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Uh-huh. [Apr. 27th, 2009|03:41 am]
[mood |pretty numb, actually.]
[music |c'mon. give it up.]

Totally just had a cigarette with Jeff Hardy.

EDIT: Some friends and I -- including Amy ([info]tsunami) -- went to Backlash last night. Yes, yes, people are going to build a trailer around us, and I haven't watched wrestling in over five years, but who gives a damn, really. We arrived at the stadium drunk off our asses, and trolled the shit out of the surrounding audience with an air of boozy malevolence. Cheering for the people everybody absolutely hated, screaming obscenities at the crowd favorites, and making requests that people write slash-fiction about the blatant eroticism unfurling before us. I kept going "Whatchu people gonna do? You're gonna do nothin'." Nobody did anything. That's right. *

Some bullet points:

  • Afterwards, we went to Denny's. Beth Phoenix and Ted Dibiase were there. We didn't speak to them, just side-eyed them occasionally. Beth is pretty goddamn striking in person, for the record.

  • Soon after, Matt and Jeff Hardy arrive. We're internally bugging, but said nothing, to avoid scaring them off. They sit at the table literally right next to us -- as in, some friends mentioned they could smell their damn cologne. Why sit there of all places in a near-empty restaurant? Jesus.

  • Then, Edge and Christian show up. Absolutely surreal. They sit with the Hardys. I mean, what the fuck? These are people we loved in middle school. Hilarious.

  • I had about eighteen cigarettes outside at this point, nervously laughing my ass off and wondering what the hell to do. I was pretty determined to speak to them, considering this absurd endeavor will never happen again in my lifetime, but I was worried about being a creep while they were trying to relax. So.

  • Christian was fairly asocial, but seriously kept checking Amy out. A lot.

  • Edge banged into me while on the way to the bathroom. He smiled warmly and said hello to me, and vice versa. One down.

  • I grab Amy and we head outside for another cigarette. Jeff Hardy comes out into the parking lot, with his turquoise hair. We say "We're not trying to be sketchy, but hi." He responds, "No sketchiness here." and stumbles to his car on his cell phone. I knew this motherfucker would be a smoker, for the record.

  • I dare Amy to ask him for a cigarette. Come on. Do it. She does, very casually and adorably. I'd like to emphatically state here that Jeff Hardy lit a cigarette for her. He smokes Newports, however, which is fairly disconcerting.

  • We shook hands with his wife, and hung out for a bit. Talked about a violent fight that apparently broke out in the crowds, and gave him directions to Bridgeport, Connecticut. He also said, in a surprisingly non-creepy way, that it was "cool" that we worked in a strip club.

  • Back inside, we talked with Matt Hardy. He was an absolute sweetheart, going out of his way to chat with us. His arm was fucked up and wrapped in a cast, and he actually expressed earnest concern about my spinal MRIs. Heh. He also talked massive amounts of shit about Triple H, which is incredible. Apparently they are not friends off-screen. Surprise.

  • Um. This is completely ridiculous. Whatever, we're total losers, but it was fun and casual. Didn't ask for pictures and autographs; I was just satisfied about what already occurred.


___
* Well, somewhat. An eight-year-old girl in front of us absolutely despised us, because we were cheering for Edge, her arch-nemesis. A boy around her age a few seats over, on the other hand, absolutely loved us, laughing at everything cruel we said. That kid's gonna be an awesome partier in the future. Oh, and at the very end of the night, a disgruntled 40-year-old female John Cena fan screamed at us to move our beers out of her camera view, because we were holding them up in celebration when he lost. I turned around and said directly to her "Are you fucking serious?" No reply, and she stormed out of the arena. Ahahaha.

EDIT #2:

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A schadenfreudal orgasm. [Feb. 18th, 2009|07:12 pm]
[mood |whatever.]
[music |they might be giants - why does the sun shine?]

Delightful.

Author's Note: This lengthy diatribe was inspired by a [info]sf_drama post -- a forum I do not attend, nor do I desire becoming invested in -- which elicited a severe twitch of irritation within me. I, very reluctantly, said nothing. After all, why would I, somebody who devotes massive amounts of their time into Dare-I-Say-PC research, ever want to open the door to be verbally sullied; being accused of enabling "LGBT Piggybackers"? You may now, however, return to your assumed programming.

It is, first of all, important to underscore that I identify as lesbian but also identify as asexual. I don't interpret these concepts as being mutually exclusive. This has nothing to do with "celibacy", either; I quite simply believe the way our current world has defined sexuality to be pointless, restrictive, dooming. Absence of libido is a heavy contribution, but it is not the primary catalyst. Or perhaps it is, and I simply rationalize it through highbrow smokescreens. What exists within this nuanced identity of mine is a repulsion for conventional intimacy, and an equal repulsion for sexual expectations. Another component is an interlocking factor of depressing contradictions: I can cerebrally enjoy the idea of sex, but not viscerally.

On other occasions, it is entirely the opposite. I can intellectually discuss sexuality from a favorable point of view, discuss my previous endeavors with a modicum of appreciation, all while feeling as though a knife is being dug underneath my ribs with regards to how this connects to my actual body. On other days, I can detect a visceral sensation of desired lust, while intellectualizing sexuality with utter contempt from a political and sociological front. The idea of familial and procreative "biotruths", in addition, literally makes me recoil.

This does not mean, given another hypothetical world, that I wouldn't feel differently.

That being said, I can acknowledge the paradoxical quality this identity upholds, particularly given my attitudes toward construction of gender. I am, after all, resentful of the concept that orientation is strictly defined by the body, even though I inadvertently subscribe to that mentality myself. I have no reservations in confessing to this internal grappling and perplexity -- so in the meantime while I figure this shit out, gentle readers, it would be fairly appreciated if you would abstain from dropkicking my type into further self-abhorrence.

Which leads me into the greater problem. There exists, within liberal, often "sex-positive" circles, an ideology of permissibility and broadening of the spectrum of orientation tolerance ... provided the common ground resides in an ubiquitous enamor of sex. This exists within conservatism as well, but I find it more insufferable when this ranking occurs from my supposed comrades. Even from contemporary radicals, asexuality -- and it's subsequent political ideologies -- is equated with sex-negativity, a defiance from the Holy Trinity of What Is Desirable. And what could possibly be more worthy of attaining than the right to any variation of sex?

I mean, I get it. People, hopefully, understand that I get it. I acknowledge that disingenuous sycophants adore pontificating about their lamentable otherkin oppression, their Scottish-American flags, searching greedily to alleviate themselves from introspection about their own privilege in this world, whatever it may be. And many privileged people, potentially, harbor agendas: and to masquerade those agendas with flowery emotional appeals, tongues of silver, gold, or any other earthy gems of persuasion. Inviting asexuality into the LGBT cylinder could, admittedly, open the door for a dangerous genre of appropriation. But this has not stopped members of the queer community from, let's say, glossing over their undeniable white privilege, so I find it peculiar that the line is drawn here, in particular.

But alas, opponents of mine will propose aimless platitudes about "education", and then stagnate at this proposal. They agree, after all, that the world should be enlightened about asexuality and it's many cultural hindrances. While we certainly appreciate the spiritless asspat, I nonetheless speculated about how a marginalized group -- particularly one that is, arguably, quantitatively the lowest of minorities -- would attain enough of a foundation to promote this nebulous education without being attached to a mainstream movement; without harboring a multitude of progressive pillars entwining with them. This, I believe, is the largest issue.

Even though asexuality is, of course, antithetical to sex, and their marginalization typically doesn't scrape the blistered surface-skin as it does to the LGBT community, they are nonetheless mandated to exist within a sex-normative world where everything -- EVERYTHING -- is eroticized. The entrenchment of sexualization exists within their consumption, within the reality that most economic value being bolstered by the existence of sex; in their interactions, their education, their media; in the prospect of living bodies and inanimate objects being mired within carnality ... and the subsequent reality that this is inescapable. To deny that there exist parallels within generalized sex-normativity and heteronormativity is demonstrative of an appalling level of myopia. That homosexuality, transexuality, and asexuality are all pathologised within the medical community, the psychological community, and within collective society ... well, suffice to say, seeing this component being ranked or denied causes my blood to run cold.

I can say with rigid certainty that both elements of my identity have caused me massive grief at the hands of other's ignorance. But more specifically, from the amorphous collective; from the people who I don't see.

Similarly to the LGBT community, asexuals are bludgeoned with the naturalistic fallacy on a near-constant basis. I recall an instance from when I was sixteen years old that demonstrates this minimization perfectly: When discussing my perspective on the relative unappealing nature of sex, a trained psychologist was unhesitant at losing his shit on me, invoking a dozen frustrated appeals to nature. Needless to say, it stirred quite a bit of illuminating deja vu.

I had an asexual male friend -- among many -- who faced constant, scathingly vicious allegations of his gayness, with rigid insistence that he was broken inside. That, after all, was the only way people could conceptualize him: a member within the universe that must be engaging within the ubiquitous need of pair-bonding, which entails sexual sacrifices and sexual obligations. What was implicit was that he should at least be gay; it was, after all, better to be sexually-deviant rather than exercising unspeakable deviance by abstaining from sex in totality. When he methodically detailed how he was "opting-into" what felt like terrifying molestation while fervently attempting to cure himself, this resonated with me strongly. I recall a thousand lurid stories within this vein: The homosexuals who had felt "raped" while curatively dappling with the opposite sex, as systematically dictated; the phenomenon of transpeople feeling "invaded" when sex involved bodies, their bodies, that did not belong to them internally.

Of course, these mentionings of rape are not confined to the abstract. Upon watching a documentary about lesbian women being brutalized in Africa to "show them their straightness", and acknowledging the existence of this within the rest of the world, I recall a plethora of anecdotes about how this can, and does, relate additionally to asexuality. If I touch you the proper way, the light will hit your thighs and fill you with hunger. Yes?

Even what is antithetical to sex must, after all, be rooted in sex: You've simply had inadequate partners. You must have endured grotesque child abuse. This was, additionally, used as a vivisecting tool to rationalize my lesbianism: It must be related to inadequate or abusive men. You must be pathologised. You must be compartmentalized. Figure yourself out; rather, make it more simplistic so we can figure you out.

The fact that the weighing of oppression's collateral damage was entirely being centered around marriage was absurd to me, and is demonstrative of where people's priorities lie. The vast majority of the "PC" movement, particularly of the internet variety, works on changing social conceptions -- not simply altering legalities. As if the LGBT community would crumble into resplendence if said legalities were attained. As if laws even change minds. And nevermind Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder ... and indeed, nevermind that it has been seared into psychological and scientific terminology, and is not purely something that has been flippantly mentioned in social circles in a so-called passive manner. If who you are is unanimously considered a disease, I'm loathe to deny any systematic component is involved.

"That's fine, Jen, but I never asserted that these issues didn't exist." Thank you, cherubs, for your brilliant ripostes.

Besides, I would be fascinated to read Asexuality Theory in copious amounts, from a group whose authors don't simply contain doughy college philosophers who play Day of Defeat. I'll even ask nicely.
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A nice little cylinder. [Jan. 24th, 2009|05:21 am]
[mood |delightful.]
[music |young folks. dear god.]

It's actually rather humorous.

What others describe as my "insight", I view as a pile of verbose masturbation. I consider this to be merely descriptive rather than self-deprecating. The content is there, but is far too densely packed with sliding panels and trapdoors. It is a habit too deeply ingrained for me to effortlessly abandon; psychological lobomization is a surprisingly arduous task, so I remain contentedly scattered, pretentious, and forthright with my identity.

Regardless, there is something about baring my neck to the lance that doesn't strike me as intimidating; I'm alright with my intuitive conversational style revealing chinks in my armor. Additionally, I am alright with slippery reveals of my character, provided I'm not calculating them deliberately. "Headgame" territory is far too exhausting.

The dilemma that frequently emerges in many interactions, however, is when people decide to interact with the roles you are playing in their mind -- them formulating a token character from your identity for their own edification. The instructor, the caretaker, the lover, the opponent. Theoretical or not, it always elicits a twinge of irritation within me. You will rarely strike a legitimate cord in these people, because there is a pathological obsession with them mincing your words to shreds, only finding profundity in your soliloquies because it satiates their histrionic need for validation; a need for you to follow their script.

I will not bite.

Growing up, I witnessed a myriad of co-dependants who would become downright violent or exclamatory if I did not conform to the specific parameters they had carved out for me. Correspondences with these types was more comparable to punching a time clock. I was to constantly inundate every corner of their existance; to entertain them with my lurid, filthy secrets within our bubble of Fetishized Trust. And they only wanted to listen to the negatives; the unsavory traumas that they could vivisect delicately, use it to attach themselves to your supposed turmoil. They imploringly whimpered for constant injections of bathos and pathos, and my avoidance and indifference towards them only intensified their fevered fixation. An unreturned phone call on my end, regardless of how busy and overworked I was ... elicited their responses of my "negative vibes". My callousness. You have not been my educator this week; you have not picked up the pieces of my failings. Here, Jen, allow me to show you images of my wounded wrists; then you will grasp the devestation you have caused me.

If you haven't surmised this already, I am still bitter. The realization of this being commonplace in my life, in other's lives, repulsed me to such a tremendous degree that it bludgeoned any soupçon of empathy I was supposed to harbor in this regard; wore it down into a filed, serrated point.

I will ignore you, I promise. I bleed only pearls of apathy for you. Shoo shoo, said the maiden. But they rather prefer the cruelty; it's during conflict with you, their watchperson, that they're brought to life.

The frequency of these types was so severely prominent that it has caused perpetual skepticism of any miniscule traces of this behavior I identify in others. I mostly keep these observations to myself, and oftentimes I am wrong. But due to the cyclical nature of this problem, I am presently unsure if some people, being the common denominators, carry a triggering agent; an accessibility for hungry types. A level of responsibility. When I discard of them, after all, they return in a seperate incarnation.

Bemusement awaits, regardless.
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MY LIFE IS A DISMAL ABYSS OF SOMETHING. [Nov. 13th, 2008|11:08 pm]
[mood |solitary]
[music |fuzionnnn frenzzzyyyyy]

So today, at the dentist's office while getting a filling, my supposed "politically moderate" dentist decided to go off about Obama. You see, he's the crazed Mad Scientist type, with polka-dotted pajama pants and wild gray hair, who frequently shouts at Oprah on television "KILL THE IDIOT!" and "SHUT UP, YOU ASSHOLE!" in a vocal cadence that straddles joviality and latent bitterness.

He decided to ramble about how Obama's "people" are racist, how "being called whitey is just like being called nigger", how Palin's imbecility was "wrongfully" slaughtered, and other such pleasantries -- while I was held in the mechanical death trap, unable to move or speak lest I swallow the suction device. All I could do was groan and rollseyes while he was perfectly content rambling by himself, and oh -- he also drilled through my bottom lip, to dropkick the nightmare further.

SO, WHO FEELS SORRY FOR ME??
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Rite of Passage. [Oct. 19th, 2008|09:22 am]
[mood |deliciously agitated.]
[music |summer in the city.]

Let's talk shit about marriage.

In advance: Appy-polly-logies to those of y'all who have been there, done that, while I armchair critique sans experience. I sympathize that it must be heavily obnoxious to read my disjointed musings about a general Fact of Life(TM), but this will only take a moment.

Months back, the topic of sexism within traditional marriage ceremonies was dredged up. The prospect of women altering their identities ("name changing", as it's blithely described) and being escorted down the aisle, symbolic of property exchange from father-to-husband, was just too much of a bitter pill to swallow for some of us, regardless of gender. So we brought attention to it.

Oh, the level of butthurt this elicited was copious. The backpedaling justifications: "Who cares if it's rooted in sexism? Perpetuating it now doesn't maintain the status quo -- it reclaims a previously ugly conception, makes it beautiful. Why do you even care? Jesus, what a douchebag!"

And how, pray tell, does perpetuation by choice eradicate the societal message, the impact? You darlings, babyfeminists and general populace alike, make me sneer.

And just to clarify: I understand it, alright? Don't believe I'm beyond comprehending of this glorious conception of eternal partnership and collaboration. I'm not attempting to impede on your precious free speech, pinky-swear, I just ask you to not respond from your viscera and critically examine these concepts in lieu of complacent lethargy.

Mind, we're not discussing the abstract conceptions of "ownership" here. Por exemplo, the utter dependency such a predicament infringes on you -- emotionally, domestically, and financially -- which make it damn near incomprehensible for somebody to flee at a moment's notice if situations get unspeakably horrible. And trust me, I've witnessed it, and it's ugly. There's plenty more ugliness where that came from.

So I've never been marriage's biggest advocate, y'all. I've groaned about it aplenty. I'll fully confess to my innate skepticism, though I'm schmoozy with people who are contentedly, legally bound. I can handle it. That's not what this rant is about. What baffled me was the flagrant defensiveness and denial on this subject, when I genuinely expected people to be forthright. The outright lies. I can't even stand it, people.

Amoung the excuses were as follows: Well, they all have an impossible-to-pronounce Jewish/Polish last name. Or, simply put, the woman's last name always sucked. The husband conveniently happened to be born with a kickin' rad name, ripe for the taking.* If those rationalizations weren't satisfactory enough, it turns out that every single woman has an abusive or shitty father, which is why they want to dissociate themselves from his "family name" -- whilst every woman simultaneously also has an abusive mother, ergo justifying why mommy dearest won't walk her down the aisle.

Serious business time: I understand parental baggage and melodrama. It sucks, and it does exist. I'm just having immense difficulty believing that every person suffered the above domestic situation, which is what is frequently asserted through these so-called debates. You never hear people say "Yes, I understand there is some bias present. But I'm doing it with careful consideration of these political implications." Acknowledge it. Own it. At the very least.

It must be pleasant, in a small but important way, for a man to acknowledge that his birth-given identity is never required to be mutable; that his identification remains forever static. I ponder if women's shaky myth of birth identity has subconscious psychological effects; encouraging a sense of... adaptability, perhaps? Apropo: My stepfather, apparently, sneeringly refers to my mother's name, which she kept as her own, as her "Stage Name". This is how deep the entitlement runs.

More eye-rolling excuses: Complaints about hyphenated names. You see, silly white people evidently cannot be bothered with this repellent practice, as hyphens were clearly designed for the purposes of annoying everyone. Combining both partner's names? What tomfoolery! Creating your own last name? GET THAT SHIT AWAY FROM ME. I don't have the fortitude to get into the "aisle" bit anymore. Brainpower depleting rapidly.

I'm done playing, for now. Caffeine to propel my all-nighter awaits.

_____
(*For those of you unaware: Approximately 1% of husbands take their wive's last name. But you see, clearly these decisions for the burden to be on the wife's back 99% of the time is choice, seperate from societal or familial pressures. "I CHOOSE MY CHOICE! I CHOOSE MY CHOICE!!". Alright, fine. Jesus.)
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Love. [Jun. 6th, 2008|05:17 pm]
IT'S MY BIRTHDAY MOTHERFUCKERS

SHOWER ME WITH PRAISE TO ASSIST MY PITIFUL SEMBLANCE OF AN EGO



I'm going to party (aka work) tonight at my strip club to get my rocks off, and will likely get wasted.

P.S Hex -- I have modeled the lipstick you so kindly made for me. Pics soon!

EDIT: I was so incredibly wasted that I barely even tried to make money. I mean, who gives a shit, right? I skipped every single stage set after 9 o'clock, while everyone kept buying me shots. And it certainly was interesting to be grinding on some guy's dick while my DJ repeatedly announced "This woman was born on the day we invaded Normandy".
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Oh no, mama help me! I'm scared of flying! [Jan. 11th, 2008|05:32 pm]
[mood |hustling]
[music |ENEMY! INSIDE OF ME! on a loop. what is wrong with me]

COMPLAINT NOTE: I add people because I'm curious about their lives and what you have to say. DO NOT ADD ME AND THEN GET SURPRISED WHEN I DON'T RESPOND TO EVERY FUCKING POST YOU MAKE, DO NOT FEEBLY ATTEMPT CONVERTING ME INTO A COMMENT WHORE. I swear to god, I am getting tired of this. I have never removed somebody for such a petty reason, please bestow me the same courtesy. If you're removing me because I suck at being a person, then by all means, feel free. But stop getting "personally offended" because I barely have enough time to update my own journal, never mind fellate someone else's.

Moving along.

Most people would be surprised to know that I have extreme amounts of tolerance. I only completely cut people off when they continue to be an unflinching douchebag after countless warnings and show no evidence of any possible progression. However, instead of lengthy diatribes about individual people I've known personally, I'll take the easier route of weeping and shaking my clenched fists at certain behaviors.

I watch and read a lot of things that piss me off, almost constantly. Whether it's the news, assembled articles, reality shows that make me throw shit at my own television in disgust, or just listening to people talk - I endure a lot, and it's absolutely my own fault. HOWEVER. As hilarious as stripper anecdotes can be, my patience has diachronically worn to the point where I can't even fucking tolerate overhearing these conversations anymore. Ergo, I went and bought a generic MP3 player to overpower the smoldering cauldron of conversational faggotry that occurs in my dressing room. Which leads me to...

Please stop talking to me when I have headphones on. I'm completely baffled why the fuck anyone would ever do this. I'm never one of those imbeciles who shuts myself off from my own friends at a party with angsty music, but I feel at nine o'clock in the morning when I'm mentally preparing for a long day of dry-humping strangers, I need to inject my brain fissures with healthy doses of Miles Davis. IS IT THAT MUCH TO ASK FOR YOU TO AT LEAST TAP ME ON THE SHOULDER BEFORE MOVING YOUR MUTED LIPS TO INITIATE DIALOGUE? I mean jesus christ, people, I even bought headphones in the most obnoxious shade of lime green to make them visible.

Alt porn sites. (For reference: Suicidegirls, GodsGirls, ad nauseam) The feelgood justification behind this is through the vehicle of their bodies drooling with tattoos and punctured with "self-expressive" piercings, they are collectively symbolizing the bodies of "real women" who don't conform to the technological sophistication of Hollywood beauty standards. And yet all of them are slender, white, and harbor a curious absense of pubic hair. Wow, talk about really stepping outside of the box! You sure showed us fuddy-duddies what's what. Because that's all that's required from the banal-minded, to replace tanorexia with pallor. Also, a mind-numbing amount of them have succumbed to mutiliating their chest cavities with that ever-so-delicious implantation device, but please take these people seriously as unconventional crusaders, dammit.

Privelaged people whining about freedom of speech. You heard me, suburbia. My biggest dilemma with this lamenting bitchfest is that it's always the racist, sexist, classist, and/or homophobic idiot throwing out caustic generalizations that mirror disgusting insults that people have to listen to every day in their lives to begin with, sometimes blatant and sometimes steathily subliminal through the media and through social interactions, and then when people DARE to get annoyed by them, OH MY GOD YOU POLITICALLY CORRECT FASCIST HOW DARE YOU STIFLE MY UNREPETENT ABUSE OF THE FIRST AMMENDMENT! The socially sheltered would rather continue to perpetuate oppressive "jokes" rather than delve into their own pitiful semblance of a personality. How about instead of dismissing your targets as humorless pillocks, you actually take some time to reflect on why these insults hurt to begin with? Basically, what this implies is they have the "right" to make racist (to use one example) remarks, while the target has the "right" to silently deal with the abuse of their character lest they be bludgeoned with the label of "PC". Sounds like an amazing deal!

Do you ever find yourself contemplating the maelstrom of douchebaggery you exist in and just find yourself feeling really annoyed and hopeless? And no matter how much you try to find the optimism, your frustration with society's drawbacks is constantly validated every time you leave the house, every time you open a book, every time you turn on the television? So that even as a recluse, it's unavoidable?

And boy oh boy, isn't it even worse when you try to talk to people you otherwise respect about it, and they just don't want to hear it, because unlike you they live in an environment where they have the luxury of not thinking about it? And then to dropkick me with that point, they send me a link to a flash cartoon.

Yep, it's a delightful pain in the ass, all right! Maybe I should've posted something with more intellectual heft, like this morning's sandwich or leveling my Diablo character.

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Jen is a buzzkiller. [Oct. 29th, 2007|11:50 pm]
[mood |glorious]
[music |immortal technique - peruvian cocaine]

In my line of work, I get constantly propositioned not only for sex acts but also for extreme sex acts. With my particularly over-analytical state of mind, this can either be pretty hilarious or highly disturbing. In the back of my mind, I'm silently wondering if these fantasies are borne out of genuine desire or if they're conditionings projected on them from a lifetime of bombardment with images of the thrill of human debasement.

Recently, business has been agonizingly slow. Particularly during the mellow day shifts, florid with regulars, who are evidently bored with familiar female faces. Since last December, I've been struggling with thousands of dollars of debt from my medical bills. Credit card after credit card opened to rack up enough money to pay for all my hardware problems with my laptops (I've gone through four laptops in the past two years), and not to mention living alone in a house supporting myself with living expenses, work expenses, and bill expenses. I had to quit my job in Connecticut because I couldn't afford to pay out the gas and hotel money every weekend. At my club in Rhode Island, I have to tip out the following: DJ, house mom, house fee, schedule fee, late fee, not to mention tipping out $5 per lapdance and $30 per champagne room.

Ergo, the average dancer is tipping out around $100 a day just to work a part-time shift. And if you only made $100 that day, well, tough shit.

The other week, while observing yet another moneyless day with no people, I got desperate. Despite my intuition telling me to not fuck with this particular guy, I did regardless. I approached this man. Approximately late forties, stocky-build, gigantic creepy glasses and a general fumbling, plodding "I-am-a-closeted-serial-rapist" gait. He was completely socially retarded, and I had no chance of actual communication with him. I asked him for a dance.

Immediately during the dance, before I can even get fully adjusted, he starts using his hands to maul my body. Groping everything in sight, trying to lean forward and put his filthy mouth all over my skin. Normally, I won't even tolerate this shit, but I was so pressed for cash that I spent the entire time fending him off as skillfully as I could. His appetite was insatiable as he kept buying dance after dance after dance.

It was also what my club promotes as a "two-for-one" day (Mondays and Tuesdays to draw in customers on slower days), so I had to endure this for twice as long for less money.

At one point, he reaches up his hands and begins to choke me. At first I try to play it off, refusing to acknowledge that this piece of shit could cause me pain, but when he doesn't get the reaction he craves, he digs in harder. And harder. My temples begin to throb and my ears start to ring from the absense of circulation, and I'm pounding at his forearms. "Stop," I'm whispering, which was more like a gasp. "Stop." This only makes him more excited, his pockmarked face deviantly grinning. "Yes baby, fight it. Put up a fight." Horror pooled up in me like oil, black heavy and thick. My vision exploded starry and I felt my stomach fold in on itself. The room, the world, went slack. The more I struggled, the more his erection strained against his pants. Someone was eroticizing my pain. This was the story of my entire life, of many people's lives. Having their discomfort, their physical and psychological agony sexualized for the benefit of someone's arousal. My throat burned as he throttled me, whispering yes baby yes, as colors were being sucked out of the universe forever: blue had evaporated into empty space and red was burning its fierce self to nothingness like some distant quasar.

When he finally released me after I pounded him in the face, he had the balls to say "I'm so sorry Gemini. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Give me all of your money," I demanded. My voice was bloodless, stripped of music.

He frantically emptied his wallet to me: a meager two hundred. Was it worth the claret bruise seared into my throat, the inability to swallow without pain for the next few days? Was it worth that incident making me reach the end of my tether, the final straw in everything I hated about my womanhood?

"I would love to see you outside of here. I would like to make love to you."
Make love. Make love makelovemakelovemakelovemakelovemakelove.

And so here's where I am. Soul searching beyond the depths that I never wanted to tap into, remembering every single event that lead up to this moment. Remembering every person I've ever known who's said they've gotten themselves drunk to avoid the pain of sexual intercourse, who's taken a load of jizz on their face because their spiritually fucked up boyfriend insisted on it. Pornography is the biggest perpetrator of this nonsense. A multi-billion industry that basically ruined sex and morphed it into this plasticized, formulatic way of human connection and destroyed the innovation of appealing to different people's sexual styles. Pornography viewers (myself included, in retrospect) have been socially conditioned to sexualize violence. "And when you sexualize violence you render the violence invisible." And then when you step back and critique it, these dipshits have the collosal gall to refer to it as "lovemaking", an expression of sexual freedom, barracaded heavily with the First Ammendment.

So ergo, here are my critiques of the industry that should be removed and kindly burned to the ground.
Disclaimer: Some of the wording has been revised from it's previous state for clarity. A commenter touched upon my very self-absorbed indifference to homosexual male porn, so let's establish that just because I'm touching about heterosexuality in this discussion that is does not mean that homophobia is of no importance to me - but sexism is the primary focus in this particular article. I am very unknowledgeable of gay pornography therefore I don't want to muddy this up with faulty assumptions. Thanks, the cruelbitcherator.

1. The blatantly simple-minded objectification of bodies set the precedent that the actors are carnal realdolls and nothing further. Essentially, this is true to the detached and uncreative viewer, but adamant knights for the exploitation industry tend to forget that these "fantasies", are in fact, happening to real people. The female body, the vehicle of receptivity, is a two-dimensional soul made flesh, possessing holes that can - and will - be entered. And reducing the male's presense to nothing but a cock attached to a mysterious alien pelvis. None of this.

2. Body punishing sex scenes, let's address those. This includes anal penetration of a woman (the primary thrill emphasized in these videos is that, in fact, that it hurts her and she hates it - so this is especially highlighted as horrific). Very frequently, indications of her pain are not edited out. Surely you can guess why. In a culture that is appalled by real-life sexual abuse, I find it very curious that many videos marketing "consensual" punishment go out of their way to make it appear nonconsensual. Acknowledge the tragedy in the actress tensing her body up against the slamming, rigid as a board, not limber and supple with pleasure as she moans artificially.

3. Gangbanging. The "bitch likes to be fucked by six guys" promotion is certainly adorable, however it's ludicrous to assume that someone honestly relishes being penetrated with several Viagra-infused dicks for the entirety of their day. It solidifies their notion of her importance and the idea of her body as the screen for them to bond and project. Their bragging high-fives are sometimes present, sometimes in their heads. She does not get to orgasm - that terrible burden is on all of them. Her body is a receptacle to the after-effects of their "bonding" - the more of them get to violate her, the more delightful the dehumanization, the more she is allotted to endure alone. They are the ones who want this, they are the initiators and the aggressors, and in the end, who gets called a slut? You tell me.

4. Double pentration, and triple penetration.

5. Throat-gagging, or any of the principles of "gonzo" porn that is florid with the undeniably sadistic hatred of the reciever, capitalizing on ruining her emotionally and physically. A lot of emphasis they place on gag factor websites is that the messier and sloppier the blowjob, the better. The more her face contorts as they ram their misshapen penises down her throat, the more she chokes on resists with panicked reflexes and the more her trachea ruptures, the hotter it is. The males in the films always, without fail, encourage their victim to cough up her viscious saliva, to drool up unto her own lipsticked face, to vomit. One ten minute amatuer video I watched featured an infantilized young girl saying "I'm going to make this cock grow with the love of a woman", followed by the guy immediately thrusting his pelvis up into her face, shoving her head down and violently forcing her to puke up for ten minutes while his friend took pictures. And they do, in fact, proudly label it as "abuse". In the video mentioned, the subtext is "the way for a woman to show her love is to endure physical agony, primarily for the sole pleasure of the reciever". I think most of us non-sociopaths are all set with that shit.

6. With all this established thus far, I believe firmly in taking what you're dishing out, my friend. If a man is pressuring a woman into such acts of dominance like receiving his cock up her ass, he must be prepared to take the same type of "pleasure". What's funny is how very unsusceptible men are to being penetrated in sharp contrast to their desire to penetrate. The solidifies the subliminal gender roles, the eroticization solely placed on female subordination. The fact that it not-so-subtly mirrors gender roles that already exist in society, presently and historically, is the very thing that alarms me and fills me with an unnameable disgust. In a society that presently permeates inequality, how does the pornography exist in a vacuum? It is simply another way of keeping an entire gender of people down, down, down, similiar to the way women are catcalled and harassed while walking down the street, entering the public. To be shoved back into their place - their place is to be sexualized, to be scrutinized, not as an individual human - but because is female, because she is.

7. Territorial marking, e.g facials, "moneyshots", bukkake, insert delightful descriptor here. One website reads Sometime's a woman's face is a canvas. The "art" is your bodily fluids unloaded onto your personal come trap, mouth agape with receptiveness. Ejaculating onto another's human body - very much the same as into a napkin. You explain to me why this needs to be done.

8. Men have unanimously agreed that urinating with an erection is impossible. Ergo, watersports are either fantasized because of their impossibility, or because of their ability to debase and further pollute the receiver with your waste. Which answer have you determined it is?

9. Ass to mouth. Nothing like showing your love of humanity by causing their stomach lining to be contaminated with biohazardous waste.

10. Showcasing lesbianism is done in a way that is clearly marketed for the benefit of what men's delusional concept of what lesbianism is or should be. This includes sucking on dildos, strap-ons, finger penetration with long razorlike acryllic talons, ad nauseam. The idea of lesbianism is not to make it as straight as possible. The overabundance of phallic imagery in ersatz lesbian erotica is disconcerting and abolishes the purpose.

11. Suggestions of child-fucking. I do not give the slightest of shit that you consider it roleplay. The same way the modeling industry is promoting shapeless, infantilized forms is dangerous (and telling) of society's expectations of what is romanticized, likewise is pornography's depiction of "amateurs". Speaking of which, as this gets mentioned often here: having your body is a personal choice; some prefer it, others don't, but the point is there shouldn't be pressure to succumb to removal of it for the sake of some bullshit pre-determined expectation of "hygeine". The over-glorifying of small, breakable, hipless childlike frames sends a vile message. And before you proclaim that's discrimination against naturally petite girls, let me just say this: I'm naturally skinny, and it's fine to be that way, but don't capitalize on your very own anatomy to promote pedophilia. You heard me: Pigtails, braces, schoolgirls, ruffly babydoll outfits, sucking demurely on lollipops while you are being fucked on Care Bear bedsheets. "Barely Legal" should be ignited and charred into the ground. The fact that it's illegal to perform these acts on a child but perfectly legal to impose the same acts on an adult imitating a child for the pedophile's benefit shows how much we desire to shelter ourselves from the cinematic disgraces that socialize and normalize the fact that 3 out of 4 girls is sexually molested before the age of 18. Are these videos making a joke out of this reality, or are they providing fucking intructional tapes for their perpetrators?

12. Feature videos really enjoy beating us over the head with images of women who have conformed too heavily to patriarchal beauty standards to be taken seriously. Anyone who's surgically ripped apart and mutilated their body to conform to the generic template of constructed femininity is to be "desired". This really does not, from my own perspective, support the idea that women are found beautiful in their natural state - they are beautiful IF they disinigrate their natural structure as much as possible, becoming charicatures of themselves. It is, after all, a Fantasy. But only to one who's chest cavity is not permanently disfigured from inserted pockets of poison.

13. Insertion of equipment inside people's anuses, mouths, or vaginas. I really shouldn't have to explain this, however, I have no illusions about the falsehood of your compassion. While having Belladonna take your cock up her ass does directly stimulate your penis and cause you pleasure, watching her take a baseball bat up her ass doesn't cause you physical pleasure, but psychological on the basis that it hurts, demeans, invades. A test to see if she can "take it", which in actuality is a test to decipher if she truly is spiritually and physically numb from the inside out. There's that hole again - and it must be filled. With something, anything. If it is not a cock, it must be an object that represents a cock, an extension. Which leads me to...

14. Any emphasis placed on someone being filled with something needs a clear line, a boundary. While some women claim to enjoy the sensation of a cock inside them, most women do not like having dildos, apparatuses, dental equipment, fists, shoved inside of them, because the cock is considered a personal thing, a piece of someone else inside of you, while a plastic, metal, or silicone device is just employed as a tactic of dominance. It is impersonal, invasive in all the wrong ways, and suggests the pleasure is that the object is filling her, dominating her, causing her discomfort while her body stretches and accomodates to the instrument. For a reference, consider certain pregnant fetishcists. They have told me, time and time again, that they fervently enjoy the psychological component that her body is distending and mutating to make room for the object that he has fertilized, that she will have to suffer because of something you ejected inside of her, that her breasts will swell appetizingly and she must feed your child with them, which is considered an erotic act in itself. Websites promoting this exist. Men who tell me this fantasy do exist. Even childbirth has had its soul siphoned from it, and has been replaced with an objectifying variation of sadism.

15. Over-emphasis on intercourse being the end-all, be-all of the sex act. While not all porn contains vaginal or anal intercourse, that certainly does compromise the vast majority of its formulaic videos. While some women and most men claim to find it extremely pleasurable, not every individual is hardwired that way. It is a rarity in porn showcasing intercourse that the woman is being masturbated in any way, or having the penetrator appear to be making an effort to appeal to her preferred style. If this is what people are jerking off to, it means this is considered the ideal: Intercourse is not ideally mutual pleasure, but rather her existence is present to pleasure you as your fleshlight. Her orifice exists to masturbate your shaft; her job is just to moan at appropriate intervals. If this wasn't actually the case, it wouldn't be so prominently showcased and marketed as such.

16. Cherry-popping, "first time" videos are particularly loathesome. The propagated myth used to bait people into consent is that it is "empowering" and intimate to have your first experience occur on video; it's exciting, fun. However, let's debunk this with the unfortunate reality: if this is your first time, you have no concepts of your boundaries and borders, so this can be very damaging both physically and psychologically. Also, the main reason is that the exploitations of a girl's demure innocence, the art of her virginity, is not that you're out for her sexual freedom or liberation - but because viewers want to watch the debasement and dominance implied in deflowering her. Turning her out into a whore, so to speak. Another problem is that in many "first time" videos, it shows the woman trying to dispel or reject the penis that is hurting her, but she is pushed through it because the first time is "supposed to hurt", and also because the pleasure of it is that she has to learn to accomadate the girth despite her protests. The subtext? "Keep hurting her until she likes it."

17. Female masturbation shouldn't be limited to fingering. Some women do enjoy penetration, but this shouldn't be the primary focus. Sex isn't always about being filled with someone or something. Instead, emphasis should be placed heavily on her main erogoneous spot, the clitoris, even while fingering.

18. Masturbation should be heavily promoted. We each know our own boundaries and what pleasures us, so therefor we're not hurting ourselves or others. Mutual masturbation is an extremely sex-positive and erotic act. The best sex I've ever had is when me and my partner are touching ourselves while kissing, caressing, holding, and licking the other person. This makes it so it isn't an exclusively solo act, and you can still take time to stop and focus on the other person. Imagine that, Jen doesn't have obscene power-struggling "relations". This is probably because I exert my excessive demand for control in other areas in life, leaving sex to be actually fun.

19. This deserves no explanation: No scenes that simulate rape.

So basically what Jen has done here is taken all the "fun" out of pornography. When the reality is all I've done is subtract the biased savagery. When I see an equal number of guys enduring the same abuse I'll maybe be convinced that it's simply that humans in general are just fucked up, but since it's disproportionately in men's favor, I'm leaning towards the fact that it's eroticizing inequality, eroticizing the very real threat of hate.

And before you say anything else, I must emphasize that this is a huge issue for me because I have to deal with this on a day-to-day basis. People that want to have sex with me are not only suggesting the above "activities", but expecting them by default. Customers at work touching me, groping me, licking me without consent and murmuring things like "Gag on my cock, bitch" are remarks I'd prefer to go without hearing regularly. If you blame it on the industry I'm involved in, I'll laugh in your face. There are plenty of decent, civil men who come into my job and do not inflict their psychopathic mommy issues upon me. Imagine that!

"When I ask men who are sex addicts if they would want their wife or daughter to be in porn, 100 percent say, 'No.’ They want it to be somebody else's wife or daughter. They know this material is damaging."

And yes, I'm aware that, in theory, I would make no money off of the aforementioned videos. That's quite alright. I'd feasibly be pulling in more money from guys fantasizing that I'll be engaging in the aforementioned.
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Ignore the smoke and smile. [Apr. 28th, 2007|08:37 am]
[mood |excitable]
[music |iggy pop - real wild child]

Motherfuckers gonna get stabbed.

Needy fucking strippers man. I don't really talk about my job because sometimes I don't want to be reminded of the crazy shit I put up with on a regular basis, which in turn makes me rather, uh, jaded towards society as a whole. I don't see the flowers in the dustbin, I see the festering scumbucket garbage dumped onto my plate, the lowlife fetishistic secret desires of seemingly upstanding gentlemen influx into my cushy life. When people working in retail describe their horrible coworkers to me, it's hard to get surprised. Have you seen my drug-addled thong clad minions? Emotionally dependent augmented medicated stereotypes that erupt with truth, donning one wristband on their arm (called the "junkie wristwatch").

Whitebred Connecticut tends to favor the malnourished individuals like me, which makes the breast implants many dancers get completely worthless. They like natural, innocuous types. It's really too bad I'm neither of those, but god damn is my hustle good, so I tend to bank pretty well, especially during the summertime where I'm hunted down so I can have money lavished on me. Between that and getting to pick my own shifts, show up whenever I want, the only job where you're allowed to cuss obnoxious customers out, I have a pretty sweet deal. However, the drawbacks can occasionally get so annoying that I end up making entries like this.

Sorry!

Last night I showed up three hours late, as usual, so nothing really spectacular happened. Two regulars came in to see me, and within the span of 30 minutes they both managed to get into a brawl. I grabbed one of them to do a few dances, and he told me he just got shoved for not giving up his seat. I return to grab the other guy, and he tells me he got punched in the head while he was taking a piss. I wrote in an email to a friend that "that's all that happened tonight". Then I did a double take and realized how hilarious it was that I never noticed these kind of things that happen constantly, and don't find them noteworthy.

A bouncer also told me that a girl was openly masturbating in the champagne room. In any bar that serves alcohol, flashing the vagina is typically not allowed, and she had her g-string completely removed and fingerfucked herself, then smacked her customer in the face with her come-coated fingers.

He found it funny that girls like this existed, and yet here I am, not even showing my boobs on stage. It's true, considering I acknowledge the FANTASY aspect of the job, I thrive on the element of tease. The show. Room for the imagination, allowing my viewers to get creative. I have people unloading their wallets to me on a regular basis who haven't even seen my collarbones, nevermind my ass or mammaries. It's always revolting to me, watching people rip their entire garment off the first instance somebody throws a dollar down. If somebody handed you four quarters on the street and asked you to show them your uterus, would you? I'm known as the person who tells customers that they're classless and uncreative if they demand nipple flashes or for me to pull my skirt up.

Speaking of pulling skirts up, one time a particularly creepy guy told me to keep pulling mine down, because "daddy's watching". Female customers are just the worst. I enjoy the timid, curious chicas who sit back and let me rub my face against their rouged cheeks, stroke their cornsilk fine hair. But the ones who are unbearably grope-y, either to impress their male buddies or because they think the rules don't apply to them, repulse me (as a friend astutely noted, it's to prove how "fiesty" they are).

A fifty year old Korean woman was feeling me up to the point where I had to physically restrain her hands and tell her to knock it off.

She says, "I know. I sorry."
Five seconds later, she starts again.
"Did I tell you to stop touching me? I forgot."
"Ha ha ha. I know. I stop. You come home with me, yes?"
"I am not a callgirl."
"Ha ha. I know. I give you number."


In the wise words of Ludacris, "GET BACK MOTHERFUCKER YA'LL DON'T KNOW ME LIKE THAT."

There's this girl who always comes in, a sqautty peroxided slimeball pig who always hands me $20 and tells me to give her greasy boyfriend a lapdance. She's one of those typical cases of girls who saunter in, trying to be "down" with strip clubs by feigning and exaggerated sexual attraction to me. "Man, she sure is hot. She's getting me all horny and ready for you later, baby." Squinty bloodshot bedroom eyes, heavily glossed lips churned into a grimac-y smile, stroking, petting their toolish boyfriend. Reflexively tugging him backwards when I lean in to caress his neck with my manicured fingertips. Swivelling their childbearing hips to grotesque house music and flicking their pierced tongues at me.

"Honey, you seem upset," their boyfriend moans.

"WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" she screams, trying to squeeze my tits.

So then, as I'm in the dressing room trying to count mad dollahz, she emerges from the bathroom stall and walks purposefully towards me. It helps to know that the dressing room and the women's bathroom is in the same cluttered abyss, despite the fire department declaring that a hazard.

"Hey, remember last week when you gave a dance to my boyfriend? You gave him a hard on and it made me cry."

I swear to god, if a laugh didn't compulsively shoot from my mouth like a dart from a blowgun, I would've backhanded her. I mean how do you walk in someone's job and reprimand them for doing what you essentially paid them to do? Motherfucker, what did you expect? After chastising her for wasting my time with her possessive drivel, she later approached me with another $20. Dance for her boyfriend again?

I feel like so much has happened at this job in Connecticut alone for the past year, that I can't even do this entry justice. I haven't even described the highlights or the weirdest customers. Just the ones I can remember offhand when it's eight in the morning and I'm wired, sitting in a hotel room. Tonight I'll be in early, and how hilarious is it that I have a customer that brings in computer parts for me, even gave me a free laptop? I'm such a nerdslut.

In other news, I should probably start IV-ing orange Gatorade, since it's pretty much consumed on an alarmingly constant basis.

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She's bad mommy. I had a good mommy, she's a bad mommy. [Nov. 1st, 2006|02:31 pm]
[mood |flaunting my muscles.]
[music |romulus.]

OH MY GOD! YOU DON'T COMMENT TO EVERY SINGLE POST I MAKE! WTFWTF I HATE YOU! EVERYONE HATES ME! WHY AREN'T YOU COMMENTING (FUCKERS)? WHYYYYYYY??!?!


I am so sick of insecure sycophants attempting to suck the e-lifeblood out of the Blogosphere with their constant whining for praise, validation, or the desire to be fellated with generally useless feedback. Online strangers don't "care" about you if they don't constantly massage the rich semen out of your greenlight-seeking mental cocks, apparently. How weak minded can a person be? I already made it very clear that I only comment when I'm very, very bored - that's doesn't mean "OMFG CRUELBITCH DOESN'T READ FUCK FUCK FUCK". Although, I'm pretty positive that a blogging site is a sensible reason to suck on a pistol.

For the record, I am so sick of

THIS


FUCKING


LOOK


I love how every moron with faux Bettie Page bangs (not featured) can thread elongated technicolor turds into their hair and call it "personal style". There is no personal style anymore - everybody is a xerox of every tired subculture perpetuated into a variation of uniforms.

Ersatz gay makeup artists on myspace who list America's Next Top Model as a favorite show and pose as "sarcastically cutting" queens all proclaim "Don't judge me! I am not a stereotype!"

Goths with spider-webbed nylons and dollar store dyed "jet ebony" hair and makeup like they just got punched in the face by Count Chocula - "Don't judge me! I am not a stereotype!"

Pierced vegetarian Wiccan on suicidegirls.com - "Don't judge me! I am not a stereotype!"

Why does everyone think they're special, exempt from the pigeonholing the rest of us deal with? Such cumbersome egos hidden underneath their avatars of blood dripping out of a photoshopped blue eye drooling with mascara.

In other news, my laptop has let out it's final gasp and quietly died. However, once it's replaced (god bless stripper money), I'll update with some oh-so-artistic pictures from the other night with my new photographer buddy. Yeah, I'm bored. Wanna fight about it?

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Jenny from the block. [Sep. 19th, 2006|02:00 pm]
[mood |OMG THE RAGE!!!11]
[music |aerosmith - falling in love is hard on the knees]

I quit smoking. After I stopped trusting food that wasn't organic, I realized that smoking was a waste of time. I quit xanax. After a delicate yet arduous four-month weening process, I purged the pain-numbing chemical abscess from my system. This was back in January. Oh, and I bought a house. Notice how I never mentioned any of this. Maybe because I'm not a real person?

I'm tired of these dumbfucks confusing love with lust. It's not love. It's sex. Love is when you can enjoy somebody's company without having to shove a rubbery stick of meat into a cavity and thrust. There is no such thing as "appreciating" somebody by clumsily rubbing your calloused hands over the apex of someone's thighs. Appreciate them by savoring the depth of their character, not by cheapening your bond with gutteral carnal desires. By the way, when people use the term "romance", they mean "sex". Pray tell what is so romantic about sticky discharge oozing out of holes like molasses we people pump their mommy issues away? Stop investing in such empty habits you pig-fucking half wits.

Stop bitching about how you can't choose your family, blah blah blah. If your family lowers your confidence and treats you like a dead deer carcass, get the fuck out of their house and don't answer their phone calls. Refrain from perpetuating the imbecilic pretense that blood is thicker than water if they don't support your religion, your sexual preference, your career. I'm tired of you codependant losers bitching about your terrible family predicaments and yet doing NOTHING to fix your situation. If your family doesn't support your lifestyle, what makes them so special? Hmmm.. could it be... the fact that we elevate our DNA on a pedestal because of some man-made moral obligation to please people who only had us because their condom broke? Thought so.

Stop naming your dogs "Bear". It's not a bear, it's a dog. Why the fuck is this one of the top ten most common dog names in America? It doesn't look like a bear. It doesn't act like a bear. So why the fuck is it called BEAR?? Also, you fucking people don't know anything about your dogs. You select shitty breeds without researching first and don't discipline it intelligently, which is why 90% of you have aggressive non-obeying worthless asshole dogs. Well if you're going to be a shitty owner, then at least keep your incompetance out of my front yard. If you have a raging dog-aggressive pitbull, chain it up so it doesn't DART ACROSS MY LAWN AND TRY TO LUNGE AT MINE. Yes, I'm talking to you, dumbass meth addict neighbors in apartment B.

Jealousy in relationships is for insecure dipshits who deserve to die alone, who for some pretentious reason think it's acceptable to tell a living breathing adult human being what they cannot do with their own life. Just because you happen to enjoy the taste of your "mate"'s genatalia does not mean someone else can't enjoy it also. It's just sex imbeciles, it's not like it actually means something. It's just an overrated repulsive carnal act that people for some reason sactify. If one more dweebfuck complains about being "cheated" on I'm going to beat them over the skull with a serrated strap-on. I hate how people compare relationship problems to real problems.

Oh, and if you count the days of your anniversery every month? Golly gee, aren't you a confident emotionally stable individual who can let a relationship run it's natural unbridled course. Oh wait, not at all! Stop living your life through complete strangers just because the hum of the computer monitor makes you lonely at night. Besides, loneliness is just another variation of boredom. Get, you know, a talent?

Stop updating three times a day detailing your breakfast or other such trivialities that further showcase your vacant skull cavity to the cyber world. I do not appreciate you dropping a pencil and telling me about it in Livejournal. Yes, it is "your journal" and you can "write whatchu want *snapsnap*", but am I the only one filled with rage that people feel it neccesary to share this in the first place? Is it clever? No, not at all. Are people amused by your oh-so-quirky "randomness", hyuck?

Also, someone please tell me the purpose of a private Myspace? Why would you make a public thing private? What the fuck is the point of making a myspace then? Negating the fact that myspace is a vomit-smeared cave filled with simpering parasites fellating their gender of choice. And speaking of vomit...

Stop calling anorexia a disease. It is not a disease. You did not "survive" bulemia. You brought it on yourself. People are puking up food involuntarily from chemotherapy, and here you sheltered suburban kids are, willingly spewing bile into a trash can just to innundate the population with even more unnaturally slender clods. On top of that, you're making the heavy chicks feel even worse about their image, which makes you a contributing factor into America's retarded weight fixation. Of course the media is responsible, and of course it is a legitimate mental health problem; however, own the reality. If it is self-inflicted, even for a good purpose, it's not a "disease" to "battle" - it's neurosis.

Yes, I'm "projecting". Whatever you say. I'm glad there will always be a few persnickety individuals who conjure up memories of 11th grade psychology class with Ms. Dingleberry so they could tell me that I rag on other people because I hate myself, and I merely missed my dosage of heartattack inducing Zoloft. Thanks for the reminder, imbeciles.

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I'm not even a dog person, but... [Sep. 4th, 2006|08:47 pm]
[mood |fiercely drag queenish]
[music |save a horse, ride a cowboy]

I ended up buying this...



Some shady kid was selling her outside of Petco a couple weeks ago, and considering that I've always asserted that nature intended Siberian Huskies to be the most beautiful dogs in the world, I bought her, assuming her to be a gift from fate. I've always wanted a gorgeous little pseudo-wolf, and she came to me. How fucking divine.

( I can't believe I have a fucking dog )

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Television has proved that people will look at anything other than eachother. [Jul. 21st, 2006|02:15 am]
[mood |anal sex]
[music |atmosphere - god loves ugly]

People are shady.

It's lately been difficult to maintain a consistently joyous disposition, when you're constantly surrounded by the shitass vibes from every pathology-soaked grunge sponge. People are a constant influx of shadyness, bashing their slithering bodies against everything like the sperm that's ejaculated from every white trash baby-daddy with a slender moustache and a drunken leer. I'm tired of engaging with these shallow fag machines with their predictable ulterior motives. These days, it only seems to take a mere wrench in my blissful mood to suddenly jar me back into a morose, embittered imbecile. That pretty much proves to me that the substituted elation was just that - a weak substitute, for an otherwise disengaged and disgusted person to distract her from the idiosyncracies of her mind.

It's pretty amusing what the fervert desire to be a freespirited nymph will drive you to fake and manufactor in order to convince yourself that you are truly that person; the one who is impervious to life's soft decay.

There's really no sense in pretending, is there? People have a tendency to project a happy-go-lucky exterior in hopes that it will bolster their spirits and bring more positive wealth into their lives, figuring that good karma will eventually prevail. I grudgingly admit that I'm guilty of this naivete as well. The truth is, an earnest disposition will bring nothing but friends you don't even want, and those won't even last too long because the truth always comes out: either they're too much of a mentally unstable psychopath to carry normal relationships, or you're just an asshole who can't curl your tongue and eventually has to dispense some type of verbal lashing because you're so fed up with dealing with their (un)predictable and seriously deranged crap.

Do you have any idea how many acquaintainces I've carried the past seven months that I seriously wanted nothing to do with, but figured by keeping my enemies closer I would weed out the problem of dealing with the more disgusting aspects of humanity, and could focus more on other aspects of my life?

That ain't happenin', baby. It takes several fuck-ups and failured experiments to realize that bad things happen not to just bad people, but to all people.

Being so pleasant to people rarely pays off. Not involving yourself with drug addicts also doesn't pay off for your sanity, because people pity themselves even without drugs. Come folks, gather 'round and listen to the insipid maunderings of every backward-ass fuck on the planet who has the intelligence and social grace of a taco. In the end, those very same people will end up betraying you in some way or another, taking advantage of your sincerity, or just generally being annoying faggots.

It's like having a pile of expensive and fragile belongings piled up on a desk, only to watch some dumbass animal knock it all over, crashing to the floor as you watch in disgust.

Nowadays, the reaction from the misfortune of humans falls onto a blissful merger between schadenfreude and sympathy. Think of it as the sense of endearment you harbor while watching a sadistic villian bond with their fluffy pet.

There is a metaphorical wall between all of us. Getting through to eachother is an impossible, daunting task, florid with misunderstandings and other comic hysteria. Nobody wishes to meet you halfway, they just prefer to turn around, run in the opposite direction, while spray-painting grafitti that mocks you along the highway bridge they're darting under.

It gets to the point where we naturally just assume that nobody gives a fuck about whatever occurs in our daily life, unless it directly applies to the other person. People ask questions about your life, only so they can talk about their lives. Their ersatz engagement in your life becomes so tiresome, that we avoid discussing actual sentimental issues and bowdlerize our words, wrapping each syllable with a serpentine tongue. Yes, I'm fine. Of course, everything is going phenomenally. No, there is not an ache in my throat.

"LOL".

Y'know, normally when I hear someone say "people suck!" or talk about how asocial and avoidant they are, I tend to roll my eyes and either dismiss them as whiny adolescent mentalities in gothic subcultures OR as loser hermits who have no interest in experiencing the world. It seriously repulses me when people refuse to step out of the box because it's easier to stagnate at home on the internet jerking off to freebase tranny porn and 'partying' at bars, pretending their 'irrestible machismo' isn't really some retarded front to bolster their sad and weak egos. But then last month, I found myself silently agreeing with one of these sentiments. My id began to nod empathetically when people would discuss their reclusive-ness of others, considering it was easier to completely transfer the responsibility onto them instead of myself.

Another day went by. Hmm, I might be starting to see this point, for the first time since being a sophmore in high school wearing spiked bracelets.

The so-called humor and logic of my friends and enemies alike completely evades me. And here I thought I was just a dry, uncreative pillock. No, it was definately them being worthless dingleberries with carbon fluid concepts of what they're supposed to like, which is no wonder why I always felt misplaced and detached from all the things I'm supposed to enjoy. The eiffel tower. Going to the beach with friends. Clubbing. Bland 'comedies' ala Mallrats. Busting a move with Tyra Banks. Movies that only featured a badass leading character armed with some unpronouncable weapon with wooden characters that the critics for some reason call "poignant" and "groundbreaking" when I feel absolutely nothing but bored distaste for them. Ad nauseam.

Leave it to me to pull a maudlin rambling out of my ass, just because I feel like it.

Things are only appreciated with a temporary attention span and a large degree of kitsch.

But as the Chinese proverb says, better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

Maybe this shit will change. Give me a chance to sort this shit out, alright?

We'll see.

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Buon compleanno, JenJen. [Jun. 6th, 2006|05:55 am]
[mood |filled with self-love.]
[music |mozart - symphony no. 40]

So D-Day rolls around once again, just in time for the antichrist superstar (moi) to scorn you all with her punishing debut of the Surly Dick Who Lives On.



Today's horoscope spam email told me to bask in the firey orgasm of my satanic birthday, to rekindle severed friendships, and to avoid sleight-of-mind tricks. Ergo, let's hope my demonic powers today don't cause me to inflict you all, my fellow comrades, with a vengeful rash of the ebola virus, your mouth frothing with viral salivation and intestinal lining, while I cackle in a dastardly fashion and twirl my handlebar moustache.

I wonder what I'll covet this year. Money? Less media saturated stereotypes of humanity? Love?

After all, sometimes I can be quite emotionally horny, everyone. Jerk off my psyche. I'll squirt dependency all over your faces.


P.S. - Apparently my birthday is also a day to punch emo faggots in the face. Awesome.

P.P.S. - Yes I'm still alive you idiots, I'm surprised you all stopped updating your trendy Myspace bulletins enough to ask.

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Better lock your doors 'cause the bitch is back. [Apr. 23rd, 2006|08:45 pm]
[mood |my cat gained like 90 pounds.]
[music |red hot chili peppers - aeroplane]

Ah, writer's block. It's not so much that life itself is lackluster, it's just that the incidents can't be articulated. Myspace has formulated a devestatingly powerful grip on a large portion of the present online world and siphoned them away from the Livejournal archives, leading me to the conclusion that people are clearly becoming more shallow as the months fizzle away into photoshopped camwhoring and "some extra baggage" on their homepage stats. The internet is so depressing now, funny how it used to be a haven for amusement, trolling, and general communication yet nowadays I don't even want to TALK to any of these fucking douchebags anymore. But let's progress to "real life", shall we?

Anyone who knows how irresponsible I am, knows that I can't handle a normal job. I need salacious, unpredictable, bizzare-ish occupations to function properly. Routine makes me incredibly antsy to the point of wanting to backflip into a pit of anacondas who haven't devoured fresh meat in about a decade, which I guess would make them dead, which I guess would also make me a pussy. Stripping in Rhode Island has the misfortune of being at risk for working in undercover brothels where you can hear the titilating moans of obese whores behind the curtains. So alas, I decided to get a job in Connecticut, the state that never seems to end because it's so insufferably boring. UnFortunately, due to scheduling and distance problems, I'm only required to whore my lascivious services on weekends.

So on to the part where I describe in revolting detail about how I've obtained this job.

Hairband, Beer-guzzling, Nascar-driving Fucks Across the Hall:
Hey, my buddy has a girlfriend that works in a strip club! She's pretty chill. They could break you in without the complications of auditioning, and you guys could spent the weekend in a hotel together! It'll be rad!
Me:
Hey, thanks man! Wow, these people sound pretty nice.


Enter Toothless Rich the crackhead and his sapphic smutqueen "Kitten". Now, typically when I describe people in journal entries, I tend to embellish slightly for comic effect. But not with these two. In this case, they do the embellishment for me, and the rest of us are left to stare agape in abject mortification. I have never seen a girl so disengaged and completely oblivious to the fact that everyone thinks she's an utter retard. Her blank, deadpan eyes behind her eyeglasses make me constantly feel like I'm raping her virgin intelligence with every word. Sure, Kitten's got a slyphlike body like my own, but years of crack abuse have eviscerated her teeth into moldered rot. Her peroxided blonde hair is frayed at the ends which grasps her skull like a migraine, like an albino tarantula molting it's skin onto her bony shoulders. She told me her cunt looks like a peach. I guess I would know, considering I filmed them having sex in the hotel room several times. But seriously, who compares their genitals to a fruit without expecting a boot to the face? Kitten is also a porn star, except replace "star" with "idiot that films shoddy sex tapes so her shady boyfriend can mooch off all her financial earnings". Moving along.

When I entered the club for the first time, I instantly noticed two things. One, the stage looks absolutely hazardous, with gaps outlining the perimeter of the stage and around the platform where the pole is, basically telling the customers "Hands off!" When to the dancers, it's really more like "Head comes off if you fall, fuckers!" The second thing I noticed was that there were absolutely no blondes. The body types varied from anorexic to 'thick and solid', but the common denominator was that they all had oranged cosmetic tans and were brunettes. Most of the girls are of mixed ethnicity. Despite the refreshing change from the typical platinum-blonde stripper stereotype that plagues our cinema, I still have one complaint, since this is an industry completely based off physical appearence. Please, fellow dancers, for the love of god. Stop thinking that revolting glitter eyeshadow will razzle-dazzle because it looks good under the blacklights (which, those lights come in handy for masking unsightly cellulite and scar tissue from angsty self-mutilators, ahem). You look like elves on acid.

Typically, I'll be a beguiling temptress in black or gold, but hey, even a cruel bitch can be endearingly cute, can't she? I hacked off a good four inches from the bottom of a plaid red skirt so it would display the bottom of my succulent ass quite nicely. Throw my fire engine hair into girlish pigtails and presto! Every pedophile's dream, sashaying along a gold pole with a coy and inviting smirk, trailing my expert hands along the delicate folds of my trite little costume. The term "stripper" doesn't really sit well in my psyche, because technically that's not what I do. My routines are more of a suggestive tease, a flash of the nipple here and there, a feigned accidently glimpse of labia outlined by a tautly stretched white thong. Typically, especially in bikini bars, stripping is for ugly girls. A busted face has to be compensated with drooping breasts squeezed together quite desperately.

To cut to the chase, the money here is decent but never promised. Every night is a gamble. Will I make ten dollars, or will I make eight hundred? It really has no relation to how attractive you are visually. You have to make stimulating eye contact that teases that you have the delectable goods that they spend their lonely nights jacking off to, and then not supply it. You have to pretend to be so amused and absolutely fascinated by disgusting old lechers and their wacky fetishistic endeavors. Which is not exactly rocket science, but it can be psychologically exhausting to screw on a shit-eating smile for eight straight hours. And aside from the straps of nine inch heels bruising your ankles, the job really is just a simple mind game. And if you have balls of steel, it's pretty fucking amusing at that.

My favorite customer comments:

1. "Life is a game, you know. Right now, this is a game. Every comment I make is a movement on the chessboard of this decadent world. (Passes out into his martini)."

2. (When asked for money after a lapdance) "Why is it all about money with you? I'd rather you do this for me because you care about me. Why can't you move to my beach house in Massachusetts? I couldn't possibly promise you wouldn't end up pregnant within two weeks, though.. two children sounds good, a boy and a girl. Yeah, I love kids..." (*Note: Met fifteen minutes ago.)

3. "Nigga fuck this shit, in Miami they let me CUM ALL OVER THEIR TITS!" (During a double lapdance with Kitten where we had to explain that this isn't a brothel).

But I'm sure you want to know where I was going with the Tales of Kitten, correct? After she disappeared off the face of the earth because of relationship problems and an assumed pregnancy, I was finally able to breathe normally and attempt to move on with my life, gullibly assuming that the chronicles of the burned-out pornstar had dissipated into oblivion. Amy and I had just passed out in the living room while watching old wrestling VHS's all night, relishing the lavender-scented midnight air with Dude Love, when suddenly the following morning, we were jarred awake by a knock on the door.

Cue horror movie violin flourish as Amy and I's frantic stares as an excrusiating, underwater slow-mo of the word "KITTEN" rolled underneath the door and spilled onto my carpet. It couldn't be.. could it? She sauntered into the living room, jacked up on chemical drugs, but stopped in her tracks when she noticed us waking up under the covers, our eyes still blearly from sleep.

"OH," she huffed jealously, folding her arms across her pale chest, "figures I've INTERUPTED something." What. Seriously, why is she still alive?

She then proceeded to regale us with boring anecdotes about how Rich is in prison for unpaid child support and how she's busting ass to come up with two grand for his bail, and how she got fucked in the ass while doing four lines of cocaine. During the entire visit she never shut her mouth about how "high" she was. But here's the kicker! Guess where she's living now?

ACROSS THE HALL IN APARTMENT C.


Usually, my initial snap judgement is to attempt finding some vestige of good character within a person I'm forced to deal with every week. And with women in her circumstances: I try. I really, really try to understand why her life is such a garbage pit. But with her, I have lost all sympathy, particularly because of her smug and willfully delusional disposition. I don't want to hate someone so pathetic, but I do. I'm sorry guys.

Friday afternoon, right before heading to Connecticut, she knocked on the door again. Our bags were packed and sitting on the coffee table, waiting to be thrown in the car. Justin and I rolled our eyes at eachother, expecting a shitstorm of retardation. We were right. Kitten storms into our apartment, lips frosted glittery pink like she just sucked off a teletubby raver, demanding to use our phone. Apparently her ride changed his mind (lol), and she was four hours late for work. Could she make phone calls. Could she borrow a pair of shoes. Sob sob sob. She then mentioned that she was going to the Satin Doll, a club notorious for being a whorehouse.

"Isn't that place a dump?" I asked.

She squirmed. "Yeah, but I'm desperate. They won't be allowed to peg me, but if a guy asks for a handjob.. I'll just.. y'know.. Do it." I told her how disgusting and offensive that was considering strippers lose the majority of their clients to whores. That ruins the quality of the business. Who's going to buy a lap dance if you can get a blowjob (syphallis optional)?

After she left, we loaded our shit into the car for the brief road trip. Between every round up and down the stairs, outside in the hallway you could hear her loud sobbing onto the phone, "MY RIDE ISN'T HERE AND I'M FOUR HOURS LATE AND I'LL HAVE TO PAY A LATE FEE AND I HAVEN'T ORGASMED IN A WEEK OHHH HO HO".

But alas, the job is still badass despite douchebags like her. Most of them are pretty fucking awesome and interesting people, and all of them are honest, if not brutally so, which is a refreshing change from liars and cheats. $550 in two brief nights, just for being a hot piece of ass that can hold a conversation and work a room.

Not bad at all.

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Go through the temple and step towards the light. [Feb. 7th, 2006|11:17 pm]
[mood |ps: don't take it so literal.]
[music |siouxsie and the banshees - face to face]

I always have great difficulty opening up these diatribes. My attempts at relateable dialogue are so astringent that it's laughable. But I've always known, the best muse during inspirational droughts is to know yourself. So here it is, cut and dry, collagen-free with a 60% discount on the currency of egoism. I have no time for lies and fantasy, and neither should you.

A life of self-indulgence, of splendor, of lavish. This is what I've always wanted. To see an endless collection of books, and to know I can have it, without some dumbfuck calling my strip tease profit "dirty money". To spend three weeks in Berlin taking photographs of five day old corpses of homeless men neglected in the streets, to see the Palio in Siena, to strum my words like the strings of a guitar. Would I exchange this for convention and structure, for a husband and children and shaky illusions of self-importance? Morals are a mere phantasm, a dream you wake up from with an enormous hangover and net credit debt. I'd rather have money, friends with free spirits stripped bare, pansexual lovers that can seduce me in seven languages. And here I am, the illusion of a "mess". My eyeshadow is layered like strata in a sedimentary rock. My hair is long like a fiery red snake, the skin around my fingernails is scarred and chapped, my arms a trainwreck of criss-crossed, pillowy scar tissue. I use my body and my skin as a garment that is worth a million dollars, my aspired dancing as a variation of artistic expression, my words and voice as a theatre with sliding panels and trapdoors.

The problem with people is they take this shit far too literally. They make you feel dubious about having a voice because they have none of their own. They instead decide to distract themselves with fool's gold and self-deceit. I've seen them call their vices "hobbies". I've seen them open up Photoshop and gamma correction their pictures with slimming shadows to conceal their unsightly flab with an eclipse of pretense.

How can we be self-indulgent if we're bogged down with time constraints, obligations, and guilt-ridden lectures?

What about me? What about me? Now I realize this is not Survivor, and I am not speaking strategically. If you love someone, you compromise - Isn't that what they always tell you? And yet, the collapse of character also begins with severe compromise, which brings a tremendous discomfort to everyone that's steamrollered with diplomacy. You see many people that are constantly humiliated by love, by people that don't embrace the hedonistic inner child that dwells within all of us. They would rather pigeonhole the concept of "romance" into a demographic or scheme, a rulebook of jealousy, insecurity and general shitass vibes. Instead of just appreciating what just is, they guideline things into monogamy versus polygamy and other such obnoxious topics that I wouldn't waste my fucking piss arguing with you about if you disagreed with me. In the 17th century, androgyny and multiple lovers were considered the essense of seduction and freedom - Now, it is lamblasted or pegged into some gimmicky reality show niche.

You spend so much time feeling like everything and nothing at the same time that you may as well be the chemical, bleached personality of cocaine snorted up a junkie's blood-crusted nose. Dissolving into the brain fissures into a society gone stagnant.

A myriad of goths (remember, an architecture, not a style) scratching themselves with thumbtacks because Daddy Dearest bought their Dodge Viper in the wrong shade of blue: a millimeter scritch-scratch representing their "inner tumult" of, well, not recieving constant injections of bathos and pathos from the syringe of Conditioned Melodramatic Teen Response. And then...

Flash to their trashy black-lipsticked mouths chewing Godsmack flavored bubble gum, dribbling red candle wax on This Is The New Shit, jerking their jacob's ladder pierced schlongs for a hot-gushing, butt-cramping orgasm over Jhonen Vasquez's "Johnny" comics. Thigh flab straining against $60 vinyl pants from Lip Service. And perhaps the most offensive: typing "enlightening" ephiphanies about how "they shouldn't be judged" and "only the strong survive". While crying into a boquet of dead roses, plucked from a local cemetary.

It's the people who preach about strength who have never been in a situation where they've needed to prove their strength. Those who are truly strong, they keep going.

There's simply no time to pause and lecture people about "proving themselves", the hours are just terribly inconvienant.

I believe in the concept of energy that is not divine, but universal. Earthier connotations, if you will. Scientifically speaking, we are all composed with fuck-tons of matter. Our corpses fertilize the soil along with the maggots and the flesh flies, contributing to a flawless eco-system, and recycling our waste into an infinite leakage of energy that discharges into the grass that we stomp on. My belief in spiritual aspects does not equate with the white-light hodgepodge of shuffling pasteboards to foretell a future which has lost any meaning. To our knowledge, death is a cessation of consciousness. Anyone who tries to insist otherwise is florid with pretention, or reeks of fear. Religion is gambling - a hot trot to the casino of disillusionment, more likely to lose everything you've betted on (Heaven) than to rake in the chips and triumph.

Are we that weak that we need religions as a security net?

Why gamble? Is it for the thrill of the chase, the probability of great reward, or are we masochists?

Before this seems like another bitch-festive young adult philosophical conundrum - which it is - allow me to make one final point before you return to your regularly scheduled programming. Is it disgustingly corrupt that we live in a society where people lie about rape for attention while real victims suffer in downtrodden support groups hugging complete strangers? Or is it sheer artistic brilliance? We always seem torn between pitying these people (as long as they're charged by the hour), ignoring these people, or shifting in our chairs with a mix of discomfort and disgust. But, who the fuck cares? Sure, they do fuck-all in increasing awareness towards real tragedy, but isn't this self-righteous indignation coming from people who buy cat food with rape-fantasy money directed from the studios of their porn professions? Are these angered individuals not having wrist-cramps from fingering themselves so frequently to spread-eagled femmes with cigars and a spattering of come smeared along their airbrushed faces? Does it annoy me at times? Indeed, but the reality eventually sinks in that people will not change in their quest for sympathy and spotlight. Everybody is lying to you, and every compliment is usually a compensation for ten negative things they say when your back is turned.

Just like thousands of strokes of paint can create a masterpiece, isn't it humorous that the right or wrong combination of words can make or break an entire person's perspective?

"Disjointed" seems to be the operative bullet-point in all my musings. But it's impossible to stay on one topic when they're all so painfully obvious.

Smile.

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Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city. [Jan. 8th, 2006|07:08 am]
[mood |you know how it is.]
[music |toki toki BOOM.]

As a useless update on my current emotional state, the weather this week has been seasoned with raw nerves and outright disgust while approaching partly-cloudy shifts of contentment. The smell of napalm in the morning combined with french vanilla. And recently my addiction to Yahoo.com games has been borderlining on outright psychotic. Who the fuck plays all this shit until 7 in the morning? Jen, that's who. Tonight I played nine games of pool in a row with a middle-aged milkman from Nova Scotia, killing him with flawless strikes as talked about his child and I discussed humping the pole. And my all time favorite game, Literati, which never fails to dissolve me into uncontrollable girl giggles. Here is an example from tonight's spectacle (co-starring Amber):



Believe it or not, their highly-cultured upstanding dictionary allowed the word "GAE" to be submitted, as observed above. I tried consulting SmarterChild about this abomination, but he simply proffered corrections to my apparent misspelling. This is but a mere example as to why this fucking game is so hopelessly addictive, combined with the fact that you can watch your opposing player drag letters and fuck up. Good shit, man.

Also, prepare for some uncanny writing of some sorts, as I've recently become a sell-out mock gypsy and purched a deck of Medieval Scapini tarot cards (it was the awesome artwork, I swear on a stack of aborted fetuses).

To conclude tonight's episode: Prepare for thunderstorms of manic happiness quickly changing to pre-menstrual disgust, and me dumping my drink on the next young bohemian type banging about "suffering for his art" as I try not to choke on stale biscotti.

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Bank your orbs or gamble them in Fuzion Frenzy. [Dec. 5th, 2005|06:01 pm]
[mood |giddy as fuck. whoo!]
[music |gary newman - little invitro]

There's nothing more awesome than feeling that tremendous burst of indescribable happiness, when you were right in the midst of a mental shit-storm. Terribly trite to discuss? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Not in the least. You see, I'm a rather entitled cunt and I don't particularly enjoy adhering to obligations that bog me down with time constraints and heavy emotional baggage, especially towards people that really don't deserve my attention. No offense, gentle readers, but a lot of unnamed individuals have a tendency to expect some softcore porn fantasy out of JenJen, when in reality she'd rather read a book about ancient coquettes than cyberfuck them in Rhydin.

Also:
hi·a·tus
Function: noun
1 : a gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break: "We are likely to be disconcerted by... hiatuses of thought." (Edmund Wilson).

I take them a lot! It provides an opportunity to place things into correct perspective instead of whining about the antisocial behavior of my fucking cat. I'm not compelled to inform the world of how many cups of raspberry ginger tea I drink per day, how my yin-yang earrings sometimes itch, and gosh, isn't the sunset just too, too, utterly utterly? OMG PLZ COMMENT ON AN OBSESSIVE BASIS OR ELSE YOU'RE NOT A TRUE BLUE FRIEND, KTHNX. Nigga puh-lease. In fact, this is the first entry in years where I feel like I truly don't have to reign my embittered inner child in. (Fucking around with Gameshark is a power trip, by the way. I feel like I can conquer the pixelated universe with mere digits!)

And that's not to say I don't care about people on the internet. I do! In fact, I despise it when people withhold the pretense of "Oh yeah, like an insult on the internet really cuts through me". I was talking about this with an (online) friend of six years. How can a person, hypothetically moderating five SomethingAwful.com communities, possibly convince me that they don't give a damn about online acceptance? Get off myspace if you're so detached from the realm of text! You see, the way I percieve it, is that communication is communication. If they're a dingleberry online, I naturally have to assume they're pig fucking half-wits offline too, except I'd actually have to look at their zitfaces in lieu of "X-ing" them out.

By the way, to keep things nice and sensible, this is what hair looks like after you condition it with mayonnaise:


Electric-socket Chic.


You know what the kicker to this entry is? That I updated in the first place because I felt compelled to update.

I haven't played Zombies Ate My Neighbors in a really long time. Sadface.

I'm struggling to think of a concluding sentence but am just seeming random and disjointed in the process.

FIN FOR NOW! OH BOY OH BOY! I LOVE YA'LL! And no, I won't calm down. Get over it.

Poll #627565 WTF?
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 13

Did this post maintain any air of continuity?

View Answers

Somewhat; I managed to pull through.
10 (76.9%)

No, you stupid harpy!
3 (23.1%)



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Some extra baggage. [Oct. 20th, 2005|04:20 am]
[mood |everybody's gettin with, i say]
[music |miles davis - blue in green]

So the furnace is busted, leaving us no choice but to perpetually leave the oven door open for warmth. But guess what our electric bill is? $50! Hell yeah.

I figured I'd share that useless anecdote before I proceed to BITCH and MOAN and OH MY GOD JEN YOU ARE SO NEGATIVE. TSK TSK LITTLE LADY, YOU SHOULD BE JIZZING ALL OVER HOT ITALIAN PUSSY INSTEAD! BAH GAWD! JIM ROSS HAS A FAMILY, DON'T DO IT VINCE! BAH GAWD!

Cutting right to the chase. Myspace idiots. Does every dingleberry on the face of the earth have to have a "Myspace", the haven for intellectually devoid sycophants that bore Jesus to tears with their slow-lagging botched-HTML complex layouts and e-dry humping other camwhores (translation: "I call other people ugly, but I still contrast my pictures until you can't see my nose")? They're either posing awkwardly with a stiletto boot shoved up their own ass, or the camera quality is so godawful (read: webcams / cellphones) that the grainy texture masks their unsightly flab and rippling cellulite. I've noticed a peculiar pattern of euphemisms on Myspace "body types" as well.

Apparently... Fat = "More to love!"

Please, just own the word "fat". Using these hideous euphemisms just gives the original word it's demonizing power. There's nothing wrong with thicker builds, I find them more attractive. Just stop trying to be cute about it. It isn't working.

And if you've put on a few pounds from gluttony, no worries! Just select your body type as "athletic". Nobody will know the difference. Except for persnickety individuals such as myself, of course. But as long as people recieve lavish compliments from their online buddies (4 people they actually know, 106 people that they vehemently despise yet add them for more online publicity, and random industrial band-geeks with shitty logos), their ego remains sugarcoated in rainbow unicorn ejaculation.

And since we're all in agreement about Myspace idiots, can I address another sexual issue?

69. WTF.


I mean, of all the inconveniant things in practice that overhyped in fantasy. Let's face it people. You can't ejaculate to your fullest utopia without gnawwing someone's clit off in the process. Doing both at once is like driving to the store when you're trying to fill up the gas tank from a moving truck. Certainly, it may look dandy when two misshapenly augmented Swank Magazine femmes engage in feigned cunnilingus, but the resulting back and scrotul pain is really not worth the effort. Which leads me to, you guessed it, BDSM! How many dipshits you know actually engage in such a trite process? Bondage to me is leaving somebody locked in a cellar for four days without food or water, serrated pole up the ass optional, of course. From what I've gathered from these faggoths (not a typo), it's supposed to be more "psychological" than "sexual", right? Well, then, don't be a half-assed psycho dammit. That's like wanting to be black but scared to go to the ghetto! Don't follow the herd children. Especially when the herd is going straight off a cliff.

It's not a fetish unless it's psychosis. Otherwise it's some candy-coated "I'm kinky" ordeal. And lord knows that I'm disgusted with chicks that tell me to burst blood vessels in their nipples with my teeth.

One more topic. It's obvious - death is a drag. We've all been through it before. But what can you really, truly say to someone in pain? There's nothing that can undo the bandages, rewind the circumstances, and bring the solace back to their thirsty lips. The bereaved remain plateaued no matter how many words of wisdom you whisper. There is no way to make everything alright, so why bother talking? Just listen to them, stop quoting them bumper stickers.

Just makes you all the more irritated that whiney middle class kids mistake their natural hormones for being "borderline" or "mentally fucked". People build up the 'tragedy' of their situation in their own minds, negative thoughts reinforce themselves and then turn to chemicals that rarely help or give them seizures. But hey, that gives them a real problem to complain about, so praise the chemists for their delicious sense of humor. Once you realize you're in control of 95% of what goes on in your life, you worry less about such petty trivialities. I don't worry when I drive my own car, I only worry when I'm in the back seat of someone else's. Pick your battles, angst worms. Let it seep in, that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. But it still doesn't hurt to chew some valerian root.

And please, for the love of god. No matter how much you try to console someone, they always refuse and prefer to relish in their attention starved angst. So please, nimrods, instead of talking to me, go carve poetry into your ballsack instead. It'll save me another proffering of advice that you're never going to listen to anyway.

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The colorful cast goes as follows. [Sep. 29th, 2005|02:37 pm]
[music |billie holiday - don't mean a thing]

I suppose I could either rev this up with either a blase narration of amusing anecdotes or happiness florid with trite romanticism, but regardless it still degenerates into my pure satisfaction. Three weeks ago, I finally moved into my new abode with my beloved Justin - Apartment D on the borderline of West Warwick, a two-bit shoddy chamber run by a slumlord who was blithly unaware of our illegal cable hookups that run from wires connecting from Jesse's domain, across the hallway, into our haphazard living room (but now alas, we have our own service). Cardboard boxes crammed with useless trinkets are sprawled around Jarrod's mattress (stained with cat piss, might I add - felines tend to misbehave when adjusting to new surroundings). I managed to cram eight years of my life into plastic containers and haul them up the creaking stairs, SANS my treasured spyware-ridden computer, which we'll be moving in shorty after I cleanse it of my incriminatingly bad poetry.

My living arrangement has been so far bereft of boredom or stagnancy. Right when you're about to masturbate out of sheer jobless laziness, a door will slam downstairs and raucous shrieking will ensue. Enter Ginger and her money-mooching cronies, all tightly packed like white-trash sardines in the abysmal lair of Apartment B. Ginger is a fat meth addict who I finally had the pleasure of meeting recently, after frequent bitchings about her from her roommates. While sitting on the front steps chainsmoking, she shuffled outside, face slackjawed from years of heroin abuse and rippling rolls of cellulite hanging over her fleshy midsection. After plucking cigarette butts of the grass while her indignant roommates one-finger saluted her behind her meaty back, she pulled a redheaded guy aside and frolicked across the road with him.

Let me backtrack for a second.

On the third day of my residence, (Piece of Shit) and (Piece of Crap) had an eye-rolling screaming match over a $400 cable bill that was not paid. After Piece of Shit's numerous threats of throwing my roommate out the window, I eventually cajoled the neo-nazi scum to leave my abode and asserted that we discuss it later on that night.

Piece of Crap: "YOU SAID YOU'D SPLIT THE BILL IN HALF!"
Piece of Shit: "ACTUALLY, I CERTAINLY DID NOT."
(And then, taking the golden crown for the queen of melodrama, adds:)
Piece of Shit: "YOU ARE SKATING A VERRRRY THIN LINE, MY FRIEND."

Cue horror movie violin flourish.

Cue my eyes rolling so far back into my skull that I'm surprised I didn't have a stupidity-induced seizure.

Piece of Crap: "Well, Shit, you know that you have a tendancy to change your mind a lot..."
Piece of Shit: "THE LINE'S GETTING THINNER..."

Ten second pause with sustained eye contact.

"Alright," my uncharacteristic voice of reason chimes, "why don't we discuss this later tonight so nobody's left in the dark."

The next day, the cable in both our apartments was disabled. Nobody felt like dishing out the money. Figures.

Cut back to Kasey and I sitting on the roof smoking while doors crash in the murky depths of Apartment B. Several young men, all in their early twenties, storm to their disheveled cars carrying large garbage bags filled with their property. Apparently, they were moving out, fed up with Ginger's stupid rules and lithium-stained persona. I shouted down at them from the roof, engaging in boisterous conversation.

Enter Ryan, a bespeckled heavyset guy who, from the short time I've known him, seems like the only tenant in this complex not plagued with psychosis.

Enter Chris, aforementioned redhead in a baseball hat who desperately wants a deep purple quasi-mullet. Also the older brother of lanky shit-for-brains Katie Cote, better known as the Dirty Manson.

Jump back to me hanging out in Jesse's apartment while he built and painted model cars, his chinless monstrosity of a girlfriend (Kasey) with an overbite of rotting brace-covered teeth and spindly pale fingers, and Greg, a Providence-raised punk that actually uses "your mother" as an insult but remains tight-lipped and sheepish in my presense. After several hours of suffering through hentai and tranvestite fat chick porn, Greg is listening to his girlfriend shriek into his cell phone: "JEN?! THE GIRL WITH THE RED HAIR?! OH MY GOD, SHE'S GOING TO GET YOU INTO TROUBLE!!!"

Cut to me raising a penciled eyebrow wondering who the hell she is.

Jump forward again to Kasey Chinless and I sitting on the roof, where I discover that Greg is, in fact, dating the pseudo tough-cookie white supremacist Dirty Manson, which is why she was hysterical on the phone that night. As I scream "HOLY FUCK, THAT DOUCHE?", Chris introduces himself as her brother.

Cut to me deep breathing, trying to let this all sink in (thank heavens I keep the opium handy), as Bill Thistlewaite appears in front of me. Alright. Cut.

Bill is the epitome of parasitic homeless scum, where his misfortune is entirely of his own volition. For months we have revelled in our ABDS (Aquired Bill Deficiency Syndrome), but alas, the redneck scum that has leeched off everyone's food and money for years, has returned into my cushy life. Whether he's willing to steal our property again and have to give blowjobs to seriously perverted old men to hitch-hike back to RI again (since my friends ditched him on a New Jersey beach last year), well, I suppose that is optional this time around.

Cut to a frightening Village of the Damned looking ice-blonde child running out into the front lawn, with his white trash baby mamma running after him.

Cut to 'baby mamma' (real name "Joanie") telling me that it's Mike Tucker's son, the guy that's in prison for setting a mill on fire. He also has at least five more children with five different ladies, one of them being my old friend from high school.

Cut to my mentioning of this fact leading to a loud diatribe from Joanie as she talks about a shitstorm of denial, while trying to pull her creepy two-year-old away from speeding cars as I hear enough about "adoption", "affidavits", and "miscarriages" to equate a full season of Maury Povich episodes.

Cut to my utter annoyance when I have to walk underaged Kasey to the gas station to buy her cigarettes, while she drawls on in her post-orgasmic, tired voice. Cut to Joe Cutler driving by in a Ronzio's pizza car, my ex-boyfriend who thinks he's Johnny the Homocidal Maniac. He's also fucking Christine, a Lollipop Kids midget who thinks she's a kitten and actually tastes her vaginal secretion before sex to determine whether or not she's ovulating.

Cut to me being sidetracked by Tabitha Petronsky on the way to the gas station, another high school acquaintence, who sat me down and informed me how all she does is "sit on her ass, get drunk, and eat cheese." (Her exact words, verbatim.)

Now I'm getting "carded" at the gas station, and I use the term "carded" loosely because he didn't card me at all. So my annoyance increases because I wasted time walking Chinless down the street for no reason, so I make her buy orange juice for screwdrivers. Did I mention that I hate complicated teenybopper/college drinks? Nonetheless, I still get semi-wasted off rum shots, kamikazes, and screwdrivers that night. I know, I know. They're gross.

Jump forward to me sitting on the staircase at 3am talking to a girl named Michelle that just moved here from California after a drug binge with Ginger. She is paranoid, fidgety, and probably easily cajoled into date rape. My roommate says she's "drop dead gorgeous", but she's really just a mousy, bookwormish, semi-cute neurotic brunette. Still, about two light beers from fuckable. (HAW HAW, I kid!) She told me her entire life story in the span of two hours - her foster care, her molestation and abuse, her orphaned baby (as well as her miscarried one). She's the jumpy and nervous type that easily buckles under pressure, so it's really no surpise that she was coerced into so much sex despite her abhorrent loathing for it. She was convinced that her boyfriend of one month (who told her I was "premium pussy" without ever having met me) was definately "the one". He dumped her the next morning, ironically and unsurprisingly.

Anyhow, it's fun here.
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