I love it!

…When my dog lies on his back and makes little grunting noises.  His belly has this warm, distinct smell that makes me want to poke it.  I also like to kiss his dry nose and tell him he’s a baby (and an old man, because of his long white beard).

He’s such a cute boy

On other happy notes, I suspect this shall be a good week.  I have only one assignment due, a job interview, and my one year anniversary.  

So, here’s to life’s little joys.

On a sad note, a dear friend is departing for a year.  I’ll miss her long-winded complaints and deviant actions.  There shall be a great and terrible void in my life.  I better receive many novel-length Facebook messages about the rigors of life in a continent far from here.

Fat Politics

I’ve long been a loyal and devoted follower of Dan Savage (a great sex columnist, and an even greater writer).  I came upon his column while perusing a Now Magazine during an unbearably long lunch break.  

Being a life-long suburbanite, I never had access to an alternative weekly before.  At home, the only papers to hit my doorstep are the Toronto Star and Mississauga News.  Neither publication spends much time discussing obscure sexual fetishes, or advertising for strip clubs and escort services.  I also went to a Catholic high school, where no such reading material was readily available.  So you can imagine my delight when attendance at a notoriously liberal university led to the discovery of salacious material embedded in innocuous newsprint.  

I fell in love with Dan instantly, and shared his divine insight with everyone I knew.  

One day, he wrote about complaints from disgruntled readers.  He had angered them by saying that larger girls look bad in too-tight pants.  Specifically, he was referring to the roll of fat that hangs over a snug waistband.  More specifically, he was commenting on the phenomenon of size 8 women trying to wear size 4 pants, and looking like ruptured sausages because of it.  Now, the sight of strangled skin struggling to free itself from the confines of hip-crushing pants is loveably referred to as “muffin-topping.”  The consensus of the people (fashion experts, casual observers, my mother, etc) is that this trend cannot continue.  Fashionable attire is supposed to make you look better, not worse.

However, the argument was not about what looks good, but rather the “right” to feel good in unflattering outfits.  It seems like that excess flesh is political, a “fuck you” statement to a world that values women’s bodies rather than their minds.  It’s not terribly out of line to wave the finger at the media.  Hollywood likes its women dirty-skinny (and it likes to deride them for it, too).  No two people are built the same, and not everyone is meant to slither underneath closed doors or have legs the width of a man’s wrist.

However, we must be able to agree that a 5′2 person should not weigh 400 pounds.  Yet we can’t.  According to outraged Savage Love readers, being fat is just like being gay – a permanent, unchangeable aspect of one’s being.  To advise a torn man to gently confront his wife about her 90 pound weight gain is to encourage hate and discrimination.  

People counter these arguments with offensive remarks.  They decry the existence of disgusting excess weight, and demand that the whiny fatties hit a gym and stop eating gallons of ice-cream.

Why, I wonder, can people not be reasonable?  Why must things become so political?

It seems to me like excess weight (as in weight that’s close to double what it should be) is not always a product of laziness (God knows that they’re are lazy and inactive skinny people), but rather a product of a culture that’s lost touch with basic health principles.  Our portions are enormous, our cheap food loaded with fat, and our favourite gourmet lattes filled with sugar.  A lot of jobs require nothing more than the use of fingers to punch numbers into a computer.  

It cannot be denied that obesity is linked to health problems, but not a lot is done to curb the problem at a national level.  People would be horrified if the government taxed sugary pops (or sodas, for any American people reading this) like it does cigarettes, or forced restaurants (fast food ones included) to abide by pre-determined health standards (and they wouldn’t, because franchises are generally good for the economy).  Instead, we (sort of) encourage people to make healthy choices.

“Eat an apple,” we say.  ”Go for a walk.”

There’s nothing wrong with making a personal decision to eat less and move more, but it seems like some people don’t know how much they truly eat or how little they actually move.  North Americans have grown so accustomed to platters of pasta and buckets of fries (I’m only using mild hyperbole here) that some would find anything smaller dissatisfying.  Also, does everyone know that one can of Coke contains up to eight teaspoons of sugar?  Do people know that a venti white mocha from Starbucks has almost as many calories as a quarter-pounder with cheese from McDonalds?  

When people hear the word “diet,” they think of deprivation – of raw vegetables and tiny cuts of skinless, boneless chicken breasts.  Really, it can be hard to tell how much is too much, and it’s harder still when the fries that make your hips swell seem to melt off of your skinny (but perhaps more sedentary) friend.  

So, if there was less fast-food, less pop and smaller portions, would people be smaller?  Yes, they absolutely would.  A plump figure was considered attractive in the 18th century because everyone was thin and hungry.  Now we’re more than satiated, and we have the muffin-tops to show for it.  

Instead of arguing over what looks good, and what should look good, and why thinking a certain person doesn’t look good is akin to a lynching, we should be trying to figure out why this debate exists.  Why do some people need two seats on an airplane?  Is it because they’re lazy wastes of life?  Drains on the medical system? Inconveniences in crowded areas?  Or is because we’re a culture that consumes and consumes and consumes?  A culture that wants more food and more TV shows and more electronics?  We want big houses and big cars and big walk-in closets.  We want instant food for low-prices.  We’re too busy to cook and go grocery shopping.  

It’s not right or just or fair to make a thicker person feel like a lazy slob – he or she is no such thing.  However, we cannot, as a culture, over-consume something and incur no ill effects.  Too little food will kill, and it seems too much will too.  

What’s to blame isn’t bigotry or intolerance, but rather ignorance.  It seems we don’t know why we are the way we are.  We’re bigger than we want to be (and much bigger than we’re told we should be).  It’s hard when you’re tired and busy and want a quick burger before bedtime.  It’s hard when every restaurant serves you a meal that could easily be shared with two other people.  It’s hard when high-fat foods are delicious.  It’s hard when many jobs require that we just sit and stare at a computer screen.  

The problem has more to do with a culture obsessed with size and convenience.  Perhaps we’d all be benefitted by caring less about both.

“It’s winter in Canada, what do you expect?

When I say “Jesus Christ it’s ridiculously cold today,” I don’t want to hear, “well, it’s January in Canada.”

I know it’s January in Canada.  I also know that in previous Canadian Januaries, the seasonal norm has been, like, -2C to -5C.  Not -14C every day for a month.  It’s bone-breakingly cold outside.  It hurts – hurts! – when naked flesh on your face is lightly grazed by the icy arctic winds.  In mere seconds, gloved hands go numb.  The wind ices your very bones!  Every time I walk through the school parking lot, I know that should I trip, I’ll break every frozen bone in my body.  One slip, and I’m going to be scattered across the pavement in a million frozen pieces.

Fuck this “typical winter weather.”  There’s nothing typical about this bone-chilling cold and mountain-high snow.   Nothing!

Oh, and on a happier note (to me, at least), I might become an English tutor.  My humble applications have been processed and deemed worthy, and now I just have to write some kind of proficiency quiz in the next week or so.  The money made might be meager, but it’s better than nothing (which is what I’m earning right now).

Here’s hoping it works out.

In the meantime, enjoy the frigid temperatures.  Or, if you live somewhere warm, the beautiful ones.

So, It’s Been Awhile…

Those of you who check this defunct collection of ramblings have likely given up on me.  I don’t blame you, I’ve been gone awhile.  Six or seven months, give or take.  I haven’t been terribly busy, just terribly uninspired.  

I’m torn on the concept of blogging.  I like it, and I like doing it, but sometimes I just don’t feel like it.  I try to talk about greater issues, so as to interest a greater number of people.  No one wants to hear about my mom or my homework or my dwindling bank account.  People might want to hear about my scandalous sexual escapades and wild fantasies, but I feel weird sharing them because a lot of people who read this would know who I’m talking about.  Sharing that sort of thing would be rude, and in poor taste.  That said, I can still say things that are in poor taste.  So here is a random collection of my most obnoxious opinions.

But before that, I should welcome 2009 to…Earth.  

I had a good 2008.  It had its sad moments and unhappy hours.  It had its tears, but it had many, many joys.  On a serious note, I can honestly say that this was one of the best years of my life.  I learned so much, and accomplished things (little things, but things nonetheless).  I outgrew some bad habits and developed some good ones (and a few more bad ones, perhaps).  I met an incredible guy, and made many new and wonderful friends.  I may have lost some too, and I won’t forget that either.  

I lost that 15 pounds I’d be whining about since high school, I got over a startling personal disappointment, and I went back to school.  I wasn’t always in the best of moods, but I was in the best of places.  I spent 2007 nursing disappointments and grievances, and 2008 made up for all of it.  I can only hope that this year as good as the last.

Here’s to good times, good friends, good memories, and great loves.  

As for my obnoxious opinions, here they be:

I hate people with dumb “artistic” opinions.  These people tend to be young, but they can be old.  They can even be me, at times, but hopefully not often.

While traveling on a streetcar back in October, I heard two 15-ish year old girls talking about Hedley.  They were discussing that, “we’re putting out fires and changing car tires” song – things no members of Hedley do or will likely do…ever.  The great top 40 summer hit about being a working stiff reminiscing about high school, it seems, is deeper than meets the…ear.

“I don’t really like the song that much,” said one girl, “but, like, I really like the message, you know?”

No, I don’t know.  There is no “message” in that song.  None.  It’s about nothing.  

None of the members of Hedley are old enough to mourn their youth, and I’d wager that their lives now are far better than the ones they led in high school.  Oh, and they don’t put out fires, nor would they likely have to change their own tires.  

Onto Barack Obama…

I like Obama.  I was glad when he won.  In fact, I was overjoyed.  You don’t need to be American to celebrate this change in American political winds.  He’s young, he’s black, he’s charismatic, he’s eloquent, he’s interesting.  

He hasn’t given anyone reason to believe that he’s a communist, fascist, dictator, child molester, satanist or, as Jon Stewart said, witch.  He’s not even particularly revolutionary as far as American politics go.  He has a relatively socially liberal voting record, but social liberalism isn’t viewed by most first-world nations as all that radical.  A lot of countries pay no mind to abortion and gay marriage, and those countries haven’t been struck by God-sent meteors, nor have they been swallowed up by hell.  I bet you $2 that they won’t be (I’d bet more, but I’m broke, and broke people must be frugal).  

He said, “spread the wealth,” not, “impose upon the people a system that will guarantee no one makes more than $10 an hour, regardless of whether or not he/she sells coffee or operates on hearts.”  

Are these people serious?  Honestly?

I suspect that those who deal with little oppression crave it, just so they can protest and feel heroic – Like Sean Penn or Clint Eastwood.  I’d almost be willing to bet a sum larger than $2 that should real war, violence and oppression settle on North American soil, all of those nationalists would flee, if possible, to the libertine cesspool across the Atlantic.  

Also, that study that linked sexy TV shows to teen pregnancies?

No, the correlation between such things needs to be examined more closely, and other factors need to be taken into account.  The most damning argument is the fact that the teen pregnancy rate in the Netherlands is 5 per 1000, while the United States boasts a 50 per 1000 rate.  The Netherlands is home to the city of Amsterdam, a tourist hotspot with legal brothels, live sex shows, and stores that sell the most disgusting and horrific pornography ever made (women with horses, horses with men, women with armed rapists, women with open wounds, etc).  

Why the disparity?  If a sex-saturated culture guaranteed young parenthood, why aren’t European countries overrun with teenage mothers?  

Because people aren’t as uptight about sex.  They don’t shriek about the dangers of comprehensive sex-ed (which does not include teaching five year olds how to give blowjobs, trust me), they don’t call bare breasts “obscene,” and they don’t promote puritanical values while using erotic ads to entice people to buy drain cleaner.  The hypocritical disconnect between actions and theories, and the denial of the importance of supplying teens with adequate knowledge of contraceptive options leads to teen pregnancies.  Let’s not blame HBO.  

Speaking of pop culture, here’s my take on quality entertainment:

Good TV shows:  I’m flighty about TV, I have a hard time committing to shows.  However, my favourites for this year were True Blood and Summer Heights High.  One’s a vampire drama (one with hot and graphic sex scenes) and the other a hysterical satire of life at an Australian high school.  It’s not as over-the-top as it seems, and that’s what’s great about it.  Everyone has met a Ja’mie or two…or three.  

I don’t have much to say about movies, but I will say that this year re-invigorated my interest in literature.  I read a lot, which was nice.  I didn’t read much upon graduating from university, probably because I was temporarily tired of learning.  My favourite book(s)?

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen.  An entertaining and engaging look at circus life during the Great Depression.  It has cliche dramatic elements – an affair, a cruel husband, a gang of tough workers hailing from the school of hard knocks, betrayal, suspense, etc.  It also has insight into an exciting industry struggling to thrive during tough times, and those who survived and those who did not (and those who did not deserve to).  

As Forrest Gump would say, that’s all I have to say about that.

Enjoy the New Year, everyone.

Oh Yes…

Today is my last day of work. 

You have no idea how relieved I am.  The soul-melting agony of monotony is (temporarily, perhaps) over.  I will proceed to lend my mind to more engaging tasks from here on in.  I hope.  

I will track my last file soon.  Well, my last file for several months.  I might come back at Christmas – but that’s a long way away.

I am so happy I could weep!

Muurrrdeer Hiiiiimmmm!!!

So, I’ve been thinking about social politics again.  Social politics are probably the only politics I think about, because I’m a shallow and superficial person.  I articulate myself well (sometimes), but I’m not overly intelligent (a fact I’ve come to accept).  I have a limited understanding of complex facts and figures, and I still count on my fingers.  What’s 10 per cent of 127 dollars?  I don’t know, I stopped doing math after grade 10. 

However, I do like a hot discussion about a hot topic – like, say, an attractive politician’s affair with a sultry blonde subordinate.

I moreso like reading people’s reactions to it.

There’s a lot of indignation regarding politician’s sexual indiscretions.  A lot of titillation and fascination too, granted.  Still, when news of an affair breaks, people decry the immorality and some (not all) lament the decline in family values and God-fearing personal integrity. 

In the case of John Edwards, a certain degree of disappointed head-shaking is called for.  His wife is terminally ill and has been battling cancer since 2004.  A woman who has lost a son and her health is now being forced to deal with the humiliation of having the world know her charismatic husband fucked around on her with a woman he may or may not have impregnated (the jury is still out on that one).

I feel for her, we all feel for her. 

However, what’s most fascinating about this incident (and others like it) is that in the United States, sexual dalliances – when revealed – are always career-killers (unless you’re Bill Clinton).  However, to be fair, Clinton suffered a fair bit once the world found out about his little on-the-side BJ.

I’m not defending people who cheat.  Cheating is hurtful, harmful and destructive.  It is not, however, a political issue.  It’s a personal one, involving several people – not millions or billions.   Some would argue that infidelity is indicative of poor character (and it can be), but it probably doesn’t affect how a person does his or her job.  People behave differently in their interpersonal relationships than they do in their professional lives (generally speaking, anyways).  Also, there’s probably no one cause of unfaithfulness.

In the case of Edwards, living with a terminally ill woman may have compelled him to seek carefree sex elsewhere.  That’s not to say what he did was excusable, but it puts the situation into perspective.  What he did was probably more careless and weak than malicious.  People seek different kinds of sexual fulfillment for vast reasons, most of which cannot be understood by themselves, let alone a gossipy public. 

I’ve become inclined to think that the public prefers to focus on small, scandalous issues because they’re easier to understand and discuss.  Understanding economics and public policy can be trickier. It requires more study and concentration, and a deeper understanding of the subject matter.

Any asshole can spout opinions on matters of social significance.  Even politicians will choose to debate frivolous issues that affect small pockets of people instead of major issues with world-wide implications.

Why talk about a failed war, plummeting economy and escalating environmental damage when you can incite rage by shrieking about the grave danger inherent in allowing the state to sanction and condone men marrying men?  People are more likely to get uppity about trivial issues that affect their emotions rather than their lives.  The idea of gay people marrying disturbs some people psychologically.  Yet, when these marriages start happening, the lives of numerous naysayers won’t change overmuch.  They’ll work the same jobs, make the same salaries, eat the same foods, live in the same houses, etc.

People will rally against things that, in the grand scheme of things, don’t matter all that much.  Similar logic can be applied to the abortion debate.  The idea of abortion causes emotional unrest, but doesn’t affect people all that much.  Abortions are, at the end of the day, between women and their doctors.  No one ever need know that a fetus was unable to develop.  The world hasn’t spontaneously combusted, nor will it. 

Over-the-counter availability of the morning after pill?  That chaps the ass of a few people – and why?  Because the knowledge that people are having sex outside of the confines of a child-wanting marriage bothers some people.  Yet, that pre-marital sex isn’t a world issue.  It’s a personal issue all around. 

STDs – well, most are preventable and almost all (with the exception of AIDS and herpes) are curable.  They’re social problems in so far as they’ll be dealt with by certain individuals at some point, much like other diseases.  In fact, STDs are less problematic than cancers, which are prevalent and far more difficult to treat and cure. 

I’d even go so far as to say that HIV is not a crisis in the West.  It  was a crisis back in 1987 when no one knew what it was or how to prevent it.  People know more now, and can – if they choose – protect themselves.  Condoms and routine testing are easily accessible.  Collective social crisis averted, I’d say. 

Still, it’s easier to dismiss someone based on their sexual proclivities or tolerance of sticky social subjects.  It’s harder to think of big issues, issues that can and will affect the world at large.  Issues that will, inevitably, affect one’s life.  Instead, people debate subject matter close to their hearts.  There’s nothing wrong with passion or thoughtfulness, but it shouldn’t dominate political discourse.  In the end, a lot of hot topics don’t really matter. 

Gay people getting married?  A good thing, because nothing particularly bad can come it.  It can make you uneasy, but everyone has to deal with things that make them uneasy. 

It’s easy to call for someone’s head when he does something wrong in his personal life, but it’s not particularly healthy or affective.  Someone else’s blowjob is someone else’s blowjob.  Your life wont be any different tomorrow because of it.

If I Had My Own Office…

I would have a couch in it.  Something big and leathery. 

I don’t find leather couches more comfortable than other ones, but I find they look more elegant – and perhaps, in the context of an office, more professional.

Every Friday, I’d tell whomever else worked in the building that I need two uninterrupted hours to “work.”  I wouldn’t say what I was doing, I’d be vague and mysterious.  People would be intrigued, or annoyed.

No, they probably would be more annoyed than anything else.

They’d all be like, “that girl is very strange.”

I’d then take two hours and sleep. 

I accidentally dozed off (for less than 10 minutes) on the mini-couch in the lunchroom today.  When someone came in, I was embarrassed.  Yet, the tiny nap was refreshing, and I enjoyed it while it lasted. 

Should I ever work in an office again – and find myself with a room to call my own – I’m getting a couch and I’m sleeping on it during my Friday lunch break.

Make no mistake about that.

You’re All a Bunch of Dirty Hookers!

No, but for real – you are (and that’s okay).

Despite the fact that I haven’t updated in about a month, I had 15 hits yesterday (I usually average 2-5 a day).  I am able to see the words people type into search engines that lead them to my cozy neck of the Internet woods (a nifty WordPress feature, to be sure).  Today, I saw the following:

	2
naked vacation photos	2
hot slutz	1
there a feeling i get when i look to the	1
squeeze heavy sweaty balls	1
thoughts of a wayward nature	1
slob on my neck like corn on the cob	1
religion + kink	1
very hot nacked picture in nature	1
jump on the bed and give me head dont ha

I like “squeeze heavy sweaty balls” the best.  It’s not something I would ever think to punch into a search engine.  I haven’t much interest in sweaty balls, or heavy ones.  Balls, I think, are utilitarian rather than ornamental.  The same could be said for any body part, but most people think of breasts as decorations rather than biologically-necessary appendages.  I’d wager a guess that testicle fetishes are almost entirely exclusive to the gay community (but I could be mistaken).

I like that someone searched for “Religion + Kink.”  Those two tend to walk hand in hand on occasion, ironically enough. 

I’ve come to a realization recently.

I have achieved nothing in my life.

I possess a worthless and meaningless degree that’s been given to mass numbers of people stupider and less motivated than myself.  An arts degree is like a happy meal – if you can afford it, you can have it.  You can have six or seven, if you’re feeling peckish enough.  It’s a shame, really.  The arts do mean something.  They are, indeed, important. 

It’s a disheartening how few career academics take them seriously enough to guard them from flagrant idiots who fail – time and time again – to understand them. 

I’m not saying I’m brilliant, but I did appreciate what I studied.  I did, at times, care enough to try.  I could have, instead, written essays so horrific they bordered on obscene.  I would still have that $20,000 piece of paper hanging on my wall.

So yeah, I’m going back to school.  I’m a hypocrite, I guess.  And, well, I’m getting a little desperate for gainful employment (and easy access to a potential job). 

I’m happy to be going back, because I really do hate my job.

Being here depresses me.  I feel very hopeless and useless and devoid of passion.  The heavy fog of circumstantial depression tends to lift on the weekends, so I attribute my general  malaise to my off-white surroundings throughout the week.  If I stay here for too long, I’ll only be able to talk about the mysterious picnic at the bank last Wednesday.  And the various health complaints of the aging courier with a penchant for peanut M&Ms (we have a candy machine). And the difference between Tazo and Tetley teas.  And the horrible pain of pricking yourself with an industrial-size staple that’s come loose within its papery confines.

I can’t do this for much longer.

And I won’t be.

I hope to spend many of my luscious Friday nights in a semi-far away city come September.  A cute basement apartment with a tiny bathroom will be a nice change of scenery (despite my love of big, roomy bathrooms).

I’ll also look forward to uninterrupted “prviate time.”  You know, the kind free of intruders who gasp and giggle and say that they’ll leave once they use the bathroom “quick-time.”

On an unrelated (yet sad) note, I’ll bid a great man adieu.

George Carlin, it seems, has left us.  He was funny, but truly brilliant.  He was one of the few who told us all to stop caring about shit that doesn’t matter, and to care about shit that does.

A wise man, indeed – and one who will be missed.

I Wanna Make it Wit’chu!

This is not a conservative post, though it will seem that way at first. 

A few days ago (or perhaps a few weeks ago, I can’t be sure) my brother, normally a fan of horrendous death metal (horrendous to me, at least), started singing the praises of Lil’ Wayne.  I wasn’t totally surprised, as he’s been partial to hip-hop before.  His description of the music?  

“It’s jokes.”

Being too lazy to download Pop Bottles myself, I listened to it on his computer.  It’s not an exceptional song, but it contains an outstanding line(s).

 “Okay, start with straight shots and then pop bottles,
Pour it on the models,
Shut up bitch, swallow,
If you can’t swallow,
Shut up bitch, gargle.”

The visual of someone gargling anything (and in this case, Mr. Wayne may be referring to semen) is off-putting in and of itself.  Gargling isn’t a particularly sexy act, for it neither looks nor sounds pleasant.  It’s usually done to rid one’s mouth of unwanted bacteria.

However, hearing that line got me thinking about other unpleasant – and by “unpleasant” I mean “decidedly unsexy” – lyrics in hip-hop and pop songs. 

Look, here, at this erotic collection of steamy words penned by Oscar winning musical geniuses 3-6 Mafia:

“Slob on my knob Like corn on the cob,
Check in with me and do your job,

 Lay on the bed and give me head,
Don’t have to ask don’t have to beg

 Juicy is my name, sex is my game
Let’s call the boys, let’s run a train

 Squeeze on my nuts, lick on my
butt.”

I don’t think a eating corn on the cob – an activity done during casual dinners and my family’s annual Father’s Day BBQ – is an adequate comparison to a blowjob.  Mainly because most civilized people don’t “slob” on their corn, but rather bite it with vigor and enthusiasm (something that shouldn’t be done during oral sex). 

The rest of the chorus compliments the crass and laughably bad first line.  Run a train?  Isn’t that illegal in most instances?  Is this a consensual train-running?  Or a Showgirl’s style train-running? Regardless, it’s not “hot.”

Hearing that line reminded me of a popular Lil’ John (the rapper who always screams YEEEEEAHHHH) song that contained the line:

“Til’ the sweat drops down my balls.”

Sweaty balls.  Nice.

It would seem that some sexually suggestive lyrics fail at being both sexy and suggestive.  They instead opt to be crass, overt, and – as my brother said – “jokes.”  Perhaps this is done purposely, but regardless, it seems unnecessary. 

I enjoy a sexually-charged song, and I don’t shy away from explicit content.  In fact, I often embrace it.  Sex can be reduced to something raw and animalistic in a musical context.  It need not be constantly presented as something elegant and softly romantic.  However, it doesn’t have to be made into something inherently dirty, either.  The lyrics don’t have to allude to spit and sweat, nor do they need to include lewd metaphors that only vaguely apply to the acts being discussed.

Artists have the freedom to be explicit, but some can’t – and don’t – pull it off well.  When did subtlety become overrated?  When did creativity fall to the wayside?  When did songs about sex turn into songs about gargling and eating corn? 

A sexy song is, I believe, only sexy if you can imagine yourself having sex to it.  Corn on the cob has never been an aphrodisiac for me, nor has the word “slob.”  “Slob” is something that comes out a dog’s mouth when he’s chewing a dentabone.  Ball sweat has never whipped me into a sensual frenzy.  To be fair, I’m sure the term “pussy sweat” would make most men recoil in disgust.  You don’t need to be flowery in your descriptions of natural bodily functions, but you can try to be tasteful. 

People have lost touch with sexiness.  Justin Timberlake, I fear, has not brought it back (though he’s right in claiming that it left). 

People took the ball of openness and artistic freedom and ran too far out of bounds with it.  They didn’t appreciate the power and privilege, and infused their lyrical creations with juvenile and obscene descriptions of generally desirable erotic activities. 

In layman’s terms:  Some of these contemporary boundary-pushing “poets” have ruined sex for me (and others, I’d imagine).  Nothing quashes desire faster than a overt referral to gurgling or slobbering.

Now, to be fair and gender-inclusive, male rappers aren’t solely responsible for destroying and defacing human sexuality.

Kia asked men to lick:

“My neck,

My back,

My pussy,

and my crack.”

She lost at me at, “crack.”  An unsexy word, to be sure.  It kind of, I don’t know, takes the mystique out of things.

A few short years ago, songs by Genuwine and LL Cool J were considered relatively raunchy.  They were overtly suggestive, yes, but raunchy?  Not really – at least, not by today’s disgraceful standards.

“Pony” and “Doin’ It” are probably still on people’s Sex Songs playlists.  They have a certain thrust-friendly rhythm to them, and the lyrics serve to compliment the beat.  Granted, “Pony” contains some giggle-worthy lyrics.  However, because it makes an effort to be edgy and raw (not repulsive), it can get away with silly lines like:

“You’re hor-nay, lets doooo it.”

And:

“My saddle, is waiting,

Come and, jump on it.”

The difference between hot songs and repugnant ones? 

Intent.

Do you want to arouse, or shock and horrify?  If your goal is to come up with the dirtiest, most pornographic metaphor, your intent is to elicit gasps and raised eyebrows (accompanied by covered mouths).  Writing about sweat and slobber is akin to writing about diarrhea – daring, but not necessarily commendable.  Honesty is not always the best policy.  Being realistic about your exploitative (and perhaps misogynistic) view of sex doesn’t do listeners any favours. 

It signifies the creation of one more song that makes people think – for two to three minutes – that sex just isn’t all that sexy. 

 

I Live!

Disclaimer: I started writing this entry about two weeks ago and abandoned it.  I’m only posting it now because I suddenly remembered it was sitting in my draft box. 

I haven’t written an entry in far too long.  I feel like I’ve been neglecting a good friend, one deserving of much more respect and attention.  I actually haven’t written anything lenghty  or important in awhile, and I feel guilty.

However, that guilt shall soon be assauged.  I have to write several papers – short ones, granted – as a part of the college application process.  I bit the bullet, as it were, and applied for several journalism programs.  I now may be able to post-pone real-life for another two years, which is wonderful. 

Life in the working world – or this working world, at least – is dour and depressing.  I’m doing something I’m not fit to do, mentally or psychologically (are those two one in the same?).  It’s exhausting because it’s disheartening and monotonous.  It makes me want to take up scrap-booking, and I’ve never been one for such crafty pursuits.

Yes, I was bad at Arts & Crafts as a child.  My writing was crooked, my drawing pitiful, and my gluing messy.  When I was little, I sometimes had trouble colouring inside the lines.  It was, at the time, a great source of shame and embarrassment.

For those who say they miss their childhood, what about it do you miss?

Childhood is one of the most difficult things one has to endure – and endure it we must, all of us.  Pre-adolescence is the time when you’re most co-dependent and insecure.  You can’t do things on your own, you certainly can’t expect to be taken seriously, and thus you absorb people’s bullshit like a sponge.  Childhood is when life-long insecurities take root.  There may not be a lot of 10 year-old alcoholics, but there’s no doubt things that happen to 10 year-olds that turn them into 40 year-old drunks. 

I never long for the “carefree” days of my childhood.  I prefer to be able to drive and vote and drink and come and go as I please.  I’d take bills over elementary school recess any day. 

The best time of life?

When you’re enjoying yourself on your own terms.  That can’t really happen when you’re 11 – or at least, it didn’t happen to me. 

Now that I’ve officially decided to try going back to school, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted off of my shoulders.  I have made a decision – a wise one, at that.  I’m going to toy with the idea of working in media for a little while longer.  I know it’s what I want to do, I’m just not quite sure how or when to start.  This, I think, is a step in the right direction.

In the meantime, I shall reward myself for enduring the daily drudgery of office work (a curse I, admittedly, bestowed upon myself) with late weeknights (and weekends) spent with good friends and hot lovers.  Well, there’s only one lover – but really, I’m a simple woman and I only need one . 

….

 

All of the above was written a couple of weeks back.  I’ve since completed my college applications, but there’s been some administrative fuck-ups regarding those.  As of now, circumstances have compelled me to put all of my eggs in one wait-listed basket.  We’ll see how things go.