After a huge binge purchase of bulk Easter candy at Eckards in Union Square--Robins Eggs, peppermint patties, and Cadbury Creme Eggs, if you MUST know--I bolted for the 4 train so I could get to my swim class in park slope. As always, Union Square was bustling with activity and people yelling, which I always seem to avoid without incident.
Not tonight, apparently.
A guy standing outside the subway stop was yelling out "Do you like rap? Do you like reggae?"
My answer to that would be no, and no. But I don't talk to strangers. And I was in a hurry.
Instead of targeting the next innocent bystander, he decided to go all apeshit on my ass.
"Racism will come back and get you" he pointed a finger at me {he was a black man}
{I guess ignoring strange men on the street who are yelling in my face means that I hate people of color?}
"Your life must be hell," he continued.
{Yes, I'm a miserable bitch. Thanks for noticing.}
"Your pussy must smell like..."
Whoa whoa whoa now. Why you gotta bring up the pussy? I mean, seriously dude, what did my pussy ever do to you?
I'm not really sure what he was going to say it smelled like, as I was halfway down the stairs at that point. And honestly, he was probably right. It had been a long day. I'd been to the gym. I needed a fucking shower. My vaginal area wasn't at its finest, I imagine.
Kudos to the misogynist for being so observant.
I guess I'll take my racist, rancid cunt to bed now.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
Random Friday Regurgitations
It’s Friday, and I’m feeling like someone put a hammer to my head.
I guess that’s what happens when you have three martinis for dinner, and then ¾ of a pint of Ben and Jerrys for your second dinner (don’t you love the way I didn’t eat the ENTIRE container? I figured I was being “good” by leaving some behind. What a conscientious dieter I am!)
They’re serving “St Paddys Day” breakfast in the open space this morning. I can’t decide if I want to venture in there or not. My stomach is saying “no,mother fucker, don’t you put another thing inside me.” But my intellect is telling me that I should eat something to rid myself of this hangover-ish thing I’ve got going on.
In addition to being hungover, I’m horny as hell. I would very much like to have some long, dirty, loud, raucous sex. Oh yes, I would.
Funnily enough, I look kind of cute today. I even straightened my hair and wore makeup. I don’t know what the occasion is, but I caught a married fucker checking me out on the subway. So I guess the effort wasn’t totally for naught. Ha.
What’s everyone doing this weekend? Are you going to venture into the wild for St Patrick’s Day? Or, like me, will you be hiding out, waiting for the throngs of bridge and tunnels to leave their trail of puke through the streets of the East Village and then get the hell out to go back to the burbs? ;)
Off to find me some aspirin.
I guess that’s what happens when you have three martinis for dinner, and then ¾ of a pint of Ben and Jerrys for your second dinner (don’t you love the way I didn’t eat the ENTIRE container? I figured I was being “good” by leaving some behind. What a conscientious dieter I am!)
They’re serving “St Paddys Day” breakfast in the open space this morning. I can’t decide if I want to venture in there or not. My stomach is saying “no,mother fucker, don’t you put another thing inside me.” But my intellect is telling me that I should eat something to rid myself of this hangover-ish thing I’ve got going on.
In addition to being hungover, I’m horny as hell. I would very much like to have some long, dirty, loud, raucous sex. Oh yes, I would.
Funnily enough, I look kind of cute today. I even straightened my hair and wore makeup. I don’t know what the occasion is, but I caught a married fucker checking me out on the subway. So I guess the effort wasn’t totally for naught. Ha.
What’s everyone doing this weekend? Are you going to venture into the wild for St Patrick’s Day? Or, like me, will you be hiding out, waiting for the throngs of bridge and tunnels to leave their trail of puke through the streets of the East Village and then get the hell out to go back to the burbs? ;)
Off to find me some aspirin.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Never Underestimate the Power of the Cheese
How is it that one minute, I am in the bathroom, flossing and brushing my teeth, with a towel wrapped around my head.
And then the next minute, my jeans are down around my ankles, and I'm sitting on the sink getting banged out of my mind?
Yea. I'm awesome.
And then the next minute, my jeans are down around my ankles, and I'm sitting on the sink getting banged out of my mind?
Yea. I'm awesome.
Hell Froze Over
I know this is supposed to be a very male trait, and I am the furthest thing from male that there is, but I really, truly hate asking for help.
I would rather wander around aimlessly for hours, getting more and more lost with every step, then ask someone for directions.
I remember being in nursery school and pissing my pants in the playground rather than ask the teacher if I could go inside and use the bathroom.
This morning, I got to midtown way earlier than anyone should ever find oneself in midtown, and decided to get my ass to Barnes and Noble to pick up a new book to read. I've been obsessing about "Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood" by Koren Zailcas for a few days now, ever since my friend reminded me of its existence.
I walked into the store, and of course, got sucked into the new book smell. I don't know if it's because my mother is a librarian, or if everyone loves that smell of printed word on paper, but to me, it's intoxicating. For a moment I forgot about Koren Zailcas and ran around, touching, stroking and fondling all of the new fiction.
I definitely lost sight for a moment, but then I snapped back to reality after finding myself absent-mindedly picking up a Nicholas Spark novel. I flung it back to the table and set out on my mission...Smashed. Must find Smashed. Must read book about girl who's life is a mess, so mine won't seem so much of one.
I started out in the paperbacks section, thinking it'd be out and about on display. I circled each table and shelf like a vulture, but no Smashed to be found.
Now, this is where I could so easily have gone to the Customer Service counter, a mere inches away from where I stood. But no. No fucking way. I mean, if I tell them the book I am looking for, won't they come to all sorts of conclusions about me as a person in the 5 seconds that I am standing before them? I can feel them asking themselves, "why is this chick wanting to read this book? is she also a drunken floozy? doesn't she have better things to do with her time? like read wh auden and memorize each word?" No. I would not be going to the Customer Service counter. Forget it.
I searched high and low for this damn book. I went directly to the Biography section. No such luck. I tried non-fiction. I tried essays. No, and no.
After 20 or so minutes, it became apparent that I was not going to find this book. And it was the only book I wanted. So guess what. I had to ask for help. Hell, indeed, froze over this morning.
Had I gotten over my fear of asking for help 20 minutes earlier, I would have found out that the book is out of stock, not only at the Barnes and Noble on 46th and 5th, but at all the Barnes and Nobles in Manhattan.
Funny what one can learn when one reaches out.
I would rather wander around aimlessly for hours, getting more and more lost with every step, then ask someone for directions.
I remember being in nursery school and pissing my pants in the playground rather than ask the teacher if I could go inside and use the bathroom.
This morning, I got to midtown way earlier than anyone should ever find oneself in midtown, and decided to get my ass to Barnes and Noble to pick up a new book to read. I've been obsessing about "Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood" by Koren Zailcas for a few days now, ever since my friend reminded me of its existence.
I walked into the store, and of course, got sucked into the new book smell. I don't know if it's because my mother is a librarian, or if everyone loves that smell of printed word on paper, but to me, it's intoxicating. For a moment I forgot about Koren Zailcas and ran around, touching, stroking and fondling all of the new fiction.
I definitely lost sight for a moment, but then I snapped back to reality after finding myself absent-mindedly picking up a Nicholas Spark novel. I flung it back to the table and set out on my mission...Smashed. Must find Smashed. Must read book about girl who's life is a mess, so mine won't seem so much of one.
I started out in the paperbacks section, thinking it'd be out and about on display. I circled each table and shelf like a vulture, but no Smashed to be found.
Now, this is where I could so easily have gone to the Customer Service counter, a mere inches away from where I stood. But no. No fucking way. I mean, if I tell them the book I am looking for, won't they come to all sorts of conclusions about me as a person in the 5 seconds that I am standing before them? I can feel them asking themselves, "why is this chick wanting to read this book? is she also a drunken floozy? doesn't she have better things to do with her time? like read wh auden and memorize each word?" No. I would not be going to the Customer Service counter. Forget it.
I searched high and low for this damn book. I went directly to the Biography section. No such luck. I tried non-fiction. I tried essays. No, and no.
After 20 or so minutes, it became apparent that I was not going to find this book. And it was the only book I wanted. So guess what. I had to ask for help. Hell, indeed, froze over this morning.
Had I gotten over my fear of asking for help 20 minutes earlier, I would have found out that the book is out of stock, not only at the Barnes and Noble on 46th and 5th, but at all the Barnes and Nobles in Manhattan.
Funny what one can learn when one reaches out.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Hell is a broken computer
I'm wondering exactly what it is that I've done to piss off the laptop gods in the last couple of days. Is it my terrible taste in blog posts? Or maybe my lack of respect for unsecure websites? Or the fact that I DARED think about cancelling my myspace account?
At any rate, I'm having THE WORST luck with all of my computers, and I'm starting to get a complex.
The other night, I was kicking back with my ibook, surfing the web during The Hills and enjoying a glass of Argentinian red wine that Lesty brought me back from a trip.
The wine was quite tasty, and quite effective at mellowing me out from a crazy day at work.
Too effective. I seemed to have lost the feeling in my right hand as I went to pick up the glass, only to lose my grip and watch a very large amount of red wine swirl into the air and land squarely on top of my beautiful ibook that just celebrated its first birthday. :-(
Thankfully I acted fast, and turned my poor baby upside down immediately. How I wanted to weep at the sight of my prized laptop dripping red wine like blood. I thought about how corroded my hard drive was gonna be. I started to freak out about all the music I was gonna have to redownload. Pictures I was going to lose.
I'm happy to report that, 3 days later, the hard drive seems to be intact, but the keyboard is fucked. I can type, but my backspace doesn't work, and neither does shift. Some of the letters seem to be sticking as well. I typed an email this morning, it looked like it was typed in secret code.
In addition to my home computer trauma, I am currently working (ie; blogging) at my bosses desk while she is on a photo shoot in LA. Apparently, my office PC has picked up a nasty little virus that seems to be rivaling an outbreak of herpes and bird flu combined. IT services is perplexed. I am feeling lost. My first instinct is to go home, since I'm pretty much rendered useless without internet acccess during work hours.
Except,then I remember, my computer at home is a mess, too.
So, blessed computer gods, if you are listening to me at all, please, for the love of all things holy and good, and for the sake of my sanity, please let my computers be fixed so that I can go back to being the 24/7 internet slacker chick that I am known and loved for. Thanks.
At any rate, I'm having THE WORST luck with all of my computers, and I'm starting to get a complex.
The other night, I was kicking back with my ibook, surfing the web during The Hills and enjoying a glass of Argentinian red wine that Lesty brought me back from a trip.
The wine was quite tasty, and quite effective at mellowing me out from a crazy day at work.
Too effective. I seemed to have lost the feeling in my right hand as I went to pick up the glass, only to lose my grip and watch a very large amount of red wine swirl into the air and land squarely on top of my beautiful ibook that just celebrated its first birthday. :-(
Thankfully I acted fast, and turned my poor baby upside down immediately. How I wanted to weep at the sight of my prized laptop dripping red wine like blood. I thought about how corroded my hard drive was gonna be. I started to freak out about all the music I was gonna have to redownload. Pictures I was going to lose.
I'm happy to report that, 3 days later, the hard drive seems to be intact, but the keyboard is fucked. I can type, but my backspace doesn't work, and neither does shift. Some of the letters seem to be sticking as well. I typed an email this morning, it looked like it was typed in secret code.
In addition to my home computer trauma, I am currently working (ie; blogging) at my bosses desk while she is on a photo shoot in LA. Apparently, my office PC has picked up a nasty little virus that seems to be rivaling an outbreak of herpes and bird flu combined. IT services is perplexed. I am feeling lost. My first instinct is to go home, since I'm pretty much rendered useless without internet acccess during work hours.
Except,then I remember, my computer at home is a mess, too.
So, blessed computer gods, if you are listening to me at all, please, for the love of all things holy and good, and for the sake of my sanity, please let my computers be fixed so that I can go back to being the 24/7 internet slacker chick that I am known and loved for. Thanks.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Girls Are Silly, Take 2
A couple weeks ago, I was over at the Beehive's, and feeling the need for something along the lines of a baby wipe...don't ask, cuz I'm not telling. At any rate, these items are kept in the bottom right drawer in the bathroom. I've gone in this drawer a thousand times, and never noticed anything remiss.
This particular moment, while foraging around for a non-dried out baby wipe, I happened to notice a handful of OB tampons flung into the drawer. OB tampons that were absolutely not mine. I can't use those bastards. How does any woman use those fucking things? The applicator, in my humble opinion, is a MUST. I'm not against sticking my own finger up there, but for some reason I can never get the thing to stay put. I don't even know how OB stays in business, really. But that's beside the point. My main concern was...WHO's tampons are these?
I presumed they belonged to an ex. But which one? I tried to imagine. Was it her? Was SHE the type to use OB tampons? Or the other one? Or was it some random one-night stand skank that got her period mid-hook up and left her nasty tampons at the apartment? Either way, I was quite disturbed by the sudden presence of the little beasts and left the bathroom with a weird taste in my mouth.
But score for me, I never brought up the tampons.
Cut to 2 weeks later. I'm on the way to Bay Ridge, all the while during the drive there I'm talking to the 'Hive. I suddenly burst out, "You know those tampons in your bathroom. You should probably throw them out."
I heard confusion on the other end of the phone. And then, conveniently, the phone started to cut out. "i...you...eh....he..."
I heard.
"You're breaking up. I'll be there in five minutes" I hung up the phone, feeling a bit weird. I didn't know if I wanted to know the story behind the tampons. And really, why did it matter?
I got to his place and greeted him with my usual hug and kiss. And said, "So, did you throw away the tampons?"
Laughter ensued, and then a smug look, and then an explanation.
"Those are MY tampons."
I scrunched up my nose in confusion. "Youre tampons? What do you mea.....oh...you mean, when you broke your nose and needed to stick tampons up your nose to stop the bleeding?"
Uh, yea.
Apparently, to put the icing on the cake, I was asked several months ago if I would like to keep said tampons around, and of course, knowing my disdain for OB, I refused. In my jealous little freak out, I managed to forget an entire tampon conversation that was had.
I've said it before, I'm saying it again. Girls are silly. Really silly.
This particular moment, while foraging around for a non-dried out baby wipe, I happened to notice a handful of OB tampons flung into the drawer. OB tampons that were absolutely not mine. I can't use those bastards. How does any woman use those fucking things? The applicator, in my humble opinion, is a MUST. I'm not against sticking my own finger up there, but for some reason I can never get the thing to stay put. I don't even know how OB stays in business, really. But that's beside the point. My main concern was...WHO's tampons are these?
I presumed they belonged to an ex. But which one? I tried to imagine. Was it her? Was SHE the type to use OB tampons? Or the other one? Or was it some random one-night stand skank that got her period mid-hook up and left her nasty tampons at the apartment? Either way, I was quite disturbed by the sudden presence of the little beasts and left the bathroom with a weird taste in my mouth.
But score for me, I never brought up the tampons.
Cut to 2 weeks later. I'm on the way to Bay Ridge, all the while during the drive there I'm talking to the 'Hive. I suddenly burst out, "You know those tampons in your bathroom. You should probably throw them out."
I heard confusion on the other end of the phone. And then, conveniently, the phone started to cut out. "i...you...eh....he..."
I heard.
"You're breaking up. I'll be there in five minutes" I hung up the phone, feeling a bit weird. I didn't know if I wanted to know the story behind the tampons. And really, why did it matter?
I got to his place and greeted him with my usual hug and kiss. And said, "So, did you throw away the tampons?"
Laughter ensued, and then a smug look, and then an explanation.
"Those are MY tampons."
I scrunched up my nose in confusion. "Youre tampons? What do you mea.....oh...you mean, when you broke your nose and needed to stick tampons up your nose to stop the bleeding?"
Uh, yea.
Apparently, to put the icing on the cake, I was asked several months ago if I would like to keep said tampons around, and of course, knowing my disdain for OB, I refused. In my jealous little freak out, I managed to forget an entire tampon conversation that was had.
I've said it before, I'm saying it again. Girls are silly. Really silly.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Reason #459958848 Why I'm An Irrational Person
Last night I had a dream that I found quite disturbing.
I’m pretty sure that it stemmed from the fact that I have been under a lot of stress at work, and feeling rather inadequate.
Basically, in this dream, I arrived to my office to find that my sister had been hired…which seemed sort of cool until I realized that she had been hired to replace ME.
During my Friday morning rendezvous with the rapist, I mentioned the dream. Well ok, I flew into her office like a bat out of hell and barked, “I had this fucking dream last night.”
The Rapist: So tell me about this dream
Cheese: My sister was working at my office and little by little I started
to realize that she had been hired to replace me. The big boss man
in a suit told me off in front of everyone and I started screaming
and yelling in front of the whole office. And then I met up with a
friend of mine at a greenmarket and I picked up some pomegranates
and dropped them on the floor.
TR: What do pomegranates symbolize to you?
Cheese: Sex
TR: Why are you dropping your sex on the floor? What does this mean?
Cheese: It means I am a bad, bad girl, and I need a spanking. *wink*
TR: (unamused) Why was the big boss man in a suit yelling at you?
Cheese: I hate men in suits.
TR: Why? You know all the men in suits to hate them?
Cheese: Yes. No. I don’t know. I just hate them. They’re mean, and shady, and fake.
TR: Why do you think this? What made you think this?
Cheese: It’s just what I think. And that’s that.
Cut. End. Scene.
I’m pretty sure that it stemmed from the fact that I have been under a lot of stress at work, and feeling rather inadequate.
Basically, in this dream, I arrived to my office to find that my sister had been hired…which seemed sort of cool until I realized that she had been hired to replace ME.
During my Friday morning rendezvous with the rapist, I mentioned the dream. Well ok, I flew into her office like a bat out of hell and barked, “I had this fucking dream last night.”
The Rapist: So tell me about this dream
Cheese: My sister was working at my office and little by little I started
to realize that she had been hired to replace me. The big boss man
in a suit told me off in front of everyone and I started screaming
and yelling in front of the whole office. And then I met up with a
friend of mine at a greenmarket and I picked up some pomegranates
and dropped them on the floor.
TR: What do pomegranates symbolize to you?
Cheese: Sex
TR: Why are you dropping your sex on the floor? What does this mean?
Cheese: It means I am a bad, bad girl, and I need a spanking. *wink*
TR: (unamused) Why was the big boss man in a suit yelling at you?
Cheese: I hate men in suits.
TR: Why? You know all the men in suits to hate them?
Cheese: Yes. No. I don’t know. I just hate them. They’re mean, and shady, and fake.
TR: Why do you think this? What made you think this?
Cheese: It’s just what I think. And that’s that.
Cut. End. Scene.
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