Lindsay Lohan needs a hand-held mirror
Scott and I just got a job in Gifu City, Japan to teach English to pre-schoolers for a year. I am absolutely elated. I don't know how to express how amazing it feels to be able to go to another country to teach KIDS with a person that I adore. It's all happening so fast, but it feels great. I sound like a goddamn, un-inventive Hallmark card. And I don't give a shit.
California thus far has been great. I'll be sad to leave at the end of June. I'll be excited to see my baby girls again though and be able to get ready to leave for Japan August 16.
I've begun to think that keeping a list of the perfect guy is just plain ignorant. Did you know that #6 on my list was that I want a man that "appreciates Prince's sex appeal and can just sit and listen to it with me". And, here I am with a person who thinks Prince sounds like a girl... and I couldn't be happier. Although, he really should learn to like Led Zeppelin, Spoon, and the Pixies. Those really are no brainers. What is the point of this post? I'm not quite sure. I just needed to write it down, no matter if anyone read it or even considered reading it. Discarding a slightly OCD person's list is difficult, trust me. My stomach's already upset from the idea of venturing into a new country (even though I'll have a roommate and confidant). I hate change. Getting rid of the culmination of years and years of soul searching (or a melodramatic teenager's version, at least) is tough shit.
Do you ever have one of those weird days? I'm not sure if it's hormonal and related to blood coming from one's vagina. Occasionally though, I'm not in a bad mood. It's just strange. Something feels off. My eyes feel heavy and my stomach feels a little tingly. I'm easily set off but then easily amused as well. I'm not cranky, just strange. I had one of those days yesterday and here I am pondering it... that and if I should do a spell check because I haven't been proofreading this as I go along. I wish I wasn't so self-analytical. It would make my life so much easier.
I really like sharp cheddar. I think it's part of my superiority complex. Dammit, my cheese will be sharp!
I've decided that my purpose in life is to "do the right thing" that no one will have to ask if it's the right thing if they're smart, open-minded and generally decent people. I dedicate this purpose to Craig and his telling me of Spike Lee's response to that common question.
Sign o the times is a great album.
I hate getting involved in the tabloid controversy, but Lindsay Lohan is really sickly looking. Emaciated even. I liked her last year, when she had soft, womanly curves. Remember what really women look like? They're soft to the touch. Squishy. We comfort. We absorb the thrusts with our flesh. Supple black, white, mocha, olive skin. We are round. Penises are linear, men's bodies are generally linear. The male ureter is straight. Women are circular. Our ovaries are round, our breasts, our bodies. Our urethra curves. The vagina is a layer of round, soft fleshes. We are not meant to be starving. Our bodies are under our control. By depriving our bodies of food and fuel, we are consequentially depriving ourselves of power. Does Lindsay not see this? Is she too lost in a battle for control that she has to literally kill herself. It makes me sad to imagine such a state of insecurity and powerlessness. This is not to say that I am somehow figured out and fully secure. But I am not powerless.
I like to look at myself in the mirror. I love the soft outline of my clavicle against my flesh. It protrudes only so much, with a slight shadow. My breasts hang softly like tear drops. They are not depleted and bony, nor are they hard and at attention. They hang with experience, wisdom, and pride. They jiggle slightly and sway as I move. My stomach curves in. My ribs show a slight protrusion against the skin. No rock hard, intimidating and harsh abs. No sign of hours spent trying to fit an image. Merely healthy, cushioned flesh. A slight curve on my sides. My hip bones protrude, but not in a Tara Reid sort of way. They call for attention. They beg for recognition: "We are made this way for you! We are you! No matter if you plan to reproduce, we are yours to claim. We are here for the sole purpose of bringing you power, elegance, strength. Remember us. Remember the importance of us, our reproductive rights. We are the sway to the music you feel when Marvin Gaye comes on. We are "we're all sensitive people with so much to give". We are the sugar in his coffee, her tea." The slight shadow of my belly shades the peak of my pelvis bone. The inners of my thigh touch just so. They situate themselves perfectly to be held, to be caressed and appreciated. Thin, emaciated thighs go unnoticed. The goal is wide open. With womanly, soft, voluptuous thighs, there's no mistaking of their needs. You can't score a goal until the forward has traveled the entire field. Even wide open, the thighs demand that you worship them. The way they jiggle when touched. The goosebumps that rise when you touch them. They respond further; grant permission. My ass has the separation. No rocky flesh that becomes thighs, but no one knows when. There's soft flesh that from certain angles looks like a cliff. Rest a book on it. I'm sure it would appreciate. It asks to be pulled, pushed, grabbed, bitten, kissed. It will not be ignored, Dan (or Judy, John, Marie, Matt). Even my ankles are sensual with their curvature. Caved in and then round. Lest we forget the vagina. It teases and tempts. No matter how wide one spreads, you can't see it all. It's a secret place that is only felt. We sees folds of soft pink skin that serves as the ornament. It intrigues. Our bodies call for the attention they deserve.
Why doesn't Lindsay Lohan understand? I sure as hell do. My body= me. My power. My rights. No one can touch it without my fucking permission. G.W., Rove, Cheney, Billy Graham can you hear me? Or should I fucking yell a little bit louder? Trust me, I can. I've been building up my lung power. I'm ready. I dare you to take me on. Fuck with my power, see what happens.
California thus far has been great. I'll be sad to leave at the end of June. I'll be excited to see my baby girls again though and be able to get ready to leave for Japan August 16.
I've begun to think that keeping a list of the perfect guy is just plain ignorant. Did you know that #6 on my list was that I want a man that "appreciates Prince's sex appeal and can just sit and listen to it with me". And, here I am with a person who thinks Prince sounds like a girl... and I couldn't be happier. Although, he really should learn to like Led Zeppelin, Spoon, and the Pixies. Those really are no brainers. What is the point of this post? I'm not quite sure. I just needed to write it down, no matter if anyone read it or even considered reading it. Discarding a slightly OCD person's list is difficult, trust me. My stomach's already upset from the idea of venturing into a new country (even though I'll have a roommate and confidant). I hate change. Getting rid of the culmination of years and years of soul searching (or a melodramatic teenager's version, at least) is tough shit.
Do you ever have one of those weird days? I'm not sure if it's hormonal and related to blood coming from one's vagina. Occasionally though, I'm not in a bad mood. It's just strange. Something feels off. My eyes feel heavy and my stomach feels a little tingly. I'm easily set off but then easily amused as well. I'm not cranky, just strange. I had one of those days yesterday and here I am pondering it... that and if I should do a spell check because I haven't been proofreading this as I go along. I wish I wasn't so self-analytical. It would make my life so much easier.
I really like sharp cheddar. I think it's part of my superiority complex. Dammit, my cheese will be sharp!
I've decided that my purpose in life is to "do the right thing" that no one will have to ask if it's the right thing if they're smart, open-minded and generally decent people. I dedicate this purpose to Craig and his telling me of Spike Lee's response to that common question.
Sign o the times is a great album.
I hate getting involved in the tabloid controversy, but Lindsay Lohan is really sickly looking. Emaciated even. I liked her last year, when she had soft, womanly curves. Remember what really women look like? They're soft to the touch. Squishy. We comfort. We absorb the thrusts with our flesh. Supple black, white, mocha, olive skin. We are round. Penises are linear, men's bodies are generally linear. The male ureter is straight. Women are circular. Our ovaries are round, our breasts, our bodies. Our urethra curves. The vagina is a layer of round, soft fleshes. We are not meant to be starving. Our bodies are under our control. By depriving our bodies of food and fuel, we are consequentially depriving ourselves of power. Does Lindsay not see this? Is she too lost in a battle for control that she has to literally kill herself. It makes me sad to imagine such a state of insecurity and powerlessness. This is not to say that I am somehow figured out and fully secure. But I am not powerless.
I like to look at myself in the mirror. I love the soft outline of my clavicle against my flesh. It protrudes only so much, with a slight shadow. My breasts hang softly like tear drops. They are not depleted and bony, nor are they hard and at attention. They hang with experience, wisdom, and pride. They jiggle slightly and sway as I move. My stomach curves in. My ribs show a slight protrusion against the skin. No rock hard, intimidating and harsh abs. No sign of hours spent trying to fit an image. Merely healthy, cushioned flesh. A slight curve on my sides. My hip bones protrude, but not in a Tara Reid sort of way. They call for attention. They beg for recognition: "We are made this way for you! We are you! No matter if you plan to reproduce, we are yours to claim. We are here for the sole purpose of bringing you power, elegance, strength. Remember us. Remember the importance of us, our reproductive rights. We are the sway to the music you feel when Marvin Gaye comes on. We are "we're all sensitive people with so much to give". We are the sugar in his coffee, her tea." The slight shadow of my belly shades the peak of my pelvis bone. The inners of my thigh touch just so. They situate themselves perfectly to be held, to be caressed and appreciated. Thin, emaciated thighs go unnoticed. The goal is wide open. With womanly, soft, voluptuous thighs, there's no mistaking of their needs. You can't score a goal until the forward has traveled the entire field. Even wide open, the thighs demand that you worship them. The way they jiggle when touched. The goosebumps that rise when you touch them. They respond further; grant permission. My ass has the separation. No rocky flesh that becomes thighs, but no one knows when. There's soft flesh that from certain angles looks like a cliff. Rest a book on it. I'm sure it would appreciate. It asks to be pulled, pushed, grabbed, bitten, kissed. It will not be ignored, Dan (or Judy, John, Marie, Matt). Even my ankles are sensual with their curvature. Caved in and then round. Lest we forget the vagina. It teases and tempts. No matter how wide one spreads, you can't see it all. It's a secret place that is only felt. We sees folds of soft pink skin that serves as the ornament. It intrigues. Our bodies call for the attention they deserve.
Why doesn't Lindsay Lohan understand? I sure as hell do. My body= me. My power. My rights. No one can touch it without my fucking permission. G.W., Rove, Cheney, Billy Graham can you hear me? Or should I fucking yell a little bit louder? Trust me, I can. I've been building up my lung power. I'm ready. I dare you to take me on. Fuck with my power, see what happens.