Filed under: at the warehouse/show/party, sex | Tags: faking it, masturbation, one nite stands, sex, Woody Allen
After a lot of one-nite stands, something becomes mechanical, boring, repetitive, trite, and retarded. Two drunk bodies slapping their genitalia against each other trying to achieve ’something’ that rarely ever ‘happens.’ Sometimes it’s easy to forget how vulgar and pathetic sex really is. Sometimes it just seems like a ‘party game.’ Sometimes it’s just all about ’scoring’ and not really about fucking at all. Once it starts, I just want to fake it: do a couple kegels, moans a little bit, arch my back a tad, and jerk my thighs or something like that, maybe leave a couple scratches, and once it’s over, sigh deeply, and that’s that. Or if I don’t even feel like acting, which is pretty fun to do, (maybe more fun than getting off sometimes), I’ll just say I’m tired. Fuck it. I see these eager 19 year old girls, ready to get some ‘dick wet.’ I remember when ‘getting laid’ was a highly desirable concept. It’s what ‘made my nite.’ It’s what made that nite better than nites I didn’t get laid. Now it just seems mechanical, boring, repetitive, trite, and retarded. Making out and showing titties is probably still okay though.
And then I found out it’s not just a ‘girl thing.’ Call it a ‘quarter-century life crisis.’ Or just maybe say asexuality is kinda hip right now. It is total apathy. It is complete boredom with sex. It’s not like anyone is in love anymore. It’s not like ‘making sweet love.’ It’s just straight up fucking. Meaninglessness. Last nite we were at this party and all these bitches were on the prowl, and me and ’someone’ had a talk about it…
“Sometimes I fake it with girls.”
“How do you do that?”
“I just kinda moan a little bit, and she says, ‘Oh did you cum?’ and I just take the condom off real quick and tie it off and throw it away real quick and say, ‘Yeah’.”
“Damn. So you just lose your boner?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you just not into the chick?”
“No, I just rather masturbate. I can get off by myself in like 10 minutes. After 30 minutes of fucking I’m just over it.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda repetitive. I’m not that into it. You know what Woody Allen says about masturbating?”
“No, what does Woody Allen say about masturbating?”
“He says, ‘Hey, don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone I love.’”
“I rather just snuggle and watch a movie.”
“Yeah, that’s probably more fun and less work and more enjoyable. Man, I had no idea dudes fake it too.”
Filed under: BFFs4Eva, at the bar, at the warehouse/show/party, making out | Tags: epic reunion, getting naked, mimosas, Oakland, Rudy's, Stork Club, weird porn, whiskey dick
Last time I saw Little Crystal was 5 years ago. She was visiting from Southern California while I was living in a college co-op in Berkeley. We had a lingerie-party binger that lasted a whole week. We were under 21, and the world was our oyster. The world was our spiked bowl of punch. The world was our Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. A+. I had a bitch of a roommate that was an uptight W.A.S.P. cunt, but we didn’t give a fuck. We hungout in our underwear ’til the break of dawn, over and over again. A love like that can never die. A love like that has an eternal party flame, like smoking the devil’s cigar. A love like that is only girl-on-girl without vagina touching (boob touching is okay and encouraged).
Last Thursday, I am sitting at the bar at the Stork Club and like a flash of lightning there’s Crystal, walking into the room. My eyebrows raise, my jaw drops, I jump off my stool, and yell out her name. For a nanosecond she gives me a dirty look, but then she jumps into my arms, and I spin her around, we giggle, we scream, we tell everyone our story, everyone. And then ‘the party of our lives together’ started all over again. We’ve basically been inseparably drunk for days since our eureka moment. It’s probably not sustainable, but it’s helluva lotta sweet-ass fun. When I walked down the stairs Saturday morning in my underwear, my roommates looked at me like I got laid: “Damn girl, you’re glowing. Who’d you bang last nite?”
“No one. I partied with Crystal and Co.”
We didn’t start getting naked until Saturday nite. It might have been 4 AM. It might have been 7 AM. People were leaving. The dance floor was dying. We were thinking about leaving. Until it became apparent that the best idea was to take off all our clothes and get into the shower, packed tightly in there, skin to skin, genitalia rubbing all up on your thighs and belly button, like a tin of sardines. We were going to wait for the sun to rise. We were going to make this party count. I was maybe going to get laid. The attempt was made. Whiskey dick won. Instead I bruised my shoulder blades from getting pinned up against the shower wall making out. When we finally got out of the shower hours later, our clothes were toasty in the dryer. The shower floor was tiled with old porn magazines. The shower door was broken. We were still drunk. Crystal was asleep somewhere with a bag of grapes on top of her. It was Sunday. It was time the right time for mimosas, brunch, and almost getting kicked out of Rudy’s, but instead getting relocated to the courtyard. Our whiskey-dick nakedfest talk was too much for the grandpa sitting at the table next to us. His crew was not drinking mimosas.
Among us, there were two dudes that none of us knew. They had fallen asleep at the party at like 9 PM. I gave them a ride home, and they invited us in. They lived in Emeryville, but insisted that they lived in Oakland. They had a huge yard and a gaping hole in their living room. They were really into weird porn. We watched some: one guy put his entire head, to the neck, into the ugliest vagina that ever existed; it looked like a ham with a slit down the middle. It might have been fake, but it looked believably disgusting. We watched some other freaky shit, too. It was time to take everyone home, take naps, find Crystal, and start all over again.
Filed under: at the coffee shop | Tags: American Apparel, Book Review, Bukowski, Erik Stinson, I Am Happy That You Are Grappling With My Lifechoices, Mama Buzz, Oakland, Q and A, Seattle, Sorry I Like To Party, Springsteen, Tao Lin, Tom Waits
I met Erik Stinson at Mama Buzz Cafe on Saturday for a double-take interview. He was going to interview me about being ‘the star’ of his next movie, Sorry I Like To Party 2. And I was going to interview him about his second book, I Am Happy That You Are Grappling With My Lifechoices; it’s a collection of stories and ‘haikooze’ in a very coming-of-age sort of way. It’s not really about finding love at all, but there’s some sexual stuff in there that is worth taking a peak at. It’s also a rich, raw, and easy read about trying to enjoy being depressed while just drifting through life doing stuff, liking chicks, not caring about them, being scared of them, being jerks to them, and being indifferent to them.
The characters are fictional, some are loosely based on real people, but the sentiments seem very candid. Stories end with the reader wishing the resolutions weren’t just implied, kind of a cliff hanger, kind of forcing you to ponder over the characters ‘lifechoices,’ kind of the point of the book. There’s also an extended rhythm, as the stories progress from moving from Seattle to Oakland, even though characters don’t necessarily overlap from story to story; the inner-voice of the characters seem to gradually grow older from story to story, call it a progression through maturity, call it writing book reviews intoxicated. I guess I just like to hear guys talk about girls. It sounds like apathetic heartfulness. It sounds different from the voices in my head. It’s kind of nice. Here’s a couple ‘juicy slices’ I picked out…
…
Noodles are like sex: slippery and good to have at
regular intervals. Also, having sex is like a very
expensive spa treatment. I think my pores feel
better after I have sex.
…
“When I walk into a party the first think I think of is
which of these people do I want to have sex with”
“Oh yeah. Isn’t that normal?”
“I’m not sure. I think maybe it is.”
…
What things will make today worth waking up for?
Coffee. Noodles. Muted sexual tension.
So I walked into Mama Buzz, the most alternative coffee shop in Oakland, and looked around, I made eye contact with some hipster and there was a great pause where we were catching-each-others-eyes for far too long, so I had to ask, “Are you Erik?” No, he wasn’t. Kinda awkward. So I waited for the slowest people to take the slowest order and thought about how great my hangover would taste with another beer. And then Erik came in, just in time, and he ordered a cappuccino (I thought this was a funny detail), and we sat down to bizniz. I was wondering if he was judging me ‘way hard,’ because he said that he probably would be on Formspring. We decided that I would interview first because I wrote some questions down. I didn’t actually quote him so this is all just paraphrasing at it’s finest…
“In the story ‘Huggability’ Richie is working in a porn store and hugging people for $20 a pop. Is this based on any true story?”
[laugh] “No, there’s no such thing.”
“Oh, I just figured anything was possible in a pornshop. Okay, what’s it based on?”
“It’s loosely based on Miranda July’s book ‘No One Belongs Here More Than You’.”
[I haven't read this, so I'm just nodding.]
“It also about working at American Apparel. Working there is so sexual. I only worked there for 2 months. They wanted me to work more hours, and I wanted to go to school.”
“Did you ‘Shoplift From American Apparel’?”
“Not while I was working there, after I quit.”
“In the story ‘Ghost Bitches and a Sexual Coward’ Richie is afraid of the cute girls. He says he’s afraid of what they ‘might make him do.’ What does he think they’re going to make him do?”
“Richie is… asexual. He’s not afraid of the women, he’s just afraid of getting involved.”
“In the story ‘Night Feelings,’ the character Linda, is she your ‘dream girl’? Who is she based on?”
“Originally, her character’s name was Julia, and I didn’t realize it was my mom’s name until I showed it to her. So I changed it to Linda. I guess she represents my mom and some of my ex-girlfriends. Parents are kind of models for love and relationships.”
[awwww]
“Your book kind of glorifies Oakland. So does your movie. You must really love it here, huh?”
“I moved here in June, and I went to bars by myself, and I made friends. And I kind of like my friends here more than the ones back in Seattle. People are friendlier here, and the weather’s nicer here.”
“Who inspires your writing?”
I did my senior project in high school on F. Scott Fitgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby.’ I rewrote it to be about rich Microsoft office people.”
“Do you like Salinger?”
“No, don’t like Salinger much.”
“Do you like Bukowski? Your new poems kind of remind me of him.”
“Yeah, I’ve been reading a lot of Bukowski lately. One of my teachers saw me wearing a Springsteen T-shirt and asked me if I liked Tom Waits, so then he asked me if I like Bukowski. And he said that he owned every book that Bukowski had ever written. So he brought a huge box of Bukowski books in for me one day. The way he writes in broken lines in his early stuff; my poems are more like that now.”
…
Then I got interviewed, but enough about me, except that (…be excited as I tell you…) I’m totally going to be in a movie!–that’s not a porn! And I am more than just an ‘extra’! Also how serendipitous is this–it turns out that guy that I thought was Erik when I first walked in actually knows Erik from Seattle and has a silkscreen of Erik on his wall. Also, turns out Erik knows my friend Patty, who was also ‘at the most alternative coffee shop in Oakland,’ Saturday afternoon. It must be a small world after all: ‘Meeting-bloggers-IRL, the meme of 2k10.’
Filed under: love, what if | Tags: Agnes of God, atheism, Catholic school, Catholicism, girl interrupted, God, love, Mermaids, sex, virginity, winona ryder
When she was 14 she wanted to be a nun. She thought that God was more possible than true love. She was going through puberty and not completely accustomed to the urges that were happening inside her, sexual feelings seemed weird and wrong. How she ended up in Catholic school was based on the logic of her best interests, none of which had anything to do with Catholicism: it was a competitive high school to get accepted in, and it provided an absence of boys–nothing to distract her from getting into the Ivy Leagues. Paying for education was a privileged way to ensure she would go farther in life, competing for the very best with the very best, slicing off the crust of public school nobodies and dropouts, or so her parents thought. Everyone was rich and smart, and that seemed like the right place to be, or so she thought.
But somehow in the middle of it all, between spending summers in Italy and a dog-earred copy of Lives Of The Saints, she wanted to be a nun. And to top it off, being a nun seemed like a stress-free career with a VIP ticket to heaven on Judgment Day. But then she fell in love, or she thought she did, and love seemed more real than God. Here was someone tangible saying I love you; it felt devine. And she didn’t want to be a nun anymore. She was an atheist in love. Yet through some rigid upbringing she had made up her mind to save ‘it’ for marriage; they did everything but ’sex.’ She dated him for two and a half years till her first semester at college, and she never slept with him, and then she slept with someone else, at a party; it was meaningless. It was over. She didn’t love him anymore. Maybe she never did. Love and God did not exist. Although they seemed to have existed separately, at different points in her life. So she started seeing a psychiatrist once every two weeks; he said she was bipolar. She took three pills a day. Her life felt like the Winona Ryder movie that never got made. Somewhere between Mermaids and Girl, Interrupted, she found herself, no longer a plain-Jane teen idolizing Joan of Arc.
Filed under: at the bar, porn | Tags: extras, Godspeed, Oakland, porn, pornstars, sex, squirting
Did I ever.
I jumped at the opportunity like a wildebeest ready to devour a whole zebra. Here were the circumstances: the porn company was essentially renting out Godspeed to film this porn, inviting everyone to watch, and paying for their drinks. Touching the porn star was allowed and encouraged, but no fingering her unless your nails were trimmed and you hands sanitized. If you were interested in being ‘more involved,’ you could have gotten tested a few weeks prior and done some paperwork in advance. Invitations were being handed out to Hell’s Angels and the East Bay Rats. And I got one, too.
My roommate Vicki bartends at Godspeed. She’s into leather, Lady Gaga, and bikers, “You might end up trading in fixed gear for fifth gear.”
“I don’t think my dad would like it too much if I ended up marrying a Hell’s Angel.” I don’t know why my father’s opinion was my gut-reactionary comment, but it was. Two days later, I’m sitting in class, feeling the cold, sticky clammy sensation of my palms, watching the clock tick. I am reveling with excitement. I imagined saying stuff like, “So what are you doing after class? I’m going to a porn shoot.” but I didn’t. I arrive at Godspeed and I feel like like a 12 year old boy looking at Playboy mags for the first time. Godspeed has kind of an eerie goth vibe. It feels like a sex-cave dungeon for a motorcycle gang that also functions as a bar, a tattoo parlor, a cafe, and a motorcycle shop, complete with skull accents on everything, and candles to set the mood. There is so much suspense. The stage is being set. We are all signing release forms and showing our IDs. We are ready for something epic to happen. I start talking to everyone, learning porno terminology I’d never heard before, like getting fluffed. (Don’t judge me for not knowing what that means.)
I also met Jimmy and Amanda, two of the stars of the show. They weren’t pornstars, not yet anyway. They found this gig in the back of the Weekly’s. Amanda has done some fetish photography in the past; she’s into being naked and super confident about her body. She seems to have a pretty chill relationship with her boyfriend regarding these sort of things. She drove in from Sacramento to do this shoot. I asked her via text the next day if she would do it again. She said, “Yeah I’d do it again. Free beer and food plus essentially being forced to orgasm and getting paid ($200)? Sort of like winning at life.” Her lifestyle made me feel very conventional for caring about the future of my potential political career. Jimmy was from Oakland. He did it for the money: $100 to get his dick sucked on camera by a porn star, sounded good to him. The two of them had also just met that day.
So the “film” began with us “extras” sitting at the bar, drinking beer, hanging out, chit-chatting, and then the pornstar came out of the bathroom, in a red latex dress with holes on the chest for her breasts to be completely hanging out. Her arms were braced behind her into a lace-latex vice, like a single glove. And from her neck, hung a tray, intended for serving drinks to us. She was escorted by her co-star, whom she only responded to with “Yes, Sir.” In one hand, he had a taser, in the other hand he had a whip. If she spilled a drink, bam! Seemed painful. After that scene, she sucked her co-stars massive uncircumcised dick for a while. We were allowed to take photographs. Thumbs up, smiling like a geek, I posed here for some pics. In the next scene, she was strapped to a bar stool with a wide assortment of belts tying her down and a massive hook was inserted into her butt, the other end of which was tied to her hair. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Why is sex so weird? Leaning against the pool table, Amanda had her vagina eaten out by the pornstar while Jimmy played with her tits and clitoris. I guess sex is just not really a big deal.
There were a lot of takes, and a lot of things happened. There was a lot of free booze, I was pretty buzzed. During one of the takes, I got a chance to talk to the star of the show. She was incredibly sweet. She had fake breasts, but some of the extras were trying to argue they were real. They were totally fake, but ‘a believeable size.’ She had a pretty face, flat tummy, and a big ass with noticeable cellulite. She was 23.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Two years.”
“What got you into it?”
“I had been doing modeling for a few years, and then I got invited to the Playboy mansion, and I met all these girls, and I met Hef. And it seemed like something I could do.”
“How does your career and your personal life come together? Is it hard to reconcile the two?”
“It’s hard, but they’re two different worlds, and I keep them separate. I have a five year old girl, and she doesn’t know I do adult films. When the time is right I’ll tell her.”
“Do you find yourself being constantly body conscious?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve gained weight since I’ve started doing porn since all they feed you on-the-go are fries and cheeseburgers.”
“What do you think makes a successful pornstar?”
“It’s not really about being the prettiest girl with the hottest body. Some girls are just so picky and hard to work with. It’s really just being agreeable and having people enjoy working with you; that helps you get your name out and get more gigs.”
She seemed to love her job. It seemed like it was a choice. In the next scene, she didn’t fake it. I thought it was pee. It rushed out of her body and hit the concrete floor with a splash as her waist snapped back and her jaw dropped as her co-star fucked her doggy-style against the pool table. My jaw dropped, too.
Filed under: Holidays, love | Tags: friends, Pizza Party, Top Ramen, Valentine, Valentine's Day, Where the Wild Things Are
3 am, we are lying in a pile on a Haight Street rooftop like Wild Things. The North Star is at the end of the handle of the Little Dipper. We are infused with alcoholic warmth and the company of good friends. Nothing else matters. Somehow, through college, roommates, and friends of friends, we have found each other to be the most likeably like-minded, interesting, funny, entertaining people in the world. Ivan said his favorite quote of mine was, “I could never sleep with any of my friends; I like them too much.” It’s true, there is nothing to lose when you fuck people that are mediocre compared to your friends. Adding sex into anything automatically means that someday we will not like each other anymore, that someday we will find reasons to change or sever our relationship, we will find reasons to be unhappy together, we will find reasons to pursue happiness with someone else. Seems sad. If I were to rate all of my friends, they would all get 9s. (10s are reserved for philanthropic super-model humanitarian aid-workers.) But 9s are also hard to find, too. I’m keeping all mine.
Valentine’s Day Pizza Party. We’re just hanging out. We’re just drinking beer. It seems like some people can’t wait for it to get ‘late,’ so they can pair off and sneak off. I’m thinking about snuggling with my cat. I’m feeling content. I’m feeling like this is just fine, and physical contact with anyone seems unappealing, too much work, and trite. I’m thinking about last year’s Valentine’s Day. And the year before that. And the year before that one. One-nite stands are satisfying like Top Ramen, just something totally savory and completely unhealthy, instantly. It is an MSG type of instant gratification that is a ‘last resort’ when you’re hungry. The longer I go without one-nite stands and Top Ramen, the less I miss them. I’m not daydreaming about anyone. I’m not crushing on anyone. I’m not interested in anyone. And it kind of feels like a void, but it’s nice not to care about pleasing anyone else but yourself, no one to compromise your plans, your time, your heart for. It feels like a deep breath. It feels like fresh air.
Filed under: Holidays, love, office romance | Tags: anonymous, chocolate, love, office romance, Valentine, Valentine's Day
This is the big question. Everyone else has one. All these people, everywhere, awkward couples, holding hands, looking like two left feet, standing next to each other, failing at walking down the street together….
I imagine their ‘love stories…’
“Susan worked in HR. I had to walk past her cubicle to get to the lounge, and also, to get to the bathroom. So I got a lot of coffee refills, and I peed a lot. I just wanted to see her again. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she answered the phone and said, ‘Susan speaking, this is HR, how may I help you?’”
….
“I thought Dennis was cute. His shirts were always ironed really nicely. He’s an accountant, so he’s really good with numbers. He always smiled at me. He also always seemed kinda perspired. I thought he had a bladder control problem. Once, I was in the lounge during lunch, and he was there, and I was eating chow mien, but it kinda needed more soy sauce, and I couldn’t find any. So Dennis was like, ‘Oh, I have a bottle of soy sauce stashed in the back of the bottom shelf. Here ya go!’ And he told me this story about how he bought it in Chinatown. It wasn’t really funny, or interesting, or anything. I don’t know why he told me that story, but it was nice just talking to him.”
….
“Sometimes I would freeze up when I saw Susan. I felt my armpits gradually grow damp. Sometimes I thought, maybe if I could ramble fast enough I could block my pores from perspiring at maximum speed. I didn’t know what it was about her. I thought that she reminded me of Pam from ‘The Office,’ except Susan’s not a receptionist. I imagined showing her my aquarium of exotic fish, and watching her smile watching the fish swim. She’d ask me questions about their names. I’d tell her everything there is to know about exotic fish. She’d see that there is more to me than just accounting. I was worried that she would never see me more than just accounting.”
….
“There was something about Dennis, so gentle, so endearing. I was worried that he just saw me as miss-hire-fire-and-pay. I wanted him to see there was more to me than just HR. A whole other person, someone who enjoys watching Humphrey Bogart movies on rainy nites, listening to Andrea Bocelli while cooking pasta, and making macrame owls on Sunday afternoons. Whenever he walked past my desk I just wanted to sing that Blondie song, Denis Denis, oh with your eyes so blue / Denis Denis, I’ve got a crush on you, but I just hummed it in my head instead. Sometimes I would put on my headphones and listen to it on iTunes.”
….
“I couldn’t sleep at nite because I drank too much coffee at work. I drank too much coffee at work, because I just wanted another chance to walk past Susan’s cubicle. Her cubicle is always so neat; her folders are all neatly organized into color-coded stacks. She’s got a calendar of cute kittens on the wall and a Garfield mug; I thought, she must really like cats. I wanted to know about everything she liked. On Fridays I would get a little sad, because I just wanted it to be Monday, so I could have a whole other week of walking past Susan’s cubicle. I wanted to see her between Friday and Monday, after 5 pm, before 9 am. I wanted to know what her breath smelled like in the morning. I wanted her to be my Valentine.”
….
“I got a Hallmark card on my desk. It said, “Won’t you be my Valentine?” Attached to it, there was a chocolate rose. I looked around. I felt flushed. I felt loved. I felt beautiful. I wanted to scream or eeeek! or send a mass email to the entire company, “Hi, You might know me from HR, my name is Susan. I got an anonymous Valentine on my desk today, if you have any clue as to who sent it, please let me know. I would really appreciate it.” But I couldn’t do that. I was hoping, maybe, possibly it was Dennis. But what if it wasn’t? But why didn’t he just write his name? I was so confused. Maybe it was just some dirty prank by the guys in marketing, but maybe it was Dennis. I decided to write a post-it and stick it on his desk when he was in the bathroom: ‘Did you ask me to be your Valentine?’”
….
“I got a note on my desk that said, ‘Did you ask me to be your Valentine?” I felt my face get warm and my hands gets sticky with sweat. I knew it was Susan. I went through her waste bin once and studied the graphology of her handwriting. I just wanted to get to know her. The way her letters connected together evenly in cursive, in a straight line, spaced perfectly, it meant something. It meant that she was social, determined, and well-balanced. That she was the woman of my dreams. I send her an email: ‘Yes, it was me.’”
….
“I saw my inbox +1 and I knew it was him. My mouse trailed across the screen. Click. Dennis. It was him. I read it over and over again, ‘Yes, it was me.’ It was him. I knew it. I emailed him back, ‘Yes, I will be your Valentine.’”
Filed under: at the warehouse/show/party | Tags: assholes, epic, fat chicks, Francis, Friday nite, Oakland, shitty party, Whole Foods
2 things happened last nite:
Number one, I got a free vibrator. The porn shop down the street from the Stork Club was giving them for free to any girl that came in to check out the erotic art. So I might have a ‘date’ for V-day.
The 2nd thing that happened is epic:
“I think Francis is going to be at this party.”
“How do you know?”
“I swear to god, I’m motherfucking clairvoyant.”
“Really?”
“I’ve told you before, I see things.”
“Sounds like a whole new direction for your blog.”
…
It seemed like a Wholefoods after-hours employee party. Was the ‘employee of the week’ there? I may never know. So of course, I told some girl my ‘Whole Foods story’: “I’ve never met the guy, I’ve said lots of dirty stuff about what I want to do to him on the internet, and he’s recently discovered this. You should read my blog.” Apparently, this was so funny ‘the story’ spread like chicken pox. Everyone was laughing, at me. One girl said, “You know, he’s kinda seeing this girl.” I don’t know. I don’t know the guy. At one point, some girl came up to me and said, “Hey, I heard you have a blog about my boyfriend!” She was all up in my face and shit. I didn’t know what was going on. I felt kind of ‘ganged up’ on. Then she said she was just kidding. It felt weird. Some bitches talking to my roommates asked, “Are you one of ‘the Francis’ girls? You know he’s gay, right?” I also want to add, most of the girls at this party were over weight.
Basically, I just know a bloggable meme when I see one: his name is Francis, he works at Whole Foods, he’s in a band, he wears glasses, and apparently, all of his friends think he’s gay. But this is just a blog. This is not real life. I just write some shit, and some people read it. This is not a diary. The blogosphere and reality are not compatible, I think. And I guess fat girls are bitches because I’m cuter than them.
At some point, I went outside for a cigarette, and Francis showed up. I had a brief awkward conversation with him about how awkward I felt. And then I realized, he’s just a real person with shitty friends. My fantasy is ruined. I Check you out while you check me out has lost its novelty. Bummer. Apparently, some bitches asked my roommate for my URL. Hell fucking yes you’re reading this.
Then I got kicked out. I don’t really know why. I think I hugged some chicks boyfriend, and that wasn’t cool. Woah. Weird people. Whatever bitches, don’t be a dick to someone that knows where you live. Seeya bagging my groceries at Whole Foods!
bro: 
me: who is this
bro: one of your old bros!
bro: just another nameless face on your sex blog
bro: i find it ironic you’d blame me for giving you some STD, and you have a self-professed “sex blog” with dozens of dudes on it
bro: anyway, have a nice life
me: i got a bacterial infection from having sex with u, could happen to anyone. stop being hungup on me. I rejected u on fbook like 5x times. Get over it! U told everyone i gave u a noncontagious rash, u r a fucking weirdo
(It’s true, he sent me a Wikipedia link to some really gross rash, and he said I gave it to him. The link even said it was ‘noncontagious.’ and I didn’t even have any rash at all to begin with. He thinks bacterial infections are STDs, even after 2 years, when all this stupid shit went down. I’ve never had an STD, srsly, ‘knock on wood.’ I ‘play safe’ and follow ‘traffic rules,’ always.)
bro: i’m certainly not hung up on you, i don’t like you lying, and then making the details pubic. not very classy is it? that’s the point.
bro: it’s impossible that i gave you anything. no other partner has ever had anything like it, including my girlfriend of over a year.
bro: so, the only explanation is that you lied, blamed me, and obviously, i don’t appreciate that…
me: Youre a complete moron
bro: yeah? let’s compare notes here. you have a sex blog, you sleep with just about any dude out there, and then voice it on the entire internet.
bro: and i’m the guy that gave you the infection…
bro: doesn’t quite add up does it
bro: i wouldn’t give a shit if i didn’t hear about it from shannon and rob
me: They don’t like you, they think youre annoying. Thx for the ‘new material’
(They really don’t like him.)
bro: apparently a simple “i’m sorry” is impossible, and all you can do is deny it and call me a moron. very mature of you!
bro: all you’re doing is proving my point, you live a life where this is “new material” and rob does not think i’m annoying, i’ve known him for a decade.
bro: so, it was too difficult for you to have a reasonable discussion about this, despite being old news. that’s sad. i’m sorry for you, parisa…
me: Just dont care, youre annoying
bro: i’m sorry you don’t care, and i’m sorry that you feel so strongly over something that happened so ong ago, i just wish you wouldn’t act so immature. maybe one day you’ll talk to me reasonably about this.. until then.. i’ll stop trying to contact you
(Just don’t care like I don’t care what you ate for dinner last nite, like I don’t care what sports team “won the game,” like I don’t care how you brush your teeth, like I don’t care about the stock market, like I don’t care what’s on sale at the fish market, like I don’t care where Martha Stewart buys her underwear. Just don’t care.)
me: Youre just a story! You dont matter. Jeez. Thx for the new story
bro: you have to reduce all human interactions to fabricated “stories” for the internet? that’s really sad. i’m sorry for you parisa. is all the lying just because you won’t admit a simple mistake?
(Bitch, please.What lie? What mistake?)
bro: i’m sure you’ll copy/paste from this conversation whatever fits your little made up narrative about me. i don’t pretend that you’ll post the whole thing. i imagine you’ll just lie… again.
(I would never ‘censor’ anything from you, dear readers. this is the ‘whole enchilada. PS, I totally faked ‘it’. He said he could tell, but I fooled him. I just kinda wanted it to be over without being rude about it.)
so my name is francis and i’ve recently became a fan of your blog. would you like to have a drink soon? xxx.xxx.xxxx
(so we’re going out for a drink. and I am really really really embarrassed, and now he knows, because he reads my blog, apparently.)
Filed under: QUIZ | Tags: art, dream man, fashion, love, LTR, music, NSA, QUIZ, STR, yes/no
Do you appreciate the cultural significances of idioms?
Do you enjoy throwing breadcrumbs at ducks?
Do you appreciate collective dynamics of ’small-world’ networks?
Do you think “Lovage” is the best album to ‘bang’ to?
Do you ‘take notes’ on/about books/life?
Do you remember when we met ‘like it was only yesterday’?
Do you have a fashion icon?
Do you see junk and think art?
Do you like kitschy things?
Do you want to go to the local thriftstore?
Do you listen to shoegaze and/or twee when you are melancholy?
Do you believe in a deeper purpose/meaning?
Do you ride a bicycle?
Do you write in a Moleskine?
Do you love subtitled films?
Do you love my beret?
Do you think all my ‘gay guys’ are ’super fun’?
Do you like to karaoke?
Do you ‘break all the rules’?
Do you see the homeless and think poverty?
Do you go to the ‘Grocery Outlet’ and think ‘almost homeless’?
Do you procrastinate because ‘it feels good,’ you were partying too hard,’ and/or ‘whatever’?
Do you want to drink 40s and ‘enjoy the view’?
Do you want to dance Friday nite?
Do you have some ‘new ideas’ that aren’t bullshit?
Do you think my ‘personal brand’ is authentic?
Do you take my clothes off with your eyes when I talk about existential literature?
Do you take my clothes off with your eyes when I talk?
Do you think Catholic school girls are ‘extra bad’?
Do you think it’s hot I wear ‘real fur’?
Do you think vegetarians taste better?
Do you think I have the best tits you’ve ever seen?
Do you want to rub my feet after I’ve been ‘running through your mind all day’?
Do you like to ‘txt dirty’?
Do you like it when I call you ‘my wild stallion’ and/or ‘my stud muffin’ (in public)?
Do you want to help me with my zipper?
Do you want to ‘take shots and get vulnerable’?
Do you want to take e and snuggle?
Do you want to snuggle with my cat while I watch?
Do you have the muscles to open this jar for me?
Do you want to help me find my keys?
Do you want to stay for brunch?
Do you like omelets?
Do you enjoy Masterpiece Theatre and/or Antiques Roadshow?
Do you promise to never go bald?
Did I think you were gay when we first met?
Did you use it to your advantage?
Do you love my blog?
Do you miss me already?
Do you have questions for me?
50 : You are my dream man! Lets get 1-way tickets to Vegas. We can get married. I’ll work in a cabaret, and you can be a professional gambler.
40-50 : We could have a deep, meaningful LTR.
30-40 : We can have a deep, meaningful STR.
20-30 : We can hook up a lot with NSA.
10-20 : Wait till I’m drunk to make a move.
0-10 : I should be blackout drunk and/or I took too many Quaaludes if ‘anything’ is going to happen between us.
