Thank you! And this makes me sad…

Here’s a bold truth: I don’t enjoy penetration of any kind unless I’m wet enough to drown a dolphin. And this truth wouldn’t be a problem if sex weren’t always about penetration. One sex therapist put it best when she said, “If most women don’t have orgasms during ‘sex,’ but do have orgasms, perhaps we need to redefine sex.”

-The Crunk Feminist Collective


So many motivated people

I can’t be the only person wrapped up in my own head. Afraid to leave the house and addicted to comfort, luxury, video games and television. (Sex and concerts and expensive food and sleeping for hours longer than necessary.)

I can’t be the only person so stupid and lazy!

Truly, there must be others out there.

Reminds me of someone

Today at work (my internship), one of the employees there started talking to me, asking how I’ve been, and then he asked me about something I had told him when I met him – if I’m a writer.

We got into a discussion about it, and I said I had “stopped,” which is accurate, because I stopped writing fiction, or anything remotely readable. (This doesn’t count, I don’t think.) I laughed and said I write “creative nonfiction,” and he didn’t really know what that was. He started giving me advice, like people do.

We talked about whether or not it was prudent to write every day, or to write only when inspiration struck. He told me about his favorite writers, and also shared that he used to BE a professional writer – and right now he was working on a screenplay. What’s funny is that my mind is in the gutter as usual – anybody I don’t work with everyday I find attractive, for some reason – he and this other guy in rentals who is just delicious. The people I work with closely I just think are better than me somehow in all sorts of ways but not “like that.” There’s one new guy who’s cute but who doesn’t draw my eye like Rentals Guy. The Writer didn’t either, but then he seemed familiar. For some reason he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I’m not sure why, I think he was distracted. He did that thing that I do, not looking people in the eye when I’m talking about something that means something to me. The Kid did that. (Speaking of which, I finally contacted The Kid and asked him about his internship and he told me about it, and he was GONNA chat with me on Facebook chat about it, and I turned him down, like an asshole.) He didn’t start looking me in the eye until we’d known each other for months.

But no, this guy – who’s in engineering, not in rentals – reminded me of ME! Talk about narcissist and reading into shit. I can’t even have a proper conversation with a person without dragging my baggage into it. Anyway, he was telling me about writing and his favorite writers, and he was saying I should keep it up, to do it again, to produce something. Not to quit. I think he shared that with me because that’s how he feels about his own writing. He said he hoped his screenplay could become a movie.

Anyway, that’s something career-related. Ish.

(Darn, I never did write about The Politics of Hand Sanitizer. Someday.)

She’d always been more than a little obsessed with fucking…

‘It wasn’t just sex, or it was but it wasn’t. It was about sex when they weren’t doing it, because no matter where he was, or what he was doing, Andrew’s mind was always in bed, with Warren. He’d always been more than a little obsessed with fucking, but he suspected that the way it obsessed him was different than how it did other boys. For other boys, boys like Warren, it was the desire to conquer that was the driving force, for Andrew, though, it was touch.’

-From the fanfic ‘Diamond,’ by Polly Burns

“I have a dysfunctional relationship with sex,” I told my therapist, back at film school.

“You have a dysfunctional relationship with yourself.”

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Organized Chaos

Part of the reason I’m not going to Los Angeles or NYC is because I balk at movie-making in general, now that I know how it’s really done. It’s organized chaos. Making a movie is like juggling knives. More accurately it’s like juggling a whole bunch of disparate objects.

And yet I do the same thing to myself by doing and saying exactly what I’m thinking. My friends call me out and tell me it’s fucked up, but why allow myself to do any of it in the first place?

So far my mistakes are sexual, because I am, in fact, a sort of sex addict. It’s actually pretty fucked up.

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What do you do with your life? (Or rather, where?)

Overheard one of my coworkers telling another intern that he didn’t want to be an AC…

(really random part to walk in on; the AC is the Assistant Camera, who usually acts like a Focus Puller, and generally handles putting together and taking apart a camera. If it’s the other AC, it’s the person in charge of the media; formerly the film, now the harddisks).

…Not as a career, anyway, he said. He preferred his work easy, he said, going through the items in our back room. And being an AC is hard.

I didn’t know the context, because I only caught the tail end of the conversation. But I asked him about living in Boston, and he told me about Somerville, and I said I had been looking for a new town to live, and he asked me if I’d been there much, and other than my friend who is a dentist living and working there, (a female oral surgeon, which yeah, I know, women can be oral surgeons, but it’s still badass), and me seeing the Memorial Day parade, I wisely left out the part about…CB.

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Starting from Scratch

Strictly speaking, I don’t have a portfolio of written work that I *could* show anyone, even if I wanted to.

I should probably start compiling shit I already wrote into a “Can Show Other People” Folder.

Then I need to actually take some of the old ideas from that RIDICULOUSLY LARGE amount of diary files…

(Stupid Livejournal addiction, but at least it’s searchable now; someone invented a way to download all the entries as files that would still allow the writer to read them normally on the harddrive, sooo…Yeah, you search for [The Musician] and at least ten entries about him pop up. You want to go to a specific date between May 2001 and May 2009? Unfortunately, every month is there, and on average, you can find something by me from every week too…OY. PSYCHO.)

…and maybe turn them into coherent essays?

It’s so pathetic to have the soul of a poet (so to speak), and yet never shared your writing except with like ten people on the internet Back in the Day.

As for THIS blog…I think it’s time to hang it up. This is going nowhere. But it’s that weird compulsion…weird sort of…mental block. If I’m writing in a private PRIVATE *PRIVATE* diary, I don’t feel as talkative, for some reason. I always get kind of like…”OH MY VAGINA” and “REAL NAME GOSSIP REAL NAME” instead of the sort of trains of thought that come out when I’m writing “for” an “audience.”

Like less humorous. Or less poignant. Less.

It’s strange.

My entire relationship with the Written Word has been strange.