used to be my morning chant. I stole it from Mimi Nguyen back in the day and it’s invigorating.
Mona Superhero has a new show that just opened in Portland. I love her work and have wanted it for ages, even more so after the one piece I modeled for got snapped up before I could buy it, so I’m REALLY EXCITED to finally have bought some of her art! This is mine, all mine:
And I just–again finally–bought the Bad Roommate Zine, edited by Nicole J Georges which has Kat’s amazing story about the compost and the rats. There are certain things–that video Lazy Sunday/Chronic(what)cles of Narnia–that make me laugh til I cry no matter how many times I see/read them and this story is one of them.
What I’m doing right now. And reading this:
Regan broke my record for most lap dances sold in a month, by nineteen dances. What a b!
I’ve been out since the 17th and start work again this week, I can’t wait. If term hadn’t started I would have died of boredom almost immediately.
But still, what a b. I’m not sure I can beat her, she works two-three shifts more a week than I do and it’s slow now. She may hold the record until next bachelor season.
currently reading (instead of studying for exam Tuesday):
A few girls do this at my club–the trick, not rupturing people’s bladders–and it’s a subject of heated debate about who started doing it first; one girl exploding into a dramatic alcohol-fueled monologue about how stupid young bitches can’t come up with their own moves and have to be stealing her moves–this, from a 23 year old!–and I want to print the article from school and post it in the dressing room.
Also for the dressing room:
And more importantly, given all the unprotected oral happening at work:
Gonorrhea, a sexually transmitted disease that infects 700,000 Americans a year, already has become resistant to all but one class of antibiotics and could soon become untreatable, federal health officials warned. Doctors at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention issued new treatment guidelines, hoping to delay the inevitable day when standard drugs no longer work. The guidelines call for withholding a potent oral antibiotic now commonly used to treat the infection. Instead, doctors should use an injectable form to which the gonorrhea bacteria seems less likely to develop resistance, along with a second type of antibiotic pills.
Gross and mildly horrifying.
And now, in the lazy Sunday spirit, a conversation I just had with Manny:
What’s up? You look concerned.
GET AWAY FROM MY MOTHERFUCKING RAWHIDE.
YOU HEARD ME. IT’S MINE.
Au contraire, mon per…ro. I gave you that rawhide. I even softened it so you wouldn’t lose your remaining teeth gnawing on it.
BACK OFF, SNEAKY HOBBITSES. GNARARAR. MINE. MIIIINE. THE PRECIOUS. WE LOVES IT… WE LOVES THE PRECIOUS.
…YOU’RE STILL HERE.
1- getting and recovering from a boob job, which, more on that later but let me tell you–I did my first laser hair removal Wednesday and it was a thousand times more painful than the boob job. I didn’t even take my pain medication after the surgery, which is good because I’m going to want it for the remaining laser sessions.
2- still in danger of that from Mandatory Science, though. In eight hours of class time she’s used four going over the syllabus and project requirements. I don’t understand–if she spent as much time lecturing as she did repeating herself it would be an interesting class. But she’s terrible, we spent 45 minutes going over the study guide for an exam on Tuesday, and three questions away from the end she suddenly dropped it to return to the syllabus. Her slides are poorly done and despite showing diagrams of the chemical composition of different hormones, she goes through them too fast to actually copy them. This is something Beautiful Professor scolded me about and in an irrationally resentful way I want him–or someone to get after this woman.
“Emanuel obviously knows that such a state of affairs is intolerable to children, as he sends his own to a progressive school whose director staunchly opposes standardized testing.”
And this is like my favorite thing I’ve seen on craigslist:
I practiced new tricks with Regan and Autumn last night, and got one, but the Ironman one that Regan does so easily (even after over a month exercise free for her implants) is killing me. I finally got it at one point, letting go of the pole with my hand and relying on the tension between the back of my right knee and front of my left, only to slowly slide to the ground whimpering in pain.
“your face has a really unattractive expression on it right now,” Regan observed dispassionately.
the expression of one manfully controlling shrieks of intense anguish, I’m sure.
I wrote this days ago and then forgot to post it because I was running late to work.
I’m trying to hustle some older business men, the kind of guys’ whose track-lighting condos or boats I would party at when I was 19 and 20 but I’ve since lost the knack of squeezing any profit out of them at all. Come to think of it, even then mostly what I got from them was free alcohol and drugs. But I’m hitting everyone up, I have goals, man, including not letting Great Lakes entirely ruin my life with their refusal to allow me to pay the principle first. &c&c&c.
“So…” I whisper, trailing my fingers down my main target’s arm, “are you ready for a really good lap dance?”
“Maybe, maybe!” he says genially. “I don’t know, what’s in it for me?”
I hate cleversticks. Don’t try to be clever, it’s a waste of my time and your breath. Before I can do anything but not say this he tilts his head.
“I tell you what!”
A challenge is coming, I can tell. Something like, “if you name the team whose logo is on my friend’s hat, I’ll get a lapdance.
“Tell me who sings this song.”
In my head I groan and hit him with my purse. Outwardly I tilt my head, listen. Cringe, groan again as the ubiquitous tinkling notes register. I try to think back to the one time outside the club I ever heard it, during a YouTube theater marathon with the ex.
Over the winter I hung out with my ex some. We’d reunite the pets, eat, watch tv. I was gearing up to go one night when X asked me if I’d heard a song. I didn’t think so, so of course we had to watch the video. Like everyone else I found myself caught on his teeth and not wanting to stare at his face and then inexpressibly annoyed. I recognised the music from the club, where it was inevitably muddied with dubstep, but I never listened to the lyrics before; like every other motherfucker I recognized the sentiment from agonized therapy sessions, sleepless nights and overrelating to Nabokov’s explorations of the inability to return to a past, one that you maybe can no longer relate to or even recognize.
“Somebody…” he wailed. I couldn’t tell what my reaction was supposed to be, it was too much like a sitcom, sitting there awkwardly listening to this naked guy painted in earth tones wail about his relationship pain. it was like getting Punk’d. “Ashton, are you there?
“I hate it?” I offered. “He sounds like a total dick.” Like of course she would change her number. Clearly. I knew which part of the equation I was overidentifying with, but didn’t really want to explore our respective reactions any further.
“Well, she gets her say,” I was told. Great.
The guy is waiting and I finally dredge up a memory of the name next to the song title on the YouTube page.
“Gotya!” I say, feigning an enthusiasm that this whole interaction has really drained.
He looks puzzled and then amused. “Got-ya?” he repeats. “It’s Gau-tee-ay!”
I love when life mirrors art (or in this case, bad nineties movies about strippers). Just like that, the whole interaction was redeemed; like Gnomey in Showgirls, I got schooled.
“It’s Versays!” I told him cheerfully, and patted his shoulder. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”
Of course I never returned to him, but I did have a good cackle to myself throughout the night, retelling it to my friends but slurring my accent harder so it came out “Gotcha!”
My class on Zionism in the first half of the 20th century got cancelled, leaving me adrift for the past week and anxious about my reception when (if) I ask the Beautiful Professor for a letter of recommendation. That was my last chance to prove myself and redeem my spring term sloppiness. To ease the anxiety I’m working as much as possible and ploughing through Nabokov: The Russian Years.
Currently reading this: http://entertainment.time.com/2012/07/25/i-hate-this-book-so-much-a-meditation/ –apparently Grossman has a weekly column which just made my life, texting pictures of cute animals, and eating dark chocolate sea salted caramels–which the local grocery store has just started carrying in bulk–in bed before work.
1-That’s a real quote.
2- Mystifying and mildly awkward and something which my friends would (and still do) badger me about. I’d try to explain but lapse into quoting Some Like It Hot, knocking on my head and excusing myself by being “not very bright.” Something about invoking Marilyn Monroe in a grand tradition of bad feminine relationship judgment was inexplicably soothing. They’d shake their heads.