Talk makes a quick turn to recent American Idol castoff, Tim Urban. Not the best singer of the bunch, but we both kinda like the guy. He has a great smile, really nice hair, and I for one, love his teeth. And he’s a pretty decent singer. I like his music and his voice. It’s chill music.

Naturally, we talk about the ones we like (Lee, Siobhan, Crystal) and the one we don’t like (Aaron?). We both decide the kid’s the odd one of the bunch. The only mainstream one. The other AI contestants seem to have found their niche, but the kid’s just… just… mainstream. I mean, it’s a niche, albeit a boring one sometimes. :p

I tell J.Arthur, Aaron should’ve played it smart. Be like Justin Bieber. That was a joke.

I don’t know much about Bieber and I don’t listen to his music. I know what he looks like though. I saw him on MTV when I was making my way to the office pantry. I remember telling my boyfriend, G. James — “Oh cool! A young lesbian. It’s about time.” We then started reminiscing about K.D. Lang and Tracy Chapman…

J.Arthur expresses his dislike for Bieber and asks whether or not Gaga is still big in the Philippines. Aye, I say. Telephone’s still got me hooked and I still shake my sizable booteh to Bad Romance. He says Gaga’s big in the US still, but that he predicts it’s Ke$ha’s year, and I agree.

Talk meanders and veers straight into Taylor Momsen’s neighborhood. I tell J.Arthur, not a fan of the kid. Kid’s pretty, fashion-forward, and talented (at least, musically). But at 16, she’s already so… gone? I don’t know the right word. I mean, it’s cool that she knows what she wants and that she’s doing something for herself, but there’s too much of everything going on there, you know? Too much lipstick, too much eyeliner, too much mess, too little pants. Can’t help but think that she tries too hard.

I’ve listened to a song or two of Pretty Reckless, Momsen’s band. And they’re pretty good. Reminded me a teensy-bit of Hole. Super teensy, mind you. But apparently Ms. Momsen wants nothing to do with Courtney Michelle (Love–my personal hero). According to Momsen, she looks up to Nirvana, she doesn’t look up to Hole. Strange comment. Could be true, but if I were compared to Courtney Love, I’d be thrilled.  I’d be honored. I mean, Hole was a great band. She goes on to say that she wants to be like Kurt Cobain. Nothing wrong with that. I think most kids and a number of adults who love rock wants to be the next Cobain, but…

I can’t get over the dismissal of C.Love. I mean, no out-there bashing was involved. But can’t you say something other than “Hole’s records are great…but” or something to that effect? Because as far as I see, Pretty Reckless still has some ways to go before they get to the level of Hole in the early 90s. I don’t know.

Rant continues for a few more minutes. Then J.Arthur tells me about the Arizona Anti-Immigration Bill. Okay. I don’t live in the US and I have no plans of moving there. My last visit was the three weeks I spent in New York last month (vacation). But I got nowhere near Arizona, though I’ve always wanted to visit the place. Seriously rethinking that now.

I’m sure there’s a good reason why people would want to pass a bill that could potentially open up doors for racial profiling, but… it could potentially OPEN UP DOORS TO RACIAL PROFILING. I mean, isn’t that scary? Every non-American walking the streets of Arizona CAN be stopped by the police. And if the person didn’t have his/her papers with him/her…what then?

Think it might be the perfect time to play “What’s Going On” on loop in my head today. (Four Non Blondes for you young ‘uns.)

I feel like an onion, slowly shedding its skin. Layers and layers of youthful arrogance and invincibility, of character and personality peel off like an overcoat. Shakes off yesteryear’s rebellious streak, like raindrops on a newly-formed leaf.

To fit in, one must be stripped bare of all put-ons, barriers, teenage rebellions, and pretense. Ah, but what’s left after that? A blank canvas. Never mind, a new wardrobe should add a touch of color, somehow. Anything unsightly can be removed with laser, wax, and tons of treatment. Money spent will be well worth it. After all, looks are almost everything.

Are you wearing denim jeans without a belt? Sacrilege! Feel shame because of your tremendous fashion faux-pas. Still stuck wearing leggings? Unacceptable. You’re a few seasons behind, my dear. But we can fix, fix, fix you. It’s going to take a lot of work, but once we’re done, you won’t recognize yourself.

Unpainted face? Tsk tsk. There must be a way to hide those spots, blemishes, and fine lines. (Botox as panacea.) While you may work hard, that’s no reason to let your looks slide. About that fuzz on your face you call your eyebrows? Some threading should do the trick. While we’re at it, let’s go for the entire face. Once you feel your baby-soft skin, you’ll thank me for it. No suing for future breakouts though.

Your hairline’s too low. We’ll move it back half an inch. A little laser and threading, a lot of pain—worth it in the end, I tell you. We’re almost done with your transformation. You’ll be radiant. Except for that skin.

You can’t possibly be happy with the skin you’re in. But no worries, we can cure that with some whitening pills. Sure, they might hurt you in the long run, but the “long run” is yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaars away.

How about a nose lift while we’re at it? What?! You’re a size 4? Two years of a liquid diet should set your figure straight. About those breasts… they’re underdeveloped. Luckily, some silicon should fix that problem easily… I can cure you, I swear. Just fork over your credit card and spend the rest of your life paying for your good looks. Small price to pay, right? Right? RIGHT?

<mobile rings twice>

BOY: *ahem* Hello?

GIRL: *mhmm* Hi.

BOY: Hey—

GIRL: Uhm… yeah. Listen—

BOY: I just had this AWESOME dream about you last—

GIRL: LISTEN! We need to talk.

BOY: Uh oh. Is this bad?

GIRL: No… I mean, yes, but no. I mean, it’s good AND bad—

BOY: You don’t want to put out on Valentine’s day? I thought we already talked about this. EVERYONE’S doing it—

GIRL: I don’t really want to talk about that right now! I’m sorry for shouting, it’s just that—

BOY: Look, we had a deal. I meet your parents, you put out V-day. This is SO unfair!

GIRL: It’s not about that! Look, can we meet up?

BOY: *whew* So you’re putting out?

GIRL: Seriously!

<hangs up>

BOY: Hello? Hellooooo!!!

<2 hours later>

BOY: Hey! I brought you chocolates. Well I ate three, but I left you *counts* one, two. Two more pieces.

GIRL: Wow. Thanks. *deadpan* Look, about what we talked about—

BOY: Yeah. About that. If you want to put out on Prom instead of V-day, look, I’m cool with that. I mean, it’s just a few days after Prom, right? I know, no need to thank—

GIRL: Jesus!

BOY: Let’s not put the Good Lord’s name in vai—

GIRL: *breathes deeply* Listen—

BOY: I mean, I realize YOUR family doesn’t go to church often, but mine does and—

GIRL: LISTEN!

BOY: No need to shout. Jeez.

GIRL: I’m sorry.

BOY: You should be.

GIRL: I said I’m sorry.

BOY: Yeah, well I said you should be.

<awkward silence>

GIRL: I can’t take this anymore. Listen, this isn’t working out…

BOY: What?

GIRL: I think we need time apart to figure things out… like for at least three years, or something—

BOY: WHAT?

GIRL: I’m sorry.

BOY: This is totally unfair! Is it the skidmarks? Coz my dad says it’s norm—

GIRL: Ohhh ewww!

BOY: All guys have that—

GIRL: No, it’s not the skidmarks or your questionable hygiene—

BOY: Well, will you put out at least tonight? Like, for breaking my heart or something?

GIRL: Jesus!

BOY: Hey! Watch your mouth!

GIRL: Get out! Ewww… gross…

<5 minutes later>

<on the phone>

BOY: Dude, she dumped me.

BOY 2: Did she put out?

BOY: No man, what a b*t^h!

BOY 2: Bummer. Pornfest?

BOY: Yeah, thanks.

<simultaneously happening>

<on the phone>

GIRL: I broke up with him.

GIRL 2: About time.

GIRL: He thought it was the skidmarks.

GIRL 2: Skidmarks… Ewww!

GIRL: Iknoerite.

The lost Summer, once found

is slow in its awakening.

The sun, half-asleep

opens one eye — lazy

and pregnant with Spring’s promise.

Every creature rediscovers its limbs

as if newborn. Mouthless and in awe

of morning.

All the gray of Winter,

asleep through Spring,

retreats at the break of dawn.

Heat travels in all corners,

touching long-barren landscapes,

encouraging the ripened earth to burst–

an outpouring of color.

The sun, in its full strength

commands a change.

All things made new by the past seasons,

regain life under the sun’s gaze.

(21 years of Autumns and Winters,

False Springs that bore no fruit — before

You discovered Summer.

And now, though the season

shifts in the far horizon,

Your Sun knows no rest or retreat.)

Angst carried in a backpack from high school? Leave it
Lest it develop teeth and gnaw off your spine.
The shoe that crushed all visible parts of you?
Keep it in college and hope it gets a degree on Decency.
Invisible hurt from the implied but not said,
If not made concrete by words, discard it to maintain sanity.
Disapproval voiced and maintained steadily,
Opinions! Weightless and made invalid by ignorance.
The appearance and actions of the Unkind?
Close your eyes. It’s only water—
And you are being baptized.
Logic made clear by the light of day,
Monsters, ghosts, ghouls that blanket night
And live deep, deep and ferment in the mind.

I wish to inform you that the little gift you left in the women’s restroom isn’t something everyone would appreciate. Sure, we’re happy you were able to sink a battleship (a formidable one by the looks of it), but would it be too much to ask that you sink that ship completely? (And by completely I mean flush it down.)

I would’ve done it for you, had I had the courage to face your… gift. But what resides in that toilet bowl looked quite menacing.

I understand that the flush doesn’t always work, but the least you could do was to shut the lid on it, right? I mean, the floor has had several episodes of “Air Jordan Hang Time” as G likes to call it, but on this floor it’s understood that if the ship won’t sink, put a lid on it. (And I promise I won’t make the mistake of lifting that lid out of curiosity again. *Never again.*)

That being said, I also wish you’d tell your friends to pee sitting down. Nobody likes sitting on pee-covered toilet seats. Especially not me. I bought myself a disinfectant toilet seat spray, but sometimes I feel as if that spray’s not enough.

If your friend’s a dude, please tell him to lift that seat with his shoe or with tissue. Or to at least try to aim straight. If your friend’s a dudette, please ask her kindly not to squat over the toilet seat because it just gets messy. And stepping on piss or seeing urine on the walls is never the best way to start one’s day. If you miss your target, we hardly ever run out of tissue so please clean up after yourself.

As for your sanitary napkins, please wrap them in tissue paper or in your new napkin’s old wrapping. See, I don’t know if all schools do it, but my Sex Ed and Bio teachers both taught us to wrap the napkin a certain way. Just so it doesn’t open. We’re all glad you’re not pregnant (unless you’re trying to get pregnant), but that doesn’t mean you should broadcast it via your open bloody napkin.

Lastly, we have a trash can in the restroom for a reason. Aim for the can not the floor. One, tissue sticks to shoes. And two, used tissue stinks up the restroom.

Thank you. And I hope you understand.
Sincerely,

X

Dazed and Confused (or any other Led Zeppelin song for that matter)

Artist: Led Zeppelin

It’s shaped like an orgasm. From Jon Paul Jones’ incredible bass riff to Bonzo’s frenetic and fever-pitch drumming, to Robert Plant’s full-body-flush-inducing wailing/moaning to Jimmy Page’s… well, to Jimmy Page’s EVERYTHING really.

Listening to Led Zepp makes my uterus cry.

Turnip Farm

Artist: Dinosaur Jr.

I don’t know why I find this song sexy. Must be the guitar. But yeah, one of the sexiest songs, IMO. This song rips right through me. It’s the plateau that makes you feel like the big “O” ain’t coming.

Little Sister

Artist: Queens of the Stone Age

This song makes me feel really dirty… in a good way. Sometimes, I can’t tell my heartbeat apart from the song’s drums. I wonder if that’s a good thing, though.

Closer

Artist: Nine Inch Nails

“I want to fuck you like an animal.” ‘Nuff said. Seriously, is there any list of sexy songs that doesn’t include this one from NIN?

I Touch Myself

Artist: The Divinyls

Love Christina Amphlett’s voice. A friend of mine once said, to sound like Amphlett or Courtney Love, one had to: “down a bottle of whiskey and smoke a pack of reds”. Don’t know if that works. But I’ve always wanted to sound as good as Love or Amphlett… Hmm…

You’re So Damn Hot

Artist: OK Go

There’s no greater aphrodisiac than feeling wanted. Plus Damian Kulash sounds really hot.

Sex and Candy

Artist: Marcy Playground

Read the title. J Done? Now Listen to the song… Good…

Well, actually, there are a number of things that come to mind. But why ruin a perfectly good birthday, right?

Seems to me, some people focus too much on what they don’t have. They spend the rest of their lives chasing after the next “big”, “better” thing.

The moment they get what they thought they wanted, it’s not good enough—not anymore, at least. They trudge on. No regrets. Just a lot of bitterness that eats away at them, from inside out. Nothing wrong with that. Perhaps some people are happy being unhappy. They don’t want you to help them out with their problems. Without the drama, it’s a dry world. Life collapses. Everything turns to shit—just like they predicted. And maybe that will make them momentarily happy. Maybe, just maybe, being right can be a good thing.

Waiting. Waiting. Always waiting for that moment, that apocalyptic end to everything. And when the world starts to die its slow death, there it is. That perfect moment to shout: “I knew it!” And then what? What will make your life shit today?

Being bitter all the time, it gets exhausting. Biggest lesson learned this year? The world owes you nothing. And the sooner you deal with it, the better. I’m tired of being bitter. This year, I’ll work on being thankful instead. I want a lot of things, but what I need, I already have. And that’s mostly enough.

Doesn’t mean I’ll stop chasing after what I want. But just in case I don’t get what I’m aiming for, at least the disappointment won’t be that great. Just enough to make me want to try again.

Life is never as good or as bad as you think. It ain’t peachy keen, but it’s not exactly all shit either. Sometimes, all it takes to be happy is the right mindset. Everything else? Everything else can go to hell.

Note: post doesn’t refer to anyone specifically. Maybe me, some days. Those bad days.

It is ink against paper that refuses to dry.

It is salt against her cheek when she begins to cry.

This is not poetry.

It is the ruckus of a boat and the creak of her stumble,

the hunger for her, inside me that rumbles.

This is not poetry.

I escape you Neruda, I escape you Plath,

I escape the scent of her nightgown after her bath.

This is not poetry.

It is the restless waves that knocks on the side,

and the secret heartache I cannot confide.

This is not poetry.

All that it is, is a ghost of her whisper,

the touch of her hand on my cheek it lingers,

This is not poetry.

(I actually don’t remember this poem. It sounds like I made it though. Jeb, is this yours, or mine?)

As if that’s not enough, the company introduced a filtering system called “Barracuda” to further filter out what sites can be accessed. Even Wiki articles on TV shows have been banned. Some work-related sites are also inaccessible. And while I understand the need to keep the bandwidth down, not being able to access poetry sites and the like is seriously hampering my so-called “creative process.”

To remedy the office-wide boredom gnawing on all the employees in the marketing department, several individuals have opted to bring guitars to work. And since I left mine at home, I guess today, I’ll have to be content staring at my monitor until ideas pop up.

Maybe next week I’ll bring some bubble wrap to keep me busy during braindead hours. That or I’ll start crocheting. Might as well make a placemat.