up my alley.

i didn't write this, this isn't me. but i wish i had, it makes me chuckle so. if it doesn't make you chuckle, you are obviously hateful and missing a frontal lobe.

"By next season TLC will be airing a reality show in which singing nuns gaze at cloud formations and argue gently over what saints the formations look like. The winner gets to choose an undernourished, bald child with a fatal disease and the weight of the world on its concave shoulders. The bald child gets to ride in an airplane or something before he goes to be with Jesus.

Or maybe NBC will pick a series in which Amish people take turns saying nice things about Dakota Fanning. Nobody gets voted out -- too mean, see -- but instead, people will just keep joining the cast until the entire state of Pennsylvania gets to be on TV."

-- Leslie Gornstein.

okay, get this.

so, a queer and a jew walk into a chinese restaurant...
that's all i got so far. i can't really think of where to take it, but it's such a perfect set-up. if only because it actually happened last friday. i got nothing.
but my mongolian chicken was delicious, even though it smelled almost like an outhouse, but without the gag inducing sensation. and we gorged on crab cheese until Oleo was flowing through our arteries.
but, the other night, okay, so, get this... i wake up in the middle of the night, about four o'clock, or whenever they're still playing jazz on NPR and it feels like i have some diahrrea churning like butter in my belly. but no. not quite. i look down, and what is it my friends? nothing else but a dainty gray mouse fucking my belly button. and our eyes lock, and we both feel something intense and unnamed. and i can't move.
i just lay there, and let him go to town until my navel starts to feel like an ear that you've been cotton-swabbing incessantly for ten minutes.. just that damn good. and he's just giving these little corduroy thrusts and my eyes are rolling around like marbles... indescribable. like some brand new orgasmic umbilical cord was granted to me from god.
then i hear a sudden whimper and a scamper... and i'm still revelling, just laying there, practically passed out on passion before i realize "what the fuck... he's gone." i sit up and look around. i call for him. i wait.
nothing. and i should have known. but for some reason... this time i understand. this time it's okay.
so i look at the cold cement moon staring down at me, and feel the warm little puddle left in my belly button, and i just know everything's gonna be as good as gravy. everything is gonna be alright.

no, not jesus.

so i have a crush.
and it's on this little dipshit. a teeny-tiny wisp of a man. i could crack his rib with my earlobes. jeez, i don't even wanna know how i would annihilate him if he ever got between my knees. but nonetheless, as dainty as he is, there's something about him and his shallow, materialistic ass.
he's got some godawful gold jewelry, which i didn't know people even wore anymore. and this massive gleaming truck that he has to polevault into. mister pissant probably needs a booster seat.
he's into silk pajamas. and lotions. and smoking doobies in his mom's garage, sitting on cold plastic patio furniture. he drinks cherry wheat, just so he can have the cherries, "preferably three." and does he flame, you ask. like no other. and by that, i mean in his own, subtle way.
he's not a lisper. not a wrist-dangler. not an eye-liner. not even a man-whore. he's just delicate, like a porcelain, faberge baby... who happens to be a bitch and wear colored contacts to make his eyes easter-egg blue.
what is it about this fucker? he does that whole "what are you thinking now?" like that's any sort of question. i don't play that game. i don't do hypotheticals. i don't even like people. and yet here he is, all conniving and ridiculous, probably a republican, could fit in the palm-of-my-hand or the crotch-of-my-elbow, doused in cologne, wearing clothes from the mall. and he just has to smile. and i melt.

waste of space.

i've been in love exactly twice in my lifetime... or three times, if inanimate objects count. anyway, of these two, one of these guys is now fucking girls. the other one is now a model in GQ magazine.
and what am i? a footnote. a predecessor. one of those grimy, shit-slathered rest areas on the highway to heaven.
forever, i shall be alone and forlorn; petting my cats and reciting old one-liners from "designing women"

comrade.

so i'm in this club, this association dedicated to those of us with nipples like saucers. chernobyl nipples, if you will. we are a very selective, very exclusive community and as of yet, our population is limited to only three members. (think you got what it takes? drop me a line.)
anyway, we are proud of our nipples and tend to them daily. we are incessantly prowling for the proper man-folk who will know how to do them justice, how to get them hard at a moment's notice. (think you got what it takes? drop me a line.)
which brings me to the point of this. really, i just wanted to write that i recieved this message from some strange man in birch run. he viewed the photos i've posted online from last halloween, where i am somewhat shirtless and hopelessly drunk. and what does he want? he wants nothing more than to put his hands all over my chest and my above-average-size nipples, and he wants to know what turns me on.
you wanna know what turns me on? beer.
anyway. my nipple people and i will discuss and determine the best plan of action to take with this gentleman's hands and if they will, in fact, be "all over" me.
we will let you know what we decide.

how deep is your shame?

alright. so you know those times when you got your mind set that you are going to avoid something. you're not gonna do it, and it's totally gonna happen. but then, out-of-the-blue and not-up-to-you, like sudden diarrhea, it's there and you have no choice. last night. i was saying to myself "i'm not gonna drink tonite. after rehearsal, i'm gonna go home and maybe catch up on some susan faludi, maybe make love to the sofa and watch some VH1. have some warm milk, and slip into my bed early. and by early, i mean perhaps by two."

but no. no. i was suddenly forced to go to the pub. forced. and i dont mean gun-to-the-head force, i mean good old catholic guilt forced. what are you gonna do when your friend calls you sweetie and says please and thanks and asks you to go? you can't say no. i'm not hateful. not in public. so i go. and we say to each other "but we won't be there long..."

i have two dollars in my pocket. i'm that kind of baller. so i think, "hey i'll just get a seltzer with a lime splash. or just a water." but no. my friend knows this "guy in the band." and he gets that "guy in the band" discount, so he keeps buying us pitchers of beer. so its free. beer... free beer. shakespeare couldn't come up with a lovelier phrase. and do i give her the thumbs up and the go ahead on this guy? oh, but i do. i say marry the man tomorrow. or at least slip him some tongue. i love this free beer by association. he's a keeper, love him, i'm sold, can i get him for you wholesale?

so i get drunk. the kind of drunk where you keep losing your keys but they're right there, and you don't say all that much because you know it's not gonna be pretty if you do. and people keep filling your glass, but you can only look at it like it just bitchslapped you. but the beer (like peace) is flowing like a river, and the band is a delight and they actually say "this song is for paul, deena, and kristyn." it's a holiday... afterwards, i went home and made nachos that would make the taco bell janitor's sphincter tighten, chased by a bowl of ice cream.

anyway... i'll stop making excuses. i just wanted to blog... something. and i guess i was feeling guilty and like i had to apologize... to somebody. i don't know. is it possible to backhand yourself? can you stick your elbow in your ear? if a drunk falls down in the woods, and there's nobody there to see it, does he make a noise? no. he just gets up quietly and stumbles away, and pretends that it never happened.

eat me.

so when is it a date and when is it just hanging out? are there quasi-dates? is that what i went on last night? hm... i feel like a poor man's carrie bradshaw. anyway, maybe it was supposed to be a date but it sure didn't end up being one.

...after the bar (lovely hole in the wall, great carpeting, terrible jukebox) we went to denny's and stared at the menu and didn't know what to do because the deep-frier went all defective on their asses. so we just left, and parted ways in the parking lot. just a coffee and a see you later. no kiss, no onion rings, no how.

my next date will be breaded, wrapped in bacon, and slathered in cheese. with a diet coke.