In celebration of Earth Day, many teachers in my school have had their students write about recycling, planting trees, and sundry ways to care for Earth.
A first-grade girl wrote an excellent paragraph detailing the ways that we should care for our planet. She finished her mini-essay with, "Don't be a litter bug. Be a neat bug!"
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Getting Older
Trying a new font again.
I know that my last blog was a little feeling-sorry-for-myself. It was the beginning of a migraine cycle, what can I say. Okay, and I do feel like I should receive an award or certificate or medal for taking care of myself sometimes. I just do. It's an area in my life where I'm immature, I'll admit it.
It's chilly out right now, and drizzling. I was thinking, though, of how neat it might feel to walk down the street naked if it were about 15 degrees warmer. Think about the precipitation on your privates, the breeze on your butt, the sun on your areola. How freeing it would feel! Why must it be only 3-year-olds and women on angel dust and/or crack who get to experience nudity in public?
Why no go to a nudist beach, Anonymister?, you may ask.
Uh, because I possess common decency.
So my sister texts me:
OMG, there's this this website called ____________ and this hermaphrodite has sex with this girl and the girl eats its pussy and sucks its dick and i was like gagging and almost threw up. it's so disgusting!
My first thought is for her to send me the link.
Years ago, in 1999, I read the book Geek Love. Very well written book. An ex-boyfriend had sent it to me (it was my first package ever delivered from amazon.com) because at that time I was very into freaks. (Is there a politically correct way to say it - "freaks"? Who cares? Are they going to boycott my blog?) These were people with physical abnormalities. I loved them. I wanted to find some to be my friends. I don't know why; I just did. I had watched the Tod Browning film "Freaks" and fallen in love with them, especially Schlitzie.
I remember my sister sitting with me in my apartment and watching me rewind the VCR tape and watch the scenes with Schlitzie over and over.
Jesus Christ, she would exclaim. Enough already!
I don't know why I like the things I like.
Anyway, this was when I had first discovered the internet, 1999. I would surf the web and find website after website about freaks. Massive human beings, tiny people, emaciated people, ugly people with cranial deformities, people with extra body parts located in fucked-up places, people with missing body parts...oh, the list went heavenly on and on. There were, too, the delightful conjoined twins (that's politically correct; do NOT call them "Siamese twins").
Like any addiction, it took more and more for me to get a hit. I needed more and more freakish pictures to delight in the freakishness of the specimen.
Let me add that I was in graduate school at the time. It was a great distraction when I had to read empirical research. However, I had only so much time to search the web. I was not savvy about searching for websites and if google.com existed, I was not aware of it. So there was just a limited amount of time and sites that I saw.
Fast forward to now.
Of course I go to the website that my sister talked about. I want to see the hermaphrodite have sex! I read the Pulitzer-Prize winning novel Middlesex!
But when I got to the site, I lost courage.
Is this what comes when one gets older?
I used to relish in looking at the freakiest shit possible.
And "shit" is not an exaggeration. If I heard about a site with German people squealing "Ja, Ja" while they farted in each others mouths and sucked a shitty dildo, my fingers made a beeline for that site!
Now, though, I don't want to upset my subconscious.
I don't want to watch a video of a whore with a toilet seat around her face while she sucks a man's stump leg (although typing that did make me giggle).
I don't want to see an old woman with a massive maggot infestation in her face.
I don't want to watch "handicapped sex." Nor do I want to see pussy lips knotted or carrots stuffed up someone's asshole. I just don't.
I'd really rather see flowers and kittens and sunsets.
BUT
I will admit that I watched the small penis contest that Howard Stern had on his show.
This makes me doubt the existence of God. I mean, how cruel! I've seen clits bigger than some of those dicks.
I know that my last blog was a little feeling-sorry-for-myself. It was the beginning of a migraine cycle, what can I say. Okay, and I do feel like I should receive an award or certificate or medal for taking care of myself sometimes. I just do. It's an area in my life where I'm immature, I'll admit it.
It's chilly out right now, and drizzling. I was thinking, though, of how neat it might feel to walk down the street naked if it were about 15 degrees warmer. Think about the precipitation on your privates, the breeze on your butt, the sun on your areola. How freeing it would feel! Why must it be only 3-year-olds and women on angel dust and/or crack who get to experience nudity in public?
Why no go to a nudist beach, Anonymister?, you may ask.
Uh, because I possess common decency.
So my sister texts me:
OMG, there's this this website called ____________ and this hermaphrodite has sex with this girl and the girl eats its pussy and sucks its dick and i was like gagging and almost threw up. it's so disgusting!
My first thought is for her to send me the link.
Years ago, in 1999, I read the book Geek Love. Very well written book. An ex-boyfriend had sent it to me (it was my first package ever delivered from amazon.com) because at that time I was very into freaks. (Is there a politically correct way to say it - "freaks"? Who cares? Are they going to boycott my blog?) These were people with physical abnormalities. I loved them. I wanted to find some to be my friends. I don't know why; I just did. I had watched the Tod Browning film "Freaks" and fallen in love with them, especially Schlitzie.
I remember my sister sitting with me in my apartment and watching me rewind the VCR tape and watch the scenes with Schlitzie over and over.
Jesus Christ, she would exclaim. Enough already!
I don't know why I like the things I like.
Anyway, this was when I had first discovered the internet, 1999. I would surf the web and find website after website about freaks. Massive human beings, tiny people, emaciated people, ugly people with cranial deformities, people with extra body parts located in fucked-up places, people with missing body parts...oh, the list went heavenly on and on. There were, too, the delightful conjoined twins (that's politically correct; do NOT call them "Siamese twins").
Like any addiction, it took more and more for me to get a hit. I needed more and more freakish pictures to delight in the freakishness of the specimen.
Let me add that I was in graduate school at the time. It was a great distraction when I had to read empirical research. However, I had only so much time to search the web. I was not savvy about searching for websites and if google.com existed, I was not aware of it. So there was just a limited amount of time and sites that I saw.
Fast forward to now.
Of course I go to the website that my sister talked about. I want to see the hermaphrodite have sex! I read the Pulitzer-Prize winning novel Middlesex!
But when I got to the site, I lost courage.
Is this what comes when one gets older?
I used to relish in looking at the freakiest shit possible.
And "shit" is not an exaggeration. If I heard about a site with German people squealing "Ja, Ja" while they farted in each others mouths and sucked a shitty dildo, my fingers made a beeline for that site!
Now, though, I don't want to upset my subconscious.
I don't want to watch a video of a whore with a toilet seat around her face while she sucks a man's stump leg (although typing that did make me giggle).
I don't want to see an old woman with a massive maggot infestation in her face.
I don't want to watch "handicapped sex." Nor do I want to see pussy lips knotted or carrots stuffed up someone's asshole. I just don't.
I'd really rather see flowers and kittens and sunsets.
BUT
I will admit that I watched the small penis contest that Howard Stern had on his show.
This makes me doubt the existence of God. I mean, how cruel! I've seen clits bigger than some of those dicks.
Monday, April 19, 2010
For Your Viewing Pleasure
Fatigue. Malaise. Exhaustion. Those are the words that describe me the past few days. It's so much work sometimes to take care of myself. I am grateful for a lot. I really am. But sometimes I get the feeling of resentment that I'm doing it all alone. I want some help. I was thinking of dating sites. Just thinking, as I'm not quite ready to date right now. Still have some "issues" that I'd like to sort out. But I am lonely at times. Actually, I have sort-of, kind-of dated a few people in the past year. I see what I like and what I don't like. I start to consider that I'm going to be limited in the men that I date because...well, sometimes, I think I might be crazy. My friends who love me say that I am special. That sounds like a person who participated in the Retarded Olympics.
I thought of going on match.com. I did it years ago and actually met a boyfriend. I had gone on there simply looking to date people...just practice dating...and I met a boyfriend. It was cool. He smelled good and had nice skin, too.
Then I considered what I would put on an ad these days...I'm getting too old to waste time with nonsense.
I contemplated putting the following arbitrary photographs on a match.com profile. I took them with my cell phone at various times during the past year. They struck me for some reason and I had to take the picture. I wonder if they would intrigue someone.
The following photo was taken last summer on a day in which the temperature was 258 degrees Fahrenheit:
I was blown away that the nun had a full habit on in the heat. Literally ten seconds after I slyly snapped her photo, she melted in a puddle. She looked exactly like a Klondike Bar. Ever curious, I tasted her, and it turned out that she was vanilla on the inside with a crunchy chocolate shell.
This photo was taken while I was waiting in the colon rectal surgeon's office:
.jpg)
It was prior to knowing that I was going to have (yet another) fistulotomy. It was the cover of Reader's Digest. I did not read it, but the horse in the wig was a real knee-slapper. I sent it via phone to many people. A few replied. One friend said, "I wish I looked that good."
This was a fucked-up looking grape that some of my 5th grade boys had:
I felt embarrassed for the grape because we laughed at it.
This was a peanut butter cup taken that had melted in my friend's driveway in another large east coast city:
To make her laugh, I bent down and smelled it. To heighten the hilarity, some of the chocolate got on the tip of my nose. Warm fecal matter on my nose was entertaining to us.
Next, there was this sign propped on the desk of the woman who did my intake prior to my surgery:
I wondered how many plastic jars of shit she had on her desk before she decided to make that sign.
This bird was on the street after I had brunch one Sunday:
I purposely walked down that street for close to a week to see if it was still there. It stayed there for six days! If I had a yard and had found it, I would have buried it there. But the little sparrow just rotted in public view.
Finally, this is the most recent photo:
I took it this past weekend. It is the pink petals that the wind blew down from the trees. I have tried like hell to determine to what tree they belonged, but no luck. I will ask my neighbor, who is good at that stuff. I like how they carpeted the ground and made the concrete look soft and fancy.
When I am happy, I am blissful. I rarely miss a trick. There is much to love in this world; there is much to be amused by. But it can also be so exhausting to not shut off. There is no filter between my insides and what is outside.
I thought of going on match.com. I did it years ago and actually met a boyfriend. I had gone on there simply looking to date people...just practice dating...and I met a boyfriend. It was cool. He smelled good and had nice skin, too.
Then I considered what I would put on an ad these days...I'm getting too old to waste time with nonsense.
I contemplated putting the following arbitrary photographs on a match.com profile. I took them with my cell phone at various times during the past year. They struck me for some reason and I had to take the picture. I wonder if they would intrigue someone.
The following photo was taken last summer on a day in which the temperature was 258 degrees Fahrenheit:
I was blown away that the nun had a full habit on in the heat. Literally ten seconds after I slyly snapped her photo, she melted in a puddle. She looked exactly like a Klondike Bar. Ever curious, I tasted her, and it turned out that she was vanilla on the inside with a crunchy chocolate shell.
This photo was taken while I was waiting in the colon rectal surgeon's office:
.jpg)
It was prior to knowing that I was going to have (yet another) fistulotomy. It was the cover of Reader's Digest. I did not read it, but the horse in the wig was a real knee-slapper. I sent it via phone to many people. A few replied. One friend said, "I wish I looked that good."
This was a fucked-up looking grape that some of my 5th grade boys had:
I felt embarrassed for the grape because we laughed at it.
This was a peanut butter cup taken that had melted in my friend's driveway in another large east coast city:
To make her laugh, I bent down and smelled it. To heighten the hilarity, some of the chocolate got on the tip of my nose. Warm fecal matter on my nose was entertaining to us.
Next, there was this sign propped on the desk of the woman who did my intake prior to my surgery:
I wondered how many plastic jars of shit she had on her desk before she decided to make that sign.
This bird was on the street after I had brunch one Sunday:
I purposely walked down that street for close to a week to see if it was still there. It stayed there for six days! If I had a yard and had found it, I would have buried it there. But the little sparrow just rotted in public view.
Finally, this is the most recent photo:
I took it this past weekend. It is the pink petals that the wind blew down from the trees. I have tried like hell to determine to what tree they belonged, but no luck. I will ask my neighbor, who is good at that stuff. I like how they carpeted the ground and made the concrete look soft and fancy.
When I am happy, I am blissful. I rarely miss a trick. There is much to love in this world; there is much to be amused by. But it can also be so exhausting to not shut off. There is no filter between my insides and what is outside.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
One Skin, Two Skin, Three Skin...
A few years ago a placed an ad online for tutoring. I tutored two Jewish sisters for more than a year. Their parents were very good to me; quite generous. I have heard about the stereotype of cheap Jewish people, but have never experienced it. All of my experiences with Jewish people, all of my Jewish friends, have been nothing but generous. Food! Money! Time and love!
One day, after I had been tutoring the girls for months, I received a text message from the father:
Are you circumcised?
Something about the tone seemed urgent.
I replied that I indeed am.
He responded that he and his wife were just wondering. And then explained that "HIV is easier to contract if a person is uncircumcised and you're a top."
What kind liberal straight people to worry about me and my physical health!
When I grew up, I did not know about anything but circumcised penises. My father is circumcised, as are my brothers, as were all of my friends. I did not know about uncircumcised penises until I saw one in a textbook when I was around 12-years-old. I thought it looked ugly. It reminded me of a cocoon hanging from a branch.
I first experienced one with a Chilean boyfriend when I was 17-years-old. I was at a party with a bunch of men. This guy was 21. We got high all night and then went into a bedroom where someone was passed out on the floor. During making out, we put our hands down each others' pants. His penis, though definitely hard, felt gelatinous at the same time. And then I smelled something somewhat rancid. This was was my first experience with smegma.
Squishy and fishy.
Fortunately I haven't had many more experiences with it. It is heinously gross.
A friend of mine told me that there is a cheese in France made from smegma. I was incredulous and told him he was insane. I also told him this was his sick fantasy.
I have since had boyfriends with uncircumcised penises whose hygiene was impeccable. This is necessary for me.
I remember there was one boyfriend, when I lived in a large midwestern city, who was clean and uncircumcised. When we were finished having sex, he asked if I had any Q-tips. I did, and directed him to their location in the bathroom. Curious about his urgency for Q-tips, I peeked into the bathroom, assuming that he was cleaning out his foreskin. Why wouldn't I think this - he was so clean! However, he was swabbing out his ears. Nothing was on the Q-tip cotton. Turned out this was a ritual that he performed after every orgasm.
One day, after I had been tutoring the girls for months, I received a text message from the father:
Are you circumcised?
Something about the tone seemed urgent.
I replied that I indeed am.
He responded that he and his wife were just wondering. And then explained that "HIV is easier to contract if a person is uncircumcised and you're a top."
What kind liberal straight people to worry about me and my physical health!
When I grew up, I did not know about anything but circumcised penises. My father is circumcised, as are my brothers, as were all of my friends. I did not know about uncircumcised penises until I saw one in a textbook when I was around 12-years-old. I thought it looked ugly. It reminded me of a cocoon hanging from a branch.
I first experienced one with a Chilean boyfriend when I was 17-years-old. I was at a party with a bunch of men. This guy was 21. We got high all night and then went into a bedroom where someone was passed out on the floor. During making out, we put our hands down each others' pants. His penis, though definitely hard, felt gelatinous at the same time. And then I smelled something somewhat rancid. This was was my first experience with smegma.
Squishy and fishy.
Fortunately I haven't had many more experiences with it. It is heinously gross.
A friend of mine told me that there is a cheese in France made from smegma. I was incredulous and told him he was insane. I also told him this was his sick fantasy.
I have since had boyfriends with uncircumcised penises whose hygiene was impeccable. This is necessary for me.
I remember there was one boyfriend, when I lived in a large midwestern city, who was clean and uncircumcised. When we were finished having sex, he asked if I had any Q-tips. I did, and directed him to their location in the bathroom. Curious about his urgency for Q-tips, I peeked into the bathroom, assuming that he was cleaning out his foreskin. Why wouldn't I think this - he was so clean! However, he was swabbing out his ears. Nothing was on the Q-tip cotton. Turned out this was a ritual that he performed after every orgasm.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Walking Through America
It is not Mr. Rugby's fault, but I hate him anyway. Today I do. Today I'm in the funky battle of being down in the dumps and Jack and Guy are nowhere around - it's just Anonymister.
Yesterday my fucking wallet was stolen - stolen! - by little fingers right out of my expensive fancy leather briefcase at school. A 4th grader is the culprit, but I don't know which one. It saddens me greatly because I love the kids, as a whole; I just hate the individuals.
Anyway, this is the kind of shit that presents a battle for me in life - hell, much of life is a battle, honestly - because the tendency is to get into fetal position and nurse the victimization. That's the thing when one has their car broken into, or they're mugged, or their tasteful wallet is swiped from their fancy leather briefcase: you ARE a victim. If you feel like you've been victimized it's because you have been. The tricky part for someone like me is avoiding the wallowing like a piggy in a muddy puddle in it.
To my credit, I woke up to take a walk and get the heart rate going. I need this because (1) My heart is heavy with sadness and anger and (2) I ate a box of ice cream sandwiches last night. Also, my acupuncturist was feeling around for some meridian or qi spots (they're not like G-spots) under my ribs and I felt mortified because it seemed like he was moving through Jell-o.
So walking through my neighborhood, I look at people. And I think of all that I need to be happy. Oh, if I only had a boyfriend who understood me. And gave good head. And: Oh, if only I could could go visit Europe for a month. And: Oh, if only I had nice curtains for my bedroom. But back to the people.
I see the white dad with his little girl who has her red hair flowing out of her hood because it's windy out today. What an intense conversation they are having; what a serious child she must be.
There's the Asian couple (I'm sorry, I don't know if they're Korean or Chinese) who come down the steps of their building ready to go jogging. I wonder if they're American born and raised or if they're immigrants. Do they have accents?
There's the interracial couple - black and white, woman and man - crossing the street - engaged in conversation. They're in their late 50s, early 60s. Have they been together a very long time? Did they battle extreme prejudice to be a couple, or just slight prejudice if they're a recent couple?
There's the homeless older black man who hocks and spits whilst walking in front of me. Does he have tuberculosis? Did I close my mouth quickly enough so that his saliva didn't get into my mouth and infect me in case he has it?
There's the little Latina girl, jumping out of the car, excited to run to the door of her grandmother's house, her blue dress chasing her as she runs up the steps to ring the doorbell.
There's the young black man basking in the sun eating breakfast, his eyes a brilliant hazel color from the solar light. He doesn't respond when I say hello.
And then, in the home stretch, there's the white rugby player. He has a fleece with his college name and RUGBY printed on it. He has a Siberian Husky with pale blue eyes. The dog has a kinder manner than him. The dog is more curious than he is. The white rugby player is a heterosexual male, tall, blue eyes, thick brown hair, athletic, handsome. He walks smoothly through this world. He's never self-conscious. He's a WASP. He part of the power culture: straight, white male. He's never doubted that he will be okay in life. Things will come to him and he is entitled to them.
I hate him for this. Today, I do.
Usually, I find people like this boring. I am generally drawn to people who have suffered in some way because I believe it makes them interesting. I just think that, and usually I am right. In fact, I will stand by this because it is my experience.
Today I am not going to judge myself for being angry at Mr. Rugby. I am also going to acknowledge that I am glad that he has that security in the world. I wish that for all people. It would be fair and equitable if we all had those feelings of security.
The thought occurred to me that I have frequently enjoyed my neighborhood because I have believed it was a microcosm of society: black, white, Latino, Asian, straight, gay, students, professional, families, etc. I don't think so. This may be a hodgepodge of urban east coast society, but it is certainly not American society.
I hope that Mr. Rugby and his big titted girlfriend have a nice day and forgive me for my assumptions.
Yesterday my fucking wallet was stolen - stolen! - by little fingers right out of my expensive fancy leather briefcase at school. A 4th grader is the culprit, but I don't know which one. It saddens me greatly because I love the kids, as a whole; I just hate the individuals.
Anyway, this is the kind of shit that presents a battle for me in life - hell, much of life is a battle, honestly - because the tendency is to get into fetal position and nurse the victimization. That's the thing when one has their car broken into, or they're mugged, or their tasteful wallet is swiped from their fancy leather briefcase: you ARE a victim. If you feel like you've been victimized it's because you have been. The tricky part for someone like me is avoiding the wallowing like a piggy in a muddy puddle in it.
To my credit, I woke up to take a walk and get the heart rate going. I need this because (1) My heart is heavy with sadness and anger and (2) I ate a box of ice cream sandwiches last night. Also, my acupuncturist was feeling around for some meridian or qi spots (they're not like G-spots) under my ribs and I felt mortified because it seemed like he was moving through Jell-o.
So walking through my neighborhood, I look at people. And I think of all that I need to be happy. Oh, if I only had a boyfriend who understood me. And gave good head. And: Oh, if only I could could go visit Europe for a month. And: Oh, if only I had nice curtains for my bedroom. But back to the people.
I see the white dad with his little girl who has her red hair flowing out of her hood because it's windy out today. What an intense conversation they are having; what a serious child she must be.
There's the Asian couple (I'm sorry, I don't know if they're Korean or Chinese) who come down the steps of their building ready to go jogging. I wonder if they're American born and raised or if they're immigrants. Do they have accents?
There's the interracial couple - black and white, woman and man - crossing the street - engaged in conversation. They're in their late 50s, early 60s. Have they been together a very long time? Did they battle extreme prejudice to be a couple, or just slight prejudice if they're a recent couple?
There's the homeless older black man who hocks and spits whilst walking in front of me. Does he have tuberculosis? Did I close my mouth quickly enough so that his saliva didn't get into my mouth and infect me in case he has it?
There's the little Latina girl, jumping out of the car, excited to run to the door of her grandmother's house, her blue dress chasing her as she runs up the steps to ring the doorbell.
There's the young black man basking in the sun eating breakfast, his eyes a brilliant hazel color from the solar light. He doesn't respond when I say hello.
And then, in the home stretch, there's the white rugby player. He has a fleece with his college name and RUGBY printed on it. He has a Siberian Husky with pale blue eyes. The dog has a kinder manner than him. The dog is more curious than he is. The white rugby player is a heterosexual male, tall, blue eyes, thick brown hair, athletic, handsome. He walks smoothly through this world. He's never self-conscious. He's a WASP. He part of the power culture: straight, white male. He's never doubted that he will be okay in life. Things will come to him and he is entitled to them.
I hate him for this. Today, I do.
Usually, I find people like this boring. I am generally drawn to people who have suffered in some way because I believe it makes them interesting. I just think that, and usually I am right. In fact, I will stand by this because it is my experience.
Today I am not going to judge myself for being angry at Mr. Rugby. I am also going to acknowledge that I am glad that he has that security in the world. I wish that for all people. It would be fair and equitable if we all had those feelings of security.
The thought occurred to me that I have frequently enjoyed my neighborhood because I have believed it was a microcosm of society: black, white, Latino, Asian, straight, gay, students, professional, families, etc. I don't think so. This may be a hodgepodge of urban east coast society, but it is certainly not American society.
I hope that Mr. Rugby and his big titted girlfriend have a nice day and forgive me for my assumptions.
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