A-musings

We're not sluts, we're people persons

So in an attempt to follow the advice of my peers in how to increase my success in the world of overpriced drinks and one night stands, I did in fact go to a bar last night hell bent on achieving the allmighty and elusive, three night stand. That’s right, trois. Despite my prior success using the bend and snap technique, last night I decided to try the western woman’s yodeler technique, in which after a few shots, I stood up for love, in the middle of the bar, and yodeled sexual obscenities until my diaphragm near about collapsed. Considering the fact that my french is terrible when drunk, I’m not sure how effective the yodeling was. However, I did achieve the desired results of enchanting my audience as they could not, try as they might, take their eyes off me. Such is the nature of rapture. Boldened by the steadiness of their gaze, I continued to yodel until gripped by a sharp pain in my lower abdomen and the metallic, electric pulse of the security guard’s taser. After a few brief moments in the endless void of the unconscious I awoke, to the steady falsetto of a scanners beep and the dull hum of shuffling feet. Someone was guiding me towards the magnetic pull of a distant light. Sunlight… As I started to regain my sense of balance, I began to recollect the previous night’s events which all came back in a flooding torrent of consciousness; the yodeling, the free shots, the enchanted audience. In a cry of dismay, I cursed the heavens that not only could I no longer stand upright, my night’s goal of pulling off the three night stand remained unattained. Today, in an effort to retrace my steps and recollect my thoughts, I went to grab a kebab only to realize, that in true wild western fashion my face had been plastered all over the outside of the saloon, with a warning to cherchez la femme. I can’t step foot in Marche Plus.

FML!

I show you my dick!

-The legendary charm of French men when inebriated.

Dropping Napalm Bombs

For all you miscreants seeking to pepper your conversation with more pejorative terms for both people and their byproducts, I present you with three new terms:

Fortune Cookie:

A term used to describe a sexually attractive woman of Asian descent (redundant, I know). Like all women of worth and moral fortitude, fortune cookies can be often found near massage parlors, laundrymats, and any other institution of commerce with lax health standards and epileptic lighting. Nothing like finishing off a hearty serving of General Tso’s with the sweet, airy goodness of a fortune cookie the likes of Reon Kadena.

She foretells fun times in your future.

Next up:

Napalm Bomb:

The inevitable release that comes after consuming far too many Chimichangas, the Napalm Bomb, with all the sweet aroma of sulfur in summertime, has been known to obliterate septic systems, terminate leases, and further deplete the ozone layer. Mortal enemy; Alka Seltzer. Picture; Seek Help.

Last but not least:

Border Patrol

Ever had a girlfriend who could spot the inconsistencies in your story faster than you could? Enough to make you want to make a character chart for the next time you even considered cheating? We’ll me either, but in the hood we reward constant vigilance with the nickname border patrol; people you can’t get shit past. If growing up, you always picked the right item in the “which one of these things doesn’t belong here” games, then you might just be an agent. En guarde!

He smelt a rat.

The Rumors are True

French women really do live up to their reputations as being chic, impeccably groomed beacons of style. For someone used to walking around campus barefoot and showing up to class in my pajamas, it really makes me want to buy a lint roller and make sure my jeans aren’t double cuffed. It almost makes me want to, dare I say it, retire my vans and make an effort to look like a girl. Haha, not yet. Like an elderly couple who still try and look good for each other there is something to be admired about people who respect each other enough to give them their best. Still I sometimes wonder if it’s anything like the rat race in America that everyone secretly loathes but feels obligated to play along with. Why are we obligated to meet the standards of a society we didn’t set ourselves? Do our parents know that from the moment they sign our birth certificates they entrap us in a social contract that may or may not be in our best interests. Is it possible for the collective to truly know what is right for the individual? We all have our own paths in life and all it takes to question the effectiveness of society in motivating people to achieve their potential is a quick look at a population of people disconnected from each other, gorged on reality television, and deeply unhappy.  There’s a Modest Mouse lyric that goes : “you’re either coming or you’ve just left but you’re always on the way”.When I first got here, the most obvious sign that I was American was how fast I walked. New Yorker style, I’ve got somewhere to go and want to do so quickly. Looking back at my experiences in life, I keep wondering why they weren’t as fulfilling as I’d like them to be. Now it’s become obvious that it’s the “means to an end” attitude that keeps me feeling trapped. This idea of “well I wasn’t happy there, so I’ll go here and hope I’ll be happier” only to realize you’re doing the same thing, but in a different place, wondering why you’re getting the same results. Change is the only option for me right now, and perhaps the first step would be to take a cue from the French and walk a little slower, take the time to enjoy life because just because someone is moving quickly, doesn’t mean they know where they’re going.

Blog Watch

So in the spirit of reciprocity I’m spotlighting a blog that passes my funny filters.
Not only did he risk the health of his future children in a quest for the elusive honey butter chicken biscuit,  he also blogs about crazy college adventures spent trying to bury a blowup doll named Kathleen.

Ha, read it for yourself here: http://muden-word.blogspot.com/2009/07/striper-skank-and-kathleen.html

Word!

Dear Summer.

This summer I:

1. Applied as a door to door knife salesman.

2. Called McDonalds to ask in my syrupiest voice if they had, you know, “looked at a nigga’s application yet”.

3. Attempted to conquer my fear of committment by rekindling things with an ex only to find out that said ex had a long standing crush on my brother. Fail.

4. Met a football player/accounting major from a prestigious university whom I attempted, in a moment of passive-agressive inadequacy, to convince that he should explore his “artsy side” and maybe explore more “well-rounded” activities like puppetry and smoking pot. He ended up wanting to hang out more than I did.

5. Attempted (noticing a pattern here?) to make a fresh start with an old friend from high school only to have her give thinly veiled-suggestions that I pluck my eyebrows and not carry my overnight clothes in a gym bag. After trying to get me drunk she then tried to get me to admit that I was either A) a sexually abused lesbian B) a practicioner of voodoo

Her: “Does anything remind you of a certain memory, like maybe a smell or a certain color?

Me: Wait, what? No! What the fuck are you talking about?

Her: Nothing! just asking. ::Smiles::

Some moments of silence of later.

Her: What do you think about the supernatural?

6. If that wasn’t crazy enough, she was texting the answers and receiving the questions from my brother who swiped her phone number from my contact list. On orders from my dad. Black sheep is an understatement.

7. Realized that my family is divided into ‘yellowbones’ and ‘dark butts’. Apparently, forgetting to jump for joy when asked to clean the bathroom makes one a ‘house nigger’. Ironic, much?

8. Received a phone call that my brother had ran into a crackhead who decided to throw herself in front of the truck in the hopes of trying to get paid. In full. 2 months laters a State Farm agent showed up saying she had somehow filed a claim against my brother. Which brings me back to my question: How can crackheads file claims?

9. Entertained myself with grandiose but childish dreams of somehow escaping the pregnancy then death trap that seems to have ensnared the rest of my hometown’s youth. The best one was probably the one where I fake my own death Makaveli style only to emerge years later as a dope ass mc/boss dj. I decided that if that one fell through then digging a hole to China would suffice.

10. Came to the conclusion that

1.  Truth really is stranger than fiction.
2. There a few things so terrible in life that we cannot find humor in them.

What's a night owl to do?

I feel like roundhouse kicking someone.

Daycares shouldn’t close so early….

Keep it Like a Secret

Shout out to rfp4Rel of hubpages for writing this article on Facebook Narcissism. You may have read it before but basically I found it pretty funny, especially the part about how we spend half our time “stalking friends” and the other half “staring at our own profile”. We all admit to the facebook stalking part, but the narcissism part, meh not so much. I took a break from facebook this summer, only to realize that my mind didn’t. You never realize how much it consumes your energy until you get off of it. Seriously, it was if every thought or action that could be considered halfway clever was followed by the urge to post it on facebook. I had literally begun to think in status updates. Sometimes the thoughts were preceded by actions that were legitimately dope, other times it was as if it was my mind voicing it’s undying appreciation of me in third person for things that it probably shouldn’t. I’d go to the restroom to relieve myself only to hear in facebook format “Tiffany is now..”

HOLY SHIT.

It gets to the point where you start to ask yourself : “Would I even do these things if I couldn’t post them on the internet?”. It’s kind of like that question about the tree falling in the woods, or the man farting in the gas station (I don’t really know). If you could do anything you wanted, but couldn’t share or show it off to anyone else, how much does your motivation to do it go down? This summer Zane and I talked a lot about how external validation played a huge role in motivating us to do things as children and how there were things we legitimately liked doing, enough so that we got good at them, and received praise. However in the absence of praise, we found out how much we really liked those things. In the absence of facebook I found out how huge of a role the internet played in my life. Not to pick on facebook too much, because I think showing off plays a powerful social function in the sense that it reminds us of the cool things others are doing, thus motivating us to do them ourselves. So as long as we don’t spend too much time doing what rfp4Rel said in the sense of indulging in our own glory, and keeping an eye on the things that we really enjoy doing, ‘me-spaces’ can be a force of much  positivity.