Depressed, Gender, Selfish

Hey Nicki, you’re so fine, you’re so fine, holy Christ I wish I was you so bad.

It’s nice out, but I am not outside.

The reason is because I haven’t taken a shower.

The reason I haven’t taken a shower is because I’m busy being in bed.

The reason I’m being in bed is because my computer contains so much work for me to do.

Drawn Out Storytelling is happening. It’s happening, but we still need more money.

I’m proud of my art. I’m proud of the things I do, but sometimes I can’t do the things that are truly important. The things that are important are done by Nicki Minaj.

I can subvert masculinity or question the concept of gender roles/identification, but what I can’t do is truly be empowering because I am not a woman. Beyond that, I’m not talented, but more importantly: I have a penis. It sucks.

Specifically what Nicki does that Missy Elliot and Lil Kim did not do before her was maintain femininity. PINK. She is able to project her femininity as her power. She co-opted patriarchy without co-opting masculinity. She even sings as the heterosexual Nicki in it. Usually I’m opposed to when Nicki pretends to only like men or women, but her hetero status is important in this video because it gives her the power to comment purely on the power she can demand as a woman over men. PINK.

Did you know she’s a woman?

There’s no question. Cus she’s got boobs and curves and PINK. Pink jizz. She fucking jizzes her pink jizz all over some dudes chest and he makes that face. That face. The face that every girl in patriarchal pornography makes as she gets a face full of facefull. I can’t do this because my jizz, despite being pink, comes out of a penis. It doesn’t come out of a champagne glass, it comes out of an uncircumcised, barely average, left leaning (politically and physically) dick.

People have asked me why I have so many issues with my penis in the interviews that I hold in my head when I’m fantasizing about fame and this is the problem: What can/should I do?

I can’t ever do what I need to do, and that’s both okay and terrible. Okay for the world, but terrible for me. It’s hard to reconcile.

Also, watch this show. They’re doing the things I wish I could do but can’t because of my stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid penis. AND she lip syncs to Nicki well.

Attention Whoring, comedy, My favorites, Selfish

I Am Archetype

There’s a reason I want to be on TV.

My favorite game is to play is what fictional character in a specific fictional world are my friends. Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, and Winnie the Pooh are the best three stories to play this game with.

The reason I want to be on TV is so that people can compare themselves to me. They can say: “I’m the Nisse of this group” or “You’re the Nisse of this group of friends.” That would be awesome!

I’ve been working on a webseries. Finally people will be able to say “I’m the Nisse of this group.” But they’ll just be explaining why their life is an utter failure.

I’m okay with that.

Gender, Indignant, My favorites, Nostalgia, Selfish

My Dudes.

I like to claim that “dudes” is a gender neutral term to describe the people you hang out with most. I’ve also attempted to claim “bitches” is a gender neutral term to describe people you are excited to see. There’s a problem with both claims, in that interpretation largely forms the meaning of the word. If the image conjured up when I say “my dudes” is that of burly men on couches then that context informs how you read the rest of what is said about said “dudes.”

The fact that you have such a clear vision of who one is referring to when talking of “dudes” is the essential problem . When 90% of relationships represented on TV and film are between men, it is hard to not find archetype idols to follow. It’s tempting to simply fill in the template already created by society with slightly different traits in order to achieve uniqueness, as opposed to discarding the template altogether.

Problems arose when my group of “dudes” in college all grew facial hair. It may have been out of a mix of laziness, fear of being perceived as childlike, and an attempt to subscribe on only a minor level to the hipster subculture that was anything but a subculture at our school, but the result was that the conjured image of burly men on couches was fully realized.

Our common interests were hard to find. Each of us fashioned ourselves intelligent in our field, but our fields had little overlap. Psychology, History, Gender Studies, Mathematics, and Philosophy may seem connected, but only in that they all involve a college education. Instead our common thread became that we had all not had sex with girls that we had wanted to have sex with. Even our closest non-hetro dude (who unsurprisingly found our fulfillment of Apatow fantasies unfulfilling and began hanging out with us less over college) was connected because he was not having sex with men that he wanted to have sex with. So that became what we talked about. It’s not that I don’t like talking about that. I love talking about that. But it’s that that constant of a conversation begins to affect actions. Our other common interest was the nostalgic playing of Super Smash Bros. on N64. Since all we ever spoke of was our inability to achieve our sexual desires, the games became less about Falcon Punches and Down B’s of Yoshi and more about taking out anger on who we thought subscribed to the virtues of the book of “Not Getting Laid But Wanting To” worst – who was least dudely.

This was not a happy house. We once got into a screaming fight because half of us wanted to go to Noodles & Co. and half of us wanted to go to Subway.

Again I have found myself living in a world where my life revolves around a game and some men. Now, though, my conversations with each are different. They revolve around comedy & monogamy, fantasy sports & not getting laid, lady gaga & kanye, and granola & efficiency. I like every one of these conversations, but, more importantly, by diversifying what we talk about, our game (Settlers of Catan) stays about our game. When someone blocks a trade route t’s because that’s the best move for them not because that person has been backwardly bragging about the fact that they made out with some girl. They aren’t better people, and, honestly, I have no desire to hang out with good people, but our relationships are much healthier. The diversity of individual relationships creates a world where conformity becomes more difficult – where there is no template to simply fill in. Where you get to write your own template.

It’s not lost on me that my groups of dudes is significantly less heterosexual, but I think that has less to do with the differences than one would originally assume. Women obviously played a role in both groups, mostly that women became less and less interested in interacting with us the more and more our conversation revolved around our inability to have sex on them, but I think near the beginning of my college dudes’ group our relationship to femalia was similar. That’s all I’m going to say about other theories as to the quality of life because I like the theory that I’ve been writing about for a while and want you to think that it’s true.

Each of the men I’ve talked about from college and now are great people… great dudes, but Darjeeling Limited is a much better movie than The Royal Tenenbaums – relationships between individuals are more interesting than the individuals themselves.

I’ve often said that the only person I hate more than myself is all previous incarnations of myself. I hope that that continues to be true because that will mean that I’m always changing for the better.

Lazy, Selfish


Yesterday was the first day that that man could drive his Hummer in New York City with reason. I’m sure he was proud.

Like the rest of this post-apocalyptic world we are living in without completely realizing it, we are covered in snow. The night before had been a misadventure to see Tron – an hour and a half of The Dude being surprised by how cool computers are – through what seemed like Antarctic conditions, if Antarctica were full of stalling cars instead of penguins. Our 3D glasses providing wind protection, we trudged through feet of snow passed people choosing to spend the night in bodegas and toward the warmth of a friend’s couch.

There was a man walking by us with a crutch as we struggled with the lock of our entrance. Through three feet of snow, one man was hobbling and using a hunk of metal as his other leg to attempt to reach his destination.

Did we help him? Did we offer to put him up for the night? Did we stare awkwardly attempting to decide if either of these things were valid to do?


I still feel terrible.

I feel terrible because my thought process was: “I don’t need to help him because no one else will. He can’t be mad at me because I’m not treating him worse than other people are treating him. He’s not going to specifically point out me as an asshole – I’m just part of asshole culture.”

After our first apocalyptic adventure with a tornado everyone helped out everyone else, but now we film each other struggling with cars.

I don’t think it’s time that has jaded us, I think it’s cold that has made us less willing to help our fellow citizen. Fuck cold.

Also fuck myself.

Lonely, Selfish

I’m Sexy?

I was asked recently how many people I had had sex with. I counted and said the number, surprised and proud by what I thought was a large number. She responded: “That’s it? I thought it would be more.”

My pride turned to patheticness, which then turned to confusion, which then turned to self-doubt.

It’s not that I look at the number of people you sleep with as the mark of a man, but rather that I enjoy sleeping with people and so having a high number means I have enjoyed many different experiences, which sounds good. What was confusing to me about the reaction was that somebody would assume I had slept with more people than I had.

I always figured that despite the fact that we are people who are constantly transforming, there would be one constant in my life: People would view me as unattractive to others. Even if they found me attractive, they would assume they were the only one. But I looked in the mirror this morning and saw somebody weird. My face has decent looking facial hair that seems hip in the midst of a forest of manly stubble. I’m not gonna go crazy and say that I thought I was attractive, but I definitely understood my appeal to others. Especially in this era of scrawny guys with quirky choices ruling the world.

I got lucky. I was born at the right time.

Hipster bashing is so boring at this point. Not because they don’t deserve to be ridiculed – everybody deserves to be ridiculed, and not because only hipsters bash other hipsters – self-hatred without self-awareness is funny and should be a part of our world, but because we don’t know what a hipster is. We define it as people we are jealous of, and I am jealous of the person people think I am.

So I will now define myself as a hipster. Despite that I don’t know any bands that you haven’t heard of, can’t fix my bike, love sitcoms, and don’t shop for clothing with more than $10 in my pocket – I am a hipster! And by claiming it, I will change the definition. Because, like love, there is no commonly accepted definition, so I can create my own.

If you hate me, you are allowed to hate hipsters. That’s fine, but otherwise, you don’t hate hipsters because this is what hipsters like:

1. Kanye West and Nicki Minaj getting along

2. The fall of the laugh track in the American sitcom

3. Losing their i-pod

4. Being bad at fixing things

5. Math

6. Fantasy sports

7. Mirrors

8. Not washing things as often as they should be washed

9. Having a profound misunderstanding of visual art

10. Games – board or video

See here’s the thing. I love Stumbleupon – it’s great not only in it’s ability to waste your time, but also in it’s ability to tell you who you are and what you like. The last two websites that stumbleupon told me that I’d enjoy were an essay against victim blaming in rape cases, and an empirical (good pun) study of the Death Star. This is why I’m surprised to find myself seeming attractive: People who like nerdy shit and discussing rape intellectually don’t get laid – they get grants.

I could totally use some grants right now.

Attention Whoring, Lonely, My favorites, Nostalgia, Selfish

Love is Pure Mathematics and the Neverending Story

I’ve mentioned it before, but the best thing on the internet is the wikipedia entry on Love. The entry climaxes when love is described as a “thought-terminating cliche.” What I think is so amazing about that is that in three words they are able to describe everything I hate about the world and therefore explain why I don’t feel love. Love is something that halts discourse and thinking rationally in favor of doing something unoriginal. You couldn’t describe anything in a way that made me hate it more.

Love is simply a word, but words are inventions, and love is humans’ most interesting invention because it is completely intangible yet has weaseled its way into our culture in such a way that humanity decided it was necessary. It isn’t. Love is conceptual, which is fine, so is joy or depression or any feeling, but love is a concept that we refuse to define and yet demand for everybody to understand.

“I love you, don’t you understand?”

No. How could I?

Nobody says “I enjoy fantasy basketball, don’t you understand?” because no other emotion demands so much out of another person. You can enjoy fantasy basketball and not give a shit if someone else does. You can’t love someone without them loving you back or your love becomes depression. It’s selfish.

This is why long distance relationships work. Because love is impossible. It is impossible to love someone that you see because they are real and love isn’t – it’s a made up concept that can’t exist between two (or more) actual human beings, but when you are not near that person it’s easier to create the person you love.

I’ve fallen in love before.

I’ve fallen in love before multiple times, but never with a person that I was near. Only with the idealized version of that person that I created in my masturbation memories. The person who made funny jokes about my cum when the tissue I was using got saturated. The person whose jokes were not theirs, but rather mine that I imposed upon them using my made up version of their voice.

This isn’t going to turn into another post about how I love myself.

I said that more to stop myself from going down that hole because loving myself is getting old. But because love is a fantasy, we can only truly love our fantasies, and our fantasies come from our mind.

My imaginary friends were Didi and Dodo and they lived in the fridge and the freezer and they slept in separate beds and they were married. I don’t know if they were in love. I knew they were married. I knew they liked to slide down my railing with me. I knew that they fit in my palm. It didn’t matter if they were in love, but they were. They were the only two things that were ever in love because they were imaginary – and love is imaginary.

This isn’t a disillusioned rant of a young child pretending to be jaded.

I said that to stop myself from making it such. But love can’t be real because theoretical creations are simply that: theoretical.

My entire academic life was in pursuit of studying mathematics, but I couldn’t ever get into the beauty of what G.H. Hardy calls “Pure Mathematics” because it wasn’t tangible and it’s hard to grasp something intangible by definition. Love is “pure mathematics.” Love is something that some people can feel, but only for something that doesn’t exist. Love is like faith, but in a person that you’ve made up yourself – as opposed to religion, which is faith a person somebody else made up for you. In a sense love is noble, but it’s delusional.

I want to get back to my point about how love can only exist with people who aren’t there because I feel like I have more to say, but I transitioned away from that. Well, I’m back onto it.

Love can only exist with people who aren’t there. That’s it. I think I just needed to repeat it.

Last time I was home with my parents, I was forcing volume out of my mouth in an indignant manner about how love was a bullshit concept created by the patriarchal bla bla bla of capitalist bla bla bla in order to enforce monogamy and bla bla bla and create xenophobia and bla bla bla. My mom heard the bla bla bla part and stopped me.

“Nisse, does the reason you think this way have anything to do with Dad and me?”

“No, of course not.” I lied.

I lied only in the sense that of course my perceptions of love are warped by the people who raised me, but I wasn’t really lying. Love is so ill-defined that each of us is forced to create our own definition of love – and mine is: a self-generated, difficult, selfish, act of pure mathematics that is based in noble delusion.

At least that makes it sound better than a thought-terminating cliche.

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.