To my blog. I realized today is the one-year anniversary of starting this blog. I haven't been posting as much as I'd like to, so I'll try to be more attentive. I've compiled a sort of greatest hits list of entries below:
I just saw two pictures of a guy with long hair. In one, he has curly hair. In the other, he has straight hair. This leads me to the question of questions--which is worse? A guy who actually takes time to flat iron his crazy curly hair or a guy who perms it???
I purchased pornographic material recently for only my second time ever. I always figured there was no point in paying when so much is freely available online. Speaking of inherent stinginess, Happy Chanukah! Anyway, the first time was a subscription to a website that featured guys doing sexual exploits while smoking. What?!? I enjoyed it at the time. It's a thing. I really only got the recent one because I discovered a "model" I became very fond of. I did my stalker thing and found Derrek Diamond's blog which led me to his Twitter account. I figured I'd get a kick out of seeing what he could possibly be twatting about. Perhaps:
-fisting: don't knock it till you've tried it
-don't blow air up my ass and tell me i'm farting
-this isn't your father's interracial gangbang
?
Unfortunately his Twitter account is locked! It's by invite only, like the way sex is supposed to be! I went ahead and requested to be a follower, and he accepted. The surprising part is that he added himself as a follower of my account. Now I find myself feeling the need to impress him with my tweets! Is this normal? I try to be funny, and I don't post 20 per day detailing my bowel movements and every waking thought. Although I bet that might be entertaining. The point is I feel suddenly pressured to dance, monkey, dance! for a guy I don't even know who makes a living wrestling naked in baby oil, having sex and performing solo with a sodomy machine. I want him to write about the REALLY interesting stuff on his blog. What is life after porn? Are you going to be a cliche and become a porn director, or do you plan to open a muffin store? Does your family know what you do for a living? If so, how did you tell them? What's the nastiest experience you've had in the industry? What's the shadiest? How did you get your start? How does your partner of almost 9 years truly feel about your career? Would you be okay with him doing porn? Were you abused in any way as a child? What's your relationship like with your parents? Is there anything sexual that you won't do with a scene partner but will only do with your life partner? These are the meaty questions! Maybe I'll try to get in contact with him for an interview. I'll have to find an angle and an actual reason to justify it. Gears are turning. . .
I winked at a cute, scruffy waiter at dinner tonight. It didn't work. Either he was straight, or he could see my balding spot. I've never felt that I excel at flirting, but sometimes it's fun to do it just for the hell of it. I once whistled at a guy across the street while going home from a gay bar in Arizona. He actually came over to talk to me, and he was really cute, if a little short. However, when he got to my side of the street, I found I didn't really have anything to say. I only whistled at him to see if it would work, never considering that it actually would. He proceeded to tell me about how he was a Mormon and was trying to fight temptation, yadayadayada, GAY SEX. Sodomy happens, get over it.
I had another strange dream this morning. It was about rape, and it was kind of funny--stay with me here. I was in some woman's bedroom with a few other people. The woman was alternating between appearing to be Kathleen Turner and Morgan Fairchild (which was pretty fierce). Her look went as follows:
She wore a shimmering burnt orange wrap gown with gold accents and a high emperess collar: totally something Oprah would wear to the Legends Ball. Now that you've got the imagery down, I'll tell you that she was showing off her closet full of other fantastic dresses to us. She'd hold up an ensemble and let us know what it cost her.
I don't know how it's possible, but I somehow missed the new episode of Glee last week. I didn't realize it until the "previously on Glee" recap at the beginning of this week's episode. How did this even happen? I definitely remember setting it to record and being mildly interested that Eve was going to be a guest star. At this point, I'm pretty sure someone is working major voodoo on me. How else would I miss a performance by such a fantastic rapper/blacktress?
FIRST of all, my favorite phrase in the existence of language was used: CLOWN HOOKER! Score! It doesn't get much better than that.
Eve's choir group performs "Bootylicious," and it's a little insane. It begins with a personalized version of the intro: "Jaelle, can you handle this? Shanonda, can you handle this? Aphasia, can you handle this?" For those of you unfamiliar with it, I'd like to inform you that aphasia is an acquired language disorder cause by brain lesions. Remember Queens of Comedy? Adele Givens had a bit in her set about women giving their children names they can't live up to. She said something like "Champagne? More like a forty. And not a nice one. The kind of forty you bust on a curb to cut a bitch with." Here's this episode's version: "Loquacia? Stuttering bitch is more like Aphasia." That's highbrow comedy right there. "Bootylicious" is filled with "hairography": smoke and mirrors, or in this case, racism and the sexualization of supposed minors.
And an Asian girl playing keyboards with weave down to her knees.
Then there's the deaf choir. Yes, you read that right. This one isn't just a Happy Hands club like in Napoleon Dynamite. It had full on deaf singing. It's quite a sight/sound. It was supposed to be touching and heart-warming, but I couldn't help letting loose a few chuckles at first. Color me evil.
p.s. I just stumbled across Adele Given's MySpace page, and it's kind of amazing. Here's how I know: the first link I saw on Google was to a blog entry entitled "I dont be got no weave." Another tidbit: with all the updating how come so many people i know still have a bad weave?....please people...bring yaki back-i....or take it to the (bald) head cuz." Then puts the ghetto icing on the hood cake with "uh oh, gotta go, the real housewives of atlanta is on...lol."
While Google-ing a Julia Child recipe, I came across an interesting fact: for many years, she was an ardent homophobe. She was known to toss around "fag" and complain about all the homos in the U.S. She used some French term, pedalo, and even referred to a cooking school as a "nest of homovipers." I guess she changed her tune in the late 1980s when AIDS claimed the lives of some of her friends. You know what, you big Amazonian bitch? Too little, too late. Your hollandaise sauce recipe doesn't even call for vinegar, asshole. Kindly go fuck yourself sideways with a chainsaw.
I was at Subway yesterday, and the fatty behind me spent a good thirty seconds squeezing EVERY bag of Sun Chips--presumptively to find which bag contained the most chips. This is why you're fat.
I'm currently obsessing over Reece Thompson. He's a good actor, and he's cute. He reminds me of a young Michael Vartan. He was in a movie with Bruce Willis and Mischa Barton (BLECH), and he played a kid wtih a stutter (not a suttering kid, this is "person first" description) in Rocket Science. I always like a guy with a deformity; be it a limp, missing eye, stutter, or Canadian heritage.
Most mornings I wake up with a song playing in my head, even if I forget what it is right away. I awoke at 4:10 a.m. with the Lady Gaga song "Monster" running through my mind.
It proved to be an appropriate theme song. I was having such a bizarre dream that I mentally reviewed it and wrote it down immediately so I wouldn't forget. I've been having trouble remembering dreams lately, so I'm glad I got this one down.
In the dream I traveled with some friends, two girls and a guy, to visit another friend of ours who was working and living at a remote sub glacial station in Alaska. This friend, Jason, was based on a guy I knew in high school. It wasn't actually him, it just looked like him. He's a shorter, adorable fellow. I always thought his real life counterpart was "cooler" than me, but I felt flattered how he deferred to me in Spanish class because I was the know-it-all who never scored below an A+. Anyway, it was immediately apparent that Jason was not right in the head. His coworkers/stationmates were nowhere to be seen, and he didn't have any answers that made sense as to where they were.
We noticed that he had a jagged, fresh scar that wrapped around his right abdomen, but didn't say anything to him about it since it was clear we wouldn't get a coherent response. We also noticed the strange meals that were prepared around the station. They were big lumpy bundles of some kind of meat. Each was sewn together like a pouch with the same poor craftsmanship as Jason's wound. While he was in the bathroom, I opened one, and inside was the head of one of his coworkers. He had been baking their heads wrapped in a sheet of flesh sewn together at the top, like the boned duck in Julie & Julia. I also peeked in on him in the bathroom and saw him stuff a liver (somehow I knew it was a liver) from one of his dead friends into his side, then sew it back up. I figured out he was suffering from severe decompression sickness, like that guy in The Abyss, and part of his delusion was that he would gain strength from eating his comrades and annexing their organs.
My friends and I planned to get the fuck out of there ASAP while he was in the bathroom before he decided to go all Hannibal Lecter on us. Then out of nowhere, Chucky from Child's Play showed up and started chasing us, except he had black and red eyes and shark teeth. WTF?
