Ponderings

Casual fumblings and nicotine stained fingers.

Those nights when the morning never came.

We were young, reckless, and stupid.

-The latter more so than I had thought.

You played me like the strings on your guitar.

I hummed along.

- But I didn't know the words.

Dear Boy

Dear Boy,

When I told you that I don't do long term relationships, and you proceed to tell me how you had the next 10 years of your life planned out with your ex, 

It freaked me out.

When I told  you that I didn't  forsee being free for the rest of the semester, and that I wasn't looking for a boy friend,

I did not mean for you to text me incessantly.

When I didn't return your messages,

I wasn't playing hard to get.

I Hate Being Ill

So, I'm currently doped up on lovely antihistamines, can only breathe through one side of my nose, and am left with even less patience than I usually have. I want to do nothing more than make myself a cup of tea, crawl into my bed, and watch some sort of shitty movie. Sadly, that's not possible, as I am being a good citizen and volunteering my time tonight, and the rest of the weekend.

Fuck.

In the mean time, if you do not want me to let off on you, and probably make you sick in the process of pausing to talk to you, please avoid the following:

- Insist that a lecture hall of 250 people review information that had already been covered early in the week, just because you couldn't manage to haul your sorry out of bed.

- Chew really loudly (this includes smacking your gum.)

- Walk in the hall at a pace that nearly compels me to punch you in the back of my head.

- Crank up your music so loud that I have to listen to it.

- Wear black and brown at the same time.

-Laugh like a hyena.

- Point out the fact that I look sick. I mean really? Aren't dark circles and tissues stuffed in pockets in Vogue right now?

/ End Rant.

I'm going to Timmy's to get me some soup.

Listen.

Via my daily creeping of Hype Machine, I stumbled across this sexy little number.

I think it's a sex pot of a song.

Madison "Lollipop" (Lil' Wayne Cover)

A Question

Sometimes I wonder if I am going to be this crazy commitment phobe for the rest of my life. The only people I can have a relationship with are other like minded basket cases. Often, this leads to a wonderful combination of disfunction and lust.

Am I a bad person for just wanting the chase?

Those awkward moments are like a high, everything is unknown and new. I never have to face the monotony that comes with a few months of dating, when it seems like there is nothing left to learn. 

Relationships are like milk cartons, they always have an expiry date. I don't want to hang around and wait for it to go sour.

I've never really found "nice guys" all that endearing. Whenever I have given one a chance, I've always felt like their mother, and it resembled the story of Oedipus. Not really my thing. Does it go against my biological programming for me not to want flowers, romance, and it's other assorted trinkets? 

I don't want perfection. I want flaws.

If you are going to be with me, you've gotta love all my fucked up eccentricities and neuroticisms.

Like how the sound of children crying drives me up the bloody wall.

I miss the smell of your cigarettes.

Vishal.

So, I'm not particularly sure what exactly I should be writing in this entry. To be honest, I'm not writing of my own accord. You see, there is this boy, who I was unfortunate enough to have met last week, and I truly pitied him. He doesn't have many friends, and me, being the kind girl I am, decided that I would elevate his miserable status by writing a blog entry - dedicated to him.

Yes, this puts him among the subjects of DJs, pornography and how I would conceivably have sex with George Clooney. This must give him some form of credibility, should it not? I suppose that I should write a little blurb about him, as most likely you are lucky enough to not to have come into contact with him.

The only reason that he has relented in punching random buttons on my keyboard like an overactive toddler, is because I finally agreed to write about him. (Edit: I take that back, he just button mashed again.) 

What to say about Vishal? Well, this exercise is only made more difficult, due to the fact that he is reading this as I write, and periodically objecting to my comments. Like now. I really don't have time to finish this pointless entry, as my ECON lecture is about to let out, and I'm hungry.

There you go Vishal.

NOW STOP BOTHERING ME.  

They're Bringing Sexy Back

So, I have been on a hiatus for the past few weeks and realistically speaking, I will probably only write sporadically from here on out. My life is going to be filled with Economics, Political Science, and International Relations, and the time that is left will probably be filled by reckless activities in conjunction with alcohol. I’m sure that anyone who reads this blog is a diligent student and wouldn’t have the time to fill their brain with my fluff anyways…right.

For those of you who know me, you will recognize that the majority of my friends are guys. As a result, I am privy to all of their graphic conversations that take place at the bar on wings night. I’m not complaining in the slightest, I actually like taking part in the heated debate as to who would be better in bed; Scarlett Johansson, or Natalie Portman (a tough call, I know). If you were to ask any of these guys who they thought was a fox, never would you hear them say some emaciated looking run way model, who looks like a 12 year old boy. They like girls who actually have breasts and an ass, (unless of course Rwandan refugees turn their crank) so why is it that girls strive to look like they just walked out of a refugee camp?

For a long time I have been fascinated with the pin ups of Alberto Vargas, Rolf Armstrong, Art Frahm, and Robert Skemp. In my opinion, they brought sexy back long before JT and his entourage. The women in their art are undeniably provocative, while still wearing their clothing. Mainstream media has desensitized us to the point where we cannot recognize subtlety. Unless something is graphic and blatant, it appears to go unnoticed. To accommodate for this need, plastic surgery can give women larger lips and tits, and smaller hips. Haven’t you ever noticed how all porn stars look the same? Unlike Vargas’s protégé Marlyn Munroe, these girls enter and exit the limelight as soon as it takes the guy to finish. They are replaceable commodities, and can be bought, consumed, and discarded.

It’s about time that women want to look like women, rather than an oversize coat hanger. If you have a rack or an ass, be grateful. There are women going through dozens of invasive, disfiguring surgeries just to have any semblance of your figure. Don’t let people idealize how you should look, being comfortable in your own skin is what truly defines sexy.