It's Baby Season!

I'm scared. But I'm also happy. Those two emotions can be non-exclusive of each other right?

It's baby season. Babies are coming and I'm overwhelmed with joy, happiness, and a secret sadness. Two sets of twins and a single so far and I'm sure there are more to come. In the last two weeks calls have been made as well as emails, "I'm going to be a mom!"... "We're having a baby!". I'm ecstatic. I know the journey they will be taking is one that will be filled with so much love and fulfillment, a precious gift so greatly deserved.

But this is my secret. I may never be able to walk that path. And that pains me. Having a baby means risking my life. I'm in love. He's such a wonderful guy. He's that guy. For the first time in my life I feel secure enough that the idea of having a family isn't a dream, but a reality to be pursued, a reality that I may never have the opportunity to achieve, because having that baby could be the end of my life. How do I feel about that? How do you love someone so much, find that one person that you finally say, Okay, I might want to do this, I want to create something with you, bring something into this world that only you and I can, knowing it could kill me. Where is the justice in that? The mere mention of having a child makes my parents angry.. Which in turn makes me cry. Because knowing that they find no happiness in the prospect of grandchildren, that they associate it with my death is horrible, stressful, painful. I feel like Im suffocating. He always tells me the one thing he knows about me is what a beautiful mother I will be. The doctors have told us what the deal is. I could die. Or I could live and be a vegetable.

I don't plan to face this head on for at least another few years. But its baby season. And the overwhelming joy I feel for everyone around me is always tempered by the reality I know I will have to one day face. It just hurts that the day I call my parents to tell them Im pregnant, it wont be joy I hear, but rather fearful tears on the other end of the phone. It's eating me up.

Its good to know he's "caring and conscientious...."

Every day I wake up, peruse the web, hoping for a few little gems to brighten my day. Never one to be selfish, I share with you today's diamond in the rough...Mwah:)

$550 - Huge room available - with a twist!
Reply to: hous-186020008@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-07-25, 9:58AM EDT

"Hello potential roommates!
I come to you today with an offer you might not be able to refuse. Due to my current roommate's imminent departure, I have available a large furnished room on the first floor of a three-story walk-up in the heart of the East Village (4th Street and Second Avenue). There are two bedrooms in the place, and yours would be the largest.
I don't need to tell you that this is near all the cool spots, including restaurants, bars, cafes, theatres, concert halls, etc. However, the room itself is private, at the end of a long hallways, and very quiet. The dimensions are 15x17, and it has two windows which look onto our interior courtyard. Bed, wardrobe, desk, and air conditioning come with the room. $550 includes all utilities.
You may be wondering why the price is so low. Well, here's the twist: I am a 25 year old male with a slight social problem which, to some, makes me an undesirable roommate.
I'll get right to the point: I have a compulsion to put ice cubes down people's shirts. As my roommate, you will likely bear the brunt of this problem.
Don't ask me to explain why I do this. It's a serious psychological issue, and years of therapy haven't helped.
Let me emphasize: it will not go ANY FURTHER than the ice cubes. I am not abusive or perverted in any way, and I will never make lewd comments or touch you inappropriately. I also do not drop heavier or steaming hot objects down people's shirts. Only ice cubes.
What this means for you: when you are sitting on the couch, or at the dinner table, or basically anywhere in the apartment, I may come up to you and drop an ice cube down your shirt.
I always have ice cubes on hand. DO NOT thnk you can simply get ride of all ice trays in the apartment. Trust me, I have tried this, as have various roommates. It doesn't work, I will only buy more.
I prefer someone who does not like to have friends over, unless they understand my problem. They are prone to having ice cubes put down their shirt.
Your bedroom door has a sturdy lock, so you will always be secure while sleeping. Ditto for the bathroom. I may turn the doorknob on rare instances, but a stern word is usually enough to send me on my way.
On infrequent occasions, I have been known to follow someone onto the street to put an ice cube down their shirt. Once, I showed up at a roommate's place of business. However, this was a wake-up call, and I can assure you it's something I may not repeat.
Okay, I think that covers it. As you see, this is a great room in a terrific location, for a very, very low price. Quite simply, you won't find a deal like it anywhere in the city. However, my roommate will have to be tolerant. It takes great patience, and others have failed. It may seem like a minor problem, but eventually all the ice can become very annoying.
Otherwise, I am a caring, conscientious person. I work in finance, and enjoy mountain biking on the weekends.
So send me e-mail me if you're interested! Please address the ice cube problem and how you plan to deal with it. I need to be sufficiently impressed, because I don't want to find another roommate after one month. Ignoring the problem only makes it worse. Also include some of your favorite hobbies.
My current roommate is leaving to move in with her boyfriend, but before that, we had a successful relationship for one year. She even said the ice was something of a relief in the summer months, which can become very hot.
Females are preferred, but guys, don't let that deter you! Move-in would be anytime between now and September 1. I'm flexible.
Thanks for listening!"

Everyone should die looking Glamorous...

As of October 1st, the "No Retreat" law went into effect in Florida. Now, I don't know about you, but I am a big retreater, I'm all about retreating. I'm like, "Hey buddy, lemme go over here, and retreat." But other people, not so much. They like to stand their ground. Somebody's trying to stab them, they would like to stab them back. Better yet, somebody is trying to shoot them, they might want to shoot them back. Me, I would probably just try to run.

Now, in lieu of this whole "No Retreat" business I did start thinking, what does a girl who hates guns, who has always been terrified, I mean PETRIFIED of guns, do. What if one night, I accidentally bump into a girl at a club and said girl is drunk. And what if said drunk girl is so belligerent she starts yelling at me. I would apologize, profusely of course. But what if this wasn't enough for said angry, drunk, belligerent girl. What if she called her boyfriend over who is also drunk and belligerent and said I was being rude, and what if my boyfriend then saw her boyfriend yelling at me or worse, grabbing me. And what if then my boyfriend punched angry drunk guy. Then we all get thrown out. Then we are walking to our car, and them to theirs and suddenly angry drunk guy walks up to us and has a gun in my boyfriends face. UH OH. This is where this no retreat law is all foggy for me. Is he defending himself since he was punched? Now what do we do….Oh, I HATE guns, this whole thing is making me sick!! But this is Miami. THINGS LIKE THIS HAPPEN. Which led the boyfriend and I to the following conversation.

"Guns don't kill people. People kill people."He stated.

"Oh that is so cliché." I said.

"Maybe. But it's true. You're such an idealist. This is the real world and Miami is like the Wild Wild South. I'm taking you to the Gun Range." He ordered.

"The what?"

"The Gun Range. Tomorrow. You are going to learn to shoot a gun. You've got to learn to protect yourself god forbid something happens."

Okay, who even knew they had those out here. Me, at a gun range. This would be a joke. In fact I thought it was a joke. Surely the boyfriend was just trying to make me sweat all night and then he would forget all about in the morning.

Wishful thinking.

My first concern was wardrobe, I mean, what do you wear to a Gun Range. Okay, so maybe this would not be everyone's main concern, but I was SURE that the gun would backfire and I would kill myself. If I was going to die, I at least wanted to be well dressed. Everyone should die Glamorous. I decided to dress for the occasion in my fatigue capri's, an army green wifebeater and black stiletto’s. We drove to Big Al's Gun and Pawn shop in Hallendale Beach. The Boyfriend rented a 9mm Glock, I was informed this is the gun police officers use, we purchased eyes and ears, ( I thought that sounded cute) and our targets. My hands were already shaking as I could hear the Pop, Pop, Popping going off upstairs. As we ventured up the staircase and I looked into the actual gun range it was PACKED, there were men, women, and even children. I couldn't believe it. All of these people….. shooting guns. My whole life, I've been staunchly against guns…. a liberal anti-gun activist now standing in the middle of a gun range between a 12 year old boy and an 18 year old girl as they both fire away. As the boyfriend loaded up the gun my pulse raced, I already suffer from tachycardia, or rapid heartbeat. I searched frantically for my heart medicine. I can't find it. Crap. I'm so not cut out for this. I like to lay on the beach and watch reality television. And what's making this whole thing worse is this little kid next to me is busting away and smirking at me like, "Ha, you chicken shit, I'm twelve." That's the only thing that got me going, I don't like anyone testing my womanhood. I decided at that point, politics aside, I was going to do this. I needed to conquer my fear, no pre-pubescent was going to show me up. I was going to show him I was nobody's punk. See, I was already acting like a republican…….

The boyfriend gently guided me to stand in front of him. I picked up the gun with my right hand, then used my left as a base, held it….. then I put it down. I couldn't do it. I was too scared. I stepped away and shook my arms. Mini Rambo smirked at me and I turned around and picked it back up. I was going to do this. The boyfriend put his arms on mine for added help, one, two, three……. I squeezed.

Holy Crap………….. That was loud.

But I did it again. And again and again, until it wouldn't shoot anymore.

The boyfriend loaded more bullets into the clip and made me go again.

When I was finished I looked at Mini Rambo and he was just staring. Then he kind of blew a kiss at me. Eww. A handshake would have been better. When we pulled up my shooting targets I had actually done very well. I'm not afraid to admit there was something empowering about the experience. I had at least momentarily conquered my fear, and didn't completely suck. It was nice to share in something the boyfriend grew up enjoying, even if shooting guns as a childhood pastime seemed completely insane to me, but then I grew up in the North, in the city….. not much about the south does make sense to me. Anyway, as we paid up our tab downstairs we saw an advertisement for a women's defense class.

"Would you like to sign up?" I was asked by the cashier.

"I don't know. I have to think about it."

"Miami is a dangerous place. Where ya from?"

"New York."

"Oh yeah…… things are different down here. Huh."

"Well, it seems like every other person down here has a gun…"

"Oh some people have two or three."

On the ride home I had a lot to think about. I was still very afraid of guns. But I was a little closer to understanding them. And I know that if I am to live in a state that seemingly allows anyone with a driver's license to own one then maybe it's a good thing I at least know how to use one. I don't know. I do think every woman should go to the range at least once. I mean, did you see Angelina in Mr. And Mrs. Smith……

Flowers and Fuckery....

I've been a Stupid Girl. I always joke with Him that I'm going to get a t-shirt that says "I'm with stupid", but the truth is, he's the one that should be wearing it, with the arrow pointing my way. I've done so many silly, stupid things, worn the wrong clothes, said the wrong thing, picked the wrong roomate, had the wrong job, slept with the wrong guy. Definitely fallen in love with a big mistake or two.No one gave me a road map. I've gotten lost down a few winding roads, definitely ended up in some dark alleys. I'm not regretful, but I've made decisions I regret. How could you be so dumb! This is like my mantra.

When I was fifteen years old I let a boy hit me. I let him kick me too. He was the first boy I kissed, my first real boyfriend, and I thought it was love. Someone owed him twenty bucks and they wouldn't pay him back. But they were friendly with me and willing in good faith to give it to him through me. Boyfriend number 1 met me in front of my house and instead of saying thank you, went into a jealous rage and proceeded to beat me on a city sidewalk. When I finally got away from him I ran home and into my dads arms. I cried for hours. And didn't tell him what happened. I went back to the boyfriend. I went back to his obsessive, controlling, "Baby, I love you, I can't live without you's". I was a Stupid Girl.

When I came back to school in eighth grade I had breasts. C cup breasts, which eventually became D cup breasts. And I was tall. I no longer looked like a child. This was my death warrant. In the cafeteria in the morning a table of ten girls gathered to sit. Normally I would be included in this group. Normally, these were my friends. During years past we shared sleepovers, weekend trips, birthdays and holidays, shared our deepest girl secrets. These were my friends. So after gym class when I was handed the letter it was with anticipation I opened it, I was sure it would be something sweet, maybe a surprise invitation to a party, a letter they didn't want me to see from a boy. Instead it was filled with hate. A one page letter, dedicated to me, calling me slut, saying my mother was a whore who should go back to her country, attacking my father, a man so rarely around I doubt they knew his name. It was a list, This is why we hate you, reasons 1-20. I broke down into tears. I remembered back to the morning. The ten of them at the table I was uninvited too, plotting like the mafia. I remember that number, TEN, how it seemed like so many, The many against the one. I didn't fight. I didn't confront. I curled up like a cub and let the tears stream down my face for hours. I wanted to hide. To be invisible. I let others fight for me. When the 300 pound, horribly mean Principal Leiberman called me in to yell at me for crying, threatening to suspend me because my presence was too much of a disruptive force I didn't stand up to her and say, "Do you know that I AM the one being harassed and tortured. I AM the one who's name is scrawled along the bathroom walls. I am the one who wants NOTHING more than to blend in with the paint on the walls and you are telling ME I am causing the trouble!" But I instead sat quietly. Stoically. And when I knew she could no longer see me as I walked out of her office I let more tears stream from my face. I was a Stupid Girl.

When I was 22 I went to work for the Hershy Brothers. Everyone I knew and loved left or was leaving the Public Relations department of the N.B.A. and V.P. Hershy was looking for someone to come work for him over at N.B.A Entertainment, the New Jersey Office of the National Basketball Association. He built the job up to be all the things I could want, and I was sold. When I arrived I was first introduced to is slightly younger but balder brother, Director Hershy, director of a different department, which I believed meant I was not his employee. He smiled his sly smile, put his arm around me, said if there was anything I needed, just let him know. I was sure there wouldn't be. As the months wore on, Younger Brother Hershy subtly complimented me, always offering to "show me the ropes." I politely declined. I wasn't interested in anything he had to teach. He would come up with random tasks to which somehow I would be assigned, and his brother, My boss would approve them. I was stuck. But after four months I was given a raise. The younger Hershy wanted me working for him. In a department I wanted nothing to do with, doing tasks I hated. He wanted to have me around him, under him, answering to him, he wanted carte blanche to put his arms around me, touch me, force me to do what he wanted when he wanted, all under the guise of good Employer/employee relations. We should get together in the city sometime. He would say. I know a great place. Eventually he started asking me to do things like update his PDA, a ridiculous task that I was not hired for, but his brother, my boss would say I had too, and he would lock me in his office while I did it. He didn't want me anywhere else. I expressed my concern to my boss. He waived it off. Then one day Younger Hershy asked me into his office, for some inane task, once again. And once again, he locked the door. And he put his arms around me. I don't even remember what he might have said. I just remember the trapped feeling I felt, and the feeling of violation. I wanted out. And he knew it. Two weeks later I was "Let Go." As the human resources manager tried to kindly explain it. The same H.R. guy who barely a month earlier had called me up to tell me I was being given a raise and how impressed he was with me. He looked ashamed as he told me I had to pack up my stuff. Once again, I cried. I couldn't believe it. I was a stupid girl. I allowed myself to be played, manipulated.... It never occurred to me to sue. A few months later I found out that another girl had been fired by the SAME guy for the same reason. She did sue, and the NBA settled, not wanting the bad publicity. They put her through graduate school. Which is why the NBA is scummy, for keeping him around to do wield that kind of power, but I am stupider for not threatening to sue him the first time he turned the lock on his office door.

I dated this football player. He seemed different. Atypical. He was slightly older, 30...when I was in my early twenties, when we met he was wearing a suit, he looked refined, mature, handsome, smooth, much like his wide receiver play I suppose. He was persistent. We talked for months, got to know each other. He didn't come on strong like the others. He always called, sent flowers. He asked me to come to Miami for the weekend as his Team played the Dolphins. No strings attached he promised. His mother, sister, manager and best friend were all flying in for the game and he desperately wanted to introduce me to them all. He said he had been talking about me for months and everyone was eagerly waiting to meet me. After much debate, I decided it was December in New York, and I could use the trip to Miami. When I arrived he arranged for my pick up and had my hotel room paid for. I asked them to change the hotel room, charge it to my card. The reservations clerk looked at me like I was insane. I want to pay for my room. I said. Why? He said. I just shook my head and said "Please." I didn't feel I needed to explain my personal belief that no man should be paying for my hotel room. When I arrived the whole crew was there, family, friends, and I was properly introduced. My football player treated me like a queen, and the family accepted me with warmth and open arms. Sitting in the visitors section in Dolphin Stadium was terrifying but it was a nice weekend otherwise. Until I was told of a lie. A big lie. A big lie that not one member of his family divulged, let me know.During our nice Miami weekend, and our many conversations and sharing moments my football player said he was not a father, he had no children. As we can all recall from my 50 things list. But a dear friend of mine, well, more like a Big Brother, at the time playing for my hometown JETS, upon finding out about this, warned me against seeing him. And that he did in fact have a child. A child. As in uno. Shortly thereafter I received a call from a woman having what sounded like a nervous breakdown. She said she knew who I was, and wanted to tell me that she was pregnant with his child. "Okay", I said. That wasn't all. She lives in his house, and he just had a baby with another girl, and he has at least two more. She is telling me this through sobbing tears. There was no malice in her voice. I was a Stupid Girl. I learned from that day on that every woman, (or man) should GOOGLE their next date. I would have learned about the first child that way, because he was being sued for back child support. There are many things in this world people lie about, but one I cannot forgive is denying your children. To this day I don't know what purpose it served for him to lie. It could only have come from one of two motivations, fear of my judgment of him having so many children and a deep desire to want to impress me and provide a good image, or 2) he never had any intention of getting truly close to me and keeping me in his life so there was never any need to divulge those details. Only he knows, but I was a Stupid Girl for trusting him. And more so, for not doing my research, especially in a case where research could actually have yielded useful information. But sometimes flowers blind you to fuckery.


I've been a stupid girl. Many many times. I haven't stood up for myself. I haven't thought things through. I've wanted to believe. To trust. And I've cried alot. And sometimes cried too much. Tears aren't productive. Therapeutic, yes, but they get absolutely nothing done when action is needed. But life is about being stupid. So I'm not sad I've been a total and complete moron at certain times in my life, because its whats shaped me, molded me, built me. A whole lotta stupid can make you extremely smart in the end. I haven't used up my reserve, there's plenty more to come, I just hope not to repeat the same stupid twice:)

THINGS I HATE ABOUT MIAMI TODAY

Please don't hold me responsible for this tomorrow. I'm bitter right now.

1. PIPER MUTHA FU**IN CONSTRUCTION. And I'll tell you why. Because these assholes left one of their construction cones in the middle.. THE MIDDLE of the I95 yesterday. Not a little orange cone. A HEAVY DUTY ASS construction cone that probably fell off of one of their trucks because they don't pay their day workers enough to make it worth their while to take the extra two minutes it would have taken to secure their shit. So there it was, sitting in the middle of a lane on the INTERSTATE HIGHWAY that WAS PACKED with cars going 75 miles an hour, and of course, the car in front of us was lucky enough to have enough room ahead of him to see it AND not have any one beside him allowing him to swerve away from it, but NO, my poor hubby, who was right behind him was the lucky lottery winner who was boxed in, with nowhere to go and the thing was so big and heavy that it TORE into the car, and nearly made it flip the fu** over. But thank goodness, Hubby is quiet possibly the best driver I've ever known, he controlled it with all his might and saved himself. The sheriff couldn't believe a construction Cone did all that damage. They had to call a TOW truck to LIFT the CAR to DISLODGE it. But what pisses me off even more is that this kind of stuff happens ALLLLLLLLLLL the time in Florida. Because a HUNDRED people probably drove past that thing, and NO one called Highway patrol to say, HEY theres a cone, you guys might want to have someone come get it, its a Hazard. In the last THREE MONTHS ALONE, we have seen about TEN DEADLY or NEAR DEADLY car accidents. One of which almost killed one of His closest friends, knocking out ALL of his front teeth. Down our street a guy on a motorcycle was practical cut in two. On our way to our car dealership, a guy was sitting, on a TWO LANE ROAD that has heavy traffic that everyone knows people go about 6o mph on, he was just sitting there in one lane, he didn't get out, put his car in neutral and push it off to the side.... and literally, car after CAR after CAR nearly hit him INCLUDING US, luckily there was no one next to us so we were able to swerve out from behind him, but guess what, the guy BEHIND US, he wasn't so lucky, there was someone right next to him, so he had NO WHERE TO GO, and slammed RIGHT INTO THE GUY. BECAUSE THIS JACCKASS wouldn't just MOVE HIS CAR OFF THE ROAD. People in Miami can't drive, or drive recklessly, stupidly, without INSURANCE. People think New Yorkers can't drive. Taxi drivers can drive their asses off. They are just CRAZY. But they can drive. They're trying to make that money. Come to Florida. Then you'll see some people who can't drive.

Which brings me to number

2. People in Miami are lazy and Mean. I am a notoriously Big Tipper. I have never tipped under 20%. Sometimes I will tip over 20%, way over. When I lived in New York, I was all about the service. And I almost always thought it was good. Attentive, polite, timely, efficient. Rarely was it not up to par. Which is why I ALWAYS scoff at the notion that New Yorkers are so "Rude, Obnoxious, etc, etc". Seriously, this is is the biggest crock of crap I have ever heard. New York is the greatest city in the world. Period. Definitely in America. And because of that the standards are high. Employers expect a lot, and employees know they can and will be fired in a second. They may bitch and moan in the back while they smoke their cigarettes, but while their out front, their gameface is on and its allllll good. But here, in South Florida, people are completely incompetent, lazy beyond anything I have seen, the quality sucks and people are just MEAN. They have attitude!!!! WAlk into a shoe store or a clothing store, ANY STORE and just tryyyy to get service. Forget it. You will hear the echo of your own voice, "HELLLLLLoooooooo O O O O Does ANy e E E E E E Body E E E E Work here here here here!!!" Then when they finally come to you they come with a glare. You're almost scared to make them work. This is NOT an exaggeration. 40 % of the time we eat out, they get our order wrong. That is a ridiculously high percentage if you think about it.Why this is, I'm still trying to figure out.... but it is. And it drives me to distraction. The reason people are willing to put UP with it, I believe, because the weather is beautiful, the cost of living incredible compared to other parts of the country, and even when you are working you can still feel like you're on a vacation.

3. Every Pedophile and Rapist comes to Florida at some point. When Chris Hanson did his whole Dateline Series on Internet predators he went from one state to another, but which state state was his golden cow, which state was the Creme de la Creme for Chris, it was ...... *Ding Ding Ding, Sunny Florida!!!! So big All the sex offenders and soon to be's can skulk around,hoping not to stand out. I once did one of those searches to see how many lived in my area, and I swear, there were about 30. This is Very Disconcerting.

4. Everyone in Florida has a gun. Like Everyone. Your dry cleaner has a gun. The cashier at your local Win Dixie has a gun. The waitress at your IHOP is packin. In Florida, you don't need a license to carry a gun. No permit. No background check, nothing. It's amazing that you DO have to be 18. But even that's funny. Because when you go to the Gun range, half of the people in there training are KIDS. I am not kidding. 11, 12 year olds.... I was like wow, they really start them young. One day I will share my gun range story. If you can't beat em, join em. And in Florida, where EVERYONE has a gun, you do NOT want to be the only person who does not at least know your way around one.

5. English is the second language in Miami. I love Spanish people. Truly. Cuban, Mexican, Puerto Rican, Dominican, Guatemalan, Nicaraguen, Colombian, Argentinean, Brazilian, Peruvian, I love my Spanish People. And I am sympathetic, or should I now say empathetically, I understand that it must suck to feel like you are a foreigner, incapable of communicating with people, frustrated.... But this is the thing. I want to learn Spanish, because I want too.... not because I'm Forced too in my own country, not because no one will speak English when it's the Native language. I still live in the states. I haven't left U.S. soil, right. Because if I go south, to Central America, I promise, I will stop bitching, in fact, someone feel free to bitch slap me, I'm in your territory now, but damn.....! I have a Russian mother, I already have to translate one person, and then, its not even like there is just ONE language, there are SOOOO many different versions, Portuguese, Spanglish, Pure Spanish.... Which one do I learn.... Why can't anyone speak english? At the mall where we live, no one speaks English. Im not kidding. Except the Vietnamese. They speak great English. Now why did the Vietnamese learn English but not the Spanish people? If I go to France I'm learning French. If I go to Spain I'm Learning Spanish. I go to Greece I'm learning Greek!But If I go to Miami I have to learn Spanish too? I just think this is getting out of hand. I am alllll for learning Spanish. But when I see that My Spanish people aren't trying to speak English, then I just feel discouraged like, Come on. And this is reallllly evident in Miami.

So that wraps up my Im bitter and Im pissed at Miami right now list. WooHoo:)

I'll make a Reasons why I love Miami list tomorrow. Or maybe next year.

LYING LIARS

Ok. So I have to tell you a secret. I have lied. I have told lies. I am a lying liar. I'm not proud of this fact. I'm not pathological or anything. In fact, most of my lies could be classified as white. Innocent. Small. Insignificant. Harmless. But on occasion, I'm sure, some have been hurtful. Don't look at me like that. With disdain. With judgment. You know you're one too. You know you're a liar.

We all tell lies. Some more than others. Some worse then others. Honesty is a commodity these days. Traded like gold, or maybe more like platinum. People bend it to their will. Is an exaggeration a lie? What about an omission? Who can we trust.... who can we confide in, entrust our deepest darkest secrets too? Is anyone truly honest. What exactly is honesty...What if the truth will hurt more than having never known at all....

As I grow up I am trying to be more honest. Not so much with anyone else, but with myself, which in turn I hope will translate to the rest of the world. I have a warped view of ME. I don't love ME so much. Sometimes I like ME. But I'm hard on ME. I don't want to face the real ME. I've been trying to do that more. That's part of growing. Get honest with yourself. Stop feeding yourself what you want to hear, stop lying to yourself, get REAL.

I have lied to others to protect others, I have lied by omission, and I have certainly lied for fear of judgment. But I think what I'm most fascinated by are people who lie to manipulate. I hope that I will never be that person. How would we all act if we were being watched. What if we knew that at any moment, every moment of our life could be replayed for anyone, no moment left private, only ours. Anything could come back to haunt us....

I watch my 24 hour feeds of Big Brother with fascination and addiction. Every moment, I get an inside look as people connive, plot, scheme and lie to each other at the drop of a hat, without guilt, and seamlessly. The ease with which one person can have what seems like a completely honest conversation with another person, guaranteeing their loyalty, while truly they are plotting their ousting and downfall behind their back fascinates me, because though its a magnified, intesified look, it IS a peak at human behavior, when a group of people compete for the same common goal. People WILL lie, they will cheat, they will align, and this is the ONLY venue where you are able to watch everything, every moment unedited. We all are liars. I will not be sanctimonious and say I've never lied. And i will not be naive and say I've never been lied too. I know better. But the scary thing is lying these days has almost become a skill. Can you go undetected. I know I can't tell who's lying anymore. And its absolutely Amazing how skillfully the people on Big Brother can lie. I am watching them Lie and I still believe them.

Injustice

She laughs like a hyena. Its this really raucus, almost evil, bellowing laugh that will make everyone around her laugh AT. She can't sit still. Many people think they suffer from attention deficit disorder. She is the only person I know who truly qualifies.

She is my Better Midler. You know. From Beaches. Loud. Crazy. Outgoing. Funny. Without much manner.

I am her Whitney. Polite. Quiet. Shy. Too well mannered. She had to loosen me up.

We met when we were 14. She was trying to protect me before she even knew me. A boy kept pulling my hair. I was a stranger to her. She read him his rights and threatened to kick his ass if he didn't stop. She said I was pretty. I was from downtown, she was from Uptown. We both lived in highrises, only mine overlooked the beautiful chagal windows of Lincoln Center, hers the concrete hardgrounds of the Polo Grounds. Public Housing. Living with two parents with A.I.D.S. We met on the set of Tupacs movie. We shared a common schoolgirl crush. He asked me out on a date. We were excited. The date never happened. I was too scared. But the crush bonded us. Music bonded us. Life bonded us.

Eventually, my house became our house. We became sisters. The yin to my yang. Years would pass, in many ways I was mom instead of friend. This wore on us. Our relationship tore. She was always rebellious. I loved her. I just wanted to protect her, save her, take care of her. She wasn't me. She had to walk her own path. She was a free spirit. She was desperate for love. Desperation breeds danger.

She was born in NY and had never been anywhere else. Until the day her mother passed away from AIDS. Two years ago. When her mother died she wanted to leave the city. To start somewhere new. To find love, life, to be free for once in her life. She came to the only place she had family she said. She came here to me, to Florida.

This was supposed to be a new beginning. She was going to grow up. And she was. She found a wonderful job, cultivated new friendships..... but she was still desperate for love. So desperate she was willing to drive to Mississipi to meet the new guy late at night from Miami after a long work day.... and she wasn't a very good driver.

No one will ever know what happened. She was mad at me. Not talking to me. If I had known I would have never let her go. I would have paid for a plane ticket. Or demanded she wait to drive until the next morning. Anything rational. Because thats what I provided. Ration. PROTECTION.

Instead, I got a call that she was on the oncoming side of the highway, her car incinerated in north florida, unidentifiable, but for the fact that her wallet was thrown from the vehicle, unburned.

No one knows how she ended up on the other side. And no one will. But her life ended in a split second. Just when it was supposed to begin. One year ago today. The peices of my heart are still breaking. The tears that fall from my eyes still fresh. The anger I feel at those who let her go still quietly simmers, though I know it shouldn't, and the sheer angst I feel for all the moments lost sits in my gut knawing away. She was love. She was life. She was dealt the hardest deck of cards and was never given a break. Where is the Justice in that?

It's still not real. But then whatever is. Life is crazy, beautiful, sad, funny, maddening, just and injust. Again, i would rather it had just been me.

Danielle Maldonado

Sunrise______Sunset

July 1st,1978 ~~July 7th, 2005

IN.....stability

I crave stability. The way some people crave heroin. Or blowjobs. I NEED it. I don't like change. Routine suits me fine. Somewhere along the line, my already fragile brain realized it couldn't handle deviation. They say this is common in brain injury. Car accident or Stroke, its all the same.

I know the origins of this began with Zha Zha( my mother) -Liable to go completely nuts at any moment, a little girl learns to appreciate prediction. My mother was unpredictable. Exciting in many ways, totally and completely unstable in others. Prozac cured this. Too bad it came so late. It wasn't her fault, she had/has PTSD...post traumatic stress disorder. For most of my childhood she believed the KGB was going following her, would find her, kidknap and torture her. This is what happens when your native country believes your a spy and actually DOES follow you, kidknap and interrogate you repeatedly for years. And it doesn't help when the American's think you might be spying for the very people you tried to get away from. No wonder she was traumatized. Maybe she IS a spy?

Either way, I never had a dull day growing up. And in many ways have always surrounded myself with people who are similarly unpredictable.... in romance and friendship just like my Zha Zha. You always go for what you know. But now I need stability. I need comfort. My brain is already completely unwired. It has to be medicated everyday so it doesn't spazz out. Sometimes it doesn't see things correctly, if even at all. It doesn't always process what it does see. It doesn't like change. It can't handle it. And I can't handle that.

It feels unfair. Everytime he starts a new job, I panic. Our routine is changing. Deal. Just deal with it I try to command myself. If he had someone else, he wouldn't have to worry about this. I feel like I almost have OCD. Everything has to be done the same way, everyday, or my brain gets nervous. Its not normal. Its not me.

I am better than I used to be. I will be better than I am. This is my mission. Life is all about choices. We choose who we want to be. It doesn't control me. I am in control. I can live IN stability. Without feeling unstable.

Either that or I'll start doing heroin or asking for blowjobs :)

IM BITTER

This fucking sucks. I'm on fire right now. I'm out of commision because to add to my list of alien like ailments I am allergic to Sugar. I can't eat Sour Watermelons or Sour Patch Kids while enjoying the Devil Wears Prada like any normal human being. No, I must be punished. My butterfly is on fire right now. Sorry, I know my male readers aren't ready for those kinds of details. But imagine how I FEEL right now :( ..... I need one of those electric shock collars that Bzzzzz's me everytime I gooooo near anything with sugar packed on it, because obviously I cannot be entrusted to MYSELF. Fucking idiot.

Hopefully, I shall return tomorrow with something insightful to say. I'm sowwy.

Because I Love Kevin Smith's potty potty mouth

Nose-picking and an anal sex primer
Monday 3 July 2006 @ 1:26 pm

"I get a ton of shit from the wife for how often my finger’s up my nose. Anyone else got one of these spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends?

What’s the big fucking deal? I’m a smoker, so I get boogers. Where’s the harm in digitally cleaning that shit out? It’s not like I’m mining for gold then making a salty deposit in the Oral Bank or something. I pick, and depending on where I am, I flick. If I’m near a tissue, I’ll stuff the fruits of my labor in it, sure. But if no tissue’s handy? Zooooooom! Across the room it goes, for parts unknown. Wherever it lands ain’t my problem; it’s not up my nostrils anymore, and that’s all that matters.

I get a lot of “Just use a tissue to blow your nose, you fucking skeve.” However, blowing your nose doesn’t necessarily do the trick, y’know? The hard and crusties sometimes don’t always budge during the conventional nose-blow. A finger scrub’s the best way to guarantee no danglers. And don’t gimme any of this “Well use the tissue to scrape ‘em out” shit; tissues break, and then I’ve got this toxic bullshit up my shnoz as well as the nose crud. Tissues (or toilet paper) is for your ass, I say. THAT’S when you don’t want tactile contact with something coming out of your body: when a stench accompanies it. But boogers have no odor. I don’t use a Kleenex to wipe away sleepers (or eye crud); why the fuck would I use a tissue to get unscented waste out of some other hole in my body?

Why is seeing a finger up someone’s nose considered such bad form? I see someone picking their nose, I’m like “Now THERE’S a motherfucker I can TRUST.” Kids are notorious nose-pickers, and who’s more trustworthy than a child - unless, of course, that child’s Damien? However, I don’t recall ever seeing Damien pick his nose in either the original “Omen” or the recent remake, which strengthens my point even further: Satan’s spawn DOESN’T pick his nose. Who wants to be like that kid, with the bad bowl-cut and the constant scowl (in the remake, at least), pissing off baboons (in the original) and knocking your Mother off a top floor balcony (in both)? If the Anti-Christ is all about doing the opposite of what’s righteous, maybe picking your nose has the air of divinity about it?
We can learn a lot from those “Omen” flicks. The first time the concept of ass-fucking was introduced to me was via “The Final Conflict” - the under-appreciated third entry in the original “Omen” saga, starring Sam Neill as the now-adult Damien. He hooked up with this reporter lady, and at one point, they’re getting down. Suddenly, he flips the chick over and buries it, all evil-like, in her dumper. As an eleven year old without the benefit of an internet connection (or an internet, period), I was confused, to say the least. Sure - I knew about conventional sex (I used to shoplift “Hustler” from the local magazine store), but the horror in this woman’s eyes and the physical displeasure she was indicating spoke of some unforgivable act I wasn’t schooled in. I was watching the scene and imagining this dude’s sporting some kind of forked cock (I mean, he IS the devil), that’s got a hydra-like head that’s snapping at this poor lady’s snapper - hence all the crying. I turn to my brother and ask “What the hell’s going on, ya’ think?” And my brother explains that Damien’s getting all sorts of rectal with this chick.

“He’s putting it in her butt,” Brother Don tells me.“Why?” I ask.“Because he’s the devil. That’s what the devil does, I guess.”

Now, coming from a Catholic household and six years of Catholic school at this point, you’d imagine that’d be some kind of formative moment for both of us: like, from that moment forward, me and my brother would forever associate (or ASSociate) anal sex with Armageddon, and I’d grow up to be one of these “Gays are the devil’s pawns” kinda guys. Instead, my brother grew up to be gay (married to a man, and celebrating their thirteenth anniversary today, as a matter of fact), and I became something of an ass-man myself (though with the ladies). The only Armageddon it introduced was my brother and I growing up to be like “Armageddon me some ass!”

What I did take from “Final Conflict”, however, was that anal is something to be approached delicately. For that reason, I’m far less agro than Damien when it comes to the booty; I’m smoove. I’d have sex for the first time approximately two years after seeing that flick (I lost it at age thirteen, with a chick named Norma), but it’d be two more years after that before I got into some of my first digital ass-play with my then-girlfriend, in a parked VW Beetle. Oddly, Damien and his hate-fucking antics never once sprang to mind. There was no spooky music and howls of terror; it was actually all kinds of cool, because the two of us (the then-girlfriend and I) worked ourselves up into a teenage frenzy over the tresspassing into heretofore forbidden territory… until a cop knocked on the window with his flashlight and told us to move along. But from that moment forward, the genie was out of the bottle, and the ass was in play: any time I went down on a girl, sooner or later, the pinky would aid and abet my cunnilingus.

I remember having a conversation with Mewes about eating girls out, and being shocked to learn that he only did it with the chicks he really liked or was going to spend time with beyond a one-night stand. Going down on chicks was never an option for me; it was the standard. When you grow up fat, you’re never any chick’s first choice for fooling around, and any nookie you get is predicated more on your personality than your looks. Since I didn’t have the aesthetic advantage working for me, I decided that having the oral edge might improve my chances of getting action beyond the mercy-dry hump or third base fumblings. If a girl was gonna do me the courtesy of giving me a shot at the title, so to speak, I was gonna make an impression. So at age thirteen, I bought a gynecological textbook at a physician’s book shop and read that shit cover-to-cover, absorbing all the knowledge I could about the mysteries of the dickless. By age fourteen, I was - as Sam Kinison used to say - a lick-master from the Orient. You’d be surprised how many women will look past a flabby, swingin’ gutt if they know they’re gonna get eaten out with nearly surgical precision. And when you add digital-to-anal manipulation to the mix, any thought of you as a fat-ass seems to fly out the window (at least until she cums).
I wouldn’t have honest-to-goodness anal sex for another few years after that initial parked car experimentation. Then, like now, I was never the instigator; perhaps because of the impolite example Damien provided all those years prior, I figured that first move wasn’t mine to make. If a girl wanted to plumb those depths, she was gonna have to tell me to do so. It’s common courtesy, I’ve always figured: if I was a chick, I’d want to make that choice for myself - not have some oversexed horndog who’s already being given the gift of a lifetime get all greedy and go for broke of his own volition.

Contrary to what they tell us in porn, I’m of a firm belief that most chicks aren’t very into anal, but only opt for it in the heat of the moment. Sure, there are always exceptions that prove the rule; but if a sexual itinerary were to be established upfront, before things got hot-and-heavy, I think most women would be hard-pressed to utter “And then, you can drill my brown.” It’s only during the throes of passion, when common sense gives way to pure carnality, that anal suddenly becomes a seemingly good idea. For that reason, I’ve never rushed in with my dick where angels fear to tread; I’ll start with the fingers, and if reason doesn’t settle in at that point, I’ll eventually do as I’m told - though only in a spooning fashion. I mean, look at me: I’m not the guy you want on top of you during traditional sex, let alone when something as delicate as the sphincter’s at the epicenter of it all. If a guy my size loses his balance during man-on-top anal sex, the poor woman’s looking at future of colostomy bags. I don’t Damien-it; I’m the tenth-of-an-inch at a time type, leaving plenty of room for reversal of opinion. It also helps that I’m hung like a grape.

I guess what I’m getting at is this: I feel it’s totally okay to pick your nose. And anal is something you’ve gotta let your partner call the shots on and during.

However, picking your nose DURING anal? Probably not a good idea. "

-Snatched from Kevins boring Ass Life by Kevin