Allison's starting to happen

Remember The Lemonheads, 90's music fans?

"This world is topsy-turvy,
and it is mine to eat.
She's a pebble in my mouth
And underneath my feet.
She's the puzzle piece behind the couch
that made the sky complete...
Allison's starting to happen.
Allison's starting to happen.
Allison's starting to happen to me...
...Allison's gettin' her tit pierced!
Allison's growin' a mohawk!
Allison's starting to happen...to me!"

I always loved that song, as well as The Pixies' "Allison," (from distant star to this here bar) and I just thought it would be appropriate to include some lyrics to songs with my name here at the beginning of my twenty-fifth year. The day before my birthday last Friday (the 25th), I went and did something I've been wanting to do for a really long time: I cut my hair short-short, and styled it in a wacky, eye-catching way. So now, not only do I have the convenience of a wash-and-wear haircut, but I also get to enjoy a different "look" altogether. That's right. Allison may not have her tits pierced, but she sure as hell is sporting a faux-hawk. And it's so invigorating in more ways than I could describe. It's fun. It's spunky. It perfectly reflects the inner shift I've felt over the last several months. I also enjoy dabbling in androgyny, although I don't exactly think that anyone could mistake me for any sex besides female. Who knows. Anyway, I'm in the middle of moving into a new spectacular place in my life, my looks, my love...this year will be a good year. I am absolutely sure of it. More on this subject later. For now, it's back to the moving grind.

Do you know what time it is?

I'll tell you:
It's POODLE TIME! This is my Andre, a 2 year-old apricot standard poodle. He has the intuition of a mystic, the vocabulary of most five-year olds, and the body of a...hm....a fuzzy, long-legged...poofy...thingee.

You know him. You love him. You cannot fucking live without him. Andre. The Poodle.





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I Heart Neil Swaab

Requiem for a turd

About the previous blog--I just realized something ironic and a bit embarrassing that I am not too big to confess:

"...nothing makes me gag harder than trying to swallow some hamfisted moral message with a sappy soundtrack backing it up."

This is bullshit. I'm a sucker for plotlines and characters, and have happily choked down MANY a craphappy morality tale as the result of empathizing with the characters or overidentifying with the film's plot or subtexts. That's what fiction does. It sucks me in--sometimes even the bad stuff.

I suppose that what really bothers me the most is when I know I'm being sold a product that some greasy Hollywood mogul recycled from some other successful flick and decided to fling at the groundlings this year. And I find myself especially resentful of said commodification when they (faceless whoevers, all of them fat-ass, silk-suit, steakeating rapists, as is well-documented by the cartoon that plays constantly inside my insomniac cerebrum) create some stale, garbage-pail catastrophe and market it as an art film with sullen celebrities who just went slumming for the folks who worship filth. See also: Closer, Vanilla Sky, V for Vendetta (and this is largely due to the total betrayal of Moore's text and the soppy revolutionary sentimentality throughout), and Requiem for a Dream.

My readers (and many others besides) just might hate me for slamming those films, especially the ever-revered Requiem (and I'm sorry, but "Requiem for an Anything" just oozes smarmy arthouse pretension in the worst way)...and I'd have to refrain from commenting very thoroughly on the film, because I won't do what a good critic would do--because I'm not a "good critic," just some schmuck who likes to bitch about shit as a pasttime-- and watch the film again. Strap me down Little Alex style and force me to view it again on the big screen with my eyelids peeled back and see if I don't spontaneously combust.

So, that's that, I suppose. My gift to you. A blog about a blog, the ultimate in narcissistic wordspew. All I'm saying is that I'm just as guilty as anyone for liking things that show little to no artistic merit. Just please, for the love of the sins someone died for, please don't make me watch some vapid crap about the oh-so-precious plight of the bourgeoisie and call it "a brutally honest insight into the downward spiral that is drug addiction." And they can keep their textbook descent into what the suburbs call "the underworld" while peeking through their fingers and masturbating their own captive boredom.

For the price of a Friday night film, I'll drive you to Orange Mound so you can hug a fucking junkie and see what happens.

Taste test

*Reader Warning: 7/10 on the Pervert Richter. Filed under The Too-much Information Act*

Tastes change. I've noticed a change this year in the way I feel about many things...films, for instance. I'm just not as easily satisfied by your standard hokey plotline anymore. I've become a rather unforgiving critic, and I hate seeing loose ends flailing around in the plot, and nothing makes me gag harder than trying to swallow some hamfisted moral message with a sappy soundtrack backing it up. But that doesn't mean I haven't been able to find many films with which I've been quite content.

As far as my taste in drinks and food goes, that has changed substantially as well. I used to abhor pepper in all forms, and couldn't really handle anything spicier than a mild curry sauce. But I was out with L one night a few months back and tried a fresh jalapeno...and nothing has been the same since. I'm dousing my morning eggs with red savina puree and grinding peppercorn medley into everything I cook. Where liquor is concerned, I've come to prefer light whites (Riesling and Gewurtztraminer....where the hell are all the little accent marks in this format, anyway?) over your usual heavy cabs and so forth (though I'm still a sucker for Pinot Noir and some Petit Syrah). I don't like dark beer as much as I used to, and I can't fucking stand anything sweeter or more complicated than tequila or Jaeger. Besides, something about mixing sugar and alcohol does not bode well with me, and I often wind up fainting (not passing out, mind you...just a weird swoon brought on by blood sugar stuff) or feeling like shit after more than one sweet drink.

But that was all just foreplay to my main point. The thing is, my sexual interests seem to have evolved as well. I'm still a naughty little lustbucket 23 hours a day, and I still love...you know, all the things we all tend to love. Pleasure. I still masturbate myself awake a couple of times a week, and I still don't really get into sex toys. And as far as talking dirty goes, the more turned on I get the nastier my mouth gets until it's almost distracting...sometimes my L and I will wind up giggling in a sweaty heap just from something I've shouted or whispered in the heat of my climax. So that's still there, and I'll leave many other details as far as my sexual tastes up to the imagination. Everything is contextual, so what I want changes with my mood and the setting and the sort of day I've had, sure. But I used to really dig the rough stuff. Spanking and restraining and hair-tugging, name-calling, power roles and marks to explain at work that week, etcetera. Either role, dominant or submissive. But for some reason, that just doesn't do it for me anymore. It's not that I've tried it and stopped liking it, but more that it just doesn't seem to occur to me as an impulse or interest, at all. Maybe it's this relationship. The power balance is stable. We're peers. Neither of us could pretend otherwise. That, and our everyday sex is effortless, as well as the best ever, without any bells or whistles or electronic gadgets. But it's also just...me. I don't need the pain as much anymore, and the sudden, lashing violence (particularly the burden of all those props) itself just isn't as appealing. Who knows why. I'm trying not to think of it as good or bad, just indicative of change.

So I was startled this evening when L was playing his new Wii game (me spectating, procrastinating, gestating a paper I don't want to write), The Godfather: Black Hand Edition...and I found a new ::ahem:: interest I never knew I had, and one that I never had before. See, in this game (Wii fans, raise your nunchuks!), you kick ass, make threats, talk shit, and strangle people. The action command for strangulation is one of the most fucked-up things I've seen in a video game yet. I mean, the game itself is violent, sure--blood and shooting, blahblahblah. So, when you go to strangle someone, the wii remote vibrates gently as you spread the remotes, then squeeze, then shake them quickly, continuously downward while your victim's pulse grows louder and faster as you force him (or her) to the ground and eventually snap the neck with a crunch-pop sound. The first time I saw this, my face reddened and my jaw dropped. And then, wonder of wonders, I became aroused. I found myself....liking it. Hm. Interesting how tastes change. What'll come of this, who knows. I'm not saying anyone's going to find me naked with a noose around my neck, suspended over my toilet in an accidental masturbation death or anything. Don't worry. You'll find me in my bathtub drooling purple foam. (JOKE, okay?)

It's just, I don't know, interesting. I never thought of strangulation as exciting before, and suddenly I'm sitting here perving on a particularly violent Wii game. What the fuck?

Nice belt you got there.

Next week: Wedgies and ball gags! Who knew?

Giving up for Lent

Why is it that I continually force myself to do things that I do not enjoy, just to see if I've changed my mind about them? Is it peer pressure? Am I really that convinced that, just because someone I respect enjoys these things, I should feel the same way? Or is it just that I'm always looking for something else to enjoy? Maybe there's a certain degree of pretension in it--that I don't want people to know that I don't like something because I'm afraid that I'm the one schmuck who can't see the Emperor's lovely new wardrobe. Regardless of the cause, here are some of those things I keep trying out, in spite of the fact that I KNOW already that they are just NOT to my taste:

1. Cadbury creme eggs. They just look sooooo good on the commercials, and the sound effect of the clucking bunny always made me extra crazy for a creme egg; there has to be subliminal advertising at work there (buckbuckbuckBUY!buckbuckbuckBUY!). Why is that a bad thing? Because I think they're nasty. Over and over, they are nasty.

2. Christianity. What an appropriate association to make: Creme eggs = Christianity. They're so alike for me. And in fact, I feel like the Cadbury bunny when I try to blend with Christian culture; it just plain isn't my bag. It's not how I think; it's not my worldview; it's not historically or factually accurate, and until a branch of Christianity is able to practice unconditional love and the same acceptance, tolerance, ethics, and wisdom that its central prophet so passionately advocated, then I'm going to stick to my own version of immortality--one that doesn't require me to define myself by which portion of the population I exclude from the privilege of eternal life. And don't even get me started on the concept of hell. If there is one, then the god who thought THAT shit up can just keep his followers and all the gruesome consequence of living a rational existence, rather than one based on senseless following of ancient, obsolete edicts.

3. Marriage.

4. Children.

5. See 3 and 4, and stop telling me I'll change my fucking mind.

6. Pot. Every time I get high these days, my lungs feel like someone is searing them on a grill, and then I simply feel generally uncomfortable with my own brain, my own skin, and my own surroundings for the next six hours. It kills pleasure.

7. Anal sex. Just wondering if you've read this far. Is she kidding? Who knows...

8. Birth control pills (note: PILLS! I'm on b.c. in the form that works for me) and brain candy. Fuck anything that manipulates my serotonin and my dopamine or makes my tits hurt constantly and sends me into hell-bitch mode every other day. Xanax? Okay, but only on special occasions.

9. Woody Allen. I watched another Woody Allen film the other night, and you know what I realized? I don't care if it DOES make me a bad intellectual or if it gets me flung off of the film buff wagon forever. I get tired of listening to that snivelly, neurotic cunt run his mouth incessantly. There is nothing cute about people who can't shut the fuck up.

That is all. Here are the things I give up on...

...at least for now.

Premature Ejaculations

Verbal ejaculations, people. Verbal. God, it's disgusting what you just can't say without people thinking "sex".

But anyway, the "premature ejaculation" refers to a pretty exciting thing for me: My application was accepted by Suicidegirls! They like the photos I submitted (some of those appearing in my photos section on here were featured), and they want me to produce an actual SG-styled set. I have to come up with a name for myself, a "Suicide girl" name, and then I just have to come up with something professional in terms of a photo shoot. I'll probably submit several, and I don't doubt that I'll eventually come up with something they want to buy. I'm welcoming ideas for a name for myself, as well as some ideas (especially from anyone who is somewhat familiar with the gimmicks and styles of SG photo sets) for a context in which to shoot some interesting photos with a consistent theme and setting. The first set has to meet these guidelines:
"Start out clothed and end up fully nude, the outfit and setting should remain consistent throughout the entire set. Please be sure to include a variety of angles and poses so that there are enough photos to work with. You may not have anyone but yourself appear in your images.

Fully exposed breasts and bums are required. Spread and overtly sexual shots are in no way required in a set. Penetration is not accepted. Think 40s pin-up style shots or playful and cute nudity, not graphic sexuality. Nudity should begin in the first third of the set - for instance, if a set is 40 pictures long, nudity should begin around picture 11.

Any set submitted should be in color - we are currently not accepting any black and white sets."

One idea I've had so far is to title the set "Unstuck in Time" and try to do something with clocks, timepieces, and jeez, I don't know what for costuming. Should I be a Tralfamador? Dress up like a pilgrim? A German soldier, maybe. Ooooh. Or a Jew! Wynn, this would be the perfect opportunity for us to use "The Diary of Anne Spank" idea. "Concentration Tramp"! This no longer has anything to do with Kurt Vonnegut, but that's okay. It's brainstorming. As far as a name goes, I don't want nothin' cheesy or Emo, but still welcome suggestions. I thought about Karenina, Dubois, Nocturne, Viola, Titania, and Epiphany. That's all I've generated so far. They have to be a little pretentious, or at least eye-catching. Tits and ass will only get you so far without a cunning linguistic package when you're a pinup girl on an intellectual smut site.

A pinup girl. That'll be me soon. I'm gonna be a suicide girl. Just you wait and see. Or don't see, if that's not your bag. But I'm excited.

Eater of broken meats

This is ridiculous. It's nearly one in the morning, which means it's technically the day before my paper is due. The day before. I have written one page, an intro. I'm sitting on something really spectacular (and no, not just my sweet luscious ass and juicy reproductive organ) in terms of a thesis, and it's going to be stillborn because I just can't pull my shit together. I feel like an intellectual cripple, but somehow less sympathetic than a "real" cripple (I think they prefer the term "gimpily disabled") because it's entirely my fault. School has tightened the noose around my will somehow, and I feel utterly incapable of doing anything except bitching about how I can't do anything but bitch about how I can't do anything. AAAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH!

Now I sit me down to write,
I've wasted the entire night;
And all I want is sex and sleep:
Procrastination's price is steep.

Saving sex from censors' scissors

ttp://www.myppmc.com/Books%20-%20Pornogrphic%20Sch.%20Library%20Pictures.htm

Yet again, libraries are under attack for attempting to educate children without a Christian agenda. I stumbled across this material today while trying to research my presentation for tomorrow, and I could not help but submit my own letter to the editor of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. While I don't expect it to appear ("democrat"-gazette my ass), I thought that I would publish it myself, right here on Narcissistic Nutjobs Not-so-Anonymous.

The link above is a link to the "controversy" and the petition to remove sex-ed books from shelves in Fayetteville schools. The following is my letter of response (keep in mind that I was working under a word limit):

While I encourage parents to involve themselves in the education of their children, I am disturbed to see the vehemence with which Laurie Taylor and many others have attacked Arkansas school libraries, alleging that these libraries provide "vulgar" books and pornography to children. These books are educational, not titillating. The central message of these books is that sexual pleasure and perversion are not synonymous, and that children should not feel guilty for feeling or fulfilling normal sexual impulses. Since when did sex become inherently perverted? Since when did Farenheit 451 become our national reality? Since when did it become the school library's responsibility to LIMIT educational resources? Parents, stop expecting society to raise your children for you. If you want to restrict your child's emotional and intellectual growth, do it on your own time and stop demanding that your libraries and legislators take on your responsibility.