Numbers.

I lost my virginity at 18, after graduating high school, and I had kissed five people up until that point. I didn't need a list (I could recite everyone I had kissed in chronological order until the number reached around 20), but I had one. The list had the boy's name, as well as symbols signifying "how far" we went. Also, everyone I kissed received a journal entry (so quaint!). So, numbers were big to me. HUGE. Anyone I dated, I wanted to know their numbers as well - how many he had kissed, how many of them gave head, how many he slept with. Since my numbers were pretty low and I mostly dated guys who were a little older and little more experienced, sharing wasn't a big deal. But, once I hit six, I started to worry. My last boyfriend, who was two years older than me, had only slept with four. Was I a slut?

The next sexual situation I was in was with a friend with whom there was no chance of dating, since he lived in Maine and I live in Seattle. We were hanging out one day, and he kissed the back of my neck while we were in a toy store. My entire body responded, every hair on end, a current running through my spine. We couldn't get back to his house fast enough. When we were naked on his bed in the light of the afternoon sunshine, he said I was beautiful, and I believed him. I felt perfect in that moment. It was electric, one of the most arousing experiences of my life. And I stopped it short for the sake of a number. (We never went all the way. He has a serious girlfriend now, and once she found some old racy correspondence of ours, so he had to stop talking to me because it made her uncomfortable, regardless of the fact that we live on different coasts. But irrationally jealous girlfriends are another topic.)

A few months later, I had sex with someone else, and it was lousy. I had wasted an opportunity for GREAT sex for the sake of the number, then had mediocre sex with someone I had no intention of dating, or even sleeping with again. I felt defeated. I still had a higher number, and not even a good story to show for it. As anyone who has experienced phenomenal sex knows, it's an unrivaled experience. What had I passed it up for? I then vowed to never let myself miss another opportunity. (That was later revised to not allowing myself to miss an opportunity except for the sake of monogamy, but that's another story.)

I still kept the list, more for curiousity's sake, but I didn't allow fear of adding to it to interfere with whom I chose to sleep with. Now, I'm not proud of everyone I've slept with, and I would take a few back in the light of hindsight. But the lion's share, I don't regret one bit, number be damned.

This last Summer, I stopped updating the list. At first I panicked: was that really someone I wanted to be? I remembered with horror the first female friend who told me she honestly had no idea how many men she had been with. Then I thought about it more. I consider myself to be a sex-positive person, and I think the double-standard of males with a high number of sexual partners versus females is ludicrous. Tucker Max doesn't know how many people he's slept with, why should I? (Note: it's nowhere near as many as Tucker Max. I'm double-digits, not triple ((double-note: why do I feel the need to clarify?))). Also, I prefer to date a guy who has had many partners - he tends to have more sexual skill, be more confident in bed, and be more adventurous, all things that I value.

Rather than be afraid of how someone else would react to my number, I thought about it this way: Do I even want to date the kind of guy that would judge me for something like that? The answer was no. A relationship is about mutual respect, and trust; if my past makes him feel insecure, that's his problem, not mine. I would rather weed out guys who are uncomfortable about that sort of thing than pussyfoot around someone else's prejudices.

This was originally written in response to a question about whether "notches on the bedpost" really mattered, which he asked in advance of his own blog post on the matter. I don't think of his general readership as my peer group, so I want to ask you the same thing: What are your thoughts on numbers? Do you keep track? Do you ask? Does how many people someone else has slept with affect your opinion of them?

(PS- the timeline of my experiences with the "friend" is a little off - it made more sense this way, in order to maintain flow as well as to protect his anonymity.)

Now - "Welcome."

So, new blog. You may have noticed the 49 posts preceding this one: they have been pulled as a representative sample from five years of blogging on other sites. Some are lightly edited, but most were left unmolested as a testament to my young and angsty blogging beginnings. Lucky you.

The move to this "grown-up" blog will mark the end of my other blogs; not that they were updated that often, anyway. I'm not going to delete them - the ability to search through past entries for reminscing purposes is too valuable - but they will not receive any new posts other than a final one redirecting (my very few) readers here.

That said, I'm hoping to keep up my interest in writing by shying away from the boyfriend-related gush-or-sob-fests that dominated my previous postings and sticking to the areas of social commentary, philosophical poderings, or bitchy snark; you know, my strengths.

Thanks for your interest. I'll do my best to deserve it.

January 08 - "Bad Blow-Job Face and You: The Comprehensive Guide."

This is a detailed explanation of what makes a "bad blow-job face," as requested by interested parties. To clear up confusion, this term refers to the face of a potential giver of blow-jobs, not the receiver, and also is a general condition of the face that occurs normally at rest, not just in the act. For the sake of simplicity, I've focused on female faces affected by BBJF, though it certainly occurs in men, as well. BBJF should not be confused with simple ugliness - there are plenty of "conventionally attractive" people whom I would give a BBJF diagnosis to. And I am apparently the preeminent authority on the matter.

PS - I wouldn't necessarily call this NSFW, but tread lightly.



The Humble Beginnings
The concept of "bad blow job face" (BBJF) came from a fairly innocent conversation between Chris and myself, regarding a sure-to-be-perfectly-nice girl he had recently met and attended a party with. She quite obviously had a crush on him, which made me want to know what she looked like, which resulted in Chris sending me a link to her Flickr and directing me toward this photo:

(Please note: I do NOT have permission to use this photo, nor any of the photos to follow. If anyone in any of these photos were to contact me and ask for their photo to be removed, I might consider it.)

My response to the picture was something to the effect of, "Oh. She doesn't look like she would give very good head."

This comment was meant to convey two ideas: 1) I'm a snarky bitch, and 2) Chris is well-endowed and possesses an insatiable sexual appetite - he needs to be with a girl who can take it like a pro. Plus, he's a good person who deserves GOOD blow jobs. Expressing my opinion that she wouldn't meet his needs was actually an example of me looking out for his best interests; the snark is just an added bonus.

He seemed amused by this and asked why she looked like she wouldn't give good head. I couldn't come up with anything concrete, and simply asked if he really disagreed; he didn't, and the subject was more-or-less dropped. Well, dropped until she was mentioned again. After that, whenever he brought her up, I immediately thought "girl-who-looks-like-she-gives-bad-head," and I think he perpetuated the nickname himself a few times by referring to her as such. It became a bit of an inside joke between us.

Fast-forward to last weekend. Pat and I went down to Portland, OR, so he could see the city before he leaves the wonders of the West Coast for the banality of Shithole, USA. There we stayed with some friends of mine, and Chris came out to meet us at a bar (Dante's, where we watched a fire-dancer - aka stripper - set her titties on fire). I honestly do not know why, but his unfortunately-nicknamed former friend came up, but this time under a truncated title: "Bad blow-job face girl." Pat, being of sound mind and inquisitive spirit, asked what exactly made up a "bad blow-job face." I found it difficult to name specific characteristics, and instead tried to name a celebrity that qualified, but could only come up with pinch-faced, hollow-cheeked ones like Calista Flockhart and Lara Flynn Boyle, who do not actually personify the spirit of BBJF. In hindsight, Renee Zellweger would have been a better example; but I digress.

Even working together, Chris and I were not able to come up with a list of characteristics for BBJF, and the subject was dropped at the time. But apparently, after the weekend, Chris revisited the idea with his good friend Scott, who was also dissatisfied with the lack of parameters. He came to me asking for BBJF "rules," and I have the sad task of informing him that there are no rules regarding this affliction. Only guidelines. Let's look at these guidelines in greater detail.

A Brief List
In preparation for this entry, I brainstormed a few facial characteristics that could be construed as BBJF. While sitting in Psych class, I came up with:
-Thin lips (please note that the originator of BBJF actually has full lips)
-Cold eyes (frequently beady)
-Inexperienced-looking (not to be confused with innocent-looking)
-Unenthusiastic about the task
-Large nose (wide, long, or both)
-Underbite (overbites have a surprisingly low impact on BBJF)
-Weak chin

While no one trait consigns a face to BBJF territory, the combination of a few of these traits can have an erection-killing result. For instance:

(like my slick editing job? MS Paint for life!)

This girl is clearly a professional, so she must appeal to someone. But when I look at her face, I see BBJF written all over it. She has a big nose, cold eyes, thin lips, and certainly lacks enthusiasm. If I had a dick, I would NOT put it in her mouth.

A non-professional example of combination-trait BBJF, exhibiting large nose, underbite, and cold eyes (not having a dick in her mouth, her enthusiasm is difficult to measure):

This girl has a nice full lower lip, but it is not enough to excuse her face from BBJF-dom.

In this example, she has pretty eyes and acceptable lips, but the large-nose/weak-chin combo is too strong:

No blow-jobs, please.

In Conclusion
Our original BBJF, while possessed of thick lips, warm eyes, and likely enthusiasm (she did have a pretty major crush on him), still qualifies for BBJF status because of her large nose and because she is inexperienced-looking, as well as an unidentifiable je ne sais quoi. BBJF doesn't have to be based on an aforementioned trait; it can be more of a feeling. I apologize to those looking for a more definite explanation: this is not yet a science.

If anyone has received a blow-job from any of the ladies used as examples and can vouch for its quality, please let me know. I am only making general observations, and any additional research could be helpful in the advancement of the field.

10/12/07 - "I've got something to put in you."

I am so hungover. BUT, but, I was totally on time to work. Believe me, I'm more surprised by this than you.

Electric 6 was amazing. There was much pre-funking with my awesome coworker Dana and her rad friend/bandmate Tracy (Dana and I each had two 24's of Rainier, and the three of us killed two bottle of champagne), then some gay bar action and strawberry shortcake shots at the Crescent Lounge (where Johnny met up with us for a bit, yay!), then much dancing (with a smattering of face-rocking), then much giggling over a beer at Pony, and finally much walking around the city with my friend Steven. After seeing him safely onto the bus, I finally grabbed a cab sometime around 2:30? I think? Maybe before that. But after 2.

The opening band was called "The Gore Gore Girls" and it was noisy and sweaty, but in the bad way. I don't like all-girl bands, and I don't think that makes me misogynistic. I just don't like things that suck, and girl bands tend to suck. This particular girl band was fronted by a mannish, horsey girl with frizzy drag-queen hair who attempted to make up for her lack of stage presence by wearing sequined underwear, which were admittedly pretty sweet. The band wasn't that together, they weren't that interesting, and watching them play actually made me kind of angry, because I find it frustrating when girls fail in male-dominated activities. It's like we're supposed to pat them on the back and say, "Good effort," just because they tried.

When the Girls finally made their much-anticipated exit we bee-lined it for the front and secured spots up against the stage. Electric 6 played a nice long set, and despite being sick with something icky they caught on tour (I'm assuming it's more in the vein of a cold than gonorrhea, but he didn't specify) they exhibited excellent showmanship and the whole show was, well, electric. Sorry. They saved "Gay Bar" for the encore and it was presented with surprising enthusiasm, considering (as Dana pointed out earlier in the evening) they're probably getting tired of playing it. I don't have much sympathy for such things (hey, if Nada Surf can keep playing "Popular," then anyone can suck it up and play a song they're no longer fond of), because refuseniks are basically biting the hand that feeds them. Oh, to be burdened with a hit song.

When the show let out Tracy and Dana went to either continue the evening or crash at Tracy's, I'm not sure which. I started to leave, but then texted Steven and we agreed to meet up at Chapel. Chapel is lame. Sure, it's beautiful inside, great ambiance blah blah blah, and the couches upstairs are great (if your posse can score one), but we showed up a few minutes after 1, and they had already called last call. Their service is notoriously awful, but calling last call before 1:30 (bar time, even) is unconscionable. So we took our perfectly spendable money up the street to Pony, which also had a couch to sit on, and speculating about what sort of bodily fluids might reside on that couch made it that much more enjoyable. This was my first time in Pony, and I must say that I like it waaaaaaay better than the old Cha (haven't yet been to the new location, so I will refrain from passing judgment on their current iteration). Though I was a little bummed that I couldn't get a PBR. No matter.

We stayed till closing (we were asked to finish our drinks at a completely respectable 1:45, thankyouverymuch), then walked downtown through the refreshing Autumn night. The late-night bus scene down on 4th was quite the screen-shot of urban living. Buspimps for days. Had I bothered to check, I would have seen that I could have taken the 82 - it ended up right behind my cab on the way home. Oh well.

And that was that. Now I have but a few short hours before I fly to LA and undoubtedly get into some sort of trouble with Joseph! Yay! Hopefully I can sleep on the plane, but I'll probably be too jazzed. It's okay, I'll sleep when I'm dead. Which may be sooner than later, at this rate, but I'd rather have a shorter life brimming with intrigue and action than a very long life with a very short eulogy. I think.

6/12/07 - "Departure."

My last day at work is this Friday. I wish it were right now, and I could get up and walk out and never come back.

Last night I stayed up far too late with a boy who was far too cute doing things that were far too familiar. I've known him for years and we also just met. It's a long story. It was sort of bittersweet having one of those nights, the nights where you talk about everything and feel so immediately, tenuously close to the person and it's exciting and scary, momentous and monstrous, knowing that I'm about to leave and that nothing will come of it. Sometimes you just get the one night, and that's okay. Those nights are so compelling to me, I could tell my life story as a string of the details of each one. Cory. Ben. Augie. Jonathan. Matt. Dave. Andy. Marc. And now another Dave. There have been more that fit the general description, and technically two of them were dates that became "the night" which is sort of not what I'm talking about because part of the wonder is the spontaneity, but these are the ones that stand out right now in my memory. Some of them became relationships, some friendships, and some were just the once.

The encounter gave me a much-needed confidence boost, as he had very kind things to say(you're smart, you're cute, you're beautiful, you're hot, you're sweet, you're good at that - I don't think any of these things can be heard too much), and on Sunday I found out for sure that I'm going to see Cory again at the end of the month, and there's nothing like the prospect of seeing the first person who ever saw you naked to make you wish you were considerably skinnier.

5/14/07 - "Get a real name, Tommy Thompson."

Tommy Thompson is an assbag.



I know it's silly to care about this at all, because there's a snowball's chance in Hell he'll make it through the primaries, but I was honestly astounded while reading this article (http://www.salon.com/wire/ap/archive.html?wire=D8P319700.html) that this guy actually thinks someone might want him to be President of the United States of America. This guy couldn't be president of a homeowners association. If you're too preoccupied with being deaf and having to potty to know what you're saying during a debate, how can we have any faith in your ability to be aware of your words with foreign dignitaries, AKA people with access to giant bombs?

Also, I ask, nay DEMAND, that all presidents have necks. Seriously.

4/29/07 - "Happy Resurrections, Jesus!"

I wake up at 6:30am to leave Nick's and return to Ballard, in keeping with my dogsitting duties. I arrive downtown around 7:00am and have 15 minutes until the number 15 bus to Ballard comes. Still being slightly inebriated from the Road House drinking game the night prior, and working on like 6 hours of drunken slumber, I decide to get a bagel from an SBC by the bus stop, thinking bread may sop up some of the over-full, over-strong vodka crans I had been consuming. Of course I was like seven hours too late on that one, but it seemed like a good idea. Since my plan was to go back to sleep immediately after feeding the dogs, I did not want a caffeinated beverage.

I walk in, and the over-friendly, over-alert staff greet me immediately, asking, "What can I get started for you?" This should be a simple question to answer.

"Oh nothing, I just need a bagel, thanks," would have been appropriate.

"How about a bottle of water?" could have helped explain my mussed hair and glazed expression, not to mention give me a jumpstart on the road to recovery.

"Chamomile tea, please?" is another reasonable option.

Basically, anything besides the zombified "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh..." that escaped my lips would have been sufficient, but I guess we can't all be Rhodes Scholars. Or, functional.

The barista gave me a look of sickened pity and offered, "It's pretty early, huh?" To which I think I replied something like, "Totally." Then, defying all logic, I order a tall soy chai latte. That is definitely caffeinated. I pick out my bagel, and when the girl at the register asks if it's for there or to go, I say for there. Whaaa? I have a bus coming soon. But, apparently, sitting is an important element of not coating myself in sesame seeds, and that is a higher priority than little things like busses to catch. As I sit and wait for a beverage I have no business consuming and a bagel I am sure to regret, I decide that I should text Nick, who I just left sleeping at his house, and tell him how braindead I am. I concentrate really hard on this text message. They call out a bagel that is a different variety than the one I order, and nobody claims it, so I wonder if it's supposed to be for me and approach the counter. The same barista sees my confusion, gives me the same look as before, and tells me that my bagel is coming. When it's done he motions to me and as I collect it, he looks at me like I just won the Special Olympics. Ugh. I sit back down with my sundries, and ignore their consumption to continue concentrating on on the text message. It's almost done when I see the bus go by outside. I promptly close the phone to check the time, thus deleting the message. Genius.

Now I have half an hour until the next bus that goes to where I need to go, and 15 minutes until a bus that gets me within striking distance. I hate waiting for busses (which is how the whole SBC plan came about), so I opt to take the earlier bus and walk from Leary Way to 73rd, which Mapquest says is 1.45 miles. Over the course of the bus ride, I feel the change from still-a-little-tipsy to oh-Lord-I-wish-I-was-dead. This change should never happen when a person is awake. The air is losing its early-morning dimness and brightening into a beautiful day; my lack of sunglasses and worsening headache don't appreciate this development. The second bus passes me when I have about eight blocks to go, and am nowhere near a stop. I don't make an attempt to catch it.

I stumble into the door over an hour and a half after I left Nick's apartment in Eastlake. The dogs go insane, having been alone for about 12 hours. I open the back door to let the dogs into the yard, which triggers the most heinous noise known to man. I shut off the alarm, get out their food, fill their dishes, and sit down. The caffeine kicks in. I realize I'm not going to go back to bed.

I read more Tucker Max stories (a recent obsession, I finished them all last night, and am debating whether to buy the book), then get in the shower to prepare for brunch with Nick and Kate. We trek to the International District and digest a delicious-yet-greasy dim sum, which is immediately followed by a lunch with my mom and Dylan, where I have a salad and a bloody mary. So for Easter, I ate, basically.

The Me-Dylan-Mom combo is known for morally reprehensible humor, and true to form, the following conversation takes place.

Mom: "Tara (my pregnant aunt) is having a boy, but she won't tell me the name."
Me: "Did she pick out a back-up name, in case it's retarded?"
Mom (laughing): "No I don't think so, I'll have to mention that to her."
Me: "It's a good idea. You don't want to waste a good name on a baby you won't love very much."(We erupt into laughter, to the point of tears streaming down our faces.)Dylan (regaining composure): "You know, karma could come back and bite you in the ass, and you might have a retarded baby."
Me: "Yeah, that's true. I mean, I'll have to love it and all; I'll just die a little bit inside."

We also discussed the nuances of where and how you can catch genital herpes versus oral herpes, and if there's a way to tell which sores are which. This was theoretical, of course.
I feel bad for the old lady sitting next to us.

3/19/07 - "Not for the sqeamish. Or the related-to-me."

Once I had a lover who admired my faces. He claimed that my flinch, my moan, my contortion increased his pleasure greatly, and I found this so flattering that on one occasion I let him take pictures. I wish he had never told me, because now in the throes of ecstacy I'm often thinking of what my face might look like. Does this lover have the same appreciation as that one did? What if this one thinks I look pained, or monstrous, or silly? Sometimes I think I might like to go back to that one, temporarily, just to feel like I'm really being looked at.

The faces-loving lover also liked toys. Once he tied me up and blindfolded me, and used a glass instrument to elicit my pleasure. He had introduced this particular tool before, which he wielded with some skill, but I look back on its use with mixed emotions. It was so impersonal. It could be warmed, but often wasn't, and went in so cold. It felt medical. I grew to resent his affinity for it, because I felt like he liked the experience - the faces, the toys, the power - more than he liked me. Which I suppose was his prerogative to prefer. The nature of our relationship was not one of love or adoration; it was a bargain between people of like-minded proclivities. If I wasn't willing to put in the emotional legwork, I couldn't expect sex not to be the focus of all our interactions. I got what I paid for, so to speak.

The demise of our arrangement marked the demise of my ability to carry on a fulfilling casual relationship. It can be argued that I never found it all that fulfilling, I just told myself I did, but that's another idea entirely. When I have a friend with benefits, I want them to also be my friend, otherwise the benefits lose their luster. So when he stopped agreeing to see me for anything other than sex, I lost interest in the whole idea. There's a fine line between being objectified and being desired, and I'm sure I've confused it before, but having it thrown in my face was unappealing. This experience, coupled with others that I'll get into in a minute, led to my current uneasiness about including toys in sex play; I feel like objects equal objectification. That the things I "should" feel or want to feel should be attainable through "normal" sex. I know this is flawed, and I don't agree with it in principle. Just in practice.

What troubles me most is that I didn't always feel this way. When I was young and first started masturbating, I would use practically anything I could get my hands on. I felt little shame, and I don't think it was an effort to debase myself; I was simply curious. When I was 15 I started going to church in an effort to scandalize my liberal, new-agey mother, and stopped masturbating for 8 months because it was supposedly sinful, and not conducive to my new holier-than-thou attitude. When I finally couldn't stand it anymore, I learned how to get myself off using a combination of thigh-pulsation and Kegel exercises - if I wasn't touching myself, it wasn't masturbating! Or at least wasn't as sinful! Or something! This was a labor-intensive process, though, and eventually laziness brought touching myself back into my life, though it was guiltily repented for, every time. Soon enough, boys were also introduced, and the churchiness began to dissipate; intentional hypocrite I am not, and if I was going to fornicate, I'd rather not have to apologize for it every time.

So, in summary: church-inspired irrational guilt + an emotionally distant boy with a treasure chest = me feeling uncomfortable with "marital aids."

Over a year ago I was given a well-meaning gift certificate to the best sex store in Seattle. I never used it. It's either expired or depleting in value as we speak. How sad.

2/28/07 - "Lent."

I love Lent. Ever since my very first one, those long ten years ago, I've tried to give up something (with or without a religious context), to varying levels of success. Had my first Lent not gone so well (I gave up red meat, which led to me becoming a vegetarian), I probably wouldn't get so excited about it. But it did, and I do. Much better than a New Year's Resolution, Lent provides sort of a trial-run for things in my life that I'd like to change, but am unsure of. With a set start and end, and the added accountability of God presumably "caring" how you follow through with it, it's a much easier thing to undertake than a vague, "In this year, I will try to _____." A resolution seems so... wishy-washy. There's too much wiggle room. But Lent? It's very specific. You say, "I'm not going to do ____ (or I'm going to start doing ___) until after Easter." Then you just don't do it (or start doing it, as applicable). If you can't abstain from (or commit to) something for a measly 40 days, then you probably have a problem with it, and ought to do something about that anyway. So really, if you fail at Lent, you fail at life. Nobody wants to fail at life, and fear of failure can be a great motivator. That's what's so great about Lent: instant will-power.

My Lent is more complicated this year than many years past. I've given up three things, and made one commitment. In no particular order, I have given up: sex, beer, and doughnuts. The commitment is to go to the gym three times per week (which also involved joining a gym).
Giving up sex just seemed like a good idea; while I no longer enjoy the whole casual thing, I found that I was quick to escalate things with people I really liked, too, and that I was too permissive with people I've been associated with in the past. This Lent has found me in a uniquely single position, with no one even in the wings, and keeping it that way for a while seems wise.

I chose to give up beer for a few reasons: 1) I feel that I drink it too casually, 2) It is empty calories, and 3) I wasn't willing to give up all alcohol in light of Dylan's impending 21st, so beer seemed like a reasonable compromise. I will say it's been a little more inconvenient than I thought it would be (Cocktails are expensive! Beer is so refreshing!), but there was a time when you couldn't pay me to drink a beer, so I have no doubt of my ability to follow through.

Doughnuts are a repeat from last year's Lent. It went well, and I didn't immediately start gorging once it ended, but over time I have allowed more doughnuts into my diet than I'd prefer. Some people think this one shouldn't be so hard, but keep in mind that we have doughnuts at work every day, and on top of that we have special doughnuts from a different place on Thursdays. It's all-doughnut-all-the-time up in this piece. They're tasty, accessible, and free. But again, empty calories, and a misuse of company resources (they're supposed to be for customers). Giving up work doughnuts but not other doughnuts would just be silly - I'm an all-or-nothing kind of girl.

The gym thing was mostly good timing; I had been thinking about it anyway, and I'm just using Lent as an excuse to get me into the habit of going that often. When Lindsay asked me a while ago to go to her gym with her, I was receptive but non-committal, because in general I'm both busy and lazy. But lately I've also become increasingly, unacceptably fat. To the point that schedule and fatigue were deemed less important than a solution.

We're supposed to go together on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, which went well last week, but yesterday Lindsay had to go pick up her car from the shop, so she flaked. Which, of course, made me totally want to flake too. But, thanks to the compelling powers of Lent, I went anyway! By myself! And that, my friends, is an Easter miracle.

1/22/07 - "Horror Movies 101: The Slut Gets it First."

I'm writing an English paper about the role of the classic theme of Death and the Maiden in Joyce Carol Oates' short story, 'Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" The premise of the argument (and, arguably, the theme) is that a loss of sexual purity equals death. That's right, folks: you give it up, and then you get your slutty ass murdered. Let this be a lesson to all you fornicators out there; don't say nobody warned you.

In less absurd news, Beth, the other cashier/admin girl at work (who was our third replacement for me when I got promoted, and the only one who was both good with customers and understood the concept of alphanumeric filing), is leaving to go work at Red Robin. Which means we have to find a new girl, and I have to train her. Which means I'll have to be down there working with customers for more than just a few hours in the morning and her lunch break in the afternoon. Which means my allotted web-surfing hours during the day will be greatly reduced. Weaksauce. Hopefully whatever new girl we dredge up will be moderately competent, and I'll be able to leave her alone after a couple weeks. Hopefully she's cool and doesn't put pictures of cats and Bible quotes all over the front desk. Hopefully Beth takes her cat pictures and Bible quotes with her when she leaves.

That's all for now. I need to get back to my paper, as it's due tonight at 6pm. We'll see if the prof buys it; I'm phrasing it very theoretically in a Judeo-Christian context, being sure not to capitalize my g's in "god," and setting it up as a scholarly interpretation based on the morals inherent in the theme, and not as a judgment from the author, as I don't think that's how she meant it. It's more pulpy, in the vein of a morality tale that only sells because of its exploitation of immorality.