Mark Twain and Deuteronomy

Friends, I have done something awful. 

I have read part of the book of Deuteronomy. What I have found is more offensive and more scary than what can be found as "offensive" on Encyclopedia Dramatica. I cannot begin to describe to you the pain and anguish it caused me. Instead, I shall let you read it yourselves. 

So I have (not surprisingly) decided that Christianity is flawed in its ways. Instead, I shall live my life by the teachings and sayings of a much less flawed system:

Twainism.

The glory and brilliance of Mark Twain shall be my guide, with wonderful quips like: 

All right, then, I'll go to hell.
-Mark Twain

But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?

-Mark Twain

If God had meant for us to be naked, we'd have been born that way.

-Mark Twain

This man is a genius. My friend and I are hammering out the details of Twainism. Updates shall be posted as soon as more is known. As of this far, we believe in the Twinity:

As Mark Twain and Samuel Clemons are separate yet one

As Huckleberry Finn and Sarah Williams are separate yet one

Our Holy Book is Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

It ain't those parts of the Bible that I can't understand that bother me, it is the parts that I do understand.

-Mark Twain

Jeans and That Person You Want to Be

Oh look! A second blog today! I must be....

Bored out of my mind. That's what I am. And I've been shopping. Victoria's Secret, if you must know. I had a coupon that expired on December 19, 2010, and if I didn't use it today, I'd forget about it. But as I was searching for the perfect piece to waste my $10 off on, (I finally picked a blue lace turtleneck sweater, not that you needed to know) I was wondering why it was that I felt myself wishing all the pieces that I was filing through were in my closet. Why do I not usually buy things like that? Am I really perfectly satisfied to wear the same thing every day, jeans and a t-shirt, maybe a sweater? 

Why is it that those adorable little knitted stockings make my skin crawl? Why is it that I want that skirt more than I think I've ever wanted anything? Why do I want to look like her.....this is ridiculous. I know the sermons, I know what I'm supposed to believe. We're not supposed to want to look like those girls in those magazines. They are a supreme ideal that no one can be held to, materialistic vapid bitches upon which we've built an empire of silicone and falseness. 

But there is one glaringly important problem with that idea.

They're so damn pretty! What crime is there in wanting to look pretty? My idea of pretty. Who cares if it's been poisoned by their idea of pretty? It's aesthetically pleasing while speaking to me on a sensual, instinctive level that my rational brain can only feebly attempt to interpret. 

For years, I've dressed the same way. Jeans, sweaters, t-shirts. Boring. Any day is the same as the next. Nothing to differentiate me from the rest of the people in the world. I'm a creative person. Why is it that I feel like I have to limit my creativity in my clothing? Why is it that I feel I have to be lazy and boring? Why is it that with each well-worn t-shirt with the witty saying I feel I can hide myself, content to be something mediocre that can blend into the background? It's going to be over. No more of the same nonsense. I'm a talented, creative individual. The world must see this. I'm worth being seen.

So I've decided that I want to dress more like the people that I've been drooling over for the past several hours. When I leave for Christmas break, I will pack up a large portion of my clothes. Then I will bring back the small portion of my clothes that I will deem acceptable. Then I will be forced to dress nicely. I won't have any other choice. It seems like a fool-proof plan to me. No more novelty t-shirts. No more Jeans. 

This is going to be damn hard. Worth it? Undecided. I'll let you know. 

*On the bright side, this has been my first blog not about my love life. Plus? I think so*

Mistakes and Nostalgia

Once again, I seem to have spoken too soon. Reading my last blog brings forth a taste of misjudgment my mouth that I only wish upon each politician on Capitol Hill. I'll have you know that I did not intend for this blog to be a pathetic documentation of my even more pathetic person life, but such things cannot be avoided. 

I have once again rendered a personal relationship with someone to nothing more than some "crappy sex" and someone to give me sweet little kisses. I say crappy sex because of an episode of Bones I watched yesterday. 

"Here we are, all of us, basically alone, separate creatures, just circling each other, all searching for that slightest hint of a real connection. Some look in the wrong places, some they just give up hope because in their mind they're thinking "Oh there's nobody out there for me," but all of us, we keep trying over and over again. Why? Because every once in a while... every once in a while, two people meet and there's that spark, and yes, Bones, he's handsome and she's beautiful and maybe that's all they see at first, but making love... making love... that's when two people become one."

Perhaps it's the romantic in me, but I absolutely love that. Damnit, he's right and damnit, I'm going to keep looking. But the fact remains that I sure as hell haven't found it yet. And it's certainly not lovely army boy, who is adorable, but musn't be allowed to believe that I'm that person for him. 

So think of this as a retraction. An elimination of the stupid conclusions I jumped to in my previous post. I hate it when I put the well-painted cart before the aged horse.

Pirate Code and a Man Named Jack

Hello my darlings. You've missed me, haven't you? I know it's December now, but my life has reached something of a happy plateau. Heaven forbid that I actually be happy for an extended period of time. Never fail, I must question it. 

So perhaps my happiness has ridden in on the wings of an army man who's only real wish is to leave for Afghanistan and do what he thinks is good there. Yes, loves, I've picked myself a die-hard patriotic, red-blooded American boy. He even loves Jesus and everything. (I think) 

I will admit, I may have begun dating him on false pretenses. If not began dating, then at the very least established a viable means of communications with under false pretenses. I was angry with his roommate and added him on facebook as a back door/revenge. The backfire came when he turned out to be adorable and funny and a whole slew of things that my vaguely vulnerable self was neither prepared nor looking for. 

Admittedly, our relationship is causing the strife in his roommate's life that I do so enjoy, but collateral damage is going to be an issue where I wasn't counting on it. (Oh don't you even judge me, people. If you forget where you are, you'd best look back up at the url on your screen and the title of this blog) I wasn't counting on me as collateral damage. I knew that if I chased him for pure revenge, poor army boy would get caught in the crossfire of my petty payback and at that point, I knew he was too sweet for that. So as soon as I realized my intentions were honorable, I chased to my heart's content. 

I was not counting myself as collateral damage. 

Now I'm sitting in a precarious position, him planning on leaving in March and me.....not leaving in March. Especially not leaving for a decidedly third-world country that has limited communication ability outside the military and a very high chance of dying. Well, if not very high then at least an obvious chance of dying. 

If I had known his roommate was my type, I never would've considered it. Musician, straight shooting, a friendly vice or two, and goofy as hell. If only he weren't so damn kissable and.......(kissable, huggable, lovable, unbelievable.......please excuse me as I hang my head in shame for knowing those lyrics.)

Not a thing in common my ass. 

Sliding clothes and Revelations

I speak to myself like a slam poet. I don't know what it is, but the cadence of my internal voice has taken on something that should be confined to a late night coffee house.

But I digress.

Why is it that whenever a woman's shoulder strap falls down, it says more than her flashing bare breasts about? Just that one hardware dazzled piece of fabric, a mere three inches from where it's supposed to be, and magic happens. Whether it's the subtle sexiness of that woman that you admire being comfortable or concentrated on what she's doing, or it's a deliberate moment, slid down by a careful finger.

Oh look! A creative segue into my next topic of conversation!

Being a sex symbol.

Oh I know you think I'm being cocky now. But while I might not be on par with Jessica Alba or Pamela Anderson, I seem to attract large amounts of males who want to have sex with me. It's disturbing, and it's annoying. Do I emit some pheromone that says, "I don't really want any sort of real emotional relationship, I just want you to do me. Really. Who would ever want a rational, intelligent connection with someone? Screw that just screw me." What person could possibly ever say that?

Granted, I have wanted that at one time or another. When you just get out of a relationship and you're hurting, you don't really want to replace that person with another person who is going to do the same things, remind you of all the good times you had and make you run screaming to the freezer with your wooden spoon to watch The Notebook over and over again. It's not healthy.

But there comes a time, after a natural period of healing, that I would like to get back to actually finding a connection. God damnit, I sound like a pitiful online dating ad. This entire blog has become one of me wordvomiting onto the page my shitty emotional feelings. Oh well.

I just would like to enter into a situation where someone went, "You know what, I don't immediately think about having sex with her every time I see her." not "I just want to be your friend, but it would be GREAT if I could slake my sexual frustration with you. Are you game?" Or even better, "I don't even really like you as a person, but you're fucking hot, so I pretend to like you so I can get to third base repeatedly."

Surely I'm not the only damn person on the planet that wants this. Surely I'm not so inhumanly twisted, so flawed in my personality that I can't manage to find and/or keep one of these people.

But maybe I am.

Days wasted searching

for gold stars faded on

too-small clothes.

Just a bit more skin

to paint my canvas of

happiness.

You know all the

lyrics to every

Beatles song written, and

I'm always amazed at

the way you twist

words in ways

I wasn't expecting

and try vainly to

imitate.

But I'm not your

white picket fence

no "Honey I'm Home"

and kiss on the cheek.

I'm your, "Hey do you

do this?" and "Are you

clean? I don't do

crotch rot."

Is it so bad to want

that hug when I

come home and

can't help but cry?

I  know it's

Guy's Night,

Poker and Cigar Smoke

that I lie about hating.

Just a phone call to

cancel plans, ignoring

the jeers and the imitated crack

sounds.

Just to sit on the couch,

without plans of

getting naked later.

Tired of sewing my soul

into bone-lined

corset tops

involuntarily.

Could someone just be

that robe waiting at the

end of the night,

to cover that flesh

it seems everyone's

seen?

Apologies and Revolutions

I've just realized that I've been bitching at you all without properly introducing myself. Here is what I consider the most important aspects of my personality. 

I believe in the power of Marvel Comics. They're proof that the independent company can fight against the major monopoly and win. They stand on the principles of realism and characterization, going out of their way to prove that their heroes are real, have real problems and real flaws just like you and I. Spider-man is my favorite. 

I am a quiet person. I don't chase confrontation instinctively. However, I have trained myself not to back away from a fight. 

I write, and my characters live in my head; specifically my two major characters, Jessica and Dacey. They argue in my head. It's a long story. 

My favorite authors are John Fowles and Kurt Vonnegut. John because he admits that his characters drive the plot themselves, and he doesn't make them do things, and Kurt because he isn't afraid to address the serious with the funny.


I have slight to moderate compulsive tendencies as well as a ceaseless mind. I obsess, and I over-analyze to the point of insanity. Hence I have a blog. 


I like to consider myself intelligent, but the only real challenge I've ever had comes from Pointe and my misshapen feet. 


I'm addicted to sex. 

I use sex and music as "testing the waters" conversations. A person's opinions on one, the other, or both can really impact where they stand in my mind. 

I like stale cheetos.


I love listening to stories and talking to people. I will sacrifice almost anything that is already on my schedule for a good conversation. 


I never show my real emotions, and I never say everything that is on my mind. I have a permanent filter between me and the rest of the world because I don't know what is acceptable and I'm paralyzed by fear of screwing up. 


I don't understand social customs or interactions. 


I'm a terrible romantic. This doesn't mean I believe there is some prince charming waiting for me. Instead I just enjoy reveling in the beauty of the world, of poetry, of fiction, and I think that analysis, that picking that thing apart kills it, and I believe it should just be appreciated at all costs. 


I don't understand that people think differently than me. I know nothing different than that, and have a hard time comprehending something I don't know.

Rejection and the God that is Onion Sam

Oh look! Another blog. "Aren't you an entertaining one?" She asked sarcastically.

Everyone knows the sting of rejection, right? Right. It's not a friendly one. Rejection is no Sour Patch Kid of emotion, kicking you in the shin before hugging you tightly. No. It is more the Warhead of the candy world, making you cry up until that very last moment, after which you are left with a confused, empty feeling in your mouth where something is missing, but you don't know why you miss it. 

A person could be rejected for many reasons. They could be rejected because a better candidate is found. This is not a comfortable rejection, but it is a rejection out of your control. Perhaps it is personal preference, perhaps that person worked harder than you. It's hard to tell. A person could be rejected on something as idiotic as their appearance or the color of their skin. This never has any standings (unless, of course, you need a person to fit into a specific dress and the one person who applied cannot possibly fit into the dress. Magic is not a viable solution.) Thirdly, and most uncomfortable of all in my opinion, a person could be rejected because of their personality. 

This one is a sticky subject, because it has two faces. A person could be rejected because of their ACTUAL personality, or because of their PERCEIVED personality. (Let the record show that on first attempt I misspelled PERCEIVED. I before E rule.....I hate you.) These situations are both equally frustrating. On the one hand, a person's personality is their personality. Sometimes they can't change it, and other times if they could change it, they won't. A personality is a person's stuff. It's what makes them them, what differentiates them, what identifies them, what defines them. It's part of how you describe someone. "Oh, he's funny." "Oh she's a raging bitch face who hates everyone." "Oh, he is an absolute pussy that never follows through with anything." That's who that person is. 

Or is it? Perhaps none of those attributes I gave those people are true. BUT I THINK THEY ARE. How easy would it be to change my mind? How easy would it be for me to change my perception of that person? Not very. That's how. If I think they're a bitch, no matter how much un-bitchy stuff they do, I'm going to think they did it for a bitchy reason. "Oh, she gave me a candy bar! She must want me to get fat." "Oh, she said something nice about me! I know there's a catch."

You know who would never judge you based on some sort of perceived judgment that they may or may not have made upon you? Onion Sam. Onion Sam is a God among men, considerate and kind, offering to fix whatever problems ail the world, or specifically, Miss Kate. Would that I were Miss Kate. But robbed of my Onion Sam, I would've resorted to such a life of crime as she did, ensuring that each and every person who ever discriminated upon my dearest Sam or I (Oh, that means you. You know who you are) paid most dearly and equally. But I digress.

All of this sounds like petty shit that I'm making up because I have some metaphorical bone to pick with he who shall not be named (NOTE: This is not the same person as He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.) Perhaps. But you know that you do it too. I'm not alone, am I? 

Quizas soy. I'm being irrational. I'm using woman's logic. I'm exaggerating. Put me into whatever box you would like. But, am I really being irrational? If you've already decided I'm irrational, and I make a rational argument, are you going to concede to me? Or are you just going to blow off my argument as irrational because you KNOW I'm being irrational? Isn't that putting the cart before the horse? Aren't you purchasing that house with that McDonald's Monopoly money you won before you cashed that paycheck which you used to buy that McDouble which you THINK has that ever important Park Place sticky square you so desire? 

At this point, I'm nigh inconsolable. Only the sweet nothings whispered in my ear by a romanticized mule-owning onion-growing archetype will repair me. 

"I can fix that."