CTA Celibacy

It's funny how an everyday thing can change the way you feel about the rest of your evening. On an otherwise boring bus ride to my grandmother's house, I ended up with the prime seat at the very front of the bus. Of course, despite the vast availability of similarly appealing seats, the one right next to me was immediately occupied by a statuesque vision of walking sex. I did my best to ignore his presence and was fairly successful until he discreetly rested his fingers against my thigh. My vagina began to throb and pulse like an obnoxious samba beat. All of a sudden, four months of unintentional celibacy seemed very important to me. Important in that there was a willing and able subject with which to explore the failings of said celibacy. I felt as if a lifetime of gratuitous sex had been denied me for reasons unknown, but most certainly unfair. So of course, my first defense was to try to be reasonable. He was sitting beside me on a bus with a route in a shady neighborhood for Christ's sake. He obviously didn't have a car and was perhaps even a little poor. But then of course my vagina, in it's moment of (completely understandable) wild abandon reminded me that if he could fuck, none of that was going to matter. At that moment I came up with a complete scenario that was going to play out. I was going to look down at his hand, and then into his eyes, very briefly of course, and then look away. Several French films on late night IFC have taught me these coquettish behaviors. Unfortunately, by the time I came up with this cunning plan, I was four and half blocks from my stop. I decided for the shorter version. I looked down at his hand, shook my head and looked away.
"You not gonna say nothing?"
"Yeah, why are you bothering me?"
"I've been doing this for the whole ride."
"I didn't realize it was your hand, otherwise I would've said something sooner." I know. The words "Liar" and "Pussy" come to mind.
"It is my hand."
"I see that now."
After that of course the usual name and number inquiries were made by him and for some reason, I couldn't help but laugh.
"That's funny?" He asked, with slight attitude.
"Yeah, it is." I had finally realized how ridiculous I was being. It had been more like 2 and a half months, not four. And was that alcohol I was smelling on his breath? And the red bandanna, the explicit, yet alluring tattoos? No, I think there should only be room for one Superthug in one's sexual history, and I'd already had mine at 17. And again at 18. Then again a few months later. It was a vicious cycle of rough sex and bullshit. Was I really in a position to go through that again with a whole new version of my worst affair? Not hardly.
"Give me your number so we can get to know each other!" He breathed.
"This is my stop."
"Hurry up and tell me what it is, then."
I shook my head and prepared to exit. "I don't talk that fast."
And I ascended the steps with mingling feelings of regret, posterity, and success... completely unsure of what any of it meant. I walked down the block glancing back towards the bus with the fingernail of my thumb teetering between life and death in my jaws, trying to assure myself that I had just dodged a major emotional bullet yet hardly daring believing it. The Amazing Technicolor Fraud strikes again.

END.

It's That Time Again Kids!

That's right, it's Bloggin Time! I just came back from a not so relaxing week on the East Coast of our wondrous nation for a family reunion. Of course I was saturated in the hugs and cheek bumps of a vast number of strange people who claim to have last seen me when I was "yea high". Of this experience I will say only one thing: too much cologne and perfume makes Kayla a nauseated girl. The highlights were, of course, the precious few moments spent sightseeing where I could ooh and ahh so that I could have an excuse not to make small talk. I saw the monument, Lincoln's Memorial, Veteran's Memorial, World War II Memorial, and every other memorial you can think of in D.C, as well as the future home of Barack Obama. Now that famous place presented a whole series of interesting sites all of it's own. In front of the white house, there is a squadron of no less than one million police and armed guards whose job seems to be to just stand around and look sinister with their arms folded. And fear not American taxpayers... they do this job well. There is also an obviously septuagenarian man sitting in a poster-laden contraption with a speaker blaring out Pink Floyd trying to get the attention of a man who spent a whole week thinking Hurrican Katrina was the name of a new dance craze. Bless him for his perseverance, but I must admit, it seems a bit in vain.There is also the technological wonder of the retracting dividers on Pennsylvania Ave, and the other surrounding streets that allow presidential personnel and the bevvy of law enforcement to enter and escape at will along the streets that us regular American citizens can not be trusted to travel. Another wonder of the Capital Hill District, is the other squadron known as the street vendor. On every corner, of every street, there they are. Every possible monetary exploitation of the U.S capital is available in T-shirt form. And, as a capitalist, I couldn't be more proud. I also got to see quite a bit of the Maryland suburbs... which are vast, mountainous areas, with houses that are seperated by nothing more than a small firewall and a different coat of paint. Oh the curious wonders of modern architecture. We stayed with my second oldest great uncle Richard, whose house is, and I am not exaggerating, a two-story, with a garage and a picket fence. He's a Vietnam veteran and a retired school-teacher. He IS the American we are all supposed to be. A loyal taxpayer, a vicious rule-abider, and he only drinks one beer a night. The trip would have been an amusing character study if it wasn't for the 15 hour car ride, which took the amusement right out of everything. My talkative grandmother, my fellow man-hating aunt, Myla, and my on-my-period younger cousin all shared the cramped quarters of the same car, there and back, in brutal agony. The whole ride both ways I kept saying over and over to myself, "I hate roadtrips, I hate roadtrips, I hate roadtrips". And I'm sure that I was often heard muttering that I would never go on another one again. Ever. Period. Upon return to the dismal casa de granny, I could not breathe the proverbial sigh of relief. As I sat on the dingy couch watching Satellite cable instead of Comcast, hearing the moans and groans of the 17 hundred other people with whom I was forced to share space with, all I could think was "God I wish I was back in Maryland."

END.

I'm In Technicolor!!!

It doesn't take long for me to find a new hobby. Lord knows I've had a few in my day, and it only remains to be seen when this one will become as boring as the rest of them and I will return to my meager myspace mutterings and be content. But, thanks o yet another marathon of Showtime's super awesome show Californication, I have become inspired. Inspired to saturate even more of the World Wide Web with my cynical, deprecating, satirical opinion. And, of course, I do tend to flatter myself a bit, so maybe satire is saying too much. I'm probably not funny. I'm not even sure if cynics can be funny, but in any case, the purpose of this blog will be to amuse me, if no one else. Making fun of everyday human life is one of my favorite pastimes... it comes with the very sweet bonus of never getting old! Fat jokes, drunk jokes, dumb blonde jokes, whatever he flavor. Making fun of people is well, *sigh* just swell. So pardon my future use of profanity, which, I can assure you, is forthcoming... and my careless disregard for other people's feelings (I'm a cynic. We don't care). Oh and my penchant for noticing the flaws of everyone else and writing about it. It's what I do.

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