The Hormonal Witch

Day 1 – Thursday, October 29, 2009 4:13 p.m. – 2 days before Halloween

Nestled at the quaint estuary fed by the Piscataqua River is the charming town of Portsmouth.
New Hampshire’s government splashes this gem on every tourist post card to beckon tourists to its picturesquely preserved and overpriced lodgings.

The town is revoltingly cute.

Rows of strawberries line the banks of the city’s ponds like crimson scarves or veins of blood. The streets have been perfectly macadamized with geometric cobblestones, eliciting that European aesthetic. The architectural influence nods to the Motherland’s culture – the same culture the town’s founding puritans hoped to escape.

Then there’s the mill on the North Pond.

A gambrel roof encloses the unusual, blue-bricked building. The mill is two and a half stories high with square, navy-brick pilasters flanking the front. White molding of intricate execution juxtaposes the façade’s deep, navy blue exteriors. Were it not for the watermill protruding from its right side, the building would look almost like a private residence.

It did not at all appear to be a desolate factory.

A flash of black emerges from the small orange and brown wood delineating the mill’s left side.
The flash, after closer inspection, reveals a plump, porcelain girl sporting wispy black hair, sullen green eyes, and leather, double-buckle boots. A charcoal, Hot Topic jacket reaches down to a dark maxi skirt.
Her name is Kara.

Cautiously examining her surroundings, Kara paces quickly towards the mill’s front door. Careful to not be seen, she pulls out a key from her Nightmare before Christmas tote bag. She unlocks and enters.

In the middle of the room, she plops to the floor and opens a laptop.

“Hi Youtube!
It’s Kara, your favorite 7th grade witch!
First of all, I just want to thank everyone for their support in my campaign to be nominated for a Webby award. It’s because of you guys I do this and have been afforded so many amazing experiences to share my story with the world.
I truly love my fans.
No really.
Thank you.
As you know, this is my vlog to teach you non-magic folk – of whom, I sometimes adoringly refer to as plebeians – about my world
The world of magic!

October’s always been my favorite month because it’s thirty-one calendar days idolizing my people; the witches. So I want to invite all of you to a Livestream séance I’ll hold on Halloween night at 8 p.m. eastern standard time
– that’s 5 p.m. for you west coast Ghoulies –
to connect with our spirit realm. Yes, we’ll celebrate the night when the borders between realms are the thinnest.
It will be a ghastly good time!

I also like October because the leaves change colors. I swear, when I sit alone in the woods, chanting my solitary litha ritual, it literally feels like I’m surrounded by twenty foot flames. Flecks of reds, oranges, and browns combine into one natural blaze. Gorgeous, really!

I woke up this morning and soared my broom through the dazzling fall woods. Aloft in the air, the crisp New England air brushed my cheeks like the kisses of a million boogeymen, leaving them wet and red.
As I clutched my organite talisman (which I always wear for good luck) I knew it was going to be a good day.

But sometimes, even when you want it to be a good day, other negative forces preempt that.

For example, after my morning ride, I find myself betrayed.
My whole family knows Hot Pockets are my thing. I’m pudgy for a reason: I like my bread and cheese. So what does Hadley, my little brother, do when he realizes there’s only one left in the carton?
He eats it, that’s what.

In lieu of Hot Pockets, I boiled water to cook ramen noodles, all-the-while festering with contempt for Hadley’s actions. He knows Hot Pockets are my breakfast on Thursdays, why would he disrespect me like that? My blood, like my chicken ramen, boiled. I snarled and upturned my lips with hatred.
I had to teach Hadley a lesson, so right before the school bus came, I cast a spell that would malign Hadley with an insuperable starvation no food could assuage.
The poor little guy spent his whole morning feeling emaciated … BUT he did need to learn not to mess with a girl and her Hot Pockets. I’m still working on my spell casting powers, so the curse only lasted three hours, but that’s all Hadley really needed anyway.

In Biology – first period and my favorite – we dissected frogs.
At first, I was excited to show off my dissection skills. Having need for a myriad of animal organs (tributes, spells, etc.) I’ve perfected my use of the knife. But I always enchant my dissection specimen in order to prevent natural decay. Plebeians don’t have the benefit of magic in carcass preservation, so it was most abject and surprising for a witch to dissect a plebian-preserved frog. The formaldehyde suffused the classroom’s air. The noxious odor was almost visible under the fluorescent lights. It was horrible to do to a creature of Gaia.

Followed by my favorite class was my least favorite: P.E.
I mean, isn’t obvious?”
Kara then places her hands before her, showing off her rotund figure. Meanwhile, a black cat, seemingly out of nowhere, jumps on her lap.
“Oh, Jinx! I love you. Say hi to everyone!!
I swear, sometimes I think you guys love Jinx more than me.”
Kara lays Jinx to the side and winks cheekily to the camera.

“So naturally, in P.E., we played kickball and naturally Maddie Johnson and Brittany Moss were team captains. Maddie and Brittany are two walking Bratz dolls – without the keen fashion sense. They’re beautiful and stupid.
But apparently stupid can still be really mean.
So after I’m picked last and put on Maddie’s team, she tells me – You better not ruin our chances of winning, Butterball.

All the girls snickered at that lame remark.
But I didn’t want to be the fat girl who can’t win.

I charmed the ball to levitate upon impact, knowing it would be a home run for my team. When my foot touched the ball’s skin, it immediately shot up 50 feet in the air and jutted far, far from the field.
I skipped from first base, picked a bouquet to dandelions in between second and third and right before home, Brittany snatched an extra ball from the rack and shunted it at me, knocking me squarely in the kisser.
I immediately recoiled and lost my balance from the shocking blunt force.
The entire girls P.E. class cackled at my fall, pointing and chiding my lack of balance. Cruel words of piglet, fatty, and Bhudda were lobbed with alarming ease. Groupthink of cruel foolishness set in.
The incident incited an impassioned rage. None of these girls like me and I don’t know why. I mean, sure I’m a little out there AND also happen to be a witch, but isn’t it life’s diversity that makes the world turn? What had I ever done to fuel such resentment?
Is being fat such a crime?
No, these heathen Heathers were being mean just because they could be so.
Luckily, fourth and final period was English, where we spent our class reciting original poetry. When I stood at the podium, shaky and nervous to speak in front of Brody Jackson – the cutest boy in middle school – I took the opportunity to curse Brittany.
And this is your lesson for the day.
A simple revenge spell, such as the one I’m about to tell you needs nothing more than your voice.
It was a simple recitation:
Upon the realm in which I live
The gift of color I now give
To Brittany with heart and soul
To change her and make her whole
By all on high and the law of three
This is my will, so shall it be
Her hair wouldn’t change instantly – it would change during her sleep. I’m very excited to go to school tomorrow and test my abilities. I feel I’m really honing my witchcraft!
Well, that’s all I have for today. Make sure to subscribe to my channel and post your comments/questions in the thread below.
Bye, lovers!”
Kara snapped her notebook shut and ran out of the mill.

Day 2 – Friday, October 29, 2009 – 4:05 p.m. – 1 day before Halloween
The blue mill’s cavity is filled with a cornucopia of Wiccan memorabilia. The entire right side of the room – yes the outside is deceptive, it turns out to be one, gigantic room – serves as a garden for herbs of all kind: rosemary, sage, anise, agrimony, belladonna, and buckeye.

In the left corner, a dozen voodoo dolls hang from clotheslines, four of them pierced with all kinds of tiny weaponry. In the center stands one crucible with remnants of rare metals and one cauldron filled with a fetid, brown liquid.
Rows of shelves have been erected along the left sides of the building where one can find candles of all colors and sizes
– including the rare, 12-foot candle used for warding off curses.
Jars filled with pickled organs and phalanges line the bottom shelves.
A gold pentagram has been painted on the floor directly in front of the altar, centered on the far wall.
Kara rushes into the mill and logs onto her web cam in the pentagram’s center.
“Hi Youtube! It’s Kara, your favorite, 7th grade witch!
Turns out my revenge spell didn’t work quite as planned. I was hoping to turn Brittany’s hair white but it ended up this poopy green color.
I guess if you really think about it, it still worked out in my favor. For once, the snickering was not directed at me. By mid-first period Brittany wrapped her hair in a bandana, covering her tears with lady bug sunglasses. By second, she’d ordered her mom to pick her up early from school for a salon emergency.

In first period – Algebra – Mrs. Tuttle (It’s strangely pronounced Tootle – which is why we dubbed her Mrs. Poodle: only dogs were meant to have that kind of perm) paired me with the freakishly tall couple.
It’s a tale as old as time: freakishly tall boy meets freakishly tall girl and they merge, fusing to become a freakishly tall couple.
Apparently they are a freakishly inept couple as well – when we were paired off to complete a list of algebraic equations, they make me do all the work. Mrs. Poodle is a no nonsense broad who doesn’t care about nuances of situations. She expects the work to be done in a timely manner, despite all obstructions to your goal. I had no choice but to submit and finish all exercises alone.

Then, without the aid of luck (and I was wearing my dang organite talisman), second period history pairs me once again with the freakishly tall couple. Once again, I do all the work while they coddle and play footsie.
Stuff like that just irks me. Take some responsibility and pride – do your work!
So I decided to teach them a lesson – I wanted to truly turn them into a freakishly tall couple. I raced to the second floor balcony in between classes. The balcony edged the auditorium, where I could watch the herds of plebeians as they meandered between classes. I targeted the freakishly tall couple surreptitiously.
Nape, nape, nape will grow
Neck, neck, neck will show
Head aloft; eye in sky
Fired up, heavens high
Obviously, I targeted their necks, hoping to turn them into walking giraffes – but I didn’t target them adeptly. I should have been wearing my glasses because instead of the freakishly tall couple’s neck growing, I must have aimed at Mrs. Poodle.
She screamed a surprised Oh! The kind reminiscent when a woman sits on a child’s toy or has her phone’s vibration setting too strong.
The bad grey perm, along with her snubbed-nose countenance shot up like a rocket – thirty feet!
Her neck elongated as it shot up until her head met with the exposed, industrial ceiling, knocking her out cold on a pipe.
I immediately put a stop-curse on her, forcing her neck to snap back to its original size like a slinky, but the whole school erupted in a swell of fear. Perhaps it was a bit much… We were let out early without explanation.

With the extra time, I visited the magic store in Providence (thank you, magic broom) and bought a new jar of Hindu toes. I’m going to paint the toe nails with beautiful designs and make individuals necklaces out of each one.
I’ll of course charm them to provide the wearer with luck or wealth. You can place orders through the comments by providing your email address.
Well, that’s all I have for today. Make sure to subscribe to my channel and post your comments/questions in the thread below.
Bye, lovers!”

Friday, October 30, 2009 – 7:57 p.m. – Halloween
Kara sits in the center of five concentric circles made of lit, black candles. Wax collected and hardens along their edges like eerie lava bubbles. She sits in the center of the gold pentagram, in front of her laptop.
“Hi Youtube, it’s your favorite witch, Kara!
First of all, I’ve noticed a barrage of youth groups trolling my channel, and I feel I have to address the situation.
Whatever you’re standing for that’s fine, but I’m standing up for me and what I know and believe in. I would never intrude on your church’s website spewing hateful venom, but I’m not a hateful person like many of you.
Let me edify:
I believe the magic of life is learning it’s something that’s more than yourself. SO – when you realize this, you realize the importance in leading a fulfilled life – beyond the superficial. In becoming self-actualized as so, you realize that your children are your legacy. Gifting them with all your knowledge and love immortalizes you.
Now I wasn’t so lucky – my deadbeat dad never celebrated a birthday or holiday with me. My mom, jumped from man to man and currently holds down a minimum wage job. She also takes some night gigs that she never talks explicitly about.

She never read to me; taught me morals.
So, of course I was worried about damnation when I joined the black arts BUT it’s the parent’s job for, I mean, at least the first five years, to ensure your child has a secure ride to heaven. But, there’s no need for your words begging my baptism, – it’s too late for me.

However, you hateful plebeians can live vicariously through my ride to hell.
SO!
Make sure to subscribe!
Now onto our séance.
Normally, you’d need at least two other people to create a circle – BUT that’s only necessary if you’re a plebeian. If you happen to have Druid or Wiccan blood in you – again, this is a matter of luck, not pedigree – you just need yourself. Tonight I will call upon Abundantia, the goddess of good fortune – because Christmas is quickly around the corner!”

Kara lifts her arms, raises her head, and closes her eyes.

“We call upon thee, Abundantia
Please grant us visit and bequeath us gifts most renowned
Come and communicate”

The leading of the windows begin to rattle. The floor vibrates. A gust of wind sweeps through the room, extinguishing all candlelight. The Youtube screen goes completely black, but the audience can hear a creaking sound, like wood snapping.
A blood-curdling shriek suffuses the mill and suddenly candles relight. In the illumination, Youtube can see that Kara is levitating without her control.
A vortex opens behind her, sucking her in.
“I think our message crossed paths with a demon, guys! I should have practiced a little more before doing this!
Please, start a crowd funding page for me to be rescued from this demon realm.
And make sure to subscribe to my channel and post your comments/questions in the thread below.
Bye, lovers!”
The vortex swallows Kara and quickly collapses.
Kara’s laptop remains on, taping the flickering candles.

Leave a comment

Filed under CREATIVE, POP CULTURE

Twerking in purgatory.

Don’t give me that condescending look. Okay, sure, maybe I was stupid enough to place myself in idiotic circumstances which hastened my death – yes, bitch, I’m dead – but I refuse to be pitied.

No, fucking, no. And don’t you fucking dare admonish against my vulgar diction and the manner in which cunts, cum, fuck, piss, damn, bastard, & bitch spew from my lips like unintended spittle. I’m dead, there’s not much use for pleasantries and feigned, polite countenances. So, fuck your preconceptions and hypocritical judgment, I’m going to do and say exactly as I please – something I wish I’d practiced more in my mortal life.

So let’s just arrive at the damn point: Sex murdered me.

I possessed so much potential; there was great hope I’d grow to engineer a life of infinite success. Grades remained high. Tests were passed with flying colors. In school, I always placed first in my class: first chair in clarinet and winner of my third grade, school-wide reading contest – bitch I was intellectually fabulous.

While I wasn’t overly social, I did retain a group of girlfriends. In looking at old photos, all were much more frumpy and fat than what I’d remembered. But through my ability to communicate with women along with my aptitude for algebra, there was great hope in a dexterity of the mind flanking both hemispheres.

Boys, though I was one, remained an alien species and I never seemed to meet one who shared my appreciation for frilly things such as smocking on Barbie dresses, Louise May Alcott, festoons of sunflowers, and perennially graceful Sky Dancers.

Yes, cuntface, I’m fucking gay. I’m gay, a coquettish whoreski slut, and I’m dead. But don’t you throw your stones at me, Murano, not when you’re built on glass.

I held lofty expectations for myself. Competitiveness fueled a desire for power, wealth, and other stereotypical trappings of success.

Then I discovered my sexuality.

After my first orgasm, like some mad heroin addict, I found myself obsessed with sex. Sexual thoughts grew into a full-time job and my desire for success waned in its shadow. My thorax shat out all determination and drive, leaving an emptiness that only a dick could fill. Additionally, after discovering my thirst for semen, I self-diagnosed my drive and determination as merely a tool my mind designed to overcome feelings of shame caused by my homosexuality. After twerking out the closet, I felt no need to compensate any longer.

I sent my drive with Felicia.

After the first release of oxytocin in my brain, (a neurohypophysical hormone your body releases during sex – heroin mimics this effect, explaining why both substances are highly addicting), ANYWAY, after the first release of oxytocin, I decided I could do nothing except be gay; a rapturous conflagration of fagdom, one blowjob at a time.

In my blind obsession, I grew into a body dysmorphic nymphomaniac. Sex reinforced my insecurities and working out led to more sex. Drugs also led to more sex, so let’s not forget I permanently rode the roller coaster of uppers and downers.

Stop right fucking there and take a moment. Don’t write me off as some clichéd cautionary tale – though ostensibly that would be the case. Alas, I didn’t die from a fucking drug overdose or AIDS. I’m dead, I’m not fucking stupid.

I probably should mention I did juggle a fairly successful copy-writing career while maintaining my sex addiction. It takes a few brain cells or two to accomplish this.

So while I’m not a complete blundering buffoon, I did do something stupid.

I died at the hands of a serial killer.

Now that I’m dead, I’m not sure where I am. I mean, I know I’m on Earth, walking as a lonely ghost in solitude. But is this listless ennui hell, purgatory, or was our interpretation of heaven fucking wayyyy off?

It’s strange, I’m here, completely lucid yet, and sorry to shunt a juxtaposition at you, I feel completely catatonic, as if I’m suffering a Xanax haze. While I have no corporal body to speak of, I still feel I look the same, but who’s to know? While I can observe and walk the mortal world, I cannot interact and there sure as hell aren’t any other ghosts (is that what I’ve fucking become?) out there to confirm this.

The lack of interaction is the worst part. I can’t even fucking haunt anybody. And there are some spiteful bitches I’d love to give a good fright.

What really sucks is I have to watch the sick bastard who killed me play with my carcass. No, the fetid stench and quick decay doesn’t seem to faze his fetish for carrion. It fucking makes me want to vomit, only I can’t, because before I died I pretty much starved myself of any food to discharge from my gut.

We’ll get back to my carcass, don’t worry. But first I want to address another tedious truth about death. While you walk the earth and observe its stories, language is rendered completely unrecognizable. Watching my circuit friends carry on their lives, I can only assume I understand their stories – it’s kind of like watching the television on mute or a foreign film.

Yes, I’m fucking stuck watching a foreign film without subtitles for all eternity – it seems.

But I certainly chose some shitty friendships. Even my veritable best friends, Joey, John, and Brady, didn’t attend my funeral.

Joey did return to my apartment after learning of my death, which I initially found sweet and intimate. I’d just returned back from a visit to my rotting body, when I noticed him resting on my couch, slouched in depression, his head weighted down into his palms.

When I sat down to comfort him, I witnessed my paraphernalia and needles splayed across the glass coffee table. Then I realized Joey hadn’t returned to my apartment for some private ceremony to grieve my bereavement. Nope, the motherfucking scamp just used his access as my friend to steal the remainder of my drugs.

With nothing else to do, I still find a curiosity in watching my ‘friends’ carry on their lives. In this unrestricted access as a ghostly voyeur, I only confirm the superficiality of our relationships.

John, whom I’d spent countless hours jovially dancing through our MDMA highs, turned out to be a very crestfallen soul. Besides his intoxicated forays into monthly circuit parties, John remained a reclusive hermit, scared to address the world beyond gay nightlife.

Joey is just a drug addict and a man whom collects debts to preserve a false image of success.

Brady, however, turned out to be an interesting Renaissance man with a thirst for knowledge and desire to change the world. His love of circuit parties simply reflected his zest for life and affection for dance. He loves to read, a pastime I also engaged in. Wish I’d fucking asked him more about himself or at least that he would have realized I still would have found him interesting if our conversations consisted of more than pills undulating to sexual positions.

But none of us exposed our true layers to each other and simply agreed upon a friendship that appeared perfect on Instagram – as phony as the filters and hashtags assigned to each photo. Therefore, none of us inspired each other anymore beyond the dance floor. Who could I share my hopes and dreams with?

No, after high school, I closed myself off from the world, finding connection through sex – but not as a tool to connect on a human level. My passion resided in primal trysts anonymously scheduled through applications like Grindr.

Which is where my killer ordered me up like fine caviar.

His photo lured me initially, but his blunt, sexual discourse really boiled my blood. His blue eyes reflected the Aegean Sea, resting on a perfectly chiseled, square face. Dark hair flowed eloquent and disheveled atop his head and his beige skin accentuated ripped muscles on his abdomen. I asked for a dick pic and received an 8-incher, something a bona-skank is never disappointed with.

I couldn’t wait to fuck him.

When I arrived at his mansion, another turn on, I felt no tingling of fear or trepidation, well at least nothing more than the excitement in knowing my ass was about to be penetrated.

A man of few words, but deep, telling eyes, he led me through a central hallway, down a flight of stairs to a dark sex room. I saw a sex swing hanging in the center of the room and confidently jumped on, hoping to retain my role as a bossy bottom.

My killer chuckled quietly, politely, before strapping my wrists and ankles in the swing. At this point I was a little alarmed, not alarmed for my life or safety, but more self-conscious at my ability to swing a new fetish successfully without appearing virginal.

“Have you ever been fisted?” my killer asked me in a coquettish tone. He was so dreamy, I would have acquiesced to his shitting on my chest.

Just kidding, you gullible cunt. I’m a dead gay boy, not a pervert.

But I did let him fist me.

It began with his index and middle finger. Then he slipped in his ring and pinky. Next thing I knew shoved his hand up my rectum. I feigned pleasure – that shit fucking hurt.

But it wasn’t enough for him, he attempted to enter four fingers from his other hand. At this, I demurred. No ass is made for two fists.

But he refused to accept my objection. His eyes widened with incendiary passion. He shoved both arms up, practically swimming the 100 meter breast stroke in my anus. I kicked and squealed like a pig being slaughtered, which seemed to egg him on. He entered deeper.

Then the real pain started.

The sick fucking Judas began to claw my intestines, rending and tearing me from the inside. Pain shot through every existing nerve in my body like billions of penicillin needles.

He pulled out his arm, now covered in fecal-stained blood and smiled, licking each finger as he watched me exsanguinate. I continued to bleed out for an hour as he masturbated and returned to his sanguine swim lessons.

Twenty-seven good years of hope drained out with each scarlet drop.

To be honest, what I miss most is my family. I cut off ties with them to spare them the embarrassment of my new, fast-lane lifestyle. I knew I’d always return once I matured and was ready to make them proud. But the first pill and party quickly melts to five years later.

I still don’t know if I believe in a Heaven and Hell – but if I am anywhere, this certainly must be hell. Sartre had it wrong, hell is NOT other people. Hell is being barred off from other people, destined to walk the earth completely alone as life continues on without you. What’s the point of twerking if no one’s there to lust after your rippling fat?

It’s even worse for the individuals who die at the hands of serial killers. Yesterday, the grisly rapscallion removed my beautiful skin , no doubt to make some Ed Gein furniture piece. What a disrespect – to ruin a body so sacrosanct and perfectly fit. It’s heretical, especially if he’s a gay man. But I can do nothing except observe, living the remainder of eternity with only regret.

Leave a comment

Filed under CREATIVE, HOLLYWOOD LIFE

SEEking

First of all, let me say that this ALS ice bucket challenge has been a winning success and I’m happy for all the funds and awareness raised. But my Facebook feed is 90% men, so really, it’s just been a digital wet, tighty whitey contest. (Not that I mind) though there is one image in my cabeza which is engendered:

 

Anyway, onto the real blog post – I’ll try to keep it short.

Here’s what we know:

On the surface, it seems we live in an easier time to connect with others. If you’re horny, there’s an app for fast food sex: .

 

If you want to chat (or e-stalk), log in to your Facebook.

 

If you want to see shirtless men, selfies, or pictures of food, log in to Instagram.

But when you really investigate what’s going on, it folds like a house of cards; revealing that what you believed to be truth is actually fallacy.

Fast food sex, like fast food, is unhealthy and clogs your mind. While it may be appetizing, it’s never filling.

Your Facebook, a tool to connect with others, has chained you to an unending digital conversation, distracting you from real, synchronous connections. The image of six friends at brunch on their phones chills me, it’s like some Ray Bradbury novel set in a future dystopia. Except the future is now, and the dystopia is not recognized by the mass of unaware people.

Additionally, our need to photograph every moment, every day, decreases the value. The photos, like our memories, are easily recycled or thrown away, making way for the next one.

So this PR race to live a fabulous, digital life or just keep up with the increasing number of apps with which we can connect on has affected and stunted our true relationships. Basically, we’ve become emotionally & socially retarded. Truly, some of these ‘influencers’ I meet in real life are the dullest people in the world – unable to spew anything of interest from their mouths. Sure you’re pretty. Pretty boring.

Maybe this has always been the case and I’m just using social media as the scapegoat, but people in general seem really ethnocentric, vain, gossipy, and selfish nowadays.

Because of this, people seem lonelier. Robin Williams said it best: I used to think the worst thing in life is to end up all alone. It’s not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel all alone.

It’s true. This imaginary castle we erected, also known as identity, when built by the opinions of others, is rarely real or strong enough to survive an attack. So, out of fear, we find ourselves in imperfect relationships.

Too many times when I ask coupled friends why they like each other, I receive the same mundane answer:

Oh, he’s nice and he treats me well.

He’s nice? He treats you well?

Have we as humans become so repulsive that our basis for what we want in love is simply someone nice, who treats us right?

No, all people should be nice and treat each other right. That should be a given. The answer should be something like: we have the same thoughts, the same passions, and he’s the one man in the world who understands my fetish for collecting trolls. Plus he has an ass that won’t quit.

Now THAT’s a relationship that sounds like it’s working.

But it’s hard to find these types of connections because people refuse to look up from their phones, so tied to this thirsty fame rat race.

Well.

Let me let you in on a little secret. You don’t have to be a Cinderella dater. Trying on every shoe, won’t help you find the right one. Instead, you’ll just end up with too many pairs to choose from, eventually settling on one, not because it’s the one you wanted, but because you’re tired of searching. In fact, when you were busy throwing out all those shoes to try on the next one, you may have accidentally thrown away the perfect pair.

You shouldn’t settle on someone just because they’re nice; you shouldn’t settle at all. You should open yourself up and welcome passion.

So here’s my challenge:

Look up.

Put the phone away, and close all those applications. Now that the internet and phones are ubiquitous, it’s our responsibility at humans to set limits. Give me, as a friend in your presence, the respect of holding your full attention. Maybe then we will ALL become nice people who treat each other right and that won’t be the sad standard we currently set for our dating lives.

Look up and you’ll be aware of your match when he walks into your life. If you’re constantly seeking, you’ll never see what you have and possibly just end up settling for someone who’s nice and treats you right.

1 Comment

Filed under DATING, HOLLYWOOD LIFE, POP CULTURE, TECHNOLOGY

Cross because I’m Not Fit

I generally think of myself as “in-shape”. I workout 6 days a week, sometimes twice. I think that falls in the social onset, body dysmorphic, workout-addicted, prototype proliferating through Los Angeles, don’t you? Granted, every now and then, in a stoned haze I’ll down a half-pound of pasta, but hey! Cardio was invented to offset carb addiction.

But alas, I’m just an average American, cream cheese curdling through my veins, compared to the crossfitters.

Redd

I walk into “The Box” (apparently that’s what the Reebok labs are called sometimes – other than being called labs as well. When did gym become passé?) where a mass of crossfitters are seated on wooden cubbies, watching five individuals (crossfit trainers) deadlift and heave from “The Box”’s entrance.

All five trainers are hulks. It looks as though Reebok commissioned Michaelangelo to sculpt their bodies. Can muscles really grow on top of muscles?

I stand there watching, initially impressed, then intimidated, and eventually resting comfortably in the aroused lounge. Is that a man or a woman? Nevermind, doesn’t matter, I want my body to look like that.

My friend, a born-again crossfitter, pulls me in the class. “You can have a piece of this pie too! All it takes is determination, $250 a month, oh, and of course, your soul.”

I’m invited to this class because the WOD indicated it was buddy day. Don’t confuse WOD with shredded, gooey napkins from a laptop-side masturbation sesh – Crossfit WODs are simply the “workout of the day”s – posted so you can prepare – you know, bring a towel for cardio days, get extra sleep on endurance days, and bring a Home Depot vomit bucket for the buddy days.

So the WOD begins – some ungodly combination of two 12-minute non-stop circuits between running, kettle balls, and pushups. Initially, I’m good. I don’t overexert myself and maintain form. But my body-space acuity is worse than a drunk squirrel’s, plus kettle balls were foreign to me.

Squirrel

Obviously struggling, the trainer corrects me.

“You have to thrust up with your groin. Thrust your arms up with your groin and pop back your back to achieve it.” The trainer begins to hump the invisible woman.

“You mean thrust like I’m … ?” I ask.

“Yes.” He says. But I don’t move that way – I’m a bottom!

I figure it out, but at this point, my breathing slows down and muscles fatigue. Holy shit! We have another 15 minutes left! I inhale deeply right as the crossfitter next to me claps his hands – after rubbing them in the chalk bin. I choke on a cloud of chalk as I embark on my final 400 meter run, not before I’m almost hit in the face by someone else’s kettle ball in my chalk-induced blindness.

The girl in last place for this circuit, the final one to reach The Box before our first 12 minutes ended, was red in the face, sweaty, and gasping but arrived to The Box with cheers and claps. “Yay! You look like you’re dying! Keep going!”

I arrived about a minute or two after the last girl – to no applause because they’d already begun discussing their next set.

So the second set continues and I complete a full 9 minutes before I feel it. The bubbling, rumbling, the flow. I’m about to burst and it’s not going to be pretty. I leave my teammate hanging with barely a word and rush to the bathroom to a wide audience of judging stares. (I stupidly chose a corner on the OPPOSITE side from the restroom.)

In the restroom, after puking the entire bottle of water I guzzled, I feel as though I’m dying. My heart thumps out of my chest, my head spins like an engine belt, and I’m not sweating – I’m gushing. I don’t have my towel or shirt at this point, but I lock eyes with a box of toilet seat covers. I grab a few to sop up my sweat; they disintegrate on my face upon sopping, leaving flecks of wet tissue paper glued to my forehead.

I leave the bathroom to disappointment. The workout ended. Stretching and cool down arrived.

As we stretch, another member chats with me.

“Are you visiting?” he asks me. I tell him, yes I’m new and trying crossfit out. He explains that in Crossfit – visiting means you are a crossfitter and are simply on vacation, checking out another city’s Box. I tell him there’s too many sexual innuendos to fully register that sentence.

He ceases the conversation. I didn’t mind, he came off as an insurance sales agent or a Jehovah’s Witness, not anyone really trying to converse. I stretch to my other leg, where I listen to two Avatars, sorry, girls, gossip about dating.

“Omg, it was perfect. He was funny, he was paleo AND he was crossfit. I think he’s the one.”

After the class, my kegels, or some type of interior leg muscles I didn’t’ know I had, were sore until Wednesday. Class was Saturday. But after, I felt this lingering sense of intensity, kind of like a desire to continue pushing myself. This class, unlike my go-to BUTI workout, is different. It’s not a fun dance party masquerading as a workout – it’s truly like you’re a Greek soldier training for war. But I dig that. In fact, I’m going to take all 6 of the Foundations classes.

Oh Lawd, I did it. I drank the Gatorade.

1 Comment

Filed under HOLLYWOOD LIFE, POP CULTURE

The Golden Penis

Two betches lie on pristine towels before a Grecian pool. Their skins are oiled and tan. The blonde betch is Carol, a prototypical wolf in sheep’s clothing. The brunette, Sandra, is a basic Mid-Western face; beautiful & perfect but empty inside. With that being said, she is an ironic history buff.

Sandra: You’ve gotta sieze the day, Carol. Our bodies are only going to be this perfect for so long. Live in the now. You’ve gotta find that golden penis.

Carol: Golden penis? Is this some sort of metaphor?

Sandra: Haven’t you ever heard of Isis? The Egyptian Goddess? She like, married her hot brother Osiris, and then this jealous trashy ho, Set, cut Osiris up in 14 pieces, scattering them around Egypt. Well, Isis went searching for those 14 pieces and found all but one.

Carol: What part?

Sandra: The dick. (pause) A shark ate it. Apparently, it fed him for days – that’s a god dick for ya. SO, Isis did what she had to do. She attached a golden penis on him and lived happily ever after.

Carol: Oh, so you’re saying I can only find pleasure from a man-made penis?

Sandra: No, all I’m saying is, Isis lived happily ever after because she knew what she wanted, she searched for it, and she found it. If we want to be rich by the time we’re 25, we need to marry a rich, naïve man soon. We have to be present and conscious of this very moment.

Carol: Ugh, Sandra, “now” totally is not a thing! Light travels at a finite speed. Duhsies – it takes time for it to bounce from the object to your eye. When you see a thing, you are seeing it as it looked some point in the past. The brain integrates the different sources of visual information, and since the differences in arrival time are much smaller than what your eyes can discern and your brain process, you don’t see a difference. The “present”—the sum total of the sensorial input we say is happening “now”—is nothing but a convincing illusion.

Sandra: Okay, okay, wrong word choice. I meant we need to seize our youth and use our plump melons to attract our targeted demographic (rich daddies) while they’re still ripe.

Carol: Oh. Oh yea, totally.

Golden Penis

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I ambled through the strawberry bushes lining the forest’s path, I met an elderly woman. Her hair flowed freely and her quilted skirt billowed with an unsteady cadence of wind brushing past the trees.

As we picked strawberries we remained silent, possibly both of us grazing over our own solitude. The woman broke the silence when she turned to me, locking a calming but firm stare and uttered:

“You are responsible for your own well-being, especially that inner you not even your lover gets to see. That is your essence and before people can knock it down, you have to allow them to do so by having knocked yourself first.

Converse with yourself, share inner dialogue and build yourself up. Think about your strengths, your wins, and your virtues. Then focus on how you’re improving where you need to by setting and then working towards goals.

Do that and as the days pass, they cement themselves like bricks on your wall of confidence, eventually it’s impenetrable. The added bonus is you can live exactly as yourself without fear of ridicule because you are self-reliant and seek internal validation.”

She then turned away, her basket full, and we never crossed paths again. But her words, like viscous tar, tend to stick with you.

 

 

 

“The excitement in sports comes from the unpredictability – unlike most other organized gatherings, the outcome in sport competitions cannot be predicted until each game ends. I suppose this transposes to sex as well, the excitement in being a whore can sometimes be the sociological observation through meticulous hypotheses testing that most men’s barks truly, truly are bigger than their bites. “

-          Philosophical Principles by Reformed Nymphomaniacs Volume 1., 4th Ed.

 

Internet voyeurs, internet trolls

You propagate the cycle of the

Internet Hos

Leave a comment

Filed under CREATIVE, HOLLYWOOD LIFE, POP CULTURE, TECHNOLOGY

Bi-partisan Hyperbole

 

 

For the past two weeks my phone’s been acting up. It wouldn’t alert me when I received new texts and my calls would go straight to voicemail. This carried on for a frustrating two weeks, driving my boyfriend crazy. I truly dread visits to Sprint, but I was at the point of scheduling a tech visit.

 

Luckily, before going to such extremes I Googled a way to troubleshoot and discovered my phone had accidently been switched to a “do not disturb” mode.

 

I tucked my tail and wrapped myself in humility. Moral of the story?

 

A tool is only as useful as its user allows it to be.

 

Oh, and even the damn fingerprint sensor on the iPhone 5s isn’t immune to those mischievous “butt-dial” fairies.

 

*****************************************************

 

Your tongue keeps you deaf, your Facbook, blind.

 

*****************************************************

 

I fear the art of conversation is lost. All we have is digital footprints and intersecting monologues of self-involvement.

 

***************************************************

 

Friendship is true when one likes the other despite their achievements … oh and of course true friendship is tagging each other in your social posts.

 

************** *************************************

 

“I don’t care what the Goddamn Google Maps says, my intuition is never wrong!” – Mom as she proceeds to lead us on a 3 hour detour.

 

**************************************************

Honey Boo Boo’s first semester of college:

 

My roommate annoys me slightly through obscure communication like placing the recycling bin (a Trader Joe’s bag filled with soda cans and Ranch bottles) in front of my bedroom door so I run into it on my way out. A kind gesture to let me know it’s time to be taken out, no verbal communication needed.

 

I’ve decided to one-up her, communicating obscurely my feelings towards her by shitting in Trader Joe’s bags and leaving them in front of her door. Do you think she’ll get the message?

 

**************************************************

 

I would rather saw my dick off with a dull, serrated blade and then throw it in a food processor to watch it shred, than have sex with my wife again. I didn’t have a choice. We both awoke before my 6:30 a.m. alarm and the fat cow wanted to graze over feigned conversation. She’s taken to reading the paper, a desperate attempt to find some common interest we share in a vast, lifeless desert and insists on dissecting every minute item, from education bills right down to local small business claims. Then faking that baby-doll voice that literally makes me want to have my skin ripped off. I had to shut her up. So I kissed her.From there, I proceeded to go through the motions until the greatest performance of my life, orgasming to my wifeThe sex was revolting, like having sex with a robot. She was too in her head and pre-planned. Like she rehearsed or scripted what she thought I wanted or something. She forced us into awkward positions comfortable for neither her nor I. I continually tried to modify the positions, but she’d get even weirder with it.

 

I started picturing an Olsen twin and used my wife as a sex doll. She sucked at roleplay though. “You like this big dick, baby?” I asked her. She responded, “Ooh, Yes I’m greatly enjoying your statistically average penis, baby. Trust me, it’s perfect size for me..”

 

She’d taken her thirst for knowledge too far.

 

I feel so disconnected. Like I resent my wife for not being the fantasy of a future woman I hoped she’d become. A fantasy I fell in love with. A fantasy that she’s let me down with.

 

Now, I’m afraid, I’m stuck in a stale relationship that’s about as dull as a fluorescent-lit DMV waiting room. Plus I hate how she calls me Mar Mar.

 

Tonight, I’m coming home and announcing that I’m leaving, it’s time to take the final bow.

 

 

Marcelo

My bones are quivering and I’m breathing deep, my muscles still contracting and releasing from the passionate lovers tryst I just shared with my husband. I didn’t even initiate it, but it was the exact thing I needed to affirm I’m committed and in love with my Mar Mar. It’s strange, one moment I remember him as the immature boy I fell in love with. But one day, he traded in his Sports Illustrated for the Wall Street Journal. And it was like he became a new man. So, I’ve been reading all sorts of interesting topics to relate to Mar. He must have found me so sensual; voluptuous and intellectual, his own Cleopatra. Of course, how could he resist? So he kissed me.From there, I took control. It needs to be nuanced, just ambitious enough, but not so much so that youI was poised and graceful, practicing my new poses and showcasing my new flexibility. Bizzie Gold’s Kama sutra yoga videos were finally going to work.I could tell he was going mad. Like a kid in a candy store, he wanted to ravish every flavor he could come up with.

 

I ensured to affirm his masculinity in bed. Men need to feel validated.

 

I just feel so connected you know! Like I delivered the drug that he needed to readdict him to me. It seems a bit twisted to think about it that way, like I need to trap him in a cloud meth cooked by love, but Love makes you think crazy things you know?

 

This morning meant everything to me. Tonight, I’m going to plan something very special for my Mar Mar. I’m going to make his favorite dinner… and then entice him with an encore.

 

 

Lucy

Leave a comment

Filed under CREATIVE, TECHNOLOGY

The Real Housewives of the Air Force – Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell All Special

The Officers Lounge on Spangdahlem Air Force Base was designated for the upper crust of the military pecking order. And yes, the military does have a social hierarchy and yes, it does rival any hierarchy Bravo can cast.

There’s this culture in the military to ardently define life by your level in the ranking system. If you earn a promotion, it could be possible that the friends you once spent every weekend with are now subordinates and you can no longer fraternize. The top wives of the Officers Lounge could be real uppity, expecting strict verbal deference and respect from anyone ‘lower rank’.

Of course, the wives with the longest sticks up their asses often trolloped directly to the Enlisted Lounge in search of some meathead dick when their brainy husbands would deploy to Afghanistan. The Enlisted Lounge, where I straddled most of my bartending time, was designated for the airmen, or the low-ranking Air Force members without college degrees.

Working both bars, I earned the privilege of witnessing intoxicated stories like the cheating wives unfold from a (mostly) sober vantage point. Hold that thought. The idea of witnessing intoxicated stories. I’m going to bring it up again later because I am about to go off on a tangent, so please, hold that thought.

 

It actually was pretty fucking cool. I know ‘fucking’ is lazy writing unless it’s like S & M erotica literature or something, but seriously, it was pretty fucking cool. I was given the bank, the authority to run, and the keys to a military sports bar. Me! The faggy 18 year year old twink from Texas!

I was far too socially awkward and lacked the charisma to be popular in high school. I found it easier to find one person who fully understood me and latch on co-dependently, my bffl, Lizzie.

Working as a bartender was like free therapy for my social anxiety (anxiety probably onset from subduing my true self to hide sexuality, but no need to overanalyze here). If I wanted tips, I needed to win over consumers, which meant they needed to like me. At first, I served like a butler – quick and efficient like a German car, unseen and silent like a Japanese ninja. But the job just wasn’t fun and the tips weren’t that great.

One night, Ed, an alcoholic fool in a drunken stupor, verbally assaulted each individual in the bar, hunching his body over, glaring down with alarming seriousness and then asking, “Are you a faggot?”

After each customer reassured Ed that no, there indeed not faggots, he jolted his body on top of the bar, pressing himself up like a cobra-posing yogi, and asked me, “What about you, Jake, are you a faggot?”

It was like the penultimate gay nightmare (ultimate being the gay bestie “You’ve gained 10 pounds, now one wants to insta shirtless with you” intervention. At this point, I was freshly out of the closet, maybe two months, but I had not come out at work. Fight or flight reflex set on.

I calmly responded in front of a now silent but full bar, “Are you asking me if I’m gay?”

Ed scoffed. “Yea, do you suck dick?”

I flinched my head back, thinking about his comment. “Well,” I sighed. “Yea, I do. I am.”

Ed then flinched, as if he had just been shot by a .22, taken off-guard by my words. He lowered himself from his stiff yoga pose, shrinking in his unsuccessful attempt to rally a stupid, drunk army of ‘non-faggots.’

Ed’s voice jumped to a pleasant, calm tone, “Well. Awesome. Good for you.”

I think that may have been the first time Ed saw a real, live gay person. After that moment, Ed ended up being one of my highest tipping regulars.

That is what I LOVED about the Enlisted Lounge. The airmen were young enough and not smugly educated, growing up as a military fetus upon turning 18 instead of being hazed by immature frats; they were willing to learn. Pulled from every bumfuck town in the States, the military is a melting pot of cultures. Being the gatekeeper to alcohol, I made sure to add the spice.

 

After that moment with Ed, I was officially out. Word spreads fast on-base. Work dramatically improved. After being more open about my sexuality, having no pressure of arriving to that awkward, ‘oh by the way, I’m gay, does this mean you’re going to turn weird and slowly back away from my life?’ conversation, I felt comfortable fully exposing my whole self to my patrons.

“Patrons” soon became friends – they’d invite me to bar-b-cues, on trips, and the sexually confused ones would invite me to naked sleepovers (SCORE!). Through much positive reinforcement, I learned truly that if you are yourself and are willing to learn whatever someone else can teach you, you will find a humble confidence that brings inner peace. For the first time, I was popular! (And not just because I handed out alcohol). And being friendly, meant I was dished the most scandalous of tea.

Do you remember when I told you to hold a thought? I was privileged to witness many odd stories while working at my bar, including hot messes like Alexa.

 

 

It was Halloween night, 2009. Lady Gaga was atop the charts, we were still trying to figure out whether Ke$ha was a black or white chick, and I was dating an airman under the ominous reign of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell – military’s one workaround for gay members. Okay, fine. Gays can join our club IF they promise to not do gay things and not ask for gay benefits for their gay partners.

At this point, I’d been out of the closet a full three months, just long enough to be taken off the market. I found myself in a confusing, non-relationship with Chase, a hot airman.

Of course, like any juicy soap opera, we were forced in a non-relationship because the concept of a ‘relationship’ was preempted from outside forces that impeded our union. The six-month process of kicking a gay service member out of the military was underway after I’d already met Chase.

We both agreed that we could only date for a short while until he’d be forced to move back to the States.

Chase visited my bar every night after we started ‘not dating’. He brought his friends, who were amazing and tipped well and became my friends, and taught me how to mix drinks like a pro. Chase could shoot me a look across the bar and I would fill from head to toe with jittery butterflies. We would watch philosophical documentaries and then expound on our views of the universe and after, we’d have loud, sweaty sex like cavemen. The ‘non-relationship’ just worked because we both stimulated each other physically and mentally.

This October night, as Chase sucked down a lemon drop martini in my military sports bar, we began a conversation with a stumpy Latina dressed as an Oktoberfest Maedchen.

“I see you’ve gone cultural with your outfit for the costume party.” I winked to her as I wiped an already dry beer glass with my towel. I was hinting at the costume party happening at the bar next door.

“It’s just a façade. I’m still a Patron-drankin chola at heart. Can I get a double por favor?” The Maedchen swung my wink back in my direction like a pro Tennis player.

She ordered shot after shot of Patron and enlightened Chase and I on her life. I was drawn to her affable and quite funny personality, so I spilled the fact that I was a homosexual to her.

After the bomb, the Latina – Alexa – sat wide-eyed, mouth agape, “I’ve been in Germany three years. I’m a third grade teacher on base and I haven’t had hot European sex with two men yet.”

Chase and I exchanged the non-verbal communication that successful couples do. The bottom of Alexa’s empty glass gurgled as she inhaled deeply from her straw, staring at us wide-eyed, expectant.

“Well, you won’t it find it here. We’re American, honey.” Chase said.

Alexa exhibited that intoxicated regression where you kind of bob around like a baby. In defeat, she hung her head towards her lap and stared down for a slight moment before pulling out a

A fucking chicken wing. She proceeded to go to town on said chicken wing before pulling out another. And another.

This was at around midnight. My bar didn’t serve chicken wings. Where in the hell did this woman pull those from?

Alexa transformed form patron to pest. She was no longer a sensible customer but rather a basket case I now had the responsibility of baby-sitting. That’s the problem with the little customers. One moment they’re fine, and the next, they’re on the River Blackout. And I was on the military base too, if, after leaving my bar, this crazy swill tub did something insane like roller blade on the autobahn, I’d be held responsible.

After sucking the cold buffalo sauce from her thumb she refocused her attention on Chase and I, “I want to take a shot with you.”

“I’m not allowed to take shots.” I informed (lied to) her. “They have cameras here.” In actuality, I was encouraged to take selective shots with patrons if it meant they’d buy more alcohol.

Alexa deflated again for a moment before quickly billowing up with excitement, “I’ll take them to the back of the bar! Behind the back door. You can take them there!”

The above conversation where she asked me to take a shot and I declined looped three times before I finally gave in and agreed to meet her.

“Fine! I’ll take a shot. I can’t make it look bad though. You head back there, I’ll meet you in about five to ten.” Alexa accepted my offer and trotted happily to the back with three shots of Patron.

I remained stationed at my bar for thirty minutes flirting and eye-fucking my boyfriend before Alexa stumbled over.

“Hey! You never came!” Alexa shouted as she pouted her face and placed her hands on her hips.

“I’m sorry! I had customers.” I waved my arm towards an empty bar. “Are the shots still there?”

Alexa started to resemble Honey Boo Boo. She hiccupped, “No! I drank them. You guys are boring. I’m going next door.”

She swung around and headed straight out the door, almost fighting with it on her way out.

“At least she’s not a violent drunk. Did you see her eat those chicken wings?” Chase asked me.

I laughed, “Really? The first time I’ve been hit on by a girl since I’ve made the change and that’s all you’re giving me? A size-too-small costume and cold chicken wings? Because that screams let me give up on giving up on women!”

“Plus she didn’t even offer us any. How selfish do you think she is in bed?” Chase said.

After stumbling from my bar, Alexa continued drinking next door.

I’m not sure what was said, or who said it, but someone pissed her off and the German Maedchen evolved into a wailing banshee. Apparently she began chucking bar glasses across the room. This was an extreme safety hazard, so, the bitch had to go. Police were called and the process of booking began.

Although, instead of going quietly, the teacher decided to channel her best Thelma and Louise. After hearing the police had been called, Alexa threw off her heels tried to outrun the military officers in her size-too-small, milkmaid outfit.

A beefy cop quickly tackled the poor drunk to the ground, forcing her on her stomach and locking her wrists in handcuffs. Alexa, the third grade teacher, belligerently resisted.

She kicked, spat, thrashed, squirmed, squalled, squawked, and elbowed, gnawing her way out of the police officer’s meaty grasp any way she could. Two additional cops arrive, to assist in the situation, aiding their colleagues to subdue the drunken woman.

Alexa spit in their faces while she writhed on the ground.

“Damn! She looks like she needs an exorcism or something!” said one of the officers with a drop of fear.

Alexa shrieked, “I have aids! I have aids, faggots!” She spit at them.

They managed to place her in the back seat of a police vehicle but could do nothing to penetrate her violent alter-ego. After placed in the backseat, she continued to kick, this time directing her rage at the car windows.

“I have aids, motherfucker!” She spat through the cage separating her from the drivers.

Silence sat in the car along with the inebriated teacher and as she heaved, energy depleted.

A switch clicked and the tears began to flow. “Please don’t do this. I’m a teacher.” she pleaded. “I’m a teacher…”

Apparently the sobbing card didn’t hit. Instead of booking Alexa and holding her with the Air Force, the security forces police decided instead to pawn her off to the German polizei. The German police were not subject to American laws and therefore, could issue corporal punishment if she kicked or spit at them.

“I have aids! (spit) Don’t do this! I’m a teacher!” She screamed and kicked vehemently before she was passed off like some venomous caged animal to the German Polizei. They immediately shut her up when they pushed her body against their bright green van, knocking the wind out of her. She could now be stuffed in the back like a cased sausage.

The bright green, official German Police conversion van drove off into the winding German countryside, Alexa’s wails echoed farther and farther, and the quiet stillness of night returned. Happy Oktoberfest!

I closed my bar chuckling to myself that night, I mean, not for her being arrested and probably losing her career, but just the ridiculous scene I’d watched unfold.

I slept in Chase’s dorm room that night, snuggling naked on his tiny twin bed and patiently waited to tune into the next episode. I may have lived in Germany, cut off from greater American pop culture for a slice of my life’s pie, but who the hell needs Shonda Rhimes when you’ve got The Real Housewives of the Air Force unfolding right in front of you?

Leave a comment

Filed under CREATIVE, DATING, POP CULTURE, travel