Sunday, August 4, 2013

Sexism: When Rad Brains Fail

Ingredients for this My Time: stupid idiots and their stupid faces, drinking, a gal pal to bitch with, pajamas that just say no, and a night or four in.

Oh Darlings, darlings, darlings. When was the last time you were "poked" on Facebook by some moron sent to the future from the early 2000s in his attack plan, and all 1950s in his head? Let's talk about SEXISM. Lately my gap pals and I have had a pile of bullshit loaded on our vagina carts, and YET, no payout of a hard penis to make amends for such trifling. Then again, we have closed our bank accounts to such payments because mixed metaphors make more fun than the men with brains and Facebook accounts. Here's some of what we're sick of.

Smart White Nerds in Academia.

Hey Assholes, all of you in the US who work in contemporary literature of the world? You use words like "neoliberal" and oppose racism, genocide, Republicans, Nafta, and support Occupy movements, political action, local farms, comic books to discuss world issues, radical left publication, and theoretically women's rights to the things you haven't ever had to discuss as a "right?"

Here's a fucking clue: don't try to fuck every single one of the women around you in your profession. BUT FOR WHY, you ask. Well, they're your colleagues. Sure, banging happens, but maybe you shouldn't send out one mass text to multiple women in your profession, hoping one bites, "poke" them on Facebook like some nerd, ask them all "so you want to go fuck?" as a PICK-UP LINE, or slam your body against theirs and grab an ass in a conference lobby. Guess what you are? A sexist. A man with great ideals who can't even HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH A WOMAN without objectifying her let alone befriend a woman or consider her a colleague. Good job having great morals that mean nothing in actual daily or yearly life. And we women you don't objectify? Well, that's worse. We don't get the benefit of at least a nasty look up and down to take home later to our vibrators because we're nothing. While the harem of women you try to bang laugh at your nasty face and/or bang you and talk about it later to all of the rest of us ladies, the ones you openly call UGLY or don't even mention are farther down the totem pole of the profession than the ones you give a second to because you want to bang or bang again. It's unclear: as sexual beings who like sex and sexy stuff, we don't even know what you find sexually attractive.

Go back to your nerd convention, you measly, sociopathic, never-fucked-in-my-teenage-years-so-making-up-for-lost-time-and-narrow-ideas-about-women piece of shit. You exist, and it needs to be okay at some point for all of us to talk about how you exist and ruin progressive intellectual and empathetic collaboration, mentorship, and art. Let the women who fuck you be condemned to fuck you.

Looked out at the publications you subscribe to, lately? New York Review of Books?
London Review of Books? Are you all competing for the absence of women as a way to somehow have your very own vagina, i.e. absence? Just because you read and teach Fun Home and Persepolis doesn't mean you have taken a long look in your nerd mirror to see how you treat your fellow female colleagues. Your equals.

What's just as bad is the women who sleep with you, don't tell anyone, then bring up how disgusting you are and say they would never sleep with you.

The shame you bring to their bodies, already clearly so fucked up that they can't say to themselves "I'm an adult woman and I'm allowed to sleep with adult men, whether they be creeps, studs, or people I have an actual emotional interest in." How is it that I've heard recently by adult women who pull this kind of strange, anti-feminist, lying to girlfriends in some convoluted way, sad shit and proclaim: "I'm so worried about what my father/my family/my siblings/my peers would think if I slept with someone [that you already did sleep with, Honey]." You are an adult woman and no Nerd Asshole you sleep with cares about what anyone thinks about him. You're his colleague, his student, his teacher, his peer, his something in the world because he does not exist in isolation even though his penis thinks he does. No one has told him that it's not okay to not think about these things. Give yourself a break. Think about them half as much if your desire for sex is paramount. Ladies: it's okay to have sex; it's not okay to lie to girlfriends about sex with men, or to punish yourself for what people might think about you for having sex.

Yes, we all have issues, yes, it's important to be generous with people over condemning, yes, it's important to understand that these issues are more complicated that a simple rant makes them. Wait. NO. No no no. Don't do that. Don't avoid actually engaging--simply and clearly--a real actual thing that happens to women every day (at least where I am and who I'm with--perhaps I'm in a vacuum, because certainly this can't happen elsewhere, right?!) because you have a rad brain. Rape, genocide, murder, war: these are men's burdens because they instigate and carry them out. It takes courage for a man to say that rape is their problem, sexual harassment is their problem, death at large and the destruction of many things are their problem. And it takes courage for a women to say that she has been a victim of men's simply made poor decisions. It takes courage for us all to speak up. Rant. Rant. Rant. Say it and don't look back. Save your life every declarative sentence at a time. Don't let anyone with a rad brain complicate an issue for you that is as simple as you wanting to have a good life.

A conversation I had with a male colleague:

Me: "you shouldn't tell women writers in our classes that their work would be better if they had more sex. That's sexist. We're your colleagues. Some of us your senior colleagues."

Him: "you're racist."

Me: "No, I asked to speak to you because of your sexism."

Him: "But I love women! What are you, one of them--them feminist things? A lesbian? You need to get out more."

Me: "No, I'm straight and I have a boyfriend. And I go out all the time."

Him: "Really?"

Then he cries. Of course he was given the best fellowship for money and prestige in my profession. Which was awarded by people far more established in the profession. And never once in any course, talk, reading have any of those established people addressed his sexism. So what do we do? We laugh about him. And we are told not to worry about such things, it's not productive. Be quiet. Don't rant. I have a rad brain and I can tell you that.

Down With Men/Up Your Skirt CONTEST

Ingredients for this My Time: you and your brain! Welcome to the annual My Time Sex Contest!

Oh Honey, it seems like it's longer and longer roads for me to get back to you with a post. Well, I'll make it worth your while. What's the fun of having money if I can't throw it around to the tiny little people with big heads?

THE CONTEST: whomever guesses how long it has been since your little Daggy has has sexual intercourse wins $100 gift card to Amazon. 

Now remember, I'm in the Midwestern country, so I don't have my swarthy, foreign lovers nearby. BUT, I am in the tail end of my tenure of serving on a charity committee, so I'm surrounded by very sad, drunk people, which equals mistakes such as sex any day of the week. On a broader note, one might consider that when you google "sad sex," you only get pictures upon pictures of women looking disappointed, and I am of a STATELY age where lesson upon lesson might lead one to avoid such situations.

crowns 'n' corgies: better than sex, every time.

 This is your task: guess as specifically as you possibly can how long it has been since I've had intercourse (other activities do not count), and you get the $100 gift card! Guesses must be made in the comment section here (you must make a profile that I can contact you at) or on my Facebook thread. So Honey, guess away, and maybe you can be a winner. 

How long has it been for this rich, successful, smart, regal beauty known as Dagmar?

Wednesday, June 12, 2013


Ingredients for this My Time: a yoga mat, a yoga membership, a summer heat, and low nights.

Oh Honey, I just LOVE working out. I mean YOGA. It's not EXERCISE, it's BECOMING A BETTER PERSON. Which can't happen when you jog. Duh. And how I LONG to become a better person.

So when each summer rolls around and I'm off from all my charity work in the Midwest, I travel to the West Coast of the United States and begin my PRACTICE. But alas, this summer, I've decided to stay in the Midwest for the summer, where I can just as easily do my PRACTICE and also not spend time with my mother, Empress Von ThighMaster. She's busy tanning, anyway.

But, ALAS, I realized that my understanding of a PRACTICE from my kooky, wordly ways in not the same as a PRACTICE in the Midwest. My Goddess Pose was NOT well received the first time I brought it out.

But alas, I think the wonderful Midwestern politeness has saved me, for no one has mentioned anything ever. And yet, Honey, because I'm a fucking rich cunt--so fucking rich--I can't understand a lot of the yoga I've experienced in the Midwest, and because (just a reminder) I'm such a fucking rich cunt, I can't help but gasp at what I'm experiencing.
Some things I hear while my face is bent over in my crotch:

"When I say the word 'prana,' THAT'S OKAY. If you're Christian, and I AM A CHRISTIAN, this word might make you uncomfortable. But it just means 'energy.' And Christian or non-Christian has energy."

"If you read old books you'll see that western medicine is wrong when it doesn't account for meridians. The east knows about meridians."

"The meaning of words is only possible in opposites. We would have no idea what 'hot' is or how it feels if we didn't know the word 'cold.' It's yin and yang."

"Twist to put your left elbow on your left knee."

"When the flies land on you during your PRACTICE here it's an opportunity to still your mind."

"I look toward the East."

Because the drugs have made me daft, I wonder, why don't the Christians have flies landing on them? And who made a trip to Tuesday Morning for all those amazing candle holders? If I clean my yoga mat with a natural antibacterial wipe, do they clean theirs with holy water? Can Christian Yoga ever encompass Kundalini Yoga i.e. can they RELEASE THE SNAKE?

Doing yoga in my small town outside of my fabulous mini-mansion is kind of like taking a vacation, Honey. I mean, with all the flies on me, it's like I'm in India without the dysentery. I mean, THE EAST (CUE FIREWORKS). And, forgive your little Daggy, but I do feel like a stranger in my home. Like a little runway muffin looking for a new path. I mean, PRACTICE. As I got excited to settle in this summer and strengthen relationships with friends and lovers in my town, IRONY happened, for in this summer heat I found a calm cold.
You see, Honey, maybe it's because of the drugs, maybe it's because of the espionage, maybe it's because I left my heart along the way with RODRIGO in the 1980s while I was at Andelay's in Puerta Vallarta
                                              maybe it's because I'm a soul musketeer
                                          maybe it's because goddesses bring death, suffocating warmth, 
                                          and too many arms to hold the world which they always hold, maybe
                                          it's because of how here, running the charity committee I
                                                   instead of elsewhere, where I

                                         and maybe it's because how I think of myself, my
                                         power in the world, is changing from FUN shame
                                    to an older sureness of calm battle, a good cartoon fantasy,

but something is shifting around in here. The battles look different, and here I am, with my selenite orb, with my flourite orb, with my clay. Staring. Solid. Present tense. Crazy as ever. And leaving a lot of shit, a lot of people, a lot of strength behind. So here I am, in the Midwestern summer, freckled and pink from my Crunches with Christ, getting good work done and being alive. Maybe this Midwestern yoga is really working.

Something stirs here in the summer and I like it along with my stomach muscles and red wine spritzer.

Friday, April 19, 2013

All You Need is Hair

            You know, Honey, I bet even the best of them wanted to be ignored by men sometimes.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Austin is for lurvers

Ingredients for this My Time: Tattinger, a large updo (that's a picked bleached rat's nest, Honey), a side of shrimp, and a foreboding full moon.

Oh, Honey, I KNOW. I don't keept up with my correspondence like I used to. I mean, I have all this TIME, but the difference between now and this time last year is that in addition to having all this time, I've learned how to download the entire oeuvre of Law and Order, I've given up on ever getting married again, and thus human contact is--at best, at times--banal. I mean, Honey, you're special. But let's play the "you vs. Jack McCoy game" for a sec:

Do people call YOU "Mr. McCoy"? Oh, no? Well, it's time to take a long look in the mirror, aka, realize with a seeming new shudder down the back what shame feels like. AGAIN.

Do you balance the line between conservative and liberal so expertly that you try a black poor father from Harlem and a white gentrifying rich woman AT THE SAME TRIAL? don't do that? Well, have fun in Polarizing Belief Land with your la la morals and your puppy dog laws.

Do you never, ever once make a pass at the always never not very thin female DA assistant working in your office? Oh, not you? Well, congratulations on all your sexual harassment suits. And see you in court.

So, the point is, Honey, I've been very very very never not free to contact you while watching Law and Order. But here I am, in Austin, Texas, away from my Midwestern Country for a few days, and I decided to write you and say hello. Hello, Love! What are you doing? Oh, wait, I forgot: I don't care. Instead, let's talk about the fact that my most recent divorce, after a long battle in court to agree to terms, HAS BEEN FINALIZED! Now I can use my most recent alimony to start hunting for my next ex-husband! Shall we go to Rio? Copenhagen? Berlin? I think I'm interested in a count this time.

Oh, but here I am in Austin with all the bearded Texans. Where can a lady get an oil billionaire when she needs one, amIright? Anyway, I barely made it here as there were grave matters I needed to attend to. You see, I've become something kitchy called a Next of Kin for someone known as a Victim according to the California Department of Corrections. I know, what kind of charity ball organization is that?! You see, today is March 26th, 2013, and an inmate in a gorgeous orange jumpsuit is up for parole, but my little, tired, bediamoned pointy finger said oh no, Honey! And I made something called a Victim's Rights Video and posted it to Youtube (first $100 and glass of Tattinger goes to the lucky one who finds and manages to watch all 7 minutes of it!) and wrote something called a Victim's Rights Statement. Now, here's the thing about being the perfect victim's advocate/next of kin, Honey: you need to look, play, and meow the part.
So, I've been reading Blaise Cendrars' Moravagine and wondering what it might be like to be Macha, walking for HOURS in stiletto heels, and denying myself simple pleasures, such as one more Xanax, or the "missed local flight and wine bar at DFW happy hour!" Friday. I tell you, Lover, it is hard to advocate and next of kinney. One of the greatest mispleasures I've had to endure, and all who enter DFW do, is the amount of toe rings I've had to see! I mean, blond-haired ladies of Texas! Can we please talk about wearing open toed shoes to an airport, on a place, and making sure to accessorize your dogs before sitting next to someone on a plane for who knows how long who is trying, if at all possible, to not look at your body because said person does not want to acknowledge the proximity of your body to his/hers without consent, interest, or welcome?
And what is it with the women in DFW with giant burnt blown out hair who are wobbling by in their wedges and denim mini dresses, dazed as if just released from a sex prison for the first time in years? I mean, what is GOING ON underground or in a secret parking lot at DFW?
Which brings us back to: victims. While I sip on my Tattinger, eating small bits of fried chicken thigh from Eastside Kings (that I will puke up LATER FINE), "it was then that I realized"
who is a victim, and who is an offender? I mean, PUN.

So my lovely, eccentric uncle, the Earl of Creedence, was murdered in a gentlemanly duel when I was just a girl growing up in a castle in Tallinna. My father, being the younger brother to said uncle, was made forever silent, as if under a sleeping spell, from his brother's untimely demise. Needless to say, this intriguing incident brought much color to my already untarnished upbringing! The men who were less gentlemanly in the duel (CHEATERS) were brought to the Queen's justice and imprisoned. However, 15 years later, the first one is up for parole. You see, my father was the next of kin and would surely speak out against the 60-70 stab marks these bastardly fighters lefts in my uncle, but seeing as how the death of my uncle left my father blind with hopelessness and incapable of speaking, he drank his sorrows away, as any rich, untethered man does. But then, to be dramatic in before my quinceanera
I swore to my father that if he did not quit his rambling about Europe with a brandy in his hand, I would leave the castle for an aunt's mansion in the Highlands. And he obliged to keep forever our family name out of the dirt. Then, and this is where the irony doubles, Honey, he died on the way to an AA meeting! And because he was hit by a Rolls, a company in which his stock was the highest of any! So, let's recap. His brother's death lead to his own will to live coming back which led to a death at a "will to live" meeting, and he died from being pummeled by the same car that had brought us so much fortunate life! I mean, couldn't you just DIE from the humor?!
And now, the person who forced the actual next of kin/victim into a "righteous life" is the one who is morally obligated to "speak" in the death of his mentor, which caused his own death ultimately. I mean, it's enough to make a lady want to party at the DFW forever, never to be seen by society again and to compete with true Texas divas as they work that toe ring over a joint or bump bump bump-it that hair to the heights beyond sex trauma!

So, instead of going in person, which I will do for the most serious offender in 2018, I submitted a glamour shots video where I explain something called DEATH'S UNDYING IRONY. Get it? And to truly drive home how much I want the heads of these men, I'm staying in Texas instead of California, where the death penalty is tre chic. Oh, the death penalty energy I gathered for my video! Of course, when one completes this video, one must be weary of all the pounds gained on film, so I only ate shrimp for a week to prepare for my glamour. And now, sadly, Honey, I bid you ado while I snuggle up to Jack McCoy, the warm electricity line leading from my computer to the wall wrapped tightly around my neck to keep me warm, so warm, so warm that I go cold. But before passing out with my Life Alert heart monitor so that Butler can find me before the end, I loosen the cord a little, because after all, Honey, how can one not be so grateful for the ability to speak for all the loved ones who are no longer, who died when they should not have, who could have made me a little less of who I've become? Shrimp diet to speak for the lost ones any day, Doll.

champers and an orange jumpsuit on me!

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

A woman. An American Woman. In combat. It's called 'feminism.'

Ingredients for this My Time: equality, at least one functional vagina and womb, a bottle of champs, DIET gummy bears, and the world at large and your little lonely apartment.

Oh Honey, did you read THE NEWS? That's right, American ladies, we get to go to combat now along with our penisy counterparts! Oh, and did you hear?

"The move could open hundreds of thousands of front-line positions and elite commando jobs to women."
elite commando

FINALLY. A new stripper name I can get behind. And really, Honey, I get so sick of being rich and spending all my money on things other than preserving my virginity with knife skills, attendance to a despot who is the only leader in the middle east who doesn't disparage sub-Saharan Africans, and equal involvement in the politics of my country. Well, that despot is dead (the world sings in praise!) even though his death was a pretty hue distraction to real problems, and his despot level (don't worry, Honey, I'm making a chart) wasn't anywhere near despoto superior. I mean, he's as good as the USA is, right? He had an army full of WOMEN. See? EQUALITY.

Just look at that dude. He slept on roofs when he traveled to other countries. A roof in Paris. Because that was his tribe's tradition. Well, unless he's in the USA, because we have better ways of dealing with despots. Channels!

I mean, Honey, to be an American woman is to be polarizing. And to live in Missouri and be in the charity board business, looking for a tenured position in charity, is to experience this intensely and have less conversation about it. How do you know that?

A My Time Fun Game:

If you are a curvy, downright fat, sharp-faced, somehow not ideally attractive according to porn and/or MTV standards, repeat the two sentences above about polarization to your colleagues or the cool guys at the bars you hang out with who, you know, would never call you to hang out with them and the other cool guys, but are nice nonetheless and you all consider each other friends. Blink. Blink. Do it. Really. Or if you do fit into an ideal idea of beauty and piety for women, have a busty, chatty gal-pal do it instead. Here's you or that woman:
Now, if you're lucky, here's the best response you can get:
then he backs away into a corner with a Slim Jim
 But chances are you'll get some polite incomprehensible response that is akin to telling you to fuck off, if you were from the planet that could recognize that.

And ask a very petite, slender, quiet (and/or COY DEPENDING ON THE AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL) light-haired lady whose face looks smiley and voice is quiet to say the same sentences, but in the form of a question.  She wonders what they think! That might be you, so you can take this position. Here's this other lady, and the presumption is that you aren't one or the other type, but that if women are polarizing, society NEEDS SAFETY and types you for such occasions:

 Here's what she gets:
"I just like looking at you. You're nice. This other bitch told me her sure opinion on the matter and it was really offensive and unfair. I'm glad you're not like her. Look at my man brain-light head gear."

Girlfriends, compare notes over a bottle of Tattinger. If you're both straight, question what it will be like to have sex with a man again after your little experiment.

Or, maybe your vagina provides such polarizing pheromones into the air that you literally can't remember the last time a straight man tried to have straight sex with you.

That's ok, girl, that doesn't mean your opinion doesn't count. It might mean that you are highly unattractive to your polarizing community, EVEN IF you got laid a lot before. I mean, Honey, that was probably a different time and a different place, i.e. you were younger, hotter, less willing to speak your needs, and there were a lot more men in the cities you lived in. Don't worry, Babe, it'll happen. A lady has ways. Maybe you can enlist a girlfriend for help with this, too?

OH BUT WAIT. I forgot after getting all caught up in my story, Honey. YOU ARE EQUAL. YOU CAN FIGHT IN COMBAT WITH THE MEN. Let's forget that gay folks were allowed to do this before you even though they can't even get married in most US states, because that might remind us that the "right to combat" is actually a rhetorical gesture designed to put undesirables at risk while making them feel they are integrally a part of the physical, spiritual, and cultural essence of our nation. Drink that one away--another bottle of Tattinger, Doll! And let's forget that female people as well as those not in the one or other sex denomination our culture allows for do not en mass engage in war, rape, genocide, profit from them, or encourage them. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE SEXIST YOU SEXIST LADY, YOU! Remember, sexism is simply stating the facts about the differences in the sexes. Blink. Blink. It's not actually instilling defamatory and destructive reactions to a biological sex or chosen gender. That's just fun!

Oh, am I a Bitter Betty? Er, a Downer Daggy? I'm sorry, Honey. Back to the topic at hand. You now have the right to combat. Women fought hard for this for you. Because female officers fought for that right, that means it is an award for women across this country. That's what feminism is. And you're welcome.

Before we all head off to combat, can we have one last drink? And honey, because it isn't said enough intelligently, the males we know have to deal with the exact same problems about presumptions that we do. But it is also worth saying that males are the ones that destroy the planet and humanity at large and yes, that's a polarizing opinion. But you know what, Honey? It's worth discussing, with men, women, and those whose chromosomes read across a spectrum of in-betweens and others. As you know, I love men. Too much.

THE THINGS I've done when they've asked.

THE THINGS they've done when I've asked!

So, for me, combat as equality makes sense. I fight with them. I die with them. I don't have to love them. I am one of them now. We have a common enemy. It's simple, easy, and I want to kill myself less when I think this way. I've finally found the answer to my suicide prevention: die at war. It is a good day indeed, Honey.

It's a win-win for the USA and women everywhere today!

champers on me,

Sunday, January 20, 2013

I'm Back! And Thinner than Ever (You're Welcome)

Hello Honey! It has been so long and we have SO MUCH to talk about that I fear this will be quite rambling. Please forgive my lack of tact, brevity, and concern for your time.

It has been so long, I know. If I knew you were going to be so interested in me affirming that I'm still alive through things like "communication," "keeping up with communication," and "responding to requests for communication," I wouldn't have started becoming "friends" with you in the first place. As if I trust that such interest in me as a human being could sustain! As if I actually believe that you care. As if I'd trust that you'd come if I called you before I ended up on the floor in the corner AGAIN. As if I'd tell you what I THOUGHT about THAT and DID with an ABALONE KNIFE. Honey, that's what Xanax and cable is for. And yet, you ask me, "where are how are you?" Congratulations on being a human being you goddamn bleeding heart.

                                            Oh, you got me. I kid. Really. Just joking.

Now, let's move away from your fickle interest in our friendship and get back to MY interest in not our friendship and substance friends. Today is Sunday, Honey. You know that is hard for me. Let's look at what my elegant home looks like on a late Sunday morning.

Elegant? Yes. Innocuous? No. My camera seems to be an optimist, as the amount of light it's showing you does not accurately reflect the amount of darkness my house is in. The $10,000 Roberto Cavalli curtains are closed. And that's the thing about being so rich, Honey: sometimes if you want to show off what you have, you have to highlight what you never will, i.e., the sun. But my, those curtains do look elegant as they close me into my safety.
And that's real gift of wealth, Honey. It hides the parts of you that are the poorest. I can't remember the last time I didn't have a conversation with myself on a Sunday that went like, well, you could hang yourself from the beams on your front porch so as to feel the sun on your face, and suddenly the forced survival lessons in the woods with timed rope-tying sessions your father implemented makes sense!

...but wait, you'd have to go outside to do that. Out of the question. Well, you could run the bed knife along your arms and lean backward...but of course you'd never be found because you go days without anyone checking in and the cat would eat you.
...but a lady learns to never inflict trauma on another creature that is rightfully her own. The trauma, not the animal. And then I'm like, well, this damn cat is still alive and clearly needs your help. Who else would change her diapers? Conversely, who else would she let change her diapers? Why do I have an animal with diapers?

Oh wait. I'm still asleep in my nightly dream, Honey. Sorry. Let me wake up from it and move on.

Ok, I'm awake from my nightmare because CLEARLY I think I'm too important to die anyway. I mean, I'M RICH AND FAMOUS! I've slept with men WHO OWN BOATS! I HAVE A SPECIAL SPECIES OF CAT FOR CHRIST'S SAKE! And then you forget that you were having a conversation about your suicide idealization because you're like, goddamn Manx cat what are you doing now? Where did you get that pedestal?
I mean, really, what love one can be reminded of, and that is the sublime element of the earth that makes me shake. Seriously, if you move an animal inch by inch to stay in a sun spot, you are truly taken. And Honey, now that the morning Vicodin and Grey Goose Bailey's Silk Nog VITAMIN MIX shake is kicking in, I can tell you that this is what I try to do for you, my friends. I would drag your tired body through the sun until the freaky space star took off for the day. And then, again.
this bitch.

 The conclusion, Honey, is that, like that personality-less Carrie that every rich man in Manhattan wants to bed (AHEM WHITE MANHATTAN), "I wondered, did suicide require a level of sobriety that I was unable to meet?"

"It was then that I realized, did my blue eyeshadow make me blue, or is it my own blueness blah blah pun"
I mean, I've just started my semi-precious stone furniture collection! Who else, alone in the dark, will sit upon my mother of pearl stool, the coolness and hardness of which I covet? To be luminescent and full, all angles and reflection. To sit upon this is as if to be stable because the suchness of you is made through your primordial history. The stability of the rock does not decline.
And lo, Honey, if you don't mind me saying so, who would put their head inside of my abalone square? To feel that surrounding one's head, the same head that has had its share of injury and should probably be checked out for aenurisms, etc but as decided not to until one learns how to spell aenurism, etc the luminescent coolness of the sea, a family history made of ashtrays and forced dives off of cliffs, a way to not see beyond the glare. What then becomes of this?

Let's move on from this melodramatic stuff and get to ALL THE OTHER THINGS I have to talk to you about. I mean, it has been a long time, and FINALLY that Vicodin has set in so I can consider our friendship again. I'll move through the list, and hope that this list reminds me that I really need to get back to updating this internet exchange more often.

I had my vagina removed! You might think, oh that sounds dreadful, the vagina is such a great thing yatta yatta feminism embodiment empowerment rediscovery after rape intelligence calm spectrum of yatta yatta good life blah. But really, after the fucking classy man, I just can't with it. And she couldn't with me. So, she's moved on down the road.
every vagina has the prerogative to be a hobo
And I, Honey, AM THINNER THAN EVER! Aren't you so happy? You really would not know how much weight that little lady brings into the equation. She really has a no joke history that adds the pounds.
so judgmental about the history!
So here I am, thinner than ever, i.e. HAPPIER THAN I COULD POSSIBLY BE EVER AGAIN UNLESS I GREW ANOTHER VAGINA AND REMOVED IT AGAIN AND SENT THAT HOBO DOWN THE ROAD. So, that means, triumphantly, I can consume and become a state of safety and calm.

Oh, it was so lovely to not have her around for the holidays. I mean, at a lovely charity ball where one sees the old lovers around the champagne fountain, and one GETS A TEXT FROM AN EX WHO IS STANDING ACROSS THE ROOM that says "I wish this were different," what does a lady do? Shrug.  Without a vagina around reality becomes so clear: I mean OBVIOUSLY a man could not have acted differently in the past, nor could he change the present, and is only empowered enough to WISH that "this"--and not a particular person's behavior--might be, well, "different." I mean, the ol' vagina might say, how about apologizing, dude? How about recognizing that you aren't powerless in the history of personal exchanges? How about just being a human being? But now that I don't have a vagina, I see the truth: how could a mere white man who has had a good life ever assert power in the first place? Clearly it's the vagina's fault.
how else would this dude happen?
 Oh, and what about THE OTHER ONE? Of course when I STILL HAD MY VAGINA I drove 4 hours to a dinner with an ex and his new girlfriend and sister. And he was an hour late, and OF COURSE we sat and drank in the same restaurant--same table--that 8 years before he had yelled at me at. Which he did not remember, and I did, as I was so in love with him and willing to go anywhere for him. As his new girlfriend sweetly tried to explain to me the intellectual pursuits I had dedicated my life to by explaining jouissance, I believe IT WAS MY VAGINA that suggested we explore what that actually means as I guided us into my car to listen to Elvis's "Only The Strong Survive" while he and his lady held a 19th century poster of verbs in a river that I placed on them and I passed around a bottle of the perfume I was wearing for us each to smell. I believe it was my vagina who said, SEE THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE SUBLIME AND JOUISSANCE? 

And it was my vagina who steered the wheel all those hours home in the dark while I cried and listened to Elvis. Clearly only a vagina allows for such female problems. And clearly it is only because of my vagina that I will probably be known as the crazy ex-girlfriend. For I have nothing to do with it.
at a local Costco, obviously
I guess now is the time where I have to admit that I still have la vhagzine. And I, consumed with jealousy, can't believe that women pop up out of the ground like out of some cute girl hole and get with all the men I know whenever they want. I am jealous that I have never found some hole in this town that I live in. Before I got here I was vibrant, humorous, and actually had admirers. And now, now? I think my body has gone dormant. It does not suggest nor detect any desire connected to it. Well, I guess I'm lucky that I all I think about when I think about love, sex, and human connection is:  NEVER AGAIN. It's a gift, really. For the first time in my life a desire to connect physically and emotionally comes in second to a desire to never do that ever again.
welcome to the jungle: never again

So what instead remains? Well, Honey, I am now the proud attender of prisoner parole hearings. The strangest thing happened. I was writing in my memoir and it occurred to me that as a child raised by a very rich and prestigious man who died in a hail of golden coins, my father's bad investments corresponded to his brother's murder. His brother, a famous and rich spy working with the Soviet Union, had died in a battle to the death. The men who murdered him are now in prison, and since my father has now died and gone to rich man heaven, I realized that it is me who can attend these men's parole hearings and speak for my father. What this means is something I will have a separate post about, but needless to say, my lofty and wishwashy thoughts of suicide have to take a back seat to speaking for, dare I say AS, a rich man who has lost a rich brother. I have a voice of authority to speak, and I will. My new hobby at the California Department of Correction awaits. And the new wardrobe I must purchase as the widow of justice is undeniable.

It is good to be so wealthy, Darling. It is so good. It keeps you busy, doesn't it? It keeps you here for the moment. It keeps you hidden from the world in HATS.

Well, the morning pills and booze combo has produced a headache that requires my attention, aka my passing out into hopefully a dreamless sleep. I will write more in the next few days, and as I slide back into this internet world, the posts will become better at being poignant and interesting. This one was obviously boring except for the SEMI-PRECIOUS STONE FURNITURE. Oh, so much more interesting stuff to share. But alas, I must depart for the moment into the world of Roberto Cavalli dreams and Alexander McQueen nightmares. As only a rich woman can. Ta ta, Love.

Champers on me!