Nice Tits and Good Conversation.

There haven’t been many moments in my life where time stands still and you ask yourself, “how the fuck did I get here.” Last night, in the women’s restroom, as I was reading “fecal face” over the shoulder of a strange girl, I realized that my shirt was slowly being pulled up. Next thing I know, she has her index finger moving up and down in my bosom. And this wasn’t even the craziest part.

The evening began with the LaSassy, Miss Curious, & Jackie-O rendezvous. Walking down the street, I noticed a girl standing in front of the tapas bar. I started to wave, hoping it was her and not some stranger who’s like, “who the fuck are you?” And it was her. We shook hands. We grinned. The conversation was comfortable, and it got even more comfortable when my mouth kept forming the word ‘yes’ when the waitress asked if we wanted another round. The conversation was so good, we decided to carry it to Delirium.

Knowing Jackie-O Marty by her writing alone, it was amazing having her right in front of me. It was like meeting your favorite musician and being able to ask him or her all the questions you’ve ever had about their song lyrics. What you can’t always get from blogging is a person’s tone. It was interesting to hear Jackie-O speak of heavy subjects in a light tone. She’d clearly been to hell and was now back and slightly numb. It was cool to get to “know” her.

After a good number of cocktails, the “I love you’s” and “you’re the best’s” came out. We even had a group hug outside with a homeless man who said he looked like Denzel Washington, and I said, “where are teeth?” In the moment the hug seemed right? Weird.

Back in the bar, I broke the pee seal… back and forth to the bathroom for me. First trip, caught a girl snorting coke. She was nice though, offered me some, I kindly refused. This brings us to the second trip… to the “fecal face” moment….

Coke girl was back in the bathroom with her friend.

“I don’t mean to sound strange, but you have a really nice bust,” I commented to Coke girl.

“Oh my god, thank you so much… I love my boobs. They’re totally real.” She exclaims and without hesitation lifts up her shirt and her bra to expose her pierced nipples and full breasts. “Feel them.”

Somewhat alarmed I say, “um, okay,” and reach for her bare breasts. They were impressive, round, firm. She asked me to feel both, and I did.

Her friend then chimes in, “whatever, my boobs are steel,” and up goes her shirt and her bra. “Feel mine,” she eagerly says.

Again, who am I to deprive, so I felt them to… massaged them really. I thought my breasts weren’t too shabby, but fuck, these girls had some NICE TITS. So there we were standing in the women’s bathroom of Delirium, both girls with their shirts up just chit-chattin’ like women do… and Steel Girl decides to lift my shirt up… no bra though, I wouldn’t have that. She then proceeds to stick her index finger in between my boobs. Up and down and up and down. And for a minute, I was like, “huh, wow, fuck, this girl is touching my boobs and I just touched hers.”

Hm, weird.

And later that night I smooched a bit with some Colorado boy who ended up dancing like a frat boy tryin’ to sandwich me and my girls. Who still does that, c’mon now!?!?

And Jackie-O Marty and LaSassy and I all said our good-byes… and hopefully Jackie-O hasn’t been scared off by the craziness that is Miss Curious. Another night in the life…
(and oh, drunk dialed DV on my way home… asked for sex in a message… one second later he calls back, hm, funny…. “I’m packing to go out of town tomorrow am, but you’re a great fuck, so let’s do that again soon.” I said ok…. I still hate him though.)

Bus Number 5

Second post of the day… I have to write because my cubie-mate / best bud isn’t here to listen to my story!

When I was living in my previous residence, I would occasionally take bus number 5. At times I would see this beautiful – beautiful boy. One of those boys you just want to stare at all day long. He has these brown little curls, a smooth pale complexion, and bright blue eyes. His style is that camouflage green jacket (not coat) with worn jeans look. He carries himself as though he has no idea how beautiful he truly is. Once I saw him at the UPS store next door. Of course, I couldn’t help but grin one of those upper-teeth smiles. He, hm, surprise hasn’t noticed me.

The other day I went back to my old ‘hood and again saw him on the bus. When he got off at his stop, Divisadero, I know this is his stop because I hate knowing we’re almost there and I can’t stare at him anymore… my eyes of course followed him across the street… god, I’m psychotic!!! Anyways, after he got off, I decided to play out a very detailed fantasy in my head.

Knowing that I was going to Delirium last Saturday night, the fantasy began there. Alcohol would be flowing like chocolate milk in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. We’d meet eyes, and he’d say some clichéd line, “hey there, we ride the same bus.” I’d be like, “you ride the 5 too?” (playing it cool)… “I thought you looked familiar,” I’d add as to not make him feel self-conscious and me oblivious. A light banter would ensue… after a few more drinks, we’d make our way to the dance floor. He’d whip-out some hot goofy moves – he’d be a white boy who could actually dance (c’mon this is my fantasy afterall!)… we’d get closer and closer until we could feel our hot breath mingling. And we all know what would happen next. Of course, the fantasy ends with some super unrealistic successful relationship.

Anyways, I’ve never seen him aside from the bus and the UPS store… never out on the town… I have no idea what neighborhood he hangs in, etc. Sooooo, that Saturday night rolls around, and who do I bump into at the bar????!!?!? Yup, my Beautiful Boy (BB)!!!! Naturally, neither of us says a word… and oh, I had the new blond hair… not that he ever noticed me anyway. And, he might be gay, shit! BUT, just now, I bumped into him again… I caught him looking at me… for the 1st time. Weird. I was completely excited, which is why I’m writing this now.

Right now, there are many unanswered questions: Is he Gay? Does he have a girlfriend? Does he like poor dye jobs and freckles?

And then we have the “love from afar”… reality never matching the fantasy in your head. Do I want to know the answers? Or do I want to hang on to my lil’ fantasies? I suppose I don’t have much choice, so fantasy-dom it is. Unless the fates prove otherwise!

Strange and Beautiful

So, kinda crazy... tomorrow, LaSassy and I will be meeting Jackie-O for the first time. How we connected??? Solely through the Internet/Blogging... I'm a bit surprised that I am experiencing nervous feelings, hm, weird. Thus far, we know one another based on words... we have expectations of what the other person is going to be like, sound like, look like... and we'll certainly adjust... but for now the unknown is strange and beautiful :).

I'll let y'all know how it goes.

And It Was... Yellow

“Yellow” is what my Grandpa says when he answers the phone.
The letters ‘Discount Building Supplies’ are Yellow.
Yellow is the name of a Coldplay song.

I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow

Yellow is the shade my teeth are slowly becoming.
Yellow is the frickin’ legal pad I write on all day.
In Sin City, they bled… Yellow.
Yellow are my parents’ eyes when they had hepatitis.

Yellow should NOT be the color of my hair.

As Picasso had his blue period, I suppose I am now having my Yellow period.

Since I’ve been dying my hair permanent black for so long, this yellow phase on my way to platinum is to be expected. But still, it hurts… just a bit. Four long weeks it will be before I can re-dye my cabeza. Right now, it slightly, well, maybe not so slightly, resembles straw… feels like straw, looks like straw… sometimes I think, “hey maybe it is straw?!”

Already self-conscious about taking the hair out on the town, I stepped out my front door to be greeted by a middle-aged drunk man who asked, “how much?” It couldn’t have been provocative clothing because I was wearing a high-necked long sleeve black vintage top with jeans and flat shoes… nothing hoochie about it.

In conclusion, it was the Yellow hair… apparently my Yellow period is also my Tramp period. Cool. Patience, April, patience. I will not, however, have patience beyond 4 weeks… action will be taken. If I bleach it again and Platinum does not prevail and/or my hair falls out, it’s going blue or purple. Once the blue or purple fade, it’s SHAVE city for me. I’m thinkin’ not a full shave – maybe a mini-mohawk? We shall see, but I have to get excited about other prospects should this quest for Platinum from Onyx brutally fail.

Did Luther Vandross Write This?

Jackie-O inspired the thoughts below.

There haven’t been many men in my life that I’ve wanted to possess, and I mean that word exactly, possess. There is one in particular, the most recent, that I look back on with fond memories.

The first time I saw him (let’s call him the “bartender”) all those cheesey things that you hear in love songs happened to me… my heart skipped a beat, time stood still, I couldn’t breathe… you know. I watched him from afar. My eyes would be fixated upon him. His hands, I loved how his hands looked as they rested upon the bar. I wanted those hands on me. His small scar, I wanted to know everything about it. I wanted to trace its curves and know its story.

I remember meeting eyes with the bartender for the first time. He looked into me, straight into me. It was startling. I then watched how he looked at others. Did he look straight into them too? When he smiled at them, I’d get angry because I wanted that smile all to myself. I didn’t want anyone else to see what was mine. I could feel my skin getting hotter.

And so I start quoting silly song lyrics because this is how I felt:

Wish I could bend my love to hate [him]
Wish I could be his creator
That he could hold my heart so tightly
And still not see me here…

Ownership… I wanted to own him.

Then one day, sitting at the bar with a guy friend, this guy friend asks me, “hey, do you know that guy?” Pointing at the bartender.

“No why?” I replied.

“I don’t know. He just looks like he wants to kill me is all.”

“Huh, weird.”

And then, he noticed me. He introduced himself and said he hadn’t seen me around for a while.

Surprised, I say, “I imagine you meet a lot of people… I’m surprised you remember me.”

He grins and says nothing. This is where our, how shall I say it, interaction perhaps, begins. I go a few more times, and he starts buying me all my drinks. Then one evening, he got off early and came and sat with me. Could I speak? Of course not. Here was this guy that I’ve held in my head, I’ve watched, fantasized about… had physical reactions when in sight… and he was sitting next to me now, talking with my friends… AND looking at me.

We then walked to a bar nearby, and I linked my arm with his. I remember the warmth of his forearm as if my arm were touching it now. And we kissed. And it was one of those moments you want to be held in forever. And it’s bitter sweet because you know the kiss is going to be over sometime. And maybe there won’t ever be one again, so you keep kissing… and oh god, it hurts to kiss him. And why hasn’t he been kissing me forever. And why have his lips touched anyone else’s but mine… because they are mine. I want to own them too. But these things end… these kisses. These end.

Later that night, he came over. He was in my room. His clothes were on my floor. He slept beside me. I could look over and see him there beside me. His warm body, beside me, in my bed. In my bed. And in the morning when we woke, he wrapped his arms and legs around me. I couldn’t look at him. I could only look at his fingers intertwined with my own. The image of his fingers is still vividly etched upon my heart. The second he left my bed I wanted him back there. Would he ever be back there? Would his warm body and slow breathing ever lie beside me again?

I went back to the bar days later. And his clothes were never found on my floor again. And I’d drink his free drinks at his bar, a meager replacement. And I hated any girl that ever had more than a kiss. And I hated everyone at the bar that got to hear his voice. And I couldn’t have him. I could only have a taste of what I was missing. My mouth was left so unsatisfied. I was left wanting so much more. And he’d walk by me at the bar and sometimes he’d look at me and sometimes he wouldn’t… and I noticed every detail. I could hardly breath.

I've grown tired of love
You are the trouble with me
I watch you walk right by
I smile, you do not notice me
Treat me recklessly
All you do is toss me pennies out
But the silence in me is screaming
Won't you come and get me

It’s funny now that time has passed, and I’ll think of him on occasion and the feeling isn’t the same. But I know that feeling can exist. That intense longing for someone. Such a suffocating longing. And where that feeling for him went, who knows. It’s gone now. And I’m happy and I’m sad… and I can only hope that one day I will find someone to hold me in his kiss forever.

Well Fuck Me

Do I smell? Have foul breath? What is it? Everyone seems to be ignoring me today. The colorist, she still hasn’t called. I left her a message this morning because I didn’t hear from her yesterday. And nada… I mean, c’mon now… I’m sitting here wondering the fate of my hair, hahaha!!

Then, I have this bright idea to email Stupid Boy. Wish I hadn’t done that… he still hasn’t emailed my back. That’s so lame! Distractions where are you??? I’m finally catching up with work and slowly getting my new apartment all fixed up, so now I’m about to regress to boy craziness… I need a project… and fast… hair-dying will work for a minute, but then what?!?! I’m left with myself?!?! That’s fucking scary!!!

It’s just one of those days where you’re like, “hey Midge, email me, so I know it’s working… and while you’re at it, call me too, so I know my frickin’ phone works” Crazy shit! Where the fuck is everybody? Okay, fine, it’s just 2 peeps. I think the lack of sleep from the past couple of weekends is making me nuts. I should do something about that.

It's A Small World Afterall

I get bored easily. This we know. Now that my move is coming to a rest, I have to dye my hair. Change – change – change… it’s the name of MissCurious’ game.

A friend of mine recommended a great colorist. I’m trying to go from your regular black-hair-dyer to platinum, not easy. Last night, she took a chunk of my hair for the test run. Today, I eagerly await the results. Will I be able to bleach my full head? Or will I have to settle on some funky-ass highlights? My ears attentively wait for the low vibrate of my cell phone, so I can hopefully begin to say Adios to crap-black hair.

Now for the Small world part – sitting in the salon I see a lil’ sticker Sacred Rose Tattoo, http://www.sacredrosetattoo.com/home.html.

April reading aloud, “Sacred Rose Tattoo. Get your tattoo’s done there?”

New colorist, “Actually, I played in a band with the owner.”

April, without thinking (surprise), “oh, [insert owner name here]”

Colorist, “Oh do you know her?”

April, now thinking oh shit, I don’t even know her, but I know of her and how I know of her reveals what a psycho chick I am, “Um, no… I just used to date someone she did.”

Colorist, “Really, who?”

April --- oh fuck oh fuck, I’m such a dork – “um, just this guy DV.”

Colorist, “No way… I cut his hair too… wild.”

April --- of course she cuts his hair, now I’m uber-lame and knowing my luck, he’ll find out that I brought him up over some stupid bumper sticker – “haha, funny… small world.”

The night I met DV, he had been telling me how he’d just had his haircut, hmm same person?… another psychotic connection from MissWayTooCuriousSheShouldKeepHerMouthShut…. And by the way DV designed that website… but whatever, he’s sooo old news.

Ode to Night'n'Vegas

From San Francisco, New York, and LA
Did all the sorority girls arrive in a day
The destination, Sin City
And did they take it on without a pity

Margaritas by the yard
These girls making it look anything but hard
Drunk by seven
Nine more drinks would make it heaven

In room seven eighty-three
The girls loaded up on drinks that were free
Spilling vodka in Amber’s purse
April telling jokes that couldn’t get worse
Off to the hotel club Risque
Where all the girls certainly got frisk-ay.

And oh wait who’s that in VIP
Same girl who later that night none of us did see
And the Next morning she lost her pants
They were somewhere in Paris, France

The morning after, what a sight
Dehydration and lethargy we sure did fight
At 18, 19, and twenty
We could drink a plenty
At 24, 25, and twenty-six
Way too many things to fix

But troopers were sure were
And hoped to make this night quite a blur
Off to the club at hotel Wynn
For the usual drinks spiked with Sin
Amber brought out air guitar
While others danced to Toxic on the way to the bar

The night wore on…
And while some were already gone…
Oh no, look at Deitz on that couch
Tip, tip, crash, crack, oooo ouch
Legs bare up in the air
All liquored up, without a care
Then she switched the long island iced tea
With a saline filled IV
Thanks to Anye and Linz for assisting the porcelain queen
Luckily their lack of sleep didn’t make ‘em mean

Sunday, battered and beat
Some weathered the heat
While others were off to the spa
For massages and all that la, la, la
We recounted memories of the old days
When the night before wasn’t such haze

Dinner at PF Chang’s for Chow Fun and an Asian Pear Mojito
Then outside for the group Labia photo
More drinking, craps, and black jack
Anything in our last night we could possibly pack

Monday morning, the alarms rang
And boy did our heads bang
We all made it to the airport okay
Laughing at the scandals of our stay
And so we look forward to next year
With excitement and now even fear!

Please Share Your Favorite Weekend DJ Names:

DJ Where’re My Pants?
DJ Air Guitar (back from her hiatus)
DJ Hos-Pi-TALL
DJ Nail Down the Couch Next Time
DJ Did You Get Your Boobs Rubbed Too?
DJ Poot, What Was That?
DJ Crap
DJ Dealin’ With You
DJ Labia
DJ……

You Have Got to be Kidding Me!?!?!

The black eye-shadow finally caught up with me, and today, I feel like shit. Knowing that I have my big Vegas trip this weekend, I’ve been trying to go to sleep early every night. Despite my efforts to counter last weekends move and birthday gatherings, here I am finding my torso closer and closer to the screen because I just can’t hold myself up.

Odwalla ‘Wellness’ and ‘Mo’ Beta’ bottles are sprinkled across my desk in hopes of kicking this illness in the ass. I’m pretty “pissed” – that word just seems funny to use in writing, but there’s no better word to describe how I feel. Okay, I’ll just keep drinking liquids and again, I’ll go to sleep early… and if I wake in the morning still weaker than a grandma with a broken hip, I’ll put myself on a Sudafed fucking drip.

One of the planning linz’s or laura's, can we look into wheel chairs with drink holders and long straws for my Bloody Mary’s?

Low-down on Vegas next Tuesday!!!

Do I Detect Optimism?

There’s something about wearing black eye-shadow that gives a girl some serious confidence. Friday and Saturday nights I had this serious confidence. I had those moments at a bar where you suddenly pause and see through the cloud of smoke and your vodka tonic goggles focus and you realize you’re stoked to be where you are with the people who are there… and the music that is playing.

Yes, not one but two nights of good times… not to mention some serious moving and shopping… I used every last bit of energy I had in my heart and my soul. Good move – good peeps – good fun.

And this coming weekend, oh shit, off to Vegas for all of this all over again and I couldn’t be happier…. And happy with no boys nor the prospect of any… just happy to know the folks that I do and have the opportunities that I have… and to for a few moments realize that hey, I’m okay… in fact, I’m fucking rad… and thanks to whatever force I can’t understand for bringing me these rad times.

Celebrity Obsession.

Celebrity idolatry is for teens. Then why is it that I have to do everything in my power to stop myself from plastering my wall in Trent Reznor posters? I thought my days were over as an obsessive fan… thought it had ended when Billy Corgan (of the Smashing Pumpkins) and I didn’t get married on my eighteenth birthday.

But now here I am again, 8 years later google’ing everything I can possibly find on Trent Reznor… now, I’ve read hundreds of interviews, and I’m in love. They say he’s lonely, and he cries after shows… and all I want to do is rescue him and have him rescue me. And wow, what archaic forms of love – that whole rescue bit.

Anyways, to let you know how ridiculous I really am… I look for things in his interviews to hold onto – some reason it might not work with the two of us (as if we really had a chance) – for instance, he wants to act at some point. Lame. Please Trent, leave the acting to the Paris Hilton’s of the world. Secondly, he’s not into smoking weed… not that I’m a huge smoker, but I like it on occasion. Sooo, you see, I hold onto these paltry quirks of his as to not ruin my real life with my fantasies…

And how interesting it is that I have this acute self-awareness… that here I am a young adult who recognizes her delusions and her masochistic ways… and I live my life watching myself fall into these fantasies and watching myself go after boys I know aren’t for me (if I had them, wouldn’t want ‘em), just so I can feel the pain of longing, of unrequited love, and blah fucking blah blah blah.

Man, I’m nuts, and some days I’d like to be normal (again, whatever that is)… but most of the time, this is okay. I have faith that one day I will replace Trent Reznor with someone real… and that real person won’t want to act and will smoke weed.

Bitter Part Deux

That last post as one may or may not guess was very liberating. Although its caustic tone may lead one to believe that I still feel like an ass, on the contrary, I feel rather empowered. As Stupid Boy reminded me the other day, “the world is fucked up and beautiful all at once,” and this carries true with the woman that I am. I embrace all my faults however fucked up they are… I don’t claim to know shit… okay, that’s a bit of a lie… I do claim one thing: no one knows shit. It just happens to be a lil’ pet peeve of mine when people try to act like they somehow know so fucking much… all I want to do is shake their lil’ fucked up asses and tell, “puhleeeaaaze… spare me asshole… you know just as little as me!”

And I’ll reach a point where I’m completely unaffected by DV, certainly. As for now, I needed that rant!

Hadn't Realized I Was So Fucking Bitter

Let’s get back to that ex-sex (as Jackie-O calls it)… sometimes a great thing and sometimes sooo wrong. In retrospect, I wish I’d never picked up the phone and called him, DV that is. The entire evening with him is still a bit of blur, which helps… but I’m still left feeling soo fucking small. Yes, he has this tendency to make me feel like a fucking child.

I just want to scream, “Don’t Sweetie, Honey-baby me!!! Fuck you!!!” He has this beautiful ability to belittle my ass… as though he knows what he’s doing… as though he’s soo fucking mature and knows all the fucking secrets to life… and that I suck because I don’t get all worked up about boy bands being more successful than neil diamond… you know what I frankly don’t give a shit… there’s a lotta shit that just doesn’t matter…

I mean fuck… DV if there are answers, write a goddamn book because as far as I’m concerned we’re all fucking disasters… no one has a fucking clue… no one’s doing anything fucking right… we’re all completely wrong… so don’t act like your wrong is better than mine… I mean c’mon we all spend our days over-analyzing this and that… trying to make friends and keep friends and find the perfect job with co-workers that we don’t need to talk about shit about… and we all read our horoscopes and skip the health and career sections to go straight to love because we think a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a husband or a wife will answer all our fucking problems…

DV, I’m going to have problems and do stupid shit and drunk dial and talk non-stop and eat too much or smoke too much and say I’m going to do something and never do it… I’m going to do all these silly fucked up things over and over and over again… and don’t give me your fucking clichés of “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger honey-baby”… give me a break dude… why do I have to be stronger? Sometimes I’m weak and sometimes I’m strong, who the fuck cares… show me what’s really behind some strong bitch --- probably some profoundly bitter and hurt and depressed man or woman… and I have that part of me too… and I’m inconsistent, but hey I’m awake today… I’m at work today… and I have friends and I like my co-workers, a lot.

And so maybe none of this makes sense and I don’t make sense and life doesn’t make sense… so please don’t give me your little lectures and pretend like everything makes sense to you, and I just need to grow the fuck up… I’m never going to grow up… I’m just not… so just go fuck yourself…and I’ll just continue fucking up as royally as I can.