Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Money Matters

“He bought her a Coach bag for her birthday,” she says with a disgusted snort.

“Uhm, okay.”

“A Coach bag!”

I sit wide-eyed, not getting it, as two pairs of raised eyebrows glare at me expectantly.

“Oh! Ohh,” I finally say with an overzealous nod. “Because Coach is…not good.”

“Duh!” they say emphatically.

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Nod, nod, nod as I shove my pleather bag deeper into the recesses of my lap.

I’ve never actually owned a Coach bag.

Thus began shallow New Yorker lesson number one. Coach, bad. Gucci, good. DKNY, bad. Louis Vuitton, good. Calvin Klein, bad. Chanel, good. If name pronounce like spell, bad, bad, bad. Woof, woof. Good dog. Now go roll over and give your master, keeper of the Black Card, a blowjob.

You know your life has hit a new low when you’re sitting at a table, surrounded by your closest lifelong friends and all you can think about is what you did so wrong earlier in life to end up here. Force an unsuccessful smile and drink your wine in enthusiastic gulps as they speak several octaves above what most dogs can hear and laugh and laugh.

“So then, I was like, why don’t you just buy it for me, and he did!”

Cue squeals of delight, eyes rolling into backs of eyelids shrouded in Mac and Stila makeup.

“Oh my God! You’re so fucked up! I’m so jealous!”


“Heh?” My head snaps up to attention.

“You’re always so lost!”

“Oh, you know me, heh, I’m slow. Sort of in my own world. You know. Hah…”

And now summer has descended on New York, saturating it in a cloak of humidity, and the crowds have retreated to the depths of Eastern Long Island in search of relief. The women have dusted the dust off of their Spring collection designer dustbags and draped its overpriced contents lazily over their shoulders. Corporate peons have begun to work summer hours and the days stretch to make room for dining al fresco on Manhattan sidewalks, lazing by rooftop pools in swanky gyms and browsing shops on Madison Avenue.

Yesterday, I quit my job.

I knew there was no way for me to tell my boss what I needed to say without actually quitting. I knew there was no way I could waste any more of my time doing something I so adamantly despised. But the relief only lasted five minutes before panic set in and the word “unemployment” started thundering inside my skull.

Flashbacks of awkward dinners where I browsed menus by price, ordered ice water instead of cocktails, skipped dessert. Asking people if they could “spot me” because they insisted I come out despite the state of my finances and took me barhopping at swanky lounges. Scamming investment bankers for drinks and feeling hungover and cheap in the morning.

The liberty a steady paycheck affords is worth more than the numbers rolling up in your bank account.

In less than a month, that liberty will be gone and while New Yorkers chat on rhinestone encrusted cell phones and board the Hampton Jitney to their Summer homes, I’ll be peeling my legs off my parents’ leather couch and pushing Dog’s fuzzy-ass off of me while watching another Mets game on SNY.

“I can’t wait for the day when I can go shopping and not have to worry about the price tag,” B says while we browse a cheap outlet store in Woodbury.

“Seriously, I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

“Someday,” he says.


Thursday, May 25, 2006

Where I'm At

I've been slacking off, I know. But a combination of work-related stress, insomnia, Dog being sick and/or losing his mind and the onset of a Quarter-Life Crisis has rendered me with a case of writer's block of Stonehenge proportions. The majority of these unfortunate circumstances are a direct result of my current employment situation, and although I have been venting it all to a poor, unsuspecting recipient for the past few days, afford me the liberty to tell alla yous where I'm at…yo.

I hate my job. A lot. I hate it so much that I can't sleep at night. I hate it so much that staring at the peons in the office all day, acting like conference production is a vital addition to our society, fooling themselves into thinking that this organization expands people's lives in any way, believing that their role as a cog in the wheel is pivotal to the well-oiled machine that is this company—banging out half-assed conferences and cheating people out of thousands of dollars to attend them. I hate that an obscene deadline is imposed on us to do something that can so easily be negated in an instant based on the whims of a third party, completely out of your control.

Yeah, I know I told you I would be speaking at your event last week and your deadline is tomorrow, but I changed my mind because I'm getting my nails done that day. Good luck to you!

I know you need that presentation material tomorrow, but the person who was supposed to speak got fired yesterday and we don't feel like finding a replacement for you. Have a great day!

I hate that the company put a new policy into effect yesterday.

From now on, producers are required to post their deadlines into an email and have their marketer post what day they actually completed the project. The email will then be sent to the entire office so we can all see how the team is doing as a whole. In other words, if you finish late, we will all see it, laugh at you and throw vegetables at you when you leave at the end of the day. This will improve morale within the organization and motivate you to work harder.

With love,

I hate that I like my boss, and it's going to suck when I have to tell her to take this job, and shove it up the Managing Director's ass, swivel it around, and shove it down his smug throat.

I know that writing about work is boring, but my abhorrance for the politics of corporate life has grown exponentially in the past few days. Reading Fight Club during my commute probably isn't helping that.

Alright, I know that stylistically and content-wise this post has been in line with the cheap copout pieces of shit I've been writing for the past few weeks, but once things settle down, I promise I'll write something of actual substance. Then I'll force Rob to link me again to rekindle the flames of readership.

Until then, suck it up beetches, or write better than me and put me to shame.


On a side note, a lot of people who started assuming that Stephen Sakai (aka Crazy Bouncer) is Japanese before any videos were released of him were rather surprised to see that he is in fact, black. Now I don't feel so stupid for asking, "Where? Where?!" when someone pointed Omar Minaya out to me.

Speaking of the Mets, David Wright has a blog. He titled it "Wright Now" as per a fan's suggestion, forsaking the more clever "Wrightings," but I'm pretty sure he was just too lazy to read that far down in his comments section. I, however, have no life and I did. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go shoot myself in the foot.


Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Bad Day

Sometimes you have one of those days.

I knew as soon as I sat in something wet on the bus this morning that today was going to be one of them. A part of me hoped that the unfortunate luck so early on in the day would mean that positive energy was on reserve, waiting to come spurting out as the day progressed. Instead, the day is just farting along, dropping little shitnuggets on me as it goes.



Monday, May 22, 2006

Ode to Spam

I have a Vegas post in me somewhere, but I have a lot of shit to catch up on for work, so I'm putting up this little diddy that B wrote a while ago on his other site. It actually made my eyes water. -L

I have fat, 16 grams,
Not quite beef, not quite ham,
Can you guess what I am?
That nifty food that we call Spam!

In a bowl, or in a plate,
The store is closing, don't be late,
By yourself, or with a date,
I want Spam, I just can't wait!

When I'm out I have to stop,
To grab some Spam at the shop,
There is nothing that can top,
Spam in kimchi bokum bop!

For this food, I am a sucker,
Beside me in bed is where I tuck her,
And with kimchi jjigae, I start to pucker,
When I throw Spam into that fucker!

So now I go to heat the pan,
And peel the lid from that can,
Spam Spam Spam, you are the man!
This little gook's your favorite fan!


Monday, May 15, 2006

Mondayisms II

I was going to write a proper post, but I have a lot of shit to say, I'm lazy and it's Monday, so I don't give a fuck if this asshole has something against numbered posts.

1) Last Friday was an exciting day in the office. A former cocaine addiction and current cult affiliation surfaced regarding a member of the sales staff. Malicious gossip flew amongst the sales department via email, the emails were subsequently discovered by management, and one of them was sacked. Said disgruntled former employee positioned himself outside the office and waited for Cocaine Cult Salesman to go outside for a cigarette and proceeded to beat him to a bloody pulp, have him sent to the hospital, and in turn send himself to central booking. All the members of our sales staff who were involved in the email exchange (read: all the good ones) were suspended. As someone who has worked with salespeople many times in the past, I can say with pure conviction that all good salespeople are disgusting as human beings. I have never met an exception to this rule.

I find myself suddenly enamored with corporate culture. Nothing better than two suits goin' at it...

2) My boss thinks I'm gay.

Flashback to Friday night at Sandy's:

Sandy: N (My Boss) thinks you're gay.

Me: Excuse me?

Sandy: N likes to search for people on Friendster, and she saw your profile and she thinks you're gay.

Me: Are you using the word "gay" in the derogatory sense? Like, "Haha, stop being so gay?"

Sandy: No, she literally thinks you're gay.

Me: What in the fuck?

Gloria: Yeah, A (Head of Marketing) came over to me on Wednesday and said, "I hear your friend's gay."

Me: What in the fuck?

Gloria: Apparently, someone wrote something in your testimonials that implied that you liked to dabble in the "other side."

Me: What in the fuck?

Sandy: A emailed me also and she said, "I hear your friend swings both ways." I was just like, "Good for her."

Gloria: I set her straight. I told her that I know for a fact you're not.

Me: ... (Mouth open, drool oozing from corner of lips)

Gloria: Don't worry. It's because A is bisexual, and I think N told her in a good-spirited sense. You know, like, "Hey! There's another one!"

Me: It doesn't matter. My sexual orientation shouldn't be a topic of discussion amongst my superiors. That's just awkward.

Sandy: I understand, but I seriously don't think you should worry about it. I think N was just trying to look out for A. She seemed to be pretty excited about it.

Me: I'm deleting my Friendster.

I read and re-read my (now defunct) Friendster profile five or so times, and there is nothing, I repeat, nothing that was indicative of my being gay. Not that there's anything wrong with it.

3) The Depeche Mode concert on Saturday night was awesome.

4) I'm off to Vegas tonight for business. I was looking forward to returning with stories of horror regarding Greasy Salesman + Legal Prostitution, but unfortunately he's suspended, so I'll be back on Friday with stories of making N feel uncomfortable by staring obsessively at her breasts instead. Don't expect to see any posts from me in the next four days as I'll be too busy drinking free alcohol, propositioning hookers, losing obscene amounts of money in Texas Hold 'Em and getting married to someone named Pablo.

Oh, and working too.

So, until Friday--B will be helming the ship.

5) Have a good Monday. Unless you're a salesman. In which case, eat a dick.


The Close Gay Friend


I’ve made a huge life decision and I’d like to announce it to you all. I have decided to become gay.

Nah I’m just kidding, but now that I’ve got your attention, let me begin my post:

Newton had a bunch of laws and I give the guy much respect because he really knew his shit. However, there was a law he created which somehow fell through the cracks and was not discovered until very recently. This "unknown law" states the following: every wannabe chic female in Manhattan wants a close gay guy friend. The problem is, Newton died before he could elaborate upon this law. So to finish what he started, I’ve decided to step in and ask, why does this "unknown law" exist? Try to follow:

#1. Sex and the city - Not only did this show liberate all closet sluts, it also became the paradigm for what every chic Manhattan female's life should be like. Part of this life entailed the existence of a close gay guy friend with whom Carrie shared all her secrets with (don't you dare ask me how I know the correct spelling of Carrie's name! I don't watch the show! anymore...)

#2. The challenge - This has got to be the stupidest reason in the history of stupidity, but sometimes the fact that gay guys don't like girls appeals to girls. But listen carefully ladies, chasing a gay guy is almost as pointless as foreplay.

#3. The refreshing point of view - I hear this lame bullshit all the time. The gay guy gives an honest guy's point of view. Like, he'll give you insight on what guys are thinking, or some crazy shit like that. FYI: the gay guy doesn't give you a guy’s point of view, he's giving you a gay guy's point of view. You might as well be talking to your girlfriend (who by the way is really pissed off at this point because your deluded ass keeps hanging out with your new gay guy friend).

#4. They have a great fashion sense - oh shut the hell up. They don't have a great fashion sense. They have the same fashion sense as females do. But the thing is, when a girl is hearing it from a guy instead of her female friends, their advice suddenly becomes profound because it's coming from someone with a penis. Refer to reason #3.

So ladies, before you decide to befriend Pedro the exotic dancer in hopes of completing all prerequisites to becoming Manhattan chic, say a couple of things to yourself first: "This man will never have sex with me. If he does, he will never enjoy it. If he does enjoy it, I’ve just been tricked very severely by a straight man." And also ask yourself, "Will this man provide more insight than my female friends already do?" If after taking all these things into consideration you still want a gay guy friend, then go to hell. No literally, go to "Hell", this gay club in the meatpacking district.

In conclusion, I’ve just spent way too much time talking about homosexuality. I need to reverse any possible damage by watching some heterosexual porn and ESPN (read: Sex and the City).

Friday, May 12, 2006

Today's Funny Shit

Fridays are not good for me on the creative front, so I'll just copy and paste an email from the Best Friend that was so funny I was sitting at my desk sobbing:

oh another thing i forgot.. this was pretty funny/embarassing

b4 we went to the play and drinking
[for my coworker's birthday].. we went to lucky cheng's for dinner hahaha that shit was crazyy

so J (hot black boss) lol... was trying to order a drink and all the drinks are named like perverted crap .. and he goes... "lemme get the poontang" HAHHAHAHHA........ and the drag queen's like.. "honey you want it soft or hard?" and J goes. "i want it TIGHT!" AHAHAHHA and then the drag queen points to me and goes "there's a small asian girl right next to you... i bet her shit is tighter than your ass"

hahahahaha they're soooo vulgar there it's hilariousssss


Thursday, May 11, 2006


Got an email from a coworker yesterday: This is the PDF of the conference advertisement for Marketing Bullshit Conference. Please approve.

My tactful response: The layout is nice, but the pink is a bit…seizure-inducing, no?

My boss got a complaint. Apparently that was offensive.

One of the speakers from Hellish Corporate Tax Bullshit Conference that took me 500 Years to Finish emailed me to tell me she was unhappy with some mailer I drafted up months ago and wanted to drop out.

Obnoxious Gay Marketing Head walked over to my desk with his exaggerated arm-swinging swagger. "You, like, sent the mailer without her approval?" *insert long, exaggerated sigh and eye roll* "You have to, like, fix this. You better, like, call her or, like, email her and apologize. Or you have to, like, find someone else, like, now.” *insert another eye-roll, dramatic about-face and arms a-swingin’ away.*

Outside, Gloria and I puff Camel Lights. “I can’t even speak to Obnoxious Gay Marketing Head for ten seconds before I’m overcome with the urge to rip his face off.”

“That seems to be the general consensus,” she says.

“I think I’m going to give this a few more months and then start looking elsewhere. The transfer abroad opportunity isn’t even worth it if I’m going to be doing this bullshit overseas.”

The simple fact of the matter is that I am not cut out for the corporate world. I don’t have any tact. I don’t deal with authority well. I don’t have a corporate-friendly sense of humor. I don’t have any professionalism. But most of all, I don’t give a fuck.

I look around at the flies swarming around the office in their creased slacks and pressed shirts, buzzing about how well such-and-such event went or so-and-so event is booking. Our monthly office meetings are flooded with enthusiastic applause when the Managing Director reads off the increases in revenue from last quarter, the sponsorship stats, the most profitable events. I zone out, my eyes wander around the room, wondering which ugly, desperate bitch Greasy Salesman has successfully boned.

At my monthly Volunteers of America meetings, reps from huge investment banks, brokerage firms, advertising companies gush about their jobs, their clients and thumb through Blackberries when the next meeting date is proposed.

What do you do, L?

I, uh, work at a conference production company.

What do you do there?

I, like, plan conferences.

Really? That sounds interesting.

Er, it’s really not. It sucks, actually. It’s a small, shitty company and I hate it there.

Well, it’s good to see you’re loyal to your organization!

Loyal? Seriously? Who’s loyal to their organization? Or, rather, whose organization is loyal to them? Hey Citigroup Analyst, is the CEO going to attend your funeral if you get hit by a bus? How about you Morgan Stanley IBanker, is your Managing Director going to come to your daughter’s birthday party? Deloitte Accountant, did the President give you a call when your mother died? Loyal my ass. We’re nothing but a list of names on a database, and twice a month, HR prints bulk copies of payslips with our names stamped on them. They don’t know who we are, they don’t give a fuck who we are.

The next time your chest swells with pride when you read an article about your company’s successful merger, trade, hostile takeover blah blah, ask yourself—Did my boss feel proud of me when I ran the marathon last year?

No, he didn’t give a fuck, and neither should you.


Tuesday, May 09, 2006


“You have to stop.”

K found herself in a bad situation—the worst kind of situation. And here we were again, sitting in the Punch Tavern on Fleet Street, nursing glasses of red wine while she blinked away the tears that threatened to pool in her huge dark eyes.

“Look at what this is doing to you. You have to just stop.”

“It’s really not his fault. She cheated on him before they were married. She was the one who broke the trust first. He does everything he can to stay faithful to her. She treats him like shit, doesn’t let him go out at all, always nagging…”

It’s then that I have to conjure every fragment of self-control not to lunge across the table, send wine glasses and ashtrays flying into needles of shattered glass on the hardwood floor, and throttle her.


“I know I have to cut him off,” her eyes drop.

“No. Stop. Stop making excuses for him.”

It’s the defense mechanism that kicks in. No one wants to admit the mistake they know they are making. Especially when that mistake isn’t their own, but them becoming the puppet while someone else makes theirs. So they deny. They justify. Anything to convince themselves that this all makes sense.

I have initially listened to the excuses with an understanding nod. After all, there might be some credibility to them. But after weeks of it, it becomes increasingly clear to me, the outsider whose vision isn’t blurred by the emotions that come with involvement, that they’re empty promises. Methadone, weaning someone off an addiction, nursing them onto something just as bad.

“She’s just got this weird problem, you know. I know that she really cares and wants this to work, but she’s got these commitment issues…”


The ridiculousness of the situation is so obvious from where you stand on the sidelines. But what happens when you, the constant voice of reason who rolls your eyes every time one of your friends launches into one of their spiels, suddenly find yourself knee-deep? What happens when you get that new job, saunter into work your first day, pound out data analysis at lightening speed, and your new boss comes back from his business trip in all his young, sexy, intelligent, successful, witty, easygoing—perfect—glory? What happens when you’re face-to-face with the exception to the rule?

You tumble. The day you go out for drinks with coworkers and one drink becomes five pitchers. You stand outside with him, smoking a cigarette and the beer drowns his professionalism and he confirms that months of finding excuses to ask him work-related questions, pretending you flubbed your timesheet so he can sign another one for you, reducing yourself to a giggling high-schooler with an adolescent crush on her Chemistry teacher, hasn’t been for naught. You run home screaming, skip around your room talking to yourself, find your cheeks in a perpetual pink flush for the next three days. The indifference that has become so characteristic of your personality falters, and suddenly you care.

You make The Mistake.

You become like a dog, hungrily devouring the crumbs that he drops you long after you know everything else is gone. The one phone call before you leave for London, the one email when he actually does go through with that job transfer to England—I’m trying to find some time to visit London, I really should since it’s so close, but I’ve been really busy. And despite your best efforts to discourage yourself, shut the book and accept that it’s finished, you still turn back. And the weeks without are negated in an instant by one sentence, another excuse.

“So what’s happening with The Mistake? He visit you yet?”

“No, but you know, he’s been really busy. Just took over a new position, adjusting to the new job, settling into a new country. He’s started sailing and stuff on the weekends too. His schedule’s really hectic because he’s so ambitious, but that’s one of the things I like the most about him…”

There’s the sympathetic nod you’re so accustomed to giving, never receiving. And you find yourself sitting alone in an empty room in a city you don’t know, waiting.

For what?

Eventually, I’m on a flight back to New York City, squirming with anxiety at being thrown 30,000 feet into the air, and I find my thoughts wandering to what he’s been up to for the last three months. How the job’s going, whether or not the sailing worked out, trying to smother the image of him possibly with someone new—some British floozy with long legs and mousey hair who doesn’t pronounce her ‘r’s when they fall in the middle of words. Haven’t mentioned him for two months and no one has asked.

Now, months later, thoughts randomly find their way into my mind—I wonder if he’s still in England?—but the excuses are long gone. From both sides. You had no intention of following through with any of your promises. Despite my better judgment, I bought in and let you get under my skin. You were aloof. I got clingy, acted creepy. You were sometimes unnecessarily cruel, used me to stroke your ego. I made excuses for you.

But now, I’m through.


Monday, May 08, 2006

Monday Shit

I know writing “list” posts or “dialogue” posts (ahem, Rob) is the literary equivalent of those cheesy sitcom flashback episodes (something "the Sopranos" teetered dangerously close to this past week), but I still have writer’s block, and this is my blog, so fuck you.

1) Someone suggested I write about dating shows, and whether I would ever go on a dating show. The answer to that is an emphatic “Hells yeah!” Watching "Elimidate" is without a doubt the highest form of comedy known to our generation. How this show did not become a prime-time moneymaker is absolutely beyond any realm of comprehension. The first time I ever saw it, my friend and I actually had to take a deep breath during a much-needed commercial break and ask each other, “Is this seriously happening or are the brownies kicking in?” In case you’ve never heard of it, the basic premise is one person (usually male) goes on a date with four people (usually crazy bitches) and he goes through rounds and eliminates them one by one. Hilarity ensues (MTV briefly ran a watered-down version that didn’t have half the orgy-esque fun called "Dismissed," which followed the same formula, but only had two people competing). One episode that was particularly tasteful was one in which two of the four women clawed at each other throughout the duration of the date, had to be split up and restrained numerous times, then proceeded to make out during the last five minutes when the man whose attention they were vying for suggested they “kiss and make up.” I would definitely go on this show and “represent fo’ da Queens bitchez...........yo.”

2) Many thanks to all who participated in our first ever survey. It appears that more men favor the shortcut hole. I have to come up with a survey for the ladies soon. I was thinking about the swimsuit tug aside (keeping in line with the urination theme), but then I realized most women wear bikinis now, making that question moot. But anyone who wears a one-piece, or can at least imagine themselves in that situation, feel free to offer your insights. Personally, I used to strip down when I wore a one-piece as a child for fear of peeing on my hand.

3) Someone asked about farting during sex. I don’t know how I feel about this..........I guess that’s when all those thighmaster workouts come in handy and you squeeze your ass cheeks together and pray.

4) I wrote back to the perverse message from the MySpace Casanova in hopes of garnering a response interesting enough to write about here. Also because B suggested the possibility that one of his friends went on his profile and sent me a message to fuck with his account. So, I wrote, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that one of your friends got into your account and sent me this message.” His response was a grammatical mess of words in which he confirmed that he had, in fact, written me the message himself, and that he would sex me up with his huge cock and treat me like a princess afterwards. Be still, my heart. My response, “Fuck off.” Needless to say, it really wasn’t even interesting enough to post here in its entirety.

5) And now, it’s Monday. And I had a long weekend. And I'm tired.


Thursday, May 04, 2006

So Emotional

“The problem with us,” B says, “is that we don’t feel anything.”

I stare at him blankly.

“We were raised in this way, where…we learned it was wrong to show emotion.”

“So what?” I say through cocked eyebrows, “We should be like one of those people who cry at movies and shit?”

“No, no, not like that. But, we don’t ever think it’s okay to be anything. Sad, angry, happy…” his voice trails off and he shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. “I don’t know. You just gotta see that it’s okay to get affected by shit sometimes.”

This was a few months ago, when B was going through his post-Paris breakup slump.

He has since gone back to being a complete, emotionless, judgmental asshole.

It’s hard to reverse a lifetime of conditioning. Getting the shit kicked outta you as a kid every time you cried. Never hearing the words, “I love you” from your parents after you became old enough to remember them saying them. Hugging my mother good-bye before she left for Japan was the single most awkward experience of the past month.

But don’t get me wrong, I don't see myself sitting in therapy sobbing uncontrollably while strings of snot ooze out of my nose over it anytime soon. Honestly, I find the alternative to be squirm-inducingly corny. Just typing the words "love," "feelings," "heart," "emotions," makes me want to rip my skin off.

All this went to shit during the six months I was in London.

An assortment of grey hair-inducing factors beyond my control turned me into the exact form of blubbering emotional mess that I so often criticize. Kinda like this crazy chick.

The Mistake that followed me to England and promptly dropped me on my ass, exchange rates that immediately morphed my ample savings into a laughable sum, utility bills, exorbitant rent, taxes that tore a hole into my already meager paycheck (those bastards at the UK tax office conveniently "lost" all the paperwork I sent last month to claim them back), asshole coworkers, the frigid responses I got when trying to befriend Londoners. The toll of being alone in a city that seemed to be doing everything in its power to beat all semblance of humanity out of me set in and I folded.

So there I was boo-hoo-hoo-ing over cracking an egg, a coworker I didn't even like leaving to go back to New Zealand, missing the train, forgetting my cell phone, getting yelled at by some asshole at JPMorgan. I cried at work--doomed myself to the title of "that girl." I brooded silently over endless freeze dried pasta dinners, glasses of cheap wine, Council Tax bills. I morphed into a badly written character out of a cheap "Chick Lit" that lonely middle-aged women buy at airport newsstands.

The few friends I managed to make in London developed an impression of me as some sort of overly sensitive "artist," crying into my pint over the state of the Third World.

I expected some residual emotion to cling to my hair upon returning to New York. Anticipated sitting in front of the couch catching up on a lifetime of unappreciated romantic comedies, sniffling at the TV--being a girl. Instead, I reverted immediately back to my cheerful, pessimistic, unaffected, sarcastic self, skipping stoically along my merry emotionless way.

It takes a lot to permanently reverse a lifetime of conditioning.


Wednesday, May 03, 2006

The Block

I've got a wicked case of writer's block, so bear with me.

Feel free to throw out some topics you'd like to hear me riff about. Like...tampon strings, for instance. Does that "super absorbent string" that they advertise for those Tampax Pearl tampons actually make a fucking difference? Come on now...

Anyway, until I unblock the block, I'd like to take a little survey: How many men use the "shortcut hole" in their boxers when they take a piss?

So far, of the men I've asked, it's been pretty 50/50.