OMG OMG OMG
I just found out that my company's newsletter is called New Directions
WWWWWWWWIIIIIIIINNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hehe. Nude erections.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Something sort of unsettling just happened and I'm not completely sure how I feel about it, other than a bit bloaty but that's most likely the 5-bean soup from lunch.
'Member that coworker of mine who asked about my sexy walk last week (I'm currently marketing it as Centaur Chic; watch your back, Katie Smith)? Well, today we're working on a project in from of my computer and she says, "Can I ask you a personal question?"
Here's a little insight into the mind of a functioning homosexual: No matter how comfortable we are with ourselves, how easy our coming out was, how much of a non-issue it is, when we hear the question, "Can I ask you a personal question?" our sexuality is the first place our minds go. This is then followed up with the thought that no one with whom we do not have a personal relationship would ever actually ask this, never mind a colleague while at your place of employment.
Then, without even waiting for so much as a head nod from me, Little Miss Goes-Against-The Grain comes right out (so to speak) with, "Are you gay?"
I reply, "Yes."
She says, "So is a friend of mine on this floor, Emily*."
I say, "Well, then it looks like our takeover is really coming along."
Now, I recognize the complete and utter inappropriateness of her question. That is like pre-Stonewall shit. It's pretty much just asking me what I enjoy doing with my penis and while I consider myself quite transparent, an informational liberatarian if you will, that question in this environment is the precise reason for PC Nazism in corporate environments and, moreover, it's just tacky. The only people that need to be concerned about the whereabouts of my penis are those whose body it directly enters. That said, I am torn between my discomfort in this situation and my ideal that sexuality should be a non-issue, as uncontroversial as eye colour. I've never hidden this aspect of myself, but I've also never volunteered it to anyone. These days, the closest I ever come to coming out is speaking about a crush/date/disappointment using a gender-specific pronoun. This was the first time in my life that someone has pointedly asked me, other than my parents who have a bit more of a vested interest in me than a coworker I've known for a week and a half. On the one hand, the question felt like a violation of privacy, but on the other, I'm pretty pleased with the way I dealt with it by making it a non-issue. I'm not about to raise a big stink about something when my position is that it shouldn't be stinky in the first place.
There's no wrap-up to this post...so here:
'Member that coworker of mine who asked about my sexy walk last week (I'm currently marketing it as Centaur Chic; watch your back, Katie Smith)? Well, today we're working on a project in from of my computer and she says, "Can I ask you a personal question?"
Here's a little insight into the mind of a functioning homosexual: No matter how comfortable we are with ourselves, how easy our coming out was, how much of a non-issue it is, when we hear the question, "Can I ask you a personal question?" our sexuality is the first place our minds go. This is then followed up with the thought that no one with whom we do not have a personal relationship would ever actually ask this, never mind a colleague while at your place of employment.
Then, without even waiting for so much as a head nod from me, Little Miss Goes-Against-The Grain comes right out (so to speak) with, "Are you gay?"
I reply, "Yes."
She says, "So is a friend of mine on this floor, Emily*."
I say, "Well, then it looks like our takeover is really coming along."
Now, I recognize the complete and utter inappropriateness of her question. That is like pre-Stonewall shit. It's pretty much just asking me what I enjoy doing with my penis and while I consider myself quite transparent, an informational liberatarian if you will, that question in this environment is the precise reason for PC Nazism in corporate environments and, moreover, it's just tacky. The only people that need to be concerned about the whereabouts of my penis are those whose body it directly enters. That said, I am torn between my discomfort in this situation and my ideal that sexuality should be a non-issue, as uncontroversial as eye colour. I've never hidden this aspect of myself, but I've also never volunteered it to anyone. These days, the closest I ever come to coming out is speaking about a crush/date/disappointment using a gender-specific pronoun. This was the first time in my life that someone has pointedly asked me, other than my parents who have a bit more of a vested interest in me than a coworker I've known for a week and a half. On the one hand, the question felt like a violation of privacy, but on the other, I'm pretty pleased with the way I dealt with it by making it a non-issue. I'm not about to raise a big stink about something when my position is that it shouldn't be stinky in the first place.
There's no wrap-up to this post...so here:
The Silky fuckin' Hen
*I've met Emily. She is so cool. I want to be that cool. I want to be a lesbian.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Man, this got me swear-y
In a similar vein as my occasional fixation with pop music, I am going through a reliving of my favourite childhood cartoons via YouTube. While I certainly enjoyed Dino-Riders, Just Like Mom and you've already heard my view on Captain Planet, my favourite kids show of all time may shock in its obvious lack of manliness. No, it's not Take Part cause DON'T EVEN GET MY STARTED ON THAT SHIT I WILL END YOU. No, the most character defining show of my pubescence was Jem and The Holograms.
I know, right?
I feel the obsession began right from the intro, an infectious 80's bubblegum offering encouraging me to "be a Jem girl." Clearly, as witness to my parental request for the Jem fashion templates, this suggestion was taken to heart (I was given New Kids On The Block templates instead; fuck you, Dad). The animation in this opening also had a lot more frames per second than normal, resulting in her dance moves looking like that of a real person. It was like cartoons actually existed, people. Mind. Blown. One would imagine that the minute number of young boys who actually watched the show would identify with Jem's road-manager/boyfriend of her alter ego Jerica, Rio. Not this little fucker. I realize this comes as quite a surprise given my reputation for amazing road managing skills and occasionally purple hair. But Jem was so hot! Like, Kelly Kapowski hot. And didn't (don't) I want to be hot. Plus they all had wicked coloured hair and makeup the shapes of shapes all over their faces. The latter, I feel, inspired me and a visiting cousin to draw all over each other's faces with crayola markers when we were about 6. Bath time that night was not pleasant. How many 6 year-olds has Hannah Montana inspired to draw on their cousins' faces with crayola markers? Me thinks, by the cool silence from Camp Cyrus at press time, not a lot.
While this show, which aired at 2:00pm every weekday afternoon on YTV, was the highlight of my day, seeing it now brings up some serious moral conflicts. First of all, Rio kisses Jem in, like, the second episode. Looks like it takes less than 44 minutes to go from devoted boyfriend/handyman of the Starlight House for orphans to straight up pink-pubes lovin' cheater. Uh, Rio, someone wants to speak to you. So to review, here's a chick who deceives her boyfriend, makes a move on him while under the guise of an internationally recognized song stylist and when he is all "Yeah, baby, let's do this!" thinks not about the fact that he is a trifflin' man ho (entrapment doesn't negate ho-dom. Don't even try that shit with me.) but rather chastises herself for not telling him that her dead father's masturbatory holographic robot lady projects rock star style onto her body through her earrings. Duuuuuuuude. Also, who the hell is looking after those little orphan fuckers while everyone's on tour? The Misfits?! Uh, I don't think so, buddy! Is it possible to call Child & Family Services on animated characters? Cause let me tell you: speed dial, motherfuckers.
New favourite thing: Fuck You, Penguin. Goddamnit! People need to stop being funnier than me!
I know, right?
I feel the obsession began right from the intro, an infectious 80's bubblegum offering encouraging me to "be a Jem girl." Clearly, as witness to my parental request for the Jem fashion templates, this suggestion was taken to heart (I was given New Kids On The Block templates instead; fuck you, Dad). The animation in this opening also had a lot more frames per second than normal, resulting in her dance moves looking like that of a real person. It was like cartoons actually existed, people. Mind. Blown. One would imagine that the minute number of young boys who actually watched the show would identify with Jem's road-manager/boyfriend of her alter ego Jerica, Rio. Not this little fucker. I realize this comes as quite a surprise given my reputation for amazing road managing skills and occasionally purple hair. But Jem was so hot! Like, Kelly Kapowski hot. And didn't (don't) I want to be hot. Plus they all had wicked coloured hair and makeup the shapes of shapes all over their faces. The latter, I feel, inspired me and a visiting cousin to draw all over each other's faces with crayola markers when we were about 6. Bath time that night was not pleasant. How many 6 year-olds has Hannah Montana inspired to draw on their cousins' faces with crayola markers? Me thinks, by the cool silence from Camp Cyrus at press time, not a lot.
While this show, which aired at 2:00pm every weekday afternoon on YTV, was the highlight of my day, seeing it now brings up some serious moral conflicts. First of all, Rio kisses Jem in, like, the second episode. Looks like it takes less than 44 minutes to go from devoted boyfriend/handyman of the Starlight House for orphans to straight up pink-pubes lovin' cheater. Uh, Rio, someone wants to speak to you. So to review, here's a chick who deceives her boyfriend, makes a move on him while under the guise of an internationally recognized song stylist and when he is all "Yeah, baby, let's do this!" thinks not about the fact that he is a trifflin' man ho (entrapment doesn't negate ho-dom. Don't even try that shit with me.) but rather chastises herself for not telling him that her dead father's masturbatory holographic robot lady projects rock star style onto her body through her earrings. Duuuuuuuude. Also, who the hell is looking after those little orphan fuckers while everyone's on tour? The Misfits?! Uh, I don't think so, buddy! Is it possible to call Child & Family Services on animated characters? Cause let me tell you: speed dial, motherfuckers.
New favourite thing: Fuck You, Penguin. Goddamnit! People need to stop being funnier than me!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Oh hai. That last post was my 200th. Booya.
I may or may not have just sprained my wrist. "How the eff did a suave guy like you do this, Illustrious D?!" you may ask. "Masturbating," I may reply. This is a lie, but it would be kind of funny. Well, at least it would be if said in person. Maybe. Moving on. In actuality, this tragedy occurred at work as I was filing whilst seated on a stool. I scooched my bum back, miscalculating the surface area of the stool and promptly fell off. At first I was rather miffed that I had so foolishly injured my wrist bone, as it is connected to the arm bone, which is in turn connected to the shoulder bone and everyone knows that is my favourite bone. However, it then dawned on me that the miscalculation of the scooch could be directly accounted to a misperception regarding the size of my ass. By this inference, one could deduce that my ass is growing smaller, thereby making this the most joyous event of my day. Praise be.
In what has shaped up to be a banner week for my romantic life, last night I came across a Manhunt profile for what seemed like a totally nice guy: 24, cute, not anorexia-inducingly trim, DJ, couple of tats and the prettiest eyes you ever did see. However, upon further inspection of his primary profile photo, I noticed that he was sporting a LIVE STRONG bracelet. Let us all issue a collective sigh of disgust and befuddlement. Look, if you wear t-shirts from Threadless, describe yourself as a "spinner of phat old school beats" and you are gonna post photos of your badass star tattoos emblazoned symmetrically at the location of would-be man-lines if you were toned enough to have them, please do not counteract these David-attracting qualities by wearing a yellow rubber, 4 year old Malaysian-produced piece of what is essentially pop culture iconography from 2004 rather than an actual charity donation and that was last current when a certain Tour-de-France-winning, alt-pop-dating, alligator-weekend-bag-looking douchenozzle still had two low hangers. I just can't do that shit.
Ugh. Why can't I just marry Joseph Gordon Levitt and be done with it already? He has such good posture.
I may or may not have just sprained my wrist. "How the eff did a suave guy like you do this, Illustrious D?!" you may ask. "Masturbating," I may reply. This is a lie, but it would be kind of funny. Well, at least it would be if said in person. Maybe. Moving on. In actuality, this tragedy occurred at work as I was filing whilst seated on a stool. I scooched my bum back, miscalculating the surface area of the stool and promptly fell off. At first I was rather miffed that I had so foolishly injured my wrist bone, as it is connected to the arm bone, which is in turn connected to the shoulder bone and everyone knows that is my favourite bone. However, it then dawned on me that the miscalculation of the scooch could be directly accounted to a misperception regarding the size of my ass. By this inference, one could deduce that my ass is growing smaller, thereby making this the most joyous event of my day. Praise be.
In what has shaped up to be a banner week for my romantic life, last night I came across a Manhunt profile for what seemed like a totally nice guy: 24, cute, not anorexia-inducingly trim, DJ, couple of tats and the prettiest eyes you ever did see. However, upon further inspection of his primary profile photo, I noticed that he was sporting a LIVE STRONG bracelet. Let us all issue a collective sigh of disgust and befuddlement. Look, if you wear t-shirts from Threadless, describe yourself as a "spinner of phat old school beats" and you are gonna post photos of your badass star tattoos emblazoned symmetrically at the location of would-be man-lines if you were toned enough to have them, please do not counteract these David-attracting qualities by wearing a yellow rubber, 4 year old Malaysian-produced piece of what is essentially pop culture iconography from 2004 rather than an actual charity donation and that was last current when a certain Tour-de-France-winning, alt-pop-dating, alligator-weekend-bag-looking douchenozzle still had two low hangers. I just can't do that shit.
Ugh. Why can't I just marry Joseph Gordon Levitt and be done with it already? He has such good posture.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Reader poll: When the guy you were kinda seeing gets weird and distant and you stop talking to one another and then you see that he is now oh-so-whimsically "in a relationship" on Facebook with a female friend of his, would "liking" this on your news feed be too passive aggressive?
There is nothing ickier than being blown off my someone you didn't even like all that much in the first place. I need a chemical peel for my heart/genitals.
There is nothing ickier than being blown off my someone you didn't even like all that much in the first place. I need a chemical peel for my heart/genitals.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Last night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I went to see the Broadway tour of Rent. This post is getting a 'Homosaywhat?' tag based on that statement alone. The drawing attraction of this particular production was that it boasted the return of the two original male leads, as well as that huge black woman screaming Cs in Seasons of Love. The guy who played Mark was just as great as he was back in the day/soundtrack/movie and I found myself wanting him sexually despite the fact that he is a 40 year old ginger/albino hybrid. Twould seem that my psychosomatic pattern of abhorring what I've just lost/given up, i.e. teenage Hispanics currently, is in full effect. The other lead guy was, well... okay, follow me here. You know when two people couple up and they begin to take on little mannerisms of the other person that otherwise would be totally unnatural? For example, a girl might begin to drink bourbon or a guy might become a Facebook fan of Glee. Well, it's like this guy was in a loving, committed three-way relationship with a grade 9 drama class and the Swedish Chef from the Muppets. He'd clearly regressed in acting prowess since making the film (and anyone who saw his whole "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" scene can attest that there wasn't a lot to begin with), as well as implementing umlauts on every single vowel he sang. To compound all this sexual tension and fallen idol syndrome, I had to contend with SIJ's justified but still cloying emotional state at losing a friend that she'd known for a minute halfway across the country. If this sounds cold, you try giving a heartfelt mid-performance one-armed hug to a chick wearing a leather sweater. Not easy, people.
And now, as an intermezzo, a brief conversation I had with a colleague at my new job preparing exam materials for paramedic students:
Chatty Colleague: Do you know what defibrillation is?
Illustrious D: Oh yeah. I watch Grey's Anatomy.
CC: I watch House.
ID: Well, uh, there's not a lot of defibrillation on House...
She conceded my point.
Well, that was rousing. Moving on, I think it's safe to say that my foray into seeking new readership outside my real life has been an abject failure (with one noted exception; hollah atchya, B-Town). This is disappointing only because there are some highly followed blogs out there that are absolute shite. Like seriously, straight-porn-watchingly dull. One of my favourite bloggers DCcised recently went all ranty on this subject, while adding his own brand of humorous butt hurt, regarding another écrivain that draws a loyal following somewhat larger than his own and ya know what happened? He received more comments on that post than on any other he's ever written. Now, I enjoy this guy's writing; it has a lovely mix of observational bitchiness and self-deprecation that truly is my bread and butter. However, while I completely empathize with his frustration, calling out a fellow blogger was a bit of a dick move... a dick move that got him 32 muthafukin' comments! Do you know what we can garner from this, children? The gay blogosphere, as in the gay reallifeosphere, loves them some trash talkin' queens duking it out in front of a rapt audience. So I feel that in order to really thrive in this niche, I need not be clever or relatably emo or remotely intriguing; all I gots to do is start calling people out on their shit and wait for the controversy to catapult me to fame (blog rolls) and fortune (monetized ads)! I could be the Kathy Griffin of the homo blogging universe!
Suck it, DCcised! This blog is my god now!!!!!!!!!
And now, as an intermezzo, a brief conversation I had with a colleague at my new job preparing exam materials for paramedic students:
Chatty Colleague: Do you know what defibrillation is?
Illustrious D: Oh yeah. I watch Grey's Anatomy.
CC: I watch House.
ID: Well, uh, there's not a lot of defibrillation on House...
She conceded my point.
Well, that was rousing. Moving on, I think it's safe to say that my foray into seeking new readership outside my real life has been an abject failure (with one noted exception; hollah atchya, B-Town). This is disappointing only because there are some highly followed blogs out there that are absolute shite. Like seriously, straight-porn-watchingly dull. One of my favourite bloggers DCcised recently went all ranty on this subject, while adding his own brand of humorous butt hurt, regarding another écrivain that draws a loyal following somewhat larger than his own and ya know what happened? He received more comments on that post than on any other he's ever written. Now, I enjoy this guy's writing; it has a lovely mix of observational bitchiness and self-deprecation that truly is my bread and butter. However, while I completely empathize with his frustration, calling out a fellow blogger was a bit of a dick move... a dick move that got him 32 muthafukin' comments! Do you know what we can garner from this, children? The gay blogosphere, as in the gay reallifeosphere, loves them some trash talkin' queens duking it out in front of a rapt audience. So I feel that in order to really thrive in this niche, I need not be clever or relatably emo or remotely intriguing; all I gots to do is start calling people out on their shit and wait for the controversy to catapult me to fame (blog rolls) and fortune (monetized ads)! I could be the Kathy Griffin of the homo blogging universe!
Suck it, DCcised! This blog is my god now!!!!!!!!!
Monday, January 18, 2010
I just got yelled at whilst going down an escalator by a homeless schizophrenic ascending adjacent me. For sneezing. I replied that I absolutely adored his happy kitties sweatshirt. This, however, did not placate him.
I started in my new position today, which, if my internet history is any indication, is shaping up to be much like my old position, minus superfluous accesories such as pens or a trash can. It is nice to know that in these troubled times, a cash-strapped government can be fiscally responsible in the rationing of writing utensils and waste recepticles. Consequently, I have decided to adopt my own trash can in the form of my colleague's cubicle. Sorry, Marjorie. Also, my new colleague (32, three kids, nuff said.) asked me about my fly walking style today, with a an apologetic preramble about PC work boundaries that lasted roughly the length of a Schoolhouse Rock episode. Finally, I was just like, "Bitch, I'm gimpy! Deal wit it!" then smiled sweetly and hobbled away.
I'm not sure what's going on with YP, though I'm allowing me to become more convinced that it has little to do with me. He says he's just been feeling out of it for the past week and a half as a result of switching to college-friendly sleep times, i.e. not going to bed at 4am. While this makes sense, I have never understood giving up social/sexy opportunities due to sleepiness. The fact that I would under no circumstance opt to sleep alone given the choice seems to be a sentiment shared only myself while his ability to treat this like what it is - two guys who've known each other a month and have no responsability one another - is infuriating in its rationality. I hope he dies in a fire. No, I hope he sleeps over one more time and then dies in a fire. Minus the fire. Okay, and the one more time. We're currently having a texting war over who is most closely resembles the missing link. I need to have sex so bad.
I started in my new position today, which, if my internet history is any indication, is shaping up to be much like my old position, minus superfluous accesories such as pens or a trash can. It is nice to know that in these troubled times, a cash-strapped government can be fiscally responsible in the rationing of writing utensils and waste recepticles. Consequently, I have decided to adopt my own trash can in the form of my colleague's cubicle. Sorry, Marjorie. Also, my new colleague (32, three kids, nuff said.) asked me about my fly walking style today, with a an apologetic preramble about PC work boundaries that lasted roughly the length of a Schoolhouse Rock episode. Finally, I was just like, "Bitch, I'm gimpy! Deal wit it!" then smiled sweetly and hobbled away.
I'm not sure what's going on with YP, though I'm allowing me to become more convinced that it has little to do with me. He says he's just been feeling out of it for the past week and a half as a result of switching to college-friendly sleep times, i.e. not going to bed at 4am. While this makes sense, I have never understood giving up social/sexy opportunities due to sleepiness. The fact that I would under no circumstance opt to sleep alone given the choice seems to be a sentiment shared only myself while his ability to treat this like what it is - two guys who've known each other a month and have no responsability one another - is infuriating in its rationality. I hope he dies in a fire. No, I hope he sleeps over one more time and then dies in a fire. Minus the fire. Okay, and the one more time. We're currently having a texting war over who is most closely resembles the missing link. I need to have sex so bad.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)