How to Talk Dirty: Lesson 1 - Introduction

One of the top searches that brings people my blog (after “blowjob tips” and “cunnilingus tips,” surprise, surprise) are phrases like “how to talk dirty,” “what to say in dirty talk,” “how do I talk dirty to boyfriend in bed,” “how do I get her to talk dirty,” etc.

So, I’m starting to get the hint that there are a lot of people out there who are looking for some practical advice on how to talk dirty. Unfortunately, however, when they search this term and my blog comes up, they don’t get a post on how to talk dirty. Instead, it takes them to a post about the worst things that people have been told in bed.

For some reason, every time I see this happen on my stats, it dismays me. I keep imagining all these earnest people, all hopefully looking for some practical advice, and landing on a page where they’re only shown all the things they might already be doing wrong. So I feel as a pretty damn accomplished dirty talker and a reasonably accomplished teacher, that I should bow to my readers’ needs and do a little series on how get your filthy-tongued mojo working.

This post will be just an introduction to the subject, and then others will follow. We’ll begin with a few FAQs.

Why do people want to talk dirty or have me talk dirty to them? What’s the benefit of it?
Quite simply, it adds a little spice, and gets the person you’re talking to more highly aroused. There’s nothing like having the right person murmur, growl, moan, or scream the right thing in your ear at just the right time. It can make the difference between good sex and mind-blowing sex.

Plus, for many, besides being an aural stimulant, dirty talk can also be a big ego booster—a.k.a. aphrodisiac. For most guys, hearing how big and hard their cock is in the midst of fucking is going to make both their pride and their big, hard cock swell. For most women, hearing just how much you love fucking her is going to make her love fucking you.

As to why people talk dirty to you, probably because they think you’ll find it sexy, and because it makes them feel sexy to say certain things in bed that they imagine saying in their fantasies.

But isn’t it belittling?
Not if you know the person likes it and wants to hear it, and if you say the right thing for that person (and for you). Keep in mind that there is a wide range of dirty talk, from the mild (“Oh please, harder!”) to the hardcore (“You’re daddy’s little cum slut, aren’t you?”). Every individual’s preferences for dirty talk falls somewhere on that continuum, and wherever that point is for that person, anything you say lower on the scale will generally be a turn on, and anything higher will potentially be belittling or just too extreme. As a responsible partner, it’s your job to figure out where on the scale your partner’s preference falls, and not to go beyond that into turn-off or humiliation territory. (I’ll give you tips on how to figure out your partner’s threshold in a future lesson.)

In the same way, you will have comfort zones for what you want to hear or say. Your partner’s responsibility is to learn those—but it’s also your responsibility to communicate them gently and respectfully, but firmly. Never feel you have to say or be told anything that makes you feel bad, or that takes you way out of your comfort zone.

But I’m shy. Just the thought of talking dirty takes me out of my comfort zone.
That’s not unusual. Many people are embarrassed by dirty talk. That’s probably because they’ve been taught it’s wrong, or that nice or loving people don’t talk like that to each other. And some people are embarrassed because they don’t know what to say or how to respond, and think they may sound stupid.

But keep in mind that being embarrassed and being turned off or freaked out by it are two different things. If you’re merely feeling shy or embarrassed but you wish you could do it or try it even so, don’t worry—you’re ready to do it. With a little practice and adopting the right attitude (which again, you’ll learn how to do in an upcoming lesson), you’ll be able to be talking dirty with the best of us.

Now, on the other hand, if the thought of doing it or hearing it makes you feel sick to your stomach and as if you never want to have sex again, talking dirty is just not for you, and you and your partner will just have to just accept that. Everyone likes different things. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Why won’t my girlfriend/boyfriend talk dirty to me? How can I make her/him?
As stated above, if your partner seems to have difficulty talking dirty, it’s probably because he or she is embarrassed by and/or inexperienced with dirty talk and is afraid of sounding stupid if he or she says the wrong thing. No one wants to look stupid or turn their partner off in bed. Plus, many people were never taught to be verbal in bed, and so the impulse may not come naturally to them.

In answer to the second question, you should never “make” your partner do anything he or she doesn’t want to. But if your partner seems willing to participate but hesitant about how to do so, that’s another story. In that case, you should treat the situation the same way you would treat having sex with a virgin. Your partner is a dirty talk virgin, and he/she’s afraid he’ll/she’ll come off bad in bed. It’s your job as the more experienced lover to gently tutor him/her and help him/her along slowly and patiently, step by step, until he/she feels comfortable going "all the way."

And speaking of which, listen and listen good: if you try to make your partner feel bad or guilty for not doing it, or criticize his or her technique when he/she tries to, they’re going to shut down and you’re never going to get any. And you’d deserve it. So they key is to praise what they’re doing well, and don’t force or criticize technique.

Isn’t talking dirty sort of a natural talent thing—either you have it or you don’t?
Not really. Like any skill, some people are born with a natural gift for lascivious lingo, and it just rolls off their tongue with no conscious thought or effort. But if that’s not the case for you, never fear. It’s a skill that can be learned. It’s all in getting comfortable--and hot, and confident in your own sexual self. Like any other skill, you study up, you practice, you make a few false starts, and eventually you get good at it until you're one of the people who looks like he or she’s been doing it naturally all along.

That’s all for tonight.

**Next lesson: Embracing Your Inner Dirty Talker**

For the time being, I’d love to hear if this post/series seems useful or interesting to anyone who’s reading, or if anyone has any advice to add to any of the FAQs above.

(Photo credit: [Talking Dirty] by jehza)

Does Size Matter?

I have a confession. I have never dated a fat guy.

There are probably a wide variety of reasons that I haven't--ranging from simple reasons like, "I just never found a guy I liked 'in that way' who happened to be fat," to more insidious reasons like the fat hatred I heard regularly from my family growing up, and societal attitudes that may have influenced my attraction to big guys.

All that's fodder for other posts related to fat and body image. But this post isn't about that.

It's about the fact that I've never dated or had sex with a fat guy. And lately, I've begun to wonder if I've really missed out by limiting myself in this way.

I've been thinking a lot about it lately, because suddenly, and for no predictable reason, body types that I was never much attracted to before suddenly seem incredibly appealing. For most of my life, I've gone for the tall (over 6'), thin types: sleek biker bodies, skinny emo rock boys, gangly geeks, the occasional broad-shouldered but lean type. I was fairly predictable in my taste. I still like all these looks, but now it's as if my attraction vistas have just gone panoramic, and now everyone's body is looking hot to me, and like a new opportunity that needs to be crawled all over. Big, muscle-bound guys; square, solid husky rugby types, and yep, fat guys.

In fact, there's one particular fat guy I see pretty regularly who, shall we say, tips my scales in a major way. Unfortunately, he's not available to me. But it does get a girl thinking.

So I was talking to a friend about this the other day; about the potential advantages I might have been missing out on not having included fat guys on the roster for all these years. And, in the physical arena, we were discussing if and how sex with a fat person is/might be different, and what some of the potential advantages might be--as well as if society at large is really pretty dumb for eschewing fat sex.

Some possible advantages I imagine to having a larger partner:

1) Even better physical affection and warmth. There is nothing like being embraced by a big person. You somehow feel so much more protected and well...held--in a very good way.

2) Softness and curves. Sure, taut skin has its appeal, but there's something nice about the thought of the more cushioned, voluptuous feel of a well-padded naked body against yours. Stroking your hand along it, feeling the curves unique to that person, soft and giving. Having more body to explore and touch...

3) Intensity of thrusting. As a hetero girl, one wonders if the poundin' would be all that much better with some extra weight behind it. I mean, really, just imagine. Mmmm. And as a guy, maybe the pushing in would feel different with a fat woman (or man), more full and padded, increasing the pleasure sensation.

4) Well, if it's on a woman, fat usually means bigger breasts and ass. And who doesn't love that? The potential pleasure in them there regions is multi-faceted. I'm sure I don't have to explain further.

5) Less fear the person's gonna break. When someone's too skinny, you sometimes wonder if you're going to hurt them if you get too enthusiastic.

Those were some of my ideas, but of course I have no basis in reality for them. So now I'm asking: Have any of you had experience with both thin and fat partners? How is it different (if at all)? What are some of the advantages or potential disadvantages? Is the world missing out on a major amount of pleasure because they don't realize the benefit of fat sex?

It may be no different at all. As a person who has been both underweight and overweight, I haven't noticed much difference in my own sexual sensations between the two states. But in terms of what it was like for the people having sex with me at different sizes, I'm not sure.

I'm curious to hear others' opinions about the relative benefits of bigger partners. Or, if you have varied in body type over time, if you have enjoyed sex differently as a larger person.

NOTE TO ALL COMMENTERS: Please keep your answers to the topic at hand--a shared, positive, respectful discussion about what some of the possible differences or benefits there might be in having sex with larger sized partners. This is NOT a debate about the relative physical attractiveness of fat people, or if people "should" be fat, or anything like that. Any comments even remotely resembling fat bashing (or skinny bashing, for that matter) will be removed.

(Photo credit: Lovely black and white portraiture by Laurie Toby Edison, from her series "Women en Large" and "Familiar Men." You can purchase her books or prints via her website at the links above.)

Beauty in Unexpected Places

I know this ad has been circulating around the 'net for a while, but I was just watching it again tonight, and I still love it--it's so hopeful and humorous and somehow nostalgic and bittersweet all at the same time.

It's worth another watch if you've seen it. And if you haven't seen it, you must. It's a shame all advertising isn't this lovely and evocative.


In any case, it's the mood I'm in tonight.

High bandwidth version (recommended -- WELL worth the wait)

Low bandwidth version

Not A Dot Composite

It’s got everything right. Kind wife, understanding husband, two nice kids. Minivan, high-end sedan. Gated community, in a high-end town. Swimming pool. Tennis courts. Families everywhere, smiling, waving. Clean house, very tidy, everything in the right place. Extra bedrooms, bathrooms. Comfortable furniture, big TV, matching dishes, matching towels. An entirely coordinated life.

I’m welcomed in time and again and when I am, I can see why people do this. I can feel the sensations. Safe, warm, comfortable happiness. Patterns. Familiarity. Reliability. Order. Coziness. Promise of stability. No bad surprises. Increasing accumulation (status, material, wealth). No ugly, unpredictable elements jarring the picture. Lulling, womb-like calm. Life as an Impressionist painting, all muted pastel and soft focus.

I fall asleep in this place, in the perfect quiet pixilated with the soft hum of the central air conditioner, in a room that’s dark but not so dark as to invoke fear. I wake up in the morning under a downy comforter emitting just the right amount of warmth, with the sun streaming in the picture windows, highlighting spotlessly clean white walls. I breathe in the entirely scentless air. And I feel…

Entirely nothing.

For all this, everything designed for my satisfaction and comfort, there is nothing here I want.

So now. I’ve walked out of the painting. No more wavering. Time to search out the new canvas, media.

A brash spot of graffiti on an unexpected surface? A brightly painted chair? Black, curved iron girders climbing skyward? A throne made entirely of recycled tin foil, jelly jars, coffee cans, and street trash?

I have no idea what it will be. I do know it’s time to face up that it won’t have a frame. I’m never going to fit all nice and tidy and clean in the middle of the square.

It’s time to stop moderating that to protect others from discomfort.

(Photo credit: Empty Frame by Andross)

Come Together

I remember you.

It was a night where I could feel I was perfect. I was just where I was meant to be, surrounded by darkness and friendlove and murmurings of a crowd and the promise of music. I had bitten off more synthetic happiness than I could chew, and it felt, oh, so far beyond any variant of the word "good" that there's no use trying to search for one. My soul was shooting heavenward, giddily, recklessly, and exploding in showers of sparkling light. Divine fireworks, making me shine from the inside out.

And then all around us, the lights shot up like solar flares, blinding yellows and oranges. And there they were, the band, issuing their first soft, pulsing siren lure, calling on all of us to come up with them, higher, and higher, the singer leaning into the mic and whispering...

My brightest star's my inner light; let it guide me
Experience and innocence bleed inside me...

I've glimpsed, I have tasted, fantastical places
My soul's an oasis, higher than the sun...higher than the sun

And the music swelled and wound like a snake charmer's melody, and suddenly, in the luminous smoke filling the hall, I could see.

And what I saw was you.

Just the back of you, many lengths up ahead of me in the crowd. Mostly just an outline in the darkness. But it was as if everyone else in the crowd had disappeared for me, and all I could see was your dark hair, the span of your shoulders, the way you were moving to the music. And a voice inside told me, “This is the one.” And I understood that being near you meant happiness.

And I wanted that. I wanted you so badly. You were so far away, out of my reach, and the crowd was pressed around me and I couldn’t fathom how to get you to know I was there, ready for you. My friends were around me, and it felt unsafe to leave them, because if I did, we’d lose each other in the crowd. And you, you weren’t even facing me. You didn’t know what I knew.

But I wanted you, and so I told myself, “Keep wanting and he will feel it.” And I lost myself in the music and the singer crooned:

Kiss me, won't you, wont you kiss me
Won't you, won't you kiss me
Lift me
Right out of this world...

I'm free, you're free.
I'm free;
I want you to touch me.
So, come on, touch me...

It was exactly right and I felt only joy and saw only colors and raised my hands up to the lights in the sky and called for with the music and when I next looked down, there you were, right in front of me, as if all the people had been moved away to bring us together. You were still facing away from me, and the music was so loud, so very loud, too loud to talk over. I didn’t think you would hear me call to you. I could have easily reached out to touch you, but the crowds were pushing and jostling, so a touch would have gone unnoticed. And I was suddenly shy and unsure.

I want you, I called softly, inside. Turn around.

And you turned around. Your back to the band. Looking right at me. And I looked up at you, flushed with joy and dance and expectation, hoping you understood. And the biggest, most angelic smile I have ever seen on a man came across your face. We knew. We fucking knew.

I should have kissed you right then.

You came close. You grabbed my hand and held tight.
You would not leave me. I could tell you never wanted to ever again.

You whispered in my ear. And masked under the throbbing music, you told me things I’d been waiting for.

You were my perfect one. I was your perfect one. We knew. We said. We did things, pressed close and invisible in the crowd, and made it so.

And then the music got lower and the lights went up, and the world around us could see us again. We stood there together, vulnerable, clinging on.

And they closed in on us. There was an angry rain cloud of a girl on your side; concerned, protective friends on mine, a train you had to catch that night. We didn’t fight them. We conceded. We were so stupid.

You should have stayed in my city, gone home with me. I should have quit everything and gotten on that fucking train, gone with you wherever the hell you were going to end up. We talked about it. We said it. But we had only minutes to decide, and it was too fast. Too crazy.

You left. It was done. I pretended everything was as normal. You, on your way to the train, must have done so, too. Other music came back up. I danced, but it was never the same.

In my mind, I am still running to fix that mistake. Bending time so that this time, when my friends trundle me into that cab, attempting to take me downtown and farther and farther away from the you, I shout out. I tell myself the story of how instead of staring at the intense glow of a line of red traffic lights blinking off into the depths of the city, lulling me back into my familiar world, I screamed for Penn Station. How the cab had barely stopped before I was throwing open the door, running down the stairs and across the concourse toward your receding figure, calling out to you, until I was there, throwing myself into your open arms, feeling your lips pressed into mine, forever and forever and forever.

In my mind, I see us getting on that train and going to that place. Still. Even today.

Do you think about it? Do you still remember?

Do you think about that first smile we shared in the dark, our hearts full of fire and light and want? How my mouth touched your ear, and you hand touched my back, drawing me closer to you? About what we said to each other? How just as we were about to be perfect, untouchable, and sure, the tyranny of the "reasonable" got in the way?

Do you still think about what it would have been like if we’d left everyone behind, gotten lost together in what we wanted and woken up somewhere the next day, wrapped around each other under a blanket of what could have been?

I don’t have to ask. I know you do.

So I just want you to know I haven’t forgotten you. I remember you and who you were that night in your perfection.

That, and also, wherever you are now,

You're set free
To me you're precious
May you always
Shine like stars

Photos:
1º song of Primal Scream by Tania.Paz
Primal Scream by Toni Blay

Songs:
"Higher Than the Sun," "Come Together," and "Shine Like Stars" from the album Screamadelica by Primal Scream. Go buy it.

Violent Fucking: A Survey

Just a fun little survey where we can amuse each other with stories (and/or gain bragging rights).

They say it's never a party until something gets broken. I posit it's never a sex life until something does, either.

In an ideal world, sex would always be perfectly executed. But sometimes in our enthusiasm, things go awry. You accidentally stumble over stuff, you fall on top of something you left on the couch, your makeshift toy can't stand the pressure, you pound very hard on a very un-sturdy surface.

The result? Sexual collateral damage.

So, let's tell some good stories about what's gotten destroyed at YOUR personal parties. Ever get so enthusiastic (or at least so distracted) during sex that you broke, damaged, or totally obliterated something beyond repair? Do tell. The more extreme or amusing, the better. But little things count, too (china, a stuffed animal, a thesis paper...it's all good).

And note: I'm talking damage to material stuff in the surrounding environment, not to humans.

I'll start, in the comments. And remember, you can post anonymously if you don't want to tell the world that you broke your rafters when you were yanking too hard on the hanging restraints.

Go!

Nothing Much...?

I'm having a "nothing much" day. As in, I'm down; thinking I'm nothing all that much. I feel invisible. It's sort of that "that's just Joe over there" feeling I mentioned yesterday. And along with that, also feeling as if no one will ever find me attractive, and I will never feel in love, or that someone wants me ever, ever again.

I've always kind of done this. Even in the best of times, I've always thought no one saw me as anything particularly special. I've written about it before, here. I'm not sure what I've been basing this on. I guess on some level of mistreatment/devaluation that I've experienced with certain boyfriends/lovers. I make a list: this one cheated, this one lied...put it all together, and it all leads up to proof of "not good enough; not exciting enough; not pretty or interesting or cool or artistic or (fill in the blank here) enough."

And I was driving around today feeling sorry for myself in this way. And then for some reason, I remembered a story I was telling a friend earlier this week about a guy I once kissed in a weak moment, and then I started making up another list around that, and it really just jolted me. Here is this list.

Over the course of my life (in no particular order):

• I have received a series of anonymous love letters in the mail.
• I have had two men travel across oceans just to meet me.
• I have had one man I only knew marginally when I lived overseas (friend of a friend) track down my number once I moved back to the US and then call me regularly from another country just so he could talk to me.
• I was once told by an ex-boyfriend that if I didn't do him a favor and go out with a friend of his, he was going to be forced to go insane listening to the guy go on and on and on about my eyes and how beautiful I was.
• Actually, similar events to the last item above have happened several times with other male friends
  
• When I suddenly had to switch universities mid-undergrad degree, one man who had lived in the same dorm as me my freshman year (and whom I didn't know well and barely saw through sophomore year, except at a few parties), somehow tracked down my new address and started sending me long letters and gifts.
• Along with the above situation, I have had other men who were not old friends or current lovers (and some who were) buy me presents, sometimes sent over long distances, just to make me smile.
• I have had male friends of roommates phone our house when they specifically knew my roommates were out and I was in, in hopes that I'd stay on the phone and talk to them (they didn't tell me this, I found out through the roommates later).
  
• In a moment of weakness, in a dark, hidden location, I kissed a man I shouldn't have. And he called me constantly for a year after that, saying he had never experienced such a passionate kiss before and he just couldn't stop thinking about it or let it go without having more (which never happened).
  
• I have had rock stars (and slightly lesser known indie musicians) choose me out of a crowd to talk to
• For more than two years, a man traveled regularly across the entire country so that he could see me.
• A different man moved across the country when I moved, just so that he could be near me.
  
• I have had at least two adult men mobilize their friends to perform massive public relations campaigns for them in hopes I would go out with them ("Do you know how much ________ likes you? He's a great guy. You should go out with him. Are you interested?")
• I have had someone call me as a result of merely having a conversation with me in an elevator
• I have been asked out by men while we're filling up our cars at gas stations.
• I have had multiple men tell me that they've dreamed (and daydreamed) about me
• I have had men write me poetry and erotica.
  
• I have had men I was not with tell me they longed for me.
• I have had men call me beautiful to my face (as opposed to it being shouted at me on the street, which doesn't count).
  
• I have had men I was with tell me that I have no idea how beautiful and/or hot I am/
  
• I have had men tell me that being with me was the best time in their lives and that they don't expect anything in future to match up.
• I have been told by men (in retrospect, when they stood to gain nothing anymore by the info) that I was the best sexual experience they ever had.

This next reaction is going to sound fake, because most of you don't know me. But those of you who do will know I'm being genuine.

I have just put this together for the first time. I've never seen it in a list. And I am genuinely shocked. If some other woman showed me this list, even if she gave me all the disclaimers I could give to counterbalance each item, I wouldn't be able to come to any other conclusion except one.

So, it's freaking me out, but I'm looking at this for the first time and I think this may actually mean that I'm...god, I can't even say it...(covering my face)...

hot. (?!?)

Or is this kind of list above the norm for most women? I really have no fucking idea. Somebody tell me.

Update: NotCarrie's comment below made me realize I should probably qualify. I didn't solely mean "hot" in terms of physical appearance, though I did mean that, too. I more meant hot in *all* aspects of the word, put together.

In Defense of the Honest Lie

I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're lovely
And you're perfect
And that somebody wants you
I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're priceless
Yeah, you're precious
Even when you are not new

Before I begin this post, look at the sentence below, and tell me your INSTANT reaction to what you filled in the blanks with. Don't think about it. Just your gut reaction. Okay, go:

Who ____ you think you ____?

Okay, hold on to that. Now:

In my last post I answered a question about what makes me angry, and many of the words I responded with can be boiled down to "dishonesty."

I hate lies. I hate lying to people, and I hate being lied to, whether blatantly, by omission, or by a disingenuous ass kiss, designed to "get" something from you via false flattery.

And yet, in the last 24 hours, after reading posts by two incredibly smart and talented bloggers, I was reminded of something that is going to make me qualify that statement. I think there is one kind of "lie," which both is and isn't really a lie, which is completely acceptable, and in fact should be told as often as possible. It's what I'll call the "honest lie." And here's why I think everyone should start telling this lie to everyone they care about.

This world is designed to grind people down and make them feel unspecial. From the moment you enter this world, someone is evaluating your behavior and "grading" it on some level; often comparing it against others. "Judy doesn't misbehave at the table/at school/etc. Why can't you be good like Judy?"

We learn it early. We're not enough. Someone is always better at it--whatever "it" is. And we carry this message with us, and tell ourselves it even when no one else is around to tell us. And then we even start telling it to (or thinking it about) other people, too. It's a kind of cyclic trap--one person is made to feel less special, and then starts replicating that pattern on someone else. This was the reason for the fill-in-the blank exercise above. Did you fill the sentence in with some version of "Who do you think you are?" This is what I mean. The world pounds this into our heads. We carry this message around, without even realizing it. It's instant, and it's always there, in the back of our heads, playing in an endless loop: "Who do you think you are? You're not special. You're not cool. You're not good enough." And then we see someone who attempts to act as if s/he doesn't believe that about her/himself and we think, "Who the hell does s/he think s/he is?"

It gets into your bones. Because on one level, you know it's true. No matter who you are (or who s/he is), you WILL never be the most beautiful, the most masculine, the most interesting, the sexiest, the smartest, the coolest, the most desired, the most respected.

Why? Because it's all relative, of course. You could strive all your life to be the coolest person in some sort of scene, and to another person in another scene, you're just an idiot. But sadly we spend more time thinking about all the scenes where we aren't cool/pretty/manly/smart than the scenes where we are.

So, you know, it's nice to be reminded when in someone's scene, we are those things, even if in the greater world at large, we may not be. And even if in the greater world, the person reminding us knows we might not be all those things.

What I'm saying is, we all need a nice ego stroke from time to time. And we're ashamed to admit it, or accept it. And we're also loath to give it to someone else, for fear of being called full of shit. And that's sad.

Which brings me to the point of the honest lie: subjectivity. If I tell you, for example, you are the hottest, most desirable man in the universe, knowing full well you don't look like Brad Pitt (or whomever wins those "hottest man alive" polls these days) and don't get laid like Casanova, does that make me a liar? If you tell me I'm fucking gorgeous and the most whip-smart woman on earth, knowing full well my body isn't anything near Angelina Jolie's and I can't do quantum physics to save my life, are you a liar?

Sure. And yet, no. Not if you feel it. Not if "to me" is added into the equation of your statement.

We all want some adoration. We all NEED some adoration. Just to get through this fucking chore of a life. Or rather, to make this fucking life not a chore.

So please, go on and give people the honest lie. And feel okay about asking for and accepting the honest lie from people. You deserve it. It's okay to need an ego stroke.

So what if it's a little unrealistic? Do you know how good it feels for that average Joe to come home from his mind-numbing job and be told he's an adonis? Do you know how good it feels for the average woman who's just left a party to be told she was the hottest woman there and you couldn't keep your eyes off her all night? I'm not talking about saying it to the guy or woman you just met and haven't fucked yet but really, really want to--everyone says it to that person. I'm talking about saying it to the one you have fucked, many times. Or saying it to the friend you adore. Or the family member you love. The people all around you, who you see or connect with regularly. The one who isn't jumping out at you. The one who probably thinks everyone looks at him and says, "Oh, yeah, that's just Joe over there."

Which, by the way, is everyone. We all think on some level we're "just Joe over there."

So give someone the honest lie. And NOT just when they're down. Randomly. Apropos of nothing. Because it's a lie, sure. But the lie is honest. Start looking at the people in your life. The people you see all the time, but don't really SEE. The people without whom things would be just a little duller, or harder, or less bearable. And then think about what you could say--an honest lie--to make their day. Let them know they're the best--TO YOU.

Tell that woman when she asks "Do I look fat in this?" that she never looks fat to you. Tell that man to you he's incredible and deserves everything he wants. Tell that kid s/he's super talented to you. Go on, exaggerate a little. Just to let that person you value have one moment where s/he gets to turn off that "Who do you think you are?" voice for just one fucking minute. To feel that for even just one split second that someone SEES them, and that they are special--a shining light in this world of dullish mediocrity.

Because, on some level everyone is that. And even if the brain, the eye, the tongue of the outside world would tell you what you're saying isn't true, if you feel it in your heart, it's true.

We don't get much in this world. But we can get this; we can give this. We can do it for each other. And we can break this trap. We really can. We don't have to replicate the "Who the fuck do you think you are?" pattern. ALL patterns are replicable, not just the bad ones. If we did the opposite, people would start copying that instead. We just need to get enough people behind it, and make a little bit of effort to get the ball rolling.

Think. If we stopped. If we just walked around and randomly said, "Have I told you today how _______ you are?" (fill in the blank with whatever your heart feels), and kept doing it, until others got so used to it they started imitating it themselves? Think of how much lighter life would be. Think about how much better everyone would feel about themselves, and how loved they'd feel. Think about what they might be able to BE and DO if they walked around feeling that special all the time.

That's what I want. I want everyone to walk around feeling like this, me included:




So, my darling readers, let's get started.

I think you are the most interesting, smart, sexy group of people on earth. And have I told you lately:

I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're lovely
And you're perfect
And that somebody wants you
I'm surprised that you've never been told before
That you're priceless
Yeah, you're precious
Even when you are not new

(Video is "The First Day of my Life" by Bright Eyes. Lyrics above from F.N.T. by Semisonic.)

Uzis and Memes and Blog Proms, Oh My

I've been really tired for the last week. Between puzzling over how to switch this blog over to an MT format (and realizing for all my skills I seem to know fuck all and it's taking me FOREVER) and dealing with some personal life stuff I'll not get into here, the energy is just low. So I'm walking around a bit zombie-like, and yet I can't seem to fall asleep before 2 a.m. on any given night.

I need to find someone who's a night owl like me who'd be willing to talk to me late at night and help lull me into sleep. Volunteers?

Not speaking of which, I came across some lame article today (too tired to find it again) on Blogger about how to use your blog as a dating tool. Can this stuff really be used for that? I've seen no evidence. I mean, not ONE person who reads this blog has ever tried to woo me. I think I must come across as un-woo-able. Do I appear to be sans woo?

Hey, I've got woo. I've got lots and LOTS of woo. Come see for yourself. It's stored right here in this trunk at the foot of my bed, just under the Big, Fat Uzi I was issued by Gail when I moved here to be one of the Old Town girls.

Hm. You think maybe the Uzi's putting the guys off?

Hey, a girl needs her defenses. Doesn't mean she doesn't have some stellar woo tucked into her bustier that's just under her ammo belt.

Anyway.

I'd started a post I think is a great idea (though maybe it's just lack of sleep that makes me think that). But I'm too tired to actually have the creative energy to finish it right now. Still, though, I feel like writing something, just to keep my writing brain somewhat active. So instead of the "real" post, today you get the ramblings above, and a meme that I swiped from Karl Elvis's blog. You can go to his place to read who he swiped it from.

Read on, and comment at will.

1. If you could be doing what you really want to be doing for a living, what would it be?

I wouldn’t want to be “doing something for a living” at all—I’d want to be just living, with no regard to earning. Which for me would mean things like travel, music, reading, living in a really cool place (or places) in a house (or houses/flats) I love, having elaborate, excessive dinner parties and late night drinking and conversation with smart, interesting, creative, funny friends, film, art, dancing, writing all sorts of things—novels, screenplays, poetry, erotica, radio essays, children’s books, whatever I like, and having people read it and connect to it. It would be even more excellent if they paid me well for it. Being near water. Spending lots of time listening to and watching the ocean hit the beach. Never having to worry about money. And having time to volunteer for any cause I wanted to support. (And if this was attained via having lots of money, I would add “donate to” to the last sentence.)

If I have to "do something for a living," as in a JOB, I’d like to make a living with my writing as described above. If I can’t, the kind of writing work I do right now for a living isn’t too bad, really.

I’ve also always wanted to try voice over work. Lots of people have said I should, and I think I would like it, but I have no idea how to break into it. Anyone out there who has any tips for how to do it, or who wants to hire me, email me.


2. If you could slap the shit out of any famous person, alive or dead, who would it be?

W.


3. What’s the dumbest decision you’ve made in the past 5 years?

Um…I actually can’t think of any. I’m not big on regret. I just tend to absorb and move on.


4. Give up one for a year: (good) sex or (good) music.

Music, I guess. But really these two are the same to me, and inextricable. I can’t picture them as separate. Sex feels like music to me. And good music feels like sex. They need to be together.


5. Dudes, would you rather have a big dick or a great sense of humor?

I don’t respond comments that begin with “dude.” Ever.


6. So you’ve been invited to an all expense paid Blogger Prom in The Bahamas. You’re sitting at the bar on the beach. Which blogger do you want to join you for hours of good convo?

Why the hell would they have a Blogger Prom on the beach? Like, there’d be no wireless access, man. People would lose their minds.

If I have to be at a Blogger Prom Convention (and I’d ONLY be there due to the “all expense paid” thing), I would probably go someplace darker and more dive-bar like and hang out with Hiromi, exchanging snide comments about all of the people who actually paid to go to a “Blogger Prom.” Suckers.


7. Which blogger would you most like to cuddle with on the beach? (and don’t defer to your current signif other either. Infidelity won’t count against you. Duh.)

Grrr. I don’t cuddle. I own an Uzi, dammit!

IF there was a blogger who was powerful enough to be able to sweet talk me into lowering my very sexy and metaphorical submachine gun so that he could then disarm me in my moment of weakness, leaving me so overcome by with his quickness and skill that I'd suddenly feel compelled to purr and rub up against him like a little cuddly kitten (which would never, NEVER happen, EVER, I tell you), you’d never see it out on the beach. It’d be like a WMD in Iraq--there might be rumors of its existence, but you’d never have the evidence. No one would ever know what didn’t happen with the blogger whom I never cuddled with in that secret location that doesn’t exist. Because most likely this non-existant blogger would keep mum about it, too, if he knew what was good for him (and his future sexual happiness).

(But then again, I’ve never really found men who knew what was good for them to be particularly appealing.)

Of course, I’d also never let that blogger know if I thought he was powerful enough to disarm me. Either he’d know his own power or he wouldn’t. I’m not gonna surrender before the battle even begins. What’s the fun in that?

Wondering if I’m “not talking” about you, hm? As well you should.


8. You’re going on a 5 hour road trip: which 5 CDs do you bring?

This changes every single day. But today:
Two new CDs I’m listening to--Wig in a Box (a Hedwig covers compilation) and Giant Drag's Hearts and Unicorns. And three perfect driving CDs that I take on every road trip, regardless of what else I bring: The Best of Blur, Ramones Mania, and…wait for it…South Park: Bigger, Longer & Uncut (Best. Driving. Cd. Ever.)


9. Would you rather bury your children young or have your children bury you young?

Seeing as I don’t have kids, I’ll choose to bury the spawn. Then no one’s actually buried at all.


10. What’s your biggest insecurity?

That I’m not enough.

And also, letting people see that I’m insecure about that.


11.What’s the first blog you read every day, or however often you read them?

I don’t have a “first.” I kind of just go through the favorites on my blogroll. I usually start with all the Moronosphere folks first (Circe, Buck, Ray, Hiromi, Karl Elvis, in no particular order), then go through the others on my daily reads list, as well as those mentioned in my BILFs post (who should be on the daily reads list by now but I’ve just been too lazy to redo the code).


12. When’s the last time you peed your pants?

What the hell kind of question is this? Do most people pee their pants beyond early childhood?

Um, I think it was 2nd grade. Because some bitch friend of my mother’s who I was staying with while my parents were on vacation wouldn’t let me go to the bathroom before she made me walk to school.


13. Which was better, your first kiss or your first pay check?

Neither is particularly memorable to me. Both weren’t nearly enough.


14. Do you have kids? Want kids?

No. Define “want.”

15. You get dropped off at home after the office holiday party by your bitch azz boss that you can’t effing stand… you exit the car and he peels out, runs a red light at your corner and rolls up an unsuspecting midget. The next day the midget watch groups are on TV outraged at the heartless hit and run, and are calling for any witnesses to please come fwd: that half dead midget has a family at home waiting on C-mas presents. Would you take $1000 hush money? $500? $100? A six pack?

So this question is assuming after I witnessed my “bitch azz” (ugh) boss hit a human being in the street, I wouldn’t call an ambulance right away to report it, but would instead wait till the next morning and only think about whether I should report it after I listened to the news?

Please. I would be on the phone to an ambulance the moment I saw a person got hit. So the question is totally moot.

But IF I am going to entertain this “stupid azz” question, no, I wouldn’t take hush money of any amount.

For the record, and because I’m difficult like this: I also wonder why the example uses a midget. Why not just any person? And why is the midget “unsuspecting?” Isn’t that kind of redundant? How many people suspect they’re going to get hit by a car?


16. Live the rest of your life without your eyebrows or your fingernails?

No fingernails sounds painful, so eyebrows. And then I’d have them permanently tattooed on like this lady I know down the street.


17. What makes you angry?

Dishonesty. Deception. Lying, both blatantly and by omission. Fake people. Poseurs. People who won’t own up to their own mistakes and always blame someone else to cover their own asses. Lack of integrity and honor. Infidelity. Snobbishness. Xenophobia. Racism/bigotry/prejudice. Willful ignorance. Blatant stupidity. Narrow-mindedness. Judgmental pricks. Bullies. Crooked politicians. Zealots of any sort. Bullshit. Bullshit excuses. People who make up their mind about something without ever trying to experience that thing first.


18. What makes you horny?

Hearing the sounds a man makes when I’ve made him feel so good he’s gone non-verbal.

Reading really good erotica; especially erotica that someone I desire wrote specifically for me.

Writing good erotica (yes, I admit it, my own writing can get me very hot as it’s coming out of me); especially writing erotica aimed at someone I want to turn on and imagining his reaction when he first opens it, and as he reads it, and…

Dirty talk, moaning, and/or growling in my ear. During actual sex, AND over the phone. You can make me explode on the spot if you do this right.

Listening to the sound of hetero or male/male or male masturbatory porn. (I like this even better than watching porn—you get to imagine more).

Kissing my neck. Running the tips of your fingers lightly over my skin so I can only barely feel it (makes me want to scream for more).

Should I go on? A lot of things make me horny.


19. What makes you nervous?

Infants holding balloons (*shudder*). My 1984 torture would be me sitting in a room surrounded by toddlers squishing balloons.

Being aggressively flirted with by someone who I secretly want to flirt with me. I blush, lose the ability to speak or be clever, feel completely off balance, hide behind my hair, and in general have no idea what to do with myself. (But secretly I like it.)

Loud, sudden noises. The suspense of knowing a gun or cannon is going to go off (for instance, in a play or memorial service). Really loud thunder. Being woken up by gunshots outside my window in the middle of the night (hey, I told you I was an Old Town chick.

And Karl Elvis and I share the same one in this category. I HATE when people sneakily try to peek over my shoulder to see what I’m writing on paper or when I’m doing ANYTHING on the computer (unless I’ve invited them to look at something).

20. What makes you smile?

Being flirted with by someone I like (even though it also scares me). I try to keep a cool poker face and not to show they’re getting to me, but if you do it right I can’t keep hold of my cool and end up all pink and smiling like a total schoolgirl goofball.

Getting a cool present from a friend that shows they really “get” me.

Random absurdity.

My nephews, just being who they are.

Thinking about something he said to me the night before while I’m sitting in a meeting at work.

That moment after you’ve both just come and your bodies move from the stiff pulsing of orgasm into release and you’re both still feeling the waves as your bodies let go and come down though you’re still a little out of breath; and your bodies are separating, coming down, but you’re both still wanting to hold onto it a little bit longer, so you reach out to touch in some way…and when you feel that touch and you look right in that person’s face for the first time since your orgasm and see that person looking back at you…yeah. That’s when you’ll see the biggest ass smile you’ll ever see on my face.

And

This song

This song

This song

This song

And

This song

Okay, there's that done. Now I really must be off to bed. I don't know how I'm making it through this week at work, given the hours I'm keeping lately.

Somebody tell me sumthin'.

The Way Things Add Up

Two brilliant photos I found in different places, at around the same time. Sometimes life's just like that. (Click them to really see them well).





#1, from Postsecret, anonymous.
#2, Hope by Mark Burdett, is a shot of street art done by the mysterious, brilliant, and beautiful graffitti artist Banksy.

The Pursuit of Happiness On Thunder Road

Over the July 4th weekend, I heard a rebroadcast of a This American Life show called "The Pursuit of Happiness." As with all TAL shows, it's great, and you can listen to the whole thing here. But I'm going to talk specifically about some things that came up in the introduction to the hour.

In the introduction, the host talks to a historian who's written a book about the Declaration of Independence. They talk about the phrase "the pursuit of happiness." They comment on how extraordinary it is that one of a country's founding documents seems to "care about how we feel about things in some way."

The show's host suggests this promise of an "unalienable right" to pursue our own happiness is almost "like the promise you hear contained in a rock 'n' roll song." I get this. For some reason, early Bruce Springsteen songs came to mind immediately when he said that. Basically, it's the political equivalent of declaring, "Someday, girl/I don't know when/We're gonna get to that place (life)/Where we really want to go (liberty)/And we'll walk in the sun (happiness)."

It really is quite extraordinary in its way. That one small, unusual statement somehow implies that we have the right to optimism, despite the odds. It's like the Declaration itself is asserting it believes in us--that it believes we have a good chance to actually become happy, if we pursue it, and there's no shame in our actively believing that, either, or in involving ourselves in that pursuit.

And yet...

The historian also explains how, of all the many things stated in the Declaration, and of the many things she has written about it in her book, these four words are the only ones most people ever remember or want to discuss. They actively puzzle over its meaning. After all, as she says, being told you have the right to a trial by jury is pretty clear cut--you know exactly what you're getting there, what you should be "allowed." But the right to pursue happiness? What that "allows" you to do or have is simply not concrete.

The historian said she believed that Jefferson "left it to people to decide what gave them happiness." She says happiness is a very private and personal thing, and Jefferson probably felt every person had to define it for him or herself.

But if you look at the sentiments in the two paragraphs above, you notice something funny's going on. In an incredible display of respect for the right to individual freedom, Jefferson left it open and limitless for us--we can define our happiness and the pursuit of it as anything we want. And yet this isn't what people want to hear. Instead, the historian says that people want to know what this phrase, this right, means exactly.

It's interesting, this need we have to understand the boundaries of what we're "allowed" to pursue in terms of our own happiness. (I'm including myself in that "we" in a big way.)

We're not comfortable hearing, "It means anything YOU want it to." We're afraid of hearing, "You can have it all (whatever "it" is...you decide)." We don't want such vast openness--such opportunity for diving into the chasm of the unknown with just our own inner compass for a guide. So instead of "it means anything you want it to," we beg to hear "I'm telling you what it will mean for you." And instead of "you can have it all," we demand to be told "here's exactly how much you can have, and no more."

Why? Why? We are told, we can pursue our happiness with absolutely no limits put on it. And we assume there must be limits. In fact, we demand them. We insist we haven't the right to limitless opportunity for optimism, for trying again, for believing in our vision of personal happiness and peace. We want Jefferson to come back and draw our little line in the sand...to define the limits of our hopes and dreams. And when he won't, we use the nearest substitute--teacher, parent, sibling, friend, lover, husband, wife, etc.--anyone who will tell us we can't go beyond a certain point and see our vision grow to fruition. Anyone who will stunt our growth, who will save us from our own pursuit before we do damage to ourselves.

Because as we know, to stand up and say, "I believe I can have it all," is the ultimate act of hubris. We're challenging the universe to knock us down.

Aren't we?

Or has someone (teacher, parent,...) sold us a bill of goods? Or even worse, have we sold it to ourselves--voluntarily stepped into cages built by our own fear of the unknown, and drawn in the appropriate people to serve as our jailers?

We let the voices in; and with them, the doubt and shame. As the host astutely points out toward the introduction's end, "...for a lot of us, the notion that we're just going to pursue happiness...it seems frivolous; it lacks dignity; it lacks moral seriousness."

That's definitely what we've been told. It certainly accounts for the shame and embarrassment I feel when I contemplate telling someone I belive in happiness.

But is it true? Where is the factual evidence?

I grew up in an environment where I was told there were definite limits on what defined happiness. And I was taught it was more or less indecent to go after what made you happy if it pushed the boundaries of those limits.

I wasn't told I couldn't have dreams. Instead, I was told you could pursue your happiness to a point. You could have the dream and find some path that sort of approximated that dream. Say you wanted to be an artist, for example--a painter. Well, you could paint houses. You could become a graphic designer. You could become an art therapist.

So, you could have your dream...sort of. But not really.

And that was life, and you accepted it. You took your dreams with limits, and you were happy. (Sort of. But not really.)

I'm so fucking done with that.

I'm ready to stand up, shoulders back, chin up, and look straight in your face, and say, "I can have it all."

Yeah, I'm nervous as hell about doing it. I'm scared shitless.

I realize when I stand up and say that confidently; when I assert my right to say it and believe it, some of you are going to say (or at least think) I'm arrogant, or stupid, or selfish, or misguided. And that will hurt me.

I realize some of you, who have a vested interest in not having to question your own limits, will try very hard to hold me back, shut me down, or shut me up. I realize some of you will make fun of me either to my face or behind my back, and will try to make me feel or look foolish and ashamed. And I realize, whether consciously or un-, some of you will be angry at me and hope I fail. And all that will hurt me, too.

And I realize if I accept that "the right to pursue happiness" means anything I, and I alone, want it to, then it means I have to make all my own choices, without regard to others' input. (For the record, this DOES NOT mean I won't consider others, just that they don't get to tell me how to consider them.) And that is very chancy, because if I ask others to help set my limits, when (NOT IF) I fail to reach my dreams, I will be able to blame it on someone else. But if I make all my own choices, and pursue my definition of happiness, and I fail, I have no one else to blame for the failure except myself. And that, my friends, will hurt most of, most of, most. of. all.

But if I do this. If I say, "I can have it all," and instead of all of the above, I turn out to be right?

What then? (Think of the vista...how it all opens up...how all that stuff you're agonizing over now becomes miniscule, ant-like, just a distant speck in the rear view as you're speeding away, and the night's bustin' open and those two lanes'll take you eh...nee...where...)

Please ask yourself the same thing, too. Is not taking the chance worth it? Can you afford NOT to stand up and declare your right to pursue your happiness?

Because as Jefferson said:

"I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal enmity against every form of tyranny over the mind of man."

Or, in the words of his as his rock 'n' roll interpreter:

"Together we could break this trap
We'll run till we drop, baby we'll never go back
Will you walk with me out on the wire
'Cause baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider
But I gotta find out how it feels
I want to know if love is wild, girl, I want to know if love is real"

Whaddya say? Are you with me?

(Hey, I know it's late, but we can make it if we run.)

The Internet is Not a Truck. It's a Series of Tubes. (And Some Stuff About My Ass.)

My ass is deeply bruised and aching.

No, I didn't get a spanking because I was a bad, bad girl. Sorry. I know that first line was so promising. But you sex-crazed folk will need to check out Sugasm to find some spanking erotica today. The reason my ass hurts is because I had a massage yesterday, and it turned out I had all kinds of knots there that I didn't know about, and the masseuse attacked the problem with gusto. It was painful, but in a good way.

(Okay, maybe the sex-crazed among you can get a good mental image out of that, come to think of it.)

But now my muscles are complaining. In a big way.

Anyway, while the masseuse was working me over, she started talking to me about some mind-body-healing theory called "somatics" or "body psychology." It's all about how pain in certain areas of the body refer to certain kinds of emotional/mental struggles. So she tells me the buttock region usually relates to dealing with intense frustration, and disappointment, especially with relationships (of all kinds--including family and friends). Check. And the abdomen (front and back), where I had most of my other tension, generally related to repressed anger and creative/emotional block--to have had one's voice silenced, or been blocked from being oneself or expressing oneself as one needs to, leading to self-esteem issues. Check.

I should also mention that this masseuse had never met me before, so these "diagnoses" were based on nothing, and yet were incredibly accurate. It's all very interesting. I came home and tried to do some light research on the topic, hoping to find a simple corollary chart (your ear hurts, you're struggling with abandonment issues), but alas, no go. Anyone else ever heard of this school of thought?

Anyway, I should have asked which needed to be fixed for the other to go away. If the masseuse works all the kinks out of my ass, do my relationship frustrations go away? Or is my ass doomed to continue to hurt until I work out my emotional issues related to relationships?

My guess is it's the latter, but wouldn't it be great if we could just pay someone to work on our body and it would suddenly open up our bodily "flow" and make us see things in a new light, so that all our problems go away? One can only dream.

And now for something completely different...

Did you ever try to get your grandfather or father or some post-aged-sixty person to understand some new piece of technology? Remember how well that went? (Ahem.)

It's always heartening to once again have it brought to your attention that these older dads and grandpas are also running our US government. And they're trying to regulate new technology. The result? This. Be very, very afraid.

And listen to the audio, it's even worse than the transcript, if you can believe that. AND the audio gets cut off, which means there was more, which is also very frightening. AND it seems to me like he's basing his opinion on the whole matter based on his frustration with having not received an email (a.k.a. "an internet") on time (apparently because Netflicks and the iTunes streaming media store is fucking up the whole "tube system").

Thanks to the always lusciously snarky Bitch PhD for pointing the way.

(Oh, and yes, the Bad Ass Cafe is for real, and you can eat in it when you go to Dublin. Pretty good pizza--for Ireland.)

The Perfect Dessert for a Holiday Picnic

Miss Syl -- [noun]: An erotic popsicle 'How will you be defined in the sexual dictionary?' at QuizUniverse.com

Hot out, isn't it?

Thanks to Artful Dodger, that steamy, steamy shower of a man, for the heads up.

An Inconvenient Meme

It's Fourth of July weekend. I'm sure readership will be abysmal, at least coming from the US, which is where a big percentage of my readers seem to come from. So I may just do some posts of light whimsy instead of anything that requires vast concentration. Stuff I've found online that's amusing to me, memes, etc.

With that in mind, two things for you.

First, a movie. Then, a meme.

MOVIE:
I just saw the documentary An Inconvenient Truth. If you haven't seen it, I really encourage you to. It was really good--and thought provoking. If you've ever wondered what "all this global warming stuff " actually means for you, this film helps you "get it" fast, explains the immediate and projected consequences based on hard science, and gets you to begin thinking about ways to start resolving the problem. Kudos to Al Gore for a job well done.

Even though it would seem a film on such a serious topic might be a bit heavy and dull, or alarmist in a reactionary way, it wasn't at all. Unlike Fahrenheit 911, which I was sorely disappointed in, this film didn't rely on a higher percentage of emotional manipulation and cheap shots at the current administration than it did on hardcore facts to make its point. In fact, while very occasionally there was a subtle, tongue-in-cheek comment targeted at past and current US governmental disinterest in environmental policy, An Inconvenient Truth's tone overall is very measured, and focuses on the issue at the global, not just national, level. It was clear that Al Gore wanted to make sure any point he made that represented US policy in a bad light (or any other country's) was based on fact, not personal vendetta. This approach, in my opinion, is the strongest one of all for an issues-based film: build your argument with facts, not name calling. This film certainly does that.

And even though it was clearly done on a shoestring budget, it wasn't boring at all. In fact, I and the person who went to see it with me both wished it had gone on a little longer, and that even more things were discussed, so obviously we weren't bored. The film is interesting, it dispels a lot of spin around the issue, and it's very easy to watch and comprehend, even if you don't have a scientific background. And there's a cartoon by the Simpsons creators in it. How can you go wrong?

Go see it.


MEME:
I found this on the splendiferous Brooke's site, and the questions seemed a little more unusual than the norm, so thought I'd give it a go. If you're desirous of being tagged, then YOU'RE IT. Let me know if you did it on your site so I can check it out.

Also note, as every meme I do makes obvious, I can't seem to EVER follow the rules. Forgive me. It's just my way. The girl can't help it.

1.You are in the Witness Protection Program and must invent a new first, last, and middle name. What is it?

Pret A Porté


2.You are in a threesome with two famous people, alive or dead. Who are they?

Captain Will Kidd and his somewhat lesser-known brother Mad Jack.

Heh. Just a joke to make a friend laugh.

Okay, seriously now:

Vātsyāyana and Mae West.

Although, actually, a pirate/girl/biker threesome sounds pretty damn good, too. Can I have both choices?


3.You are in charge of naming your new band. What's the name of the band?

Vermiscious Knid


4. You are going to get a free tattoo. What would it be?

A cherry blossom branch, just starting to bloom. Either around my arm or on one side of my back near my shoulder. But kind of abstract. More like these than a literal depiction:



5. You are being forced to listen to one song over and over, ad infinitum, as a form of torture. What song is it?

This one.


6. You are leaving your state/province. What state do you move to?

Upstate NY (specifically Ithaca) for the summer. And maybe Hawaii the rest of the year--but only if it’s combined with lengthy visits to lots of hipster cities I like (Portland, LA, NYC, San Francisco…). I can’t sit still. Obviously.


7. You are leaving your country, where would you move?

I’d split time between Scotland (warmer months), and Italy (Florence or Cinque Terra) or maybe France (Paris). Close runner-ups would be Portugal, Spain, Japan, and Iceland in the summer (I’ve never been to the last two but I have the feeling I’d really like both).


8. You get to choose one book as the best ever written. What book do you choose?

Toss up: Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky or Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen


9. You get to choose one movie as the best ever made. What movie do you choose?

Christ, I can’t answer this. WizardofOzEternalSunshineoftheSpotlessMindAnimal CrackersWillieWonkaWestSideStoryMagnoliaTrust


10. You get to spend one day each as a bird, an insect, and a mammal. What bird would you be? What insect? What mammal?

Bird: One of those black water birds that can fly AND swim on top of and under the water. I don’t know the name, but I see them all the time around here. I want it all.

Insect: Tarantula.

Mammal: Dolphin. (Yeah those last two conflict in every way. Welcome to my brain.)

Why no reptile? I want to be a reptile! I’d be a Gravid " Edelbrock " longtail boa constrictor.


11. You must relive one year of your life. Which would you like to relive?

Either September 1989 - September 1990 or 1991.


12. Which year(s) would you least like to relive?

The year in which I was assaulted (I can’t remember exactly which one it was).

Of course, that’s just one moment I’d like to erase in an otherwise okay year. If it was a whole YEAR of moments to erase, maybe any year between 2001 and 2005.


13. You have a time machine that will take you backwards anywhere from 1800 to the present. What decade do you most want to visit?

Only to 1800? That sucks. I want to visit eras way before that.

Um, the 1920s sounded cool. I’d like to be in Paris in the 1920s.

Second choice: NYC or London during the early years of punk. So, 1970s. (I was actually alive then, but nowhere near old enough to be able to be a scenester.)


14. You must choose to go skydiving or very-deep-sea diving.

Deep-sea diving. Love the ocean. Hate drops.


15. You get to return to the past (using that handy dandy time machine we were talking about before) and have a sexual encounter with a rock star who is no longer alive. Who do you pick?

Up until recently, it would have been John Lennon. But then I carefully watched a video of him and Yoko making out, and he seemed like kind of a bad kisser.

He’s not dead, but I’d like to fuck the memory of Jimmy Page from when he looked like this.

I don’t even like Led Zeppelin (yes, I know, I'm the only person on earth who doesn't appreciate them). But I just always thought JP was hot. I like his face.


16. You get to be a contestant on any game show, airing today or in the past. What show do you want to be on?

None. I want to be on Iron Chef, but as a judge. (And the original show, NOT the American version)


17. You are given $1 million dollars but you must give it all to one charity. What charity do you choose?

I'd set up a grant program for unpublished writers so that those selected would be able to have the funds to write for a year without financial worry.


18. You must ban one word from the dictionary and all usage, to be no longer uttered or written. What word do you ban?

This isn’t actually in the dictionary, but I would like to ban anyone--ESPECIALLY any adult--from ever calling vegetables “veggies.” Gets on my last nerve.


19. You can have 100 million dollars tax-free but if you take it, you'll die at the age of fifty. Do you take it?

Nope. I no longer accept gifts with conditions. Ever.


20. There is no number 20.

Well, all numbers are really 42, anyway.