The Attention Span of a Gnat

I have this little problem where I fall in love with things and adore them for weeks, and then I find something newer and shinier to love and forget all about the first thing. The problem is called “the attention span of a gnat.” (Gnats also get fixated on random things for a month and then ditch them too–what, you didn’t know that? Read a science textbook, seriously.)

I have been like this ever since I was little, when I went from wanting to be a waitress (such big dreams–I was a really ambitious kid) to wanting to be Leeloo from The Fifth Element to deciding that being a gladiator was more my style. This all happened in the course of one day.

And now that I’m at gladiator school with my orange chin-length bob, I’m doing some reflecting on this problem of mine. Oh, wait, nope, I forgot about all that stuff like five minutes later. And I forgot why I even wrote it just now. Oops, I think all of this was just a really elaborate and boring segue into telling the Internet People about my latest obsession: Skins.

Or, more accurately, Effy from Skins. If you watch it (and, dear God, I mean the English version, because the American one is so bad that I can’t even–I just can’t even) you might be like, “Why?” My answer is: her bitchin’ eye makeup and crazy clothes. I don’t know if English people actually dress like that (see the post before this one–I’m totes on a British bender today) and I don’t really care, because I’ve been busting out my craziest layers and black eyeliner with Effy as inspiration all week.

See that? That is some fierce day makeup. Other than that Effy basically just does lots of drugs and doesn’t really say anything, besides super-emo I-feel-nothing-I’m-so-cool shit. But that has no bearing on her awesome clothes (that’s what TV shows are all about, right?), so even if she gets hit by a bus in the next episode I watch, we’re cool.

Seriously, though, my gnat-attention disorder thingy better kick in soon, or else I’m going to go broke buying black eye shadow.

 

England > America

I kind of wish I had grown up in England. First of all, I would have a cool British accent, and then I could come to America and seduce everyone with my foreign wiles (there’s no way that works in reverse, right? American accents are just not sexy. But here’s hoping some hot rugby-playing Brits disagree with me). Secondly, I would have a cool British accent. And thirdly, I’d have a cool British accent.

No, but seriously, if there is anything I have learned from the obviously reliable sources of the Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging books and UK Skins, being an English teenager is the best thing ever. There are dance clubs you can actually get into without being eighteen, people pop MDMA like Tic-Tacs, and everyone’s parents are too busy having bad teeth doing their own thing to notice any of the aforementioned activties.

I mean, maybe all my fictional sources are lying to me (GASP!), but it just seems a lot cooler than boring ol’ America, where the craziest thing I did in my teen years was get drunk at a field party. (Okay, that’s a balls-out lie, but I made my own crazy fun; it wasn’t just sitting around waiting for me like those spoilt Brits.)

Also, I’m not sure if I mentioned this, but THEY HAVE BRITISH ACCENTS. Which is cool.

Seriously, though, I want to go interview some British person who was once a teenager and ask them if all this is true. And then I would probably try to score some hard drugs off of them, probably for free, by saying American sayings and seducing them. (Hmm. Um, “Apple pie! Football, but not your kind!”) Welcome to the U. S. of A.

Sexter (That Was Really Lame. Sorry.)

I have become a little bit obsessed with Dexter.

For those People of the Internet who haven’t had the pleasure of watching, Dexter is about a blood spatter-ologist who moonlights as a serial killer. But he’s a good serial killer, ’cause he only slays baddies who deserve it. Also he has no feelings, but he wants to have feelings, which seems to me to be almost the same as having feelings. Wow, I just typed “feelings” a lot. Anyway.

I’m not usually super into cop shows, and Dexter’s sister is a cop and he works for the police, but it’s not that kind of thing at all. Like, people don’t stand around all dramatically drinking black coffee and mumbling, “I’m gonna catch that bastard!” It’s more like Dexter stands there drooling over the latest murder he’s cataloging while his boss says, “Get that creepy fucking smile off your face, Dexter!” I mean, seriously, I’m only on the first season, but how they haven’t noticed that Dexter has a huge fucking boner for death is beyond me. He literally just grins at all the dismembered bodies the police show him and is all like, “Awwww, yeah. Can’t wait ’till I get off work to do some of this myself!”

Also, he’s sexy. He kind of has a Cro-Magnon thing going on in the facial region, but mmm, that body. He can not have feelings for me anytime.

The only thing I don’t really like about Dexter is Dex’s girlfriend. She has this horrible breathy voice that makes me want to stab her. Or maybe that’s just the show’s violence getting to me. Nope, wait, I still want to stab her. Seriously, she’s so God-damn simpering and breathless all the fucking time. Like, what, do you run everywhere with a rehabilitating asthma condition? I hope Dexter kills her soon.

But, besides her dumb voice, it is a new favorite show. Also it takes place in Miami, so there is lots of fun Spanish music. And a Spanish dude with a speech impediment, which is also fun.

Let’s Fck

The “u” on my keyboard is kind of broken. I have to slam down on it like I’m trying to punch a hole through my laptop just to make it work.

Honestly, I’m most sad about that because it’s really messing up my dirty AIM-ing abilities. And now how will I write my anonymous sex letters? Or write in my top-secret journal about being a call girl?

I mean, let’s be honest, “Fck my pssy” really just doesn’t have the same ring to it. A guy might even be confused if I said, “I want to sck yo off,” although to be honest I wouldn’t say that even if my U button was fully functional. Long story short, this whole keyboard thing is really killing my buzz. Fck yo, computer, fck yo.

A Movie Review (Don’t Worry, It’s Sexy)

I watched a movie called Chloe last night.

Personally, I think it should’ve been named “Creepy Girls, Lesbian Sex, and Tits: A Life Lesson in Why You Shouldn’t Hire a Call Girl to Fuck Your Husband.” But Chloe does have more of a ring to it.

Basically, SPOILER ALERT, the movie is about a scarily pink-faced lady (Julianne Moore) thinking her still-super-studly professor and general man-whore of a husband (Liam Neeson–also, isn’t Liam Neeson the best name ever? Just saying) is cheating on her. And she totally has good reason to, because he’s super sketchy and distant and has slutty college students blowing up his phone. So she does what any logical person would do, and calmly asks him about it (and about a text she found on his phone where some girl was like, “OMG THANX FOR CHILLIN LAST NITE IT WAS 2 COOL XXX LET’S BONE” with a picture of her and professor-man).

Oh, wait, no she doesn’t! She hires a call girl. Because OBVIOUSLY that is the sane and rational course of action. But whatever, moving on. She runs into a call girl named Chloe (Amanda Seyfried) in a way that kind of confused me and made no sense (like, how did she know she was a call girl? When did she get her number to arrange their meeting? Maybe they mentioned that but if they did I totally didn’t notice). And Chloe is all like, “Look, pink-faced lady, ginger bush isn’t really usually my thing…” and pink-faced lady is all, “No, it’s cool, I want you to fuck my husband.”

Like, what? Okay, she doesn’t really say that, but she does say, “Come on to him.” And then basically what goes on is that Chloe keeps meeting up with her and telling her all the filthy stuff she’s doing with Professor McManWhore, and Pink-Faced Lady is all like, “Why did you have sex with him? It’s not like I paid you to do that or anything!” but then she kind of gets over it and keeps letting Chloe tell her what goes on.

This is where the movie gets really weird. In case you couldn’t tell, it was already pretty bizarre, but now it just goes buckwild into crazy territory. Because Pink-Faced Lady and Chloe are at a hotel, and Chloe is like, “Blah blah blah your husband’s dick blah blah blah we had crazy sex blah,” and Pink-Faced Lady has a sort of creeperish smile. So Chloe is like, “Is this turning you on?” and Pink-Face doesn’t say anything, but the camera pans up over her squirming around like a giant pink horny worm and the obvious answer is, yes, I am so hot by hearing about my husband cheating on me! Mmm, mm! Good stuff!

Again, WHAT? But I guess Pink-Faced Lady is just not that normal, since she thinks it’s totally kosher to pay someone to fuck her hubby. And then, for reasons that are unclear to me, she has raunchy lesbian sex with Chloe. I watched this with a female friend and we both just stared around at the ceiling and the couch and anywhere but at the screen, because Pink-Faced Lady’s old-ass eraser nipples were taking up like 3/4ths of the screen. And they’re all like, “OOOOH,” and whatnot and then Chloe basically asks out Pink-Face and gives her a haircomb and Pink-Face kind of rejects her but keeps the comb like a total bitch.

So how does the also-incredibly-sane Chloe get revenge? She fucks Pink-Faced Lady’s spoiled asshole of a son and then Pink-Face catches her, and Chloe admits her love or something while trying to stab Pink-Face with the comb, and then she falls out the window and dies, and somehow this whole mess brought Pink-Face and Professor Man-Whore back together because he admits he never cheated (crazy Chloe made it all up to bang one out with Pink-Face, I guess?) and isn’t too pissed that his wife got it on with a hot young girl, because duh.

Overall, it was interesting, but also kind of made no sense at the same time. But I am easily swayed by attractive things, and Amanda Seyfried had great clothes/hair/makeup the whole time, so that was enough to keep me interested. It got knocked down some pretty points by flashing so much Julianne Moore nip (and more than a lot of Seyfried boob, too, but at least she’s not a zillion years old) but what can you do. If I had to give it a grade, I’d give it a B-? C+? I don’t know anymore, my brain is too addled by the sight of so much old-lady rack.

Put This in Your Cookbook

How to Have a Good St. Patty’s Day: the Recipe

Ingredients:

• Slutty green clothes (1 pair)
• Alcohol (6 shots/3 mixed drinks; add more to taste)
• Loud bar with grindy dance music and strobe lights (1)
• Friends (any number; must be flavorful)
• Money (a lot)

Directions:

1. Put on slutty clothes with friends.
2. Go to bar.
3. Buy mixed drinks. Mix them liberally with friends and bar.
4. Buy shots. Shake vigorously on the dance floor.
5. Black out.

Seriously, it’s foolproof. Way easier than whipping up some souffle or whatever-the-fuck with Martha Stewart-level difficulty and weird foreign ingredients.

Sick and Tired of Being Dead

I woke up this morning dead.

Okay, not dead. But not that alive, either. I am sick, sick, sick. I knew it was going to happen. It’s like that moment when your bike skids out of control and for a split second you think, “Oh, shit,” and then it’s all pavement and scars. Except it is nothing like that. I woke up a bunch of times in the night and every time it was like some awful Sickness Mathematician Fairy had flown over my head and multiplied the badness.

Maybe if I had been sleeping under a magical night sky, that wouldn’t have happened. Either way, I feel like someone chopped off my head, puffed it up with helium and childrens’ tears, reattached it, kicked me down the world’s longest flight of stairs, injected lead into my veins, and then threw coconuts at me for an hour. IT’S NOT A GOOD FEELING.

Long story short, I am going to sleep all goddamn day and not feel bad about it.

Talk Dirty to Me

Dearest People of the Internet, I love you. I love you even more when you tell me dirty little secrets, or ask me questions. And now I have a totally anonymous ask box (on my totally awesome new tumblr, which is basically like the pictures-only version of this blog), so you can get as filthy as you want and I’ll never know if you’re someone’s grandma or a nun or something. Go here and talk dirty.

Seriously. Be even filthier than that girl.

PDS

I have sex in weird places.

Added to the list today: a lecture center on my campus. I have class there tomorrow and I’m going to laugh at the people sitting in the back row, since it was just my own personal bedroom a few hours ago.

They may or may not be judging me for the unspeakable things I did on their desks.

I can’t remember all of them, but, in no particular order, here are some of the wild and wacky places I’ve either gotten it on or done a lot in: a bicycle storage room, a laundromat, a dock, a park, a hallway by a dock of elevators (and almost got caught), some public bathrooms, the beach, in a car parked on the side of the road, an elevator, and atop a one-story roof.

On one hand, I kind of admire people who can keep it in their pants until they reach a socially acceptable destination. Beause that is just not really an option for me and my raging sexaholism. On the other foot, they’re missing out. If the only place you’ve ever had sex is a bedroom, MISTAKE. It’s kind of like the world is made to bone on. There are so many wonderfully-heighted things for leaning on and bending over, and couches in public places are surprisingly comfortable. Just a tip (but not just the tip, ’cause that’s lame).

However, I will say this: don’t have sex on the beach. Just don’t do it. Even if you throw down a towel and try not to kick sand all over yourself, you’re still going to end up with itty-gritty beach dirt in places you seriously, seriously don’t want it. And let me tell you, nothing says “romantic” like a full-body rug burn; rolling around on the beach is kind of the equivalent of being attacked with a giant sander.

But luckily for you, Person of the Internet, it’s too cold for that nonsense, so go throw on a jacket and find a sand-free place to sex it up. (But if you’re flying solo, don’t go looking for adventurous jacking-off locations, ’cause that is sad and gross and probably illegal.)

Raging Narcissism (or, 10 Facts About Me)

Sometimes, I like to write about topics and things that are actually interesting to other people (like sexy hairy dudes and shoe porn). And sometimes, I just like to ramble on about myself to the enjoyment of no one. But it’s my blog, so nah nah nah, I do what I want. Now here are ten facts that you do not care about at all.

1. I love Nutella.
2. I am a little bit in love with Miss Mosh, an alt and fetish model. I’ve always had a thing for lace and garters and latex, and Mosh wears them so well. (On that note, here’s 2 ½: A photographer friend of mine and I might take some fetish-y pictures. Rawr. Now if I only had Mosh’s silver-white hair…please, I’m working on it.)
3. Healthy drinks are my jam. Odwalla and Vitamin Water and Pom and Fuze. Especially Pom. Mmm.
4. I have one tattoo, but I want more.
5. I used to hate soup, but now I really like it. Blame Au Bon Pain. (Curried Rice and Lentil is my favorite.)
6. I believe in sex on the first date.
7. I have really, really, really vivid crazy dreams. Every night. Most of them are kind of nightmare-esque and when I wake up, I’m like, “What the fuck?” but in the dreams I am usually not afraid. Last night, I dreamt I was trapped in a room full of doors, and later my jaw was skeletal and fell off. There was also a fire mountain monster, but I can’t even explain it.
8. People always tell me I am unqiue- or exotic-looking. Considering I am white and blonde-haired and blue-eyed, I take it as a compliment.
9. I love to roller-skate.
10. I like writing this blog, but sometimes I run out of good ideas so I just talk about myself.