Filed under: at the warehouse/show/party | Tags: assholes, Friday nite, Whole Foods, Francis, Oakland, fat chicks, shitty party, epic
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: love, fashion, dream man, QUIZ, yes/no, LTR, STR, NSA, art, music
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.
Filed under: bitches, true love | Tags: cheap thrills, Jake Pavelka, reality tv, The Bachelor, true love
I watched The Bachelor tonite, like every other Monday nite. It is a true story about finding true love via reality tv. The Bachelor is Jake, a 32 year old pilot from Denton, Texas. He wears a uniform, and he is looking to ride the wings of love. A bunch of crazy bitches are fighting to win his heart, but there is only one girl for him. Today, there were only five girls left, and they all made out with him, and they all said “I really think I’m falling for you.” But Jake had to eliminate one of them, so he got rid of the virgin, because she was an uptight prude.
As they drove her to the airport in a limo, she cried. She talked about how she thought he could have been the one; she blamed the scheming other girls for talking shit about her. If thing were different, she thought, he would have been all up on her like cat hair on a lint roller. But Jake followed his heart, he always does, srsly, this reality tv is for true love, not cheap thrills.
On this blog, I want to take risks and blog about bachelors I may not normally date.
Filed under: at the bar, making out | Tags: bar, beer, first move, Friday, hot guys, intoxicated, making fun, making out, TGIF, whiskey
It might be another rainy Friday nite, but we are unhindered by the necessity of umbrellas. The most amazing people I know are my friends and Friday nite is our chance to be together again. We waited all week, working, studying, dealing with goals, ambitions, and obligations, dreaming of Friday. Now here it is. We are at the bar, drinking beer, taking shots of whiskey, and looking around at everyone else. We judge everything about them–their friends, their shoes, their hair, and their drink of choice. The bottom line is, who’s hot?
“Point him out to me, but not with your finger.”
“12 o’clock, right behind you, he’s drinking a Tecate; he’s wearing a plaid shirt.”
“I don’t see him.”
“He just scratched his head.”
“Oh, that guy. I think he lives with this guy John that Laura slept with.”
It’s 2010, and we ladies still won’t make the first move. I’m sorry, boys. The times may be changing; I might put out on the first date, but I can’t approach a stone fox when I see him. Maybe I’m falling behind the times, but I know I’m not alone. Countless women shave their legs on Friday nites, put on a pair of heels, and have too much to drink. It is a feminine ritual. We are waiting, anticipating, quite often ignoring eligible bachelors, and somehow hoping that the man of our dreams (or someone really attractive) is going to buy our next drink (or sit/stand next to us). This is our fantasy world, and we’re sticking to it. And then maybe after he’s asked if I come here often, we’ll discuss what we do M-F, where we’re from, how we got here, something witty, something anecdotal, something silly, and then maybe we’ll makeout or I’ll give him my number. Or maybe not.
Filed under: Holidays, love | Tags: arrow, Cupid, Jack Daniel's, man of my dreams, Valentine, Valentine's Day
I am waiting for your arrows, one for me, and one for the man of my dreams. You have less than a month to make this happen. Otherwise, I will be Valentineless. And once again, I will be scouring the streets of San Francisco at 1 AM, looking for someone to makeout with. It would be nice if, for once, I could approach this holiday prepared, not with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but with a dashing, dapper devil who is all up on me like hot fudge on an ice cream sunday. It would also be nice if he had a winning smile, adorable dimples, a smorgasbord of witty banter, a plethora of useless knowledge about fascinating things, a knack for fashion, a villa in every exotic country, a private jet, and a pocket full of diamonds, but I will be flexible with the latter three items.
But most importantly he will know how to make me laugh, how to tug at my heart strings, how to get along with my friends, and how to be cheesy (romantic). He will be impressive with his accomplishments and inspire me to accomplish more. He will tell me stories about adventures I wish I could have been apart of. He will slip sentimental doodles and notes in my pockets. He will help little old ladies get off the bus and give directions to lost tourists. He will remember I like crunchy peanut butter best and my coffee with a splash of milk and no sugar. He will be my shoulder to cry on, my arm candy, my sweetheart, my knight in shining armor, my prince charming, my barrel of laughs, and my big spoon. So Cupid, as a belated birthday present, please make this happen.
Filed under: at the bar, texting | Tags: dancing, drinking, free drinks, fuck off, gay bars, making out, stalkers, texting
There was a blip of darkness on one atypical Monday nite at 3 AM. After a nite of gay bars and lots of gay men and lots of free drinks, we were back on the street. During the fifteen minute walk home, my arm was linked with a deceivingly straight man that my dear friend West wanted to take home with him. I was supposed to help him seduce him, or something; I don’t remember the plan. There probably wasn’t one. But then I remember my back against a red-brick wall, his arm around my waist, and his lips on my neck. So I let it happen, and it felt like a refreshing mint of heterosexual desire after a nite of gallivanting with the gays. And I wish this was the end of the story.
But somehow while me and this very friendly passerby decided it was late and we needed to part ways, I gave him my number. Big mistake. He called to ask me out several times. I never responded. He texted. I never responded. He texted about why I wasn’t responding. Asking if I “felt guilty about what happened.” I never responded. And then something horrible happened. I saw him at a bar. He was there with a girl. I kept out of his line of sight for half an hour until the two of them left. Three hours later, last call is about to happen, we are at another bar, and he shows up, alone. He catches my eye, smiles confidently and walks over, and proceeds to say, “Hey, I hope your nites been better than mine, because mine has been really lousy. Take care.” And with that, he squeezed my shoulder and walked away.
The next evening, it is Saturday nite. Leslie Mac and I don’t know what to do. We decide to go to the same bar. I think it was foreshadowing when Leslie said, “Who goes to the same bar two nites in a row?” Clearly, lots of people. We are drinking and dancing and having fun when he walks up to me again and says, “I really had fun with you that nite, and I’d really like to get to know you better, but no pressure, I’ll be standing there by the bar if you want to come over and talk.” That nite he is referring to was by then six weeks ago. And then he watched me like a hawk while I was trying to enjoy a good ol’ twist and shout on the dance floor. And then he came up to one of my friends and said I was a “really amazing woman.” The next day, he sent me a text: “Hey, how have you been? You looked really sad last night.” I just find it far too overt to say, “I was sad because you were staring at me like a hawk. Fuck off!”
Filed under: at the warehouse/show/party, making out | Tags: blow, New Years Eve, rain, routines, snow, the kiss
It was 7 minutes till midnite, so I acted quick. As loud as I could, I proclaimed over the party crowd, “Raise your hand if you want to makeout with me at midnite!” I had a few options, but I was uncomfortable with all the choices except for one, my friend Vanessa. Out of pure, platonic, girl-on-girl, appreciation love, the clock struck midnite and I got red lipstick all over her face as other gentleman callers looked on coveting our new years affection.
By 1 AM, there was a heated sense of urgent desperation among the eligible bachelors in the room.
“You remind me of this rare South American bird.” He gave the Latin name for it and proceeded to pull-up a photo of this red and green mystical creature on his iPhone. It was a red and green drawing of a dragon. “So I remind you of a Christmas dragon?” While this conversation was happening, his friend was leaning forward blowing on my neck. “Are you trying to get my attention?” He said, “No, why would you think that?” Seeing as they were friends, they followed similar routines: thee old arm-around-the-waist-from-behind-while-you-are-dancing-with-your-friends trick. Which I responded to with I-am-walking-away-please-don’t-follow me trick, in vain. When it rains men, it pours men… little indistinguishably identical droplets. When it snows, every snowfake is unique. If only it would snow men.
Filed under: Holidays | Tags: Christmas, consumerism, holiday sweaters, Holidays, ice skating, My First Earthquake, north pole, secret santa, shopping
We could stay in tonite, watch Home Alone I and II, drink hot toddies, and share a cozy fleece lap blanket. But instead you suggest we go ice skating downtown, so we do. We put on our thrift store holiday sweaters, scarves, hats, and gloves, and we set out for the cold nite, warm in each other’s arms. We wait in line patiently as moms and dads bundle up their anxiously excited children. We smile at them, wish them happy holidays, and tell them how cute their kids are. Once we are on the ice, we hold hands, you spin me around, and we fall over over and over again, giggling. I can see your breath in the still cold air; it makes me want to kiss you. If we could be fat together, we could rule the North Pole.
Sometimes we ponder about the consumerism of Christmas, but we agree in the consequentialist approach that the ends justify the means, and maybe it’s not so bad to give and get presents, drink, be merry, get paid vacation days, makeout under mistletoe, and drink mulled wine. It’s been the first time we’ve gone to the mall in a year. There are bright lights, ornaments, sale signs, and Christmas music everywhere. We think about posing for a picture with Santa together, but the line is too long. So instead I say, “You’re all the santa I need.” And you say, “Ho ho ho. Come here little girl. Come sit on my lap.”
Filed under: love, luv | Tags: 6th grade, adrenaline rush, crush, crushing, day dreaming
It was 6th grade; elementary school was over; I was 11 years old, and for the first time in my life, a boy in my class made me feel really nervous. His name was Ben. He was really into his mid-90’s haircut–parted down the front and shaved on the sides, skateboarding, and Nirvana. I wanted to doodle his name all over my notebooks, but he sat in front of me in class, so I couldn’t do that. I asked my parents for a skateboard for my birthday to impress him, but I was just awful at it. Sometimes, in between class, we would chat about grunge rock and ‘real’ punk. I made him the first mixtape I ever made a boy, but I never gave it to him.
He was my first secret crush, and the thought of him occupied the private tropical island in the back of my mind reserved exclusively for daydream vacations. While I’ve never been one for extreme sports, I seem to have always been addicted to the adrenaline rush of a crush, a surreally pleasant way to be distracted from the rugged emptiness of flavorless lovers and the humdrum placid day to day. Because a crush is hand picked, like fruit for its aesthetic appeal…
