Because I so often actively criticize our government, I am frequently asked whether I “love” America. Don’t I feel privileged to have been born here? Do I just take all of the freedoms I was given at birth for granted? Don’t I know how lucky I am to be here?

Rhetorical questions like this invoke emotion in people because the idea of questioning one’s government or criticizing one’s country is utter blasphemy in the eyes of the average citizen. We are taught as children to salute the flag, declare the Pledge of Allegiance, and sing literal hymns to the United States of America. The only thing patriotism can be compared to is religion, in both blind faith and righteous condemnation. In church you’re taught to follow God’s Law (written by man), sing to God’s glory, and to purposely curtail your active critical thinking skills which tell you there isn’t an old white man in the sky who magically impregnated a virgin in order to sacrifice that very magical child for the sins of the world in order to keep us locked in a guilt factory forever. Questioning, doubting; these are tools of the devil. Criticizing, inquiring; these are the tools of the political infidel. 

It is in our nature to create elaborate myths around our world and the mysteries it exhibits; so religion isn’t really a “bad” thing, per se. Likewise, it is also part of our nature to build hierarchies both socially and politically in order to both organize and alienate. One could argue it is also in our nature to rip each other to shreds with our teeth and nails; in many ways, religion and politics are just extensions of our physical weapons externalized in a game much more complex than simple torture or death: the game of psychology.

Being blindly allegiant to any group is dangerous, as it allows one’s self to integrate into a group where personal responsibility and critical thinking take a backseat to group conformity and loyalty. Think of how a politician is attacked when they change their stance on an issue. They’re called a flip-flopper, someone who doesn’t adhere to the ideals of the party, a person without loyalty or cause. We never stop to think that changes in opinions and ideals are a good thing, as it means the person in question is evolving or at the very least questioning something they once believed in. Everything you regard as fact should be questioned not just once in your lifetime, but on a consistent basis. Likewise, the adage you can never understand your own argument until you understand your opponent’s is something we should have adopted as the Golden Rule long ago. Unfortunately, we have more or less adopted Schopenhauer’s 38 Stratagems as how we run business these days-righteous dedication to one’s own cause or ideals with the systematic destruction of the opponent’s ideas and argument.

Religion and politics have long been bedfellows, and Christianity in particular was initially adopted in large scale by the Roman emperor Constantine I (Constantine the Great). Adopting Christianity as a political strategy affected both his usage of warfare in neighboring regions (you can collect more soldiers for your cause if you fight under the mantle of the same god) and to ensure his lineage would come into the Crown after his passing. The phrase “when in Rome, do as the Romans do” is easily applied here: if you’re the king of a country and you’re losing ground to a new religion, why not simply adopt it to win your constituents favor? 

When I am asked if I love America, the question flies blindly in the face of what I believe in. I love America the way I love anything else: conditionally. Do I feel lucky I was born here? Often. Do I feel this luck allows the American government to be able to do whatever they like at whatever sacrifice it takes? No. Country lines are imaginary borders we have drawn onto land we don’t own to alienate and divide in order to manipulate. Have you ever thought about what would happen if there were no country lines? Party lines? 

The ideal of unquestioning faith and unwavering belief in both religion and patriotism are the same concept. Do as you’re told, and never question it. NEVER question God’s law. NEVER question the effectiveness of the government. NEVER take for granted what you’ve been given. Beggars can’t be choosers, remember? And the choosers continue the climb the ladder higher and higher while the beggars stay at the bottom, crying thanks to those that throw the crumbs. It is like this whether you’re in church, in business, or on the party lines-you only get what you fight for. The question is whether you’re content with mediocrity, and how much blind faith you’ve got left. 

-Sterner

It became profitable to be an asshat, or at least act like one. I’d like to pinpoint notable asshattery in recent history as evidence.

In the early days (early meaning the days before television), reputation was one of those things you either worshiped in the manner of God (believing that reputation would make or break you) or cast aside to be thought of as daring, avant-garde, or at the very least different than all the other people you were surrounded by. Assholes like Zelda Fitzgerald, Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray forged paths in the Olde Days creating their own legacies as Epic Asshats, people content to buck the status quo and throw off the regulations of a respectable reputation under the guise of art which we all know really just means “partying”. I mean really, all the artists I know live in paid for by daddy lofts and have a lot of unprotected sex with ugly people while high on cocaine. All of this is fine by my moral standards but we all need to start admitting throwing paint on a T-shirt when you’re not busy trying to catch VD isn’t really being an artist. Sorry, Victor.

I’m just fucking with you. Some of this guy’s shit is okay.

Anyway, after TV bukkaked its way into our lives, it opened up a new world of stupid shit. I hardly need to remind you people we were all once captivated in the 90’s by someone named Puck who harassed a man with advanced HIV-AIDS and practically made his living eating boogers and picking scabs. 

I can hardly sleep at night over the sound of all of my Anglo Saxon ancestors screaming.

Television opened up so many possibilities in the minds of unoriginal morons across the globe an entirely new genre of TV was birthed: reality TV. Many people blame the aforementioned Real World (Puck 4 Life) for starting this trend, but the Real World didn’t start out totally disgusting; at least that’s what I tell myself whenever I get a flashback of Tami wiring her jaw shut to lose weight (did you guys know this chick is on another reality show now?! Basketball Wives. I need to stay better abreast of previous Real World cast members careers for mockery purposes) or David the confused asexual punching Irene “Lyme Disease” McGee in the face after she threw his stuffed dog into whatever body of water the cast was living next to. All right. Never mind. The Real World totally began the spiral of the Apocalypse. 

Gay, not gay or asexual: Stephen’s choice of attire makes one wonder; usually gay men have more respect. Although…look at everyone else. I vote asexual. No one would fuck someone wearing that shirt.

Because I respect myself, I haven’t watched television (via cable) for the last 3 or 4 years, and even when I did I usually watched crime shows because I am a potential serial killer in training. Seriously, I could kill you and never get caught. Rubber gloves, full body suit, no traces. FUCK YOU, CSI! YOU’LL NEVER CATCH ME!

Anyway, because of this fact I have no goddamn idea what complete bullshit TV is pumping out for the consumption of idiots. I do know Fox News is still operating, which is further proof of the Apocalypse, and last time I accidentally caught TV at the gym I saw a show who’s premise was teaching spoiled girls how to be humble or else their families/fiances would cut them off from their cash money. Everyone on the show was really fucking ugly and it pissed me off thinking I’ve been going decades of my life not getting shit paid for by anyone but myself. HOW COME I CAN’T CASH IN ON THE TREND OF BEING AN ASSHOLE?! READ THIS BLOG! I AM TOTALLY AN ASSHOLE, AND I’M PRETTY! THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE WHAT AMERICA STANDS FOR!

Obviously my work ethic and self respect are holding me back from a life of luxury and potential sponsorships by Monster energy drinks and Trojan condoms. Luckily, I know the route to real success: acting like a weirdo.

Some people with no discernible talent who are famous for acting like weirdos:

I could go on and on.

The point is, how did we get from living in a society seemingly obsessed with a spotless reputation to living in one where you can get mega-rich and famous just from pretending you’re a weirdo?! As someone who borders on actually being a weirdo (I can never be a weirdo 100% because I used to watch Newlyweds and still think a lot of Celine Dion’s songs are pretty good) I find it insulting to the world (and everyone I had drama class with in high school) that these poseurs can just slap on a horrible wig and make some robot faces and BAM! they’re rich. This is complete nonsense! One should only profit from weirdosity if one can actually prove one is a weirdo. Just wearing wigs and making robot faces isn’t enough, says the entire Broadway community and every child who walks the Earth. Do you listen to and actually enjoy Yoko Ono’s music? Do you know who Genesis P-Orridge is? How many times have you seen Doom Generation? Do you ever eat carrots with barbecue sauce? THESE ARE THINGS WE NEED TO ASK PEOPLE BEFORE WE ALLOW THEM TO SUCK OUR MONEY AWAY, PEOPLE! Or we could just force our entertainers to actually *be* talented at something. I don’t know.

Readers, I love you.

-Sterner

I want all the years I spent with my exes back

All new wine and champagne glasses from the friends who break something every time they come over

All the cell phone minutes I spent listening to whiny friends bitch about the lovers they keep “swearing” they’re never taking back (only to take them back over and over again)

All the presents I bought for people who didn’t buy me anything

All the inches of hair expensive stylists have cut off my head after I asked them to “keep it long”

All of the hope I felt electing government officials who promised me things and then didn’t deliver

All of the time I’ve wasted watching shitty porn that promised to be artistic

All of the brain cells I’ve ruined listening to stupid reviews on Yelp

All of the time I spent making an imaginary Christmas list.

Loody and I went out Saturday night for some beers and conversation. I was also convinced Ingrid was going to find herself a manfriend, which looked like it was happening, only to be crushed later by Ingrid’s insistence the dude she had been chatting up for like a fucking HOUR was boring. Yeah, dude! We couldn’t have established this much earlier? I could have saved myself the experience of having amuse his entire group of friends while you talked to him.

One thing that did come up during this time, however, was the topic of weed. Well, the act of smoking it. There was a couple in the group (who I actually liked) named Tim and Kellie who asked me if I smoked weed. I vehemently said YES. OF COURSE. EVERYONE SHOULD. Tim high-fived me, bro-style, and Kellie groaned and they told me it was an issue in their relationship.

Just for visualization’s sake, let me first say I am often told random personal facts about people’s lives after only knowing them for mere minutes. People, as a rule, like talking about themselves, and our instincts are always to confide in new friends to “bond” with them over the common thread of storytelling. Oh, you have an older brother who’s an artist? Me, too! Your secret dream is to be a singer and dress up like 70’s-era Cher every night? Dude. Me too. We have shit in common! We’re friends! Kellie was the one who approached Loody and I in the first place, and I always feel like girls bond with other girls especially easy, multiplied by 1.6 million when there is alcohol involved.

Kellie was a short-ish (5’5” maybe?) attractive NATURAL blonde (this is important to point out just because) wearing jeans, a tweed jacket, and a delicate gold necklace. I pay HEAVY attention to people’s visual cues, and Kellie’s said she was Serious, Driven, Motivated, and Romantic. The tiny gold chain and a few other cues (a pinkish hangbag, her one length, bobbed hair cut in the color the Lord gave her) told me she was romantic and girly. Tweed says you’re serious and conscious of other’s opinions. Jeans with sensible but cute heels says you’re comfortable with yourself but still need to be viewed as a lady (I could write an entire dissertation on women in flats vs. heels).

Tim looked British, but was not. Large, sort of pyramid-esque face with floppy hair, and a black tee and jeans with a large, ivory cardigan over it. The cardigan was double breasted and screamed ENGLISH PREP SCHOOL. It was amazing. I love men when they wear pretty things. A sweater is such a simple statement, but is often thought of as “odd” mentally by men. They equate sweaters with stylish fags; fisherman; their grandfathers; prep school boys they grew up with; tennis players they’ve seen on TV; so many options, none of them clear. Fisherman and Old Gramps are cool; tennis players and spoiled Ivy Leaguers are not. Men: WEAR SWEATERS. They ALWAYS make you look good, regardless of age, body type, or temperament. Tim wearing this sweater told me one thing: confidence. Jeans with understated lace up dress shoes told me he probably worked in business attire but valued casual moments with his ladyfriend. A black tee under a white sweater is an obvious choice, but told me he was open to thinking about the box and not afraid to take criticism. As a couple, they looked similarly understated, but I would have NEVER put them together. Tim looked much more flamboyant than Kellie, and not in an “opposites attract” kind of thing, but they seemed almost…brother and sister-ish. 

The issue was: Tim smokes weed, and Kellie does not. She hates the fact he smokes weed and wants him to stop. He says he doesn’t smoke around her or whenever he knows he’ll be with her later. She said that is not always the case-he never smokes around her, but she sees him high all the time and it bugs her. He acts different, she says. Nothing bad different necessarily, just different. And she hated it.

I asked Kellie if she had ever smoked weed. She said once; it made her intensely paranoid and anxious and she hated it. I asked her if she’d give it another chance, just to experiment. She said no. Tim jumped in and started pleading with her to just try it once and I’ll admit I was totally nodding my head the whole time, peer-pressure style. COME ON, KELLIE! SMOKE POOOOOT! IT’S WHAT ALL THE COOL KIDS ARE DOING! JUMP ON THE BANGWAGON!

I did a shit ton of drugs in high school. Oddly enough, smoking weed was the one drug I never particularly enjoyed. It made me sleepy, sluggish, anxious, and just sort of weird. Still, I smoked it ALL THE TIME because I was psychologically unable to say “no” to people I wanted to look cool in front of, and because I was insanely competitive with dudes when I was younger. I always had to do everything BIGGER and BETTER than the dudes I was friends with-just because. This is stupid, pointless, and something I still struggle with occasionally. When I graduated high school, I quit doing drugs. All of them (besides booze). My 18th birthday was an orgy of epic proportions: everyone was drinking and smoking, there was K everywhere, coke some places, and my best friend lost our E pills midway through the party and a household hunt happened which still cracks me up to this day. Get out your magnifying glasses, kids! Find those magic pills! I still owe my friend Gwen 10,000 props for letting me have my party at her gorgeous house in the hills, complete with jacuzzi, patio, pool table and all other sorts of nonsense. As a matter of fact, I am mailing out a gift to her today. I’ll have to add an extra kiss.

After my 18th, I stopped doing drugs. Cold. Peace out. I’m a legal adult now and don’t need a rap sheet any longer than my teenage record. I drank, and that was it. I had boyfriends who smoked weed who I “made” stop, and none of my friends did drugs at all. My longest boyfriend (4 years) sold weed for a living which I was ethically okay with (bitch needs shoes and dinner), but he could not SMOKE weed around me, for the same reasons Kellie hates Tim smoking weed: it made him different, and I didn’t like it. During this time in my life, I was a shrill, condescending, know-it-all asshole; how anyone actually dealt with me WITHOUT being high is a fucking mystery. I continued this cunty behavior for a while before getting slapped in the face with dicks by the universe (figuratively, not literally) and Growing The Fuck Up. Oh shit, I realized. I DON’T know everything.

The last dude I dated smoked weed. It bugged me. Can’t you just stop, I said?Why don’t you just start was his answer. I love you, but you could really use it.I crossed my arms. I was still kind of high strung.

Several things coincided with my decision to start smoking weed again. One, my best friend at the time was “awakened” to pot randomly on a trip to Alaska or something. Her new mission in life became to FIND SOME GOOD WEED and SMOKE IT. My dad got his first prescription, followed by my brothers and almost everyone I knew. Suddenly, that shit was everywhere! Weed smoking dude and I broke up, and I decided I needed to chill out on drinking. But I still needed an escape! A vice! Enter pot, skip to Chapter 10: Tim and Kellie.

Smoking weed is the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I smoke on and off, usually every other day but sometimes every day. I’ve cut down insanely on drinking since smoking. I can do all the regular shit I do while I’m high: write, do homework, clean, take pictures, work, whatever. I don’t smoke the strong, super strain shit; I smoke the kind of shit that fades you halfway through a joint, and doesn’t turn you into a surfer, couch or otherwise. I’m a lot chiller when I’m high-my same usual self, without the quickness to anger (my temper is my downfall) or the edge. That dude was totally right-I’m the type that pretty much NEEDS to smoke weed. I think of weed as somewhere in between green tea and a bottle of champagne. 

I told Kellie and Tim they were never going to work unless they figured out an answer to this weed issue. It will go from a small thing to a big thing, I said, and Kellie jumped in with “yeah-it’s already a big thing”. She looked at Tim cryptically. Aw man, I said. A man’s love taking away his medicine.

I don’t give a fuck whether you smoke weed. If you do, rad. Not? Fine. I will openly say I would like EVERYONE to smoke weed, on the regular. It would cause less sidewalk dickery (hey, man, watch it!), less speeding (just relax and enjoy the journey!), less general assholery. I’m convinced of it. If it makes ME, just little old me, less of an asshole, it could help EVERYONE. I’d never force it on a person (LEGALIZED WEED AND FORCED INHALATION, 2012!) but I do wish it would stop being compared to fucking meth and coke and heroin and all sorts of other, busted ass drugs that do FOR REAL DAMAGE and inspire people not to calm down, but get AMPED UP and GO BREAK THINGS. 

I guess my point is, I love weed. End story. I don’t love all strains, or all methods of obtaining it or consuming it. But “it” as a plant, “drug”, and resource (hemp!!!)-I love. 

Tim and Kellie look like they love each other. I hope they work it out, those crazy kids. 

Try this chicken.

No.

Why? It’s good.

Chickens eat their own poop.

Well, I scatch my balls and sniff my fingers, so I’m not that much better.

True story.

I dated a guy named Joel once. He was Spanish. As such, you could not say his name as “Joel”, like Billy Joel; he wanted it to be pronounced in proper Spanish as “Ho-el”. No one ever did it, so he settled for “Jo-elle”. 

When we met, he was working for a children’s charity. My mother disliked this because men who work for charities never make any money. My mother has never said anything like this in her life.

He wore a pink shirt the first time my parents ever met him and this convinced them he was gay and using me as a beard. First off, what kind of redneck shit is this? First you’re gold diggers, next you’re redneck homophobes? How embarrassing for you. Do you think I’d really be dating a guy who wasn’t sticking his cock in me at every chance he got? No. I fucked a guy I’m pretty sure was gay once. His name is Rudy, and he had cheetah print sheets, lived in Costa Mesa, and always kept his eyes closed when he boned. I should have known when he gave me an Easter basket on our second date. 

Joel now works as a photo assistant and hobnobs with cunty Hollywood types all day. He still sends me love letters.

Have you ever been in the middle of a conversation where someone says some shit like, “he seems rude at first, but trust me-he’s a nice guy”? Or “you just have to get to know her?” These are signals that someone is an asshole, and like all true dicks, these people are surrounded by bastions of nice people who seem to flock to assholes like moths to a flame.

Most people can definitively be categorized into “nice people” and “assholes”. Nice people have an asshole inside of them begging to come out, and assholes have a tiny nice person inside who comes out to play occasionally. After all, no person is a complete archetype. Still, what we’re talking about here is people who are mostly assholes, and how they get away with their unthinkable acts of assholery.

Nice people like things to be copacetic. They enjoy laughing with friends about nice things that don’t involve the humiliation of others, sharing, having polite conversations about important topics, and complimenting each other when the moment warrants it. 

Assholes like things to suck balls. They enjoy laughing at people, mocking things, feeling superior, being selfish, and generally acting bored of life and what it has to offer.

Nice people can come in many forms. Assholes can, too. Sometimes assholes masquerade as nice people, and vice versa. Sometimes there are asshole triggers; drinking is one, being around family is another (family usually aggravates even the kindest of folks), and extreme emotional circumstances usually turn even the best of us into cunts. For others, those same triggers turn assholes into nice people. We usually call those people neurotics.

One thing I’ve noticed about assholes is groups tend to bring out dick tendencies. Suddenly, there is a crowd to perform in front of! When you’re one on one with someone, there isn’t much point to assholery. Why be a dick to the only person you’re hanging out with and risk them kicking you, spitting on you, or leaving your ass somewhere? Now, add another person or multiple other people, and now the risk of any of these things happening decreases to almost zero, because social niceties dictate it’s not appropriate to kick fools, spit on them, or walk away abruptly. Therefore, assholes can get away much easier with their ASSHOLE behavior in groups.

I’ve known a lot of assholes in my day. Indeed, I’ve BEEN an asshole, and I know the benefits of such behavior. While being nice means you’re generally well liked and therefore leads to a better chance of you having real, dependable friends as opposed to just other assholes, internet friends, or spending long nights at places that cater to assholes (dance clubs and sports bars come to mind), being an asshat lends a vague sense of power to the holder. After all, people will pussyfoot around an asshole just to avoid arousing the asshole’s wrath! 

The Benefits of Assholery.

People will usually defer to an asshole. Oh, Asshole wants Italian instead of Chinese for dinner, even though EVERYONE ELSE wants Chinese? Better get Italian, otherwise Asshole will make the rest of the night a living hell. 

Cure: Stop being friends with that asshole.

People will usually be NICER to an asshole than a regular person. This is symptom of a cross synapse in the brain which tells us the more someone acts like a cunt, the closer they are to royalty. After all, if you’re important, you don’t NEED to be nice to ANYONE. Oh, Asshole won’t stand up to greet someone? Asshole won’t shake your hand? Asshole must be important or otherwise valuable, or else asshole wouldn’t have any friends. Don’t fall for this, people. 

Cure: Treat that asshole like what he is: an asshole. He’s not special. Trust me.

Some Examples of Assholery.

I have a friend who’s boyfriend is a complete asshole. The minute you see this guy, he’s making fun of you, which is ironic because he’s pretty much a literal sad sack himself. Because the average person is too kind to point out such a disparity, Asshole gets away with being an asshole. Next time I see this worthless sack of a human being, I’m going to have to tell him the reality of the situation. At some point, even nice guys have to be assholes.

I have another friend who is an asshole only in groups. She says this is because she’s insecure, but this explanation for various psychological afflictions (being an asshole, having an eating disorder, adopting stupid personas which aren’t your own) is obnoxious because it’s obvious-afterall, everyone is insecure in some way, shape or form. Being insecure SHOULD make you nicer-the old “you catch more flies with honey than vinegar” adage. Typically, though, it makes people assholes. We’ll see what happens with this trick since I’ve told her for the last time she has to stop being an asshole. She can either start patronizing the self help section of her local bookstore or get a new awesome friend named Sterner.

Last but not least is one of my best friends. She’s loud, obnoxious, and competitive, which makes her a nice person who is accidentally an asshole. Whenever she acts like a fucktard, I just pull her aside and tell her. EVERY TIME this happens, she apologizes and stops acting like a dick. She’s only human, so she’s still a dick sometimes, but this is the sign of a nice person who just needs to wrangle their inner asshole. 

Being an asshole should have no benefits. Sure, there are times you need to be “tough”, or assertive, but being rude is never an appropriate option. If you’re friends with an asshole, it’s your obligation to the world to tell them the truth. Practice it in front of the mirror. Go on, say it. “Bob, you’re an asshole.” Take a breath. Now say it again, louder. “Bob, you’re an ASSHOLE!” That’s right, get it out. Next time you see that insecure fuckhole of a human being, you take them aside (being public humiliation is an asshole thing to do) and tell them they’re a cesspool of dickery and you’re not going to stand for it anymore. It might not change them, but at least you can make room in your life for someone who won’t be a fucking dick every time you see them. 

You Might Be An Asshole If…

Are you one of those people who likes to “joke around”? Does making fun of people amuse you? Do you go out of your way to poke fun at people’s weakest points, all in the name of “jest”? If so, you’re an asshole. Your inability to either care or empathize enough with other people is an inability to emotionally function correctly. Would you like it if someone pointed out YOUR flaws, especially in front of other people? Doubt it. Some people say they have “thick skins” and ENJOY a bit of a roasting themselves, but these people usually enjoy this kind of behavior and have such a “thick skin” because they themselves were the brunts of jokes growing up, or learned early on making fun of other people took the spotlight off of themselves. These people are emotional cripples and should be avoided.

Are you REALLY sarcastic? Chances are, you’re an asshole. Being sarcastic is another form of mockery, described as communication which is “sharp, bitter or cutting”. How apt. If being described as bitter is something you enjoy, by all means: keep being an asshole. However, if you’d ever like to communicate in the Real World where we discuss things openly without the veil of “cunt” in front of them, let me know. Otherwise, have a great time being sarcastic with all of your other self loathing, sarcastic friends. Let’s hope you don’t bleed to death choking on your own knifed tongue.

Do you think you know more about everything than anything else? Do you consider yourself as “cultured”, an “intellectual” or “superior” to other people? Do you openly correct people’s pronunciations of words or names in an effort to make them look stupid and you intelligent? Do you mock people’s choices in wine, decor, music, or anything else in a way which makes entire groups people look at you in abject terror or disgust? I think you know what I’m about to say: you’re an asshole.

We’re all assholes in some ways. All I ask is that we keep our inner assholes as minor FRAGMENTS of ourselves, not wholes. Because look what a world full of assholes has gotten us. Airwaves full of Nicki Minaj and an entire TV station called Fox News. 

The human body is woefully adept at movements like crushing skulls and shattering bones and processing gallons of poison.

It is not quite as adept in holding others.

Bodies are filled with pockets of fleshiness; a woman’s bosom, the typical soft ring of comfort around the average person’s torso. But the majority of the human body is sharp angles and simple skin over bone. Two people make a tangle of bones attempting to waltz.

Humans were born to run and move, yet most of us hate to exercise. Humans were born to eat mostly vegetation and lay in the sun and swim in the ocean, yet most of us spend our lives in glass cages and in front of glowing screens which simulate the world we feel so distanced from. Humans were not born to cling to each other in comfort, and we know this because humans are intrinsically bad at it.

Have you ever tried to fall asleep in someone else’s arms? It will only last a matter of minutes because your arm will go numb, or their leg will be too heavy to lay on yours. You’ll naturally feel vaguely claustrophobic, the mind rebelling against the body’s need for closeness. Babies are soft and small, perfect for holding and cuddling. Adults are large and mostly hard, but we all want someone our own size to hold.

The body is good at fucking, but not necessarily at loving. Such a contradiction. 

There is an innate sense of secrecy in dressing I find interesting.

Most women like to get together and get dressed. I associate this with the strange void most humans have inside of them which is filled by group dynamics: I don’t want to look too different from everyone else-what are you wearing? Indeed, I myself always need to know what the dress code is when I attend an event and I’m prone to taking someone with me when I go to the ladies room. God forbid I’m seen walking ALONE to the bathroom; someone might think I, the bastion of imposed perfection, pee! Heavens, no.

I dislike dressing in front of others. Not because I feel uncomfortable being nude or scantily dressed; but because an outfit does not become a “look” under the prying eyes of others. It needs only the watchful eyes of its skeleton, its hanger, to become its true self. From a pile of rags to a belted gown, or whatever it is you’re attempting.

Under the eyes of others, clothing and jewels shirk and hide, averting themselves and therefore your thoughts into a strange, chaotic pool of inanity. “Oh cute, are you wearing that with a scarf?” “Where’d you get that? I want one.” “Meh, I don’t like that skirt. Will you zip me up?” Too much conversation and too few inner thoughts-it applies to the world, but also the closet.

I hate getting dressed with others.