When hatred backfires

At a National Organization for Marriage rally, a NOM supporter held a sign suggesting that the solution to gay marriage was lynching same-sex couples.

Yeah…

That’s not cool.

Now, I prefer vagina to dick. I like vagina as much as a fat kid likes nougat. But you know what I like more than vagina? My freedom. And since so many of them are so goddamn limited, I think I want to protect what’s important.

Gays don’t have the right to marry. Why? What logical reasonable explanation is there for this? The bible? Yo, that’s a book you’re believing in. I have a phone book I could claim is holy. It has coupons in the back that say Sully’s Plumbing will give me 20% off a roto rooter. And guess what? That probably isn’t accurate. And that was printed last year.

Gay marriage, to me, means that there is more room for economic growth. More businesses will thrive. More money into the economy will end up easing the strain on the cost of health care. Why? More people will get what they want – marriage…and in many cases, divorce.

Let all of the homos and dykes and trannies and other buzzwords have what they want. Let em get married. 50% of all marriages end in divorce anyway – don’t they have a right to be miserable too?

This way of thinking made me decide to donate, regularly, to Equality California. I’m happy to have done it, all because some ignorant asshole decided to spew hatred and fire my ass up.

The voices in my head are quiet today.

I found that if I do not work out for more than a couple days in a row, that my body will atrophy and I will become incredibly agitated.

It’s kind of funny how when you’re a kid and you’re active, you don’t think of these things. Meanwhile, once you’re old and busted, there are things you have to do.

I’m also, in the spirit of getting old, realizing there are a lot of foods I can no longer eat or I’ll get sick. Daily nausea is as fun as sitting on an extra large churro, extra cinnamon.

People are Disgusting

So I’m having dinner with this girl, recent grad, overwhelmed by unemployment and she starts telling me this story about this guy who dicked her over…and then tells me I know him and who it is. It’s the same story about the same guy I’ve heard from three different women.

Each of these girls are pretty, not hot. Each have something redeeming about them. Each of them has stupidly had sex with a con artist who treated them like crap. Guy pulled the “getting serious” bit and then pulled away. It’s gross and nasty and kind of ruins the business of being a proper slut like myself because these fake sluts are out there.

Why am I a better whore than this guy? I admit it. I’m not afraid to but at the same time, I’m also not playing the game of how-can-I-fuck-this-girls-head-up.
Now, here’s the funny thing. Each of the three girls this foolio played a number on all have the same story. Thought the guy was for real. Thought they wouldn’t be treated like the rest. Really really upset by him.

It’s sad. There’s also another item to throw in there. Each of these girls would think they are a “good girl.” One of them said those exact words.

Here’s the thing. The minute you call yourself a good girl, you’re not. You’re a bigger whore than all of them. Why? You’re marketing yourself like that little chickadee on the cover of a porn in pig tails, striped socks with a giant lollipop. You’re saying “I like to fuck.” That’s it. That’s what you’re doing.

No wonder this guy had such ease hitting these bitches.

And still, I feel bad. They’re relatively nice girls.

But they deluded themselves.

Nobody under the age of 25 has any business thinking they are in love with someone.
Remember that…

43 Things

Years ago, I found a website called 43 Things, which is a form of social networking (before we used that fucking stupid term,) that involves putting up a list of things to do/accomplish and then do them. I don’t know how else to define what it is but it is a community type thing. I have no idea how they make money since I can’t tell you if it has advertising or not (maybe, maybe not but lets face it, it’s better if I didn’t notice.)

I looked at the list I made in 2006 and it was pathetic. It was ten items long. And I only really wanted to do a couple of them still: Fall in love, lose weight, get published. I had done one item: get over my ex. When you’ve accomplished something, you can write about it, so I did and it made me happy to do so. And then other people can like your status or whatever their form is. It’s pretty cool.

I’ve wanted to do this for ages and I haven’t. After my friend died in 2008, I kind of stopped caring about goals and desires. But at the end of the day, if you have no desires or goals, you have nothing to look forward to and then what’s the point of being alive? (Yes, I have contemplated that in the dissertation in my head entitled “practical applications of suicide.”)

It’s taken a couple years and I feel I need to bounce back. So if you really want to feel like a retard stalker and get inside my brain…read along.

http://www.43things.com/person/CallMeMrStorm/

Pardon the vagina monologue.

I’m trying to revisit the level of crazy where life is worth living and not mundane and pointless. I think I’ve come out of a dark space so I’m peeking my head out, right the fuck now.

I hit a rut, a massive rut, partially my fault as I allowed myself to be un-awesome for a while where I’d rather stuff my face senseless and pop little friendly visitors until I couldn’t feel anything. Now, while I still love food and visitors, I don’t love the malaise that sutured itself to me like a custom fit dildo.

In the six months since I rambled on here, my car died and I bought a new one, I had a birthday that was stupid and pretty much decided everyone that I know for the most part is a giant fucking phony. Which is true. So…I shut down, a lot. I have reached a place where everything in life feels painfully intense and I really need to scale it down. Solution! More Drugs!!!

I wish that were the case but there’s nothing else I can do that won’t go against my promise.

My greatest promise, to my dear sister when I was 13 was that I wouldn’t abuse drugs. She’d had too many friends OD and I told her I would drink and wanted to smoke pot but that was it.

So I’ve tried to keep my promise, exclusions being my friend Xanax and Vicodin.
I spent the weekend by myself, alone. I planned on watching some research material (not porn but it might as well have been,) and writing. The research material sucked and the writing was stilted at best. I’m working on something new, fresh and happening. The kids will like it. Actually, the kids will think I need to get my head examined but I’m damn excited to make them think that. So there it is.
I spent my Saturday night blasted, cooking up a storm in my kitchen. I make chicken curry, chicken breast with risotto, chicken korma (I must have been inspired by Vishnu) and a lovely vegetable medley. I made some other shit too but I don’t remember.

I was up til about 2 am. It was very out of body. And I woke up and felt somewhat normallish on Sunday. I decided to tighten up my little life and decide what the fuck I was really going for.

What did I want?