Not Your Erotic, Not Your Exotic.

One of my best friends called me on Sunday morning, telling me about how she'd just been Clementined.


You'd only understand if you've seen Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Some guy had been altering his whole being in order to be more "suitable" to pursue her (like Elijah Wood). This included going to poetry readings, making mixed CDs for her on Valentine's Day, coming to visit her frequently, and basically just trying to be that off-kilter guy that a girl drops her panties for without hesitation because he's "so different." Well, he wasn't different. He admitted to doing a list of things simply to see if he could fuck her. He was the same, he was perfectly ordinary, as we all are. He just assigned her some unnecessary mental label of "unattainable," and made it his conquest to deceive and defeat her. He was like the physical embodiment of a slant rhyme. Ugh.

My friend is not some artsy, tatted up weird chick who's going to change your life forever. I'd be lying if I said that was true, just as it'd be lying to to pursue her on these fabricated pretenses. She is wonderful, but not a mission to be conquered. If you aren't someone's type, the proper thing to do would be skidaddling on to find someone more compatible.

I'm tired of people lying; I'm tired of people being so concerned with how things seem. Fuck guys who are just out to secure some exotic arm candy. On a related note, I hate being told that my heritage makes me somehow more desirable or attractive. I'm not some erotic geisha girl who's going to expand and feng shui the fuck out of your mind. I'm normal. We're all normal. We all fart. We all have funknasty morning breath. We all are in search of someone who compliments us well; dishonesty is not the way to achieve that.

My Little Digital Diary.

"Dana we need to meet and talk. Because you are obviously taking me for a joke. I have too much shit going on for you to be fucking up my appearance and career. Whatever issues you have with me personally we need to settle it now. You are taking advantage of my cool. I don't appreciate it. And I swear on my mother's grave I'm not playing this time Dana."

I don't understand why a person, who never read my blog while we were together, would start after expressing that he "has no desire to know me anymore." So, after I let him in on the fact that his opinion is literally equivalent to the nasty hair on my big toe, he tells me that he's "honored" that I'm still writing about him (congratulations, another one!), and that I can keep on writing in my "little digital diary." As if I needed his permission. Teehee.

I love my little digital diary. Love affairs with fuckboys are ephemeral; my love affair with writing is eternal. I've literally kept a diary since I was eight or nine years old.

April 18, 2000
Today Jarel called. Me, him and Jonathan were on 3-way. Jonathan said I don't act sophisticated. Jon called Ronald. We pretended like it was only Jarel on the phone.

I also went through a dumb and slightly awkward Harriet the Spy phase. You know, jotting down irrelevant observations to try to solve some irrelevant mystery that probably never existed in the first place. I still have all of my diaries on my bookself -- Hello Kitty, marble composition books, Where The Wild Things Are, you name it. Through the power of Al Gore (or whoever invented the internet, ha) I can now digitize and share my future embarrassment. The bottom line is, if I think it, I'll write it -- no matter how childish or revealing. It's just who and how I am. To quote the bad bitch Gloria Steinem, "Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else." Blogging about these things helps me to see with an unbiased eye just how ridiculous and silly it really is. Writing is an unmatched therapy. To quote gerbil-faced T.I., this shit is "my life, your entertainment." To quote a lovely lady who shares my sentiments about "fake ass people" who deceive casually and deliberately, "eff him and his ugly gf who wears sweaters from Kohls."

I put a hit counter on here before I left for work at 3 p.m. It's reached 73 since then. I guess more people than I realize are catching wind of my little digital diary.

True Life: I'm A Bitch.

I never realized how much of a bitch I was until this week. Everything irritates me. I have a snappy rebuttal for anything thrown my way. I desire to cut people the fuck up with my words. I think I used to be timid. I think I used to be afraid of confrontation. But now I exercise the right to reciprocate the emotional distress placed upon me by people who stupidly think I will not retaliate. But why? Why am I a bitch? And is it a bad thing?

I have so many friends that are almost disgustingly sweet, that have not a malicious bone in their size 2, doily-trimmed bodies. These are females who would never even consider slapping a guy, calling him a pussy, and snapping his phone in half. These are the females that would come to me, upset about their romantic circumstance and being continuously trampled over by inconsiderate guys, and rejoice like a retarded kid at a carnival as I regale them with verbal demolishment of said fellow. I am not so different from these girls. I can be, and usually am, sweet as a pea and cute as a button. But, I've learned, that my preferred method of "building a bridge and getting the fuck over it," is BITCHINESS. There is nothing quite like brazenly letting an ex-boyfriend know, not only that it's not cool to lead me on for months of my precious life, be a hypocrite and a liar (Break-up reasoning: "I don't want a girlfriend." Valentine's Day: new girlfriend), but also that he exhibits qualities of a closeted homosexual and has definitely done the reverse-Beyoncé ("Partna Partna Partna Let me downgrade U").

My ex-boyfriend pulls this shit, and then has the nerve to tell me that I'll "probably write a blog about it to try to solve my unhappiness or frustration," like "heroin." Heroin? Well, HERE IT IS, and thank your lucky gay stars it wasn't worse than this. Bitch KNOWS I'm the ghetto Asian Carrie Bradshaw. Deal with it. If writing is my drug, so be it. That goes for anyone who may be upset or displeased with what I'm writing. It's my opinion, and if it pertains to you, either accept or deflect.

Yes, I'm a bitch. I've never felt so bitchy. But at least this heroin-blog-fix helped me out with what really took a toll on me emotionally. I'd rather rant and rave via blog than have to pull a Jazmin Sullivan on someone's ass. Because believe me, I would (if only your ass had a car).

Sexual Je Ne Sais BLAH.

There are some guys you can't keep your hands off of when you're alone. In public, even. The type of guy who you can't sleep next to without some funny business going down. Funny business GOING DOWN. Then there are the guys who you never imagine yourself even kissing, until it happens. It's fine for the time your lips are locked, but you don't dream about it. You don't long for it or twist around in your seat like a baby monkey when you think about it. These are matters of physical passion, something complimentary to, but not necessitated by, romantic attraction.

It is perfectly feasible to have mad hatter, puncture-your-bladder, "make the booty fat"ter ("Oochie Wally" haha) sex, and still have an intellectual and emotional connection. Feasible, yet rare. Good sex is so powerful, it has the ability to pimpslap other factors down to the wayside. The way, way, wayside. A lot of times, sooner than you realize, the sex overpowers you. It becomes you. Nothing else matters. Then it turns to "sex with a side of conversation" rather than it being the other way around. It is dangerous. It is, as someone I know put it, "like trespassing on God's lawn."

But what about romantic endeavors forged via truly platonic friendships? You know, the guy you can smoke with, tell your embarrassing stories to, and laugh with, without worrying about him slipping one or two of his fingers up your vagina when you're not paying attention. There isn't the initial "it" factor, the "spark" that lights your nether regions on fire, the demon that turns you into some crying, screaming, sex-crazed maniac (an exaggeration, but...). In this case, it's "conversation with a side of sex." There's absolutely nothing wrong with this, and what goes on upstairs is far more important than what goes on downstairs, but there's a concealed wildebeest raging within. The scary, unfed monster that has missed its daily dose of carnal, savage, slobber-inducing, borderline-disrespectful sexual relations.

There is some undeniable allure about doing the things you know you shouldn't. Skipping class, eating sweets before dinner (when you're like SEVEN, that is), telling some guy you're pregnant just because you want to fuck with his head (KIDDING...or am I?). But when it comes to matters of the heart and head, there's no hall monitor to catch you skipping, no parent to swat your hand away from grabbing that piece of candy... no repercussions besides the ones you almost always knowingly induce upon yourself.

Dana The Dionysian.

To quote myself, from almost a year ago:

"A Scrabble guru once told me about my internal struggle: practicality vs. dreams, common sense vs. intuition, intelligence vs. feeling, reason vs. passion, the Apollonian vs. the Dionysian.

The latter options of those pairs have always taken precedence in my life, maybe out of some self-imposed rebellion... I just don't want to do what's "expected" of me. I can't live my life according to some social standard laid out for me by "the man". WHAT MAN? His meat must be little because he SURE is overcompensating with these subliminal commands and shit. Power trip. Chill out, dude. Basically, the whole "normality" thing - can't get jiggy wit it. I want to be the free-spirited hot dog vendor who dances for loose change and writes romance novels at night. Not literally, of course. I can't get down with the Condoleezza, the Wall Street Journal, the "Price Waterhouse Cooper, Dana speaking, yes sir, no sir, Mr. Kensington is in a meeting, can I take a message?"

In relationships, I've been DOGGED, but I still became the excited little PUPPY, tail wagging, with each new potential romantic endeavor. I used to dive head first into the kiddie pool. Shattered spinal columns never phased me, because the water was just fine.

And this is what I used to pride myself on - lackadaisical, borderline-reckless spontaneity. But I think I'm changing.

Today I got unreasonably upset that I got a 92 on my math test. Sometimes I even catch myself studying and doing homework. And I am in the presence of a what could easily be a wonderful boyfriend, but I am systematically analyzing and evaluating the consequences of letting that happen. Eww. Who am I?

Someone's hurt me and made me scared to fail. These fresh wounds serve contradicting purposes - on one hand, they remind me that I PROBABLY can't do ANY worse. On the other hand, they frighten me at the prospect that I possibly CAN, that even this something amazing could possibly go to shit, as so many other things have gone...

I'm trying to cradle myself in the safety of these "social norms" I'm supposed to detest. When have I ever waited to start a relationship? When did I cease to seize the day? Dude!

I want to (non-clichély) "love like I've never been hurt", but it's feeling all too impossible - and I don't even use that word. Demolishing that slutty Build-a-Bear didn't even put my mind completely at rest. Am I capable of moving on, or will I just fuck shit up? Wow. My heart and my mind are playing tug-of-war, and for once, my heart is NOT kicking ass. "Reason" is trumping passion, and I have no idea how to swat it away..."

The REAL Real World: Dorm Life.

I walk into my dorm today, to see this by the trash can.


Disregarding the risk of bacterial meningitis and having to wear flip-flops in the shower, I think there are many beneficial aspects to the dormitory life. You learn to deal with many different personalities, behaviors, and maybe even become immune to some of your pre-existing pet peeves. Last year, living in a traditional dormitory with like fifty girls in one hall, I never had someone to specifically blame for the clumps of hair in the shower, or the overflowing trash cans in the hall. People would put up signs, because it was the only way to directly address the actions you couldn't assign to any one person or people in particular. However, this year I live in a suite of only five girls, and have more signs and Post-its up than I ever had to deal with last year in a hall of dozens of tampon-slinging, bodywash-stealing, dirty ass mo-fo's.

What is the appeal of passive aggressiveness? Is it less scary? Is it harder to talk to someone you know by name, and ask them to to tidy up a bit, than to write a slew of notes to litter the living room and bathroom with? Everyone needs regulations, but who wants to be assigned rules by their peers, especially when there is no direct consequence? All I know is I won't be picking other people's hair out of a shower drain, especially when I rarely utilize that shower for washing my own hair. I take care of myself, and it might not be in a way people like, but that's the beauty of individuality. You can literally bite me if you don't like it. Sink your teeth deep into my apathetic flesh.

Birthday Hubbub.

I'm twenty! My birthday was on Friday. Goodbye to teenage angst. I had the best party I could have ever imagined. There was nothing particularly special about it, but I had good food, drinks, and friends. That's all I can really ask for, anyway. I don't need an influx of loud, obnoxious acquaintances and fifty million greeting cards. I was disappointed a little, though, because one of my best friends never showed up and didn't answer her phone. Also, the same thing happened with my semi-ex-boyfriend. The most minuscule thing can change an entire plot of our story, because the script is scribble. Am I wrong for being more upset at him for not showing up, than I am that my other friend didn't? Am I being bitter when my mind automatically thinks back to a couple weeks ago, when he was an ass to me but I still bought him a really nice birthday gift? We were "fighting," so he didn't even invite me to do anything for his birthday. I get past shit too easily, knowing resentment grows in my heart, and that the only thing I should be "getting past" is detrimental (non)relationships.

I hate ex-boyfriends that you mentally, and subsequently, physically, are seemingly never over with. They're an obstruction, a headache -- what can I compare it to? A roadblock. Oh no, sorry, a cockblock. Yeah, that's what it is. "Moving on" is a tricky situation when you've found a comfort zone and are too lazy to do any moving. There's nothing wrong with wanting to stick with something tried and true (semi-true), but there is impending danger lurking everywhere in such a situation. "I want to only be with you, but not in a relationship." This is effectively laying claims on someone and pissing all over them to mark your territory. But, not officially. You'll just smell like someone else's piss for nothing in return. Well, I've decided that I am going to smell like nobody's funky piss.

How can you ever find out what's better for you than what you know, if you are suffering from some sort of romance paralysis? Of course, this whole post is just an echo of shit I've already stated, perhaps over and over again, but it just means that I mean business. Or, I very badly want to mean business. Age twenty should bring some sort of spine, right?