You Took The Edge Off

You were dark-haired, dark-eyed, and loud-mouthed. Your kissing was adequately pleasant, but the rest of your bedroom prowess left much to be desired. You were lovely to look at. You were selfish beyond measure. You merely took the edge off of my ever-building sexual frustration.

I knew what kind of person you were from the beginning, but I was too horny to care. I should have listened to the other voice in my head. In the end, it was all about your pleasure with mine trailing along like an afterthought you didn't care to notice. Now I know better.

I was sloppy. I let myself be talked into things. You tried to persuade me to sleep with you without a condom even though you had several. I kept saying no. You finally acquiesced to my order, only to back out of it at the very last second, when I wasn't looking, when my guard was down, when I thought you had it on already, and

I found out in the middle of sex. How did I miss something like that?

Luckily, you came on my back. I didn't want to see your face.

I trusted you.

I was so stupid.

I fucking trusted you.

Can I Buy You a Drink?

It's usually not hard for me to pick out who I'll be hooking up with. Sometimes it's a look, a silly line of dialogue, an article of clothing--always a single detail that tells me, "Yes. S/he's The One For Tonight."

Occasionally, I get thrown off--like at my cousin's wedding this weekend. I was constantly scanning the crowd for Potentials: would it be the bartender with his horn-rimmed glasses? One of the groom's shy n' slender cousins in his late 20s? Or the foul-mouthed, interracial couple in their 40s? I looked for a Tell at every conversation, but nothing jumped out at me. My parents watching any move I made didn't help either. 

As usual, I didn't know who the lucky person was until the last-minute afterparty at night. I had to talked to him briefly during the cocktail reception after the vows, but easily brushed him off. This time, I found him leaning against the wall of the bar our young group had migrated to, his sunglasses finally stored in his pocket. He had been looking at me all night. I approached him with a smile.

I have never understood the point of all those questions you ask someone at a bar: where are you from? what do you do? What are your hobbies? The more relevant ones would be: do you mainly kiss with tongue? are you considerate enough to make me come first? are you a giver? Unfortunately, I trudged through an hour of conversation with exactly the former queries. Some of the volunteered information was interesting enough. He was an Asian engineering student who also played soccer and table tennis. He attended college an hour from the current location. I returned similar answers out of courtesy. 

Just really, what is the point? At least he surprised me by asking if I wanted to find someplace more private. Asian men aren't normally that forward. I was sufficiently impressed to agree so we left the noisy bar with his hand between my shoulder blades. I was wearing a backless dress.

-----

The groom had given me the key to a vacant hotel room above the bar. The warm wood paneling and creamy white carpet nicely set off the glow from the dimly-lit lamp in the corner as I circled the bed, twisting small bunches of my dress in my hands. What happened next came as a flood after months of drought; though I suspect his sentence was longer from the hungry way he clutched at my waist, how his mouth couldn't stay still on my neck. I ran my fingers over his black vest, relishing the feel of his broad back and barrel-chest: stocky where I was slim, solid where I was not. 

The territory felt blissfully familiar. His lips were soft. My foot dangled over the edge of the bed. Our clothes didn't even come all the way off. As my life slowly becomes more and more uncertain, this was a place where I knew all the steps. Messy kisses, awkward laughter, rumpled sheets--the hour we had to ourselves was nowhere near long enough. At one point, he whispered, "You're beautiful" in my ear. I'm not so naive that I believe every word a man tells me while in the throes of lust, but it was nice to hear all the same. Those sorts of things tend to be. 

What surprised me most was his mouth sliding down my stomach to the waistband of my underwear. His breaths ghosted over the wispy fabric, and I could feel the echoes of it on my thighs. He grabbed my arms to keep me from squirming. Tipping my head back, I let him drag it from my legs. When he finally bent further down, I closed my eyes.

He wasn't the best, nor the most memorable, nor the worst. He was exactly what I needed at the moment. Loud and boisterous, his enthusiasm infected me too. The hour we stole made our hands restless, our laughs frequent, our legs tangled. Sometimes the door would jiggle for a few seconds before stopping abruptly, which only intensified the thrill running up my spine. It had been seven months since I had a tongue swirling wetly on my breasts, fingers teasingly spreading me open, knuckles clenched bone-white on the sheets. My sighs mingled with his, and out of the corner of my eye, I watched cityscape lights blink back at me through the window.

But the phone rang eventually; it always does. We quickly dressed, shushing each other's snickers. I kissed him one more time before unlocking the door. We exited the hotel together, but gently split ways as I greeted my ride. My flight was leaving in 4 hours. 

new posting rule

Alright I decided against making a new blog to abandon this one, BUT I am making a new posting rule to replace the silly ten-posts-per-month quota.

Now I just post when I fucking feel like it.

There.

And when I do post, they will be thoughtful, long musings on shit--none of these two-liners updating the 0 followers I have on what's going on in my day-to-day comings and goings.

This was originally meant to be an actual, longform blog.

Time to fix this. Again.

so what else is new

Fuck fuck fuck I miss him

reeeeeeeeeedkuhtshdebrjwwyohuroaeu

Look

I got a new haircut and realized just now that it's your favorite hairstyle on a girl.

Goddammit get out of my head XD

Softshock Redux

It's summer again, and I'm on the bed, running my fingers underneath the cold side of my pillow. If I switch off the lights, I can pretend I'm back in my rented room in Singapore again, June 2011. If I squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost feel you beside me, sliding your cool hand up my thigh.

***

Nowadays, I just relive snippets of our time together, relishing the details that made our connection so memorable in the first place: The small fan whirring in a corner of the ceiling. The freezing tile beneath my feet as we tiptoed our way to the stiff mattress that masqueraded as a proper bed. The film of sweat that still lingered on the back of my neck from our stroll around the boardwalk. The imprint our bodies made on each other, sliding, sticking, and sliding again. The hushed words we whispered. The laughs we stifled. The tense line of your shoulder blades as you bent down to kiss me. The deep brown of your skin set against your dark hair and darker eyes.

There were fun things I remember that happened outside the room as well: our day-trips around the city and the night-walks we would take afterwards. The way we stepped side by side, arms swinging but not quite touching, matching a beat we wordlessly sang to each other. My hand linked to yours as you pulled me through noisy street markets and past sing-song hawkers to the cozy hole-in-the-wall food stall you like to visit once a week. The blend of smells in the air--spicy noodles, ocean salt, cigarette smoke, and your own woodsy musk. Our sandals thwacking erratically on the pavement as we raced each other down a deserted incline at one in the morning. 

Details flood my mind, and I can't keep track of them all. In the end, when the longing grows to be too much, I force myself to recall our last goodbye at the airport when I shyly slid my arms around your neck and leaned forward, my foot kicking up just so. I have to remind myself that you kissed back too, your hands firm and solid around my waist, your lips soft and wet. I have to tell myself that you remember this too. That you love this too. That I'm not the only one still reeling from the impact of a single week in a city I most likely won't visit again for years. 

again and again

It's nearing one year since I met you.

And damn if I don't miss that week in June.

I think a dedication post is in order. Again.

Wait for it.

Four Years

I've been updating this blog for four years. I'm thinking about deactivating this and starting a new one, for a new chapter of my life.

Still on the fence about it.

Will come back to this later.

Done

I turned in my last paper this morning. Actually I turned all of my work horribly late.
Let's see how screwed I am this semester.
Whoo boy.
At least I turned in my work though.
At least.

Crap.

Fanfiction Scribbles #35274809

Kaidan blames the state of the galaxy for the state of his evening.

Casey’s flushed with her hair down, and he has her by the shoulders, each one leading the other to the taxicab step by stumbling step. When they cram themselves in there and take off, he tilts his head back on the seat with an aimless sort of smile because getting tipsy wasn’t on his list of Things That Would Happen After One Steak Sandwich and Several Bottles of Batarian Shard Wine in addition to having the good doctor join him in insobriety as well.

“Where to?” he abruptly asks, just now remembering that they can’t stay here for the rest of the night-cycle no matter how cushy the seats are.

She gives an exaggerated shrug. “If I recall correctly, my apartment’s closer.”

“That’s where we’re going then,” Kaidan decides with a certainty that he has never shown sober.

“Ever the gentleman,” Casey says, “You even paid for dinner tonight.”

“You covered my drinks last time,” he points out, but finds that his finger is gestured to the ceiling.

She grins. “I’m surprised you remember. How long ago was that? A year?”

“Nine months, so yeah, almost.”

Casey doesn’t comment on the fact that he counted. “Why the sudden invitation anyway?”

“I needed someone to celebrate my newly minted Spectre status with.”

With a snort, she notes, “And I’m the first person you thought of?”

“What can I say? I’ve been feeling nostalgic.” What Kaidan doesn’t tell her is that he was thisclose to asking Shepard the very same day, but knows that she would have pursed her lips in that special way of hers and gently, but firmly, turn him down. That, and he wouldn’t have proposed the offer regardless. The rational part of his mind refuses to call this dinner anything other than a casual, platonic offer to reconnect with someone who isn’t Shepard.

“I see,” the doctor says carefully and leaves it at that.

-----

From what he knows about Casey (and it’s far less than some might assume), she takes her job as a doctor seriously, but manages to maintain a home life that results in her apartment looking lived-in—and amusingly messy. There are multi-colored datapads scattered across a desk shoved to one corner, plates stacked on an otherwise clean countertop, and long, bare-backed dresses thrown over the arm of an elegant couch. These are just the details Kaidan spots on first sight, but he has no time to catalogue them because the woman draped on his shoulders is laughing into the curve of his neck, breath hot and damp on his skin. 

“Christ, my apartment,” she wheezes, “sorry you have to see this.”

Softly shushing her, Kaidan shakes his head. “S’fine, really. The place looks homey.” He sidesteps a stray shirtsleeve poking out from underneath the table leg. “I like it.”

“Shut up, you hate it, and so do I,” Casey replies so blithely that he winds up laughing too. “I’ll do some cleaning after you leave.”

“Let’s get you to a bed first,” he suggests, to which the doctor hums in agreement and the subsequent vibration Kaidan steadfastly ignores.

Naturally, her personal quarters lie in the same state of affairs as the rest of the apartment. He can’t help but stare in wonder, silently comparing Casey’s situation to Shepard’s own room, and how spare and orderly the other woman keeps her things and by extension, her life. Kept. Still keeps?

She waves her hand in front of his face. “You okay?”

He blinks slowly, pushing Shepard away. “Yeah.”

Casey grabs his shoulders to look at him. A beat. Like flicking a switch, her gaze suddenly becomes shuttered and half-lidded. “No you’re not.”

He tries not to squirm. Since when has he become this easy to read? The part of Kaidan that’s still drunk urges him to drop the pretenses for once because honestly, with the way this war is raging, what are the chances that he will ever see her again after tonight? Can there be at least one other person besides Sh—her he allows inside? Hasn’t he had enough of holding everyone at a distance?

“No I’m not,” he sighs and feels the weight rising from his chest.

Nodding wordlessly, Casey the Citadel doctor leans against him, hands cupping his face. “It’s alright,” she says, her words made slurring and gentle by the wine, “She’s not someone you just ‘get over.’”

“It isn’t over though,” Kaidan insists, a delayed protest that sounds too much like a question.

“Of course,” she says.

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

“She won’t give me a straight answer—“

“Women never do—“

“And it’s my fault she won’t anyway—“

“Impossible—”

“But how could I trust her after Horizon and G—?”

“Stop thinking,” Casey hisses and covers his mouth with her own.

Kaidan freezes for a moment, more shocked than dismayed, but murmurs a pained, “I can’t” before kissing her back.

-----

Kaidan can taste the perfume leftover from Casey’s dress on her skin. It’s tart and slightly bitter, mingling with sweat; intrigued, he maps where the taste-scent has trailed off from its original location on the curve of her neck to across a protruding collarbone, the band of flesh between her breasts, and on down to the dip of her belly, where his hands have gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises—he’ll kiss those later. She makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh when he tongues a circle around her bellybutton.

With the lights dimmed, it’s easy to imagine her with thicker, kinkier hair and broader, rougher palms whose nails leave marks down his back. Unlike Shepard though, Casey’s vocal, making her feelings known with every “yes” and “god” he wrings out of her—that, he can’t imagine away. Just as his mind begins to stray, her legs hook around his waist and pull so she’s pressed flush against every available inch of skin. In response, he kisses the hollow of her throat, bucking into her impatient fingers—or is he used to slower hands?

His smile comes out more like a grimace that the shadows hide. Even now, with Casey writhing beneath him, Kaidan can’t stop processing the differences and similarities between who he has and who he misses. 

Eventually, he comes quietly, breathing harshly into her ear as she clutches at him, riding out the aftershocks of her own release. The air seems to drop several degrees while they collect themselves in each other’s arms. In a moment of tenderness, Kaidan brushes back the locks of hair matted to her forehead, limp from their exertions. Unexpectedly, there’s no instant feeling of dread or guilt, but only a hollow ache in his chest to keep his conscience company. On cue, Shepard winks in and out of his mind like the spectre she is, and when his eyes open to find Casey staring back, he knows she knows it too.

She thrums her fingers against his cheek, as if deciding what to do with him. Kaidan isn’t sure how to answer if she asks him to stay the night.

“Are you going?” she says instead.

“Well,” he starts. “I mean—“

“Go home, Kaidan.” She sits up, pushing him back until he’s leaning on his knees. “Then tomorrow, send her a message and ask her to come see you.” Her mouth twists. “Go on a date.”

“Casey, you don’t have to—“

“Oh but I do,” she says, shaking her head, “I really do.”

Kaidan blinks stupidly at her. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “Don’t be.”

Curling an arm around her waist, he gives her one more kiss that says more than he’s able to on his own. She responds in kind, sighing and telling him all about it, but nevertheless is the first one to break it off, licking her lips as they pull away. Kaidan dresses himself, closes the door, and leaves without another word.

Let's Write Fic Instead

Mass Effect Works (so far): 1. No Contest (complete) 2. Not with a bang (not complete) 3. Too Long (not complete Schoolwork (so far): ...wat.

WAT

Goddammit, BLogspot, why do you gotta change the layout on me while I was away I can't make heads or tails of this mess HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MAKE WORDS HUH

20 page paper this weekend?

Challenge accepted.

MISSING

Has anyone seen my motivation?

I seem to have misplaced it.

We Were Told That Society Owed Us a Hot Girl

Does it seem like men feel kind of entitled to sex? Does it seem like we react to rejection with the maturity of a child being denied a toy?

Well, you have to keep in mind that what we learn as kids is really hard to deprogram as an adult. And what we learned as kids is that we males are each owed, and will eventually be awarded, a beautiful woman.

We were told this by every movie, TV show, novel, comic book, video game and song we encountered. When the Karate Kid wins the tournament, his prize is a trophy and Elisabeth Shue. Neo saves the world and is awarded Trinity. Marty McFly gets his dream girl, John McClane gets his ex-wife back, Keanu “Speed” Reeves gets Sandra Bullock, Shia LaBeouf gets Megan Fox in Transformers, Iron Man gets Pepper Potts, the hero in Avatar gets the hottest Na’vi, Shrek gets Fiona, Bill Murray gets Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters, Frodo gets Sam, WALL-E gets EVE … and so on.

Hell, at the end of An Officer and a Gentleman, Richard Gere walks into the lady’s workplace and just carries her out like he’s picking up a suit at the dry cleaner.

And then we have Star Wars, where Luke starts out getting Princess Leia (in The Empire Strikes Back), but then as Han Solo became a fan favorite, George Lucas realized he had to award her to him instead (forcing him to write the “She’s secretly Luke’s sister” thing into Return of the Jedi, even though it meant adding the weird incest vibe to Empire). With Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling played with the convention by having the beautiful girl get awarded to the sidekick character Ron, but she made it a central conflict in the story that Ron is constantly worried that, since Harry is the main character, Hermione will be awarded to him instead.

In each case, the woman has no say in this — compatibility doesn’t matter, prior relationships don’t matter, nothing else factors in. If the hero accomplishes his goals, he is awarded his favorite female. Yes, there will be dialogue that maybe makes it sound like the woman is having doubts, and she will make noises like she is making the decision on her own. But we, as the audience, know that in the end the hero will “get the girl,” just as we know that at the end of the month we’re going to “get our paycheck.” Failure to award either is breaking a societal contract. The girl can say what she wants, but we all know that at the end, she will wind up with the hero, whether she knows it or not.

And now you see the problem. From birth we’re taught that we’re owed a beautiful girl. We all think of ourselves as the hero of our own story, and we all (whether we admit it or not) think we’re heroes for just getting through our day.

So it’s very frustrating, and I mean frustrating to the point of violence, when we don’t get what we’re owed. A contract has been broken. These women, by exercising their own choices, are denying it to us. It’s why every Nice Guy is shocked to find that buying gifts for a girl and doing her favors won’t win him sex. It’s why we go to “slut” and “whore” as our default insults — we’re not mad that women enjoy sex. We’re mad that women are distributing to other people the sex that they owed us.

Yes, the women in these stories are being portrayed as wonderful and beautiful and perfect. But remember, there are two ways to dehumanize someone: by dismissing them, and by idolizing them.

Epic Fail

I missed the ten post requirement for March CRAAAAAAP

And this month I have:

- one 10 page paper for American Lit

- one 20 page paper for Adv Comp

- one 20 minutes presentation for French Lit

- 9000+ little responses papers I haven't been keeping up with

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

>_>

Mad For This Show (season 5 premiere)

Mad Men Season 5 Episode 1
AAAAAHHH THIS SHOW I LOVES IT SO

what the hell Megan why are you wearing such a shit-ton of eye makeup

dude don youre such a dirty old man

Peggy youre still so constant and WITH ABE YES

Pete do I spy some neck/chin fat developing there ew

everyone’s hair is a lot more relaxed

Roger youre still a dick, never change

WHERE THE HELL IS BETTY

wow Sally your voice got DEEP (I approve)

JOAN JOAN JOAN JOAN MY LOVELY

lalalalalalalala this show is my everything

Do Shit List: Round #4363987

- 8 page ethnography due yesterday (whoops)

- response paper #6 due this week

- article precis due at some point but I should probably get on it (HAAA)

- do FAFSA; get back with financial aid people about rejecting loan documents (goddammit how many times do I have to say NO LOANS)

- review that dude's story whose story I said I'd review -__-'

- update smut fic

- apply for 9000+ summer internships/jerbs

Yeah that's about it. For now.

Ugggghhh spring semester why you always kick my ass--

Why I Haven't Been Keeping Up With My Posts

Party Tonight

Things I Expect From The Party:

- visiting the best friend in ATL

- not getting laid because my uterus despises me

- drunken dancing

- drama-rama-llama...?

- talking with people I don't know

***

Things I Don't Expect From The Party:

- getting any homework done (oops)

- getting laid (GODDAMMIT SHIT FUCK OWGSKUFSW)

***

On the bright side of not getting laid...

MASS EFFECT 3 COMING TOMORROW WHEN I GET BACK TO THE HOUSE AAAAAAHH

loose leaf

It's that time again in the spring semester where the doubts begin to creep at the edges of my thoughts. They're stubborn little things, so they'll take their time reaching me: slowly, gradually, inevitably. Silly me, I always try to shake them off in the beginning, so sure that this time, this year I'll beat the anxiety and finish spring term with solid grades. Naturally, this has not happened yet. I told you: in the beginning, the situation looks to be in my favor.

It is a tenuous grasp.

The confidence I parade around in the early months fades away completely after spring break. I'm left mentally drained, out of fucks and shits and cares to give for my academic career--and by extension, the rest of my adult working life. I mask the absence with false laughter and bold statements, insisting that my school work (and professors' regard) is of no importance. I let myself get sucked into my computer. I'm on the damn thing every day, every hour, pulling open blank Microsoft Word documents alongside forty different tabs on Google Chrome, all to convince myself that I'll finish that assignment, I'll finish that paper, right after I click this last link because it's only one more, and I'll be quick about it, I promise I promise.

Empty words.

My hold on reality weakens. The days pass by unnoticed, my calendar left unmarked. I skip classes, for weeks at a time if the downhill slide is bad enough. I am listless and floating. I am adrift. I do not always know where I am. I have fallen asleep. And when I finally awake, it is only to find that I have failed yet another class--and with it, another piece of myself gets locked away.

The truth of the matter is that I'm frightened. I can feel it happening all over again, and I still haven't figured out a way to break the cycle. Appointments with the counselor don't work, as I've belated discovered. Lectures from the parents fare no better. This is up to me. The ball is in my court.

For once, can I be brave enough to take some form of agency in my life?

Wesley

That's my brother's best friend.

I want to hack him with a chainsaw.

Why is brother friends with a spoiled brat who acts a fool in our house I will never understand.

Someone break those two up please god I'm begging

Prose Poetry

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Whatever

Apparently I am never completely over people. I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to move on. All I do is burn and burn, and burn.

...not that I'm complaining of course.

after four years of wondering and pondering

Would I consider myself a writer? Yes, yes I would.

one of those days

Back ten feet up before I tear you a new one.

I'm in a Mood >_>

And my snark has been magnified to eleventyone.

God I need sleep.

Happy Valentine's Day Massacre

*blows noisemaker*

Also Hallmark cards!

Also this is my 22nd consecutive year I've spent VD with DARK CHOCOLATE as my Valentine. *sniffs* So faithful and steady! I couldn't have asked for a better companion.

The Sensation of Falling in Love

Every second is a keen, poignant agony, but no less sweeter for its meaning.

Woman The Fuck Up

and unfriend his ginger ass from Facebook, dude. You can do it. You can cut him off. It's so easy, just one click! And then you won't have to look at his racist/sexist/homophobic/ignorant/stupid posts. No more hiding his stories from your news feed. No more mentions of him. No more passive aggressive loathing through the internet. You can despise him to his face like a big girl. Grow up, dude. End this sorry sham of a friendship formed out of desperation and misguided loneliness and get out while your sanity's still relatively intact!

#fangirlofcolorproblems

Why are all of my favorite fandoms completely overrun by white, cis, abled-bodied, straight or lgbtq, college-educated girls who had a middle-class upbringing?

And why do they only write slash between pretty white boys?

Sigh.

Waffle House

one large order of bacon, extra crispy

one large order of hashbrowns with tomatoes and onions, extra crispy

water with lemon

~~~

one trip to the bathroom 24 hours later, extra--

Yeah. You get the picture. But damn if Waffle House isn't amazing.

Homework? Naaaaah

Anders stops counting after a while and grants himself this one thing to have all for himself. Some mornings he wakes up hard with the dream-scent of Hawke on his fingers and briskly does his business right before opening his clinic to Darktown’s citizens. Some nights the Old Gods’ call rings silent as he tosses and turns to more pleasurable visions, his hand inevitably wandering down to the tent in his pants. Sometimes he even takes breaks throughout the day. Eventually they all blur with the passing months (and years—years?) into an endless string of half-formed fantasies and fully formed wishes that always leave him wanting.

He would not have so much trouble abstaining were it not for the curious fact that Hawke still asks for him regularly, whether to help her gather this herb or that reagent for Solivitus, to treat the frequent wounds she and her group acquire on their misadventures, or to simply be an extra player at the table in The Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights—or Diamondback, take his pick. Anders walks away with empty pockets at the end of every game, but decides it is worth losing to that blighted elf just to see her relaxed and smiling with her feet propped up on the table.

On certain days, Anders manages to convince himself that he does not need her. That he does not want her. That the mere glimpse of the nape of her neck does not send him into a heady tailspin of unwanted images and explicit sequences in the middle of combat. That he does not lo—no. So the sleepless nights, the restless afternoons, and every other hour in between can all be overcome by sheer force of will—of which he has none.

Hawke could never know how much he aches for her nor how often the image of her hair down interrupts his writing sessions, his manifesto left forgotten on the table for the umpteenth time as he takes himself in hand. Establishing a routine is far too easy as he pushes Justice to a corner in his mind and mentally wanders down the length of her back, tight and sinewy with muscle, skims his fingers up her thighs, buries his nose in her cleft, sucking and inhaling until he cannot breathe for want of her. Anders’ shoulders slump afterwards, although in frustration or exhaustion he cannot tell.

And when he just so happens to meet her eyes across the tavern—or cave, shore, forest, whatever—and Hawke being bloody Thomas Hawke, gives him a hint of a smile in acknowledgment, she has absolutely no way of knowing the heat drawn tight in his groin or the ongoing internal struggle between what he wants and what he/Justice wants. Or rather, the insidious part of his mind suggests, she knows exactly what Anders is going through whenever she looks at him and chooses to toss him scraps of her attention anyway.

Maker how he hates her.

Tumblr

STOP EATING MY LIFE

Also

I'm already behind on college work.

What a SURPRISE.

I am FLABBERGASTED.

Ok, time to get shit together again.

*runs off*

Come Hell or High Water, I Will Watch This

Like a Boss

It has come to my attention that I have a big ego. This is true, for SOME things. For example:

- I know how to write dialogue, and I'm comfortable critiquing fiction/creative non-fiction (due in part to my English major background)

- I'm knowledgeable in racism, its structure, its insidious effects, and white privilege (due in part to my nonwhite background)

- I can hold my ground when discussing feminism, dissecting mansplainations, and pointing out intersectionality (due in part to my sex)

- I know a shit-ton about the restaurant business (due in part to my family's restaurant business)

- Look, I'm just really smart okay?

Yes, I WILL look my nose down on stupid folks. Yes, I WILL look my nose down on ignorant people who can't be bothered to learn more than what they've been told. No, I won't give up any of my precious time and attention listening to someone try to school me in something I know more about. Nope, just won't do it. If this makes me arrogant, if this makes me a bitch, if this makes me egoistic, then fine.

I like being called a bitch anyway.

Where is My Mind

Response?

What are with all these response papers for all of my classes? This is BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT I TELLS YEW.

French Lit - 5 response papers at 3 pages each

American Lit - 10 response papers at 350 words each

Advanced Composition - ?!?! response papers at 350 words each

And then...

American Lit - 10-12 page research paper at the semester's end

Advanced Composition - grand-ass ethnography project in which you will handmake a book containing your observations of a particular culture totaling at least 20 pages

My life. It is fucked.

Someday

Another Semester

- American Literature II MWF 8:00-8:50am

- French Literature MWF 11:00-12:00pm

- Marketing Law TR 9:30-10:45am

- International Business TR 12:30-1:45pm

...BRING IT, BITCHES.

Dreamspeak

Dreams every night since the New Year:

- on a road trip with friends, and Chad was there. We stopped at a store, and during the stop he gushes about his new girlfriend and their puppy-dog love to me. I encourage their relationship wish them well.

- I'm in a bogus college class in the inner-city somewhere and the kids inside are making a ruckus so I don't learn anything. I leave early with someone in tow. Later at night we stumble to her high-rise apartment and try to have sex, only for it to morph into some kind of threesome. The fuck.

I'm not sure what my mind's trying to tell me other than "hey look you're sexually frustrated again. And your period's coming this weekend. Cheers!"

The Omen(s)

Sooooo this is what happened on New Year's Day, the first:

1. Someone broke in/robbed one of the restaurants.

2. I had a dream last night where my blue car got run over by another truck during a freak sandstorm/windstorm in which fog was included as well, and I couldn't see shit. Oh, and my brother and his best friend were with me. Then my parents found out and kicked my ass.

Riiight. These can't be good omens for this year.