I was thinking the other day about anticipation versus gratification, and I was thinking about this specifically as it relates to taking photos: cameras we used to use that required a roll of film, as opposed to smartphones that take photos instantly.
Assuming some of you don’t know this, back in the day, all cameras were their own mechanism, they weren’t part of a phone, and you would have to load it with the film before you’d be ready to take photographs. Once you finished the roll of film, you’d have to take it to a film processor to get developed, which usually took about a week or so. If that sounds like a long time, it was. But that’s where the anticipation would lie. Rather than seeing them right away, you’d have to wait.
Also, what was great about these rolls of film, was they were sold in small, plastic canisters that ended up being the perfect sized container for stashing your weed, which wasn’t legal back then so you’d have to hide it. If you wanted to keep it in your purse or vehicle in an inconspicuous manner, you’d just pop some in a film canister and you’d be golden. Unless the cops opened it up, dumped it out, and crushed it into the ground with the heel of their shoe… goddammit!
There goes your stash, dumb ass.
When your film was ready to be developed, you would drop it off at the photos kiosks; small huts with one employee, and normally found in the middle of the parking lot. It was for convenience, so you could drive right up to either pick up photos or drop off film instead of walking into the store to do it. They were always manned by some dude too, usually around eighteen or nineteen years old with long hair, maybe a few pimples, most likely stoned. Of course it was always guys who worked in those things, girls weren’t stupid enough to spend eight hours in a kiosk in the middle of a parking lot.
So the anticipation of using a film camera was the waiting to see what the photos looked like after getting developed, because most of the time, you snapped a bunch of them and never really remembered exactly what photos you took until you got them back from the lab.
Unless you took naked photos, then you remembered exactly.
Yes, I did. Look, there was some alcohol involved and it was with a boyfriend, big fucking deal. Lots of people did it. In fact, more people are doing it now than ever before, isn’t that right, Mr. Dick Pic? In fact I was just on Twitter last night and you wouldn’t believe how many assholes I saw!
You know how when you were younger and saw all these beautiful photos in a magazine spread, you wanted to take some of yourself and have them end up looking like the ones you saw in the magazine? Well, that doesn’t work with a shitty 35 millimeter camera; you have to have a professional camera with a professional wide angle lens and the right lighting and a backdrop and props and airbrushing (the Eighties version of Photoshop) and everything else… but how the hell were you supposed to know that when you were just a drunken little slut in a hotel room?
What you ended up with looked exactly like what they actually were: cheesy photos taken in some hotel room. I still thought I looked good though, comparatively speaking, meaning I’m comparing them with how I look naked today and I… well, I was a friggin’ Playboy Bunny back then comparatively!
I remember my boyfriend and I dropping the film off at the kiosk to get developed and being really nervous. We were leaving this roll of film in a stranger’s hands, and although photos at labs were mass processed, they could still be looked at individually for quality control.
Not only that, if you had the negatives, you could make as many copies as you wanted. Holy crap, that means there could potentially be naked photos of me in some fucking guy’s closet who used to work in the kiosk, and there’s a possibility he takes them out once in a while and pleasures himself while looking at me…
…that’d be awesome!
Last night I went to this Thai restaurant for a bite to eat. After I gave the server my order, she commented “That’s a lot of carbs.” At first, I wasn’t sure if I heard her correctly, so I asked her to repeat herself, and she said, “That’s a lot of carbs.” I looked at her with an expression like, you’ve got to be kidding me? I got annoyed, and I almost blurted out “Oh yeah, well you’re just a fetish!” but decided against it because I’m no racist.
What are you, a Tiger mother or something?
Instead, I found myself justifying it by reminding her it was brown rice and letting her know I was going to take the extra home, that I intentionally ordered extra so I wouldn’t have to worry about lunch the next day, and then I got more annoyed because there I was, explaining this to some L.A. server who’s supposed to just take my order, not make commentary on it.
After she brought out my food, I started spooning piles of rice onto my plate as I stared her down, just to show her who was boss. I think I made my point, because after I was finished eating, I felt quite full since it was a lot of carbs, but I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some skinny L.A. chick. See, what her problem is, is that her body is starved of carbs, so her brain isn’t working properly, making her do stupid things like state the obvious.
Don’t people understand that at my age the only thing I have going for me is carbs? I dream about carbs… I have fantasies about how I’m going to cook carbs and what I’m going to pair them with… I’ve got a giant tattoo on my ass that says CARBS… in cursive!
I’m a former member of Carbs Anonymous, goddammit!
It’s not enough that almost every person in L.A. is on some stupid food trend or diet: Paleo, Keto, Vegan, Raw, blah, blah, blah… now they’re going to count carbs for everyone else, too? Just because you’re stupid enough to avoid carbs, doesn’t mean everyone else has to.
Why do people feel the need to comment on your food, or on how and what you eat nowadays anyhow? It never used to happen before, this is a recent phenomenon. It’s like Asians, I mean, aliens, took over our planet and they’re all on diets and now they’re brainwashing us into all being on diets too.
It’s not just L.A., I was at a local store the other day buying some specialty and imported goods, and when I got to the checkout, the sales lady would pick up each item and make a comment on it, like “Ooh, this is really good.” and “I’ve never tried this one before!”, before putting my groceries in the bag.
Then she started giving me suggestions on how to eat one particular item, which was ludicrous; This woman with her Eighties suburban hairstyle and Lane Bryant outfit, working behind the register at a retail store, was gonna give me advice on how to eat imported food? Lady, I’m Italian, I am an import, I don’t need advice on how to eat one!
Although eating an Italian a day is supposed to be good for you… snicker*, snort*
I got asked for my I.D. at the market. Now, you should know I don’t drink alcohol, I was buying kombucha. Yep, you heard that right… kombucha.
See, there are two types of kombucha from a specific brand I like: The original, brewed style that has a trace amount of alcohol in it (you don’t really get a buzz off it, but they have to label it as such), and the kind that has the alcohol taken out of it. The original brew containing alcohol tastes way better, which is the one I was purchasing, so when I previously said I didn’t drink alcohol, I was lying.
That’s what kombucha alcoholics do, we can’t be trusted.
I don’t like drinking regular alcohol, partly because of the after effects, but mostly because of the during effects. I don’t like having loss of control over what I say and do. Yes, I realize sometimes I write things that are, um… opinionated. Okay, so it’s more than being opinionated, I get it. Okay, so it’s not sometimes, it’s all the fucking time. No, I do not have Tourette Syndrome, but thanks for asking, asshole!
Look, it’s a compulsion, the truth comes spilling out and I lose all sense of composure, it’s like taking a few shots of Kamikazes. The difference is the delete button… now if I could just find it *snicker* *snort*
I used to drink. Looking back, I acted like a real asshole; a funny one, but an asshole nonetheless. Thank God I’m not like that anymore.
I’m just glad there was no such thing as Facebook and Instagram and all the other stupid social networking apps, my reputation would be fucked. Nowadays, my idea of having fun and partying is to walk through a puff of second hand smoke while drinking a kombucha, which, now that I think about it, is also fucking up my reputation.
It’s okay, people still think I’m a slut.
But back to getting carded: after the check out guy asked me for my I.D., I laughed, but he just looked at me with a straight face, so I said “You’re joking me, right?” to which he replied “No. It’s a new thing. We’re really cracking down on checking I.D.s now.”
… for kombucha.
This is ridiculous, I’m not even close to being underage.
I’m old enough to be his never mind how old I am I’m fifty two and so goddamn what?
Then the lady bagging my groceries asked me “Isn’t that a compliment though, to get asked for your I.D.?” and I replied “No, it’s not.” because it isn’t, and I’ll tell you why: I’m clearly well over twenty one year’s of age, and one can ascertain that just by looking at me. So if someone’s asking me for I.D., it’s because they were told they have to, not because I could be mistaken for someone younger, and so they ask me just in case, complimenting me in the process.
It’s not a compliment. You wanna compliment me? Tell me how hot I look, how you love older women, that you know I’m not a slut and you love how I tell it like it is, then tell me the fucking chocolates are on sale and what aisle they’re on!
Some people think it’s more difficult for other people to act like assholes around the Holidays because of the holy aspect of it all, but I beg to differ.
There are plenty of assholes around this time of year.
You can find them anywhere, but they mainly hang around malls and shopping centers, or drive on the freeway. Well, the freeway’s a given, but they’re definitely at the shops participating in a feeding frenzy, like piranha or sharks. The one I encountered was a whale, and when I say whale, the person wasn’t nice like a whale is because whales are lovely creatures, and when I say one, there’s really been many.
Blowholes aren’t the same as assholes
My asshole (the one I encountered, not my literal asshole) resembled a whale in the sense that her presence was large; she wouldn’t hesitate to knock you over while she was gobbling up the whole goddamn store. Her jaws widened as she swam down the aisle, absorbing everything in her path through her mouth, just like how a whale eats, but instead of plankton, it was garish, holiday crap.
The reason I was there was because I was invited to a Christmas party… or Holiday party… or whatever the hell the protocol is this year, and I needed to get a gift for the Secret Santa… oh, excuse me, a White Elephant, not a Secret Santa, according to my friend, who corrected me. Jesus Christ! Oh yeah, I’m not supposed to say Jesus Christ this time of year either. Listen, the guy was nailed onto a wooden cross, do you think he gives a shit if I use his name as an expletive? I’ll bet even he cried out “Jesus Christ!” when the first nail went in.
So after I found a gift, I was waiting my turn in the front of the line for the next cash register when these adorable Holiday cards caught my eye. Did I just say the words holiday and adorable in the same sentence? Holy crap, please slap me across the mouth next time you see me for saying that.
I took a quick second to look at them to decide which one I wanted, and as I turned to step back to my place at the front of the line, the whale shoved her way past me with her overloaded shopping cart, straight to the register. Apparently she was behind me, which I surprisingly missed, since she was exuding a pungent waft of self-entitlement. If you wanna know what that smells like, it’s anchovies. Then, get this: the woman waiting behind the whale tried to make her move ahead of me also, but I stepped in front of her, blocking her and showing my dominance.
But the important thing is I made it to the party that evening with gift in tow and an anticipation of the evening’s events. When I arrived, there were a bunch of people eating and drinking and having a great time, and there was a whole bunch of gifts just waiting to be opened for the White Elephant, so I thought, “Wow, this is gonna be great!” which is also incorrect. Get a bunch of people together, plow them with alcohol, then try to organize a gift exchange that involves keeping track of numbers and stuff. Go ahead… lemme know how it goes.
Very quickly into the game I realized how crappy all the gifts were, which shouldn’t have been a surprise now that I think about it, and because everyone was getting wasted, it was taking forever to call out each person’s number and get them to focus. Mind you, I don’t drink, so I was witnessing all this with the disdain it deserved. I must’ve sat there for a good 40 minutes and still didn’t get my number called, and I was losing my patience, so I almost yelled out “Hey, who’s dick do I gotta suck to get my number called?!” but decided against it in case some asshole thought I was serious. I haven’t sucked a dick in ages.
Well my number was finally called, and as luck would have it, the gift I chose turned out to be a metaphor for the entire experience. It was a coffee mug in the shape of a toilet, complete with a crap skid on the inside of the bowl, and the crap skid was textured… I kid you not. Who in their right mind is gonna drink out of a mug like that?
Some asshole probably.
Growing up, my older sister could always kick my ass.
But not always as a physical ass-kicking. No, my sister could kick my ass mentally, too. She would do stuff to torture me, like take my doll and say she was gonna cut its head off unless I admitted to her I was a loser, or break something and threaten to tell our mom it was my fault unless I gave her money. So at a very young age, I was faced with having to make tough decisions: do I keep my dignity by refusing her cruel demands and risk getting my ass kicked, or do I succumb to admitting to being the loser she accused me of?
When you come to a crossroads like that, it’s the beginning of what is referred to as “character-building exercises”. It supposedly builds character when someone has overtaken you physically and mentally, making you feel like a powerless piece of shit, because there will be many instances during your lifetime where you will feel like a powerless piece of shit.
So there I’d be, held mentally and emotionally hostage, and facing a stand-off with my nemesis to see who could outlast the other. Of course my sister would always outlast me and I would have to go searching in the backyard dirt to find my doll’s head buried somewhere.
But there comes a point in time when you’re so sick of being repeatedly beaten down, that you just can’t take another loss; you refuse to. The thought of another mental beating is too much to bear, so you’re willing to take whatever is going to be dished out because you just don’t give a shit anymore
and that’s when you learn apathy.
No, courage… you learn courage.
I had reached that point, however temporarily, and summoned up the courage to do something I would never normally do: refuse to back down to my sister, show her I didn’t care what the consequences were, whatever it was she was going to do to me wasn’t going to matter, because the satisfaction of doing this far outweighed the repercussions… and I did this with a fork full of mashed potatoes.
Okay, not the most threatening of weapons, I realize… but remember, David took Goliath down with a stone.
We were sitting across from one another at the small dinner table in our equally small kitchen, and my sister and I were having a discussion about one thing or another. It was one of the rare occasions where we were getting along, just talking and eating together. I happened to look down at my plate, scooped up a pile of mashed potatoes with my fork and looked at it with curiosity, wondering exactly what would happen if I flung this forkful of mashed potatoes across the room?
But then I looked up at my sister and I thought about how funny it would be to fling them into her face instead. It was spontaneous… an “a-ha!” moment, if you will: why wouldn’t I fling them into her face instead of across the room, wouldn’t that be infinitely more entertaining and satisfying? I was armed with this forkful of mashed potatoes, aimed right at my sister’s face, and I thought about how thrilling it was to have the power! I could worry about getting my ass kicked afterwards.
My sister immediately understood what I was planning when she saw my fork, a creamy white cloud of potato resting in the curve of its tines, my fingers ready to release it like a slingshot… a devious smile on my lips. She warned me to not dare do what I was thinking of doing, otherwise, I’d be in big trouble, which made my smile grow even larger and I started snickering. I told her she had better not move, or these potatoes were going straight into her face. She warned me again, saying “You’d better not do it, or I’ll kick your ass!” but her aggressive dominance wavered… she must have realized she wasn’t in the position to make demands, and then she snickered because it was such a ludicrous position for her to be in, to have the tables turned against her.
She didn’t think I had the guts to actually do it, which made it even more satisfying. That was the first time my sister underestimated me. There would be many times in our lives she would be shocked by her underestimation of me, her little sister, the one she so cruelly dominated and mistreated. I often wondered at the way she refused to give me more credit, but she was a stubborn creature.
To know I could hold her hostage by a forkful of mashed potatoes was galvanizing. I was going to do this and I didn’t care one bit about the ass kicking. With a quick flick of my wrist, I flung the mashed potatoes from my fork straight into her face, and it landed with a soft plop squarely in the center of her forehead and stuck there. I never realized I had such good aim… it was a triumph! For a split second, she was in shock; her eyes widened and her jaw dropped open as an expression of disbelief crossed her face.
Fear mixed in with the triumph I was feeling, my heart pumping as adrenaline coursed through my veins. I prepared myself for the beating that would follow, but instead, something miraculous happened: we burst out into hysterical laughter together. All the feelings of fear and hurt and sadness I felt towards my sister melted away, and a genuine moment of camaraderie that was normally void from our lives took its place.
In one swift action I won respect from my sister and gained her friendship, however brief. In that moment I knew what it felt like to be fearless and relevant and included… and loved. It defined for me the meaning of having a relationship with a sister who could be accepting and fun, full of laughter and joy; elements that would continually be missing from our troubled relationship.
One of the headlights on my car isn’t working and when I read the manual to figure out how to fix it, it didn’t seem that difficult.
But we all know how that ball bounces, don’t we?
Whoever writes these car manuals always make it sound so easy to find or fix something, but when you GDB (get down to business), it never is. It’s the headlamp bulb I need to change, so I followed the instructions and surprisingly, I was able to remove the headlight assembly fairly easily. I have to say, it was so interesting to see just how shitty my Swedish car is actually put together. Did you know the entire headlight assembly is held in with a single pin? Apparently the Swedish don’t have to worry about car parts flying off when driving because they don’t drive faster than 30 mph (that’s 48.2803 kilometers per hour for all you European trash) so they figure they can hold this shit together with pins. They pick up meatballs with toothpicks, so there’s that.
Wait, Sweden is part of Europe, right?
Anyway, once the headlight assembly is removed, you turn it over and twist the dial that holds the actual headlamp, it unhinges and there sits the bulb. Then you’re supposed to gently pull the bulb out and replace it with the new one. Simple, right? Well, here’s where it gets tricky: it doesn’t fucking come out.
The thing is stuck. I’ve tried maneuvering it in all different directions, using minimal force of course, because I don’t wanna break the glass and slice open my finger. I need that finger to gesture to the people on the freeway. Although, a finger wrapped up in bandages widens its girth, making for a stronger statement, doesn’t it? No, no, no… that won’t work, I need it for typing. I’ve tried typing with a finger out of commission and it came out looking like this:
Ge t awy F.’o me yo# Godaam idjits!
So I shoved everything back into the hole and stuck the friggin’ pin back in to hold it together, figuring I’d leave it for another day. However, when I used my right turn signal, something went wrong. You know how turn signals have a slow, even ticking sound? They go: tchk… tchk… tchk… Well right after trying to fix the damn headlight it started doing double time, so now it goes: tchk-tchk-tchk-tchk… like a turn signal on crack. It’s gone spastic like the neighbor’s kid down the street. You give that kid a sugary candy bar and he’ll mow the lawn of every house on the goddamn block. Hey, don’t get mad at me for calling it like it is, it’s not my fault the parents smoked pot in high school and then their kid hit every branch on the way out!
Now I’m really irritated that I have a short in the wiring somewhere. I realize it’s pointless getting irritated with an inanimate object, but I honestly didn’t have any irritating encounters with people this week.
I don’t get Swedish cars, I really don’t. They are some of the most boring cars on the planet. Mine’s about as exciting as a church music recital with a bunch of spastics. Although on the way to work this morning, I passed this souped up Volvo hauling ass down the road. It had all these No Fear stickers plastered on the back window, was slightly lowered, and the muffler was removed, which is about as gangster as you can get in the suburbs. When I got a better look at the driver though, I saw it was the neighbor kid, holy crap… he’s only ten. Go spaz!
I have two cats.
Plus, I’m single, every so slightly chubby, over 50, and living with two cats (I think I already mentioned that), so I guess I’m that stereotype people are always talking about, which is bullshit.
Jackson Galaxy is the fuckin’ weird cat lady, not me.
I’ve never been a parent (or apparent… snicker, snort) but I do consider my two cats my babies.
You can have great affection for your pets and not be weird, okay? I think it’s weird not to have great affection for them. After all, they love you unconditionally. Dogs… dogs love you unconditionally, cats do not. Cats love you because you feed them and they can take advantage of you. You’ll never gain the respect of a cat because of this.
They can turn on the cute when needed and they’ll let you adore them but you have to earn it and once you do, it’s only temporary because then they’ll shun you like yesterday’s breakfast; they’re hard to get, which is why they’re called pussy… cat, pussycat. Or just pussy. You fellas know what I’m talking about.
I think it’s normal to love one pet more than the other one too, don’t you think? To all you parents out there, you know you love one more than the others. Yeah you do, and if you’re denying it, you’re lying. Don’t worry, it’s natural to feel that way. One of your kids will always have something about them that annoys the fuck out of you because it reminds you of a character trait you have that you don’t like about yourself, so just admit it. The sooner you accept the fact that you have something about you that’s disgusting and not easy to like, the easier your life becomes, trust me.
For instance, the girl kitty… she’s adorable! She’s so pretty, with beautiful green eyes and super soft fur, but she’s a bit chubby. Okay, fat. She’s got that flappy-flap thingy on her belly that waddles when she gallops and it’s kinda gross. Plus, she’s always hungry and crying for more food which is really annoying to me. I’m always hungry and can eat with an astounding amount of gusto so that’s probably why I get annoyed. I don’t have the flappy-flap thingy though, although I can’t say other things don’t waddle when I run.
I don’t run.
Oh sure… when babies smear food all over their faces, eat with dirty fingers and lick the plate clean, it’s considered adorable, but when I do it, I’m considered some sort of a pig… that’s bullshit.
Anyway, the boy kitty is my favorite because he knows how to manipulate the fuck out of me and I guess I just respond to that more. Not that I would put up with that shit from an actual man. I… well I have in the past, but that’s history, I’m a much stronger person today, so now I can look manipulation right in the eye and say “Um, okay but only for a moment”
When the boy kitty comes sauntering in, I immediately shove the girl kitty out of the way with my foot so I can pick him up and give him lots of gentle strokes and kisses and he starts purring right away, which is how a pussy responds if you know what you’re doing. Most of you don’t know this because if you did, you’d be absolutely drowning in pussy.
Am I right, Tomcats?
I was at an appointment the other day and went to use the bathroom, and I noticed the tampon dispensary was broken into. You’re probably getting nervous because I’m only just into my first paragraph and have already used the word tampon, but don’t worry, that’s not the direction I’m heading… so to speak.
Anyway, they keep the bathrooms locked so vagrants can’t enter to use it for whatever vagrants use public bathrooms for (probably something outrageous like peeing and washing up) so I have to remember to get the key from the office waiting room, which is not my point. My point is… my point is… what is my point?
Oh yes… my point is, when I looked at the damage of this tampon dispensary, it exposed the coin drop inside, and I saw two dimes sitting in there, and I’m thinking to myself “It’s been a very long time someone used this machine to buy a tampon, because nowadays tampons from dispensaries cost a quarter; they haven’t cost a dime since at least when Clinton was president. Not only that, whoever was responsible for managing the coins from the tampon dispensary wasn’t doing their job properly, and whoever broke into it didn’t notice they left behind these two dimes.” and all this was occurring to me as I was reaching into the machine to take the two remaining dimes.
Well you don’t expect me to leave money lying around when I see it, do you? A dime is a dime.
And two dimes is twenty cents *snort *snicker
Whoever busted open the dispensary was probably pissed off they went to all the trouble of bending the fuck out of it, only to find dimes and not quarters. I wonder how much money they got… but the more important question is, what is the logic of locking things up in public restrooms, like toilet paper, paper towels and tampons? If you’re gonna say it’s because those goods are expensive, imagine how much it’s gonna cost to fix the busted up tampon dispenser. They probably won’t fix the tampon dispenser, come to think of it, because if they haven’t been collecting the money since the time Clinton made a mess on a nice girl’s dress, it’s probably safe to assume they don’t care.
Can you imagine how old these tampons were? They’d probably disintegrate as soon as you inserted them into your love tunnel, leaving you holding just the cardboard applicator. Yes, tampons at one point in time had cardboard applicators, not plastic, which was stupid because using one was like trying to insert a tree branch through a straw. At one point, we didn’t even have tampons, we had to use sanitary napkins, also known as pads; those big, thick things made out of what I can only assume was mattress pad stuffing.
When I first started my period, my mom promptly took me to the drug store and bought me everything I needed (forethought not being my mother’s strong point, we went the day I got it) and as we were in the feminine products aisle she was explaining to me what I needed: “We need to get you pads and a belt” so I asked her what the belt was for and she told me to hold the pad in place. Astonished, I said “A belt? Jesus Christ, how big are those things?!”
Pretty big, if you were wondering. Also, pads didn’t have the sticky strip to adhere to your underwear to keep it in place, hence requiring the belt contraption. They were much thicker, not like the thin ones we have today. Back then, having your period meant you wore a two by four between your legs while you were bleeding like the friggin’ Virgin Mary. Yeah, virgin… because if you hadn’t stuck anything up inside there, whether it be tampons, zucchini, shampoo bottle, spoon, a stuffed toy, or your neighbor’s finger, you were still a virgin.
Young people probably have difficulty imagining what they were like, since nowadays women mostly don’t even use pads, and today’s tampons are compact little bullets that fit into their equally compact vag. Don’t get too smug about it being that way though Susie Q… once you have your first set of pups, it’ll stretch out like yesterday’s yoga pants. I heard it’s supposed to snap back into place after a while, which I find hard to believe. I mean, c’mon, you can’t expect when something the size of a watermelon squeezes through something the size of a salt shaker it’s going to regain it’s original shape… right? I wouldn’t know, I actually don’t have any kids, so as you can imagine, I can easily accommodate a compact bullet.
Okay, I lied… it was the direction I was heading.
I was checking out one of my favorite designer’s Spring 2019 collection online and I know that sounds posh, but trust me, I can’t afford any of that shit, so don’t think I’m fancy, I just like to look because the clothes are amazing and a girl can dream. It takes a small fortune to be able to dress yourself in beautiful, well made clothing… so just keep that in mind next time you see me wearing whatever it is I’m wearing.
But I have to say, the clothing isn’t the only thing I have a fascination with, it’s the models walking the runway. Have you seen them? Jesus Christ get these people a sandwich. I don’t understand why some people think looking like a skeleton covered in skin is attractive. Maybe they don’t, maybe they’re just weirdly fascinated.
The way models get, and maintain, their horribly thin bodies has got to be incredibly painful, and I don’t think for a second they’re “born that way” because that’s a load of crap. They may be somewhat slender before they became models, but to get that skinny, you have to resort to starvation, and that’s what I don’t understand… how can you go without yummy, delicious food? F-O-O-D! Think of one of your favorite things to eat. Okay, now imagine not being able to ever eat it again. Go ahead, I’ll wait…
I know, terrible right?!
I mean, c’mon… on a scale of 1 – 10, how fucking great are avocados?! Can you imagine never eating guacamole again, or having any on a salad? Okay, maybe you weren’t thinking avocados… but whatever you’re into, imagine not eating it because you need to make yourself look like asshole. Even assholes are meatier than models, and if you’ve ever tossed a salad, you’d know what I was talking about.
These people are hideous too. I guess that’s the look they’re going for these days, so if you’re a hideous skeleton, just go to one of the modeling agencies in New York and you’ll get a contract. Seriously, that’s all the qualifications you’ll need. Well I guess you’d have to know how to read too, since I’m telling you this in writing.
Anyway, I just started to scroll through the photos and this pale, gaunt model with stringy hair and dark circles under her eyes popped up on the screen and I peed a little. Maybe I get scared easily, I don’t know, but I wouldn’t want to run into this poltergeist in a dark alley, let me tell you that. Although, I could probably take her down with one swift swipe upside the head with a Vogue magazine, but still. I couldn’t believe how awful she looked and it didn’t get any better. Each consecutive model was equally frightening, and the guys were no better either.
Actually, I can’t say all models are grotesquely skinny because the big thing with fashion nowadays is “inclusion”. The fashion world is including plus size models now, which is kind of a bitter pill to swallow because I wanted to be a fashion model as a teen (what young girl didn’t?) but I was what you called “big-boned”… fat, essentially. They didn’t have inclusion back then, you had to be skinny or you didn’t get work. But not skinny like today’s standards, which begs the question: Which is more hideous, the malnourished models or the designers that force them to be that way?
I guess this whole inclusion thing is a move in the right direction… but at the end of the day, what’s missing is beauty.
You ever go to those foot massage places? You know the ones where they do the massage while your feet soak in a tub of bleach? I can hardly blame them for doing that by the way, who wants to touch someone’s disgusting feet without bleaching the hell out of ‘em first? I don’t wanna touch someone’s feet, period.
I’m not sure I wanna touch someone’s body unless it’s been bleached first.
Well my friend and I went the other day and… what? Yes, of course I have friends… what a stupid question to ask! Anyway, we went to one of those massage places on the boulevard because we needed some stress reduction, and since both of us are currently single, and not the types to pick up strange men in bars, this was our next best option. Actually, I shouldn’t say that; I really can’t vouch for my friend not being a slutty whore, I’m only assuming she isn’t. There is something about the way she dresses that screams “whore” though, now that I think about it.
Anyway I have mixed feelings about these places; on the one hand, you can’t beat the price, it’s the cheapest thrill in town (it’s the only thrill in town), but on the other hand, you have to tolerate the slightly annoying language barrier; I can’t understand a word anyone says. I try. I try to understand what they’re saying by using my best deciphering skills, but I only understand about 15%… maybe. When I called to make our appointment the owner answered the phone and I had to ask her several times to repeat herself. It was kinda my fault because I went too far; I asked for something specific, when really all I should’ve done was just state what time we wanted our massages. Instead, I asked for a female masseuse since I prefer being touched by a woman over a man.
Hmm, does that sound right?
It’s just that the men I’ve had in the past do it too hard.
Anyway, when she responded, I had to ask her to repeat herself, but I still couldn’t understand her, so I asked her to say it again and she did, but nope… nothing. So then I just pretended to understand her by responding with a “sure”, not being sure at all because I had no idea what I was agreeing to.
Have you ever done that? Pretended to understand what someone was saying, just so you could slowly back yourself out of the awkwardness of the situation? Well that’s what I attempted to do, but noooo… she wouldn’t let me off the hook, the pushy broad. She asked me if I understood what she had just said, and the only reason I understood that part, was because she only used two words: you understand? No, I’m not asking you if you understand, those were the two words she used that I understood. Understand?
Anyway, I gave up and admitted that no, I could not understand her, and then she got really aggressive with me. Yeah, it was amazing! In her irritation and broken English, I got the sense she could bust some serious balls. You don’t have to speak a foreign language to know when someone’s a ball breaker! Admittedly, I got a little scared. I don’t know why, it’s not like I have balls or anything.
When we arrived, all the masseuseseses… ahem, practitioners… were busy, so guess who ended up being my masseuse? Yep, The ball-breaker. She was really nice to me though, which totally threw me off, because when someone’s really nice just after being really irritated, they come off a little crazy, know what I mean? I kept waiting for her to challenge me to a sword fight, which is something I certainly wouldn’t be prepared for, she probably has a huge sword!
I told her I like it really soft… you know, the massage… so when she first started to do it, it felt great, but then out of nowhere, she started digging her fingers deep into my flesh, twisting and turning, so I said “Whoa, Siamese Samurai, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” She leaned into my face, flexed her bicep and touched her muscle, then muttered something about being too strong to do soft massage. At least, that’s what I thought she said. So I told the bone-crusher I needed to have another masseuse because I wouldn’t be able to walk out of there alive if she kept at it. Since no women were available, I ended up getting a male masseuse, and you know what? He was really good. He didn’t do it too hard and he didn’t smell, so I dunno, maybe I need to rethink that whole woman thing.