I like my sailboats.” I chose sailboats because the bathroom that we had all gathered in as Alex showed us her house as though we were real adults who needed real house tours, because the bathroom had a wallpaper full of sailboats. I hadn’t been listening to whatever story was being told by the New York transplant leading our tour under the assumption that it wasn’t interesting, but now I wanted my voice to be heard and I had no transition into focusing attention on me. I then needed to finish my game.

“I like my women like I like my sailboats. … With low self-esteem.”

At the time this was vaguely true. Not that sailboats could have esteem, but rather that I was interested in women as depressed with how their lives turned out as me. I just thought it seemed relatable. It was very funny. Jon laughed. I think I won the game.

Yesterday I played again for the first time in a long time. “I like my women like I like my rice pudding. … Chunky, wet, and full of grains.” This is a different approach to the game, but I think still very funny. Mostly because I like to imagine a woman pooping barley out of sheer pressure on her internal organs. This is why this joke is funny. It allows you the opportunity to believe that there may be a connection between my desires when it comes to women and snack-desserts, then it fucks with those expectations, then you have to go back and realize what if there had been a connection – do I really like my women chunky and wet? Probably. But that’s still weird.

There is still another way to play this game. Earnestly. “I like my women like I like my shoes. … Nostalgically.” I recently switched back to a pair of shoes I hadn’t worn in a while because they don’t breath very well, and I hate sweaty feet. Before that I had been running through a string of barely formed sandals and sneakers whose heels I could typically see through and whose souls were in multiple pieces. I liked those shoes though, because they fit. I saw it was wrong, but I was lazy. I didn’t want to have to find a new shoe. I didn’t want to have to spend another $10 on footwear, so I dealt with it. I pretended that I really liked when my toe touched the sidewalk even though I was supposedly wearing protective gear on my feet. I called them “worn in” when a rock would come in through the hole in the back heel. Now I have on new shoes. They aren’t new shoes, but they are new in that I haven’t worn them in over a year and a half. They are new in that the heel is fully intact.

They are also a little annoying. I have to tie them and untie them to get them on and off because I haven’t worn them enough to be able to make them into makeshift slippers. They slide around, which is fun, but because they are vaguely platform shoes, I sometimes trip – assuming my heel is further away from the ground then it is. But I like ’em. I’ve been enjoying my new height, ability to make loud clomping noises as I walk, and the way my feet look like a a clown’s feet fucked a gogo dancer’s feet. I have had this pair of shoes, or the exact same pair but older since I was a Junior in High School. They remind me of times when I was a cheaper attention whore. When I didn’t quite analyze each of my comedic instincts and rather just wore a funny hat or jacket, knowing it would get me a laugh. They remind me of high school dances, where Jon and I were the only ones dancing because we thought funk music could save the world if everybody just truly felt the groove. They remind me of icy winters in Minnesota when I would pretend I was on cross country skis, gliding to class on my tractionless boot-shoes. They remind me of all of the wonderful free suits I’ve worn with these shoes.

Yeah.

I like my women like I like my shoes. Sometimes I get stuck pretending I enjoy them when their “comfort” is really just my laziness and inability to see what would truly be best for me, and sometimes I jump into something new and exciting and it feels like it’s taking a while to really get, but even that’s exciting, but if I really analyze it – they are just the same as something I had before. I like my women like I like my shoes. Nostalgically.

I think I need new shoes.

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Lonely

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.

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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.

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Horny, Lonely, Pathetic

Me: In Relationships

There is food in my bed a lot. People are all trying to take my money. Nobody wants relationships to last the way I want them to.

This is like that game two truths and a lie, except all of them are true. Instead it’s two bad things and a good thing. I like having food easily accessible.

I love being in a fully formed relationship that feels like you two can finish each other’s sandwiches (I should eat breakfast). I also hate when that lasts more than a day. It gets boring, routine, monotonous – much like a list of synonyms. The interesting part of relationships to me, and really anything to me, is that they are constantly transforming. They must constantly move forward otherwise they die. I can go through a relationship quickly. I need not three months to hit all the main points. I treat a relationship like a pithy writer treats an essay – make sure you get everything in, and put nothing else in.

My point is that I love relationships. I love all parts of relationships, and that’s why I don’t get into any of them. They’re all structured wrong. We should have fully formed marriages and divorces that last a week, or maybe a day. That’d be awesome.

Also a transgend’s girlfriend put a knife to my friend’s throat when we tried to stop her from beating the shit out of homelessman.

That’s another truth. Not sure if it’s a good or bad. They’ve obviously been in a relationship too long.

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Attention Whoring, Lonely, Nostalgia

Me: In Writings About Textings

I found this in my notebook:

For the second day in a row I’ve seen someone cry on the subway. The first was a woman coming home from a shortened night of partying, probably because someone broke her heart and she was looking down so that she wouldn’t have to wipe her eyes and draw attention to her sadness. Below her face was a puddle that kept being added to by the salty rain that poured out of her face. Today there was a man wearing a black hat to cover a large gash in his head. The gash had healed, but no hair had grown back yet. He was texting someone on his Iphone. The text he was replying to said: “text me when you’re on the train so that I know your [misspellings left in] safe” He slowly and arduously punched in “I am on” and sent his response before our train went underground and he could not add endums [misuse of words purposeful] of anger or sadness. I know the contents of these texts because I was peering over his shoulder because I’m creepy and don’t respect privacy.

I also found this in my notebook:

I tutor via craigslist sometimes.

There are all kinds of horror stories of murderers on c-list luring in young nubile tutors for their silence of the lambs style fetishes. In case it happens, I practice sending text messages with my hands behind my back. They always are texts directing people to look at my computer where I leave a google map up of my location. So go to my computer if you get a text that says: “Hekd hostage address on xo.p”

I also found these three sentences written without any context:

I grew a beard because I wanted old men to stop trying to have sex with me.

I like following conventionally attractive girls because I like watching the guys who look at them.

I feel very comfortable around attractive lesbians.

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Attention Whoring, Depressed, Gender, Horny, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia

Attract: A Post, A Female Post

Women, to me, are nostalgia bottled into breasts and butts.

I am still attracted to female anatomy, and maybe even more to the pain they feel from being subjugated to constantly being forced into playing the victim card in our patriarchal society – a pain I falsely understand as my own, but I don’t like women the way I did in the past. In the past, women represented an unattainable but very frequent goal. Something I knew I wanted, but didn’t understand how to get. Something that I gave too much power to, too much agency because society took so much of it away from them. When one combines a desire with an unwillingness to chase that desire, one gets nothing, and I got nothing. I wasn’t quite comfortable with that, but I understood it. I never felt anger because others (women) didn’t understand my how my sexual attraction was really just a selfless release of power – that I was constantly attempting to give the gift of agency to women I felt emotionally entangled with only to see my gift re-gifted to a man more willing to play with power. I understood their confusion because I was also confused as to what I was doing.

Whenever we grow, we also grow a comprehension of our past. We look at what we did and say “Why did we do that?” and then we answer that question because now we have to ability to look at the situation in a rational manner as opposed to being wrapped up in the emotional turmoil we’ve convinced ourselves is so important. I’m not saying that emotion isn’t important, but rather that it is fleeting. Emotion takes a lot of energy and to dwell on things that make you cry will make you tired. Constant tiredness is a symptom of depression.

I look back and understand a lot of my mistakes with women – but at least I had goals to fuck up. I haven’t truly desired a relationship in years. When I do find myself into a girl, it’s because I find my relationship to her similar to a relationship I used to have with someone else. Someone I had tricked myself into liking. Someone who I gave power and agency to only to get pats on the head and emotional diatribes back. Someone who makes me resent myself because they didn’t screw up, but I did. I was doing things wrong and I see women now as only an opportunity to make up for my mistakes. My mistakes were not that I didn’t bone them or make out with them or tell them how I felt. My mistakes were that I gave them agency and then forced them to use it. Agency is a lot of work and I wouldn’t let them be lazy. I love being lazy.

Laziness is not about not exerting energy, but also about being a selfless member of society. Laziness allows others to express their opinions. Laziness is listening. Laziness is helping others instead of helping yourself. This may not be the common definition laziness, but I am uncommon and therefore so are my definitions.

I was wrong in the past. I wasn’t maliciously so, but I didn’t allow people I was attracted to the same life that I had because I thought that no one else should have to deal with having my life. Now I do because I recognize the happiness I have, but I’m no longer attracted to anybody – truly.

Recently I hung out with two people that I spent far too much time obsessing over at different points in my life. My relationship to both is similar. They are similar. I miss them.

I miss them when they are right there because I will never be able to feel like I did. I really just miss myself. I don’t like that self that I miss, but he’s interesting. I wanna know what he thinks sometimes. I wanna know how he would feel right now. But I can’t because he doesn’t exist any more because he has been taken over by me. I killed him and I want him back. Not more than me, but with me.

A story I have been working on for a while starts off: “I need to explain to you all that while I hate myself, I hate all previous incarnations of myself even more.” I use the word hate and love interchangeably because as I’ve said before: “Hate is not the opposite of love, apathy is.”

I used to think of the graphical interpretation of my emotions as some sort of strangely oscillating sine wave where hate was below the x-axis and love was above it. Somewhere along my journey of life I added absolute value signs around the function of my life and love and hate became the same thing, but nearing zero became as depressed as I could be. I must be happier now. I at least enjoy everything more, but I want to hang out with all the previous incarnations of myself that weren’t this wise, that weren’t this understanding, that were attracted to these girls for all the wrong reasons.

I now find myself still attracted to them, but I fear it is just nostalgia. It is just me missing that scared little facial hairless boy who didn’t understand why giving didn’t result in receiving. Who didn’t understand that giving results in giving and receiving results in receiving and only once you do both are you truly adding absolute value signs to you emotions. Even I’m confused by what I just said, but I think I want to be. I want to be confused again and fall in love again and hate again and have it not mean the same thing over and over so I pretend. I pretend to myself that I want something that I wanted before hoping that I can get back any of those previous incarnations of myself and play with them. I really just want to play with myself.

I guess I succeed in doing that pretty often because I tend to masturbate to all these feelings of nostalgia, and also to breasts and butts.

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Horny, Lazy, Lonely

Back to This Subject

It’s probably a cliche, but all of my friends in Minnesota are in relationships and none of my friends in New York are.

I made a joke to two of them that watching the tv show “Chuck” was like vaguely masturbating without any intention of cumming. He thought that sounded awful. I think it sounds reasonable. I think you need to be single to understand the joy in that.

Cumming is about pretending you are with someone and you get to put something inside of them and release a part of you into them. I can’t even imagine that. I just want the sensation that I have become used to. Masturbation is just comfortable.

What I am saying is that I am in a boring, committed, Minnesota relationship with my right hand.

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