Sorry about the blog meltdown there guys, sometimes I guess that shit just can’t be helped. Actually, it could be helped if I backed up my blog myself & quit relying on anyone else to do it. We were able to restore some shit, and other stuff I pulled off Google cache… so aside from comments everything should be as it was. Let me know if I somehow missed something, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

I just got back from six days in Long Island, which was pretty much amazing in every was possible aside from the fact that I never knew subways smelled so strongly of urine. That must be the hazard of growing up somewhere with essentially no public transit.

Last night while in the grocery store I saw Henry Rollins and almost peed myself. No seriously, I know people say that all the time but I almost lost control of my bladder. I can’t help but be fascinated by someone I see as comfortable with his own inner rage towards society at large… not to mention able to handle being lonely. I didn’t say hello, or try to initiate conversation because I’m sure he really just wanted to buy some food and get the fuck out of there. This is definitely better than when I awkwardly ran into Davey Havok at Starbucks earlier this year (literally). Maybe living in Hollywood isn’t that bad if it means throwing myself down aisles of the supermarket to avoid making an ass of myself in front of people I actually have some semblance of respect for in this town.

While we’re talking about respect, I think this may be the best article about Sarah Palin that I have come across online. I don’t care about how badly you want a woman somewhere in the White House (aside from being a First Lady, I suppose) please tell me people aren’t stupid enough to believe this woman is in any way going to appropriately look out for the women of this cunt-ry. Oh look, I made a punny!

Oh hi. I shot for GodsGirls last month and this is the first set to go live. I shot for a full day so this isn’t the last of the epic new shit of me you will see. Peter got this bright idea that he wanted to shoot me in a POV porn style… I’ve gotta say I’m pretty impressed with the results.

Of course he was impressed when I put my leg up over my head so I could put my heel in my mouth…

This is an ideal time to use my affiliate link to join GodsGirls. You can look at my vag, and the 400+ others available to you on the site. Pussy galore!

… fuck I’m a sexy bitch.

It has to be something beautiful if everything hurts, right?

Me: do me a favor and read this
Farhaad: hahahahahahahah
Me: i mean, i want to be offended
Me: but the guy is funny
Farhaad: no, i think its cause you know men really are better than women
Me: probably, i hold no illusions of grandeur
Me: this is why i want to be a housewife instead of pretending i have some dream involving a career and “making it on my own”…
Me: because then that dissolves into breeding and housewifery anyway
Farhaad: ahaha
Me: it’s like cutting out the middle man, really

I realize all my female friends might hate me, but I really think I’m spot-on with this business. (Not like very many women aspire to be my friend, because honestly I am fairly intolerable for most chicks to deal with.)

If you laughed even a little bit at the first story maybe you can stomach my other two personal favorites… “why women hate sex” and “feminism is a business“.

While we’re on the subject of all the ways in which I routinely prove myself to think women have no value, allow me to show you a sneak peek from one of my new sets for GodsGirls.

Yes, I took off my clothes for money. Yes, that is an affiliate link because being this awesome doesn’t pay for itself. I’m not sure if I can continue to crack jokes about how I’m a woman and just want to sponge off of you considering this post’s proximity to one about my desire to get married.

Hmm…

That’s it, I have no more interest in dating. Dating is fucking stupid and a waste of time. I’m husband hunting from here on out. Here is my list of demands, they are all non-negotiable:

1.) Be willing to tolerate my exceptionally bad taste in music.
To give you the heads-up, this may include listening to any of the following: crooners like Amy Winehouse, senseless rap music like Lil Wayne, foreign quasi-obscure punk like Millencolin, shit that I have to look up the lyrics to like Dance Gavin Dance, drum & bass to help me feel youthful, and Lucero because I’m just midwestern enough that I’m practically required to listen to them.

2.) Do not own/wear girl pants.
I’m sorry, but usually the guys in girl pants are skinnier than I am and that will give me some kind of weird complex. I’m too old to develop an eating disorder or become a health fanatic. My fat means I can go an extra week or two without a steady supply in food. However this will never be a problem because…

3.) No more starving artists.
Can’t provide? Cannot wed and/or bed me. I’m sorry, I don’t expect to live like a queen but you should be able to go halfsies at all time. Of course, I’d really prefer if I find a male outfitted with the rugged need to be a provider. Real men are breadwinners. (Feminism is not for me, obviously.)

4.) Please do not already have or intend on making babies.
I can’t say I’m 100% sure that I never want to bear children, but now is not the time in my life to be breeding. I want adventures and to not have to share my (future) husband(s) with some screaming, obnoxious bundle. Cats are a perfectly acceptable alternative.

5.) Have the rare ability to keep your dick in your pants.
You wouldn’t think that would be so hard to come by, but it is. And no, that isn’t just because I live in California.n It’s gotten very old to constantly have reason to believe you’re fucking someone else. It’s especially awful because more often than not those “hunches” turn out to be right.

6.) Please be able to cook–WELL.
Secret: I cannot cook to save my life. I can bake, but that doesn’t help much when I want dinner and the best I can do is a PB&J. I’m not even capable of making a grilled cheese sammich without burning it. The survival of our taste buds rests in your hands! (Also, this is essential to the maintenance of my camel-like lovehandles.)

7.) For the love of all that is holy, do not be submissive to me.
I’ll be the first to tell you that I’m a complete asshole. You have to be able to fight with me without getting offended–but without letting me win. Don’t let me push you around or I will take advantage of you without realizing it. Having balls is perfectly acceptable; please use them!

8.) Be an awesome lay.
I can’t marry you if I’m not constantly trying to figure out ways to get you to fuck me in inappropriate places. The extent of our marital bliss is directly linked to my vaginal satisfaction. Period.

9.) No emotionally incapacitated twats.
I am female, and I am emotional. There’s a whole 5-8 days where I might tell you I hate you. Just give me chocolate, fuck me in the shower, and hold when I’m crying over absolutely nothing. This isn’t rocket science.

10.) Please do not be something I wouldn’t want to tell my mother about.
This is a multi-level requirement. Be physically attractive enough that I will not be too ashamed to post pictures of us together on my public Myspace. Don’t be terribly socially awkward. Have an internal censor when we’re around my family. Under no circumstances tell your friends about what happened after I had my eighth shot of Jack Daniel’s and dragged you home.

There! I only want 10 things out of my future mate–what a puny list in comparison to most women I know. If you or someone you know fits the profile of my future husband, please let me know. From there we can exchange photos and discuss living arrangements! And for the record, I’m kinda cute so this list of demands really shouldn’t be that off-putting.

Amidst the pages of Lolita I found an eloquent explanation of how women seek in a mate what they have seen in their father.

The normal girl is usually extremely anxious to please her father. She feels in him the forerunner of the desired elusive male… the girl forms her ideals of romance and of men from her association with her father.

For years I have wondered what it is I’ve seen in the males I’ve found myself dating. All are prone to lying, cheating, and somehow tricking me into funding such behavior (be it financially or by giving some signal that what they were doing was acceptable). But now that my father is revealed for what he truly is—a shady character spending his time pouring his energy into stupid internet bullshit instead of his relationship with his family—everything is clear to me. I spent years wondering how it was I came across so many horrible boyfriends and love interests when my father was (in my mind) an upstanding individual that put his family first and loved his wife wholeheartedly. I believe there was a point in time where yes, that was an appropriate way of defining my dad.

Five years ago that man went into hibernation, which I find to be no coincidence when this is about the time when my truly flawed choices in partners began. The man I know now is incapable of accepting responsibility for his part in my parents’ now-failed relationship. His behavior is so purely adolescent and selfish that it comes as little surprise that my parents are now on the brink of a very ugly divorce.

Around the time I was 18 or 19 I had to choose between being there for my family during serious illness and pursuing my own future plans; I chose my family. At the time I was able to dismiss the fact that I was giving up so much: going to a “real” college to pursue my degree, losing almost all of my friends since I was constantly monitoring a sick person & looking after my younger brother, having to take a low-paying job and move back in at home so that I could have a schedule flexible enough to have to stay home for days on end at the drop of a hat. I did all of this because your family is supposed to be the one thing you can absolutely count on no matter what. My family didn’t give up on me when I was getting into legal trouble, on the brink of expulsion, and suffering from substance abuse problems in my youth—what kind of person would that make me if I bailed ship when they needed me?

Right now I think I may have made the wrong decision.

All along I have been seeking out men just like my father—I just didn’t realize what kind of “man” (we’re using that term loosely here) my father is/was. It’s not that I didn’t recognize that I was dating jerks, more that I didn’t make the mental connection that these men I was dating were every bit as childish in their behavioral patterns as my father. What frightens me now that I have come to terms (or at least acknowledged) these similarities is the thought that I will continue to seek out these infantile excuses for full-grown providers. I will go on looking for positive qualities in people incapable of fulfilling the responsibilities associated with the role I mentally assign them to.

Now I lay in bed alone at night and wonder if I will wind up marrying a man like my father that will wind up wounding me like my mother.

SCREEN NAME OMITTED (10:45:18 PM): i want you to be taken care of because I know I won’t always be around, so having a rich guy in your life would give me peace of mind

Messages like this make me wonder what my friends all say about me when I’m not around.

[edit] To conclude my jeans-related drama, I had to spend money for a new pair of pants. I hate being tall and having twig legs with a bubble butt when it comes time to shell out for denim. So while I have replaced my pants, I do not have money for groceries.

That sucks. Please help feed a starving scenester by donating via Amazon.
[/edit]

I moved to Hollywood, and last night my new roommates forced me to go out… to a “16+” (read: they only check your ID if you’re trying to get alcohol) dance club. I proceeded to get slightly drunk but mostly just sweaty while I danced my ass off.

I will probably use this photo of the three of us on my Christmas cards:

Of course nothing can be awesome in my world without something completely lame happening. Here’s the letter I plan on sending to a particular clothing manufacturer’s headquarters.

Dear J Brand Jeans,

You know, when I first met you I have to say I was hesitant because of your $175 price tag. But after I strode out of the dressing room with my ass lookin’ so fat you could see it from the front, I was in love. I swore of all others but you, J-brand. My sole pair of jeans, you were tight in all the right places and more than long enough to rock a small cuff when those punk rock high school memories became so strong.

So can you please tell me what the fuck happened last night J-brand? Why one moment you were a cohesive dark piece of jean material sent from heaven to make me look extra-super-good and the next THE ENTIRET CROTCH SEAM RIPPED APART!?!? I’m not sure what I did to offend you but it was very embarrassing, your seamline split from next to the zipper that went down almost until my knee.

How could you do this to me? I mean, I always went that extra mile to hang you up to dry instead of casually throwing you in the dryer and mistakenly shrinking you like I have with so many other pairs of jeans that have come into my life. I did not launder you too frequently, and had a really nice bottle of Febreeze I would spray you down with prior to going out with friends so as not to offend their delicate senses of smell–I mean, I really did do everything I possibly could for you!

And how do you thank me? By slowly being worn out from my gentle brand of love? NAY! By abandoning me in my hour of need! (1AM or so, to be exact.)

:’( I thought we were at least frenz, J-brand. Now I know differently.

I have a sneaking suspicion American Rag is not going to give two fucks that the jeans I have only owned for three months tops mysteriously had the crotch seam rip clean apart–regardless of the fact that these are the most expensive pants I have ever own in my life.

I was walking when I realized a) there was a slight draft on my inner right thigh and b) everyone was staring at my crotch. Then embarrassment struck, and seeing how it was almost closing time anyway my roommates took pity on me and agreed to head home. I’m so glad I wasn’t wearing my Hello Kitty rainbow underwear.

Usually I’m a bit anti-ginger, but after watching “Dexter” compulsively for the past week I think Michael C. Hall and I should get it on.

Of course, we’re only doing “it” if he sets up some kind of of PA system with him doing voice-overs in character like he does on TV.

No seriously, I’ve been keeping my eye on this sucker for a while and it comes out next month. A mere $70 and I will own a book full of cock.

If you’re interested in scoping it out/figuring out if you want a copy, check out the Taschen website. If you’re nice and want to purchase it for me, that would also be rad.