Sterner & Rogier, LLC

First, Rogier, don’t put your abnormal male behavior in place as The Gospel.  I’ll have you know if YOU were dating me, it would take a hell of a lot more than 30 days for you to get tired of boning me.  I have at least a 6 month shelf life.

Another thing about you, Rogier, is your projection problems.  As in, you’re pretty hot and intellectual and you “know” it, as in your awareness level is on par with a regular human being, but you don’t “feel” it. 

If you want to get together and write some mantras and repeat them together later, let me know.

I am addicted to Wheat Thins.  Actually, the Vons organic equivalent but whatever.

I just licked a smidge of Babybel cheese off my desk after it fell off a cracker.

Goddamn I am addicted to Babybel.

going to work.  You want Edward Cullen to teach you how to tame a magnificent but previously abused horse.  I want you watching Mexican soaps in the lobby of Planned Parenthood with a sense of dread.

— Rogier

Sternballs, don’t worry about it.  It doesn’t matter how much you keep yourself up because after a month in he doesn’t give a shit what you look like anyway.  You might as well eat a brick of that weird Mexican lard every day, and then roll around in shit, because that’s what your girlfriend ends up looking like to you sexually after the 30 day mark.

Every girl I’ve ever dated, after that first blush wears off, I’d rather jerk off.  If I’m fucking her it’s a goddamn favor. And you can’t even act like it’s a favor; it has to be one of those Christlike favors where the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing.  Which is thinking as hard as possible about any other woman of any kind, preferably one who looks the least like you as humanly possible.  And they always give you the speech about how “I thought men were supposed to be so sexually insatiable, how come I always have to blah blah blah.”  Men are not sexually insatiable for you; they are sexually insatiable for new pussy, so don’t put that makeup on, just get the fuck out from in front of the TV when I’m playing Xbox.

Seriously, if I’m dating a model, I’m thinking about fucking a fat black elderly midget.

— Rogier

Recently I’ve been looking in the mirror and I am totally fucking confused.

First, I used to be tan all the time.  Now I’m pasty and semi-bloated.  Don’t get me wrong, my body is still (thankfully) amazing, but when you’re pale you look bloated, regardless of whether you are or not.  I also am not into washing my hair, either, because as of late I am convinced that I must use all vegan/organic products, which make my hair look like shit and smell like grapes.

“Grape” was always my LEAST favorite of all candy/fruit smells.  Nice, Sterner.

I also have begun to not shave my legs, because I was waxing for a while but now I am too poor, and my pale, German skin CANNOT be shaved every day.  It reacts sort of the way your asshole does when you try to shove something up it: painfully.

When Mr. Sterner and I first moved into together, I made sure to put makeup on AFTER I HAD SHOWERED from work whether we were going anywhere or not, and I always wore my cute pajamas (which are always the uncomfortable ones) to bed and shaved all the time and tried to be cute.  Cute cute cute.  But then Mr. Sterner kept looking at me funny, like “why are you putting makeup on?” and since I get so hot under our stupid ass feather blanket at night I strip off all my clothes at 3 am anyway, I stopped dressing adorably to go to bed.  Now I live a life of eating popcorn in bed watching 80’s movies naked.

Last night, I went through almost my entire closet for inventory wearing a black satin robe, and that’s it.  Except an OPEN black robe.  Like, I was too fucking lazy to even tie my robe.  Loser.

I used to think to myself, those bitches who just let themselves go deserve to get dumped, because they’re lazy.  And while I like to think I’m hot enough to escape a large majority of work other broads have to do (like, upper lip waxing…clear on that one), I still feel lazy as fuck.  Maybe I’ll work on that when we move into an apartment bigger than a fucking SHOEBOX.

don’t let someone who did the exact same thing as me only much better and with much more recognition die right after me, please.  For fuck’s sake.

sent me a bean bag “eye pillow,” and I’m thinking: would this make a good artificial vagina?

You know the kind I’m talking about- the one where it feels like there’s a steel pipe running under your taint.

Even in a burqa, you could give me one of those boners that pulses every time my heart beats.

Your cobelligerent,

Rogier

Sara. You are not a bad chick. Everything about you is great on paper. I’m aware I just used a phrase out of Sex and the City but god dammit, it’s true. You have big tits. Your face is completely serviceable, although you do have a certain hokey Boston-Irish look about you. You are a little flabby but I like your thick, meaty ass. Also the tits. The tits the tits the tits. You really do have amazing tits. You have a shaved pussy with three large tattoos on top of it. Three gigantic, colorful, detailed tattoos above your pussy. You are on birth control and let me nut in you. Unlike Molly, you can give a fucking blowjob without horrible jagged snaggleteeth grating the skin off my cock. Without making me feel like my cock was preyed upon by some hideous form of deep sea predator.

EXCEPT that I looked at you when you were blowing me and you didn’t even have my fucking dick in your mouth! What the fuck? You were giving me a fucking handjob while drooling on my cock. It felt good— your “blowjobs” always felt good, but… insubstantial. And it turns out it’s because you were cheating. How come women just can’t suck a dick. Just put my fucking dick in your mouth. I fucking love to eat pussy. I love having genitals in my mouth— what the fuck is wrong with a dick. I can’t figure out the right way to phrase that.

Anyway, meditate on this.

May God bless you and keep you,

Rogier

You have the body of a fetal pig soaked in formaldehyde and your teeth are like corn kernels stuck in Play Doh. But I am still completely in love with you.

Longingly,

Your former boss

Rogier

Normally at this point writing about a girl I would say “Sterner, you fucking twat. Why haven’t you blah blah blah, why can’t you just fuck me, etc.” But I like you. You haven’t done anything to fuck me over. I figured you must have a boyfriend going in and lo and behold, I was right. Of course you have a fucking boyfriend. Of course everyone has a fucking boyfriend. Every normal human being in the world is paired off with someone and only a hideous mutant sewer creature could possibly be single at the age of 33 despite being reasonably tall and in good shape and having a job that sounds cool to girls. Of course you have a boyfriend and of course your story about the way you met is some bullshit like “I saw him and he looked like a nerd and so I spilled beer on him.” “I just saw him standing around in a club—” BULLSHIT, I’ve been to a million billion clubs over a million years standing around looking like a fucking nerd and I assure you nothing that looks like you has ever spilled beer on me. What the fuck. This was probably like— this was probably the day I had plans to go to that exact same club and stand in that exact same spot but my car battery ran out or something. The same night I was like— well, I was going to go to the club but there won’t be any girls there so fuck it. You could have spilled that beer on me and then you’d be living in my house and I’d be walking around with a skinny good looking chick with big tits instead of by myself like a jackass. But I would get sick of you. The instant you brought up some shit about putting carrot juice in your ass to cure cancer I would probably hit you. So it’s for the best.

I can’t even get horny for you. That’s how much I like you. I’ve tried to rub one out to you several times over the past few weeks, ever since I’ve had those few times hanging out with you long enough to get a “lock” on your face so it doesn’t morph into some more recognizable redheaded chick when I’m imagining you fucking me. But I can’t do it. I usually have to switch over to (REDACTED hot but retarded girl I met off the internet’s name), getting her pregnant while she’s all drunk and thus ruining her life and dreams. I should be jerking off about ruining your life and dreams. But there’s something so guileless about you. Part of me just want to wrap you in a warm blanket and stroke your hair by a fire while you cry, and tell you everything’s going to be OK.

Best regards,

Your co-combatant

Rogier

“Everyone is convinced” that I want to fuck you? Let me end this speculation: I want to fuck you. If I ever thought I could fuck you, I would fuck you. I would fuck you good. If you ever get real drunk around me when we’re alone, I will be fucking you. Fucking you good. I will feel bad about it; I don’t like fucking with people’s relationships. But besides smacking my cat once the only thing I ever regret in life is pussy I didn’t get. I’m never going to *try* to fuck you. Even if you break up with (REDACTED), I’m not going to put the moves on you. But god damn it, Sterner, I want to fuck you like Haitians want 6,000 pounds of concrete to not be on top of them. For the record.

Respectfully,

Your colleague

Rogier

I know you have the face of a fourteen year old farmboy.  I know you have a live-in boyfriend that you’ve probably been dating for a decade and you inexplicably listen to ranchero music at extremely high volumes beginning at 6 in the morning and your apartment is cluttered with weird shit and it’s apparent that you two, while nice, are total weirdos— but god damn, do I need to steal a pair of your panties.  Why can’t you ever leave a pair laying around the laundry room.  I’ve had this white tank top with the waffle pattern that I think is yours and I’ve been using it as a spank rag for over a year.  It’s crusted with yellow semen stains that never wash out and has lost its pristine virginal whiteness.  I think we both know it’s time to move up to your leaving a pair of dirty panties with a good head of cuntmusk on them laying around so I can find them and wear them as a mask while i jerk off.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor,

Rogier

 opened a new bank account today (fuck you, CHASE) and it was an interesting experience. I had to fill out and answer questions about my future savings plans, future retirement plans, future this and that and this and that! What is my credit like, do I have a 401k, am I married? Kids? Own a house or plan on owning a house in the near future? Do I have any investments I might need advising on?

I answered that questionnaire the way I write notes to myself. “Why are you looking for a new bank account?” A: Because Chase bank sucks “Do you have plans to start a family or buy a house soon?” A: Hell no and hell no “Do you have enough money saved for 6 months worth of expenses?” A: Good one. HELL NO

I’ve never written “hell no” so many times. EABOD, bankers! Why don’t you advise me on getting some goddamn money so I can put it in your bank? That would be GREAT!

It got me thinking about life, in general. The guy at the bank who helped me was an extremely handsome man, in a traditional sense. Tall, tan, dark hair, in shape and in an impeccable suit. White teeth, well groomed, and friendly. He asked me if I’d ever worked in banking, and if so, maybe I could apply there! They really appreciated types like myself at this bank, he said…happy, friendly. He thought my answers to the questionnaire were funny. I left wondering what that guy does after work, was he going to hit on me when I came in like that “one guy” at Chase? Because if so I’d forget half of what I went in for and I can’t have that-I’m very discombobulated and get easily distracted. I walked down the street and people looked at my bouncing boobs in my tight black sweater and someone asked me where I worked at the crosswalk, since I wear a security tag. Tiny events in the tiny series of my tiny life. And I went back to work, filed some papers, billed some invoices for my company, and started fucking around on this fine website, which is nothing more than an accumulation of thoughts and random words put together for my later amusement and, hopefully, yours. But at every moment, a mind such as mine starts reading into it, staring into murky depths for some moment of clarity. Except…There Is No Moment.

There Is No Moment.

Life is full of a series of “a-ha”s and “wish I knew that before”s and all sorts of learning experiences, but the one question (that being “why?”) is never answered, and it never will be answered, and while that gives me a sense of comfort in some regards (there is no hell…you can stop looking for the “purpose” of life because the purpose is simply to exist) is also gives you a strange sense of futility. As in, why am I doing what I’m doing? Am I searching for a reward? An answer? Love, marriage, sex, happiness, money, respect, power, fame? I couldn’t tell you what I want out of life if I tried. People balk when I say I don’t care too much about marriage and children, because they say those instincts are “natural”. So I’m supposed to give in to my animal instincts, is that it? Procreate for the sake of myself, really, since the planet certainly doesn’t need any more humans, and marry someone who I probably won’t even know in 10 years?

I am supposed to fear being alone. I am supposed to listen to my government and obey the laws put before me. I am supposed to work without thanks, live a life without consciousness, eat whatever is presented to me and I am supposed to watch your fucking shoddy, boring television and movies and news and have babies and clean my husbands socks and berate myself when I think about fucking another man all because YOU SAY I SHOULD. I’ll need to find a God, mostly to alleviate the cold, aching fear I have that there IS nothing! Nothing is there, before and after you die! Karma doesn’t ACTUALLY exist, the bad people in this world will often never be punished and even more often rewarded! I’ll need to read more philosophy books to put a name to how I am feeling. My knowledge will never compare to the greats of the past. I need to worship quantum physics, cast away the chains of popular thinking, start meditating and perhaps doing yoga, for which I will need a $600 Gucci yoga mat to help me feel good enough about myself to show up. And what a nifty side effect if I make someone else jealous with my $600 mat that they don’t have.

I hear the phrase “passing time” frequently. Passing time? What, to get rid of it?

People tell me I’m a woman, and I need to accept that women are simply more emotional than men and what I want, which is an equal and loving relationship with someone who thinks about me before themselves as I will think about them before myself, is an impossible wish and I better get used to doing housework now. Well, if I take out the trash and kill the bugs, I think that makes ME the man! Why am I so much more attractive when I’m feeble and giggly?

I don’t know what I want. I know what is possible: it is possible me and every other human on this planet can have whatever we want. Anything. If you want to settle down, get married, and have an idyllic life filled with love, children’s laughter, own a house and two cars and have a great but not-to-demanding career, you can have it. And it can work, with consciousness. If you want to be a tortured artist with greasy hair and get easy pussy all day, you can have that, too. If I could get my head to shut the fuck up I could also have what I want…except what I want is to continue questioning, to continue staring into a murky pond of which I will NEVER see the bottom. And since I want it, I will get it.

Is it all cyclical?

All I know is, at the end of the day, I felt bad leaving that bank. I felt bad because I don’t have a retirement plan. I don’t have any money saved up. I don’t want to buy a house and have a dream wedding and I don’t ever, ever think about how my funeral expenses would be paid. Yes, they asked that. I don’t care much about, really, anything. I like being stuck in my own head. And apparently, I like typing what is in my head for public consumption.

I love books. I love sunsets and shadows. I love REAL conversations with people, no small talk or networking. I really love animals although sometimes they scare me. I don’t need a lot of money but I wish I could stop wanting more than I currently have.

Sometimes, when I read Bukowski, I think “how depressingly accurate”. And for a moment, I imagine just he and I had those thoughts together, as if I was in his head while he wrote and he knew I was and welcomed it.

The sun is setting. I should leave the office.

Otherwise known as, “Sterner’s Weekend Recap”.

I really ought to do this every Monday.

My thing is birthdays.  I love them.  Mine, yours, almost anybody’s birthday is enough of a celebration for me to drag my poor ass out for.  While I smirk at most holidays, birthdays are one celebration that really allow to you say, if you want to, how much you love the birthday boy or girl, typically via showing up somewhere stupid/expensive/cheesy and/or buying them a present.  This weekend was no exception.

I’ve had a birthday party to attend almost every weekend for the last few months, which is exhausting to say the least.  LA is one of those towns (you know if you live here) where almost NOTHING is “close”, and by that I mean less than half an hour of drive time, IF you’re lucky.  I live in K-Town, which is close to Downtown and the Eastside of Hollywood, but everywhere else is in BFE for me.  The last two birthdays I attended were all the way in FUCKING PASADENA which is SO GODDAMN FAR AWAY it is almost incomprehensible that I attended, but where there are cameras and my pretty lady friends, I travel.

So this weekend was my pal M’s birthday party at a Hollyweird club called Wonderland (see pictures from my posts last week).  I had already secured the attendence of Loody (my partner in crime) along with Stefan, my friend Nkoyo and her manfriend Dolf.  So Saturday comes along and mid-point into my 5-10 shift at Job 2 I realized FUCK I HATE HOLLYWOOD.  Loody, Nkoyo and I went back and forth via texts debating whether to go to Hollywood or go somewhere in Downtown more suited to our temperments.  Look.  I used to be Hollywood.  I had long hair, big tits, and dressed in color.  Dudes with gel in their hair and too much cologne were actually attractive to me at that point, so “clubbing” (i.e. being shoved around in a sweaty room to bad music for exorbitant amounts of money) was fun to me back then.  Of course, we all have to grow up and some point and I have now realized I like black best and prefer dive bars and lounges to clubs.  So.

After deciding “fuck it, we never miss a birthday”, we all met up outside of Wonderland, which was, in itself, a FUCKING MESS.  Trying to coordinate five people in three different cars coming from 3 different places is hard enough, but add in typical weekend traffic and you’re fucked.  As usual, we all showed up late and had to stand, shivering, outside until we all arrived to go in.  M was kind enough to keep tabs on us to ensure we didn’t have to stand in the *ridiculous* line outside, and once I saw who her doorguy contact friend was, I almost peed my pants with sheer delight.  It was Tomik, that douche from season 1 of the Bad Girls Club!

God this guy is amazing.  He was friendly and courteous to us, so no gripe personally, but anyone who saw him on that show a few years back would be hard pressed to think of him as anything OTHER than a complete douche.  He’s got the whole “A&F shirt/Gotti boy hair” thing going on, which personally makes me feel cold in the nether regions.  I’ll take my sappy eyed emo haired exes any time over a dude like that.

Goddamn this post is getting long.

Anyway, our party was supposed to be 3 people heavier but said party poopers lucked out missing this one.  We get into the club thanks to T-Swizzle and it is JAM FUCKING PACKED.  Not so crowded you can’t walk, per se, but just LOUD and ridiculous.  I started looking for M, who is a very pretty, tall woman with long hair and I instantly realized HEY!  Everyone looks like M here!  Not to mention every table held a birthday celebration.  M says she’s in the “southwest corner” at a table.  What?! I can’t tell my head from a hole in the ground, let alone what fucking direction I’m facing in.  Jesus.  Luckily Stefan knew what that gibberish meant and we waded through the throngs of Ed Hardy to get to M, meaning we waved at her from 5 feet away and instantly high-tailed it to the fucking bar.  M was so crowded in by friends and other people trying to actually GET to her would have required mountain climbing skills.

So we head to the bar, at which I stood for 20 minutes getting elbowed in the side so I could order my drink, which was immediately knocked over 5 minutes later.  Awesome.

We tried to dance for a few, but it just wasn’t happening.  We left about 45 minutes after arrival and I didn’t even get close enough to M to touch her.  I texted my “sorry” and we headed to Bardot.

God, Bardot.  I bitch about it frequently but after the clusterfuck of Wonderland, Bardot was like HEAVEN.  Good looking people in ACTUALLY STYLISH attire milled around, and guess what: at Bardot there is more than one bar. THE NOTION!  Wow!  And the music was a DJ in the front and a band in the back…no Katy Perry to be heard for miles.  Katy Perry, Wonderland?  Seriously?

That said, I’ll have to decline any more birthdays at clubs from now on.  The pressure and money it takes just aren’t worth it.  In LA, you’ve already spent money (via an overpriced valet) before you’ve even gotten into the fucking place you’re trying to go! The time for me to face the facts on what I like (music low enough I can talk; room to dance; a bar that will serve me in less than 5 minutes) and what I don’t (blonds with bad weaves; people from reality TV; Top 40 music; lines for days).  Hollywood isn’t for me, Downtown is.  I’ll take redheads and brunettes over blonds anyday.  Sorry.

You can tag this “hater”.