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!