I'm in an irritable mood.

Reason?

A) 2 traffic tickets: one for a dead head-light ($54.00), the other for not having a valid insurance card (court appearance required).

B) The cop who stopped me showered my face in spit. It came like a fucking deluge with every sentence. I hate him. I hope he dies...in great pain...with green pus oozing out of his urethra...and I hope vultures pluck his testicles out...and feed it to their young...and I also wish him many other horrid things which I cannot name right now but will dream about, in glorious gory detail, tonight.

C) I'm coming down with a sore throat. I get these every year, always at the start of winter. Sore throats suck. They really suck...a lot.

D) Some woman just asked me for directions to the restroom. I knew where it was but I said I didn't.

Why?

Because I'm in an irritable mood and when I'm in an irritable mood, I hate giving out directions to people who want to take a leak in a "restroom".

What the fuck is it with people asking to use the "restroom" like they're going to take a nap in there. NO! You, my dear lady, will not be resting in the restroom. You will be using a toilet. So why don't you ask for the fucking TOILETS! And that goes for all you "bathroom" users too. There are no bathrooms in public places. You're not going in there to take a bath, you're going in to use the fucking TOILET. Ugh, I'm so irritated.

I know you'll say there's nothing wrong with using the word "restroom" because in so and so dictionary, "restrooms" are well defined, perfectly usable modern words. And you'll say, "well, even Noah fucking Webster said so". To bloody hell with Noah fucking Webster. I'm sick of people saying they're going to use the "restroom" or "bathrooms" as though if they said toilet, I may think they're going to take a shit and pass out in a laughing fit. What the fuck. We all shit. We piss first and then settle in for a nice shit. Thats what humans do; we fuck, eat and shit. Damn I'm SO IRRITATED.

And get this, the other day, some girl at work was telling me about some party she'd attended over the weekend. She got to the interesting part and this is how it began: "... and I walked into the bedroom and omigosh, there was a...oh dear, I don't know how to say this,...it was...you know...a... oh dear...how do I say this...ok, I'm going to spell it out for you...OK? OK, here it is...I walked into the bedroom and there was a....D-I-L-D-O".

What the hell! She spelled it out and turned pink afterwards. I wished I could've pulled out a giant phallus and smacked her silly with it for wasting my life like that. With all that build up, I thought there was something even grander in the damn bedroom, like a midget getting beat down by another midget with a gigantic dildo. Now that's a fitting crescendo.

I'm stopping. I'm damn irritated and I think it's starting to show.

PS: Today's word is "soignee" pronounced (swan YAY). It's ESOTERIC and sounds pretentious so I guess I'll have to use it. It means fashionable or elegantly sophisticated and well-groomed. I'm certainly not soignee, I need a haircut badly and Britney Spears is not soignee either, she needs hair badly. Hmm...Is Paris Hilton soignee? What about Hillary? She's got the "elegantly sophisticated" down but I'm not so sure about the "fashionable" bit.

PSS: see how I worked in "esoteric" in that last graph. Ain't I smart?

Shh. I'm trying to not speak to you

I'm a bad conversationalist. Yesterday, on my way back from work, I sat next to this guy on the bus. It was a public bus filled, as is usually the case, with mostly blue-collar workers. I find blue collar workers to be quite the chatty bunch. This guy was of the working class, I could tell. He had the garb down to a damn tee. He wore two jackets, a beat-up brown scull cap with matching, equally ratty, brown scarf, and black nylon pants that looked like they'd been washed non-stop since the turn of the century. It was cold but he looked strangely over dressed.

He told me he liked my hoodie, this gray old thing I bought at Sears about 2 years ago and asked where I'd got it from. I wanted to tell him the truth, I really did. I wanted to tell him it was on sale at Sears and I only got it because it was the cheapest one there; instead I found myself thinking up a lie that would end the conversation. Don't get me wrong, I'm not snobby or anything like that, I just don't enjoy small talk very much. I'm no good at it. Besides, whats it good for anyway? I can do without small talk and I can certainly do without talking about my cheap gray Sears hooded jacket simply to pass time. I'm one of those introspective people who feel perfectly fine sitting alone at the back of a bus with their thoughts. Anyway, I told him someone gave it to me. Now thats a conversation dead-ender right there. Whats he going to do, ask me who?

You probably think I'm a snob anyway but that's not true at all. Thing is, right after I lied, I felt real bad about it but I couldn't even help myself. I'm so bad at small-talk; my mind just rolls over and plays dead every time I'm about to get into one. Well, after my mind decided to play dead and after I lied to **obfuscate** my mindlessness, he began telling me how nice my jacket looked. He kept saying "Man thats a really nice hoodie man". I thanked him but he still repeated it about 3 more times. I just hate it when people repeat themselves 3 goddam times when you heard them fine the first time. It makes me want to roll my eyes and walk away but I usually don't. I just stay there and nod and smile. I make myself sick. Then he pulled out his cellphone and showed me pictures of fucking Bentleys and fancy Mercedes and some other high-faluting cars. Can you believe that? I didn't even ask to see his damn cars and here he was giving me a virtual tour of his imagined garage via cellphone pictures. He kept saying "I like to do it big too, man" . Again, he said it like 3 times. That just drove me right to the edge of wretching up lunch all over his nylon pants. I wanted to move to another seat because I really hate it when people do bigheaded things like - show me pictures of their fucking cars on their cellphones. I wanted to change seats, but I didn't. I just sat there and said "thats cool man, that's really cool". I really make myself sick sometimes.

Well, that was really the end of it. We just sat there the entire ride until he got off. He never said another word to me but I knew he wanted to; I just knew he was hoping I'd say something about the weather or some irrelevant shit like that so we could get into it and small-talk our way to small-talk nirvana, but I didn't. It wasn't as though I was bursting at the seams with small-talk ideas. I suppose he figured I was a bad conversationalist or something. Maybe he just thought I was snobby. To tell you the truth, I don't care too much if he thought I was a big snob with a fancy hoodie. He's one of those people who says things like "when I get rich, I'm gonna buy me a garage full of Bentleys and Mercedes and some other high-faluting cars and take pictures of every one of them on my cellphone and show them to strangers I meet on the fucking bus". I hate those type of people and I'd love to snob them every chance I get.

Word of the day **obfuscate** - I'm trying to roid up my vocabulary. Maybe using words like this in pretentious ways like I did will help :-)

On that Thursday evening

I walked into a room thick with heat and boasting at least 50 slightly sauteed men and women and one boy. There was a kid on the stage playing something uninspired on a guitar; I think he was singing as well, I forget now. I sat on what looked to be the only seat available, way in the back, inbetween a gay man and a lesbian. My luck eh? The Lesbian introduces herself as the president of so and so lesbian club up yonder over there and I believe she threw in her name to complete a proper introduction. It matters little since I forgot it before she was done speaking. Sorry, I wasn't paying too much attention. The heat was stifling, the music, horrendous and Mr. Gay man to my left, disarmingly beautiful (i.e. a major distraction). Before I could bite my tounge, I told her this was my first time there clearly exposing the nervousness I was consciously stuggling to conceal. She smiled and invited me to their next meeting. It was an "aww, how cute" kind of smile too. I hate those.

The kid and his guitar exit the stage and the host of the event declares an "open mic" which I learn means the mic is available to anyone interested in using it. A girl who I'd noticed, sitting hand-in-hand with a young man, gets up to address us. She tells us that she's a freshman, only 18 and had just days before, been disowned by her family for being a lesbian. She thanks the club for giving her a place to "be renewed and reassured". Those words make me happy for her and I smile even though she's on the verge of tears. She points out the love of her life in the crowd who -surpise, suprise- turns out to be, not a man as I'd assumed, but one of those Ellen Degeneres-type butch lesbians. I remind myself: close cropped hair, a pair of slacks and a white long sleeved shirt does not make a person a man and any assumtions about gender within this group must be backed by emperical proof which at some point will require such uncouth statements as "Pull it out" or the subtly suggestive "Let me see it". She descends the stage into a standing ovation and I wish her all the luck she'll ever need.

Another girl comes up and recites a poem in a style that was neither Tennyson (certainly NOT Tennyson) nor Angelou nor like anything I'd ever heard. She read it like she was rapping, hip-hop poetry and at the end I wanted so much to tell her what a genious way it was to read poetry like she'd just done. It had such a smooth flow and yet it had drama and passion and gentleness and ferocity all in the delivery of the poem. I mean the words were like a backdrop for the rhythm of it. At times she spoke so fast the words came at me in a riot but because of the way she said it, I got it. It was understood. The way she sped up at certain points and at others, dropped the words one after a pause after another after a pause after another... I tell you I was so enraptured by it, I felt the urge to shout alleluia in appreciation ...or was it in agreement? I appreciated the beauty of it and it agreed with my senses so maybe both. I discovered later that it wasn't such a ground breaking effort. It's a way of delivering poetry called "spoken word" and if this lady's delivery left me hungry for more, the lady that followed satisfied me enough to promise myself a copy of her CD.

So here this other lady steps up and introduces herself. Her name is Pandora Scooter. She said was Asian I think and started off with a comedy skit. I spent the whole time just taking her in. She was a lesbian and had made that clear with the first joke. She wore a bra and I know this because her top was see-through. She tied up some locks of her hair in blue and red and green ribbons that made me think of her as a tree hugger or a hippie or a woman who didn't give a fuck about what you or your friend thought of her. I liked her immediately. After getting the crowd lively with a few jokes, she dove right into her first spoken word called "Box". Fun and funny and throughly entertaining, we chanted "more! more!" after she was done to which she treated us to another she called "Chilled Hot Cocoa"; a, dare I say, better poem. Here are both performances found on youtube that'll save me an extra paragraph or two of struggling to describe each one. (These are not footage from that day)






After Ms. Scooter was done and said goodbye, the experience for me was over. I had things to study for and I was beginning to cook in all that heat. Nothing became of Mr. gay man to my left. I sort of forgot about him (thats what happens when I give my bigger head preference over my little one), oh well. Maybe next time I'll introduce myself. As for the lesbian...well...what am I to do with a lesbian? (I kid, she was nice)

Ok, I'm too tired to continue. Sleep overwhelms me now. Forgive me if I stumbled through this post, I've had this story on my mind and had to write it down before living consumes me again.

g'nite

zzzzzzzz

Here comes the army of one...in pink!

My mind is made up, I will do it. I'm going to my first gay gathering this evening. I'll be going alone but I won't chicken out. No I won't. I'm going to stick around school after classes and then around 7:45pm I'm going to get in my car and drive over to the cultural center. I won't stand outside and debate the consequences of this debut nor will I pretend to have happened across the meeting by chance. No. I will enter as though my balls were made of smooth cold brass, without a doubt in my mind that here, amongst these "queers", was where I intended to spend the evening.

Somone might say "What's that walking in here?" And another might add "Walks like no gay man I've ever seen." That's all well and good. My hair may be a bit messy and my goatee a week too old and my clothes, lack a coordination that might embarrass a clown or two. But when they get to know me, the thoughts that run through my pink, flowery mind, there will be no denying my intrinsic flair for all things fabulous.

stretch marks

I just discovered stretch marks around my upper arm. They're faint, barely noticeable (I hope) but most certainly present.

Lets see, I have them on my ass, on my legs just behind the knees and now on my arms. Its become a guessing game for where the next scar will break through, my penis? How would I ever explain that?

After toweling off last night, I backed my butt into a mirror and thought... if only I was a zebra...

If you don't have stretch marks, I hate you. They don't heal, they don't go away, they might fade but they'll always be there criss-crossing their ugliness around your precious skin and keep you dreaming of what could've been or should've been or maybe even ought to be, one hot peice of flawless ass.

Africa

I have a crush.

I have several crushes.

Every time I look at a guy who is a little taller than I am and in good shape, my sex salutes.

I think I'm a whore....but only in my head....no....what I mean is .....

There's this guy who comes in the library to check out books. I happen to work in the library.

What I'm trying to say is...

He's taller than I am which is nice...no, its fantastic!! He's also dark and big...and built strong like a workman, like Africa...so in my thoughts, that's what I call him, Africa. When he speaks, like when he asks for the return date on his books, I listen. I listen longer than I should because I'm echoing his words over and over in my head, swishing them this way and that until I can hear my name in his voice. Whenever he comes to the counter, I can't believe he's speaking to me. I'm actually a little flattered every time. Silly, considering I'm the only one at the circulation desk.

What am I trying to say?

When I get home, I day dream of sunsets on the beach, of the sound of the ocean rushing up on smooth wet sand, of raging wild unbridled put-me-in-a-headlock-and-rip-me-in-half kinda sex; and after dinner, If the mood is just right, If Ms. Patterson downstairs has put her howling bitch of a mutt out for the night, I put on L. Vandross. I turn the lights out, lay back on my bed, get out the KY lube from my bedside drawer and treat myself to a sensual evening courtesy of pleasures only Africa can bring.


I'm trying to say...


I'm still horny and now accepting applications!!

PS

Forget the applications. You qualify. You're accepted. It's yours, now RIDE IT!!!

I'm going to hell for this post.

Class today was extra boring, my professor is outdoing himself. Only 2 people left before class was over. Thats 2 out of the 5 who attended class today. Not so bad if you consider we started the semester a good 50 strong. At this point I wonder why I bother. For most of the class, I'm fighting sleep. Maybe I ought to stay home, download his slides and read the text book. But then again, the goody-two-shoes student in me will throw a hissy fit and fuck up my mood again.

Damn you Professor Paull. Damn you. [and cut that damn pony tail off. What the hell is that?!!!Looks like a fucking squirell taking a shit out of the back of your head.]

A couple of people said I was a tad insensitive in my scheme to decongest the world by ridding it of over-sized people. Well, take a look at my amigo.

That my friends is my closing argument, I rest my case. You lose hehe.

PS

Is that towel between his thigh a subtle attempt at modesty? Come on, unless that massive mass of flesh protruding from his right thigh is carrying a gargantuan testicle (which it isn't), he hasn't seen dick and co. since that third gut and left breast became one. He's like, lookey here, I'm flying like a kite LOL like gravity is ever going to let that happen.

PSS

Open the gates of hell, I'm ready for my close-up :)