I don't care that your New Years Resolution is to lose weight, you twelve pound, high school cheerleading, Asian piece of jail bait: Do NOT fucking invade my hip hop class!
Put some god damn clothes on, keep your lame-ass comments to yourself and stop stepping on my mother fucking fingers!
Monday, January 29, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Good Lord...
I need to remember to put a cool-down stretch session at the end of 6-hours of rehearsal.
Now, someone go find a saw and cut off my legs so they'll stop hurting.
Now, someone go find a saw and cut off my legs so they'll stop hurting.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
3 Behaviors/Characteristics I Want To Get Rid Of:
1. I need to stop making projects out of people. Stop trying to fix them. I let people with serious issues get attached to me and yet, somehow I always end up getting hurt. I want to make friends/relationships with people because of a genuine connection, rather my internal desire to help.
2. My negative awareness of my body. I find myself wondering how I look in certain outfits, from certain angles... and thinking the worst. It isn't an issue of me not liking my body or how I look anymore... it's a fear that others will judge me solely on it.
3. I'm too good of a procrastinator and excuse maker. If I spent as much time analyzing why I can't be doing what I want to do actually trying to do what I'd want to do... I would have overcome all of my obstacles by now.
2. My negative awareness of my body. I find myself wondering how I look in certain outfits, from certain angles... and thinking the worst. It isn't an issue of me not liking my body or how I look anymore... it's a fear that others will judge me solely on it.
3. I'm too good of a procrastinator and excuse maker. If I spent as much time analyzing why I can't be doing what I want to do actually trying to do what I'd want to do... I would have overcome all of my obstacles by now.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Gay Men.
The comments made on my last post lead me to believe that this subject needs to be discussed further.
Many things. The most important of which Adam addressed in his comment.
In one of the lines of work that I do (the performance art line, including design, choreography, vocals, dance and colorguard), the field is dominated by, you guessed it: gay men.
The reason this is noteworthy is that it feeds my bitter feminism to the point where I want to stop shaving under my arms and wear boxers under all of my pants suits. Men always get to climb higher on the professional ladder, EVEN if they are a taboo minority. Gay men are my competition. They get the higher paying gigs, get to throw the higher rifle tosses, and some even get to be bigger, higher pitched, louder bitches than me.
They have the best of both worlds. They get to have more physical strength, yet be sensitive, thoughtful, and like to cook. I could continue on with this sweeping stereotyping, but it might make me look bad.
And just to make it worse, African Americans :cough BLACK PEOPLE cough: have more rhythm, style, comedic timing, muscle definition, social charms, and family history and structure that far surpass any other collective race/nationality.
So to answer your questions, Adam, yes I did tell you that I was a black, gay male trapped in a white, straight woman's body. I feel oppressed and limited in this estrogen filled jello mold.
What does that say about you? That you are very comfortable with yourself, your sexuality, and that if black, gay men had racks like mine, you might be gay. The wife needs to know about this before you leave her, old and alone, with two kids, for some hot little twenty-something Latino you found on facebook.
And thirdly, I feel even more black on the inside than I used to because of all the hip hop classes I have been taking (taught by, imagine!! a black, gay male), and I am one of his star pupils.
Those of you reading my blog for the first time, I apologize, and hope you don't take this the wrong way. I've been watching a lot of Gilmore Girls lately, and I think the absurd speech patterns and politically incorrect comments have gone to my head.
ghost said...
what exactly was it that made you want to be a gay male?
8:17 AM
Many things. The most important of which Adam addressed in his comment.
Adam said...
Didn't you tell me once you were a gay black man trapped in a straight white woman's body?
a) what does that say about me, considering our history?
b) are you no longer black on the inside? what happened?
11:16 AM
In one of the lines of work that I do (the performance art line, including design, choreography, vocals, dance and colorguard), the field is dominated by, you guessed it: gay men.
The reason this is noteworthy is that it feeds my bitter feminism to the point where I want to stop shaving under my arms and wear boxers under all of my pants suits. Men always get to climb higher on the professional ladder, EVEN if they are a taboo minority. Gay men are my competition. They get the higher paying gigs, get to throw the higher rifle tosses, and some even get to be bigger, higher pitched, louder bitches than me.
They have the best of both worlds. They get to have more physical strength, yet be sensitive, thoughtful, and like to cook. I could continue on with this sweeping stereotyping, but it might make me look bad.
And just to make it worse, African Americans :cough BLACK PEOPLE cough: have more rhythm, style, comedic timing, muscle definition, social charms, and family history and structure that far surpass any other collective race/nationality.
So to answer your questions, Adam, yes I did tell you that I was a black, gay male trapped in a white, straight woman's body. I feel oppressed and limited in this estrogen filled jello mold.
What does that say about you? That you are very comfortable with yourself, your sexuality, and that if black, gay men had racks like mine, you might be gay. The wife needs to know about this before you leave her, old and alone, with two kids, for some hot little twenty-something Latino you found on facebook.
And thirdly, I feel even more black on the inside than I used to because of all the hip hop classes I have been taking (taught by, imagine!! a black, gay male), and I am one of his star pupils.
Those of you reading my blog for the first time, I apologize, and hope you don't take this the wrong way. I've been watching a lot of Gilmore Girls lately, and I think the absurd speech patterns and politically incorrect comments have gone to my head.
Currently Reading #3: Without You
In an effort to further feed my unhealthy desire to be a gay male, I have begun reading the memoir of Anthony Rapp, one of the starz from the Broadway Musical and Movie, Rent.
After finishing Sellevision, I decided to go for something a little more idealistic. Still heartbreaking, mind you... I mean, this struggling little rock opera, his mom having cancer, the whole discovering his sexuality thing... this is guaranteed to make me cry. But in a sunshine and rainbowie kinda way.
Yeah...
After finishing Sellevision, I decided to go for something a little more idealistic. Still heartbreaking, mind you... I mean, this struggling little rock opera, his mom having cancer, the whole discovering his sexuality thing... this is guaranteed to make me cry. But in a sunshine and rainbowie kinda way.
Yeah...
Can't Sleep.
It's nice to know that I haven't lost the ability to fuck myself over.
I have been trying to fall asleep since midnight. After attempting to read, watch tv, listen to music, masturbate, toss, turn, and lay in my own sweat, I have decided to just give up and cancel the sub job I had lined up for tomorrow.
This marks the third cancellation of my substitute teaching career. The first was because I hadn't mastered using the touch tone pad of my phone. The second was to ditch a teacher I didn't know for one that I did know.
But the third time MUST be the charm because I just know that if I tried to get up at 4:45am, put together an outfit and then go teach a subject that I have never taught before, at a school I've never taught at before, go to musical review rehearsal, and then to winterguard rehearsal, all on an hour and a half of sleep, I would fail at life, miserably.
Well no, now that's wrong. I am still failing at life because that was the only paying gig I had lined up for the week.
Anyone know if pawn shops take kittens?
I have been trying to fall asleep since midnight. After attempting to read, watch tv, listen to music, masturbate, toss, turn, and lay in my own sweat, I have decided to just give up and cancel the sub job I had lined up for tomorrow.
This marks the third cancellation of my substitute teaching career. The first was because I hadn't mastered using the touch tone pad of my phone. The second was to ditch a teacher I didn't know for one that I did know.
But the third time MUST be the charm because I just know that if I tried to get up at 4:45am, put together an outfit and then go teach a subject that I have never taught before, at a school I've never taught at before, go to musical review rehearsal, and then to winterguard rehearsal, all on an hour and a half of sleep, I would fail at life, miserably.
Well no, now that's wrong. I am still failing at life because that was the only paying gig I had lined up for the week.
Anyone know if pawn shops take kittens?
Monday, January 22, 2007
Shop Talk?
So I took this writing course at my local community college during the fall. Creative Writing 101. Lewis Black was the professor.
Okay, so he wasn't THE Lewis Black, but the similarities are such that the mental images you all are getting of my professor being an older, Jewish gentleman, with glasses and a poofy, receding, salt and pepper (more salt than pepper) hairline, angry about everything in general, yelling at random, inappropriate times, hand motions that defy logic, and a superior knowledge to everyone I have ever met, are more accurate than any other description I could give you.
His course was more intense than the 200 level course, which was taught by Jane Austin. He made us read A LOT. He made us produce over 40 pages of "fiction" by the end of the semester. He publicly critiqued and humiliated us weekly, and went down roads of tangents that lasted over 25% of lecture time. It was the hardest class I have ever taken.
So, obviously, I fell in love with it.
I figured that this would help me develop a portfolio for grad schools. And well, I've got three pretty nifty short stories now. Yeah. Me. I wrote 3 COMPLETE stories. In addition to this, I also got myself a mentor.
Yeah, you heard me. I got mother fucking Lewis Black to be my mentor. I really have no idea how it happened, and still pinch myself every time I open one of his emails. I can look at this one of three ways:
Right now, my overanalytical nature is mixing all three together, forming the growing paranoia on the back of my neck. Really, it looks much worse than it actually is.
The overwhelming anxiety aside, we are meeting later this week to talk about my resumes and my job search. That's right folks, I am off the schedule at ye old pub. I figured that until I got rid of my safety net, I wouldn't really make an effort to find a real job. This is all part of my New Years Bull Shit.
We'll see how long I last until I get a job with Starbux again.
In an effort to curb questions about reading my short stories, I was advised not to publish them on the internet. I really do want to submit them to hard copy publications and see if I can get started with this whole "I'm a writer" thing. So keep your fingers crossed for me. That is, of course, if you want me to get published. If not, don't worry about it. Walking around with your fingers crossed prohibits normal functioning.
Okay, so he wasn't THE Lewis Black, but the similarities are such that the mental images you all are getting of my professor being an older, Jewish gentleman, with glasses and a poofy, receding, salt and pepper (more salt than pepper) hairline, angry about everything in general, yelling at random, inappropriate times, hand motions that defy logic, and a superior knowledge to everyone I have ever met, are more accurate than any other description I could give you.
His course was more intense than the 200 level course, which was taught by Jane Austin. He made us read A LOT. He made us produce over 40 pages of "fiction" by the end of the semester. He publicly critiqued and humiliated us weekly, and went down roads of tangents that lasted over 25% of lecture time. It was the hardest class I have ever taken.
So, obviously, I fell in love with it.
I figured that this would help me develop a portfolio for grad schools. And well, I've got three pretty nifty short stories now. Yeah. Me. I wrote 3 COMPLETE stories. In addition to this, I also got myself a mentor.
Yeah, you heard me. I got mother fucking Lewis Black to be my mentor. I really have no idea how it happened, and still pinch myself every time I open one of his emails. I can look at this one of three ways:
1. He is a lonely, old pervert who has a thing for redheads.
2. He sees something in my writing and I that are worth refining.
3. He thinks I am a tragic mess and need all the help i can get.
Right now, my overanalytical nature is mixing all three together, forming the growing paranoia on the back of my neck. Really, it looks much worse than it actually is.
The overwhelming anxiety aside, we are meeting later this week to talk about my resumes and my job search. That's right folks, I am off the schedule at ye old pub. I figured that until I got rid of my safety net, I wouldn't really make an effort to find a real job. This is all part of my New Years Bull Shit.
We'll see how long I last until I get a job with Starbux again.
In an effort to curb questions about reading my short stories, I was advised not to publish them on the internet. I really do want to submit them to hard copy publications and see if I can get started with this whole "I'm a writer" thing. So keep your fingers crossed for me. That is, of course, if you want me to get published. If not, don't worry about it. Walking around with your fingers crossed prohibits normal functioning.
Currently Reading #2: Sellevision
As a woman, I have always loved fluff books. But never could I have imagined how good a fluff book written by a fluffer could be!!
Fine. I don't know if Augusten Burroughs really IS a fluffer, but you get my point. For those of you unfamiliar with the author, he wrote the novel turned into newly released movie Running With Scissors.
The story is about a shopping network, and all of the employees there. So far, it is very juicy. Very scandalous. Insanely ridiculous.
Fine. I don't know if Augusten Burroughs really IS a fluffer, but you get my point. For those of you unfamiliar with the author, he wrote the novel turned into newly released movie Running With Scissors.
The story is about a shopping network, and all of the employees there. So far, it is very juicy. Very scandalous. Insanely ridiculous.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Regret
I wonder why this place has been such an on again off again affair for me. I look back through the archives and see huge periods of time where all I posted were excuses. But I also see periods of such fervent writing, full of reflection and self evaluation, and I wonder if I am worse off without it.
Was blogging for me, were I went when I had no one to talk to about me with?
Was it the stand in for my dad? For my romantic counter part? For my best friend?
Should I feel bad about letting it go? Or should I feel happy that I no longer connect with it the way I used to?
Do I miss the writing, or is it the internet community I once found myself knee-deep in?
When I click on links and then follow their links to pages I used to view daily, I see that I am no longer a part of the underground. That I was a blip on the radar and not a lasting contributor.
I see people that I used to value as friends who don't know me at all anymore... and who really are doing just fine without me. It does make me sad.
It makes me want to share again. To sit down and really spend a few hours putting together a funny, stream of conscious poem, that makes your heart break a little when you weren't looking.
I used to be good. I used to be important. I used to have something to say.
I used to love spending time on the internet. It was this whole world where people could really know me for my words, rather than what I did or looked like or how old I was. But now it scares me to sit in front of the screen and know that I have no business poking around anywhere in anyone else's digital domain.
I was the child who moved away from home and never bothered to visit or write or call every now and again just to tell her family and friends that she missed them.
I am the disappointment. The one with so much potential. The one who never followed through.
I'm sorry.
Was blogging for me, were I went when I had no one to talk to about me with?
Was it the stand in for my dad? For my romantic counter part? For my best friend?
Should I feel bad about letting it go? Or should I feel happy that I no longer connect with it the way I used to?
Do I miss the writing, or is it the internet community I once found myself knee-deep in?
When I click on links and then follow their links to pages I used to view daily, I see that I am no longer a part of the underground. That I was a blip on the radar and not a lasting contributor.
I see people that I used to value as friends who don't know me at all anymore... and who really are doing just fine without me. It does make me sad.
It makes me want to share again. To sit down and really spend a few hours putting together a funny, stream of conscious poem, that makes your heart break a little when you weren't looking.
I used to be good. I used to be important. I used to have something to say.
I used to love spending time on the internet. It was this whole world where people could really know me for my words, rather than what I did or looked like or how old I was. But now it scares me to sit in front of the screen and know that I have no business poking around anywhere in anyone else's digital domain.
I was the child who moved away from home and never bothered to visit or write or call every now and again just to tell her family and friends that she missed them.
I am the disappointment. The one with so much potential. The one who never followed through.
I'm sorry.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
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