A group of about 6 girls charge into the boy’s locker room, in towels, to officially request better treatment from a coach/official. Unexpectedly, they take the intrusion seriously and treat it the same as if boys had charged into the boys locker room, and have the police arrest them. They sit in a row in jail looking dejected and shocked.
Two sisters, one on a motorbike. Experience of sucking one’s own penis, but from the perspective of slutty sister. Feels like a baton or walking stick.
Watching what seems like a pricey daycare service van with a male driver yell at a few of the toddlers. I raise my eyebrows trying not to show my disapproval — it’s hard enough being male in childcare, I think, and the woman working with him looks like just as much a pill. I use a back door through the messy garage.
Tree in a grassy fenced backyard somewhere in sparsely-populated rural Washington state. I consider it for the site of a cottage-sized tiny home. But if instead I put it in the chain-link fenced lot next door, it looks like it would fit snugly, even have a backyard of its own.
There’s a zombie outbreak. Only one survivor, the smartest man there (someone who appears as the Deep Space 9 character of Chief O’Brien). The town has to be abandoned and they reboot the series.
The subtitle of this entry is “a fine example of the problems with revealing personal experiences in a public forum, especially as relates to sexual equality and hot chicks in the 21st century.”
So I met this girl last Thursday. Mary Catherine. She’s Irish, full of spirit and sprite and more than a little bite. Master’s degree, English lit-er-a-ture. Carried around Jane Eyre the whole time I knew her, and had the romantic inclinations to match. We met not at a bar, but walking home from one. Thank God for girls with a poor sense of direction (and the male protection mechanism that helps their sorry situation). If not, I doubt that I’d have known her outside of a hostel stairwell. As it was, we feverishly debated feminism and modern sexual equality for the next hour. This is sometimes called “foreplay.” I was the first American with whom she could hold a conversation (so she said), and she spent a year in New York. This says a lot about me but perhaps more about New York.
By round about 2 o’clock, when all the others arrived home from the barbary-coast brewery/bar, I’m content to think I had her English-lit educated, female-favoring Gaelic greymatter headily haywire, helped certainly by our intermediate intoxication. Jane Eyre is justifiably lambastable—melodramatic moth-magnet that it is—necessitating nearly not-nice opining on my part. Being quite respectable, she took umbrage (very well). XXX yakking zinged zealosly zereafter.
Did I mention we had fun? Not just with words (which we did). The kind of fun two people of opposite sexes can have after a night of drinking and sharply sparked conversation. Oh yes, there was thumb-wrestling. Of course with 6 people per room in a hostel, it limits how much fun two people can respectably have. We passed those limits. Not too much! Just enough. Enough to wake people up, ahem. But by this time it was… what, maybe 6 o’clock in the morning? And I learned that girls who still travel with teddy bears have a tendency to fall asleep when they happen to hug them. Even if they are 24 and have a Master’s. Even if it’s not the best time to be falling asleep.
We had a good time the next few days. She gave me life outside of emailing my résumé. I gave her a sense of class, romance, and a deeper understanding of the fine line between confidence and arrogance. What can I say?—I played “the American.” She played “vulnerably self-empowered and inexperienced yet highly educated 21st-century 20-something Catholic-guilt-having yet steamy-romance-needing girl/woman with an endearing foreign manner.” She played it well. There wasn’t ever a moment when the tension left. I did things I’m certain I wouldn’t have done otherwise. It was, in short, a really good thing that happened to both of us. Our last night together was eventful. I won’t write about it here, as it’s too complicated. And still too close. And really, not the kind of story I’d share with everyone on the internet. We never… how can I say? Consumated our relationship. She left, and I haven’t heard from her since.
Around this point, most men would say something along the emotions of “dammit, I was so close, but oh well.” I know better. Everything worth doing will be bittersweet in the end. She left, and I haven’t heard from her since.
Now, here’s the problem with writing this story, and its attraction. I’m exposing myself. I’ve invited full-frontal unsolicited judgement of my character. You probably came here Googling me, seeing if I’m fit to date or employ or write a book with, and here I’ve just shared a deeply personal experience with strangers. Not only did I just voluntarily share an intimate experience in a public forum, I featured my own dummy-moves doing it! I didn’t pair it with the standard-issue “that’s the way I am” or “I don’t care what you think” attitude. Maybe you now think I’m a player who plays with girls, goes for the drunk ones cause their easy. Maybe you think I’m a love-starved loser, quick-to-love. Maybe you think I’m really, really considering this whole thing too much. I’m practically inviting, nay, demanding unseen repercussions. I’m the trenchcoat-flasher who squints his eyes closed.
That’s my problem—I’m willing to share, I’m not ready to accept the consequences for doing so. I’m unwilling to let certain people (who know who they are! who’ve been named! who’ve read too much already! who have disobeyed my specific hints!) find it and read it.
This means you, Mom.
But God, it’s fun to do. And I think I may have solved my problem, in the process of spelling it out. Being explicit about the expected judgment places that judgment in the forefront of a reader’s cerebrum, thereby making it a conscious choice instead of an pre-conscious one. This is much the same mechanism detailed in Post #45. For me, it’s also an elegant (but partial) solution to the troubling axiom proposed in Post #35. I shall henceforth refer to this as:
Counter-intuitive rule #110: if you expect something to happen, then say what you’re expecting, the actual result is guaranteed to change (Heisenberg’s readership principle)
Somtimes a realization can spring upon you like a nightmare in the… in the night. And that realization for me is: I am boring.
Now this is not the kind of thing I like to admit openly. And in this day and age, where coolness is a personal commodity, this is not a paltry thing to admit. Especially for a 21 year-old. Especailly for me—I’m the coolest person I know. What does that say about the rest of you fuckers? Poor sad bastards. No wonder I’m so boring. I’m bored.
Has the world lost it’s luster? Or has the stunningly doldrum-hohum warm-piss wooden-shoehorn nature of this stucco’ed strip mall of a town finally begun to egg away at the colorful and wild-hearted edifice that is ME. Maybe this ham-it-up phone operator spchpiz-niz is getting to me—the need to speak clearly and in an elevated tone, having to to say things like “how may I direct your call?” and “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have those bath towels delivered right away.” I need to do something soon, man, soon. I just used the word spchpiz-niz in a sentence and it made perfect sense.
I swear I have never listened to a rap song on purpose.
What brings on this tide of troubled thoughts to my toiling cerebrum? I’ll tell you: girls, goddamn… damn… girls. Being all, there, and all. They taunt me with their… making me think about them. That’s the best I can explain my feelings at the moment.
I am reminded of the cosmic precept (not quite a law), that is applicable in a situation such as mine. The more you need something, the more you feel you have to have it, the less likely you are to get it. Conversely, if you are terribly afraid of something and obsess about it happening it will happen. You’re going to lose your hair. The germs are going to get you.That airliner’s going down. And you know what—this isn’t just some cheeky-tongued blaaah-zay adage here. It deals with the primal force of manifestation, and a powerful force it is.
This is science (or philosophy—depending on how you view the very nature of consciousness). I’ll give you an example: you’ve heard of that cheesy R&B song, “I Beleive I Can Fly?” Well that song is full of crap, no one can fly unless they’re on a feakin’ plane. Now, that’s an example of negative manifestation: I believe it’s impossible ergo you can’t fly. And it’s true! See what I’m saying? This same principle keeps me from being suave with women: I know I could be reallly good. But I know I’m not. I think myself into doing the wrong things even though I know what the right things are, and this happens because… because…
Damn I’m bored. I need a hobby. Like web design. Or blogging. Wait—you know what, fuck that shit—I’m gonna go whittle a boat or something. I hate tha intarweb. I hate calling it ‘tha intarweb’. You heard me, Internet. I know you’re out there. Sending you’re little robots to check up on me alla time. Coming in 12:15, 12:30, 12:55, what do you think I am, a blog junkie? You’re lucky if you get one entry a week from me Internet. That’s cooler than Kottke can say, working his b.s. as a full-time gig. What a loser…
Please, like me. If I blogged more would you like me? Would you grant me the graciousness of your pagerank, send me the beloved unique IP hits that pad my ego so? Tell me, in so many bits, that not only is my prose lively and un-boring but is worthy of actual readership? Well fine then. I’ll do that, and I’ll make it XHTML-compliant-valid-and-douched just like you told me to. But you gotta get me a girlfriend, Internet. You know the kind—smart, pretty, willing to engage in long bouts of smart-assness. And she better be from this country too you ass, stop sending me girls with surnames like Iripov or Kerpletzka. If you have to pay for it that’s cheating (I don’t know if you realize that, being a formless amalgam of machines and all). Also I’m cheap; tell her that just in case. Other than that she should know I don’t need her, but uh, you know it’d be nice. Just make it sound cooler than that when you say it. I don’t want to sound boring.