How does one start their first blog? Will this be my 'it was a dark and stormy night...' to a week or two of honestly trying? I have resisted this BLOG thing. But I got to talk to Pam today. We talked on the phone for 157 minutes and 33 seconds. I have not had that much to say since Bob installed a telephone in my bedroom for my thirteenth birthday.
Pam is one of the high, princess girlfriend goddesses of my life. This is how I know I was, without a doubt, in the presence of my girlfriend. I know a girlfriend because they too, if allowed the gift of knowing Pam Perry, would also fully understand how amazingly blessed I am to have had 157 minutes of good Pam Love!
What a gift!
Is this what Blogs are meant for?
Do I just eat a hand full oreos, ignore the dirty dishes in the kitchen and rattle off my thoughts (spell checked, of course.) and waste my girlfriends time with hours of my thoughts typed out like a mandatory sentence to all those I love, READ MY WRITING and CATCH UP ON SHERYL! All in one easy package!
I don't know if anyone, EVER could be that egotistical.
I will rephrase.
I don't want to know, or read, a blog written by someone that egotistical.
Therefore... I am going to do that diary, blog thing ONCE... cause I need a reason to hide from the dishes in the sink.
A shower would be nice but the house is too cold to have wet hair.
And I am still in my pajamas.
It is five minutes to six o'clock and I still don't know what I should make for dinner.
Maybe I could use this as a warm up?
I could be my free writing warm ups before I write WRITE?
Mostly I am going to use my blog to put my essays somewhere my girlfriends could read. I write better if I write for an audience. I have the same hang up with art. I draw when I imagine something that I want to give to a particular person. For a birthday, thank you.
And I write better, I find my truest voice, when I imagine my girlfriends reading it.
Writing everyday with a strange, untruth logical belief that my words are so important, readers hanging on every word? I have a personal struggle with the spiritual ettiquette required to make a clear distinction between the ego that gives me the belief I am good enough to expect such a response? that I
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Free Hard-Ons with Every Cup!
Am I a Feminist or a Prude?
Both?
Anyway, on a more interesting topic: I did see one of the most disgusting and lonely things on Friday and I am still struggling with the self-realization that I am becoming one of 'those' feminists. My drive to work has almost a baker's dozen of places where a person can get coffee.
I pass two stands to my left that boast the sexually taut bikini clad bodies of girls young enough to be my children. The first time I saw a 'just legal' blond girl through the window of the newest one installed in front of the wrecking yard where a questionable car sales lot once lived out its life. She was white like the belly of a fish, the same blueish tint Pacific Northwesterners accept as the winter's promise after weeks of endless rainfilled grayness. Her hair was platnium yellow, just like her hair dresser promised it would be, held back in a scrunchie. The shadowless flourescents filled every corner of the coffee shack with a papirazzi like demand, refusing even the last of her remaining secret modesties even the hope of an iota of relief. There she stood shivering with a small blanket wrapped around her shoulders because it was about 38 degrees and she had windows open on each side of her early morning stage show. The blanket only covered her shoulders designed for the paying pulp that waited patiently for their turn and not her warmth or vanity.
This is how I noticed the nakedness of the girl, because the windows were letting the steam from the espresso machine and her chilled breath escape and rise like ghostly fingers in the last, still, frozen breath of night that hung in the deep fog that typically fills that valley on cold mornings.
That was about a month ago and I have been thinking about it ever since. These children stand, shivering to serve our husbands, brothers, sons and fathers coffee and a stirring but still flaccid rush of blood through their penis. I came to the decision if the coffee shop was actually owned by the ladies serving up their youthful fertility in the best capitalistic fashion; I wouldn't be as disgusted. It would serve those old fucks right to loose their money for being so disgusting.
But I am fairly sure it is owned and profited by some old fart (male or female) who saw a good market for flesh and joe along route 303 to the Bremerton Ferry. This makes it unsavory and leaves my better judgement simmering in its own juices as I decide if I feel it is right or wrong.
Friday, I found my answer and when I tried to explain it to my husband that evening; I felt physically ill at the whole experience. I discounted the five waiting vehicles for coffee at 4:00 PM on a Friday afternoon, as the old trying to jump start the feeling that spring birthed by an early warm day, leaving a friskiness everyone was feeling after a full dose of Vitamin D and the realization it was finally the weekend.
Trapped in traffic, I watched the cars jockey for position, and I try to reason with myself that I am being too much like an old fashioned conservative with my demand we shouldn't whore our the flesh of our young. My answer came when I noticed that in the line for coffee and masturbation fodder, after the car at the window ogling the child and probably counting the minutes until he can get home to whack off.... There stood this man/child, 30 to 40, with his red, back pack securely on his shoulders. It was too heavy and drooping like he was carrying too many library books, soda or his favorite set of Dragon lore and multi-sided dice. Of course, he didn't have a car. An adult in Kitsap county without a car is either too poor to fix the one they have, homeless or they have never moved from away from home.
I assumed that living in his mother's basement didn't require his monthly SSA check to stretch that far after he pays for his five World of War Craft type memberships online, his cable modem and a diet of his mother's best meat loaf, Doritos and at lease one liter bottle of mountain dew everyday. I guessed that he had woke up at 2:30 PM because he had stayed up all night talking to a fifty four year old cross dressing father of five from Utah that pretends to be a fourteen year old virgin in the chat room called '2HotTeens4Daddys'. It is one of this dudes favorites because this is where the two sex-chatters met last Wednesday after discovering they both loved D&D, Sweet Tarts, spanking and CSI.
So there he stood, Man/Boy... and he was turning around to make sure anyone looking would see just how edgy he was, how youthfully eccentric. And you just know that in the back of his mind, behind the hard excitment of seeing a bikini with the boobmeat in it, way in the back of his mind he is thinking how upset his mother would be had she known he was pretending to be a car. It is dangerous. He could have been run over!? Hurt?! She always worried about his walking on the road. That is why she put all the reflective tape on his back pack.
Of course, it is obvious that Man/boy would never let himself even imagine his mother realizing he was risking his life to get coffee just so he could see a naked girl. Not naked; but for this mass of cells, water and a failing gallbladder it was close enough.
If she drove by and saw him, she would be upset. Or one of her friends. She would still make dinner but she wouldn't talk or look at him until she came back from church on Sunday and had a weekly hot butter rum toddy when she settles down for Sixty Minutes and Sunday's cross word puzzle. He would decide that it would be worth it because by Monday she would pretend it just didn't happen and whenever they drove by to go to the Grocery Outlet with his food stamps they would just get quiet and then talk about their quest for a bag of those good egg rolls that comes with the sauce and can be heated to a semi-edible consistancy in the microwave. It would be the same way she acted after she caught him and his cousin from Michigan, after grandma died, beating off to a Sears spring sales flyer in the back of his bedroom closet.
You could tell Man/Boy felt he was being risky, even wild and hopefully interesting to the girls who would be whipping him up a non-fat, decaf latte, short (no tip); mostly because he had to get two bags of Funions at Handy Andy's and that new Anime magazine at the game shop was way over priced. I watched him for one whole red light/green light cycle, grinning like when he had farted loud enough to scare his mom's tea cup Chitzoodle into a barking fit that released its bladder muscles and covered his dad's slippers in a spray of protective bursts. And there he stood, between the waiting trucks and sport utilities vehicles of other perverts, their only difference is one had the income to be able to hide their repulsive urges from the motorists trapped in traffic and left to watch the whole event in disbelief and repulsed curiosity.
Does the fact these old farts want a woody with their caffeine make me repulsed because the fact of old men drinking coffee with partial hard-on, inflated by a visual smorgasborg consisting of over priced coffee, with whip or not and the flesh of a child that is young enough to be their offspring's own biological donation to our planet? Is it the realization that I find such a fetish both disgusting in that incest sort of way and morally questionable as a female, a mother, a humanist and a social worker? Is this what those femi-nazi's meant when they protested pornography? Am I; or am I becoming a femi-nazi? And if so, should I even use the word?
Anyway, it was disgusting and I am still struggling between my own morality and the blatant capitalism which gives the owners a valid excuse when asked if whoring out children was part of their business plan.
Both?
Anyway, on a more interesting topic: I did see one of the most disgusting and lonely things on Friday and I am still struggling with the self-realization that I am becoming one of 'those' feminists. My drive to work has almost a baker's dozen of places where a person can get coffee.
I pass two stands to my left that boast the sexually taut bikini clad bodies of girls young enough to be my children. The first time I saw a 'just legal' blond girl through the window of the newest one installed in front of the wrecking yard where a questionable car sales lot once lived out its life. She was white like the belly of a fish, the same blueish tint Pacific Northwesterners accept as the winter's promise after weeks of endless rainfilled grayness. Her hair was platnium yellow, just like her hair dresser promised it would be, held back in a scrunchie. The shadowless flourescents filled every corner of the coffee shack with a papirazzi like demand, refusing even the last of her remaining secret modesties even the hope of an iota of relief. There she stood shivering with a small blanket wrapped around her shoulders because it was about 38 degrees and she had windows open on each side of her early morning stage show. The blanket only covered her shoulders designed for the paying pulp that waited patiently for their turn and not her warmth or vanity.
This is how I noticed the nakedness of the girl, because the windows were letting the steam from the espresso machine and her chilled breath escape and rise like ghostly fingers in the last, still, frozen breath of night that hung in the deep fog that typically fills that valley on cold mornings.
That was about a month ago and I have been thinking about it ever since. These children stand, shivering to serve our husbands, brothers, sons and fathers coffee and a stirring but still flaccid rush of blood through their penis. I came to the decision if the coffee shop was actually owned by the ladies serving up their youthful fertility in the best capitalistic fashion; I wouldn't be as disgusted. It would serve those old fucks right to loose their money for being so disgusting.
But I am fairly sure it is owned and profited by some old fart (male or female) who saw a good market for flesh and joe along route 303 to the Bremerton Ferry. This makes it unsavory and leaves my better judgement simmering in its own juices as I decide if I feel it is right or wrong.
Friday, I found my answer and when I tried to explain it to my husband that evening; I felt physically ill at the whole experience. I discounted the five waiting vehicles for coffee at 4:00 PM on a Friday afternoon, as the old trying to jump start the feeling that spring birthed by an early warm day, leaving a friskiness everyone was feeling after a full dose of Vitamin D and the realization it was finally the weekend.
Trapped in traffic, I watched the cars jockey for position, and I try to reason with myself that I am being too much like an old fashioned conservative with my demand we shouldn't whore our the flesh of our young. My answer came when I noticed that in the line for coffee and masturbation fodder, after the car at the window ogling the child and probably counting the minutes until he can get home to whack off.... There stood this man/child, 30 to 40, with his red, back pack securely on his shoulders. It was too heavy and drooping like he was carrying too many library books, soda or his favorite set of Dragon lore and multi-sided dice. Of course, he didn't have a car. An adult in Kitsap county without a car is either too poor to fix the one they have, homeless or they have never moved from away from home.
I assumed that living in his mother's basement didn't require his monthly SSA check to stretch that far after he pays for his five World of War Craft type memberships online, his cable modem and a diet of his mother's best meat loaf, Doritos and at lease one liter bottle of mountain dew everyday. I guessed that he had woke up at 2:30 PM because he had stayed up all night talking to a fifty four year old cross dressing father of five from Utah that pretends to be a fourteen year old virgin in the chat room called '2HotTeens4Daddys'. It is one of this dudes favorites because this is where the two sex-chatters met last Wednesday after discovering they both loved D&D, Sweet Tarts, spanking and CSI.
So there he stood, Man/Boy... and he was turning around to make sure anyone looking would see just how edgy he was, how youthfully eccentric. And you just know that in the back of his mind, behind the hard excitment of seeing a bikini with the boobmeat in it, way in the back of his mind he is thinking how upset his mother would be had she known he was pretending to be a car. It is dangerous. He could have been run over!? Hurt?! She always worried about his walking on the road. That is why she put all the reflective tape on his back pack.
Of course, it is obvious that Man/boy would never let himself even imagine his mother realizing he was risking his life to get coffee just so he could see a naked girl. Not naked; but for this mass of cells, water and a failing gallbladder it was close enough.
If she drove by and saw him, she would be upset. Or one of her friends. She would still make dinner but she wouldn't talk or look at him until she came back from church on Sunday and had a weekly hot butter rum toddy when she settles down for Sixty Minutes and Sunday's cross word puzzle. He would decide that it would be worth it because by Monday she would pretend it just didn't happen and whenever they drove by to go to the Grocery Outlet with his food stamps they would just get quiet and then talk about their quest for a bag of those good egg rolls that comes with the sauce and can be heated to a semi-edible consistancy in the microwave. It would be the same way she acted after she caught him and his cousin from Michigan, after grandma died, beating off to a Sears spring sales flyer in the back of his bedroom closet.
You could tell Man/Boy felt he was being risky, even wild and hopefully interesting to the girls who would be whipping him up a non-fat, decaf latte, short (no tip); mostly because he had to get two bags of Funions at Handy Andy's and that new Anime magazine at the game shop was way over priced. I watched him for one whole red light/green light cycle, grinning like when he had farted loud enough to scare his mom's tea cup Chitzoodle into a barking fit that released its bladder muscles and covered his dad's slippers in a spray of protective bursts. And there he stood, between the waiting trucks and sport utilities vehicles of other perverts, their only difference is one had the income to be able to hide their repulsive urges from the motorists trapped in traffic and left to watch the whole event in disbelief and repulsed curiosity.
Does the fact these old farts want a woody with their caffeine make me repulsed because the fact of old men drinking coffee with partial hard-on, inflated by a visual smorgasborg consisting of over priced coffee, with whip or not and the flesh of a child that is young enough to be their offspring's own biological donation to our planet? Is it the realization that I find such a fetish both disgusting in that incest sort of way and morally questionable as a female, a mother, a humanist and a social worker? Is this what those femi-nazi's meant when they protested pornography? Am I; or am I becoming a femi-nazi? And if so, should I even use the word?
Anyway, it was disgusting and I am still struggling between my own morality and the blatant capitalism which gives the owners a valid excuse when asked if whoring out children was part of their business plan.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)