this is what love is

like a little girl that gets a pony for her eighth birthday. like little boys landing their first hard trick on a skateboard. like all those complex things that grown ups do and think and feel that can't be explained well in a single sentence.

yeah, just like that. 

sharing is for suckers

i do indeed promise you that i care about art. the process of creating is very unlike many other things. ...true, i could propose some such nonsense as, "working on a sculpture is like making love to a rose in spring," or, "when i draw it is like a chorus of the most melodic chimes floating in a warm breeze." 

the only problem is just writing sentences like that, regardless of context, makes me feel more like bluejays have decided to inhabit my skull... and they're squaking up a MOTHER FUCKING STORM. that or i'm laughing all by myself because i think ridiculous things are funny. 

and now that i have said that, i can get down to the business of the day. 

for the first time in many moons, i have entered a public establishment created for the purpose of sharing knowledge [and now dvds, cds, and trashy magazines] with the general public. not only did i enter, but i have been so good as to borrow books from said establishment with the intent of reading said books in the allotted four weeks they have bestowed upon my gracious soul. this is not to say that i am not one to read. i adore books, albeit, my taste for reading mirrors my taste in movies [think of a couple of things that are completely opposite from one another. then tie a string from one to the other. there you have my taste in movies.]. however, my taste is not what is being discussed right now. 

i would like to think that i have a solid understanding of the "what" and "where" of libraries. so why is it that when i find books at the library, the story goes something like this: 

Book and i go home. i even hold Book's hand across the parking lot, as to make sure little Book doesn't get run over on the way to the car by a careless pregnant lady in an SUV. once Book and i are safe at home, i tell Book to lie down and open up. since this is the first time we've hung out, i let Book keep it's plastic jacket on because Book tells me he's afraid of strangers. after realizing that Book and i are made to be best friends, i begin to plot on how to keep Book safe from other people that would very well rip out Book's poor fragile paper pages or break Book's spine. after Book and i are tired, i make sure Book and his friends are safely nestled within the big happy bookshelf. then i climb into my big comfy bed and i think of stories to tell the scary, mean lady that told me i needed a second form of i.d. for my terribly thin plastic replacement library card. 

...i would have thought that my mama and papa "done taught me right" when it comes to sharing and loving and other types of generosity, but it would seem i have been mistaken. i mean, i have problems lending out books. i have nightmares that all my little paper children will come home physically abused. ...or that i'll have to put some "have you seen me?" ads in the paper... 

maybe all i need to do is watch some more SVU on palm street. one about how the poor bereaved mother [who "accidentally" loses, kills, or puts her own child up for adoption] kidnaps another innocent woman's child to replace her own. perhaps i'll pick up some pointers on what to tell the library's associate when i feign disappointment, anguish, and sorrow over a "lost" one. 

told you i was like Ariel.

the end

DARLIN, you need to stop murdering the tights

It's wet and rainy outside, and I've just spent my day's wages on tights and socks. To most people this would seem appalling and excessive. In most circumstances, I would agree. Unfortunately, it would seem that underpaid retail salespersons are expected to have higher apparel standards than college students that are obsessed with clothes. So, goodbye fabulous red tights, you have a small run in your upper left thigh. Adieu winter leggings, I've loved you so much you're no longer looking so hot. Maybe Courtney Love will adopt you...or Avril... Or you could go live with Britney, because we all know she'll wear tights that look like road kill. Oh, my dear tight and legging friends, how you make my legs look less like naked turkey thighs sold at Disneyland or some other amusement park, and more like somewhere-in-between-thick-and-stick colored poles I stand on. What I can't seem to wrap my head around is why, leggings and tights, must you cost SO much money and then immediately decide to get closer to God [also known as "holey"] after one, maybe two times around the work place? Heavens forbid I decide to wear you to a bar or someplace else where I may actually enjoy myself. Selecting you for such a purpose is almost always a guarantee that I've practically invited you to your own funeral. 

Let me tell you, dear reader, that legging and tight funerals are not the only things that I've been attending frequently now that I am no longer included in the little happy realm of college apparel ignorance. If you were so unfortunate as to have not known me in college, then it would be all right. You would assume that I am one that never really experienced color in clothes, let alone the fact that I love color [but mind you, they have to be TASTEFUL..well, for the most part], and not a completely depressed/indie/goth art student. I pride myself in my knowledge and love of color. I'm pretty fabulous at color harmonies if you ask me. Perhaps I'm just going through a dark phase. Maybe it's the weather. Or maybe it's due to the fact that I've been told I look 17 or 18 more than a couple times within the last few weeks, and I'm not quite old enough where this is deemed a compliment. Whatever the cause, it would seem that most of the things I buy are black...maybe sometimes gray. With little exceptions for Mr. Black's friend, Mr. Red. I suppose we will all have to wait and see if I decide that the time is right for me to look into animal sacrifices and pentagram candle burning seances. I'll need not purchase anything but a large wool oversized coat with an ominous hood! I've been getting on my mother's case for years that she has very little color in her closet, and now it would seem that I'm getting a head start for my own 40's wardrobe. That is...if any of this stuff will fit me by that time.

Since it would seem that I've inadvertently taken you on a tour of my retail-land psyche, let's head on into the fitting rooms. I promise we're almost done and I won't, that is, WON'T ask you if you'd like to open a credit account [fortunately, I don't ever have to. Which is nice, since said question is as close as a retail salesperson gets to telemarketer practices.]. There are countless times that I've given advice to women in the fitting room. Most of the time, I believe in the compliments I give [and coming from me, that means a lot.]. But how much more convincing is a sentiment when someone gushes, "OH, HONEY, that is absolutelyfabulousyoushouldgetit!!" If only I were a svelte gay with a beautiful profile wearing the perfect pair of slim leg trousers and a fabulous shirt/vest ensemble. I imagine I could do no wrong! Why is it that only the gays get to use all the fabulous words [tranny, fabulous, honey, doll, darling, etc] to strangers? Thinking about the same sentiments coming from me, it just seems downright creepy or offensive and makes my psychological integrity somewhat questionable.

So there you have it, ladies and gents, thank you for shopping with us today, enjoy your new items, or don't. We'll give you back your money in the manner in which you paid when you return seven out of the nine items you just purchased yesterday. That is...unless you've lost your reciept.

coming to grips with sparkle dresses and mer-people

You know those moments when songs, objects, and memories from your youth come running back in little jelly sandals and floral print spandex shorts to the forefront of your mind? Today is one of those days. 

I am sure that I am not alone, with both men and women alike [but mostly women], that there are multiple generations of us whose youths are rife with stories of princesses, fairies, princes, and magical creatures. It would seem to me that it is impossible for anyone past the age of 7 to have lived their life thus far without some sort of story along these lines. And if you haven't... maybe you really should, they're pretty fabulous for the soul. They exercise creativity. You learn some really fabulous songs. However, in my current state of near un-employment and ever increasing self doubt in regards to getting a job I actually want, I have grown acutely aware of a certain disconnect between the ideas of fairy tales, and the demands of the modern world. 

Let's take that lovely gentleman Disney's [or his gigantic company's] take on "The Little Mermaid." I hate to admit it, but I would probably qualify as having just as many gadgets, gizmos, and whos-a-ma-bobbits as a certain mer-girl that we are familiar with. My family is quite wonderful, sure, we don't live in a castle, but shit, in Ariel's castle we'd all be drowned. I would like to believe that I have been in love. On better days, I'm usually pretty sure about that [let's not get into this philosophical can of worms just right now...]. Albeit, MY "prince charmings" didn't exactly have perfect hair, save me from an unfortunate demise involving a tentacled villain, or anything quite that dramatic. But, why is it that the largest accomplishment of the movies of my youth deal primarily with the concept of "ideal love?" And yes, "ideal love" could make your life richer, even normal love can be ridiculously beautiful and fulfilling. But it will never directly pay the bills, love won't raise your IQ [as far as I'm aware at least], and it definitely won't keep you in a size 2. Ariel never asks Eric whether or not he'll be able to support a family, what kind of health benefits he has, or what kind of life goals he's aspiring to achieve. ...Not that she would have really had to... he was a prince for fuck sake. Sure, we have the rest of our lives to worry about shit like that, but really...? I sure don't feel like I needed any help developing obsessive desires for fabulous shoes, designer bags that I can't afford, comfortable leather furniture, or an accumulation of "stuff" to make sculptures out of. 

So, Disney, thanks a bunch for filling my youth with some really memorable stories and songs. My friends and I still sing them on occasion. But next time, maybe slip in something about how even qualified people have trouble getting jobs, or emphasize qualities in a mate that go beyond good looks, love at first sight, and heroically saving damsels in distress. Maybe slip in something about how true love isn't resolved in an hour and a half or less. Or don't. Regardless of all this bitchery, at least I can say that I didn't spend my formative years watching The Hills or the OC. 

mostly accurate articulations of inaccurate experiences

formalities aside, i find it difficult to believe that civility is impossible, that broken english is a sufficient form of emotion. Self-discovery-and-growth, i hate you. and, i love you. let's spend our lives together, but only if you consider answering me ...let's say... 9% of the time? you rush in with fits of sensory data and witty sentences, leaving me done up like some cotton candy.  

in all honesty, i am terribly attracted to the idea of a person that does not exist. he is a figment of some writers and an actor's perception of a "character." it disappoints me that i should still be so juvenile to succumb to such wild and completely ridiculous notions. and yet, it is right there in that [now not-so] secret part of my body where emotions and ideas well up and spring forth like new daisies in spring. i should probably have better things to say. i am aware i should have better things to do than watch television shows on hulu before i say goodnight. and yet, there are plenty of avenues that are much more dangerous than silly teenage crushes manifesting themselves in my early-adult life. perhaps this is a sign that i need to be more adventurous. perhaps i should divert my judgement from strangers' myspace profile pictures [and their inaccuracy in relation to their "typical" appearance] to more worthwhile endeavors. 

the consolation prize? watching at least five [and mind you, this was while i was watching] grown men take digital images of a young lady's ASS-ets at a festival where too many bits were showing anyways, on bodies that should have probably not been showing anything at all [and PLEASE, stop with the "i'm confident with my body" bullshit. firm that shit up, dimple cheeks, then we'll talk.] i can only imagine what the futures of those poor pixels entail. lust, you can be terribly disgusting at times. i'm sure your own personal imagination need not work too hard to get the rest. 

matchsticks

i have been told that i am horrible at telling stories. 

by most people, most of the time. 

for example:

on one hand, you are given a pit with alligators. 

on the other, you are given me trying to dribble something that may resemble a tale of some sort. 

let's just say that i am more likely to make friends with the ones that think i am tasty. you know, the ones that i think belong in my life only as boots. ...or as animatronic disneyland entertainment. 

it's not something with which i am concerned, more so, i fear for your eyes [and eyesight for that matter], your cognitive functioning, those minutes that you spend looking at lines that in all honesty, you should have spent doing something else. regardless, perhaps there will be something of sustenance, something to see...but not now at least. right now there is nothing. except for maybe some thoughts and brain pictures of two grown men intently reading 'glamour' magazine at borders close to mid-day.