Attack of the Kohls Sweater.

"Disclaimer: I have thought long and hard about whether or not I would ever say anything to you. I hope that you'll read this with an open mind, but most importantly an open heart. If you so feel the need to copy and paste certain parts of this into one of your blogs that I've heard so much about and make fun of me or whatever you choose to do, then so be it. I will take that chance along with the chance that you might finally understand.

I want you to know that I am not writing this for Julian's sake. Actually, he will be pretty upset when he finds out that I wrote to you, but I am writing it for my sake and for yours. I don't know you, so I'm not going to pretend like I do. I only know one side of the story. But I do know Julian. I know him better than anyone else on this earth, including his own mother. I know that he is so damn proud that he will run from the very thing that he wants more than anything else in order to simply avoid ever being wrong or tricked into something awful. And this is exactly what happened.

I completely understand why you would be angry with him. He ended things inappropriately with you, to say the least. But it wasn't entirely his fault. We have a very long and complicated history, and I came back into his life right around the time ya'll became serious, for a lack of better words. I want you to know that he truly did feel awful. He did care about your feelings because you were someone who he cared about. For a long time, if we were on the phone and you called, I would tell him to talk to you. I had been there before, and I thought that you deserved that. You don't know me. But I am a nice person. I am a genuine, good-hearted person. I am also genuinely in love with Julian, as he is with me. You can take this and get mad about it and resent him or me, or you can finally let yourself have understanding. If you really care for him and love him, as I believe you do or at least did, then deep down you want him to be happy. I make him happier than anyone else ever could, and you cannot help that.

Now, I'm not going to pretend like I'm not angry with either of you. You both knew what you were doing, you both knew it was wrong, you both were obligated to other people, but you both were also hurting (for different reasons, obviously). So, I get it, but I am still angry and hurt. Those choices and actions will inevitably only cause you more pain which I'm sure you have already found out. Still, I'm writing this with hope. I truly think that you care about my boyfriend, which means you are not completely heartless. But, I need you to let go. From one woman to another, home-wrecking is not okay, and you know that. All women do. It's in our nature to despise those who wreck relationships and I'd be willing to bet you don't truly want to be one of those despised women. I know that he loves me and that he will do whatever he can to make this up to me. You will no longer be a part of his life. And as much as I should hate you and not care about your feelings, I do in fact feel sorry for you. I have been in your exact position before. So, I sympathize with the fact that you will have to hurt. But I hope that instead of choosing to hold anger and resentment in your heart, you will realize that there was and is nothing else that you can do to make him come back to you. It's not your fault. I'm a firm believer in the fact that we each have one person on this earth that we are meant to be with. I met mine when I was 15 years old, and unfortunately for you, his name was Julian Barnes.

I truly hope that I didn't write all of this in vain. But, as I said, I will take that risk. Please just leave us alone. Don't let yourself turn into the person you're becoming. You will find someone who makes you happy, but you need to finally realize that that person never really was, is not now, and never will be Julian.

Although, the both of you together managed to destroy a very significant part of my life, I still refuse to let him go. I promise you that if you decide to still be a nuisance in my life, you will regret it. Because of you, I have learned to never underestimate the power of a hurt and bitter woman. But you need to learn to never underestimate the power of a hurt woman in love. I will be relentless if I have to be.

There really is no need for you to respond, but if it would make you feel better to say something, then please feel free to do so.

But after that, I am going to block you out of my life, and trust that the both of us will make sure that there is no way for you to communicate with either of us. I gave you a chance to still maintain some sort of friendship with him, but you chose to take it too far, and now you'll have to deal with the consequences.

That's pretty much all I had to say.
Thanks.
-Alex"

Don't Dumb It Down.

With the new semester just beginning, a lot of us will be picking up a book for the first time in months. I want to gag at the thought. It's an epidemic of literary lethargy. Yesterday my best friend told me that one of the things she likes about me is that I "put her on to reading." You go girl.

I used to be addicted to Babysitter's Club books, then the Dear America series, then I graduated to the Teen fiction shelves at Barnes and Noble, and now the possibilities don't end (especially now that I work there). I remember bringing Little Women to class in first grade to read as we waited at dismissal. I didn't understand it at all. It was just to show off.

I suppose one of my inadvertent goals with my writing is to escalate literary interest amongst my peers who have settled in a rut of reading only Zane, or even worse, nothing at all. I suppose that reading my garbage is better than reading no garbage at all. I've heard so many times, casually, "I don't read." Do people realize what they close themselves off to by saying they don't engage in leisurely reading? I believe these are the people who think that Oprah is a character in Toni Morrison's Beloved, and that The Coldest Winter Ever is brilliant.

Am I supposed to start a literary revolution? Fuck that, I'm not going to be the architect who designs that movement. I just want to sit back and watch my surroundings move in the direction they please. I'll grow increasingly disheartened while reading my snobby Nabokov, as my peers eat UTZ hot chips and watch the movie version of every great novel written. People have grown so comfortable with announcing their complete disinterest in reading. Reading really is fundamental. At least maybe it will teach you the difference between "brought" and "bought," that "irregardless" and "conversate" are not words, and that for each word you overplay in your vocabulary, there are masses of synonyms.

I feel pretentious for saying all of this, but it's been on my mind. Don't let your brain turn to jelly. Exercise the powers of your literacy that some people don't have. Read a motherfucking book. Thanks.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlKL_EpnSp8

"They told me I should come down cousin, but I flatly refused, I ain't dumb down nothing."

Glued At The Genitals.

The bunny rabbit phase is virtually inescapable. Most often, the beginning stages of a relationship leave two lovebirds attached at the loins, like they're magnetized. Time and unfavorable situations (also known as drama) usually demagnetize those thangs, but not before circumstances get all twisted up beyond recognition.

It takes a while for the smoke to clear, for your vision to de-cloud and land on 20/20 ground again, and the rose-colored glasses usually weigh heavy on your face and slip off. Real desires extending beyond the libido are highlighted. Often times when our bodies are pleased, we neglect to realize that other aspects of our romantic lives are existing unfulfilled. Even imperfect lovers seek someone who is adamant about fidelity, both in principle and in practice. We need stability, which we come across after trust has been formed. Trust takes time, and can be shattered instantly. Sometimes we would rather not know something that hurts us, than be wounded by the truth.

It's not uncommon for young lovers, mostly females, to assuage their internal concerns with sexual satisfaction. Good dick seems to be good enough compensation for suspicions that probably can be validated with enough effort (i.e. snooping or other "OD" things that crazed and "crazy" girlfriends are brought to). What do you say when you think someone is cheating? What can you say when you have a feeling that something isn't right, and that physical chemistry is masking these problems?

Remember that dumb ass song "I Don't Wanna Know" by Mario Winans? He makes a good point, when it comes to affairs of the heart as opposed to the brain. Sometimes the fumes from being glued at the genitals seem to deplete the brain cells associated with common sense.

Real Chance of Smut.

Reality television may be virtual cotton candy and Baconators for the brain, the pinnacle of mind-rotting entertainment of today's day and age, but nothing compares to reality dating shows - in terms of ridiculousness, trashiness, and (contradictorily) UNrealistic behavior. But the big question is: which is the most ridiculous, the most trashy, the most DEMEANING? Here are the top three contenders:

(Disclaimer: I am well aware that 97% of these shows are staged and/or fictitious.)

Real Chance of Love

This shit personifies the all-purpose axiom "Bros Before Hoes." The first episode is definitely the most demeaning, the one in which all the skanks scramble to be chosen by the brother of their choice - or their second choice if need be. Chance is disrespectful enough on his own, as if the weird ass challenges don't make it bad enough. There is literally no limit to the girls' sexploitation of themselves on this show. They even got tattoos. And Chance didn't even pick anyone. Ha.

Paris Hilton's My New BFF

Although this technically isn't a dating show, the contestants suck Paris' dick enough for it to be considered one. They all "love" her, and make it well-known. When does admiration of a celebrity transcend into the love embodied in an honest friendship? What did they admire about her in the first place, that compelled them to take off months from work to compete for her frail, no-assed BFFship? Was it her limp fish sex tape? Her drab, monotone, "That's Hot" voice? She calls her potential BFFs "pets," does no one find anything wrong about that? How about the way she sits at an awkward distance during eliminations, with a tiara on her peanut head? It screams "I'm better than you, I just need someone to give me pedicures and make me peanut butter crackers." Paris passes judgment on every single one of these girls (and gays), nit-picking through a crop of desperate losers to weed out her optimal new BFF. Nicole Ritchie was the only bitch Paris was really meant to be with. Too bad Nicole has babies galore to worry about now.

Flavor Of Love 1, 2, and 3/I Love New York 1 and 2

The things these motherfuckers endured for a chance to be with some of God's ugliest designs. Tsk. Tsk. Every kiss on any of these five shows killed me slowly. And painfully.

All Hail Homophobia?

It's been months, maybe years, since I have gone a day without hearing "no homo." It's become second nature to heterosexual men, and even women, to ensure that nothing about their statements are taken to be GAY.

I went to see Bruno recently, and although pretty much everything Sasha Baron Cohen did was over the top, I recognized his goal in certain parts of the movie. He did a pretty good job of revealing the hatred and discrimination in ordinary people. Don't get me wrong, it was gross of him to eat an invisible ass, but take the wrestling scene into consideration. An entire crowd of people went bananas when Bruno, as a wrestler, started doing gay shit with the other guy. Slurs were shouted and shit was thrown like it was nothing. It was like these people's first instinct to try to harm anything moving that showed signs of homosexuality. Bruno's gay antics even caused person after person to walk out of the theater, and presumably get their money back.

The hatred is hypocritical though - try to envision the same scene with two attractive women. No chairs would whiz past their heads as they made out with each other. Shouts of "FAG" would be replaced by horny hooplah. Women are sexed up in the lesbian community, whereas gay men are mostly shunned, or turned into some sort of comic relief a la B. Scott on YouTube.

No straight guy I know would admit to liking the movie Brokeback Mountain, even if it was a legitimate love story. But there's absolutely nothing wrong in liking Wild Things.

We don't want to recognize gayness. We try our best not to acknowledge it. It's still considered "unnatural" and "wrong" by a lot of people, despite its lack of malevolence. Very rarely does a person's sexual life and preferences speak to their character, straight or gay. The gay community continues to get the short end of many sticks, most notably when it comes to marriage. It would make too many people upset and uncomfortable, but why?

The Last Will and Testament of a Cynical Bitch.

Every connection begins with an attraction, whether it be to humor, personality, shoes, or the fact that someone is the sexiest light-skinned swag-surfing motherfucker you've ever seen in the club.

Like ballroom dancing, someone always has to lead. Someone has to be more "pressed" than his or her counterpart. And like Saw I, II, III, IV, and V, games MUST be played. We play on the attractions we experience - flirting a little too hard by making joke after joke, spending hours to get ready just to make your sexiness seem effortless, getting involved in a subject you know your mate is passionate about, and the list goes on. Games are played whether we intend to play them or not, because partaking in these games is the only way we know how to define the delicate balance between being a "loser" and being a "winner" in potentially romantic situations, not realizing that there is no legitimate competition to win or lose at in the first place.

We've become so acclimated to playing games that many of us don't know a relationship without them. Think about the dumb things we do: text other people some eyebrow-raising shit and then "delete" with the swiftness to cover our tracks, search through your significant other's phone to unearth some dirt that you want to catch them in before they catch you, give certain degrees of the silent treatment to forge some impromptu game of tug-of-war in which you try to alter the amount given and received as far as the relationship goes, and again, the list goes on. Amidst all these games, we've forgotten how to have healthy relationships - and that's if we ever knew how to in the first place. We're too busy arguing about irrelevant issues, focusing on menial facts, and manipulating situations to work out preferably to us, that we neglect to nurture what may be the seeds to some fruitful union. Yeah, I know it sounds gay, but it's only because we've thickened our skin and become immune to this thing old people refer to as "romance." It does exist, but in vastly tainted quantities.

We must revive our appreciation of one another. Everyone has flaws, but the primary fatal flaw is failing to treat one's partner as if they are indispensable. In life, as we grow up, there aren't any people we literally need to survive, but plenty that are conducive to our happiness. The person that provides that happiness in a fashion that is exclusively catered to you, is someone worth keeping around. The guy or girl who lies, cheats, and plays around, all while claiming they possess this need or love for you, is a phony version, a Coach bag with G's instead of C's.

I'm half bad-ass, half scaredy-cat. I can barely tread water, but I'll go in 8 feet with just a skimp ass floatie. When someone comes along and coaxes me into releasing that floatie, I no longer have control. Whether or not I drown is entirely dependent on the way HE feels. And boys have proven to me that 9 times out of 10, for them, emotions are optional. There is some elusive on/off switch that seems to exist solely in the minds and hearts of the penised persuasion. I want to believe in the Cinderella story, and therefore tend to squint my eyes at times in order to skew my vision of a non-Prince Charming.

I feel like I never meet anyone remotely close to being my idea of a suitable mate. The few times I do get excited, my levels of GLEE are inevitably slaughtered by buckets upon buckets of buffoonery and disappointment. It's rare that I develop a bond with a guy that is all at once strong, undeniable, and in a position to thrive and flourish. It's hard to keep a chokehold on my hope, so it occasionally escapes the grasp of my better judgment, and I get all happy and hopeful over some motherfucker that doesn't deserve two milliseconds of daydream time from me. Sexy light-skinned bun in the club? Yeah, caught my attention, but none of my hyper-puppy-excited-tail-wagging, because in my mind I have it already thought out that he will never be what I actually want in life. He's too busy swooning every half-bad chick in the club to ever really pay me any substantial attention.

So this light-skinned bun has proven himself thus far to be much greater than my expectations, but I still don't want to believe it. He take me to work, folds my clothes and makes my bed, buys me TNT poppers from the liquor store, texts me the entire night as he's at work, yadda yadda yadda, but why don't I believe it's for real? When he tells me we have great chemistry, why do I doubt him, when I feel exactly the same way? Every time we wake and bake, every time we kiss goodbye (which is never "goodbye" for long), every time we laugh hard as shit at something retarded - why do I feel sad, like this is guaranteed to be an uber ephemeral phase in my young "love" life? I want to keep him around, but am surprisingly non-confident in how bad he'd like to keep me around. I know guys are notorious for dropping bitches like a ton of bricks. I only weigh 120. I don't want to meet that fate....again. He tells me to leave the past shit in the past, and I try my darndest to do just that. I want to have regenerated hopes for each new rendezvous. But it's like laptop memory. Over time, with use, it just decreases and decreases.

I like him a lot, and I don't want to be cynical anymore. I can't always live up to the persona of this character I've created for myself. My voice when I write speaks deep down from the bitter, forlorn, heartbroken, angry little Asian girl inside. Whenever I write a note, I get the IMs, the messages, the wall posts - "You have really bad luck with guys." Or, "You meet a lot of jerks." Or even, "I hope one day you'll find someone worthwhile." Of course I exaggerate when I write, but when it comes down to it, my shit actually is really SAD. Sometimes funny, but mostly sad as shit. I don't expect him to be my future husband and/or babydaddy, but maybe just this time I can have a happy ending. At least one that doesn't result in me egging his house.

Misadventures of the Ghetto Asian Carrie Bradshaw.

Just recently, I was at Bess' house with Marianna, Erin, and Christina, watching Season 2 of Sex and the City (great season). The episode "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" was all about Carrie, her break-up, and going out with "the new Yankee," only to see Big at the bar, and cry into the Yankee's mouth when they kissed. "Rule One: Never stop thinking about your ex, because when you do, that's when you'll see him."

On my break a few days later at Barnes and Noble, I sat down by the magazines to text a few people. A kinda handsome Indian guy sits down next to me and proceeds to tell me how I'm "super cute" and how he would have kicked himself if he didn't come talk to me. As I feign interest, my ex-boyfriend who I have not seen since mid-February, a day after egging his house, walks by. Looking really cute. My ears went deaf(er) to the Indian guy, and all I could do was wave, and realize just how much resentment and unsettled feelings I've still been harboring towards this guy. I got Indian guy's number, dashed away, and like Big made Carrie do, FELL APART.

Crying at work is one of the most awkward things in life, and I've done it a couple of times. It's a great way to leave early, but fuck, I need money. So I pulled myself together. And I've seemed to pull a few other things together in the process. I am, by nature, bitter and cynical. I accept this and even come a few inches shy of embracing it. At least it gives me character.

However, something painfully obvious finally hit me. Hardly anything is worth being mad about anymore. Keeping my eyes glued to the brighter side of things helps me realize that at the very least, my misadventures are funny stories to tell. Bad things happen to good people, and vice versa of course, but dwelling on heartbreaks and misfortunes only leave a bad aftertaste, one that can't be washed away with time, because time is dedicated to these negative thoughts.

So I saw some pictures of my ex and his current girl, and I smiled. How nice, I thought to myself. And I actually meant it.

Life Without Cleavage.

I tighten the straps on my 32A bra so that it stays in place, because my breasts alone do not accomplish that feat. True life: I barely fit into an A cup.

I was talking to my fellow flat-chested friend not too long ago, and found myself telling her, "I wish I had boobs so I could feel like a woman." She shared my pain -- the pain of turning to the side and looking like a poster board, the pain of devising clothing contraptions to keep a strapless bra standing, the pain of making out with a guy and hoping he doesn't grab a handful of padded bra and freak the fuck out. She also shared with me her tales of making out, with the guy reaching up, realizing the mammary gland situation, and immediately moving down to the butt. At least she has a butt, though.

I've felt like a little boy for a large part of my life. I used to pray for boobs. I used to Google ways to increase my breast size. I've pretty much always been at least partially dissatisfied with my mosquito bites.

They were the subject of a tad bit of taunting in middle school. When high school came, no one seemed to care anymore. When I first reached second base at age fifteen, my boyfriend did not flee the scene. He told me he liked them, and so, I did too. Slightly embarrassing that my self-breast-acceptance was dependent on this and subsequent guys who complimented me. They just feel like an inadequacy sometimes disguised with content. My boobs don't jiggle. I can't wear regular triangle bikini tops. I feel like less of a woman around C and D cups, like a little girl posing as a 20-year-old -- like if you open my purse, you'll discover that all I really have in there is Jolly Ranchers and crayons.

I'm pretty sure everyone deals with this self or societally-inflicted form of feeling subpar. Guys who aren't porno worthy in the nether regions probably feel self-conscious every time they pull out a Durex, and not a Magnum XL. Variety makes the world go round, though. My boobs serve a purpose -- to induce small boob appreciation, maybe to debunk your commonly held theory that you are a "boob man," or at the very least, to girl talk with my fellow IBTC members about.

Reasonless Relationships.

My gay BFF has changed. Ever since he's been in a relationship, his phone is permanently attached to either his ear or his hand. The conversations are always the same, too. "You're not making time for me," or talking about the details of some guy one of them used to be involved with, in order to be fully "open" and "communicative" with one another. I don't think their methods are entirely healthy. I think their relationship has changed them, perhaps for the better in some ways, but in a lot of ways for the worse. Who am I to judge, though? From the outside looking in, I can only tell but so much. Ultimately, I am concerned only with their happiness. If my BFF tells me he is happy, I take his word for it, and can only be here for him when and if he decides he is not.

Everybody changes at least a little when they enter a relationship. Compromise is commonplace. However, I have seen some relationships which do nothing but demolish and destroy everything in its path -- relationships that are nothing less than unhealthy and offensive.

My straight ex-BFF now lives in a world only occupied by himself and his controlling Asian girlfriend. He's let it get to a point where she screams at him and throws things at the back of his head as a form of expressing her frustration. She can delegate who can and cannot come to his parties, regardless of what she knows about them in real life, if anything at all. She can, and has, forced him to cut off friendships that existed way before she was ever even an integral part of his life. What's sadder, her behavior, the fact that she thinks it's okay, or the fact that he accepts it?

Why do relationships like this exist? Who can honestly take your love and appreciation for each other seriously when 98% of your interactions are dysfunctional and laced with ill will? Despite judging their relationship from the outside looking in, naturally, their situation speaks for itself. He is losing friend after friend, along with the respect of those who come in contact with him and his hellacious "other half." It makes me sad to think of how he's changed, and how "stuck" he seems to be. Nobody moves until they're forced to. When something seems good, people become complacent. I don't advocate a quitter's mentality, because break-ups are not always the solution. Problems can be ironed out. But when the problems supersede any ounce of goodness in the relationship that once existed, what are you together for?

Philosophy of Kisses & Trees In The Forest.

Rihanna said "kisses don't lie," but who listens to what Rihanna has to say anymore?

Kisses used to mean something. First base wasn't a quick stop on the way to home plate; it was a destination in itself. Swapping saliva was the all-important denotation of true feelings, indicative of "love" or something like it. And then we turned fourteen.

Physical interaction these days has become depreciated. Definitions are hazy, and we tote mixed bags of perceptions on a regular basis. How jaded of Romeos and Juliets are we that a kiss no longer guarantees or means anything? Can we pull a 'Jesus' on butterflies, and resurrect those little rascals that used to flap wildly in our stomachs, at the command of a kiss? Or do we even want to? What's more important: the little things, or the bigger picture? If all roads lead to sex, why not take the shortcut and conserve gas? Have we lost all desire to take the scenic countryside route?

On another note, who are we performing for? When we adjust our actions within sexual relationships to fit within the mold society so conveniently has laid out for us, like that first day of school outfit the night before you begin the third grade, who is it for? If no one knew about what transpired between your satin sheets, would what you choose to do and not do really matter all that much? If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Translation: If you fuck someone you are attracted to, with no intentions of taking it further, and no one knew about it - did it happen?