Bitches

Which one are you?

It Will Be A June Wedding

Let me tell you about my boyfriend. His name is Mark. Mark R. I first spied him across the waiting room at the train station, and my heart leaped the instant our eyes met. It was love, lust, and devotion at first sight. He was busy with his computer while I pulled out my camera, putting the zoom lens to good use. Who knew that those few snapshots would one day be on the first page of an album labeled “Mark & Dan” with a heart around it? He looks like a cuter, healthier version of someone I once had a crush on. And more Latino. His surname is Latino, and there are hints of it in his features: bushy eyebrows, pouty lips, and always looking like he has on a trace of eyeliner and mascara.

After my impromptu clandestine photo session, he got up to use the rest room. If I were braver, I would have followed him in there. But sadly my bravery is relegated to other areas, so there I sat alone. Upon his return, he made his way to the line that was forming for the train, and it took me a couple minutes to follow. By this time, I was intimately familiar with the back of his head. He’s perhaps 5’11”, with a touch of muscle on him. His chestnut hair doesn’t have any product in it, and it’s apparent he hasn’t had it cut for some time. It has a sexy casualness about it that cannot be contrived. His outfit does rather confuse me: tan suede miniboots, stylish grey jeans, and what looks like a walmart uniform-issued blue sweater. It works on him though. His ass looks great in the pants. I got a peek at his underwear when he briefly sat down in line: the waistband and material indicate either briefs or boxerbriefs. My money is on boxerbriefs.

The doors open, and everyone spilled toward the train, not minding that there was a line in the first place. I made haste, and cut off several people to stay close to him. An extremely large man with nails too long for my taste and dreadlocks stayed between us, but I wouldn’t let him get in my way once on the train. The odds worked to my favor, and there were the perfect number of occupied seats. Mark sat next to a window, and I stopped in the row next to him. I saw a completely vacant row down the train, but I pretended not to notice it. Without even asking, I sat next to him. He immediately closed his eyes and slumped toward the window to sleep. The way his plump lips separated in slumber just a touch makes me burn. His two-day scruff only added to the lovable effect.

I was hoping that he would remain dozing when the man came for our tickets so I would have an excuse to oh so gently jostle his shoulder. Or should I go for the leg? That’s more intimate but more forward. When the agent came for our tickets, I hadn’t signed mine yet, so he handed me a pen. I do so on the iPad on my lap, and it seemed Mark hadn’t signed his ticket either. Instead of handing him the surface to write on, I scoot closer and indicate that he can just write on it while it’s on my leg. I swear I could feel every brief stroke of the pen through the layers of electronics and denim. It burned me, and I am convinced I will forever have his name written into my right thigh. He said “thankyou,” in the kindest voice I have ever heard. No pretense, just golden honey flowing to my ears.

Now he slept , arms crossed on his stomach, head tilted toward me. Thank goodness for that. I want to kiss his eyebrow, his eyelid, his gorgeous cheekbone, that endearing nose. Those eyelashes are two miles long and denser than a paintbrush. I want to run my lips over the stubble on his jaw, memorizing the planes and angles and noting where it gives over to the complete softness below his eye. His sleeves are slightly pushed up, and I take in the moderate amount of hair on his tan arms. His tan is absolutely natural of course; it’s just his complexion. I can tell that if I were able to peek down his shirt, I’d find chest hair. Just what I like.

I’ll leave him be for now. He needs his rest. When we stop in Chicago, we’ll both have time to kill, and find ourselves in a coffee shop. We’ll talk for hours, but it will seem like only a few minutes. His eyes will have a glow to them that I’ve never before encountered. I’ll want to nuzzle in the cleft of his chin. At one point, he’ll softly take my hand for emphasis while telling a story, but he won’t let go. His hand won’t feel sweaty; which is a wonder to me, because my hands always sweat when clasped with another’s. We’ll grudgingly part ways to go about our weekends, and it will hurt. We’ll hug goodbye: things are too innocent right now for a kiss, though we both want it. It will be a lingering hug, very tight at times, with rubbing instead of patting. It will be the kind of hug where our cheeks are pressed against each other, and the scrape of our facial hair is titillating. Eyelashes will brush against eyelashes, making me swoon. Apart for the weekend, I will feel empty the whole time, like I've had a part of my spirit removed. When we’re both back in town, we’ll meet; and this time it will start with a kiss. Then we will plan our future together, smiling and laughing. Because I know this is what will happen, I let him relax in peace on the train ride. We have an entire lifetime to live together after all.

Homework

I've been toying with the idea of changing my domain name for a while. I've decided against it for now, but I might buy it just in case I want to use it. It's a good one. I won't share so you vultures can't snatch it up. Suffice it to say, it happens to be in the fantastic documentary Paris Is Burning. The first thing I did was type my desired phrase into the address bar to see if it was an existing site. It is not, so my browser took me to a Google search of the phrase. The top hit was a link to a transcription of the movie. It's a little spotty, but it's great fun. See the movie if you haven't already, and check out the document here (if it asks you to download Japanese characters, just do it).

Oh Miranda

Until a couple days ago, I thought Miranda Sings was real. I'd only seen a couple of her videos, and I felt bad laughing at them. I just thought she was slightly autistic with a touch of palsy. I finally looked her up and found out it's just a character. Yay, now I can laugh. If you watch her older videos, you can see when she hasn't quite nailed down her look that she's so so pretty. And then you watch more and she talk about haters this and that and dating celebrities and whatnot. I guess I would have figured it out after a while, but there are some bitches making serious videos out there that are insanely laughable. But this is the first video I saw of her; and taking it as serious, I got a little uncomfortable and thought Mr. Rainbow was a douche:

Just Because

Snizteresting

Well this is interesting. I just noticed that Blogger has a feature that tracks my blog's stats. Things like traffic sources, audience, and all-time posts. I don't think it's been around for very long since it lists only a fraction of the hits I know this website has had.

It would seem that a lot of my traffic is a mistake. My post with the most views is What Is A Hybrid Snatch? And other twat-themed posts are in the top ten. I'd say fine, that makes sense, I talk about ladyparts a lot. But based on traffic sources, it seems like straight guys are googling dirty things which lead to my site. Here's a list:


pussy type hybrid 186


pussy type: hybrid 105


hybrid pussy type 75


fuck you 56


adrien brody 51


fuck women 20


pussy types hybrid 15


fat fuck 13


gay fucking 11


pussytype hybrid 9

Oh well. Maybe along the way, some of those guys took a break between beating off to actually read a little bit and enjoy.

Totaly Disappointing

Until today I haven't owned a legit copy of one of my favorite movies. I was excited to find it in the mail today, but a little dismayed at the tagline on the cover. Please tell me it's not an accident.

Robyn's Björk Tribute

I have to start by saying no one can cover Björk well. It's impossible. Her crazy voice and the demons in her head make it so. I've heard a whole album of covers, and they all sucked donkey dick. The only other one I've enjoyed is "All Is Full of Love" by Death Cab for Cutie. And that's probably because the original is one of my favorite songs. Robyn's version here is. . . passable. She has a good voice, but of course it is nothing compared to Björk's psychotic elf version. That being said, I have a few comments:

a)Robyn, honey, I love you, girl, but get yourself some toothpaste.
b)I love how Björk looks absolutely UNBOTHERED (and for good reason).
c)I can't decide if Robyn's outfit is atrocious, fantastic, or both.

Books Are For Fat Girls and Ugly People

That's why my best friend says anyway. I disagree. Reading is fun! Right? I read a lot, and I have some good recommendations for you. I'll dedicate this post to just one book though.

I tore through James St. James' Disco Bloodbath in a few days. I had already seen the movie based on it starring Macauley Culkin and Seth Green: Party Monster. Oh you've seen it? Crazy goodness, right? It's all about the wild New York club scene from the late 80s to early 90s. And murder. Delicious murder. I always enjoyed the movie, but the book just did me in. It. Was. Fantastic. I don't think I've ever been so entertained by a book. It's not that it was so laugh-out-loud funny, it was just crafted so well. I read it on the iPad and made good use of the highlight function. I must have highlighted a total of 3 pages of text. I need to get to work memorizing it. I thought it might be fun to share with you the best of the highlighted portions. The euphemisms and dragtalk will spin your head, so pay attention. The first is a great quote from Party Monster the movie that I just had to include:

"It doesn't matter what you look like. I mean, if you have a hunchback, just throw a little glitter on it, honey. Go dancing."


Another time, Musto and I were posed in our corner of the Palladium bathroom with our force fields UP. We were saying deply superficial things to each other, and looking very soigné doing so. Nobody would have dared to approach us. We were that good.

"Oops! Anal Leakage! Gotta go!"

"Sometimes I kidnap leettle children and SET THEM ON FIRE!"

Futuristic Geisha Gangsters (what a fantastic look! oh this is me writing, not JSJ)

Just your average, typical trailer-park trannie from Austin, Texas.

Ida stripped naked and pulled a full string of LIT CHRISTMAS BULBS, one at a time, out of her ass.

It wasn't all sequins and cocktails, kids.

Speaking from experience, there are people who have too much space between their ears, and given the time, do nothing but free fall forever inside their heads.

So let it be noted. So let it be done.

There was a spirited debate over who it would be more fun to fuck: Macauley Culkin or Emmanuel Lewis.

Everybody enjoys a good overdose.

Gone the way of Stacy Q and men in pearls.

"I know. Apparently Valerie Harper got all the different ways to tie them from her personal secretary. My favorite is the turban style with the big ball in front. Makes my nose look smaller."

For almost nine months in 1990, I wore a bloody wedding own and glued flies to my face. Some say I was a bit touched that year, and to be sure, there was a slightly unbalanced look about me then. I just like to think I was being fashion forward.

But, I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a bag of cocaine today.

"Let him have his moment."

"Gurgle snerf."

Drug addicts are funny that way. Just spinning around, lost in their own little world. Doing so much, accomplishing so little.

When it's right, you can feel it from the tip of your heel to the top of your wig.

Hmmm. . . yes. . . why, by cracky! I think she's right.

I only weighed about twenty-seven pounds. . . but those were SOME TWENTY-SEVEN POUNDS, I tell you! Each and every one of them STYLISH TO A FAULT! TWENTY-SEVEN pounds of fabulosity!

This was without a doubt the lowest, saddest moment of my life. Friendless in Poughkeepsie. Dancing alone on bloody stumps. At least I looked amazing. I'll give me that much.

"He looks just like Brooke Shields in Pretty Baby." And he did. A sexy little baby.

She picked up the plate of glass from the glass-top table and held it high over her head (where she got the strength and the balance to do it, I'll never know) but she stood there, for about ten or fifteen minutes (or so it seemed at the time), with the glass gleaming wickedly in her eye and that terrifying expressions on her ugly old mug of pure lesbian rage unbound.

Michael began having crack seizures. Just for the attention, I was convinced of that. Always at the MOST INAPPROPRIATE TIMES.

For better or worse, we were all family by this stage of the game, and like all families we were capable of monstrous acts of cruelty to each other.

(I guess this a quote from Stanislaw Lee): "I give you bitter pills, in a sugar coating. The pills are harmless--the poison's in the sugar."

But before the cutrain falls, let me leave you with one question--ponder it as the events unfold, then riddle me this:
If one day, Mother Teresa was out weed whacking and accidentally chopped off Hitler's head--WOULD THAT NECESSARILY BE SUCH A BAD THING?
I mean. . . if a person commits a crime, and no one cares--can we all just adjust our lip liner?

If letters had eyebrows, these would be arched.

Evil must be baked at 650 degrees.

LET'S TALK ILL OF THE DEAD, SHALL WE?

Funny, that no matter where you are in the world, there's always someone eager to help you destroy yourself.

I mean, who blessed this unholy union of tack and greed, anyway?

Why, oh why, must we always go through pigs to get our truffles?

And when I looked in the mirror for comfort? Why there was some strange leathery old faggot staring back at me with yellow, rheumy eyes.

Prunella Turkeyneck!

I kick a palm frond from my path, then reflect how nicely it would look rising out of my wig--did I have a couple dozen bobby pins tucked into my clutch?

Squirtle, I Choose You!

I found this adorable little creature in the parking lot at work. At first I thought it was dead. It wouldn't be the first time I found a random dead animal in the parking lot. But after a moment, it slowly moved its little head. Maybe Parking Lot Squirtle defeated the Parking Lot Lobster that I saw back in April. Squirtle was just sitting on the black top, and I didn't know if I should do something with it. It reminded me however of an incident from a couple weeks ago.



It was a hot, sunny day and I encountered a worm on the sidewalk. I was convinced there was no way it would survive on the hot pavement, so I felt terrible and planned to move it to some moist earth. But then a thought struck me: how fucking arrogant of me! Who did I think I was? I was prepared with good intentions to move this worm to what I thought would be a better life. But really I didn't know what was best for it. Maybe it was on the way to see its little worm babies. Or perhaps it was "meeting the sun," giving up on its life. Who was I to get in the way of his plans? So I let the worm be.

I put the turtle back where I found it, said good luck, and went to wash my hands. No salmonella for me, thank you! I hope it's okay. Part of me wanted to go back and bring him home. But again, I thought of the worm and stayed put. Maybe next time I'll snatch that shit up in a pokéball.