DANA JEANius

Barbara O'Mary Poetry.

2011-09-27T11:24:00.001-07:00

Outstanding.

Jar Of Hearts.

2011-09-05T17:18:00.001-07:00

Some people are really good at drawing finite lines between the end of one relationship and the beginning of the next. Others prefer to dabble in the blur zone, that god-awful gray area lacking real restrictions, where the faux pas does not exist. This is the relationship twilight zone, a place where anger and jealousy survive, but open communication is curtailed. And so, some of us travel through life collecting hearts in a jar, something like those crazy animal hoarders on A&E. We mean well. We never mean to hurt anyone because we really do care about the people with whom we forge interesting and captivating connections. But in the process of tip-toeing around potentially disappointing one person or the next, we hurt everyone. The lady with 56 cats really does love each cat. That doesn't mean she or the cats have the best living environment, though. The jar of hearts is a precarious, fragile item — and it's like some of us would rather balance it on one finger while riding a unicycle through hoops of flames than to just screw off the lid and release those hearts back into a free habitat.

There is a horribly cliche phrase that goes something like, "An ex is an EX because it's an EXample of what you DON'T want from future relationships." Well, what about the aspects of each relationship that we do wish to keep? The problem with this axiom is that it boils people down to elements, and character traits, instead of viewing each person as a unique individual. Without those less desirable traits, that person wouldn't be that same person with whom you shared laughs, arguments, blankets, and personal pan pizzas. People are not disposable. But at the same time, people are not Pokemon cards. Maintaining friendships and cordial communication with an ex can be therapeutic, but entertaining those lingering feelings can sometimes kill us.

A relationship is ultimately a sacrifice. Dating is like blackjack — we're lucky to get 19 but we really want 21. And when you have 16, do you say "hit me" and risk losing, or stay put because you're scared that this is the best you'll get? Deciding to be with just one person can be scary or beautiful, and it just depends on if you can let go of all the "what if"s and "could be"s to truly give yourself a chance to grow alongside another individual.

Cupid Ain't Stupid.

2011-02-12T20:35:00.001-08:00

Valentine's Day may be a holiday deeply rooted in commercial and business interests, but at the very least, it encourages love and togetherness. Even if you're stressing out in an attempt to get the perfect gift for your beau or make time for a pseudo-romantic dinner, it's quite frankly the thought that counts. Just like Christmas. I don't have Jesus' birthday in mind, but it is a nice chance to get my sister some Bose headphones, or buy cute clothes for my little cousins. The critics of Valentine's Day are usually just jaded lovers or lonely losers.

February 14 is a great day. As silly as you may think Valentine's traditions are, your smug mouth is likely to curl into a goofy smile when you get a dozen roses delivered to your desk at work or get a big box of chocolates. Everyone loves chocolate. Even dogs, and it kills them.

There's admittedly a lot of pressure to perform on Valentine's Day, but many people make the grave mistake of underestimating the power of a little creativity. Most people would appreciate a handwritten list of the reasons why they are loved, just as much as a $150 dinner at McCormick and Schmicks. And if you don't have a "special someone," you're probably subscribing to a very narrow definition of that title.

Money Talks (Too Damn Much).

2010-09-26T18:38:00.000-07:00

Money: it's the driving force behind so much in society. Unfortunately, relationships are no exception. It will almost always be a big deal if your significant other makes more than you... if you're a heterosexual man, that is.

Most men feel compelled to provide for the girlfriend they've subconsciously dubbed "damsel in distress." And if they can't, their pride won't let them seek monetary help. Most of the time, it's as if a woman's money is somehow invalid. She might as well be carrying around pink and yellow Monopoly bills in her purse. He doesn't want anything to do with it. Even going Dutch somehow rubs guys the wrong way sometimes. It's as if a woman's financial contribution can be more of an insult than it is a compliment.

Now, the opposite also runs rampant: the male golddigger, the guy who's always like "Let me hold a 20 baby"... too busy not doing shit with his life to get a job, while you're Miss Do-It-All, getting shit done and complaining about supporting him (but continuing to support him).

Either way, we all seem to be having a menage a trois with Ben Franklin. Gross visual. Valid concept. Money is just as much a part of our relationships as we are. Though we'd like to say we can sustain ourselves on love alone, we quickly see that dollar bills play a part, and a big one at that.

Willow Smith: Big Voice, Baby Teeth.

2010-09-23T11:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve been rocking out nonstop these past few days to the sounds of someone still learning times tables. She’s Willow Smith. Her dad’s the Fresh Prince, her mom’s Hawthorne, and her brother’s the Karate Kid. She had no choice but to be amazing. Oh, and Jay-Z just signed her to Roc-A-Fella Records. Did I mention she’s 9?

“Whip My Hair,” a certified club banger from someone about a decade away from stepping foot in a club herself, has quickly gained popularity on the Internet and is gaining airplay on radio stations. Move over, Justin Bieber. Willow makes you look like Mickey Rooney. What does it mean to whip your hair? According to the talented daughter of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, it means to be an individual – “You can’t be afraid to be yourself.”

Said Jay-Z of the diminutive diva, on Ryan Seacrest’s radio show: “When you have that sort of talent, and that sort of vision, there’s no such thing as too young.”

Small Fry Syndrome.

2010-09-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

I absolutely adore my blog, to the point that I refuse to write anything on it that is not obviously saturated in my sarcasm and unprofessional professionalism. I love writing, so why I often neglect this blog is a question I ponder frequently. I don't want to beleaguer my readers with too much of my sappy or personal feelings. But I guess I'll have to overcome that petty qualm and spill the beans on why I really haven't been writing. I have a case of small fry syndrome.

I simply don't feel like I make a splash in the sea of journalism. I don't feel like the writing is on par with other people in my field. I intern at a cool ass D.C. newspaper and can't seem to muster up the creativity to pitch a cool ass story idea. I am taking a journalism class I dropped halfway through last semester in which I'm frequently expected to phone police officers, politicians, and other scary people. My professor is a journalist at a big publication chain, and seems to take joy in berating us bright and early at 8 A.M. every Monday and Wednesday. On top of all of this, I have two jobs. A few hours a week, I'm at Up Against the Wall making minimum wage plus 0.00000001% commission (but I don't mind because I adore most of my coworkers and especially my boss). About 25 hours of my week is spent at the customer service area of Best Buy, returning people's broken cameras and shit-stained laptops. The job isn't that bad, actually.

I'm just pooped.

This summer was pretty inspirational for me academically; I took two classes and got A's in both. An A in a college course for me is like a Nessie sighting. So, I'm really struggling to keep up that excellence this semester. I'm taking less classes (and therefore will graduate 50 years later than expected) and actually attempting to study and put 100% towards my work. Of course, I have my days where I opt for a nap over reading 3 chapters of my professor's textbook on Philadelphia's sexual revolution.

Anyway, I kinda got off track. I feel like a small fry. No matter how much I do, or how successful my friends think I am at this point in my young life, I feel inadequate. I think it's unavoidable. There are some days when I feel super proud of myself, but for the most part, I feel I need to be doing more. I also need to do more thing that I love, that make me happy (i.e. writing on this blog). There just don't seem to be enough hours in the day, or enough juice in the creative nook of my brain to keep me going. I drink at least one Red Bull and one 5 Hour Energy drink per day, by the way. I also haven't seen my parents for more than 20 minutes at a time since school started.

I think that's enough of a rant for now. I am going to dedicate myself to nurturing this blog, even if it kills me (hyperbole to the max).

Cum The Fuck On.

2010-06-25T16:02:00.000-07:00

Today, the worst insult I have ever endured was bestowed upon me with a writhing, scathing, pervasive nastiness previously unknown to my poor Asian heart. I am apparently boring in bed. No, no, no, let me explain. I fully realize the concept of denial, and this isn't it (but wouldn't that last statement qualify as denial itself?). The basis of this boredom lies in my inability to cum. Female ejaculation -- boy you'ont know nann. Who DOES know nann? I know there are scientific explanations, and I know biologically a female is able to "cum," but this phenomenon is too elusive and hazy to really hold its own in the court of law (or sex). I have taken it upon myself to conduct a field study, to research the opinions of young (and probably equally as uninformed on the topic as I) sex mongrels. Am I abnormal for being anorgasmic? Is there a point of having sex if you don't climax? Should the focus be more on the journey or the destination? Do girls REALLY know when they cum, or do they just yelp "OHIMCOMING" falsely -- or to satisfy the ego of the stroker in question? He told me to "go ask my other boyfriend" about it, so I resorted to Twitter (and text messages). Here are ALL of the responses I got, no "pick and choose" to reify my stance:

Deonte (6:13 PM): "If ur not cumming that doesnt mean ur bad at sex but that can make a nigga feel a type of way about hisself...and it doesnt look like he taking it too well."
Deonte (6:17 PM): "hmm...other dudes made u cum before? Cuz forreal forreal he might be the one thats not holdin his own..he cums u dont but ur the one thats bad? riiiiigghhhtt."
This is where I feel the distinctions between the typical male and the typical female mindset come into play. Pride and ego are two potentially important factors. That brings in the question of "faking it." If a female faked an orgasm, and you didn't know, it serves the same purpose. But does that make it right? Isn't honesty the best policy? Well, I honestly CAN'T cum, so what should I do?...

NikkiDaVinci: "practice makes perfect... Its not always easy for everyone..."
SimpingAintEasy: "I know what you mean! Like...you kinda have 2 teach yourself...because nobody else will. We need sex coaches. Lol"
...I should experiment solo to see what works best for me. This is the most common solution suggestion. It's the most proactive, as well. It's also the most intimate and complex. After reading The Vagina Monologues, I've realized that most women are not in touch with their pussy. Most women don't have it in them to grab a hand mirror, a fingertip vibrator and explore. It's intimidating. But does this mean I should stay a (pun unintended) pussy my whole life? But this is common...

PRADAbodyBAG: ; 75% of women dont have orgasms if that makes you feel any better lls
Sounds about right. Selfless, aimless women. Go figure.

_godmC: "to me a woman is like a puzzle...if she aint cum I just aint solve it yet...not an insult just a work in progress. I was studying...& studies said pee, saying women be afraid of that but that's exactly the sensation they need to go with to O."
The female body is so disturbingly complex that you can hardly say ejaculation for her is a black and white issue. Each bdy is unique, and so is their mentality on sex. I've heard that relaxing and breathing are key. It's probably hard, no, impossible, for a guy to understand how a woman really feels. And chastising her for being inadequate in the departments you deem essential only worsens the case. If a woman isn't comfortable, how can you expect her to "let loose" enough to even ALLOW you to ATTEMPT truly making her orgasm?

Here are the other replies I received:
One2ManyFrogs: "But most women don't and can't O off pure penetration"
malcolm_x: "i feel you, you just got find someone who will take the time to make sure both parties are pleased"
Mr_B2daG: "lol ...messin with those UN -evolved poke'mons. But it depends on the situation lol"
CMinus125: "its an insult if i dont cum....its a privilage if she cums lol. if its someone i care about i try n get them to cum...making a woman cum is like solving a damn rubix cube, it takes time lol"
_i_eesha: "lol i think its all in just knowing what u like and tellin the man to do those things. thats the only way it happens for me lol"
NeekSkeet: "its not ur job to make urself cum! its all about ur partner (or object) lls knowing how to penetrate u correctly. it takes much more work and i honestly dnt kno wat u would have to do its more so what dey need to do"
iBeenFranklin: "lls it's a race to the finish line not a part time job"

When it comes down to it, there's no real answer. I just always felt that love would be the blanket to smother the flames of sexual frustration, for whatever reason. I've always thought that a man's skeetskeetskeet sufficed. I'm apparently wrong, and Ive just experienced an example of ass-backwards empathy. I can understand feeling the need to make your partner ejaculate, but anger due to the lack of? Foolishness.

More opinions?

50 Ways To Write A Blog.

2010-06-23T21:20:00.000-07:00

Does simply holding access to a Blogspot or Wordpress make you a blogger? What about that little cunt Tumblr? What exactly constitutes someone as a blogger, and are they held to any real literary or entertainment value expectations? Now, brace yourself for this question: How do you think Jay-Z feels about Soulja Boy? Seemingly unrelated question, but alas, it shall all make come together momentarily. The blog world is eclectic and varied to say the least, and popular ones focus on anything ranging from dope boy shoes to celeb vajayjay sightings to the ever-popular NYC fashion slut diary. The same way Kid Cudi says there are 50 ways to make a record, there are 50 ways to write a blog. Here are some of the most common types of blogs:

1. "Look at this expensive Gucci bag I own, but I don't even care that it's expensive or that it's Gucci" fashion blog.
Posts will usually include pictures of fashionable, impractical yet fun to look at fashion items, and pieces the blogger has picked up and wants to prove he/she owns. This may involve putting on a Versace scarf slightly askew so that the Versace tag shows, or "gracefully" lifting one's leg into the view of the camera to display Giuseppe'd out feet. This type of blog relies heavily on a digital camera's "self-timer" function and legions of adoring fans who both adore and envy the blogger in question, and his/her seemingly fabulous life.

2. Nothin' but bitches and shoes blog.

This blog will usually be a reincarnation of Hypebeast itself, or perhaps Kanye's blog. It will likely feature new sneakers and video vixen ass shots. Shallow attempts at creating debates are also critical to this type of blog -- "Is Trina really the baddest bitch? Or did Nicki Minaj take that title?" Bitches and shoes. Just bitches and shoes. I've seen Vida Guerra's greased down ass enough to last me a while, thanks.

3. Poetic soul, I-keep-Bilal-on-repeat indie earth smooth R&B peacenik blog.
Ain't nothing wrong with this blog. It's kind of cute. This blog is usually more diary-oriented, with thoughtful pleasantries inserted between Floetry lyrics and quotes by Toni Morrison.

4. Copy-and-paste from Media Takeout blog.
This is the maybe the worst kind of blog, because who needs Media Takeout Jr. when there's Media Takeout? Who needs to see the same picture of Rihanna's bloodied face on seven hundred separate blogs, with no original commentary accompanying it? Who needs to see the video for "Yo Side of the Bed" -- again? What can you offer web surfers that VH1 or YBF hasn't already?

This leads me back to Jay-Z and Soulja Boy. In the rap industry, when you've devoted so much of your time and soul into the passion you have for rapping -- when you've crafted your lyrics with such sui generis flair, and when you're so GOOD at what you do a la Jay-Z, how can you be expected to respect "Yuuuuuuule! Soulja Boy Tell Em"? When you run the game, how can you let "Pretty Boy Swag" come even miles within your ear's listening range? How can you not feel disrespected by the immaturity, the talentlessness, the utter greenness of amateurs venturing into your field of expertise? It's a virtue to respect others' hustles, and leave them unknocked, but to what extent? Of course, not everyone takes the same endeavor on with the same level of seriousness and concentration. All bloggers are not writers. All writers are not good. Therefore, it makes it very rare to find a good blogger who exceeds the now commonplace expectation of ADHD web-literature. There is such little emphasis on originality within blogs that repetition is expected and inventiveness is a surprise. And it doesn't matter. They're just blogs.

Mr. Big Bullshit.

2010-06-02T10:01:00.001-07:00

Mo' money, mo' problems? Not for Big and Carrie. Man, after seeing Sex and the City 2, FUCK Big and Carrie. They got married, and now what do their problems consist of? Flat screen TVs and free trips to Abu Dhabi. Carrie kissed the ex-love of her life, the now married-with-three-kids male Southern belle Aiden. Guilt-ridden, she tells Big, and you know what this motherfucker does? Buys her a fat ass rock to sport on her spoiled ass finger, to "remind her she's married." Of course, this comes after a series of mini-squabbles, and a little fiasco surrounding Big's idea to spend two days a week apart from each other, just to "do their own thing." It's a controversial idea, not only to Carrie but to her friends as well, especially romantic ass Charlotte, who believes laying in bed every night together is one of the things that being married is all about.

I'm sure couples, especially those that are married, get tired of each other. But that's what hobbies are for. That's what friends are for. That's what your job is for. That's what kids are for. You decided to commit, now fucking COMMIT. That's 365 days a year until death or divorce. No wonder so many people get cold feet right before a wedding. It's a huge deal, but when you really love somebody, sacrificing your "freedom" is inconsequential compared to the benefits and experiences you'll come across. That's why my husband is going to be someone I absolutely cannot live without. It sounds dramatic and perhaps dependent, but to me, necessary. I don't want some slum ass husband I'd think about escaping at every given chance. I don't want stupid ass squabbles that can't be immediately squashed with sex and steak. I don't want to feel like I made the wrong choice. I need there to be ten billion types of love going on, and never tire of fellating that son of a bitch. I want to retain autonomy but know that this is a man that has my hairy back, SEVEN, and not five or four or six days a week.

I strongly feel that when two people decide to be together, they should be together. Breaks are for the weak. Just tack on an "-up" and break the fuck up if you can't stand your partner enough to drench yourself in them. Perhaps they are not the one for you. I'm not saying couples should breathe each other's skin and eat each other's soul for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but space comes sparingly - and naturally - in relationships. You can't plan to have a portion of each week dedicated to the sole idea of NOT being around your significant other. That kind of makes them seem like an insignificant other. Falling off the face of the earth for 24 hours and ignoring their calls and texts is not part of a relationship. Saying you have to work, but going to a fantasy baseball club or watching Spiderman 3 alone is not part of a (healthy) relationship. And although Big and Carrie said they'd make "their own rules" for their marriage, some rules are just universal - love and respect. Otherwise a relationship is pointless.

Teairra, Kat, and Nicki: Triad of the 2010 Prostitute.

2010-05-06T16:55:00.000-07:00

Prostitutes aren't just the women popping bubble gum in their leather minidresses and red fishnet stockings, setting their sights on men "looking for a good time" anymore. The profession seems to have upgraded from 'school pictures' to 'Glamour Shots,' a backwards ode to feminism and the almighty power of female sexuality. It's the 2010 Pretty Woman, minus Julia Roberts. Who needs a job or an education, when your sponsor 'goes and ba-ba-buy-buys' everything you want and need?

Teairra Mari pretty much disappeared after "Girl Fight." Wait, that was Brooke Valentine. "Do It To It"? "Promise Ring"? Errr...Teairra Mari was pretty much unimportant for a couple of years, until she burst back on the scene with a sponsor. A sponsor is apparently a man who indulges his 'sponsee' in the finer things in life - mani/pedi, cocktails, a full tank of $2.95/gallon gas in a ride he probably pays the car note for, etc. All in exchange for, presumably, pussy. Now, let's take it to the fundamentals - a prostitute is defined as "a person, typically a woman, who engages in sexual activity for payment." Isn't prostitution illegal, Teairra?

It's an epidemic. Kat Stacks, notorious video ho (something along the lines of a seemingly uneducated Superhead in the making), has made a name for herself through blogging about her sexual encounters with various 'important' people in the music industry. Grammatically retarded and shamefully entertaining, her website truly reveals the mindset of a modern-day prostitute - in the words of Nicki Minaj, "never let a D-boy boink for free." She had sex with wayside-fallen pop star Aaron Carter, and admits she didn't really want to -- and wrote about it. She broke T-Pain off for $900 plus tip. Is this the future of female 'sexual independence -- underhandedly depending on a man's wanton desire for vagina in order to get paid? Don't women have any talents that don't involve fellating someone more successful than her? What is the justification - might as well get paid for something you're going to do anyway?

Women like Teairra Mari and Nicki Minaj, who have the potential power to spread a positive message to young girls (does promoting a 'Barbie' image count? Anyone?), fail horribly by feeding into the stereotypes of a patriarchal society and promoting inadvertent prostitution. Women have the ability to tote power that doesn't stream directly from their crotch. Sex should never have a monetary value -- in that case, self-worth and confidence wave a permanent goodbye. If a D-boy can't boink for free, then maybe he shouldn't be boinking at all.

New Amerykah Part Two: Return of the Donk?

2010-04-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

"Window Seat" is a completely different song depending on whether it's the music video, or strictly audio. Erykah Badu's remarkably voluptuous rump kind of steals the spotlight from the song (which by the way is the musical embodiment of an epsom salt bath after an intense game of racquetball). To quote my boyfriend when I showed him the video: "DAAAMMMNNN!!"

Apparently this little bite-sized neosoul queen (she's 5'0") has always been stacked underneath the freespirited Baduish garb she's usually sporting. But of course, the video, the song, or the entire album for that matter -- is worth way more than a nice round donk. Though Badu is being charged with disorderly conduct for her public nudity while filming the "Window Seat" video, the positive feedback has certainly outweighed the negative press (and the shady anonymous critics who comment on news articles bashing this woman for having three children by three different fathers -- grow the fuck up).

New Amerykah Part Two: Return of the Ankh is like the fraternal twin of 2008's New Amerykah Part One: Fourth World War. Part Two does its own thing. And it is in some ways remarkably better, bringing back hints of Baduizm and Mama's Gun. It's a gem, an oh-so-sparkly gem. "Out My Mind Just in Time" takes a cue from her previous "Green Eyes," both being roughly ten minutes long and split into three separate yet complementary portions. With kids named Seven, Puma, and Mars, I can't help but feel Badu is probably the coolest mom on the planet. This bitch is crazy and I love it. Badu shows a lot of personality on this album, and I personally want to wrap her up in bacon and scarf her down for breakfast. But I settle for keeping Ms. Badu on repeat on the iPod.

White Powr.

2010-04-06T17:29:00.001-07:00

It was February 2007, I was a senior in high school, and I came to see Kirk at UMD. It was nighttime, and as we walked past Regents garage, someone shouted from the top level (unseen, mind you) "N****r! Fucking n****r!"

Fast forward to some recent semester when I was actually a student at UMD. Someone hangs a noose on a tree near Nyumburu Cultural Center on campus. A despicably hateful statement, a rather direct statement considering Nyumburu is the spot for many ASA, BSU, and otherwise African American oriented programs and activities on campus. The hub of black campus life at UMD -- decorated with a symbol of racially motivated violence.

Now, March 2010, the newest installment of blatant racism, on the doors of Jimenez Hall:
"White Powr." Why they chose to omit the "e" in "power" is beyond me. But that's beside the point. At a campus that is 62% white, how can one person feel so little and threatened (and ignorant and entitled and brazenly stupid) to scrawl this on a building at a supposedly "prestigious" and "diverse" university? "White powr" is inadvertently scrawled on the walls of society, why be the dummy to actually take time out of your day to physically write it?

According to today's Diamondback: "In 2004, there were 24 hate crimes reported at this university. There were 18 in both 2005 and 2006, 22 in 2007, 10 in 2008 and nine in 2009."

Racism is only racism when the person with the power (read: WHITE powr) flaunts and abuses it while putting down or chastising minorities. That is to say, when black comedians say "white people eat cheese sammiches for lunch," it is not racist. When Kramer called his heckler the n-word, he most definitely WAS being racist. That is also to say that it is more socially acceptable for fat people to make fun of skinny people than vice versa (Mo'Nique can say "skinny bitches," but Chapelle in Nutty Professor can NOT fry Sherman Klump), midgets can make fun of normal-sized people but not vice versa, and so on. Minorities will almost always be at a disadvantage. And to graffiti "white powr" onto the door of the building which houses many Asian-American Studies, Spanish language, culturally diverse courses, etc., (on top of being rude, illegal, disgusting, and inflammatory) is a huge insult on top of one huge historical injury.

White people have power, or should I say "powr"? They have it easy, generally speaking. No, "white men can't jump," but they can get paid a much greater salary for the same job a minority or a woman can do. Look at the statistics because I'm too lazy to find some and post them. Is it not enough that society as a whole KNOWS that Caucasian is the standard, and everything else is a deviation (an often lesser-valued deviation) from it? Should we replace Obama with Biden? Should we change February, May, and September to White History Months? White History Month is year-long, as seen in 95% of textbooks. No, I'm not bitter. Although I don't completely identify with the Caucasian portion of my racial make-up, I accept and embrace it because it's me. And I'm one of those loving hippies who truly do believe in Puzzle Place-esque cultural unity (see picture to left). So, reverse racism (i.e. minorities discriminating against whites) is not the answer, and there seems to be no answer, actually...it's just disheartening to believe that some people have not moved past their archaic and bigoted notions about life.

From Ho to Komodo.

2010-03-30T20:00:00.000-07:00

Just as Beyonce magically transformed the definition of the word “diva” to “female version of a hustler,” without the consent of Webster, I aim to take control of the short, simple, yet deadly word “ho.”

“Ho,” short for “whore,” is defined as a slang word for a prostitute – a person, typically a woman, who engages in sexual activity for payment.

From ass-clapping video vixens to girls who let loose at frat parties, “ho” has become a label thrown on females who seemingly shirk society’s expectations of a “good” girl’s expression of her sexuality. Met a guy, made whoopee on the first date, then decided he wasn’t worth any more of your time (all done swiftly, but not swiftly enough to avoid him telling all his friends first)? Ho. Thong peeking out from the top of your Joe Jeans? Ho. Another girl feels threatened by you, and accuses you of trying to steal her man (though it may be a man you have absolutely zero interest in)? Ho.

But what about the women who simply embrace their desires, act on them, and don’t subscribe to another person’s ownership or definition of their pussy? What about the girls who aren’t afraid to take charge of their pussy? What about the girls who aren’t afraid to SAY “pussy”?

UM professor and tenured dancer Gesel Mason’s recent performance on campus – “Women, Sex and Desire: Sometimes You Feel Like a Ho, Sometimes You Don’t” – raised a few interesting questions. What does “ho” mean to you? Can it be reclaimed by women, and transformed into something positive? Most importantly, is there a succinct equivalent to the word, free of negative connotations and harsh predispositions? The answer is a resounding and capital lettered NO. If you have sex when you want and with who you want (or even sometimes when you don’t), you are a resounding and capital lettered HO.

So much of what we do on a daily basis is a performance. We avoid less-than-lovely labels by acting out the role of someone who believes fellatio is taboo, cunnilingus is icky, weed is the devil’s lettuce, and swearing is for sailors. Many girls want to be Sex and the City’s Samantha – but settle for Charlotte. Labels like “ho” can stick with us, and cause much more damage than the labeler may think.

No guy wants a little stank ho, because like they say, you can't turn one into a housewife -- then who would scramble your eggs and wash your dirty boxers? The label “ho” is often indiscriminately thrown around, and tends to overrule any true justification of its use. Guys don’t want someone who’s been (or seems like they have been) around the block. They want a “good girl” – even when they really want a “bad girl.” When given the choice between having a komodo dragon or a golden retriever for a pet, most guys will choose the latter Even though the komodo is way cooler, it is too dangerous, can’t be tamed, and does not fetch the morning paper.

To those who are less than gung ho about the word ho, I introduce the term “komodo.” No longer is everything black and white or hot and cold, I aim to annihilate the dichotomy between good girl and bad girl, between nun and slut. Girls can color freely outside of the box, and let whomever they choose inside of their box (pardon the crude pun). A komodo is a woman who takes charge of her sexuality, and tells the labelers out there to take it or leave it. A komodo thinks for herself, and shoves other people’s idle judgments into the back pocket of their too-low Joe’s Jeans – to be forgotten about and washed in the warm cycle. A komodo is a confident, sexy, carefree, and bold – just don’t call her a ho.

Case of the Ex.

2010-03-09T13:42:00.000-08:00

I used to love Mya circa '98, but by the time "Case of the Ex" came around, I was over it. The song was mediocre contemporary R&B, but the concept behind it has a lot more to it than the lyrics let on. The ex is an elusive yet conspicuous character. Upon entering any relationship, it is almost the norm for a person to expect some bullshit/drama regarding an ex or two, or twelve, or however many.

The ex seems to make the most untimely appearances, namely your most recent or important/serious ex, when the issue of you being "over" them starts to sink in. A lot of people break up under the assumption that they will be able to return to their previous significant other when they feel like it; there is usually a lot of selfishness on either behalf, especially when relationship-esque actions linger on past the lifespan of the actual relationship. The ex also seems to reminisce at the times that are most inconvenient for you. The ex usually wants to fuck shit up for you, your current or future romantic endeavors that do not involve them, or feel entitled to your time and feelings, when they really are not.

The ex is an ex for a reason. The past does not automatically RSVP your spot in a person's present. To actively include an ex in your life is a decision that requires a lot of critical thinking and risk assessment, although no one actually takes the time to consider that shit, and I wouldn't expect them to. Involvement of an ex in your life is like a default cockblock. He/she is a threat to most other potential advancers. The history you share is often incomparable to what could possibly be built with other people who have an interest in you. I have a theory that people who are still close (shadily close, like something's-still-going-on close) with their ex's are underhandedly, maybe intentionally sabotaging their love life. Perhaps they are simply comfortable with the person and don't want to move on to other people, or perhaps they weren't in support of breaking up in the first place. Although I'd be a hypocrite to advocate cutting off all boyfriend/girlfriend-like activity once you are no longer boyfriend/girlfriend, I do advocate being serious about only one person at a time. Circulating your love and emotion amongst multiple people at once will not only inevitably drain you or get you "caught up," but it is also unfair for the other parties. I think it should be mutually agreed upon if exes want to remain intimate with each other, and therefore should be exclusive. However, most of the time that would defeat the purpose of NOT being in a relationship.

It is uncomfortable and often scary to acquaint yourself personally, intimately, romantically, and sexually with a new person. The leap is a large one, and once it's made with someone you instill a lot of relationship-confidence in, a let-down will often hinder you from leaping again. After my last serious relationship, it was really hard for me to take anyone seriously. Then, when I let my guard down finally, things didn't work out the way I wanted. It would be a cop-out to let that prevent me from keeping my eyes (and heart) open to others, but for the most part, the ex is a comfort zone. The ex is something tried but not true. It worked for the time it lasted, and ended for a reason, but our eyes conveniently become blind to those reasons in our times of loneliness, when we seek opposite-sex companionship. Face it, we probably don't want to risk kissing a new person only to find out they are tongue retarded. We don't want to reach into a new pair of jeans and find a very small wiener. Sad, but true. We want the good kissing, big dicked things we know and love(/d) [alter statement to be about a girl if necessary].

"I Love You"...Oops?

2010-02-21T21:57:00.000-08:00

"I love you" is a phrase with such advanced connotations and societal stigmas. It's fucking weird -- people have no problem saying they love asparagus, or their shih tzu, but when it comes to a relationship, there are suddenly "rules." Can't say it too soon. Gotta wait a couple of months, at least. Don't want to be the first to say it. Want to make sure the other person feels the same way. Try to use it sparingly so that it retains its meaning. Fuck that. What IS the meaning in the first place? When you say you love your new pair of Uggs (since the other pair were leaning quite Pisa-esque), what are you actually saying?

1. I appreciate these Uggs.
2. I enjoy these Uggs.
3. I am very glad I have these Uggs.

So, using this same formula, it would seem I would be able to comfortably say I love my boyfriend. I appreciate him. I enjoy him. And yes, I am very glad I have him. In fact, I enjoy him approximately a kilojoule, a Kelvin degree, and a yardstick more than any woman could ever enjoy Uggs. Or Jimmy Choos. Or Dunks (whatever floats your boat). He certainly floats my boat, but these unspoken rules which govern the usage of "I love you" prohibit me from expressing how I feel. Granted, we've only been official for a very short while, but who imposes time limits on love? What is the waiting period for -- to make sure he's not still fucking his ex? LOL. To be certain you won't find someone else who tickles your fancy a little harder next week? I may not be sure of many things, but I am sure he's the most wonderful thing to happen to me in many, many years. So, what if I jump the fuck out there and just tell him I love his wonderful ass? What would be the result, hypothetically speaking?

1. "Awww. Thank you."
Just trying to be polite. Expressing appreciation for your stupid-in-love gesture/remark, while trying to make you feel the least amount of DUMB possible.
Alternate Responses With Same Meaning: a kiss, a gaze and a smile.

2. "I love...you...too."
An apprehensive, pseudo-fictitious reply to appease you, while not really appeasing shit, because the uncertainty and quiver in his voice definitely are the highlights of his sentence.
Alternate Responses With Same Meaning: Awkward hand rub.

3. *silence*
Silence speaks volumes. It's either "Shut up bitch, no you don't" or "Why the fuck would you say that to me after we've been together for 38 seconds?"
Alternate Responses With Same Meaning: "Good night," "Talk to you later," blank stare.

4. "I love you too."
Feelings reciprocated -- not gonna happen. Because even if I was verbally and emotionally "reckless" enough to spew my love all at him, chances are he'll be at least a little more reserved about jumping the gun in such a way. And that's fine.

It's crazy how three words (that get you a weak amount of points in Scrabble) hold so much weight in relationships. It seems arbitrary, but the fact still remains that it's something couples stick by. It's a staple in our lives, so much so that people aspire to say it to the people that mean a lot to them. God forbid you could ever say something creative, or specially crafted to fit the situation, because when you love someone -- nothing less than "I love you" really cuts it.

Tiger Cheated, But Why Are WE Heated?

2010-02-19T14:03:00.000-08:00

Unless Elin Woods happens to be your BFF since the 7th grade, there is no justifiable reason Tiger's infidelity should cause you to chastise him as a public figure or re-evaluate your feelings on him. If she is your best friend, feel free to purchase two dozen eggs from your local grocer and egg one of his many houses.

With Tiger's official public apology, which he issued today, I feel as though outdated and should-be private issues are being brought into the spotlight unnecessarily and gratuitously -- again. I, like thousands of other nosy individuals, read the gossip magazines that published the texts between him and his hussies. They were quite vanilla and uninteresting, and after all is said and done, I kind of wish they'd stayed on his Motorola Razr or whatever, and out of the pages of US Weekly.

Elin, a seemingly sweet chick, took a huge leap when she married Tiger. Although he seems like a large four-cornered square, he has international access to all the Hooters waitresses he can stuff into his golf bag. There is an unreasonable amount of ladies, apparently, who dig his checkered-sweater swag. I am quite certain he regrets disrespecting his wife and newly established family, but was the amount of publicity it received imperative? Does Tiger need to issue an apology to the world, or simply to Elin?

"Tiger Woods on these hoes, tryna bury these balls." - Lil Wayne

For The Love of Gay-J.

2010-02-03T14:22:00.001-08:00

I'm confused. How is Brandy's brother helping the New Boyz sing about not being tied down, while supposedly searching for his down ass bitch via the second installment of his disgusting(ly addictive) reality dating show? Pardon the negative connotation this word is about to take on, by my doing, but Ray-J should drop the R and slide in a big old G (and not just because of the rumors that he has had a longstanding homosexual relationship with Young Buck). Ray-J swaps saliva with a slew of skanky females in the house, and what's worse is that he is purportedly having sex with some of them too. Take Danger for instance: last season, she spread the news to all the gossip magazines that her and Ray-J did it multiple times, unprotected. Not only is Ray-J horribly unsanitary and fluidlicious, he also seems to choose and reject females for the flukest of reasons. Last season, he picked Cocktail because she was fun. Cocktail was by far the radar-under-flyingest female I have ever witnessed on TV. This season, Jaguar was undoubtedly my favorite female on the show, because aside from Mz Berry (who is incredibly possessive and scarily in love with Ray), she had self-respect and class. Ray couldn't handle the fact that a female was sexy, interested, but not slobbing his silly little babyface down.

So, in a change of pace from the first season, maturity trumped fun. Unique got her revenge vicariously through Mz Berry's defeat of slobby-almost-cute-borderline-fat Platinum. Will this last? Was this season any more real than the first?

Do you think Mz Berry's 14-year-old son has seen Ray-J's sex tape?

The Blog About Creepy Public Masturbation.

2010-02-03T00:04:00.000-08:00

It's hard for me to imagine guys masturbating, seriously, in real life, on their own time. Today, on the train home from work, my innocent, naive world was shattered. As I looked across the lonely midnight-hour train, a man was stroking -- what is that long, brown, rod-like contraption? -- his penis. As if there was nothing wrong with what he was doing, he petted his genitals like the cutest puppy of the litter. He wasn't even old or creepy looking; he was in his 20s, dressed quasi-shabbily. So many questions flooded my head. Why? Why me? What does he expect me to do? He couldn't wait until he got home? Is he doing it for me? Or does he just not care if I see? How did his dick get hard? What is he thinking about?

How do people fall into that realm of sexual deviance?

People are fucked up. Sex is such a large part of human nature, and given that humans are generally fucked up, their sexual behavior is bound to exhibit some sort of deviance here and there -- sometimes way out there. Cincinnati bowties, rusty trombones, public masturbation, "the shocker," stuffing, rimming, swingers' parties -- why? Bestiality? Child pornography? How? How does it get to that point? How does a show like "To Catch A Predator" thrive so buoyantly? Why are there so many men willing to meet a 13-year-old off of the internet, with intentions of popping her pre-pubescent cherry? Why is it not uncommon to witness a man pleasuring himself on public transportation, alternately gazing at you and the Express newspapers strewn about the floor?

What the hell is wrong with people? Or is it "in" to be a perv? After an actual, audible gasp, I twiddled my thumbs and tried to ctrl-alt-del the mental image of Simple Jack jacking off. The saddest part is that he and his legion of masturbateurs are probably terrorizing the lives of all young iPod-blasting girls who ride the train alone after dark. Barf, and good night.

Babies Vs. Betta Fish.

2010-01-28T00:04:00.002-08:00

After watching The Pregnancy Pact on Lifetime, I have a regenerated hatred for young, irresponsible females who feel like having a baby is comparable to playing with a Barbie or adopting a kitten. So many of my peers are treating babies like betta fish -- show them off, feed them every now and then, change their water/diaper, then proceed with your Saturday nights of guzzling Nuvo and grinding on sweaty strangers. Mother doesn't always know best. Mothers sometimes know nothing. Fathers can be even worse (especially when they choose to impregnate every vagina on heels).

When I witness the legions of youngsters who are currently spawning hell-children simply for lack of better recreation than unprotected sex, I can't help but feel sorry for them -- for their not-quite-laughable naivete, for their kid having kids for parents, and for the grandparents who will likely do the majority of responsible rearing. This is not to say that teens or young adults cannot make suitable or even excellent parents, this is to say that they are far more rare than what's healthy. It seems as though there is a certain spell that young, lost women fall into. They start feeling purposeless and pop out a few rugrats to help fill the void. How can you happily intertwine the early stages of a human being's life with the late stages of your childhood, or early stages of adulthood that leave you more interested in Jersey Shore than Similac? All young parents have unique circumstances, of course. Some intend to be parents, and set out to make babies -- most don't. Though there are bound to be "accidents" which happen to result in infants, the most intelligent course of action at that point is to fully devote yourself to being a top-notch parent. If you can't, then a $3.99 betta fish is probably your best option.

Nicki Minaj, Female Role Model Mirage?

2010-01-11T16:21:00.000-08:00

Nicki Minaj is a hybrid of Lil Kim and Lil Wayne -- that's a foul-mouthed sex kitten with clever wordplay, high off a shitload of purp. With her nasally, borderline annoying and intermittently British voice, Nicki is probably the most promising thing to happen to female rap in a while, and that both delights and disturbs. Some people think she's trash, others think she's a treasure. She's a voluptuous young MC with bumped bangs, pink highlights, and three mixtapes under her belt. As with most mixtapes, there are great moments of hilarious metaphors and smart punchlines, and there are expendable moments of repetitive rhymes and ridiculous lyrics. Although she's not huge yet, she may be, and the question is how did she succeed in an arena where most fail?

Nicki flamboyantly flaunts her sexuality, which is (inferred to be) bisexual. Like most guys she stands alongside in the rap game, she incorporates a few key elements into her lyrics: violence, drugs, and fucking the baddest bitches (while proclaiming herself as one as well). Does including misogynistic ideas in her lyrics make her more appealing to men? Is she more marketable as a female rapper because she can do everything a guy can do -- and still wear black spandex outfits and rainbow colored eyeshadow? If she preached self-respect (beyond her "Sticks in my Bun" axiom 'Never fuck a dude if a dude don't pay/Never suck a dude if a dude dir-tay') and equality for women, would she be as popular as she is now?

Does fucking like a man (or at least speaking about it) and deflecting the inevitable labels of "whore" and "slut" really accomplish something positive for all of Nicki's "Barbies" (female listeners)? Or does the fact that she assimilated to the cliché topics of contemporary rap make her a sell-out?

For the record, I have It's Barbie, Bitch! and Beam Me Up Scotty on my iPod. I skip past a lot of songs, but for the most part, her music is one of my guilty pleasures.

Moms Love Me.

2009-12-08T10:56:00.000-08:00

The other day, my boyfriend from 9th grade texted me to let me know that his mom loves my blog. "I showed her one post and she's still reading and chuckling to herself. Now she's reading the Obama post to my dad who just got in bed."

"Cringe," he tacked on.

My mind overflowed with "eeks" and "uh-oh"s. "That's a good thing," my sister told me. I almost had a little baby teeny tiny miniature panic attack, thinking about all the profanity and obscene stories I've plastered my blog with. It's like passing notes in middle school and having the teacher snatch it out of your hand mid-pass.

The blog world is a strange one. Everything you write is accessible to any semi-computer-savvy person with the slightest bit of interest. That includes moms, teachers, strangers, stalkers, and crazy females who anonymously attack my character yet frequent my blog probably more than I do. That's a lot of frequenting.

I'm no good with moms, or maybe I'm just not a people person in general. I think I'm pseudo-reclusive and too subversive for my own good. I have yet to meet my current boyfriend's mother -- and fear strikes my heart at the very thought. I hear her cussing him out on the phone, and recount the stories he's told me of her Mom shenanigans (mostly involving her intimidation of teachers and school officials alike). Moms can be really mean. Moms have too many questions. Moms have skyscraping standards to hold you up against tucked away in the back pockets of their Mom jeans. Moms know what you want with their sons -- and they'll never forget exceedingly awkward incidents of stumbling across 15-year-old semi-nude pictures of you. Sorry ma'am.

One day, when I'm a mom (God willing), I hope I'm in touch enough with my teenage kids to be able to read their friends' blogs and chuckle to myself. I hope my jeans won't veil my navel, and I hope my kids' young boyfriends or girlfriends will be able to talk to me, knowing I've been where they are.

Blog Vomit.

2009-11-29T16:00:00.001-08:00

My parents never gave me traditional parental advice as I was growing up. For the most part, they've trusted my judgment and I haven't let them down too horribly. I appreciate the space and independence, although sometimes I wish they had been more personally involved. I secretly envy some of my friends who have bona fide friendships with their mothers and fathers. I remember when we first got the internet in our house. Nobody told me to steer clear of chat rooms or porno. That goes without saying. Besides, if I wanted to do dumb shit, I'd do it regardless of their warnings.

My favorite things to do online when I was about twelve? BlackPlanet, AsianAvenue, Neopets, Lil Bow Wow chat forums, look up song lyrics... Since then, I've developed a slightly more mature niche in cyberspace, of course. But I still do not heed the common warnings of the internet, the things most kids' parents tell them from an early age. Don't talk to strangers. Don't post personal information or "inappropriate" pictures. Don't meet up with anyone you meet online.

At the risk of sounding like a complete creeper, I've met a LOT of people in my lifetime from the good old internet. I've never seen the harm, especially with all of these social networking sites that give a plethora of information about the person you're talking to. Besides, there's always Google. I don't know, maybe I just like to live life "on the edge." And when the person from the computer turns out to be a fat ass mistake in person, there's always the "block" option. Virtually deleting someone from your life is as easy as 1-2-3, if that.

The internet is a handy tool. I feel like the people who get abducted made critical errors that don't just end at them meeting up with someone from the world wide web. It had to have involved some intense negligence or disregarding of warning signs. Or maybe I'm just being naive.

People who know me on a strictly or majority online basis, probably know a lot more about me than the average person should. And it's okay. I feel the purpose of my online presence is to entertain. I am meant to provide literary nonsense for the masses to devour. That's my thing. Negative comments don't perturb me. Positive comments (which most of them are) only encourage me. Some people may regard me as immature or irresponsible with what I make public, but I honestly don't give a shit (yet). Read my blogs if you want. Go to another website if you don't.

Don't Dumb It Down.

2009-09-08T18:56:00.001-07:00

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.

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

Glued At The Genitals.

2009-08-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-28T23:47:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-07-25T10:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-23T10:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-08T03:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-25T19:53:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-21T18:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-01T08:48:00.001-07:00

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?

Obama: President, Celebrity, Bad Ass.

2009-03-19T11:10:00.000-07:00

We love Obama like a fat kid loves Big Macs and grape jelly. Though the U.S. president is undoubtedly going to be a known name and face, few have been bonafide celebrities the way Barack Obama has come to be. He doubles as a pop culture icon, his face gracing so many different products and clothing, and not just the shit you find in a D.C. souvenir shop. Obama is haute couture, and we all want to be his friend.

Obama is trailblazing his way into late night television, planning to appear on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Would we ever have seen Bush on late night NBC (besides various impersonations highlighting his monkey-like stupidity on SNL)? Obama's appearance on Leno is going to mean so much more than one might gather at face value. Finally, we have a president with personality, a president that is actually a person and not afraid to advertise that fact. Did anyone hear Obama admitted to trying drugs when he was younger? Rather than chastising him for this, the general consensus seems to be adoration for his honesty. We have a president that does not sit on a pedestal, but rather, on a comfy chair next to a big-chinned talk show host.

What are the stigmas of being so personable and humble, while simultaneously holding the most powerful government position in the country? It seems to garner massive amounts of respect from the people that feel like Obama could have easily been their good-looking next-door-neighbor that tosses their kid's frisbees back over the fence, or better yet, stops by to toss that frisbee for a while before retreating back into his cozy, inviting, all-American house. Obama's youth, vitality, honesty and warmth (not his skin color, as so many people have focused on) have made him a vastly different president than the ones this country has experienced prior to 2008.

Nun vs. Slut.

2009-03-16T23:27:00.000-07:00

Within females there seems to be a disparity between how we naturally are inclined to behave and how we fear we may be negatively perceived because of it. This essentially is the foundation between the dichotomies that exist in defining females: virgin vs. slut, being assertive vs. being a bitch, being free-spirited vs. being easy, and so on. If a female is able to grab the dick by the shaft and ride off into the night, is it an act of confidence or implied promiscuity ("apparently not the first time it's happened")? Why is Lil Kim a hoe, but Samantha on Sex and the City is just a woman in control? Their overlapping qualities seem to all be admirable: a flippant approach to what other people think about their decisions/actions, a no-holds-barred demeanor when it comes to discussing their sexuality, etc. No one wants a little nun ass bitch -- but it seems like if you're not a nun, you're a slut.

Most women just want to be in control. That's why Rapex exists. They want control, and want to control when and if they are controlled, which falls in line with everything we are taught to despise about our still-misogynistic society -- but does each consensual slap on the behind count as "minus one" from the countless years women have fought for progress, equality, control? We as females are torn between what we should do for the potential and probably microscopic advancement of womankind, and what we sometimes want that goes against that grain.

Every time we dress like "sluts" to go out, we are degrading ourselves, but if we're decked out in nun gear or a burqa, we don't feel cute. We go out and want male attention, but "boy please" every guy that approaches us. We want to be on top and be in charge, but end up on our backs (or even worse, with our faces pressed into a pillow). We want to be Michelle Obama, and flex our guns and intimidate men across America, but even she is secretly subservient to Barack. It's all about the power dynamic. We want to be cutesy little girls but deny that we are, and hide behind the guise of "This Is What a Feminist Looks Like" t-shirts and Bitch magazines. We want to be spanked but are well aware of the implications of accepting such. It boils down to fucking or being fucked, spanking or being spanked -- and most girls are not the dominatrix, spanking type. The spanker holds the power in his elevated, fingers-together, ready-to-strike palm. We optimally would like to manipulate this power dynamic in a way that would allow us to maintain our control and respect, so, we get spanked in the dark, and sport Michelle Obama, Amazon woman, bicep-baring, knee-length dresses during the day, and we dare you to think you are in control.

Is Facebook A Family Affair?

2009-03-15T10:59:00.000-07:00

Scott (left), 18, must settle for posting stupid pictures such as this one taken in his Physics class, since his mother added him on Facebook.

TEMPLE HILLS, Md. -- For many high school and college students, Facebook friend requests have taken on a whole new face – the disapproving face of a parent.

Ever since the popular networking site has expanded its availability to anyone capable of typing their first and last name, an influx of people beyond the realm of partying college-goers have signed up, including professors, professionals, pre-teens, and yes, parents.

For high school senior Ricky Scott, discovering his mother was a part of the Facebook community while using her computer in January was “the fuck?”-ish.

“I don’t post anything on Facebook now,” he said. “I used to wild out on my statuses, saying ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that.’ Now, I just say stuff like, ‘I got into [UMD] College Park.’ I don’t use profanity, because my mother’s downstairs, and she’ll see it and be like ‘What? What is this?’”

Gone are the days of parents being technologically un-savvy, asking their children’s assistance for such menial computer-related tasks such as opening Microsoft Word or sending an E-mail on Yahoo.

Privacy settings have propelled from "option" status to "imperative, or my mom will beat my ass" status.

Scandalous profile pictures are likely to be replaced by wholesome head shots. Wall-to-wall flirting will likely be curtailed. The overall openness, promiscuity, and foul mouths of Facebook youth is now in jeopardy.

According to Scott, there are two reasons for the increase in parental presence on Facebook: nosiness and networking.

“Since they know we’re not on MySpace anymore, they hear ‘Facebook’ on the news and want to check up on us,” Scott said. “They also want to keep in touch with friends, family, and co-workers. And hook-ups for the single ones.”

Don't Be THAT Girl.

2009-03-14T20:10:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking about writing a book, something along the lines of Sherry Argov's Why Men Love Bitches, or He's Just Not That Into You, but not as vanilla (no Drew Barrymores or Justin Longs in the movie version). The provisional title for now is Don't Be THAT Girl.

Don't be THAT girl that sends pantie pics from her camera phone to get a guy to like her. If he never texts you back, but suddenly is very interested when you picture message your vagina away, it will likely never be of greater substance. Send pictures if that's what floats your boat, if you're only looking for fun and excitement, if you want to be "naughty" and "daring." But send them under the worst case assumption that he'll think you're a hoe, and show all his friends. If you don't care what he thinks and you only want to entice his weewee, proceed. If you are looking for something of substance and are trying to gain his attention for that purpose, halt.

Don't be THAT girl that goes to dinner with no money to pay for her meal. In Dutch we trust -- although it's nice to eat for free, there's "no such thing as a free meal." A lot of guys think an expensive dinner (anything beyond the realm of Ruby Tuesday) is a down payment on your panties (same ones from the aforementioned picture message). A security deposit, if you will. I'm not saying you should pay, but you should be prepared to pay (your half, not his). Offer to pay, and if he says okay, mentally label him cheap. If he says no, at least you showed that you weren't dependent on his funds.

Don't be THAT girl that lets her "guy" borrow her debit card. Girls are sometimes so eager to please that they'll go against common sense in favor of semi-maternal inclinations. Cue "Sugar Mama" by Beyonce? Letting a guy borrow your debit card lets him know he has the upper hand. He could (not that he WOULD) spend all your fucking money, and what could you do about it? Be mad? Plus, he'll tell all his friends, and they'll all laugh at you behind your debit-card-less back. Last week someone told me, "My babymama gave me $4000 for a shopping spree." Bitch are you stupid (that question is in reference to both the guy and his girl -- am I supposed to be impressed)?

Don't be THAT girl who believes him when he says "It isn't what it looks like." It's always what it looks like. And probably more.

Feedback?

Lolita.

2009-03-10T17:52:00.000-07:00

I'm reading Vladimir Nabakov's Lolita, and naturally (albeit creepily), I started thinking about the dynamics of statutory rape. Once a person is beyond the age of eighteen, they are free to embark on just about any romantic venture, regardless of its merit or value -- in terms of respect, love, mutualism, friendship, etc. Any younger than eighteen, though, and Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC is liable to roll out with the cameramen and cybersexy AIM transcripts.

Laws that apply age restrictions to "love" are intended to prevent the subversive desires of "adults" for "children." It's inarguable. Children in these cases are victims, whether consenting or not.

In Lolita, who was the victim, Humbert or Dolores? Hum, a child in his own right, debilitated by a tragically crippling childhood romance, was under the whim and will of the malicious, bratty, pre-pubescent apple of his eye. Is it wrong to feel sympathy for him as he recounts his tale? Though it's a far stretch in comparison to to actual statutory relations, one of the most disgusting things in the world to me is sexed up pre-teens. Not the "lolitas" that Nabakov describes as naturally emanating some allure to older men, but the 12 year old MySpacing Miley Cyrus wannabes, baring midriffs and using self-defining adjectives like "hot" and "sexy." Sexy does not exist at age 12. But if an older, knowing, manipulative man reinforces that idea to this little pseudo-nymphet, she gullibly is putty in his perverted hands. Do these girls know better, or are they simply thrilled at the adult attention? Are they aware of their apparent immaturity, or are they too busy basking in some false notion of maturity ("you're so smart for your age," "you don't look your age," etc.).

Power control is the biggest issue in these sickening scenarios. Who of the two truly has a grasp on what is going on? Who has evil intentions?

Think back to the movie Hard Candy, from Ellen Page's pre-Juno days. She played a whip-smart and malevolent adolescent, torturing a would-be online "predator," eventually forcing him to commit suicide. Feigning the role of a ditzy weak young teen girl, the man took the bait and invited her over, offering her drinks after meeting up and even permitting a little flashing of the (probably training) bra. Lolita to the ninth power, plus a murderous gaze and a fake castration? Page's character wasn't the victim, but represented the other girls who would have been (and the girl who actually was). The guy was the victim, but were we as the audience to feel sympathy for him?

What about the middle-aged white women who start relationships with their male high school students? Is their proclaimed "love" disputable due to the age differences?

What about the eighteen year old boy who has sex with a seventeen year old girl? Is that rape?

Is everything black and white, or are there shades of gray?

Awkward Endings.

2009-03-04T09:39:00.001-08:00

New romantic adventures walk plank without TLC. Not T-Boz, Left Eye (R.I.P.) and Chilli, but tender love and care. It's like taking care of a 2-year-old; take your eyes off that kid for more than two seconds, and he's choking on a Brillo pad. Embarking on something new, romantically, requires a shitload of attention. It's hit or miss; rarely do substantial unions form from the mostly-neglected affairs of a date here and there, a couple texts and maybe one brief phone conversation per week.

Old romantic adventures can sink like the Titanic, each room slowly filling with the frigid water of dumb arguments, monotony, and the problems that won't seem to go away. Then, all of the sudden, you're floating in subarctic-temperature water, barely afloat, holding onto an icy blue hand, and you reluctantly realize that the time has come. The ship has sunk, and you have to let go. Jack is dead.

I remember times I'd dial a number, listen to each ring intently, knowing I'd get the voicemail, but mentally chanting "PLEASE DON'T ANSWER, PLEASE DON'T ANSWER" just in case he fucked up in his semi-slumber and hit the green button instead of the red. Story of my life. Why is it so easy for shit to go awkward?

Again, I reiterate -- it's so easy. One date with a coworker where I awkwardly pay for both of us before making out a little and heading to work, turns into befuddled glances, unnecessary tension, and twisted tales of what went wrong. Seven months of (mostly) exclusive sex and fun times eating Lucky Charms mixed into ice cream and drawing surreal cartoons turns into unspoken yet avid hatred. Story of my fucking life. Text someone religiously for two weeks, then barely say hello the next time we cross paths. Have a little sex, and forget it ever happened, while he makes it clear he remembers. There are just so many opportunities for things to go sour, awkward, ridiculous, dumb, or uncomfortable.

Belittling Bruises for "Love's" Sake.

2009-03-02T16:46:00.000-08:00

My heart sank today when I heard that Rihanna is currently back together with Chris Brown, post-domestic abuse scandal.

I know it happens every day to countless numbers of women, and Rihanna's shambled love life is no more of my business than is Jane Doe's, but the situation's publicity added a whole new spin to things. Even if she did not elect to be a role model to young girls, her celebrity status makes it unavoidable. It's common for an abused woman to not press charges against their significant other; they don't want to make the issue grow larger and stickier, and they want to protect the person they "love" (despite being at the receiving end of their "loved" one's fist). I was just hoping that the limelight on Rihanna's abuse would force her to leave Chris permanently, even if her heart was still attached, for the sake of the millions of nosy and judgmental (not to mention the persuadable) onlookers of this unfortunate drama. She should have left him in the dust for the sake of the little girls who emulate and adore her, if not for herself. Abuse victims seem to always be looking through rose-colored glasses, like their situation does not echo millions of others'; they seem to believe their scenario is somehow different or unique. I'm not saying problems should be avoided, or that they are incapable of being fixed, but for the most part I am saying that Rihanna is too young to be compromising so deeply. No romance at Rihanna and Chris's age is worth this much trouble. He is the modern day R&B teenage heartthrob. He is lusted after by kazillions of bitches, ages nine to ninety. He can sing, he can dance, he can (somewhat) act (Does 'This Christmas' count? Ha). He, however, is also nineteen. He plays video games and masturbates. He is immature, temperamental, filthy rich, and spoiled - by his fancy cars (if hitting Rihanna really stemmed from her tossing out his Lambhorgini key - wtf), by his legions of female followers willing to suck it for free, by his lavish lifestyle altogether. He can have any girl he wants (sadly, even after this ordeal), but the same is true for Ri-Ri. She can do better. She has to do better.

When I was eighteen, during my first semester in college, I was involved with a severely immature dumbass. An argument turned frantic fight over a phone bill led to me being chokeslammed and crying as strangers gave me a bottle of water to drink at their dining room table while waiting for the police to arrive. The two officers were the first ones to let me know how most abuse victims function - they protect the people who failed to protect them, from physical harm and from the disappointment of crushed fairytale dreams and expectations. I never pressed charges like they urged me to do. I was sitting in his mother's car with him later on that same night, listening to his halfhearted and idiotic attempts at an apology. I was so eager to believe that he had really meant no harm, and that he loved me, and had simply made a grave mistake. We were having sex within an hour, in the driver's seat of the car. It was disgusting. I feel disgusting thinking about it. It is one of my most shameful and regrettable memories, but I want to share in hopes of someone avoiding the same bullshit. I feel like even the strongest women are susceptible to this trap. The smartest women are capable of having purely asinine lapses into "romantically" driven yet inexcusable poor decision making. It's in our human (and especially woman) nature to want to cling to what we define as love. But we don't truly know which way to walk until we aren't in our own shoes.

Is Rihanna following her heart, and advocating the perseverance of "true love," or is she stuck like a fat pig in a goopy mudhole? I vote mudhole.

Not Your Erotic, Not Your Exotic.

2009-02-23T21:14:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-20T22:25:00.000-08:00

"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.

2009-02-19T11:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-16T16:51:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-11T16:19:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-02-02T19:03:00.001-08:00

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.

2009-02-01T00:00:00.001-08:00

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?

Something New.

2009-01-29T11:49:00.000-08:00

My best friend is gay, like mani/pedi, knows the whole Beyonce "Single Ladies" dance gay. From the time he's openly expressed his affinity for males, it's always been the masculine, tall, strong, "DL Homo Thug" type of male that he's gone for. It makes sense. There's a yin and a yang, a hot and a cold, a fem and a dom. We've both been fucked, and fucked over by these manly men. So, now, he has a new boyfriend. He's smaller, shorter, and probably just as stereotypically gay as my best friend is. It's weird to look at sometimes, but apparently, it's working out for them. They have grown to be each other's support systems, and I guess since they're both females (ha!), they both understand the emotional intricacies of putting one's self out there to be in a committed, serious relationship. They both have equal amounts of sensitivity and shit in their hearts, so they are both less likely to be hurt, than if they were dealing with a manly man (who usually prefers to "go hard" instead of appearing soft with all that emotional lovey dovey shit).

New opportunities often knock at your door, and are ignored like Jehovah's Witnesses.

Human beings are creatures of habit. Creatures - what a nasty ass word to use (doesn't it yield mental images of goopy green monsters from a lagoon?), and with good reason. Habits are nasty. Of course, there are good habits, i.e. brushing your teeth twice a day, but mostly, there are the habits that fuck us up. Drugs, alcohol... People... A lot of times we get stuck going for the same type of person, face disappointment every single time, and never stop to assess what the real problem may be. Why don't we try more often to go for something new? Something different? Naturally, we fear the unknown, but you'll either fail or succeed at each new thing you try, or fall into some in-between shade of gray (succail? failceed?). Whatever the outcome is, we can't be scared to find out.

Like R. Kelly, "I Wish, I Wish, I Wish..."

2009-01-28T10:18:00.001-08:00

I feel so inadequate, and I don't even know in what sense. I wish I was a people's person, someone who everybody loves. I wish I wasn't sarcastic and bitchy, but then, I wish I wasn't me. I wish other people's parents didn't frown down on me because of my lewd mouth and lack of rigidity? I don't know. My true colors feel like piss yellow and puke green around anyone except for the friends closest to me. I can't even maintain THEM, though. I wish my best friend wouldn't have forced an ultimatum upon himself to rid his life of me in favor of a jealous, insecure girlfriend. I wish things hadn't panned out the way they did in terms of that triangle. I wish his girlfriend had become another one of my best friends, and that we could go shopping together, and share clothes because we're both small, and hang out without me feeling like a third wheel. I wish I hadn't embarked on as many sexual ventures as I have in the past few years. I wish there was a delete button for certain people on "the list" that no longer (or even ever) matter(ed). I wish the people that do matter to me, knew it and returned the sentiment. I wish I wasn't always the one getting screwed, even though I wouldn't want to do any screwing.

I wish I wasn't so emotional and awkward. I wish I didn't have to write everything that comes to mind. I wish all people were as open as me, or that I was shut completely. I wish I could forget about certain times in my life and truly live as if they never took place. I wish I never fell in love and that it wasn't a position I aspired to be in. I wish Valentine's Day and sleeping by myself didn't make me feel lonely. I wish male companionship was just a bonus, and not a necessity. I want to be an independent Charlie's Angel Beyonce Kelly not-Michelle type of woman. I wish I had something important to do with every single one of my days and that I was always too busy to feel emotion. I wish I could come home from a long day and just fall asleep without thinking about a certain void in my life or my heart, because it makes me feel like a pansy. I wish I had the guts to go through with everything I wanted to do. I wish I could be my own unbiased life advisor and make the decisions that were honestly most beneficial to me. I wish I took care of myself better and felt better about myself as a person.

I wish jealousy wasn't an option. I wish Facebook wasn't a blabbermouth bitch. I wish I wasn't nosy, and then hurt when I find things out. I wish I was stronger, both mentally and physically. I wish I could fuck somebody up just once in my life. I wish memories didn't haunt. I wish people couldn't maintain the ability to tug at your heart's strings despite the time and distance your relationship has encountered. I wish people didn't look at me and think I was mean. I wish people wouldn't read my blogs in secrecy. I wish I could apply my talent and passion for writing to something beneficial to everyone. I wish it wasn't so hard to do the things you want to do with life. I feel like life should be a malleable ball of clay in our hands, for us to shape as we deem fit.

I wish writing this made me feel better.

I Heart Vagina, No Homo.

2009-01-19T18:36:00.000-08:00

Porno makes me cringe because of the penetration. The vagina looks absolutely abused and unloved – porno and love are far from synonymous, anyway.

Maybe because I’ve owned one for almost twenty years, I have a special bond with poonannies. Yet, I still don’t fully understand them. Why should a guy have to find my clit for me? Damn.

I used to cringe at the thought of looking at my vagina. I remember taking a good look at it once in ninth grade, and wondering how anything at all would ever fit in or out. Tampon, penis, baby – anything. I looked at it recently, and it was like it grew up without telling me. I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or proud. I’ve always thought vaginas were ugly. Guys telling me it’s “beautiful” only confuse me. Maybe because of the porno association I have with vaginas, I affiliate the slutty, loose holes, with the proud, “I-am-woman-hear-me-queef” joints.

How many women know what their vagina LOOKS like? Womens’ genitalia is internal, hidden away, perhaps for some type of ingrained female modesty, whereas men can look down at their dicks with the greatest of ease. I’m sure there are plenty of women whose men have a better sense and mental image of their vagina than they do. But women have the capacity for so much more appreciation of their coochies than a man ever could. Men have some sort of unrealistic ideal for a vagina, like it’s supposed to be the tight teen pink hairless vag they saw on the computer screen at 4AM. Reminds me of my favorite passage from The Vagina Monologues.

“My vagina doesn't need to be cleaned up. It smells good already. Not like rose petals. Don't try to decorate. Don't believe him when he tells you it smells like rose petals when it's supposed to smell like pussy. That's what they're doing - trying to clean it up, make it smell like bathroom spray or a garden. All those douche sprays - floral, berry, rain. I don't want my pussy to smell like rain. All cleaned up like washing a fish after you cook it. Want to TASTE the fish. That’s why I ordered it.”

Unrealistic expectations – for vaginas, and for the sex these vaginas provide. I’ve heard “You can’t take anything”, “I really wanted to kill that shit” – heavens to Betsy. “Kill”? Murder my vagina*. What has it done to you besides provide pleasure, but yet greed still grows from the base of your penis, spreading like furious wildfire to the tip? These words give me a whole new curiosity about lesbians, no homo. They must be the best lovers, because they UNDERSTAND the pussy. They’re familiar with the less-than-pleasant scents that carpool into town with Aunt Flo every month. They know what it FEELS like to have a vagina, and so they know how vaginas want and need to be treated. They probably don’t have homicidal urges to take vaginas’ lives.

Screw NY, I Heart Vagina. Mine has been misunderstood, mistreated – by others and by myself. Too many women disassociate themselves from their vaginas because of a lack of understanding, perhaps a few bad experiences. Think of all the female rape and molestation victims, who probably feel like they have no choice but to lay the blame partially down there. Think of the women who still endure FGM (female genital mutilation), who can never enjoy sex, who are sometimes unable to walk straight, or acquire infections from the brute procedure. Think of how many things can force a woman to virtually disown the very thing that is a portal of pleasure, life, regeneration. Despite my previous beliefs, vaginas are not ugly. Vaginas can ACT ugly, can be TREATED ugly, but they are, in their simplest sense, beautiful and all-important.

*sometimes acceptable.

Pretend Girlfriend & When Dearth Sheds Its "R".

2009-01-16T22:11:00.000-08:00

Playing the role of "girlfriend" while being denied the actual title is like straightening shit up at Urban Outfitters when you don't work there. The satisfaction of time spent reveling in intimacy is a shallow consolation for the fact that when it gets down to the nitty gritty, you are expendable. You are not in a relationship, as much as your situation may resemble one. The dawning of this realization is like a huge fist to the gut. It virtually knocks the wind out of you to recognize your status as being in something like a relationship with none of the security or reassurance, or being single with none of the freedom or opportunity. You've been a fuck buddy with a few drops of emotion thrown into the elixir. You are Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky. The shit literally can be enough to make you speed your motor vehicle off a fucking bridge.

When Dearth Sheds Its "R".

When hope's shine is tarnished
And revealed to be only 14karat gold plated
I'm going to be mourning the expiration of all the time I waited.
From scarce to extinct
From rarely to never
From attempting to neglecting
From slightly loose to severed.

Katy Can Go Back To Kissing Girls Now.

2009-01-11T22:12:00.000-08:00

Katy Perry wears the most adorable outfits. I secretly aspire to have a style similar to, or better than hers. That's beside the point though, with THE POINT being that I hate Katy Perry. I don't hate her, I'm just a hater. Ha. I don't like the fact that she skyrocketed to fame via a pseudo-lesbian pussy pop song. That's some annoying t.A.T.u. ass shit, but at least those chicks were gay for real. Katy, on the other hand, picked up massive popularity with that crap-ass song, and was in a relationship with my darling Travis McCoy. I remember laying in bed holding back tears, listening to As Cruel As School Children, on the night that Gym Class Heroes performed at the 9:30 Club. That's love. Fuck what Katy was talking about.

Anyway, they have now broken up, and a lot of the speculation centers around Travie's jealousy of her becoming more famous than him. It hurts my heart because Travis is clearly the more talented of the two (voice, lyrics, even personality, if that counts too), has been around way longer, and albeit Katy having a few more super-super-cute outfits than him, he is obviously and painstakingly much sexier. It disturbs me to think that Katy could surpass Travie's popularity, because I am 1000% certain that NOTHING she could ever release would even be in the same realm as say, The Papercut Chronicles. It's all of matter of marketing, and because Katy sold out (to a higher degree; I'm not saying "Travie" and "selling out" are two mutually exclusive events), and appeals to 12-year-old, annoying ass little white girls, she succeeds. All that aside though, is it really fair to view their relationship in terms of a competition? In the non-celebrity world, do people break up because one partner is more successful than the other; or do they support each other and thrive off of each other's talent and expertise? In real-life relationships, ones that do not consist of music videos and worldwide tours, people collaborate to become almost superhuman, sharing one another's strengths, and enhancing each other's weaknesses. Well, that's in an ideal relationship. I'm pretty sure dumb shit like that happens all the time, whether people are famous, regular, homeless, whatever.

I'd like to flow with the notion of their break-up stemming from not being able to spend time with each other due to hectic and demanding schedules, because that much I can understand and agree with. Relationships are about spending time, and making time where there is none. They are based on the reassurance that no one and nothing is more important, even if that is stretching the truth/reality. Relationships are kind of a mutual ass-kissing, and if you are never in the vicinity of your partner's ass, it makes it kind of impossible.

As unnecessarily pleased as I am with Katy/Travie's break-up (I "met" him, but he's met millions of "me"s), I'm also kind of saddened. This is just another reminder that most bonds are ephemeral at best. Distance can tear two people apart more than just in a geographical sense, and jealousy is surely a motherfucker. Nobody thought those two stinkers would last forever, but I'll (reluctantly) admit that they were a cute couple. Not cuter than us, though.

Ha! :)

Perks of Plain Janery & Medusa's Plight.

2009-01-09T00:19:00.000-08:00

Why do mediocre relationships appease us?

The people who make the most menial impact on our personas, outlooks, and lives in general seem to be the ones we keep around the longest. Flying under the radar, I suppose, gets a person a higher mileage in how long they manage to be a part of someone else's life. It's almost contradictory though, how lack of outstanding characteristics can work in someone's favor. Why should we be afraid of reaching new heights? Why do we stick to our comfort zones, besides the obvious title-inclusive factor of comfort? Foreign lands are scary because we do not know what to expect.

Is it feasible or understandable for a person to be scared of something that is "too good"?

I wrote this a while ago.

Medusa's Plight.

He saw her soul
And turned to stone….

But they speak a language no one knows
Refashioning words and unfastening clothes
Caressing snake strands, enduring venomous blows
Hope is like doubt, in and out, Comes and goes.
Blue skies host gray clouds, and nimbus clouds lurk
Barren trees and bruised knees allude to speedy dearth…

She wanted him to open his eyes, but with her yearning, something dies
Medusa’s Plight, How long can she fight?
When her opponent becomes inanimate once her soul is in sight

He is stone, and her heart beats alone
With desire in her bloodstream, and passion becoming the marrow in her bone
He pours from her pores, but with each look of love, he fails to glance back
Soft spots like brown on a banana but unflinchingly he’s fading to black
Chrome dipped but not impervious, his mind is irresolutely on her
But logic and emotion is where he stands to defer.

He explored her so deep, he was face to face with her soul
But when her everything was bared, trepidation took control.
His body froze, his blood ran cold.
He saw her soul,
She’s on her own.

Jungle Fever.

2009-01-06T20:09:00.000-08:00

I love Halle Berry as a crackhead. This blog comes directly after watching Jungle Fever and having a conversation with my sister about one of her friends, who was broken up with by an "afrocentric" girl for not being "black enough." First of all, as an Asian/White female living in a predominately African-American area, I have become acclimated to dating outside of my race, and have never viewed interracial relationships as anything remotely close to a "problem." I don't see how anyone could. Ethnocentrism in terms of romantic endeavors: pride or ignorance? Her reasoning for shunning the guy for his lack of "blackness" (i.e. frequently dating outside of his race) is that it is disrespectful to the Black woman, who has historically been held down and pushed aside for females with lighter skin (the "lightskinned" complex a lot of guys have), for a BLACK guy to look to a NON-BLACK for romance.

I feel like it's beating a dead horse to talk condescendingly on racist/semi-racist things; everyone knows race "doesn't matter" (even at times when it does) and its importance is man-made and only perpetuated by popular stereotypes. Why do people think about race so intensely? Does one (or one hundred, or one thousand) black man/men dating outside of their race really cause a substantial problem for the black woman? Since I'm not black, maybe I don't have a full grasp on the issue...? However, I don't think it takes being black to see that the afrocentric female in question probably didn't help the guy she broke up with to appreciate black women; if anything, she probably scared him away (which is overridden by the fact of being broken up with, but that's beside the point). I'm fairly certain that the historic plight of the Asian or Hispanic or Caucasian female is incomparable to the black woman's, but it's no alibi for racially derived relationship actions.

Lyrics That Offend The Wax In Your Ears.

2009-01-03T21:16:00.000-08:00

In commemoration of 2008, I have compiled a few of the most ridiculous, dumbassical lyrics of the year. Young Jeezy aside, here it goes!

"All the girls give it to me, I ain't gotta take it..."
("Pop Champagne" by Jim Jones/Ron Brows/Juelz Santana)
I believe that's called "RAPE" when you are forced to "TAKE" it. Congratulations to these fellows, however, for being given sexual intercourse and not having to forcibly TAKE it from women who don't want to give up the poonan.

"What's your persona, about this Americana?"
("American Boy" by Estelle feat. Kanye West)
Thank you to Travis McCoy for pointing this out in the latest Spin. Does Kanye realize the definition of "persona"? What's your "aspect of someone's character that is presented to or perceived by others" about this Americana? What are your IDEAS or FEELINGS about this Americana, maybe? And Americana? I don't think Estelle is the said American in the song in the first place... Anything for the sake of rhyming, I suppose. It's not the first time for Kanye, how about "Celebration"? "Mute all the monologues, all that talkin' is gon' give me a Tylenol". Going to give me a.... HEADACHE, maybe? A headache that might REQUIRE a Tylenol?
P.S. ESTELLE... Bitch you have money now. Fix your fucking GRILL!

"I aint tryna waste your time, and I aint tryna waste my time, and aint no need to waste no time, cause we done put in too much time..."
("Did You Wrong" by Pleasure P)
Bitch, take a cue from Kanye. Even if it doesn't make sense, do you know how many words rhyme with "TIME"?
And by the way, a song by Pleasure P sounds almost NO different from a Pretty Ricky song. It's like when Omarion separated from B2K. Who gave a fuck?

"Wash the car, I'm gonna walk the dog, Take out the trash with nothin' but your t-shirt on.."
("Trading Places" by Usher)
I understand the concept of the song, but is Usher literally going to take out the trash with nothing but a woman's t-shirt on? Dang-a-lang hangin' and everythang? And is said female supposed to be aroused by such effeminate buffoonery...?

Crackhead Love.

2008-12-30T11:09:00.001-08:00

I didn't love you because
You loved me four thousand ways, even on my red days
Or kissed my just-rolled-out-of-bed face
Or helped me through my fuck-this-shit-I'm-out phase
I loved you because
You were to me
What crack is to a fiend
You're my only fix when I'm in need
But in the end, you're my disease.

No Year's Resolutions.

2008-12-26T17:51:00.000-08:00

Watching the Sex and the City movie the other day, one dumb Carrie Bradhsaw line stuck out in my head: "Why is it that we are willing to write our own vows, but not our own rules?"

Why do we do what is expected of us, what is politically correct? Why do we have to wait until December 31st of each year to pretend to commit to changing ourselves for the entirety of the following year? We could just as easily embark upon these changes on any one of the year's 365 or 366 days.

I don't have any New Year's Resolutions. I know I can improve on certain things, but I'll let those changes flow naturally. Right now, I have diarrhea and vomited probably no less than eight times today. Merry belated Christmas and happy early 2009.

Young Jeezy: Dumber By The Second.

2008-12-18T13:08:00.000-08:00

Young Jeezy has some of the worst lyrics I've ever heard in my life, and on top of sounding constipated, he sounds absolutely ignorant. He says anything for the sake of rhyming, and by anything, I mean anything.

anything |ˈenēˌθi ng |
pronoun
used to refer to a thing, no matter what.

He will compose a verse of complete non-sequiturs; he will open his mouth to rap regardless of the caliber of the lyric that is about to emit. Take "My President Is Black," for instance. When you first hear the title, you may be think, "Okay, that's a noble idea for a song." Wrong. It's not even about Obama. He follows "My president is Black" with "My Lambo's blue." Correlation, anyone? What about the remix to "I Luv Your Girl"? I actually like The Dream, and wonder if he was aiming to dumb down his image and lyricism skills by adding Jeezy to the intro. "It goes Hilary Clinton, Barack Obama. I make the word trap or die. Ask DJ Drama." It goes Hilary Clinton, Barack Obama? What goes? Why didn't he follow up with some sort of line that even remotely addressed why he mentioned two political figures (that were vying for the Democratic bid at the time), other than a pathetic attempt at appearing intelligent?

He doesn't seem intelligent. In fact, he makes everyone he comes into contact with seem less intelligent.

The other day, on the train, my ears were attacked by a man wearing headphones yelling (on a quiet train) "BITCH I'M AMAZIN', LOOK WHAT I'M BLAZIN', EYES SO LOW I LOOK LIKE AN ASIAN."

It never seems to cease. Even on Kanye's 808s and Heartbreaks, Jeezy manages to ruin the whole somber Auto-Tune vibe with his ridiculous, unnecessary lines. "Standing at the podium, trying to watch my sodium." Okay. I feel like the Jeezys and Souljah Boys of the world should have been eliminated (natural selection?) by the talented lyricists available by now.

The Downside Of Emotional Blogging - Looking Fickle and Dumb.

2008-12-17T13:41:00.000-08:00

I'm not omniscient with love, and I am aware that I can be a huge, burly, obese contradiction. This is in response to the comment from 'anonymous' that I received on my last post. I did do a 180 between the last two posts, but it's because I finally attempted to see beyond my veil of anger and disappointment. I understand love is not always what you want it to be. Things don't always happen the way you want them to. But I have a better understanding of what I want. I just want someone to share life with, and be happy in the process. The only reason I was unhappy was that the circumstance didn't seem warranted, and, while it still seems that way, I can't be mad. I don't think I'm giving in or being weak by accepting the way things have panned out.

When I woke up today, I didn't think it was BS.

Picking myself up out of my "sorrow wallowing" isn't a bad 180, I don't think.

I'm going through my ups and downs, but attempting to level myself out because the nausea of sudden inclines and drops is almost intolerable. I can only do what my heart feels. There's always this dichotomy between the mind and the heart, but I feel like my mind must be heart-shaped or something, because everything I'm feeling both emotionally and logically seems to be running pretty parallel. I can be that crazy bitch who changes her number and Jazmine Sullivans the shit out of a guy's car, but only when necessary.

I feel like I've turned over a new leaf. A very pretty, bright green leaf. I'm trying to be optimistic yet not overly hopeful. I don't consider my happiness to be contingent on him, or on anyone else for that matter, but I think that idea is negated when you stop to consider the fact that I am making myself happy by brightening up and realizing that the end of our "relationship" (title-wise) was not the end of the world, nor the end of our connection.

If this doesn't make sense, or if I sound stupid, I have no further rebuttal. I guess I'm just a stupidhead sometimes. I can say, however, that it's hard enough for me to understand my own predicaments, so it's even harder to understand when you're on the outside looking in.

Real Love Resonates.

2008-12-15T23:24:00.000-08:00

I'm fully confident that I have the real thing in my hands and in my heart right now, and I'm simultaneously confused, scared, happy, and content. I don't understand this love I'm dealing with, and crazy enough, that's what makes it feel so real to me. In the past, it's been so black and white, with the labels of boyfriend and girlfriend, and all the relationship-centered words and actions that followed. Right now, I've been told that I was broken up with because he never wants to lose me. As hypocritical or backwards as that may seem, as soon as I heard it, I instantly understood the depth of our bond.

Or maybe it's BS. But it makes all too much sense to me - and I'm a pretty logical person.

At first, it was just inconceivable that someone I cared about so much, that supposedly cared about me too, would end a relationship that had only recently (officially) begun. But now I understand that it's so much more than just being in a relationship. Real love resonates, and protecting my future heart at the sacrifice of my current, less mature one, is a sign that I'm in good (albeit somewhat confused, but that's okay) hands.

I'm feeling more and more okay about myself, and about us. Even if things don't work out the way I might have initially wanted them to, having him in my life is like the ultimate door prize to life's carnival. Someone who knows and appreciates your complexity and character - that's rare. I've never been cared about so much; and I feel like I've never before been thought about in terms of 'forever'. Someone just wants to keep my presence indefinitely, regardless of my title or position in their life - that's real love to me. That's not the arguing over texts from other girls, paying for my movie ticket, taking kissing pictures to put on MySpace type of love - this is the real thing.

Let Go and Let God?

2008-12-15T18:21:00.000-08:00

Four days after being dumped sans warning signs, the pain still surges through my body full-force whenever it crosses my mind. Technically there was no plausible explanation as to why I should have been dumped. But, it was a "feeling" and he had to go with what he knew - that he didn't want the attachment and commitment we were developing. My friend likens the situation to someone with a fear of water swimming one lap and jumping out of the pool. You were already in the fucking water, and realized there was no legitimate reasoning for your initial fear! My water was perfectly clear and crisp.

A day hasn't gone by yet that I haven't cried, which sounds awfully pathetic, but the littlest things can trigger my tears. A song, a text, a picture. I know I haven't lost him as a part of my life, but it won't be the part I want him to fulfill, and that's almost worse. Being broken up with for seemingly no reason at all hurts way worse than being cheated on, or being involved in a long, sticky, drawn-out break-up where the love has undoubtedly dissipated.

Today, though, he says that he is certain God had other things in store for us, and not necessarily a relationship. At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, I am absolutely sick of people transferring their unjustifiable feelings and actions onto God. "Let go and let God."

How can your God provide you specific directions on such menial relationships of your life; was it really too hard to handle yourself? It often feels like an easy way out to chalk everything up to your religion. Whether you believe in predestined fate, or that we write our own future, we are still perfectly capable of taking charge of the things that plague our conscience on a daily basis, and making the decisions that best suit us for whatever practical, selfish, or other kinds of reasons. God shouldn't be used as a crutch for the things you just can't explain, or maybe just don't feel like trying to explain because they probably make little to no sense. People use religious scapegoats because the notion is harder to challenge. Others will usually be more reluctant to propose any type of opposition when God is part of the equation. We don't want to be "ignorant" or disrespectful. The true ignorance, I believe, lies in the belief that a person can think it's okay to make a decision that is by most means inconsiderate, hurtful, and childish, and essentially blame it on God.

God can say whatever you want Him to say to you. It's a personal relationship and differs from person to person, obviously. Some people, however, sacrifice a lot more of their responsibility for their free will than do others, for the sake of "doing as God wills you to do." How can you honestly know what God wants of you, when it comes to the personal decisions of your life? Why can't people commit to simply making logical decisions, doing what's best for themselves and others, and owning up to the shit they decide upon? I don't think it was God that scared of commitment, it was my boyfriend.

FINALS: Fully Inadequate, No-Good Assessment of Learning Stuff.

2008-12-11T15:32:00.000-08:00

Pardon the cheesy image. Anywho, it's finals time.

The most popular "clever" acronym stands for "F***! I Never Actually Learned this S***," but not alas, I DID actually learn. Whether or not I will be able to refresh my memory and cram the rest of the information (most of which will be of no use to me after the semester is over), is another question.

I've done my calculations, and if I ace all of my finals, I'll have a 3.6 GPA. Do you know the last time I've seen a 3.6? Middle school, when GPAs meant squat diddly. Too much emphasis is placed on this one test; it often has too much power in relation to the ratio of time you spend taking it, to the time you've invested in the class over the course of the entire semester.

This is what I have to know about for my five classes: Watergate, globalization, Abraham Lincoln, the Pollyanna-Nietzche effect, slavery, Near vs. Minnesota, the risky shift phenomenon, the Supreme Court, pink poodles, Oodles of Noodles, polar bears, nappy hairs, ballet slippers, mermaid flippers, etc.

Help!

Oh, God (Or No God).

2008-12-10T08:41:00.001-08:00

Since when have religious beliefs been appropriate for advertisements? If the Jehovah's Witnesses knocking on my door don't sway me, then I doubt an ad on the Metro bus has much of a chance. So what's the point? Not only is it a waste of money, it's just kind of annoying. I was already a little pissed off at the "Show Your Love, Get Tested Together" ad that features two (seemingly) naked and presumably gay men embracing each other. It's like everyone just wants to push the envelope. Keep the envelope where it is. People will believe in the God or lack of, of their choosing, despite passive aggressive, pushy ads. Gay men should know the risk of AIDS amongst their sexual orientation, and will choose to get tested as they see necessary. Buses need to mind their business.

Beyond the Bob: The Rihanna Phenomenon.

2008-12-03T16:51:00.000-08:00

A Good Girl Gone Bad sold over 6 million copies worldwide, a far cry from Rihanna's "Pon De Replay" days.

It seemed to all start with one little haircut. Rihanna's bob propelled her to superstardom, and she hasn't descended from the pedestal she's been placed on. Rihanna aided greatly in making it acceptable and even popular for African American females (mostly, but not exclusively) to have short hair. Instead of paying for synthetic hair to feel "beautiful," there was a sudden realization that purposely shortening your hair could be "mod" or "fierce." Taking a pair of shears to her head couldn't have been responsible for her exponential growth in popularity and success, could it? Kanye West recently stated that he's glad Rihanna "forced Beyonce to step her game up." How did a poor island girl so quickly become comparable to R&B's reigning "irreplaceable" diva?

A big forehead and a strange voice could have worked against Rihanna, but her image was sculpted so skillfully over the past year or so that it's gained the attention of millions, including Chris Brown. The public was slowly led to believe that Rihanna was a fashion idol, and not just a one-hit wonder from Barbados. It was "Umbrella" featuring Jay-Z that really tipped her over the edge, prefixing her "star" with "super." It's the songwriters and stylists that we really have to thank for Rihanna's success, and not Rihanna herself. Her affinity for Balenciagas surely isn't innate; it was nurtured by the intelligent ideas of stylists, which led to increased amount of attention, which led to songwriters' creativity, which led to designers' generosity, which led to the many other things that helped Rihanna become who she is today.

Think back on the styles of Rihanna only a few years ago. She couldn't have made such leaps and bounds by herself, and would not have garnered the attention she claims now, had it not been for the helping hands of many. It could have happened to any unfortunate, budding R&B starlet who was dazed and misinformed enough to think belly chains were fashionable.

The Problem With Facebook.

2008-12-02T12:10:00.001-08:00

[This is a slightly more "scholarly" version of a note I wrote on Facebook following this same concept closely; however, it's much more in-depth due to my lack of needing to facilitate "groupie love" (as Antoine so eloquently put it) on Blogger. See the original if you like.]

The information a person provides on a social networking website is almost always incomparable to the conclusions that can and will be drawn from any available tidbit given. If a person is in a picture with the same person multiple times, and that person’s profile totes a relationship status of “Engaged” to some unnamed person, curious and prying minds will patch together those two pieces to develop in their head, the fact that you are romantically involved with said person in the pictures. With borderline creepy options on Facebook such as “View Wall-to-Wall”, “View All Pictures of You and….”, or the option to have your News Feed deliver more stories about certain people rather than others, privacy settings only serve to increase the curiosity and proliferate slightly unfounded ideas about your “private life”. To make a long story short, Facebook nearly eliminates a young adult’s “private life” altogether.

As it has become increasingly popular for employers and other officials to browse through Facebook profiles of potential employees, interns, etc., it seems like Facebook has reached a new, unwarranted, undeserved power, and a new level of creepiness. Is searching for pictures of underage drinking true commitment to the proclaimed ideal of “Equal Opportunity Employment”? Should a person’s private social life have a negative impact on what they are able to accomplish in the business world?

In addition to this unjust use of our Facebook profiles, this website has also dominated the majority of many young adults’ leisure time. As Facebook has advanced over the years to provide much if not all of what other competing social networking websites (i.e. MySpace, Friendster) have to offer (i.e. messaging, chat, applications, photo sharing), it has risen to the status of “daily staple” rather than “occasional entertainment” for most users. Many things have become based around Facebook; groups and organizations at school start groups on Facebook in order to reach the maximum potential audience, photos of events are taken solely for the purpose of posting onto Facebook, etc. Facebook has effectively monopolized the business of “keeping in touch”, while decorating that “necessity” with a lot of other captivating, attention-grabbing, time-consuming features.

Why am I a member of Facebook? Despite its innumerable faults and foibles, it is simply the easiest and most concise way for me to keep in touch with those friends and acquaintances that don’t quite make the cut of a text message, personalized phone call, or night on the town. I have 828 friends on Facebook, and although I make a point of periodically weeding through my friends list to delete strangers that slipped through the cracks of my sometimes-indiscriminate friendship-request-approving-process, I am probably making my virtual self available to people that don’t need to know anything about me. However, eliminating my entire Facebook profile, as I have attempted to do in the past to no permanent avail, would amount to my being cut off from people I sometimes need to access. Also, I kind of like to be creepy sometimes, and read people’s wall-to-walls to make online judgments about them and their lives. =/

Not A Politician But I Do Some Politicking.

2008-11-21T10:39:00.000-08:00

[Paper for GVPT170]

Barack Hussein Obama’s rhetoric of hope and change may have substantially contributed to his attaining the title of president-elect, but all of his pretty promises won’t be so effortlessly actualized. In a time of indisputable economic crisis, Obama is going to begin his administration with more on his plate than Ruben Studdard at a buffet.

Obama has a world of opportunity to exact the “change” he so fervently spoke of during his presidential campaign, which would include placing huge figurative band-aids on financial services, housing, energy, and the suffering automobile industry. However, massive constraints that would impede his ability to follow through on these changes exist in vast quantity. Some of these constraints are institutional, while others may be due purely to the practicality, or impracticality of certain ideas and plans.

One institutional constraint that may conflict with Obama’s intended course of action is the fact that the Senate only requires 41 votes to filibuster, effectively giving the minority the power. This means that any proposal presented by Obama can be delayed or even thwarted completely by only 41 members of the Senate. Though Democrats currently hold the majority of the seats at 56, the party still would require 4 more in order to hold an “unfilibusterable” majority, and be able to “push legislation through the Senate unimpeded”.

Another institutional constraint that may hinder the president-elect is the way elections are structured in this country. All 435 seats in the House were up for election this year, and the Democrats increased their majority power to 255 from 233 in 2006. This means that some of the seats attained by the Democrats are within conservative districts, and the pressure to succumb to these Democrats’ conservative constituents will be felt when the time for reelection comes in 2010.

Finally, some of Obama’s plans and ideas, though not impossible, may just be incredibly difficult to ensue. Since the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on September 11, 2001, President George W. Bush, the United States has been involved in a war overseas that has thus far spawned millions of fatalities and innumerable hardships. Obama plans to responsibly end the war in Iraq through a phased withdrawal of American troops. Even should Obama not faced institutionalized opposition to his plans, he will inevitably face public backlash by the countless brainwashed, ignorant Americans who still believe that all Muslims fly planes into tall buildings, and view our withdrawal from Iraq as an embarrassing defeat. Overall, it is an arduous task to attempt a reversal of the damage done by the previous presidency.

Obama’s “world” of opportunity to make a change is not a utopia, to make a long story short. As with all long journeys, there are roadblocks along the way. Whether or not detours to these roadblocks will be effectively and efficiently found, is still unknown.