Friday, December 10, 2010

Silence and Intolerance



Let's not talk about it. Let's not discuss it. Don't even bring that shit up!

I'll never forget, in sixth grade I was the scholarship kid in a room full of wealthy suburbanites. I took two public transit buses alone to get to school everyday while the other girls carpooled in from the far reaches of Massachusetts just to attend the prestigious private school for girls in the heart of the city. We'd been exchanging stories. I listened through frustrations over cleaning ladies and descriptions family vacations to the Caribbean, while contemplating my own frustration of having to clean both mine and my sister's mess in our shared room and the fact that a good family vacation entailed finishing a 1000 piece puzzle with my mother over Christmas break.

I was the token inner-city negro and the bearer of significant difference. So during one of these discussions, I, in a nutshell, described what poverty looked like. I guess their minds were all blown by the very thought that it was probably their parents' taxes that paid for my basic necessities like MassHealth and their donations to the school that made it possible for me to even be there. Within that week I was called to the headmistress' office. "We don't talk about that stuff here," she instructed. Her smile was evil. Her words I'd never forget. It was like being told that I don't exist.

Interestingly enough I was in a progressive school environment where "diversity" was the favorite word. A lesbo-friendly school, it seems that homosexuality was a level of difference they could handle. But why would they want me to shut up about government assistance, taxes, and crammed apartments along Blue Hill Ave? We avoid really delving into difference because it would require some social responsibility. The girls in my class probably went home to ask, what's up with the poor people in the ghetto and do we have to do anything about it? With a sense of homogeneity, then we're all fine. There is nothing wrong with my lifestyle, becuase everybody lives it.

I was actually reminded of this story when talking to an atheist. I told him that I hate talking about religion so let's not talk about it. He in turn described the frustration of being frequently silenced by religious types. For the first time I realized that in terms of religion, I am amongst the majority. No! I thought to myself, I'm the victim! I'm a Black woman, meaning that I am the embodiment of the term socially oppressed minority. But I was challenged by the atheist to consider that there is a difference between tolerance and silence.

Having been raised Christian I know that the very idea of atheism or non-Christianity weasleing its way into the dominant ideology is a sign that the world is increasingly being destroyed by sin. Herein lies the problem of coexistence. It challenges our religious beliefs. Human decency, and allowing one person to believe as they may, comes against the belief that he is ruining the earth with his beliefs. Yikes!

In America, despite the seperation of church and state, socially and politically we still cling to Christian ideals. In France, I don't know if the law past but only a couple of years ago there was a bill to ban Muslims from wearing headscarves in public. Both governments have made an effort to ensure homogeneity, but as Muslims in France and impoverished sixth graders in the wealthy girl's school will tell you, homogeneity is oppression and we cannot avoid having the uncomfortable conversations that challenge us socially. Perhaps if we allow for difference, we can improve the social experiences of a lot more people.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

The Woes of the Blogger


A lot of people asked why I stopped blogging. I'm a graduating senior so the extra-curriculars have taken a back seat. Five classes and a job: I was a busy muffucker but thank God for Christmas break, right?

Further, I'm doing more than simply bang bangin. I'm dating now, and my experiences with men are slightly more intimate. Writing about a relationship would be like giving a man cheat codes on a PlayStation. He knows how I feel and can manipulate accordingly. Plus if I'm being a player, writing about it will undoubtedly get me caught.

I try to keep things vague by writing in the super past tense and I try to keep the identity of these fellows anonymous.

I've reached a new chapter in my life (and apparently a new stage of grief). Read on, kids, your favorite writer is back.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

I Guess I've Been Modeling

Shoot with Horace Ottley, IBO Photography. Makeup and Styling by Karen Alise





Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Tin Man, Tin Can Heart



"When a person shows you who they are believe them,"

...is one of the greatest lines of any song I've ever heard. Its from a song by Jerreau [of Fly Union], called "Less is More." A boy previewed it for me before it was released. He told me that it aptly explicates his history with women. I played the song over and over when I first downloaded, absorbing every lyric in search of its core meaning. Jerreau's rap style in this song is simple, clear, his diction precise. Every word is spoken plainly. Jerreau's "Less is More" is a monologue that finally and honestly sheds light on the male point of view in a relationship. It was like an answer to all the arguments that ended in angry sex. It was like finally having clear communication with a man.

Men are often painted as heartless dogs, and we women are certain that we are absolute victims in any situations involving love and lust, but this song makes me think and re-evaluate how many times a man has given me a proposition at face value and I've rejected the truth for my own wishful thinking.

A boy told me he wanted to be friends. It took me several weeks to realize that things would escalate no further than meeting up at parties and shit. The one who sent this song told me that as a "long distance boo" he wanted to keep things low key and easy, but of course I got jealous and emotional.

My ex-boyfriend warned me about his trust issues. So I made sure to be absolutely trust-worthy. I never cheated and I was always honest with him, even to the point where I'd warn him "I'm leaving you soon if you don't change." The problem was not that he failed to trust me, but that I failed to acknowledge core characteristic. One woman's honesty could not magically erase years of painful dating experiences.

Sometimes we need to take a man's words at face value. If he tells you he gets crazy jealous, there's no reason why he'd be exaggerating such a scary character trait. A man warns you that he loves women... you're probably not his only hoe. A man warns you that he's emotionally distant and always busy, perhaps you should consider if you can handle so little attention. We women need to alter our perspective, stop thinking of ourselves as victims in the dating scene and take some responsibility for the way things are.

I had a heart to heart with hot roommate. He happened upon www.LoveAlise.com, and had things of his own to say (I wrote about him in the previous post). He broke down some of his experiences with women. Crazy shit. Shit I've done. Women who told him he was too nice, for instance. "Women don't know what they want," my little hoodlum explained, I agreed. "They say they want one thing, but when they get it..." he ended there, taking another pull from his exotic weed while he shook his head in dull frustration. Hot roommate is right; sometimes we like to be bossed around, and appreciate a man who's a little mean to us... some more than others. When he told me about the girls who need abuse to know its love, I was glad to know that there are levels of crazy that I have yet to explore.

What he said reminded me of my Father, a sweetheart with a hard-hearted lady of a wife (God rest her soul). Unlike Hot Roommate, my Dad wasn't too jaded to scoop him up a hot young wife later on (and I'm happy for him). I don't know if Hot Roommate will ever be able to unhinge his the rusted tin encased heart. All through my childhood my Dad coached me on dating, how to treat a man blah blah blah. It was obvious to me even as a kid who was most like my mother, he wanted to correct some of those inherited personality traits. He didn't fix them all, of course, especially since I inherited much from him.

Women, it's time we reflect upon our faults. I know, I know, love makes us crazy and irrational. And monthly excursions to the Ruby City make us especially psychotic, but how many times do we deny the function of our left brains? "Huh, huh?" in the words of my Father. My brother once said, "y'all [women] know what to do, its just half the time you go with your emotions instead of using your head. Then you end up feeling stupid." S.B. is right, because I've damn sure had rational conversations with myself that ended in, "but whatever," as I went traipsing behind some undeserving fool.

Now back to this dope ass song: ladies peep the lyrics, and try to recognize areas where we often misunderstand our men - "but all you hear is no" - or when we feel like he doesn't respect us in front of his friends - "When people call you crazy, you make it hard to defend you." I don't know how many times ex-boyfriend and I fought over both those quoted phrases.

I don't know how to fix the dating game, but I think that the best thing one can do is to keep their eyes open [to game], maintain integrity, and hope to eventually find someone who is sensitive, considerate, hard working, and who communicates well. Whether you believe in Karma or the wrath of Jesus Christ, be patient and the right man will find you...let's hope.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Girls, Girls, Girls



I just finished watching an old classic, Jay-Z's music video for "Girls, Girls, Girls." If you don't remember or perhaps live under a rock, this is the song where Jay-Z explains why he loves women so much and what he can achieve from all of them. He's got girls to cook for him, model girls that look good at parties, girls he gives money to, the project girl who holds him down, etc. He's got a veritable library of women who support and maintain his well-being.

As I watched the video, I go to thinking: what place has monogamy when a man can have a collection of women who fulfill his needs? The benefits of Jay-Z's arrangement in the "Girls..." video is that he has women who serve a multitude of purposes. He'll never go hungry, he went through at least a dozen apartments in that video alone. Knowing women, I bet real live Jigga had hundreds, perhaps thousands of apartments that he could've just run to for anything at that time in his career.

So why did Jay-Z (supposedly) give that all up to be with Beyonce?

Hot roommate, the guy who lives downstairs, is the living embodiment of the video. He has women rolling through at least twice a day. He has a girl who drives him around, another to handle his laundry, a few who cook for him and I don't know what he does with the rest of them. He thought he could get me to wash his dishes once. I gave him the ill screw face. One could say that hot roommate is living it up, especially since he has a closet stocked with designer clothes, shoes, and underwear. He has Versace boxers. He never has to buy a car or get a job as long as he's dicking these girls down. Its the privilege of being pretty when a man or woman doesn't have to pay for anything.

I'd assume that the lifestyle is taxing, because its the constant juggle of a woman's attention. I was hanging with hot roommate once, and I overheard him talking to a woman. She wanted to come visit. She was going to take a cab, but he told her, "I don't feel comfortable with you taking a cab over here. Its late, and its dangerous." Bullshit, I thought to myself. I don't know if the girl believed him, or not. Someone came over soon after I left.

Another guy around the area argued that a woman should take care of her man. He didn't mean good cooking and hot sex - you know the usual womanly duties - he meant like mothering a grown child. I couldn't even argue with him. What he said was too foolish to even entertain, but it got me all heated inside. Do we women have to settle for love? Do we have to babysit adults or ignore infidelity in order to have someone to come home to? How do we find someone who will actually love and deserve us?

There are men who are satisfied by their collection of women. That's their prowess and that's how they measure their worth, their success. Then there are the men who are far more concerned with their future, with financial security and being an anchor to their family. These men take pride in independence, and are more likely to avoid excessive attention from groupies. I want the latter, and when I finally choose, not settle, it'll be a man who compliments my drive and my ethic.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Don't You Say No


Rejection. The last time I got rejected by a boy was in the 3rd grade. I’d chased boys all through elementary school, but by 3rd grade I was exhausted. 4th grade was the first time a boy ever considered me cute. He was way strange, but it was a novel experience, being adored by someone other than Ma and Daddy. One would think that my fourth grade crush would have laid the foundation for sweeping ovations from boys at every moment, but I cowered out and began a single-sex education in 6th grade. I’ve been in all girls schools since.

I was, without pain or ceremony, rejected from more than five colleges. I skimmed the letters for the word “sorry” and promptly tossed them to the garbage, but the idea of having a love unrequited is far more than my little heart can bear. On my own accord, I’m certain that I’m a catch, but if a boy were ever to say no to me, the floodgates of insecurity would outpour. First I’d blame my hideous feet, wonder if perhaps I’d come on too strong, and then assume that I’d played everything all wrong.

I was recently reeling over a rejection: moping at work, listening to one sad song on repeat, and not eating… or rather, eating less. I was nothing short of devastated, till I met my sad little eyes in the mirror. No good, no good. I was whimpering over a boy and ruining my day and my face.

He probably wasn’t right for you anyway, I told myself. I’m a believer in fate, destiny, and appointed time. And not all things go down how we’d like, because either timing or the situation aren’t particularly right. In this instance I resigned myself to the belief that maybe this boy just wasn’t it. Often in crushes we ignore a person’s flaws and trust you me, I was modulating this dude into some kind of angel. With simple re-examination I realized that this guy and I could never work: he’s a good liar, and I’m super gullible.

The problem is that sometimes it’s something other than love or lust that compels us in dating. Sometimes we get competitive, and feel validated or satisfied in achieving the attention of someone we desire. If he doesn’t return our attention we question our beauty, our personalities; we blame our outfit and lament over not chewing a piece of gum before he arrived. However, sometimes we have to look at a failed crush for its positives. Perhaps we were saved from being burned. Perhaps we missed being drafted into a war. Or maybe you’re a dirty bitch who looks like a frog and should avoid flirting with boys till you learn how to shower and walk in those heels you’re rocking. I’m just sayin’…

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

I'm Almost There!


Don't make any sudden movements, and when I say hold it right there, don't be stupid and change anything. That's right, I'm a woman after my orgasm and don't you dare mess that up. You, man, with your fingers, your flickering tongue, and your rock hard penis may try all you can to get me off. You'll get frustrated by my silence, and if you ask me how I like it, my response could very well be "I don't know."

You've got it easy. The male orgasm is a repetitive stroke. Its usually a guarantee that if the combination of moisture and pressure are applied to your genitalia, you're going to bust. But women, like our emotional makeup, is so complicated that not even we completely understand it. Do you know that we orgasm without cumming (sometimes). Then other times we squirt! (Squirting is real). Sometimes you touch us and we don't feel a thing, other times we can just be thinking about you on a train and bust all over our panties. Some of us can't get ourselves off. We need your help. Others can only get themselves off and have to close a session alone with four fingers and a porno.

Do you know how to make a woman violently angry? Disobey her when she says "don't stop" or "keep it right there". You go ahead and stop or move your finger an inch to the left and I she'll learn to hate you. I warn you boys (and random clueless lesbians) the female orgasm is elusive and precious discovery. One is never guaranteed to get it twice. My suggestion is to be very attentive: moans, breathing patterns, sudden silences are all indications of where she is in her orgasm. The best thing to do is remind her to stay calm and show you what she wants.

Friday, July 2, 2010

We're Friends. Hold the Benefits


Friends. Just friends. Why is it that friendship is the consolation prize when it comes to relationships? It’s the bronze medal of dating and it feels like the closest thing to complete rejection, despite the fact that everyone knows the best relationships are between individuals who are fundamentally friends.

A while back a boy and I stopped dating. Though I knew we were romantically incompatible, I felt I couldn’t completely discard the man who was once my closest companion in the whole wide world. Well, he was not a fan of my pleas for friendship, and said he wanted all or nothing. Nothing meaning he wanted to never hear from me again. So we parted ways.

It doesn’t always work out with the people we are dating. You like a boy for his charm, but later find that he makes a better business partner, background vocalist, chem tutor and such. Just as people change, relationships with people are subject to evolution and redefinition. So my question is, can a relationship change? Can we be friends for the better?

The answer is no. Well, yes but only if you’re smart. I was once in a converse situation where a guy handed me a bronze medal of my own. He wanted to be friends without the benefits, whereas before we were benefiting without actually being friends. Initially I was disappointed, because I liked the benefits. I felt that he was friends with my vagina first so it was unfair to just take him away from her like that. But what can you do. Further, I was a bit skeptical of his motive. Was he writing me off. Kindly throwing me in the recycle bin as opposed to the garbage.

I obsessed over the idea for a while, threw my phone at the wall and such, but then my underused left brain eventually kicked in. Friends. Friends! Unless I’m being secretly second-tiered to some main squeeze, friendship is a considerable honor (right?). Taking it back to friendship gives two people the opportunity to authentically learn their compatibility with one another. It could evolve to like, love, or lifelong and continuous friendship. One never knows.

I know. I know. Friendship can be so dissatisfying, because five years of quality time its relatively arduous in comparison to hours of making out and weeks of hot intense other stuff. However, we’ve gotta employ our left brains and get perspective on that thing there called friends (without benefits).

All I'm saying is that if "friendship" was really a diss I'm gonna be so pissed.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Univercity's "Good College Girl"



I met Genesis in college, but apparently he's my cousin. Go figure. He now comprises 50% of the duo "Univercity." The other half is LS (which stands for Lyrical Savage and trust me he spits something stupid).

Anyway their new single is hilarious, a well written breakdown of what it means to be a girl in college. Good College Girl, the song is called about a girl who's straight A student by day and party animal freak by night. How many of us were that girl? And how many of us forewent the straight A part? My favorite part is in the beginning when Genesis recognizes the girl in his class from a party and she looks away embarrassed. That's a typical college moment, seeing someone while sober that you met in an inebriated capacity. Sucks.

Haha anyway, I'll stop blogging while you watch the video. Have fun kids.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

The Inevitable Ex-Change


The other day I offered to do something nice for this boy I kind of like, but then I freaked out and changed my mind, called my best friend and asked, "is this okay. I'm I giving too much?" In my last relationship I was far too generous for an impossibly selfish man, but I'm typically a generous woman and daughter of an exceptionally generous dad. The people around me are generally appreciative, but in that relationship I had offered far too much of myself to be manipulated and misused.

At that moment I became angry, at the fact that my past relationship had managed to make its way into the present. I have always had the fear of being bitter, jaded, so hurt I could never love again but I've come to realize that there is no possible way to be in love without being changed by the relationships we have.

Some of my post-relationship changes are more obvious than others - my hair being the most luminous change - but then there are changes in me that I've only since discovered from my interactions with other men. Changes that were inevitable yet frustrate me, because I can never revert back pre-Fatman Karen (we don't use his name). I have new fears that I never had, new things that I'll never do for a man, new standards, and a new bottom line. For instance, my view of men's capacity to abuse women was skewed so that for a good month every man was a woman beater, and for the first time in my life I was afraid of the idea of ever being a wife and mother.

After a relationship, change is unavoidable, which is why when any discussion of that mess of a relationship emerges, I tend to call it My Learning Experience. I have evolved into a more savvy and intelligent girl. Although, I think I've had somewhat of a summer of 79-like rebounding period, I think I'm ready for a man to change me for the better.

YOUR FAVORITE WRITER IS BACK



Dear Lovelies,

I've been on sabbatical but I'm writing again. I can't wait to begin posting. This time around will be different. I will no longer be writing specifically about my relationships/sex because I don't want to jinx my gosh darn love life. However, I will start to feature more music/artist reviews, some of my fiction work, and my thoughts on the every day.

I found that while I whole heartedly enjoy being absolutely honest with you, it came at a price. I was easily taken advantage of. You all were privy to my desires and were given the formula to seduce me, so that I found myself being manipulated by some tricky tricky individuals, none of whom had my interest at heart. In short, being open with everybody makes a girl far too vulnerable.

My blog is, as always, for you to enjoy and for us to communicate and understand each other, so never hesitate to comment, challenge me praise me whatever dude.

I will also begin writing for the Morehouse Maroon Tiger, so don't be a square and pick that up this semester.

Love always,

Alise

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Magic of Marian



I met her in glee club. She was the new girl, I the outcaste (for fucking someone's baby daddy). I wanted to be sure she had a positive experience since mine had been far from ideal and we became friends. But I quickly went from friend to groupie when I first heard her perform at the end of that academic year at an outdoor festival.

Girl and guitar, her voice ethereal floating along the late spring breeze, dancing against our ear lobes. I was mesmerized by my friend, an uncomfortably fresh experience that I managed quickly to embrace. I didn't stay long after her set was over, but from my laptop I found her facebook page and searched hungrily for recordings. She had a few videos of her singing at parks or at the school from which she transferred, but in my desperate hunger for Marian, I was frustrated by the poor quality of these digital camera recordings. From then I had to wait for another performance, a better recording, or the stolen sound of her whispered hum over a difficult homework assignment.

She is gentle to the ear, sweet and subtle yet a master of her craft. Her lyrics are poignant, poetic. Her clarity and precision remind me of Maxwell (my favorite lyricist), yet her vocal control is unmatched. Her sound is as effortless as breathing. The magic of Marian is uncomperable.

Marian is currently teasing her fans with The Basement Collection, songs recorded in her basement studio that will not be making it to her album. The fact that one of my new favorite songs is from that collection ("Dancing Through My Mind) makes me so so so excited for her official project. Come, be enthralled by the gentle seductress, Marian Mereba.

Follow her @marianmereba Listen to her http://limelinx.com/files/acbb5cbb1938392c3b823ab25b48d9c2 AND http://limelinx.com/files/96d6ea45578e0b4df646d4d3c495b804

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Why Cudi? Why?


Why do I enjoy Cudi so much? I had to ask myself last night, after I legit rashed on some kid for denouncing the Cudder. I realized that primarily and above all things its the Genre Mash.

Last night a kid asked me to compare Kid Cudi and Styles P. Here lies the inherent problem. These are rappers of two different periods in rap and with completely different styles. Styles P is quintessential New York Gangster rap. Cudi is...

Cudi is untethered by categorization and he supersedes genre. Kid Cudi clearly has a varied music taste that is a great influence on his capabilities. His mom's a classically trained opera singer for Pete's sake, of course his music would encompass a wholistic appreciation of music without labels or boundaries. He is music.

I am music. I have a fat collection of thousands of songs including the complete collections of Barbra Streisand, Madonna, Edith Piaf, and Jay-Z not to mention Gabriel Faure's Requiem and several techno remixes of Pink's "Please Don't Leave Me". I fuck with Cudi because he fucks with music in every form (I think). As do I.

In short, I realize that I my adoration for his music may be approaching obsession. It's problematic. Severely, yet I cannot help it. Favorite Cudi track? I haven't the foggiest notion.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Check Please


I have to write this post. I'm going to be late for class, but this has to be written. One of the greatest rap songs that I ever heard is Track 27 - "Check Please" of the Cleveland Show. It's one of those songs that strikes you, stops you cold, arrests time. The beat is cool. The repetitive violins invoke a dreamlike state and against it, he artfully tells a story, beginning with a list of his desires and aspirations: "I just wanna be fried." The first verse ends as he returns to the present, he asks "somebody call for my valet parkin'."

In the hook he says "Hold on you did what? Gave the waitress a tip, and said stay out of the dark end. Cleveland." He anchors his thoughts, here. Chip returns to reality, but warns the waitress to stay away from that which continues to haunt him. In his next verse, Chip returns to his inner thoughts and the rhythm doubles. He is consumed by his preoccupations, "a nigga be stressed..." he says. He rants on his hard work and perseverance in the music industry, then he notes that "...niggas be phony/fuck a new homie/rather be lonely..." The verse continues at doubled speed, signifying that he is overwhelmed by his preoccupations.

Suddenly the music ceases: "Damn, daydreaming this whole verse sitting here at this restaurant." Chip returns to reality. He closes the song with a description of his exit from the restaurant. I love this song. Its epic. Chip goes stupid. Listen to it, or you are no longer my friend.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Harajuku Barbie


I don't hate Nicki Minaj, and there's so much hype surrounding her that I haven't made an effort to even listen to her raps. She must be good, because everybody feels her. Then again Gucci is on the radio. I'm certain he pays for his beats with crack money, because he has the lyric ability of a third grader. I youtubed the song Lemonade, and I couldn't make it through the first verse. Garbage. Curren$y, on the other hand, killed that beat. Wait, I'm talking Nicki...

Anyway Nicki Minaj: I can't critique her music because I've never taken the time to listen to it, but what creeps me the fuck out about her is her army of clones. I swear Ms. Minaj is casting spells because everywhere I turn there is someone in a heavy black china doll weave and bubblegum pink lipgloss. I want to ask these girls, This doesn't feel strange to you, playing dress up? My name is Karen, I have a birth certificate that says so and a family to affirm that and for the most part I am an easily identifiable human being. I enjoy being myself and having creative control over my life, my decisions. I don't want to be anybody else but me. Why don't Mini Minaj's feel the same? I just can't fathom.

Additionally, Ms. Minaj is boasted for being a sexually liberated woman, though in actuality her image is a recast of Lil Kim's except she also eats pussy. Maybe the fact that she is bisexual is why people find her liberated. Personally, I think she is just the embodiment of the male fantasy. And how sexually liberating is it to call oneself the Black Barbie? (She ain't a Barbie... a Bratz doll perhaps.) I think that sexual liberation means that you embrace your natural beauty, you love your body and all its flaws, and you look fairly similar at 8 am in your jammies and at 8 pm in your makeup. Nicki Minaj and I have a very different view of the concept of sexual liberation.

Personally, I think that in order for a female to get respect in the rap game she must either be masculine or hypersexual. Think back to all the female rappers who have ever existed. Missy Elliott, Queen Latifah, and Da Brat performed masculinity. They could roll with the boys and therefore they had respect in the game. Then there is Trina, Lil Kim, and Foxxy Brown, three very, very sexual women who, when they come to mind, are all rapping in bikinis. I think in order to survive in mainstream rap, a woman must express some form of aggression, whether violent or sexual. Nicki is just the repetition of that aggressive sexual image penned by female rappers before her.

I do want to note that people often say that Nicki has a ghost writer; I cannot affirm the truth of this statement. However, a number female rappers (the sexy ones) are accused of not writing their own material. Biggie Smalls and Diddy are said to have written Lil Kim's. My question is, are female rappers discredited because they are women? Just wondering.

Much respect to Nicki Minaj, she has managed to make a living off her talent and looks, which is more than I can say for myself. However, the quality of her fan base leads me to believe that she ain't all that.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Kid Cudi said he likes my hair...


I don't know what to say, I've been trying to write a blog post about one of the greatest moments of my life for the last several days, now. I will however, analyze this picture for you.

1. My facial expression: I've never looked happier. Actually I look kind of crazy. I think I was star struck and oblivious. Kid Cudi told me he liked my hair (twice, he said "I like your hair," and then he said, "I really like your hair") during Q&A and then I managed to get a picture with him. Everyone says I should have slipped him my phone number of at LEAST my name but I swear I was so excited my brain literally shut down.

2. His hand placement: Right around my waist, and honestly, I was so elated that I couldn't even feel it. It wasn't until seeing the picture from my screen that I realized just how close I was.

3. My hand placement: That's right, there is none. My hand was hovering somewhere near his shoulder. I was afraid to touch him. Haha, fuck you, I know your laughing at me. He's my stinking hero/celebrity crush/favorite artist. Actually managing to get the picture was a major move in itself.

4. My outfit: Was fucking perfect (inner exclamation point). Its my hoodie dress from london. Classic black hoodie-look with white strings, only its really a minidress, worn with black tights and pearl grey shoes. It's not form-fitting and sexy, though short, but it has character and pays homage to the style of the man to my right.

In the end, Scottie disappeared into a sea of screaming fans and boys guffawing over having gotten an autograph on their Jordan's. Fuck y'all I got a compliment and a picture, and when I tell you that handful of hours continues to play on in my head... Some say I missed out on a lifetime opportunity to blah blah blah, whatever. What is meant to be will always be.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Too Much Makeup, Makeup Girl


I call her Makeup Girl, because she wears a full face of makeup to swim class. Anyone who loves makeup enough to swim in it, deserves to have their name changed. I've seen her outside of the water, and it looks like her foundation stands about three feet off her face. I wonder if she sleeps in it? I digress, but I'm not going to lie every time I see her matte brown face I get to thinking, Did her Mommy ever tell her she was beautiful? Did her Dad ever tell her to take that stuff off her face, 'cause she didn't need it?

There is nothing wrong with makeup. Oh please I've got a vanity covered in pigment, I love makeup. It can make your face look perfect, but the scary thing about makeup, is once you start wearing it its hard to stop. Remember when I ranted about how some girl stole my makeup from a party at my house? She stole my entire kit: Urban Decay eye shadows, Mac Studio Fix, Mac Blush, Nars lip colors, a collection of mineral pigment, a brush set, among other things that I can't recall. She even stole my cotton balls. Well, as my dolled up readers can tell I had a decent collection of quality stuff. It was like stealing all of my Jordans (for you readers who don't understand). The next day while getting ready for school I had to sit before the mirror and remind myself that I was beautiful. It was so sad; something off the Tyra Show. My makeup use had diminished a previously high self confidence. Goodness me!

I didn't realize that I had fallen that far. I don't even wear a lot of makeup. I keep it light and natural so most people don't know when I have any on. Actually, the only person who can tell is my makeup artist friend. I don't want to look like Karen with makeup, I want to look like Karen at her best. In short, I lost my makeup and I had to reevaluate myself and my self-esteem.

Best believe I got my ass some more foundation, and I'm running low so a refill is soon to be in my future. However, since that sorry little moment in the mirror, I've promised myself to enjoy more days in the week without makeup than with it. No lie, I can't go a day without lipgloss and eyebrow pencil, however the shadows the blush the concealer the foundation the blot powder the liner and the mascara need to take frequent breaks. I can't become makeup dependent again, because the more you wear makeup the more you feel you need.

Makeup Girl didn't start off as makeup girl. She probably only wore it to church and funerals at one point in her life and even then it was a swipe of mascara and blots of concealer on the dark spots, but gradually and increasingly she couldn't stand the way her face looked without it.

Evaluate your self. Makeup can highlight and define your features or blend with your undertone to make your skin appear brighter. It will not make you prettier, but what will make you exceptionally more beautiful is the confidence that you exude when you smile and speak.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Hey There Lonely Girl


A couple posts ago, I acknowledged the fact that sometimes (most of the time) I trade pussy for affection. That was written a couple of weeks ago, and the lonely spell has recently taken another dip. Can you blame me? My last relationship ended 14 months ago, and I'm human. Even the Bible says that "it is not good for man to be alone," (Genesis 2:18) (that's about the only Bible verse I know by heart...I actually got it wrong and had to Google it). I've been doing well on this single journey. I have learned a lot about myself and I have established some amazing friendships, but the kid is getting lonely. And when I'm not having sex to distract myself, I get to thinking about the Ex.

It's always uncomfortable discussing an ex, because the men in your future want to be sure that you're over him. They're afraid to be compared to him and if anything goes wrong then its his fault. I'm always afraid of being called bitter, that's like being called a witch in post-colonial Salem Massachusetts. It is a most powerful accusation, but no proving otherwise. The reality of the matter is that my ex-boyfriend does exist. He was my stinking first love. The relationship taught me a lot, and it also scared me out of seriously dating for over a year.

The ex the ex the ex. Do I really miss the ex, or do am I thinking about him because he's the most available thing right now? I'm leaning towards the availability factor. He says he misses me all the time. I know I miss him too, in theory. From the distance that a text message allows, I crave to spend a moment in his arms. Until I get to recalling last time I saw him and how immediately pissed I was. I missed him for a good 10 minutes, but soon after I wanted to castrate him and toss is testes under a lawnmower.

If I cannot conjure the anger that keeps me from running back, I usually text my three girlfriends. Each witnessed my relationship saga at some point and are privy to the madness that I endured. I text them and each responds with something that kicks my memory in motion. I clench my teeth against the residual anger and practically throw my phone down. It plops on the pillow of the cold and empty side of my mattress, a sound that mocks my loneliness.

Most times I don't allow myself to listen to love songs: I'm on a strict diet of rap, alternative, and techno at the moment to take the edge off. I reward myself with tastes of Anthony Hamilton and Maxwell when I'm feeling particularly strong. One album that I still to this day can not listen to is Usher's Here I Stand. It was our favorite. We drove to visit our family in New York and Boston for Thanksgiving and we listened to that album most of the way.

I realize that college life makes single life more difficult, which is probably why so much sexing is going on. I left an immensely huge family back in Boston: siblings like best friends and cousins like siblings. Back home I had little desire to date boys. Loneliness was cured by hours at my aunts' houses, or hanging with my cousins. If I were back home I'd actually spend more time taking care of my brothers, babysitting nieces and nephews, and getting bullied by cousins not much older than me. I think I've managed to replicate that family dynamic by frequently having my friends over for dinner, though that shit gets expensive. I especially like playing matchmaker. I try to invite new people each time, and I let my closer friends make requests on who I should invite.

My best friend says that I need to start dating more, but I honestly hate dating. I don't think I'm good at it. How do I know what men want to date me and which just want my lady space? Having put my sexy out all over this blog, I'm afraid that the only guys who have maintained interest in me will begrudge me a dinner and a movie before I am expected to deliver the pussy. Some have been appalled my audacity to even consider such. I am now a dating pariah, or is it really this difficult to find a guy. There are men everywhere, how hard is it to find one I like? Should I be actively looking, because at this point I was expecting him to fall through the sky, knock on my door, or sit behind me in a class.

I don't even want a full on boyfriend. I'm not ready for the full commitment. I just want chill ass homie who speaks my language: private, intimate, relaxed, giving, caring, blah blah blah. You know, all that good stuff without the extravagant drama. Well, I will continue to meet people, have dinner parties, and love my fucking life.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

My Lovely Lady Lumps




"Have you felt this before?" the nurse asked.

"No," I lied. I have felt a lump before, but in all honesty I convinced myself that I had, in my obsessive fear, imagined its existence. I guess I wanted the nurse to form an unbiased opinion on the contour of my seemingly perfect breasts. She continued to roll her cold nurse's fingertips against the knot inside my chest. I squirmed to avoid the feeling of that lump pressing against my skeleton. I didn’t want to be aware that they were there. "I get nervous," I offered, as an explanation for fidgeting and face scrunching, but the nurse didn't seem to understand. She continued to press and roll and inspect, and in a matter of moments, I was crying. Her insensitivity made it impossible to bridle my fear.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yep," I answered, as if the tears weren't even there, and she was clearly disarmed by my oddly placed cheery tone. She didn't seem to understand. I guess cancer isn't everybody's deepest fear. I guess some really do place M. Williamson's inadequacy over the thought of rotting on a hospital bed. Personally, I think I fear nothing more than cancer. I fear it more than God.

"Have you ever given yourself a breast exam?" the nurse continued to ask. I told her no, but the truth is I've tried three times. Twice alone and once with my boyfriend. Each time I balled, but at least with my boyfriend he held me and we had that emotional patch-up sex. This summer I finally braved a breast exam and found a lump. I cried myself to sleep and in the morning convinced myself that the lump didn’t exist.

Well, I probably looked pretty foolish to that nurse, who has probably never gotten tears during a routine breast exam. And when she asked what cancer my Mommy died of and my answer was not breast cancer, she looked at me even more strangely. Cancer is cancer, no matter where it ends up on your bod…right?

Though the nurse made every attempt to assure me that the lump was probably benign, she offered to refer me to a breast specialist so I could have an ultrasound of my lumps. When I visited the breast people, I was so elated to find that my doctor was a hot doctor. I actually couldn’t help it. He walked in on my paper-robed body and pulled on some gloves and felt me up. “You’ll get better contact with the gloves off, doctor,” I wanted to say. But I figured I’d save that comment for my next dream when I masturbated to his image. My right breast was a bit insulted to have been spoken off in solely medical terminology. If she wasn’t going to be sucked, I think she at least wanted to hear how beautiful she is.

The hot Indian doctor told me that my lumps – I’m so special , I have two – were benign and absolutely normal for women in their twenties. “We can have them removed, or we can just keep monitoring them.” Knives belong in the kitchen not in the body, so I opted to leave my lumps be. Besides, I would consider myself a spoiled human being, in that I never get sicker than a cold, the only needles I’ve taken are vaccinations and stitches when I was two and too young to remember, and the only time I spent overnight in the hospital is in my mommy’s arms after she pushed me out. My most invasive procedure to date has been the beloved pap smear, and while strange they don’t hurt too much. I’m afraid of all things of and relating to hospitals.

I walked home, but I was still unsettled. Was I making the right decision by leaving my ugly lady lumps? Well, since I had posted my worries on my Facebook and Twitter, my friends and family felt the need to comment. My cousins tripped on me, “YOU NEED TO GET THEM REMOVED NOW!” an attitude that I found a bit excessive, considering I’m the one with the dead Mommy. Some guy told me insensitively, though he meant well, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. I kept getting word from friends of friends of friends who had had lumps giving me both perspectives. And when I tried to google my situation, the first article I found read something like “21 year old college student battles breast cancer.” I immediately closed my computer screen, and just so I wouldn’t have to see that headline again, I pulled the battery out of the back rather than simply close the window.

But finally, a friend of mine sent me a message that said she too had a breast lump and was getting hers removed. Days later, a girl told me that she’d had a lump in her breast since 7th grade. She’s in college now, so she’s been holding on to her lump for years.

So, if it is okay to hold on to a benign breast lump, or two, then there is a far lesser sense of immediacy and room for far more questions. Does surgery hurt? Will I have a scar? Will they ruin my breasts? Will losing a lump make one breast smaller than the other? How much does surgery cost and can bill paying Karen afford it? How much school will I be able to miss? Those were the physical questions, but the whole lump situation brought up a lot of emotions for me as well. Some were expelled in that poem two posts down. However, the best solution has been telling people about my lump so they can reflect their opinions, both expert and foolish.

My charge to you, ladies (I'm sure the boys stop reading several paragraphs ago), is to cradle your breasts between your finger tips and go lump hunting. It is common for women in their twenties to have a few floating around, but be sure to check them out, know they’re there and monitor growth or shrinkage. There is probably no reason for you to explode in tears every time you put a little pressure on your breast tissue. If you struggle with the scenario, go to a doctor, and perhaps a counselor, and get your issues worked out. Awareness and prevention are the key to longevity when it comes to terminal illnesses.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Date Night

I took a walk yesterday, and passed by a couple on a date. The chick was wearing a trendy outfit, but something about it didn't look right. She looked uncomfortable, like she was wearing someone else's outfit. I had to fight every urge and instinct not to go STOP! so I could re-dress her.

There is no denying that in general boys love a sexy girlfriend. My ex-boyfriend would make me get out the car just so he could show me off to any and every random rogue who came within sight of us. However, when the outfit is not working all those feelings of pride turn to shame. Many guys would prefer a girl in sweatpants to one who has on an outfit that isn't working.

Here are a few tips for choosing your outfit for date night.

1. Try on your clothes the day before, so you know exactly how things look and feel, what works together and what does not. If you buy something new, wear it around the house for a while. You'll get familiar with the piece, that the strap always slips, that the shorts ride up too high, that you can't bend over in that skirt. Just wear the best that your closet has to offer.

2. Don't wear your friend's favorite outfit. Wear the outfit that suits you (even if you've borrowed it). You may have a friend who looks hot in one thing, but it may not be the look for you. Take a trend and mold it to fit you. The chick I saw had on denim shorts, black embroidered tights, and calf length boots. High boots and shorts make your legs look shorter and wider, so only wear that look if you have long legs. If not, try flat shoes (or heels) with your shorts for a lengthening effect.

3. Wear a tried and true outfit. When you're on a date, you don't want an outfit failure to be your greatest preoccupation of the evening. You want to look sexy and effortless. And while showing skin is probably is my favorite thing (see image above, hello), it doesn't look good to show bod in clothes that don't hold themselves up. Don't wear a strapless top that requires too much adjustment or pants that give you super camel toe. The best way to show skin comfortably is with a v-neck t or a see-through top. These two looks require no readjustment of the straps and look a lot classier than a tube top.
4. Practical can still be cute. Wear flats instead of heels, pants instead of a skirt, and carry an extra layer if you have any doubts. Be comfortable as you can. Sneakers for me is entirely uncomfortable, oh my gosh I'd look like a fool, but heels for you may have you falling over.

5. Please wear clothes that fit, starting with your bra. Nothing is more disgusting than quadraboob. Go to Victoria's Secret and get measured! You may not buy their bras (I find them to be cheap quality despite the price) but at least know your size. I actually buy my underwear from www.barenecessities.com. I was a 34DD at one point and Vicky didn't carry my size, which is why I went and scoped this site out. Bare Necessities has every single size imaginable and brands from Calvin, DKNY, to Betsey Johnson. Additionally, don't wear jeans that you can't sit in or shoes that haven't been broken in. It just makes you look silly.

If you ignore all my advice, just remember that you attracted the guy in whatever you were wearing at the time, so continue to allow your wardrobe to be an expression of you, not Karen or Megan Fox or Nicki Minaj or your best friend with the great breasts. Do you.

Photo credits:
"Childhood Flames" exceptional fashion/photography blog http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2260/2443829496_a926a217be.jpg
"The Muff Stit Shop" a Euro brand, purchase this and other items http://www.muffstitshop.com/2009_03_01_archive.html
"Blue & Cream" features Lily Allen http://www.blueandcream.com/blog/wp-content/lilyallen_denimshorts.jpg

Sunday, March 14, 2010

The things I am afraid of

My mother
was sick.
She was always sick
she ended sick – a skeletal figure in a nursing home bed
she weighed as much as a ten year old child, her flesh hung loosely
slipping and detached from the bone
she was withering, evaporating, disappearing

Closed casket

She may have been born sick
I don’t know
but by the time I knew her she was sick
she used to flip
crazy
she used to be another woman, sometimes. Only sometimes.
When she was angry, she was not my mother
she was evil and hateful, in a way that was uncontrolled.
She was spiteful. Showed favoritism. And my brother got it the worst.

She used to hurt my father
it was clear she hated him, sometimes
from behind a bedroom door we heard violence
I don’t know who was hurting who, but I’m almost sure he was restraining her.
He’d walk out crying, defeated, Bible in hand
“I’m going for a walk,” he’d tell us. He was going to talk to Jesus about the crazy
wife He gave him

She used to stand by the window
the sun warming the tones of her face
she was talking, out loud and under her breath
discussing. Her eyes expressive, her brow dancing up and down
do not disturb her. She wouldn’t hear you anyway if you called her while she and she
were discussing.
So when you saw her by the window, you let her be.

My mother was a beautiful and epic catastrophe
She was volcanic : erupting then cool
but in her sanity she loved immensely.

I am afraid to be like her
I’m afraid that if my thoughts are not like yours then they are like hers
I’m afraid to die the withering body
who left a husband and children who are yet too afraid of her, to ever completely love her back.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Crymax and Other Sexual Expletives


"Crymax"

My cousin introduced me to this term. It's when the orgasm is so good you start crying. On one occasion I had actual tears in my eyes and that nut is unforgettable, but typical a perfect orgasm will have me whimpering. Most recently I crymaxed from the sticky fingers, and that was a bit embarrassing, but I haven't made sexy in kind of (not really) a long time.

The crymax is kind of funny, because I can imagine some of the sounds that women make just trip you guys out. I let out my feeble whimper and kid with the fingers gave me a confused look. I think he needed to look in my face for affirmation that he was not, in fact, finger raping me.

What is the crymax? Its when the penis, or the fingers, fills you with so much bliss that you don't have enough physical reactions at your disposal to absorb the pleasure so you let out tears. They are tears of joy, trust, but they are never the less tears.

Why, woman? Why are you crying? If we could, we would sing like porn stars rather than grunt and cry. We can't help it, and sometimes we - I - practice in secret, in the shower, and during masturbation. I would love to moan pretty, but when you're feeling the sexy a few tears here and there are actually a good thing.

Similar to the crymax is the gigglegasm (still working on a name). Again, it's induced by an orgasm so spectacular that you let out a laugh. I've gigglegasmed when the multiplicity of the orgasm is becoming too great. The gigglegasm often occurs just before my clitoris has to beg for the sex (usually the head when this happens) to cease.

Man the noises we make during sex, it's embarrassing. Sometimes I want to hear what other women scream during sex so I can gage just how (ab)normal I am. For instance, why is it that I cannot help taking God's name in vain during climax? I think I am at my most spiritual when staring into that white light that is orgasm. Once I accidentally said "Jesus," I was trying to avoid the use of the word God oddly enough, and I feel like that was an even worse offense against the cross.

When the sex is spectacular, it's difficult for a person to control what comes from her mouth, whether its "spank me Daddy, make it hurt" or "yes, yes, cum on my face," (I will not attest to ever requesting a facial, but had I done so, I was likely to have been superbly drunk). So gentlemen be sure not to rape a bitch, but when she starts crying, laughing, screaming bloody murder, or begging God to save her just indulge her. Spank her. Just wipe her tears away and deepen the stroke.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Intimacy Synthetic


Some people have sex to affect intimacy. I have long suspected, and now come to the full acceptance, that I often have sex to affect intimacy. I'm having a lonely spell, brought on in particular by the fact that I haven't had sex in nearly a month. A month is already a long time for me to go without sex, and I actually like this feeling. However, I also notice that my body still needs to be touched, and felt. I need to be held and caressed.

I'm currently listening to a one sad song on repeat. Geez, Karen, snap out of it.

You may not know but this monthmarks a lot for me. It marks the first anniversary of the blog. It marks the anniversary of my short hair cut. It also marks a new attitude about life that I had taken one year ago. I dumped the fat man in January and started fucking around immediately. I was sexually liberated, making up for lost time, enjoying more orgasms in the last year than the whole entire time with my ex-boyfriend (no shade?). I enjoyed my sexual activity, and have a short list of regrets - about 4 inches a piece, short. However, I've come to a point where I don't want to barter my pussy for a little cuddle time.

Boys, be honest. You don't like to just cuddle. You don't like to just relax. You don't like to just watch a movie. You don't like to just sit in a room together having a conversation. But these are things that women - or just I - need. The secret to dating is in these things here. Pay attention.

Dating doesn't happen in the formality of it all. First dates are like interviews, they're inauthentic and horrifying. You get to know someone through the way they interact: by listening to the way they talk to their mother, by how they command a group of people, by the way they conduct themselves in an assembly, by the way they leave you feeling even though they never even spoke to you. It is in a person's interactions that we come to meet them. Not, in that formal interview where two people sit across from each other asking mundane questions just to fill time. Dating is getting to understand someone, not through the identity they choose to present you, but with the one they haphazardly exude amongst their peers.

The problem with attending conservative single sex schools (as I do), is that most interaction between the genders is either highly formal or completely sexual. The only safe space for a woman entering the all-male space is in a class, a meeting, or with her gay friend. Otherwise, her interaction is expected to be sexual. Don't believe me? Why is it that every guy I ever chilled with asked me "why not" when I told them we weren't having sex (and this is before I became known as the sex-blogger). Experiences like those always end in frustration for me, because I should never have to justify why I'm not fucking.

My solution to this irksome situation is now to have people over the house. If I have a crush on a guy, I invite him to hang at the house with a bunch of friends. I create neutral environment, where I can witness his interaction with my friends as well as experience his personality. This is dating, to me. It's similar to the way parents would say, "bring him over, I want to meet him." You create a situation where there isn't that sexual tug of war, and you can see just what the boy is like.

I have yet to find a boyfriend, or even a "boo" type situation, and periodically I feel as though I need one. I know I don't, but I think you can understand the way it feels when your body craves the feeling of someone's heat beside you, your mind desires to solve someone else's problems, and your soul wishes to conjoin with that of another. What to do? Wait to find someone to hold you? Shack up with someone and beg him to stay the night? Convert to homosexuality?

I think there are many women like me, who are so frustrated by the absence of intimacy and sincerity, that we're willing to trade pussy for a little time in the presence of another body. Its a beautiful feeling waking up in someone else's bed, washing the scent of someone else from your body in someone else's shower.

What will little Karey do? I stroke my pussy, scroll through my phone and wish I had someone willing to cuddle. Truthfully, I did consider fucking someone tonight, just so I could sleep in his tiny twin dorm room bed, just so we could devise a plan to sneak me out when no one was looking, just for a moment of synthetic intimacy.

photo credit: Yijun Liao http://nymphoto.blogspot.com/2008_12_01_archive.html

Saturday, February 27, 2010

The Commitment of an Artist

I haven't written in a long time, and I think the passion that I feel for my blog as an outlet of expression has waned. I began this blog for a number of reasons: because I love talking about sex, because I feel that women need an open outlet through which they can discuss their sexuality and sexual experience, and because I don't want anyone to mis- or reinterpret me as a something that I am not. Through this blog I have defined myself and it has made me very powerful in that I think I wholly control how I am perceived based on my lyrics.

Through the blog, I have made some really beautiful connections with very driven people around the nation through this thing we call the internet. There are people who are driven, passionate, and immensely talented all around me (people like singer/songwriter David Fuller and the W.A.T.I.A. conglomerate, Caesar Jackson and his clothing line City of Savages, Joe & Terrel creators of the clothing line Vita-Morte, photographer Floyd-From-Ohio to name a handful) who have really inspired me to be fearless. Funny, I just realized that everyone that I listed left college to pursue their passions, and I can imagine that it takes an immense amount of fearlessness and drive to make that move.

I'm the daughter of a musician, so the term starving artist is a life reality for me. I never starved, but there are times when food was appearing on our table like mana from heaven, times when my father was jobless, when we were buying school clothes at thrift stores, when eviction was eminent. In coming to college, I was trying to taylor my talents to fit a corporate existence, but in doing so I was denying my passion, my love, my drive.

As a senior in high school applying to college, most of the administration wanted for me to try Julliard, the New England Conservatory, and other performance schools. I avoided them, because I was afraid of starving. My mother and I had a tacit agreement that I'd go to college and somehow get rich, whether I had to marry a doctor or become one myself.

But my passion is music. I thrive on sound, to alter my mood and to express myself. I'm a writer, but my heart is where the music is, but sadly I haven't performed, outside of the Glee Club, since I was in high school. I need to get back to my roots.

A lump was found in my breast. I haven't had it checked out yet, so it very well may be fatty tissue. But when I was thinking about the possibility of breast cancer I remembered that I only have one life to live with an unknown term. That being said, it is important to be fearless in this life and to take steps in the dark with the faith that our feet will find ground. Find your passion and be unafraid of it.

This post is a commitment thank you to my friends and mentors - those listed and those in my head - who are fearless and driven. I truly look to you for guidance and inspiration.

These are the projects I want to begin to commit to. I will start performing again starting, of course, with Jazz Man's on thursdays. My name is already on the list, I just have to choose a song. I will scope out writing opportunities, hopefully Creative Loafing likes my pitch. I will travel more, without worry about money or security. I also will be working on something very special with my friend DaniRae. I won't drop any information on that except to warn you that its going to be ridiculous.

This is the commitment of an artist, love Alise.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Grown Ups Don't Let Grown Ups Pass STDs


A couple of weeks ago, my best friend caught Chlamydia. Actually, a couple weeks ago my best friend discovered that she had caught Chlamydia somewhere within the sixth month period between her regular tests, but she had no idea from whom it came. She had gone to the clinic that day like any promiscuous, yet healthy, adult, with the confident belief that her genitalia was uninfected and the desire to simply be proven right.

“Any symptoms?” the nurse asked.

“No. This is just my regular six month checkup,” she answered back proudly, with a smile. She always practiced safe sex, and whenever she left a clinic, she was never ashamed to take a handful of free condoms. When the procedure was finished, they told her she did not have AIDS, and that if she had any other infections, they would call her. She sauntered out of the clinic and decided that tonight, she would have sex just to celebrate.

A couple days later, she got that phone call. One of her whores had passed on Chlamydia...

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