Assorted Ramblings
There’s a lot of stuff I’ve been wanting to tell y’all but it’s never enough to sit down and write an entry about, but now I’m gonna say it all in one big go.
1. Oklahoma has the tackiest license plates. Green and white dreamcatchers on a Mercedes Benz. Lord.
2. Most men know women’s bodies better than women do, and men like women more than women like women. (Or maybe it’s just the Latino and Asian men who surround me?) Every time I’m in a mixed group and a piece of media featuring a naked woman appears, I can count on two things. One, the men in the group will be glad to see the naked woman. Two, at least one of the women in the group will criticize the naked woman’s body for something absolutely ridiculous.
Example:
A group of people is sitting around watching TV, and the remote is flipped to the Pron Network Amateur Hour, and there’s a woman on the screen with, say, bumpy/large/pink areolas and inner vulval lips that extend past her outer ones, or any other variation on female sex organs.
Brandon: Leave it on that channel.
Brenda: Ew. Why? That girl is gross. What’s WRONG with her nipples? My nipples don’t look like that!
Dylan: They look all right to me.
Kelly: Whatever. Look at her CUNT. Oh, my god. Who has a cunt like that? That’s disgusting. Who would want to have sex with her?
David: I would.
Donna: Seriously, you guys. I have never seen a woman with abnormal nipples like that.
Steve: You should watch more porn. They come in all shapes, sizes and colors.
Brenda: Gross.
And don’t even get me started on the way women smell, and how they hate it, and how so many men are obsessed with it, because that’s just too much for me to talk about on the Internet, where so many people have such delicate constitutions…
3. It’s bad enough that people in crowded elevators have to touch me, but when they seem amused by the fact that I obviously don’t want to be touched, it’s a little much. Yes, coworkers, when someone else crowds into the elevator with us, I am going to retreat further into the tiny bubble of space that’s left to me. And I am going to eventually put my arms over my breasts so that they don’t get touched along with the rest of me, whether you smirk at me for doing so or not.
When I feel like touching people, I have plenty of people I like to touch. I hug my kids. I kiss my boyfriend. I pet my cat. Touching strangers is unpleasant to me, especially when those strangers have been soaking in cheap cologne, and it’s almost never necessary. Especially not in Houston, where we don’t have subways.
Stop crowding onto already crowded elevators, you dorks. It won’t kill you to wait two minutes for the next one. Don’t touch me, either. Ever. Or I will kill you. With a butterfly knife. I have one. It’s right here in my purse. Oh, wait. Forget it. I can’t reach my purse. It’s jammed into some guy’s Drakkar-Noir-smelling ASS CRACK, because you had to shove onto the elevator with your pilot case full of stolen office supplies, because you have to get to the parking garage thirty seconds sooner than the next elevator can take you, so you can fly your SUV down the freeway with your cell phone stuck to your ear, so you have plenty of time to microwave your fat-free caramel popcorn before Temptation Island XXXIV comes on.
Damn you.
4. It makes me sad when I splurge on expensive things that are supposed to be high-quality and then they’re no better than the cheap versions of those things that they sell at the drugstore. Like, say, MAC eyeshadow. If I wanted sparkly eyeshadow that stung under my contacts and smeared off my eyelids of its own volition by 10 a.m., then I’d just purchase Bonne Bell or Mary Kate & Ashley eyeshadow, instead. At least the people at the MAC boutique in Rice Village are awesomely nice customer servants, though. They let me exchange said eyeshadows for lipgloss, even though I bought the eyeshadows in Toronto and didn’t have my receipt. Rice Village MAC rules. MAC sparkly eyeshadow doesn’t.
5. Last week I posted a bunch of stuff about how certain insecure people are rude to me now that I’m a published author. How, for instance, I can no longer say anything without these people projecting a bunch of haughtiness and arrogance into my words. “Now that Gwen has a stupid book, she thinks everybody gives a shit about her opinions on MAC eyeshadow!” and the like.
So I posted bad thoughts about that, but then I went back and erased them. Screw those people and the sour grapes they rode in on, you know? Lately I’ve been making a really forceful attempt to be less angry. (Can you tell? No? Die and go to hell, then.) I realized that I could focus on the haters that surround me, or I could focus on the awesome people and some really good trance CDs, instead.
I think it’s been working. I feel better already. My blood pressure is decreasing. I avoided three strokes this week alone.
Later, peeps. I’ll talk to y’all later. Be good, stay safe, and don’t forget to use sunscreen.
