Podcast: Wailing On These Hoes

Friday, October 29, 2010

On Things That Are Better Left Unsaid

So after Flavor of Love first went on the air, I decided officially that I hated television and dubbed it my sole mortal enemy. Even after that Strange Love debacle, I had faith that the visionaries who developed that particular parade of unabridged bull shit or at least the network would express some better judgment in the future. Much to my chagrin, that was not so. I still watch TV of course because I’m unemployed and socially nonexistent. Thus, from being forced to engage in television more often than I’d like, lately I’ve realized that it’s not just Fox News and ignorance mongering reality shows that make me want to vomit. Now even commercials have tread far and beyond what I feel should be navigable territory for a 30 second ad.

I personally thought commercials should be geared toward assuring my dependence as a consumer on certain goods and services that have been deemed satisfactory by our trusted television networks. Maybe that was the case in 1995 but in 2010 commercials contain the things that are best left to ads in Redbook and Penthouse or the dignified discretion of a pamphlet. If the commercial ain’t about getting rid of a "dangling participle", it’s about curing tiny-dick-itis. Then if that doesn’t get it one can procure a novel little device (cleverly referred to as a personal massager so as not to emasculate the impotent men and put off the stuck up bitches) that we women can easily attach to our fingertips and conveniently facilitate a nut at the time and venue of our choosing. And if even that doesn’t get you to the land of milk and honey, us women can just buy a special lube that will make us so damn sensitive that we’ll explode on a baby carrot if you put it within 12 inches of our bodies.

If it’s not about a fancy new condom that they’ve made ever so thin to where it feels almost as good as a raw dog but it nearly dissolves on contact and might not protect you against a damn thing it's a birth control implement which allows for the raw dogging and turns us into delighted freaks of nature by having us bleed only once every three months. It can also clear up your acne but it turns your uterus into an unstable uranium atom just waiting to be split.

If it’s not about a chat line urging men to talk and or text smoking hot, soaking wet, young honeys who are most likely not nearly as smoking hot, soaking wet or as young as the ones who actually appear in the commercials, it’s about barely legal young hot white co-eds “going wild” because obviously the rigorous academic demands at Bar Tab U and their natural bi-curious urges drive them to do chain shots of varying colorful monikers and very sloppily open mouth kiss each other in questionable hotel showers and tour buses. (Oh how my heart aches for those poor sexually repressed yet suddenly liberated middle class angels.)

As uninterested as I am in seeing ANY of those things in the midst of thoroughly enjoying re-runs of the Golden Girls, good ol commercial break once again reared its awkward head. Generally I expected the showcase of erectile dysfunction and birth control ads since it was on Lifetime but this time I was in for a zinger. This commercial literally made me say afterward, “I really would rather not have that message relayed to me in such an informal fashion.” (It might have come off a little less "weird", however, if I had not been sitting next to my middle aged father at the time.) It was an ad for this item on the market called “RepHresh” whose function is to maintain a healthy pH level for your vag. I’m a little apprehensive but I’m on board with it anyway because I’m hoping they’ll handle this particular matter with a little tact. Of course they’ll have to say the normal TMI type things but they decided to go balls out on this one. So... there are three women in the commercial—two white and of course one black to even it up. One white girl is kinda hot for a woman who used to be a really hot slut but she cleaned up once she escaped undergrad and developed some discernment. The other white chick is not as hot but you can tell it’s from the strain of having to rear two to three unruly white children in suburban middle-America. The black chick was of the marketable sort with some crazy Sideshow Bob curly mop top broccoli crown deal growing out her head and she’s of an acceptable medium brown tone with an average anti-black woman body shape and seems to be of a mild nature. Whatever. I already hate her. The commercial proceeds as thus…

The calm, reserved and reassuring voice over lady starts telling me and pops about all the reasons why stuff like Vagisil and Summer’s Eve do little to nothing for internal type shit that causes that funny off smell in your vag every so often and that it’s actually your pH levels that are all crazy go nuts in there. Alright but I wish ye olde gyno would have decided to throw that in there in the midst of our scolding sessions when she used to yell at me for not always using condoms. (I was lucky enough to be a 21 year-old with a judgemental betch for a OB-GYN.) Continuing on. Now enter used to be hot but still OK mom with one of the situations for which you should employ the use of this particular product. Line: “After your period—repHresh.” Fine. I can deal with that. Periods are something you really can’t avoid on a commercial and us women talk about the shit all the time. Moving on. Enter kinda hot chick with reason number two for putting this shit in your vag. “After intimacy—repHresh.” Hmmmm… I’m a little concerned with the semantics here. It’s a little weird that they would call it “intimacy” because that could refer to a number of activities. That could mean anything from greasing a nigga’s scalp to hardcore makin out to titty fuckin. So now I’m wondering, “Do I really need to change the old oil after that?” Then I simply assume they used the word "intimacy" rather than a full on “intercourse” drop for the sake of prudes and lesbians because neither one of them knows what sex actually is anyway. On top of that, I approve that that her being "intimate" is believable. Once again, sex is always on commercials and women talk about it all the time. No harm done. But the next one is where they COMPLETELY lose me (and also my father). The black chick (and I think they did this shit on purpose) with a smile on her face and a little lilt in her voice and everything, “After douching—repHresh.” That tears it. That was the line, bitch. Why the HELL did you have to bring that shit into this?! Women don’t even mention douching to each other! If a man asks a woman if she douches it turns into a dozens match! “What the hell you tryna say mutha fucka? My pussy may not smell like springtime and cinnamon but I’ll be damn if I shoot vinegar and water up there to make you happy, ya salty dick bastard. If you want me to douche so damn bad how bout you do me a fuckin' favor and febreeze that shag carpet that’s coverin those sweat smothered balls of yours once in a while--you ungrateful, disrespectful, judgmental prick.” The moral of the story… there’s no right way to bring up douching in a serious or critical context. None.

That was the only time I ever saw that commercial. I think they might have pulled it due to content... and outrage.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

On Domestic Violence...

Men don’t hit your women. DON'T do it. It’s just wrong and albeit unnecessary. I'm sayin' bruh... I know you have a sister, a cousin or at least a down ass homegirl like me who is just WAITIN' for your old lady to fuck up enough to deserve a serious dealin' wit. Ladies you know that bitch either ruined your family barbeque with DRAMA or she played on your phone looking for her old man or she fucked up your painfully orchestrated world class Superbowl party because she didn’t understand what was "so damn important about a stupid football game" for her to just sit down and just shut the hell up. Simply put: the bitch has done something out the way at your expense and all ya boy has to do is call…

“My nigga I’ll be there in ten minutes…. Naw I’m already dressed I just got out the gym… And don’t let her know you called me cause she’ll just run again. I OWE this bitch... ”

There is often some hidden clause(s), however, in this agreement between male/female homies so fellas make sure you get all the particulars before you expect your comrade to bust through the door battle-ready. For instance, there are two kinds of bitches that my homeboys KNOW I personally wouldn’t even fight for my own causes, much less for my homey who already saw the writing on the wall and chose to cut off the lights and just smash anyway. Those two kinds of bitches are ugly bitches and crazy bitches.

I won’t fight an ugly bitch just because I’m cute and that advantage will drive her to do anything to take it away from me. I’ve been pretty for far too long to have to adapt to outright ugly in a matter of seconds because my homeboy's frightfully ugly and insecure old lady carries a razor. I’ll take my unattractiveness on gradually as gravity spitefully drags my jugg’ums closer and closer to the ground, thank you. But know that there’s a plan B for doing battle with an ugly bitch if it simply must be had. Draw her into a conversation about her better attributes and she’ll calm down. Ugly girls love when pretty girls compliment them. If that doesn’t work just call an even uglier bitch to fight her and mooooooove out the way. There ain’t nothin’ more dangerous than an ugly bitch throw down, so just quietly leave the room, lay down in the bathtub and cover your head. When you hear a sound like a train whistle don't run and don't panic. Just bear down until it passes. Feel free to hum your favorite tune if it can help you stay calm.

The reason why I will NEVER fight a crazy bitch is simply because you cannot hurt a truly crazy bitch. I’m not talking about the “she just ain’t got no bit’o good sense” crazy. I’m talkin'bot the “you could hit her square in the face wit a cinderblock and she won’t go down” crazy. For those kinds of chicks I’ll just say “My nigga you gone have to shoot that bitch. Call me when you need to dispose of the body.”

So ladies, if you have a homey/brother/cousin/nephew/son/uncle/lecherous grandfather who has a whiny, bitchy, irrational succubus in his life that you absolutely CANNOT STAND, my advice to you is watch, wait and pray. The day of her reckoning could easily be your triumph or your demise. What's important is that most likely afterward you're going to jail. Do you want to go to lockup with an undisputed victory already under your belt or as the wannabe lady G who jumped in to get knocked out?

Dwell on it...

How Do They Be Knowin?

I always wonder what it’s like for gay dudes to attempt to approach another guy in an everyday non-gay setting. That has to be a little awkward sometimes, don’t ya think? Especially if it’s in a place where you can’t be too sure if he is or IS NOT of your particular persuasion. I mean, it’s totally safe at a Broadway production a young republicans’ mixer in San Francisco or in jail but what about the produce section at the Super Target?

Just imagine if you will for a moment that you’re a verile gay man sporting your Express Men's gear and you see this super hot hottie hovering over the organic cumcumbers and checking them rather thoroughly for imperfections. Your gay man penis is going ape shit at the sight of him stroking and ogling so meticulously, but you are forced to ask yourself a few logical questions. Is this man straight and merely trying to avoid food poisoning or do these long, thick, healthy-looking cucumbers remind him of a young Cuban towel boy he had an encounter with in Palm Springs last summer? So to get answers to these questions, what do you do? Do you casually bump into him and gauge his reaction or do you simply follow him around the store and try to see if he does anything overtly gay like buy decorative soaps or air freshener or condoms? There is a possibility that he might be buying all that stuff for a girl, right? I would assume at this point that your gay hormones must be going beserk from the sheer anticipation of it all and to be quite honest, I sympathize.

As a straight woman I can’t count the times I’ve "engaged" a man and had to say afterwards, “Wait, was that nigga gay?" (I actually can count the times and that would be one time too many.) I mean when you find yourself staring across the room at a chair with a pair or tailored Armani slacks folded rather neatly over it and he's in the shower singing "Put a Ring on It", you need to ask yourself some hard questions. Number one being, "Why did he have a shower bag handy anyway?”  So that’s when a smart woman would think to institute something of a sexuality screening process. Just propose something that seems unabashedly hetero and see what his responses are. For instance I might say, “Hey, I got a 360 with a headset and C.O.D. on deck... you down?” Now this can go several ways. If he attemts and makes his first kill with an embarrassing friendly fire, he's gay. If he asks if this is some manner of postal worker sex fantasy that I would like to partake in, there is clearly some question with his preference. He might be bi but it's clear that he's a freak. If he says, “Well, I was hoping that we could cuddle,” then he’s either gay or emotionally needy which is just as bad and even more annoying. If he says, “What’s a 360 and a COD?” then he’s either gay or an overdue Amish boy on his Rumspringa. If he says, “What about World of Warcraft?” then he’s possibly straight but he needs a raid fix before he takes his own sad pitiful life. If he says, “How bout we have sex, eat, get astronaut high and play Guitar Hero” then he is obviously my one true love so who cares if he's gay? I can fix him with my hetero female love...

You may find the subject inane but this shit could save your life one day. Mouths closed, minds open and pencils down. Class is dismissed.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

I'll Admit It...

... sometimes I love Kanye West. I mean I really LOVE that man right now. "Why" is the question that some of you (who know of my teetering hatred for Kanye as he has spiraled further and further down into the chasm of utter nonsense) may be asking. Honestly, I love him most for his lack of regard for others. There is nothing more honorable than a black person who will unashamedly tread on the cultural balls of any and every white pop sensation he sees fit. This time, Kanye has decided that Lindsay Lohan was due for a bit his trademark scorn.


If you opted out of reading the article accessed by the link above (because you would rather have me eloquently regurgitate it for you) this is what you should know by now. Kanye decided that Lindsay Lohan (glorified crackhead and career problem child) and fashion are two things that mix about as well as Islamic terrorists and an air show in NYC. That's right... he compared Lindsay Lohan's fashion efforts to that of the September 11th attacks. Of course we know that Lohan is a prize to no one but don't be talkin' crazy bout the white man's 9/11!! Many say such a comparison crosses the line (even if it's about Lindsay) and Kanye will be sure to fall from graces again. (Highly unlikely if his much hyped upcoming album lives up to all its fanfare.) An article on Elle magazine's website  suggests that the Lohan patriarchs won't be far behind with a few stern words for young Master West but who really gives a fuck about what Dina and Mike have to say? Certainly not I. And to be quite honest about my own opinion... the line really did suck. From what I've read about Lohan's Ungaro debacle, the critics didn't have too many good things to say about it either, but please don't just follow the trend of what you're told. Make your own judgements about it:


Like what you saw? I don't claim to be a fashion genius or anything but I really did not see the creative vision of the line. It just looked like clothes to me. Nothing all that singular. Just a bunch of frocks traipsing to and fro on the runway.

Anyway... this isn't a blog about fashion so I'll avoid any further remarks on the subject. The point is people seem to get really touchy when a Negro of note decides to use anything "American" to rail on any Caucasian's actions (even if it is Lohan). It's simply in poor taste for someone to be so insensitive but all these conservative pundits can use whatever nationalist buzz words they like to make their points all the more "patriotic". Call Pres. Obama a "sleeper cell terrorist" but by all means don't compare a failed fashion line to their precious Sept. 11th. It's just plain offensive... and wholly un-American to boot. That means you Kanye and Barack and Oprah and all you other irresponsibly wealthy colored folks out there with an "opinion." Leave the true Americans to those kind of analogies and stick to MLK and the Civil Rights Movement. We'll let you have that.

To close, all I would ask of Kanye is that he would continue to be outlandish and dangerous in his criticisms of all the things he finds to be erroneous cause I'm right behind ya bruh. I got my own stones to lunge...

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Just What I Needed... Another Sex Study

So, if there be any of you who happened to read my last two posts you might be able to say that I was in something of a horrible funk but thanks to my favorite Internet news provider, NY Daily News, I have been re-energized by the one thing that can truly distract me: the science of sex.


I doubt that you would ignore the above link if you paid any attention to the previous text but in case you did just know that for the first time in a long time someone decided that sex needed another in-depth look. (Thank God) Their findings showed some things that were surprising, others that were quite predictable and a few that just ticked the hell out of me.

First, let me say that their "revelation" that men are oblivious to the fact that they ain't puttin' that thang down like they believe is hardly worthy of a headline. I mean, really, 85% of ya'll think the last time you did the do, that you actually delivered the shockingly elusive "O?" Come the fuck on, man! Granted some of the respondents were engaging in a bit of rump wranglin' but not enough to offset the 21% difference in the results of the juxtaposed women's study. Only 64% of them claimed to achieve greatness in their last sexual encounter. Granted also, some of them were bumping cats the last time they got'er done so a similar offset must be applied.

This leads me to my main issue with brizzles in this regard: Why are we doing Broadway in the bedroom... or in the kitchen... or on the roof... or in the alley ways (if you lack all sense of ladyship)? Why do we puff these dudes up? Most of em could really care less, I promise. In fact a few of them just want to beat you the punch! (Am I lyin', bruh? Didn't think so.) They don't necessarily care that you achieve your yearning completion. They just like the idea of it all. I don't think most of them know a nut truly exists for a woman because we sing so many damn show tunes that they don't know what's real and what's just for the glamour (as evidenced by these here study results). So to end that point: If he's whack, tell that nigga he's whack. If he's the truth... don't let him stunt on you. You throw that thang back at em and don't punk out.

Next up: teenage sex. Now I can honestly say I know NOTHING about that and I really didn't care to learn. (I found that young men in Houma were scandalous and came with too heavy an incestuous risk for my discernment.) The study revealed two rather important things:

1. It seems that teenagers are not as sexually active as they are purported to be. Initially, I was a little suspicious of that theory. To me, teenagers seem to be wild with lust. Young girls idolize women like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian;(I grew up idolizing Pam Grier and Foxy Brown. They were waaaaay better role models. Smh.) they dress in a manner that is hardly viewed as pristine; they cuss like sailors on a weekend pass; and every time a look up one of em is poppin' out another kid. But when I think about it... those are the HITs (Hoes In Training). And when you have half the boys in the neighborhood after those same three HITs, the other girls are left to hold on to their chastity as long as they like or maybe just engage in intercourse with their "steady" (that's such a cute term). Makes sense to me so I'm runnin' wit it.

2. They're wrappin that thang up tight when they do engage. All I can say is "Bravo, boys and girls." If we have learned nothing from athletes, rappers, thugs, and Maury Povich, we have garnered the knowledge that baby mamas and baby daddies are indeed NOT what's up. Personally I believe my generation was more influenced by the whole HIV/AIDS thing by making it the only thing scarier than moms. There were sooooo many specials and pamphlets and educational films about the dreaded STD. Gives me the willies just thinking about all those feathered bands and acid-washed jeans. While still a scary thought, I didn't find that we were all that worried about the threat of offspring when it came to sex way back then.

Also the study showed that Black and Hispanic men these days are sporting jimmy hats more often than White men. I believe that to be very true (because I have always perceived the White man to be reckless) but I do not agree with the suspected reasoning behind this nuance. Study analysts suggested that the growing epidemic of HIV/AIDS in the Black and Hispanic community was the cause but I'm more leaning toward the fertility of Black and Hispanic women coupled with their penchant for high drama and violent acts as the proponent. (Ladies, I can't lie. We be takin' it there... daily.)

Another revelation in the use of condoms as it pertained to this study (which I found no qualm with) was the extremely low instance of condom use in men over 61. Ya think? Old dudes don't need ANYTHING standing in their way when it comes to the squishy. They can barely keep that meat up so don't even ATTEMPT to dull that sensation. And as far as the AIDS thing... I mean they gotta go sometime, right? Old dudes have no choice but to be in the moment. It heightens the excitement of the encounter, ya know. They have to get it while the getting is good and a old playa knows that putting the moment on pause to find a condom is a sure fire way to let it pass you right on by. Yeah they have Viagra, but from what I hear not all health plans cover that soooo... yeah. Some of these old dudes have to rely on Gin and Thunderbird, and we all know that doesn't hold up for too long. I ain't mad at you old man, but... don't be surprised if after the love is gone you're left with a lingering (and less pleasurable) sensation. HITs graduate and move through the ranks to become old pros, do they not?

In short... I seriously dug it but I'm glad I ate already. Old people "activity" is enough to make me lose ANY appetite with which I might have been born. Gross.

The "Mutual Friend" Strikes Again

So... that last post which was dated for today at approximately 9:00 this morning was actually typed up last night but I was too shaken up by a spectre from my past to finalize it. Via facebook (of course) I was slapped in the face by the "mutual friend" paradox. Meaning, someone who I was determined to erase from my life by deleting him from my fb list still found his was into my notifications by way of a mutual facebook friend. He commented on her status and I had the misfortune of seeing his name next to a wedding picture of him and his white baby mama. Perfect.

I'm ashamed to say that all those feelings I claimed to leave behind in 2009 followed me all the way to the latter quarter of 2010. I felt that same tremor of anger and pain and abandonment that I felt when I first saw his relationship status change in August of 2008 only two months after he'd been telling me that he wasn't ready for a relationship. It was the same sickness I felt in November 2008 when I saw his profile picture change to an ultrasound of his child with her. It was the same worthlessness I felt when I first saw his name change to reflect how much he loved her and how much he never gave a damn about me even though it appeared that he knew her about as long as he knew me. It was then that I first deleted my fb account after realizing that I couldn't handle the information it made all too available for me to stumble upon even though I had long removed him from the list of human beings with which I cared to keep in step. The only happiness I could cling to in leaving New Orleans behind in the late summer of 2009 was that I was sure to NEVER have to gaze upon him in Houma.

I returned to facebook in the latter part of 2009 feeling safer and more resigned to the assertion that I no longer cared for him the way I did before. I was wiser than I had been. I understood that what we "shared" was a fleeting thing and it was an infatuation of my own design. What I thought I felt was a figment of my girlish imagination and nothing that should be so far-reaching. That was before last night when I saw that tiny little wedding picture... so small and so consummate. I gather there was a faint part of me that kept saying "Maybe he'll tire of her quickly and realize that I'm the one who was made for him." That seemingly insignificant .jpg was the nail and with it I was buried. I shook tearfully and tried to tell myself to be cool but he was still too much. All I could picture was her in his arms wearing all white. In the millisecond that I focused on the image I could see them both laughing. He was so happy with her. Just like before all I could think was, "What was so wrong with me?" Is it it because I'm fat or plain looking? Is it because I'm lacking in achievements? Is it my nappy hair? Is it my dark skin? Is it my voice? Whatever it was I would have it changed in an instant if I could have him because there's nothing for me to cling to anymore. Pride. Dignity. Confidence. Damn em all. I don't need it where I'm going anyway. Then the other sorrows began rolling in...

"You're twenty five and you've never heard a man say, 'I love you.' In fact you've never been close. Every man you ever wanted could care less about you. Not a one of em would begin to think about you today. It's like you were never even there to begin. You'll never know what it feels like. Settle in to it. Don't expect it to come because it was never made for you. You don't deserve it. You're ugly. You're broke. You're fat. You're unaccomplished. You have absolutely no appeal. Nothing to offer to anyone. Your market value is nil and it will only sink even further when you're forced to get a job a Waffle House. Nobody even looks at you now. All three of those men who you let break you will be happy and you'll always suffer the chill of their apathy toward your affections..."

And they haven't stopped since. All those feelings came back with full force to the front of my consciousness. They were always there. I could hear them whisper every now and then from the background but easily quieted by a happy song. Not now though. They're loud and grasping for my throat. If I had something, anything to look forward to in a day I might be able to rest on the notion that I have too many important things to do than be lonely but I don't. Everyday I look around, I'm the only one here. The phone doesn't ring and it's just as well. I wouldn't be able to keep up a conversation anyway. I have no events or developments to discuss. After hello I wouldn't even know what to say to anyone. I could do without the awkward silences. My various inboxes would remain empty if it were not for the junk and promotional offers and campaign efforts. The island just keeps getting bigger... or am I just getting smaller?

Can't stand another single day/Gotta get away

"Got a feelin' that I don't belong...

...got a feelin' that I shouldn't be here.

Miss Li - Bourgeois Shangri-La

In case you don't recognize the words or did not care to address the above link, the title leading to the lyrics and the ensuing link are all from the the song featured in last year's iPod Nano commercial. Coincidentally, the lyrics above chronicle the story of my short, hapless, semi-charmed life in a quaint, catchy little nutshell. Needless to say I effing LOVE this song either way but the poppy poignancy of it all is what draws me to it. Enough about the damn song though. For the first time in a long time this blog entry is about ME. Deanna. The real one. Not De De T. Not the crass social commentator. Not your baby daddy's worst nightmare. Not the proud drunk. Just average, plain-ole, degreeless, unemployed, incidentally celibate, horribly in debt, socially bereft, unaccomplished Deanna. No, no children--the pleasure's all mine.

I'm not posting this nonsense to get you people to give me the attention that I severely lack or inspire any of you to soothe me with kind words and gentle wisdoms. Keep that gay shit to yourselves. The reason I'm writing this (I think) is because there are things about myself that I cannot perceive until I type it all out in black and white or, in this case, black and tan. I simply need to be read so I shall...

Getting back to the basis of the title... I mean it's pretty self explanatory, is it not? If I appear to be isolated on the surface, that's because I am. I don't live the way that ANY of you live. I don't go to the club. I don't pop bottles. I'm about as far from "independent" as any one woman can be at the ripe old age of 25. I'm not "fancy" by any definition--contemporary or otherwise. I don't have a slew of trade calling constantly and stalking my fb profile. I have little to do with facebook outside of purporting my own literary efforts and providing a bit of cajolery to my some 250 fb "friends" (Shameless, I know.) I don't "tweet" and status update my every last move. I don't troll mediatakeout, ybf, necole bitchie, wshh or any other gossip site clinging to every tidbit of useless celebrity info. To top it all off, I whole-heartedly could NOT give a fuck about any one of the aforementioned activities. Nope, I'm hardly the gal that niggas write the same song about over and over again. I'm simply a hanging woman, trying desperately to shake out of my noose.

Don't know why but I've always been on the outskirts of familiarity. The things that seem so important to the populace have always seemed so hollow to me. What do any of those things offer to the better of man? How do they edify one's life an any way? Even in my recent stupor I have tried to involve myself in the diversions of the day and I'm left only with disgust--disgust that the only social interaction I'm allotted is found on facebook while the things I would love to do are limited to those who lead fruitful, complete lives. I would give just about anything to just be able to leave. To go somewhere and do something worth while. Something that is much bigger than fuckin facbook and twitter and blogger. Something that isn't pretentious or over exaggerated.

But that isn't my life right now. Right now I'm stuck and it seems like I'll never see the world again. My "world" right now is a very small and limited one. It is one that is albeit devoid of human contact, intellectual intercourse and any enjoyments. Yeah, I know I'm supposed to enjoy the little things but there are only so many of those that one can cling to before the paralyzing realization of complete failure sets in. I'm 25. I'm broke. I live with my moms. I have no car. No job. I'm not in school and can't go. I have no romantic endeavors to set forth and no prospects thereof. I'm a quarter-life spinster. I read alone. I watch entirely too much TV alone. I eat alone. I drink alone. I sleep alone. I would get a puppy that I could dote on and smother with all my unrequited affections but mother doesn't allow them. (Ha. "Mother doesn't allow them." How sad is that, huh?)

To some of you this may sound like ye olde pity party and you can say that if you like. I would love nothing more than to inflict my life upon any one of you and have you live it better for me. I'm sure you all would fill each and every day with optimism and hope. I'm almost certain that you could turn everything around in an instant with little to no options available to you and put shame to my destitution. I'm sure none of you would tire of hearing your own voice just so the silence wouldn't be so despicably persistent. I'm just bitter that's all. Just another self-tortured pessimist...

Can't stand another single day/Gotta get away...