Recently, I've felt a need to go through a change in my life. I have a desire to be more physically conscious by fixing myself up more, working out and (somewhat) darkening my hair. I have a friend who accused me of wanting to be more like my old self, but she couldn't be more wrong. My smartass answer is I've never had my hair this dark before (haha), but the truth is I just want to be more desirable: typical me...joking in an attempt to dodge my real feelings.
Emotional change is also apart of this transformation. I'm completely in tune with my feelings but struggle in conveying them. My opinion spews freely and filterless, but I mask my emotions for protection from scrutiny. In order to achieve this simple step I must learn to trust more which will only come once I deal with some of my issues that keep me from doing so.
I'm a work in progress :p but I think once I can learn to trust fully I'll finally be able to allow myself to be in a committed relationship again. I've dodged commitment for so long because my last relationship left me at such a vulnerable state. After such a lengthy span, I welcome commitment in my life despite my inability to trust because I don't want to have issues, and also, for the most obvious reason, I have a genuine interest in sharing my life with someone.
What I can't fathom is if I'm so ready why do I keep dodging this much needed change in my life? If I'm ready to trust then it's damn sure time to prove it...time to get back on the saddle that I keep seeming to fall off of. I went to a farewell party for a friend last night, and while there, I met some really great guys. Of course the only one I was remotely interested in was the one who retreats when commitment comes up and is lucky to remember a gal's name. I'm seriously beginning to wonder if this type appeals to me solely because I realize that if he doesn't want to commit, I won't have to worry about it. Uggh! Eligible bachelors interested in my phone number beware...I'm a basketcase! haha :p
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
History of Woman
On the edge of Milton
I’ve captured the allusion of land
Suckled the growth of tainted fruit
While I sat to the left of His hand.
I soon learned from my folly
But I fell through the armor of Troy.
I swore the god’s my allegiance
As I winked to another boy.
A reign would surely justify.
Though I married for my country’s sake
My skills empowered starvation
After I offered them cake.
I live inside your slipping soul
But cannot meet your glare
Please conceal the welting bruise
While I turn from your despair.
Yes, I waited while he left his mark.
But you refused to let me shine.
My crime may be disloyalty
But you, ma’am, have no spine.
I’ve captured the allusion of land
Suckled the growth of tainted fruit
While I sat to the left of His hand.
I soon learned from my folly
But I fell through the armor of Troy.
I swore the god’s my allegiance
As I winked to another boy.
A reign would surely justify.
Though I married for my country’s sake
My skills empowered starvation
After I offered them cake.
I live inside your slipping soul
But cannot meet your glare
Please conceal the welting bruise
While I turn from your despair.
Yes, I waited while he left his mark.
But you refused to let me shine.
My crime may be disloyalty
But you, ma’am, have no spine.
Fast Food Commercials = Vodka
Fast food commercials are like vodka-transparent, addictive, and if consumed to quickly, can make you perform abnormal feats. In other words, a person knows the marketing techniques behind the oh so scrumptious commercials, but instead of turning the channel, he watches the mouth watering advertisements of deception over and over until he just can’t take it anymore; he grabs his keys, flies to Taco Bell, and orders the right half of the menu so he can proudly scream, “I’M FULL! But I think I’m gonna hurl.”
Despite the fatty consequences and better judgment, people are repetitively fooled into believing that just one more Big Mac couldn’t possibly hurt them or maybe biggy sizing isn’t all that bad; however, they are blinded to what can really happen when too much fast food is consumed, and I’m not just talking about a few extra pounds.
Imagine this: Billy comes home from work and immediately flips on the tube, and just as he expected, there are commercials after commercials advertising the fatty but tasty fast food. He decides, even though he’s not quite sure why, that he is hungry so he heads out in search of a quick, greasy meal. Turmoil floods his mind as Billy soon realizes that he can’t decide between a Whopper or a Quarter Pounder, between curly or straight fries, between a milkshake or a super-sized soda. Undoubtedly, Billy decides he’ll take it all just like those people on Super Market Sweep who fill their buggies with goodies and treats; oh they’re so liberal and exciting.
After Billy’s consumed more than his fair share, he wakes up feeling groggy and disoriented; he can’t quite remember what has happened or why he has a splitting tummy ache, but he forges on just like Jack Bower on his favorite show 24; he’s so brave and cool.
Billy oh so gently reaches for the remote over his aching belly as if he’s trying to diffuse a bomb and, once in grasp, quickly flips the T.V. on, because he’s missing Oprah; she’s so opinionated and independent. But Billy soon finds that his views of Oprah are about to take a turn for the worst. He watches in horror as she chastises her many guests who wake up everyday feeling depressed and overly dependent upon T.V. and fast food. With out even thinking, Billy jumps to his feet, despite his sore torso, and screams and defames Oprah and her overrated show of deceit. Once he is calm, Billy climbs down from his couch just as Tom Cruise did from Oprah’s; he’s so weird and insane. Billy soon becomes flooded with guilt and questions of how he could ever become mad at Oprah. No one except for bad mothers, child molesters, or thieves can get mad at Oprah. She’s an icon. Well, you could get mad if you’re a raging Communist like Dick Chaney, but he isn’t even in the same league to dislike Oprah.
Billy soon realizes maybe he to, just as Oprah’s guest, is a fast food junky. He didn’t like waking up wondering why cheese paper was stuck to his foot or having an odd sensation of feeling pregnant. If you suffer from some of the same symptoms, you might be addicted to fast food too. Try turning off the T.V., refuse to watch commercials of deception, and hide the remote-unless Oprah’s coming on. You can beat fast food addictions. Rule what goes into your mouth; don’t let it rule you or your actions.
Despite the fatty consequences and better judgment, people are repetitively fooled into believing that just one more Big Mac couldn’t possibly hurt them or maybe biggy sizing isn’t all that bad; however, they are blinded to what can really happen when too much fast food is consumed, and I’m not just talking about a few extra pounds.
Imagine this: Billy comes home from work and immediately flips on the tube, and just as he expected, there are commercials after commercials advertising the fatty but tasty fast food. He decides, even though he’s not quite sure why, that he is hungry so he heads out in search of a quick, greasy meal. Turmoil floods his mind as Billy soon realizes that he can’t decide between a Whopper or a Quarter Pounder, between curly or straight fries, between a milkshake or a super-sized soda. Undoubtedly, Billy decides he’ll take it all just like those people on Super Market Sweep who fill their buggies with goodies and treats; oh they’re so liberal and exciting.
After Billy’s consumed more than his fair share, he wakes up feeling groggy and disoriented; he can’t quite remember what has happened or why he has a splitting tummy ache, but he forges on just like Jack Bower on his favorite show 24; he’s so brave and cool.
Billy oh so gently reaches for the remote over his aching belly as if he’s trying to diffuse a bomb and, once in grasp, quickly flips the T.V. on, because he’s missing Oprah; she’s so opinionated and independent. But Billy soon finds that his views of Oprah are about to take a turn for the worst. He watches in horror as she chastises her many guests who wake up everyday feeling depressed and overly dependent upon T.V. and fast food. With out even thinking, Billy jumps to his feet, despite his sore torso, and screams and defames Oprah and her overrated show of deceit. Once he is calm, Billy climbs down from his couch just as Tom Cruise did from Oprah’s; he’s so weird and insane. Billy soon becomes flooded with guilt and questions of how he could ever become mad at Oprah. No one except for bad mothers, child molesters, or thieves can get mad at Oprah. She’s an icon. Well, you could get mad if you’re a raging Communist like Dick Chaney, but he isn’t even in the same league to dislike Oprah.
Billy soon realizes maybe he to, just as Oprah’s guest, is a fast food junky. He didn’t like waking up wondering why cheese paper was stuck to his foot or having an odd sensation of feeling pregnant. If you suffer from some of the same symptoms, you might be addicted to fast food too. Try turning off the T.V., refuse to watch commercials of deception, and hide the remote-unless Oprah’s coming on. You can beat fast food addictions. Rule what goes into your mouth; don’t let it rule you or your actions.
The Few, the Proud and the Mullet
Many times fashionably acceptable doesn't necessarily coincide with comfort. We find this case in most of society today where heels reign over flats or a business suit defeats the good old baggy sweats. Fashion refuses to welcome too much comfort in not only our every day apparels but many times in our haircuts. Wishing to remain comfortable, the mullet wearer proudly presents a haircut that allows ease and a trendy hair length without having to cut all of the hair short; however, fashion experts openly deny that there is anything fashionable about the mullet.
The mullet is a haircut that snips the front of the hair very short and leaves the remaining hair, from the crown of the head on down, significantly longer. The mullet gives the wearer freedom to wear it really long or just long enough to classify it as a mullet. They can be permed or straight, teased or flat ironed, covered in a bandana or worn free. They can be blonde, brown, gray, purple, green, or dye number 52. The point is that a mullet can come in many different sizes, colors, and lengths while its wearer practices his/her basic freedoms to not only have a mullet but wear it as he/she chooses. Even though the mullet wearer possesses a brave and noble quality, people still find a way to tease the hairstyle.
Magazines, TV shows, movies, and fashion apparel openly tease and chastise the mullet head in an attempt to market their product through comedy. Much of media questions why anyone would want such a ridiculous hair cut, but I am left wondering what would the media do if the mullet ever left or had never existed. Vogue would have lost pages and pages of "don'ts" of fashion. Clothing industries would never have profited from their comical t-shirts adorned with mullet gags. Most importantly of all, I question where the world would be if we had never known Joe Dirt.
Though society jokes about the bad decisions of the 1980's, there are many 80's trends finding their way back into society today where not only are they socially acceptable, but they are the season's new must haves. So far crimping irons, leg warmers, bangle bracelets, and mini skirts over tights have found their way back into many closets of the millennium. We can only wonder when the mullet will make its fashionable debut back into the new decade.
I regrettably conclude that though the mullet may seem ridiculous and unusual now, in five years Angelina Jolie will probably have a mullet with a trail of teenage girls following her to the barbershop. Don't be so hard on the mullet. It is a bold expression that allows comfort, freedom, and ease. Besides, you might have a mullet some day.
The mullet is a haircut that snips the front of the hair very short and leaves the remaining hair, from the crown of the head on down, significantly longer. The mullet gives the wearer freedom to wear it really long or just long enough to classify it as a mullet. They can be permed or straight, teased or flat ironed, covered in a bandana or worn free. They can be blonde, brown, gray, purple, green, or dye number 52. The point is that a mullet can come in many different sizes, colors, and lengths while its wearer practices his/her basic freedoms to not only have a mullet but wear it as he/she chooses. Even though the mullet wearer possesses a brave and noble quality, people still find a way to tease the hairstyle.
Magazines, TV shows, movies, and fashion apparel openly tease and chastise the mullet head in an attempt to market their product through comedy. Much of media questions why anyone would want such a ridiculous hair cut, but I am left wondering what would the media do if the mullet ever left or had never existed. Vogue would have lost pages and pages of "don'ts" of fashion. Clothing industries would never have profited from their comical t-shirts adorned with mullet gags. Most importantly of all, I question where the world would be if we had never known Joe Dirt.
Though society jokes about the bad decisions of the 1980's, there are many 80's trends finding their way back into society today where not only are they socially acceptable, but they are the season's new must haves. So far crimping irons, leg warmers, bangle bracelets, and mini skirts over tights have found their way back into many closets of the millennium. We can only wonder when the mullet will make its fashionable debut back into the new decade.
I regrettably conclude that though the mullet may seem ridiculous and unusual now, in five years Angelina Jolie will probably have a mullet with a trail of teenage girls following her to the barbershop. Don't be so hard on the mullet. It is a bold expression that allows comfort, freedom, and ease. Besides, you might have a mullet some day.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Current Addiction
When you take the “L” out of health it becomes heath. No shit, right? My point is that these two words should never have been so closely constructed in general pronunciation within the English language.
No worries fans of all things sexy Aussies, I’m not going harp on the fact that Heath Ledger isn’t exactly the ideal description of health…even though that is a damn good point. Good thing I’m just a regular bitch and not the sadistic kind ;)
The hunk I’m referring to doesn’t come with gelled curls, flashy chompers or clown makeup. It doesn’t win Academy Awards, play with cowboys or drop panties. My hunk of choice is, however, an orgasmic blend of all things naughty that feel so right, and just as you give in to its temptation, the rush is over faster than you can hang your head in shame.
A hunk of English toffee covered in smooth milk chocolate enclosed in a delicate wrapping is my drug of choice for the moment. I keep telling myself that it’s okay to pop tiny Heath bars like they’re placebo pills. For one, they’re miniatures, damn it; it’s not like I’m scarfing down the regular sized ones in an attempt to single handedly parachute my ass as the replacement source for the earth’s depleting atmosphere in order to sooth the fears of the greenhouse effect. *huff and puff* Plus, the more tiny wrappers I encounter, the easier it is to imagine an “L” between the “A” and the “T.” I mean how dangerous could a candy bar be whose name is so similar to the word health? I know…stupid argument, but I’m not ready to look at the fat content just yet so fuck off. Haha
I guess I’m mostly binging on British bars because it’s Valentines Day…or Venereal Disease Day as I like to call it. Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not a hater because I’m single. I’ve never saw much need in the seemingly bogus holiday; it seems selfish to me to designate one day to show someone you care with cliché gifts that obviously had no preconceived though placed into their purchase.
It was two years ago today that I realized I was in love with my best friend. Even though those feelings are long gone, I still can’t help but get depressed whenever I think of what might have been. Before you think it, let me set the record straight and say that I’m not the cynic who runs from emotions. With that said, I must admit I did hide from these feelings and refused to let them surface for 11 months. When I finally told him…well, you know how this story ends. If he would’ve embraced the ideas of spooning with his best friend, I highly doubt I’d be popping Heath bars like they’re candy….errr, wait. Haha!
The text message he sent me on Valentines Day two years ago read: “I know you don’t celebrate Valentines Day b/c there shouldn’t be just one day to tell you how special you are. With that said, Happy February 14th. You’re amazing so I’ll be sure to tell you Happy February 15th tomorrow.” I never did get that Happy Feb 15th.
Uggh, I’m gonna go eat another Heath bar…don’t judge me! Happy February 15th everybody :D
No worries fans of all things sexy Aussies, I’m not going harp on the fact that Heath Ledger isn’t exactly the ideal description of health…even though that is a damn good point. Good thing I’m just a regular bitch and not the sadistic kind ;)
The hunk I’m referring to doesn’t come with gelled curls, flashy chompers or clown makeup. It doesn’t win Academy Awards, play with cowboys or drop panties. My hunk of choice is, however, an orgasmic blend of all things naughty that feel so right, and just as you give in to its temptation, the rush is over faster than you can hang your head in shame.
A hunk of English toffee covered in smooth milk chocolate enclosed in a delicate wrapping is my drug of choice for the moment. I keep telling myself that it’s okay to pop tiny Heath bars like they’re placebo pills. For one, they’re miniatures, damn it; it’s not like I’m scarfing down the regular sized ones in an attempt to single handedly parachute my ass as the replacement source for the earth’s depleting atmosphere in order to sooth the fears of the greenhouse effect. *huff and puff* Plus, the more tiny wrappers I encounter, the easier it is to imagine an “L” between the “A” and the “T.” I mean how dangerous could a candy bar be whose name is so similar to the word health? I know…stupid argument, but I’m not ready to look at the fat content just yet so fuck off. Haha
I guess I’m mostly binging on British bars because it’s Valentines Day…or Venereal Disease Day as I like to call it. Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not a hater because I’m single. I’ve never saw much need in the seemingly bogus holiday; it seems selfish to me to designate one day to show someone you care with cliché gifts that obviously had no preconceived though placed into their purchase.
It was two years ago today that I realized I was in love with my best friend. Even though those feelings are long gone, I still can’t help but get depressed whenever I think of what might have been. Before you think it, let me set the record straight and say that I’m not the cynic who runs from emotions. With that said, I must admit I did hide from these feelings and refused to let them surface for 11 months. When I finally told him…well, you know how this story ends. If he would’ve embraced the ideas of spooning with his best friend, I highly doubt I’d be popping Heath bars like they’re candy….errr, wait. Haha!
The text message he sent me on Valentines Day two years ago read: “I know you don’t celebrate Valentines Day b/c there shouldn’t be just one day to tell you how special you are. With that said, Happy February 14th. You’re amazing so I’ll be sure to tell you Happy February 15th tomorrow.” I never did get that Happy Feb 15th.
Uggh, I’m gonna go eat another Heath bar…don’t judge me! Happy February 15th everybody :D
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Roped Up in an Awkward Situation
After spending most of my adolescence in some really crappy relationships, like an epiphany, I finally decided to develop a sense of pickiness. When I’m in a relationship, I throw myself into being the caretaker and the woman dedicated to making her significant happy. Part of my realization was coming to terms with the facts that while I was fulfilling my half of the relationship, he wasn’t. Never again will I invest so much of myself to be with another man who doesn’t appreciate my compliancy to fulfill the role of my sex. Gah, I sound like the cliché woman: “He doesn’t appreciate me.” Hahaha.
My dissatisfaction with most of the men I’ve dated mixed with a few who just don’t reciprocate the feelings has put me in a year and a half rut known as the single woman. Please don’t run away; I’m pretty sure it’s not contagious (: I’m already the gawked at zoo animal because I don’t anticipate marriage, and excuse me kid fanatics out there, but fuck procreation. So while many of my friends have leaped into the next step, giggling the whole way down, they’ve attempted to drag me with them.
A couple of days ago one of my friends launched on me the attack plan known as ‘find Jizzelle a man.’ With a bachelors in psychology under her belt, she seems to think she can cure me of the ailment known as the single woman…so maybe it is contagious ;) She continues to throw her questions of psychiatric babble at me while she attempts to surface the key to impregnating me with the giggles of love…oh, and she wouldn’t mind seeing a child in my womb either. Hahaha.
In my life if anything can go wrong, it will so I figured lets play along to see how far the twilight zone extends and if nothing else, maybe get a good laugh out of all of it. Her first plan of attack went down last night with a double date; she figured she could introduce me to a good guy while she watched my dating interaction (the main goal being to find out what the fuck is wrong with me. lol) The gentleman on her arm for the evening, Jason who she had been on a couple of dates with but didn’t really see it ‘going anywhere.’ Poor guy was a pawn in ‘find Jizzelle a man.’ My date was John, an American born Latino originally from Miami who moved to the area to do contracting work.
I walked into the restaurant last night only to painfully realize that I already knew both guys. Her date, Jason had entertained me a year ago on our date which ended in him giving me his phone number and me vowing to forget it in the pocket of my jeans so it could take a plunge through the washing machine and be lost forever.
After having the awkward conversation of realizing that we all already knew each other, my friend and I excused ourselves to wash our hands; translation: go gossip about how the guys looked. When she got over the initial shock of how I already knew her date, I began to tell her about how I knew John. She had to interject with curiosity and overwhelming desire to know what I thought about one of the most attractive single men of the area that I was lucky enough to call my date for the evening. I responded with, “I know the lifestyle of the sexy little Latino cream puff out there and let me tell you, no me gusta.”
A couple of months ago I started net chatting with a girl I went to high school with where she confided in me that she was interested in BDSM. I too had recently started to find an interest in the trust aspect of the lifestyle and became excited that I finally found a female-support system to direct all of my questions to and confide in my darkest desires. Being a woman, she too hated the fact that I was single and wanted to introduce me to single men of the lifestyle right away. On our first meeting I was paired off with a scrawny 19 year old kid who wore a hand made noose around his neck and confided in me his interest to drink menstruation blood. NEXT!!!!! A couple of weeks later, I went to a party at her house where I met the sexy Latino cream puff. All of the girls drooled over him because he really is modern statue of David with a tan, and despite my crooked nose and more than present hips, he was interested in me…sculpt me surprised, Michelangelo. It wasn’t until an argument broke out between the cream puff, period breath and my friend’s boyfriend that I realized I was at a swinger’s party and they were fighting over who would get me for the night. My interest in the lifestyle was the exact opposite way they were trying to mingle me into the club. I’m a one guy/one girl type of chick, and I wasn’t going to play along...chains and whips couldn’t keep me involved with the likes of those people.
After I picked my friend’s jaw up off the floor, brushed it off and puzzled it back into her face, she offered to give me a boost through the window only if I promised to lean down and pull her up to the ledge too. Because the guys were friends, she now had intense fears that Jason might share the same BDSM interests and was going to chain her to the hood of his car and beat her for every inch of her life. I laughed at her discrimination and promised to protect her as we walked out to finish the meal.
After rubbery food and forced conversation, we went to a local bar for a couple of drinks. Well, I had a couple; my friend had a couple for each couple within the packed out bar. Thankfully her inebriation saved me from the awkward end of the date moment, but I did manage to have phone numbers slipped to me from both guys and some random weirdo who offered to buy me a blowjob shot if he could watch me drink it. Bleh! Side note: all numbers have been convicted to death by drowning in the washing machine.
By the grace of God, I got her back to her dorm despite the 3 fights of stairs I had to drag her up. She crashed on her bed immediately passing out, and before I turned away, my eye caught a loose sheet that had fallen from her bed. Like I said earlier, I figured I could get a good laugh out of ‘find Jizzelle a man,’ so I looped the sheet throughout her headboard and tied up each dainty wrist with the ends of the sheet. Before I walked out of the room, I turned back to look at my BDSM victim who looked like she was being prepared for crucifixion or was caught doing the first letter of the YMCA dance. BAHAAHAHAHA!!!! Well, I need to go call her before she takes out rape charges…oh, and I guess she needs to be untied. LOL!
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