Wednesday, April 8, 2015
I am alone most of the time. Well, not alone, alone (points up to Jesus,) but I do mean quite literally, physically alone, for much of the day, most days. In addition to working with dogs during the daylight hours, I write for a few publications, meeting my deadlines in the evenings. With so much time and so little human contact, I find myself thinking a wide range of thoughts, from should I uproot my life and leave Queens to be closer to my boyfriend? to how does double dutch work? is it lasers? (it IS lasers!) Peppered amongst the truly insightful considerations I ponder daily, lies the one constant question we as humans have all asked, or at least, a question I have asked enough times for everyone...how big is Shaq's dick?
According to a recent study, the average adult human penis measures 5 and some-odd inches when erect, which means every guy everywhere is well above average with their identical 8 inches and haha
Nice try, but measuring from the base of the b...ottom of the thigh doesn't count.
The average height for an adult male in the US is approximately 5'10". Shaquille O'Neal towers over everyone, reaching Robocop proportions at an astounding 7'1". The aforementioned converted into centimeters comes to 177, to Shaq's 215. 215-177=38, meaning Shaq's dick is 38 times the size of the average dick, measuring in at 190 centimeters, or 6'2". Talk about HUGE!!!!! No wait, there's no physical way Shaq can only be 9 inches bigger than his own dick. Unless....
No. The numbers were terribly miscalculated.
Well since I equal parts don't know how/don't care to figure out how to convert penis inches to body percentages, I'll just speculate various objects I feel like could possibly be of similar size. At first I assumed Shaq's dick might easily resemble that of a whale or Woolly mammoth, but a quick "think about that for 2 seconds" reminded me that I am the most constant abuser of hyperbole out of anyone, anywhere in the entire history of the universe, forever. So I found some more realistic possibilities, and I feel like if you were to hold any of these items up to Shaq, it could maybe possibly seem like it might be about the size of his (definitely) gigantic dick.
a loaf of challah bread
a large to extra large eggplant
a box of tissues
one of those plastic skateboards from the 70's
a big-ass bottle of Dove Body Wash (with 33% more!)
I realize there are people physically larger than Shaq, but he is the largest person I can imagine, and when I think about it too long he takes on frightening yet magical proportions, akin to that of an ancient Greek myth. Regardless of whether Shaq's dick is closer in size to a plastic toy than a prehistoric animal, one thing is for sure: it would fucking kill me. There's no way that thing would fit anywhere inside me, mouth included. I'm not even sure both hands would be enough. In order for me to make Shaq reach anywhere near completion it would no doubt call for a complex system of cranks and levers and pulleys, and probably a spray bottle, as well as a few of those boxes of tissues from earlier. So basically this drawing depicting working conditions cicra the Industrial Revolution.
Finally, I would like to use this opportunity to invite anyone with even the most extremely basic photoshop skills to volunteer their services for future artistic collaborations. I can't pay you anything, but I will think of some other thing to offer you that I still, in all honestly, probably will not end up giving you. I will feel bad about that, though. Just, if you're bored or whatever, leave me a comment.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
This is my impression of my whiny-ass relationship with New York City, as represented by the musical stylings of the most frequently played songs on my iTunes.
song: Hey Lover
artist: Boyz 2 Men
Oh motherfuck YES! You just moved to NY. You're feeling excited and hopeful, and oh shit, is that a recently renovated 3 bedroom in Brooklyn with "my first apartment in NYC" written all over it? Of course it is, you just moved from upstate NY or possibly somewhere in the Midwest, or a suburb of Boston, gentrified Brooklyn is exactly where the fuck you find your first apartment but don't worry, it all looks hard on Facebook. You paid rent, got a month to find a job, there are three bodegas on the way to the train, and no one knows how lonely you are. You made it. You're here. I can't believe it, I ain't had a crush in years...(licks lips.)
song: I'll Make Love to You
artist: Boyz 2 Men
You're slowly learning the unfamiliar MTA subway system. You found a job. It sucks, but the bi-weekly paycheck allows you to see improv, and have brunch, and sit in the park and eat dollar dumplings. You see limited-release movies. You see bands that haven't left Canada in years. You even have friends! Ok, you have one friend. But you feel alive, You see things on your walk to work most people only see on television. Shit, sometimes you even see people making things people are seeing on television. You get mail, officially making you a New Yorker, and by the end of the week you are grinding this city's dick so hard, you don't even care if it takes alllll niiiiiight. Well, not all night. You just started that job, and you will be God dammed if you have to move back home already! Either way, you're smiling like an idiot and you couldn't give a shit.
artist: Boyz 2 Men
You are now feeling pretty safe and secure in your status as a New Yorker, and have even made it Facebook official. Haha, no you changed that shit in the U-Haul down here, social media was made for making your life seem interesting. But you've now got the trains on lock, you don't even need to Google map that shit. Ridgewood to the Upper West Side: M to the L to the 1/2/3. Fort Greene to Flushing: G to the 7 to probably like 2 buses (maybe a little bit of mapping.) Sunset Park to Washington Heights: JUST RIDE THAT MOTHERFUCKING D ALL THE WAY. (not that D, come on Boyz 2 Men, grow up!)
Those last 7 months you know you should break up but your lease isn't up/you RSVP'd to a wedding last year/are too insecure to be alone/are too afraid to have failed again/are too lazy.
song: Water Runs Dry
artist: Boyz 2 Men
You're now running on the fumes of dollar slices and Chinese food. Fuck the weather. Fuck the MTA, Fuck my rent. Fuck tourists. Fuck 34th Street. Fuck Union Square. Fuck the one empty train car you accidentally walk onto even though YOU TOTALLY KNOW BETTER BY NOW, fuck! Fuck the 6 train. And the 7. And the G. Fuck 35 minute waits to eat. Fuck showtime. Fuck ever-expanding shin-deep slush puddles on every damn corner. Fuck the $1 charge for a new Metrocard. Fuck all the little things that used to be details but are finally starting to get to you in a very real way, every day. I mean not "real" real, it's just really annoying, I guess.
The break up.
song: End of the Road
artist: Boyz 2 Men
"NO I'M NOT!"
"what was that, Krissy?"
"...not crying (sniffle)"
"ok...no one said you were..."
But yeah, it's over. Welcome back to Craigslist cuz someone's gotta move the fuck OUT.
song: It's So Hard to Say Goodbye
artist: Boyz 2 Men
Am I really gonna leave? I feel like NY is such a huge part of my identity now, I don't know who I'd be without you, I mean "it." I love it in the summer, it's really not that bad in the summertime. Do they have cannoli everywhere else? I know I complain about the trains but I can't pay for car insurance, I don't even think my license is still good? Do they have churros everywhere?
Moving on. .
song: One Sweet Day
artist: Boyz 2 Men
(2 years later...)
"Oh my God, is that...is it you? Wow! I mean, this is so crazy, well I mean, yeah I did return to the city but, wow just, really didn't expect this at all. You look great! Yeah, yeah she's good. How's things work out with your brother? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that...well, I should go. Yeah it's um...yeah."
walks away in opposite direction
NYC turns around
"You take care of yourself."
and then the whistling part for Guns N Roses Patience comes on over the credits. NO! That Alicia Keys song is like "Newww Yooorrrrk..." NO NO!! duh! this:
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Whenever I start a new relationship I can't help but ask questions I really don't want to know the answer to. Maybe it's some sick sort of torture, or a manipulative method of self-sabotage, but I constantly think about who my partner was with before me, and I usually ask, then obsessively stalk, and spend hours and hours comparing and judging and just basically reinforcing the belief that I'm a huge piece of shit who could never pull off jean shorts and cowboy boots. If you aren't a jealous person, you should seriously thank whatever you believe in every day as soon as you wake up, because the shit that goes on in my head will sometimes not allow me to enjoy any decent thing that I've managed to manifest into my life.
Of course it's important that I accept my partner's past, as it allows him to be the person he is today, same as mine. As much as the delusional, controlling part of me would love to believe that I'm the only one you've ever liked, EVER!!!, I understand logically that everyone has a past.
Deep in thought one evening (ie-70 weeks back in his Instagram history, one evening), I started thinking about the failed relationships and sometimes brief encounters of my own past. I thought about the different types of guys I'd been with, the mistakes, the romances, the direct results of alcohol and Ambien hook-ups, and from there my brain logically meandered into "I wonder who Weegee was fucking before we met?"
Everyone has a past.
Weegee was adopted from a shelter near Jamaica, Queens. Not only did she have at least one previous owner, she had at least three previous dog dudes owning that puss-aaay OHHHH! (high five) Weegee's past involves backyard breeding, her role being that of baby-making machine extraordinaire! No one is quite sure how many puppies have been passed through her mighty birth canal, but by the looks of them nips I would say not less than...200?
Clearly Weegee has made some questionable life choices in her day (not really, she didn't choose that life, none of them do WE HAVE TO BE A VOICE FOR THE VOICELESS, please adopt!!) Here are just a few of them.
1. The high school boyfriend.
2. The over-qualified professor at the community college in her home town.
3. Her old weed connection.
4. The verbally abusive, insecure dick.
5-12. Tinder ass.
13. "me time".
Although I am clearly a major upgrade from any of those scrubby-ass dudes from Weegee's past, her past is just that: hers. If I want to experience true love with Weeg, that means accepting her for who she is, possible gangbangs and all! And I know that if she didn't share those times with others before me, she wouldn't have a system of values in place allowing her to determine what she does, and doesn't want (for example...them! I AM THE BEST! I AM THE BEST!) Jealousy is hard, but when I start to accept, I can eventually trust, and over time I do recognize that the jealous voice is a fucking liar. Weegee likes me, and I'm allowed to accept that too.
*if you are a dog walking client of mine and happen to be reading this, please know that for whatever fucked up reason, i have a really hard time not making sex jokes about dogs. i promise i am not having sex with your dogs, i don't even think about having sex with your dogs. they're totally not my type.
**last paragraph also applies to human boyfriends. totes samsies.
Sunday, November 23, 2014
I hear we all have something like, 100 dreams in a night. We don't remember most of them. I hardly remember any of them. The ones I do remember typically involve me trying to murder someone with an unconventional weapon (mango seed), or are an obvious reflection of my deeply rooted fear of abandonment (my boyfriend doesn't know who I am.)
The rest of the time my dreams are just unbelievably boring.
The other night I had a dream that I was in the shower. I looked down and noticed that my toenails were painted pink.
But I didn't remember doing that.
I was equal parts surprised/relieved upon noticing this, as earlier that evening I realized that I really needed to paint my toenails.
So that's a fucking relief.
The other night I had a dream that I was shopping for a winter hat.
But I didn't see one that I liked.
So I didn't buy one.
(I still don't have a winter hat)
The other night I had a dream that I was headed home from work, and remembered I needed hand soap for my kitchen.
So I stopped at a store.
It all seemed really expensive for soap.
I thought to myself, "I can probably get it cheaper if I go back to Queens..."
The other night I had a dream where I was, once again, in the shower.
I started shampooing my hair.
Right as I started lathering up I realized I had already shampooed and conditioned my hair.
So I had to do everything all over again.
It's not easy being a creative genius, you guys. It never stops.
There are just like, so many layers to me...
Thursday, November 13, 2014
My back is fucked. The first year I walked dogs I carried this heavy-ass backpack around all day and now my upper back is just busted. I've tried everything everyone always insists on suggesting: chiropractor, accupuncture, yoga, strength training, hot tub, YOU NAME IT, I've tried it, especially when it comes to massage. There are somewhere around fifty million (educated guess) massage places operating in the city I call home, and I've tried...a bunch of them (<---anti-climactic). Some are fancy places with heated oils infused with flowers, others are one large room containing several makeshift rooms constructed of towels hanging from clothespins (some of the best I've ever been to follow this model). The massage tactic is my favorite to implement as it is instantly gratifying, and I don't have to do any work. Also, cheap. And lollipops (or at least those fruity Thai mints). The last time I went in for a massage, however, may very well have been the last time I'll go in for a massage...EVER!
No, not really. I will totally go back. Because the only thing that seems to offer any amount of improvement with the back situation has been to do push-ups daily, and if there's anything I'm not willing to do, it's anything "daily". I just can't pull enough discipline together to make it happen. During my last experience with massage, I remembered a very important detail to consider when you willingly enter an establishment with the understanding that a complete stranger is going to be rubbing his or her bare hands all over your naked body:
i am ticklish as fuck.
And I know this about myself. Every time I mention how ticklish I am to anyone they inevitably go "oh, you're ticklish, does this tic...," and before they can even get the words out of their stupid mouths I'm already there with an "I WILL FUCKING PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE IF YOU TOUCH ME." I HATE being tickled so much. It's so uncomfortable for me I swear it almost hurts, and I have definitely had third parties run into the room to see if everything was OK upon hearing me scream as if I were being actually physically assaulted. Why do I subject myself to 60 minutes of torture knowing what I know about myself? I guess because it feels good...? I mean, most of the time. Usually.
What should have been a relaxing hour at the end of a long week would end up being one of the more intense tests of willpower since "stop laughing at my grandfather's funeral." My brother kept saying his phone was dead, at which point we both started death metal vocalizing the word "dead" repeatedly, until one of us realized we were at a fucking funeral with a literal dead person in the room, and I just could not keep it together, SORRY I'M NOT SOME HUMORLESS ROBOT, GRANDMA. But the last time I went in the masseuse I was paired with had apparently just come from bench pressing hundreds of pounds with the tips of her fingers and my poor, poor achy-breaky body was forced to endure the most intense physical suffering I have ever paid anyone hard earned cash money to inflict upon me (<--- over-climactic.) The first few minutes were calm and relaxing, the weight of her hands firmly pushing into my tense back muscles from over the soft layer of a recently-warmed towel. Everything from gonna fold this towel back and oil your body up like I'm marinading chicken was a rapid decline into uncontrollable fits of hysterical laughter. And if there's one thing tiny Asian ladies hate more than anything, it is undoubtedly the sound of someone enjoying themself (just ask my mom.) She seemed equal parts confused and offended, while also remaining apologetic, yet determined.
The following is an account of my witnessing this woman experience all five stages of grief, as based on the Kubler-Ross model, while attempting to give me a 60 minute full body massage.
1. Denial. The first time I laughed she stopped for a moment, saying nothing, only to revisit the same spot (my side, under the armpit) REPEATEDLY. If insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, this lady was batshit fucking crazy because homegirl either could not, or would not, accept the reality that was my ticklish body.
2. Anger. This is where it got intense. I think she thought if she could just massage me hard and fast enough I could mind over matter that shit into a remotely enjoyable experience, and you better believe I did everything in my limited power to do just that, but it just ended up being a lot of teeth-gritting and fist-clenching and just like UNGHHH UGHHHHHH!! attempting to think about awful "sad things" on my end. So basically, me face-down trying my damndest not to enjoy anything about being alive in the world at that moment.
When she could feel me sweating through the gallons of oil she rubbed into my body she had no choice but to resign to stage three,
3. Bargaining. She attempted to reach the same spot from the other side of the table. Laughter. She stood near my head, then toward my feet, more laughter. She climbed onto my back, kneading her knuckles into my back. Dying of laughter. Elbows. OK, at this point I am fucking crying, like the first time you eat mushrooms-levels of laughing so hard I'm crying, all the while yelling "I'M SORRY!!!" every 2-4 seconds. She tried, no shit, upward of a dozen different positions and tactics, to no avail. As painful as this experience was, both physically and emotionally (for both of us), I feel like a more ambitious person now or something just following this lady's example...
(I would like to mention that throughout all of this there is an Asian-sounding string instrument Muzak version of that Take My Breath Away song playing ON REPEAT)
4. Depression. This is the part where she quite literally throws in the towel, like she covered me up with a steaming towel and proceeds to rub her hands in tiny circles on my back, between my shoulder blades, as if she were attempting to burp a small child, for 15 minutes. Previously mentioned song plays almost three times.
5. Acceptance! Finally! Actually what happened here was our time was up. The buzzer went off and we both silently shared a "thank fucking god", and she leaves me alone to contemplate my existence under a now lukewarm, damp towel, naked.
bew bew bew bew bewwww (song begins, again.)
So basically, my back still hurts a lot.
Monday, October 13, 2014
I just really love staying in different places. It's all fantasy.
Everything feels cleaner and nicer and just generally better when it’s not mine. I feel like a grown up. It makes me want to brush AND floss every night. I fold my pants. I eat oranges. I mean I don’t just buy oranges, I actually eat them, and somehow even manage to peel them like how an adult would, in a way that doesn’t result in a pile of tiny orange peel-chips, and the white part of the rind trapped under my nails for the next two days.
Somehow, during my short stays in these beautiful places, I always seems to attempt to assume at least some aspect of the tenants personality. I wear my hair a little different, My stride changes. My posture improves. And somehow things just seem to become effortless when I'm not in my apartment; like blankets, for example. I can arrange a "throw" and it resembles something thrown, an uncomplicated afterthought. It rests. It drapes. For some reason, in my apartment, it simply becomes a wrinkled ball of fabric that I will curse for 15-20 minutes on end as I attempt to manipulate it into something you might see in a Crate and Barrel catalog featuring a fireplace and maybe someone's glasses on a table.
The most recent time I stayed overnight for a client, I noticed that I straight up attempted to assume the fucking identity of the woman in whose home I was sleeping (I mean, not like, stole her social security number or anything, I just...well, you'll see. Hang on, I'm gonna tell you about it right here -->). I took a photo of her dog in my lap and I noticed my smile almost exactly resembled the smiles she wears in all of her photos. NOT MY SMILE. I never smile like this. What the fuck?! Stephen Dorff is doing e-cig commericals? This is why I can’t have television, of all the things that having the tv on is not ideal for, writing is probably right up there at the top of the list, but if tv is there I will have that shit on 24 hours a day. I don’t even know what I’m watching (<– LIE! LIE! I’m watching a reality show about Amish people. It’s called Breaking Amish, and I’m not even gonna pretend I don’t totally know that). So but yeah, shapeshifting. I can recognize myself doing this in many aspects of my life. I do it a lot with phrases, language, handwriting, clothing, joke delivery, ANY FUCKING THING. If you do something a certain way, and I like the way it looks, wears or sounds, you best believe I will be secretly practicing on friends of mine you do not know, until it becomes my own.
I ain't too proud to admit that, either.
How does everyone just know how to be? How do you just know how to smile and you’re like “this is my smile, I’m totally secure and comfortable with it, I don’t even have to obsess over how my face may be looking completely insane and contorted right now”? Do most people not analyze every single thing about themselves under a fucking microscope? HOW DOES EVERYONE JUST DO STUFF?!
I'm not sure how everyone else seems to have gotten some sort of manual for life that I apparently missed out on (my guess? I overslept. That's why I miss out on most things.) I don't know what makes some people secure enough to be functional people in the actual world. I do understand why I am not one of these people, why even involuntary human reflexes send me into an existential spiral of self-defeat: it's because deep down, I believe I am worth less than everyone else. Don't get me wrong, at this point in the game, after all the therapy and other work I do with the thing I'm not supposed to talk about, that belief is pretty WAY deep down. But it's still there. Sometimes I can be like "oh yeah, BULLSHIT! Fucking asshole brain." But other times it is almost crippling, keeping me from trying anything different because I don't believe that I deserve to feel or experience anything other than lethargic, at best, And even other other times, it comes out in a way that's much more vague and insidious, subconsciously suggesting that if I maybe just tilt my head back and raise my closed mouth up to the left side that maybe, maybe then I can trick everyone into thinking that I'm not some fucking monster who's afraid of you and what you think of me.
I'm not positive where this antagonistic neurosis comes from (*cough-soundsalotlikemymom'svoice-cough*) but an unfortunate mix of races and body types resulting in a pile of toothpicks with a giant obsession-prone head that insists upon making my life miserable, certainly don't help.
So it's taken me a few years of hard work to attempt to un-hear the mean voice monologue that plays in my head all day, or at least, to come to terms with the idea that the mean voice is a full of shit liar who is a dick and should really just go fuck herself. I don't believe I'm a giant piece of shit today, and I even have reasons, TOTALLY SERIOUS REASONS.
proof that I am worthy:
-owns lots of sequins clothing (my 8 year old self would be really proud)
-Kardashian hair (when i wear it down. and actually brush it)
-HAVE I TOLD YOU GUYS I HAVE A DOG?!!!!!!!!
|yes, you have. a bunch.|
-pays rent on time
-can totally send you links to appropriate astrology guy forecast, depending upon what ails you
-doesn't cheat on people
-usually calls my mom back (within a couple of days)
-ummm...good at amateur dream analysis?
So you see Self, you clueless asshole, there are plenty of likable things about you, each one as worthy as the next. And plus, now that you have this all written up, if you ever need to create an online dating profile you can just copy and paste this shit.
-working knowledge of Micorsoft Office Suite
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
I cannot complete anything on time. I could have an entire month to make a 1000 word deadline and I will always, always, ALWAYS wait until the night before it's due to even begin considering what I'm going to write about. In fact, I do exactly that, every month, when it's time to produce content for the paper I write for.
me: "I just want to be able to write and collaborate with funny people that interest and intrigue me!"
editor:"Come write for me, 1000 words a month, topic flexible!" (read: writer's dream job)
(sits at computer)
"...eh, I'll do it later."
WHY DO I DO THIS?! How do I turn enjoyable things into the most stressful 7 hours of my month, every month! Well, I'll show you how!
1. deconstruct bookshelves, dust. proceed to thoroughly clean entire apartment, even the parts underneath furniture that I would never ordinarily clean until it's time for me to move out (only applicable when collection of security deposit seems a realistic possibility).
2. go in the bathroom. look out the window. then just look at a bunch of other shit.
3. consult YouTube makeup tutorial to achieve dramatic evening look, including full hair, which i never do, ever, even when i do have somewhere to be in the evening.
4. finally leave bathroom 1-3 hours later to fuck with dogs for an additional 1-5 hours. i typically just end up crawling all over them until they become irritated enough to go hide in my roommate's room for most of the rest of the day.
when i have a really pressing deadline, full head-to-toe body ensemble is not uncommon.
all of above peppered with ten thousand Facebook checks, Japanese cooking shows on YouTube, and attempts at getting "pumped up" with guys in heels dancing to Beyonce medley, which just ends up looking like me watching that video of those guys in heels dancing to that Beyonce medley over and over until my battery runs out.