Talk Shit

I was having social anxiety at a work related event the other night when a colleague whom I definitely have a friend crush on came up to me and said, “I don’t care what other people say about you – I fuck with you.” Ah, yes. I sat there and took another sip of my pisco and tonic while smiling in amusement. I’ve definitely heard this one before.

I thought it was pretty funny that even now, I still know that people talk shit. Really, my life is pretty tame nowadays so I can’t imagine that talking shit about me is in the least bit interesting, but, hey, I guess it’s still a relevant topic of conversation. While at a dinner party with my extended social circle, I recounted that little tidbit to my friends, who, of course, chimed in by saying, “Yeah, I heard horrible things about you when I met you, too.” (Except, of course, for that one guy who commented to Kelsey that I was a “shrinking wallflower,” something we laugh about to this day because damn that guy does not have a good read on people, but, also, I met him a professional setting so I was kinda relieved by that one.)

In ye olde days, I would probably have dealt with these situations by demanding to know who the fuck is talking shit about me, but, honestly, it’s probably nobody, or it’s my ex’s current girlfriend, who also happens to be nobody, or it’s the ex girlfriend of someone I’ve been entertaining lately, and, surprise, she’s nobody, too. (Although, that’s not true, the new girlfriends and the ex girlfriends are usually pretty solid people, it’s just that the men we surround ourselves make us feel insecure about those who come before and after us, which is how we start to spiral into shit talking. I’m down for the feminine solidarity, but sometimes you gotta do a little bit of cyberstalking and shit talking before you realize, hey, I actually have a lot in common with this woman, even down to the men we fuck, so might as well be friends, right?)

Anyways, what I’m saying is: meh, who gives a fuck. Half the people I couldn’t stand five years ago moved away, and the other half are now my friends, so no harm, no foul. There’s a thin line between love and hate, and I’ll take both. I much prefer either of those to indifference.

Last Days of My World

I was sitting in my car in San Jose when I saw the report: the air quality from Berkeley to San Jose had gone from “unhealthy” to “very unhealthy,” or, for all your visual learners, from red to purple. This meant that I’d have to drive an hour through that shit just to get back home, and once I was home, in my 1980s Berkeley abode that doesn’t have central air or any air filtration, I’d have to sleep in that shit. So I did the impulsive thing and booked a room in Santa Cruz and dipped my toes in the ocean and breathed fresh air before heading to the hardware store to buy out all their respirators and drive back into the shit.

Driving from the beautiful beaches of Santa Cruz into the smoke filled hell hole of the East Bay definitely put me in an apocalyptic mood. And if you know me at all, you know my apocalyptic mood is generally exuberant and hyped the fuck up. This is because modern society fills me up with all sorts of messages about the end of the world, and I spend a lot of time thinking about the end of days, but I haven’t quite reached the point where I’m a doomsday prepper. I guess after years of Black Lives Matter protests and hanging out with antifa and kicking with other various criminals, I’m ready for the end of the world. I love that feeling of low grade panic, that “anything could happen” atmosphere that I used to feel when I was 17 at raves. My favorite part about the end of the world is that I don’t have to go to work. Even though I enjoy what I do for a living, I am also very excited about the possibility of living through the fall of capitalism. My emotions are pretty complicated.

I strapped myself into the most expensive respirator that they had (which, much to my amusement, was pink) and high tailed it back to Berkeley. I did my good deed for the day and hit up my friends who I knew did not have the money or the time to get a respirator and blessed them by caring about their long term health. Then I went back home and realized, you know what? It’s the end of the world. I wanna look good for this shit. I dressed up in what can only be described as my version of a post apocalyptic prostitute, with the pink respirator, and all white silk, and a big fur coat, and Miu Miu combat boots, and then I traipsed around town looking like a maniac and trying to fuck.

Of course, the rest of the Bay Area was not with me – I still can’t believe those crazy people sitting outside of Ordinaire, no mask, just chillin, getting drunk. How wild is that! As I walked by them, we probably looked at each other with a mutual amount of shock and disgust. Some people had the audacity to ask me, “Isn’t that mask overkill?” But I’ll keep it real with y’all – I’m fucking stoked about this respirator because it makes me look as crazy as I feel inside, and I don’t get to do that very often anymore. I did appreciate it when the queers at the end of the bar said that they felt like they were in the bar from Star Wars (or was it the brothel from Total Recall?) because, you guys! It’s the end of the world! Can’t we be at least a little bit excited? Can’t we have fun with it? I mean, any excuse to dress up for me, but the rest of y’all, just walking around with those shitty hospital masks, not even bothering to coordinate your mask and your shoes…smh. What is happening to the Bay Area? All I wanted was to go to a respirator rave with all the other beautiful people so we could party until we hacked our lungs out. Alas, not all dreams come true.

Of course, when I stop making jokes about the end of the world, I realize, eh, yeah, this shit is pretty bleak. Yup, total devastation up North, and all of the Bay Area is just sitting here, freaking out because for one day we have the worst air quality in the world. One day! I mean, there’s something very first world problems about the entire situation because, well, wait a minute – there are entire cities out there that deal with this on a daily basis? What the fuck? Okay, so maybe it’s not the end of the world, it just feels kinda desperate in a very inert way in the Bay Area.

Although, I couldn’t really stop reading about those particles in the air that are now lodged in my lungs and trying to kill me. It made me wonder: what kind of long term health effects is this going to have on us? One day in Santa Cruz made me feel like a million bucks, which, of course, harkens back to the bleakness of knowing that I was willing to pay $200 for sixteen hours worth of fresh air. Capitalism is really going to do this to us, isn’t it? Also, well, climate change is real, so I wonder if the lush, beautiful Bay Area that I have lived in my whole life is going to disintegrate into some sort of hazy desert region within the next few years. What if this is it. What if this is the end of California as we know it. I mean, I’d like to think not, but on the off chance it is, I would just like all you future generations to know: this place was fucking wonderful! Ugh.

This definitely impacts my resolve to stay in the Bay Area because, god damn, as if gentrification weren’t bad enough already, know we’re looking at the impending commodification of breathable air. Do I really want to live through that? Do you? As much as I want to live here forever, do I want to live here if it becomes a wasteland in both a geological and social sense? I was prepared to withstand the social wasteland that the East Bay has become. But if this place isn’t even pretty anymore, I don’t know if I can do it. (Oh, wow, sounds like my approach to dating. Yikes.)

Whatever, I still have like five friends here, I’ll stay here for them. Because after fucking off to Santa Cruz by myself for a day, and half assed-ly trying to pick up on weird SC dick and failing (eh…it’s hard pass on UCSC boys for me), I realized: I’d rather be dying in the Bay Area with my friends than not in the Bay Area and in great health. But that’s just me. I’m sentimental.

And, speaking of sentimental, I decided that rather than cram into a museum in order to get fresh air, I should go to Hilltop Mall. If the world is ending, might as well be in my comfort zone, right? The MOMA is not my comfort zone.

Wandering around this bastion of my youth was an eerie pursuit – probably because, yo, like half those store fronts are empty now, which is kinda unsettling, especially when the world outside is on fire. (Sanrio is gone! I was pretty upset about that one.) Although, fire or no fire, what a great way to escape the gentrification of most of the East Bay. That place is fucking dismal now but in a comforting way for anyone else who spent Friday nights with their middle school friends eating Cinnabon. As I left Hilltop Mall, I realized: the world isn’t over enough for me to have to hole up at Hilltop Mall, so as I drove back to Berkeley I decided, meh, maybe all this shit will be fine in a couple of days and then we’ll forget that the world almost burned down and blocked out the sun, and we’ll go back to work. But I’ll still be wearing my respirator because I’m dramatic like that, and also I look pretty good in these respirator-coordinated outfits.

My Lesbian Sexual Fantasy

I realized the other day that I kinda have a crush on this girl. Or, not a crush, it’s actually a lot darker than that. Yes, there’s sexual attraction there, but there’s also some pretty violent urges mixed in with it, too. I don’t really know what to call it or how to explain it. Mostly because I’m totally straight, so, yeah, how does this add up? I mean, sure, I’ve hooked up with girls before, mostly in the context of the MFF, but I’ve had a handful of legit lesbian experiences. It’s how I figured out that I’m not very queer at all. When tasked with eating another woman’s pussy, I usually wrinkle up my nose, throw the hitachi wand at her, and tell her to finish herself off and then leave. It’s an experience that really made me feel like I was in touch with my own twisted form of internal toxic masculinity. Although, it’s not that I’m not into women like that. In all honesty, damn, boobs are truly amazing and I love touching them. And it’s not that I’m not into pussy in general because, let me tell you, I sure do love my own pussy so I guess that love could very easily translate to another woman’s pussy. I think it’s just that, at this age, I’m not really interested in learning anything new. I’d like to think it’s because I’m lazy, but in my heart of hearts I know it’s that I don’t want to try eating pussy and then realize I’m bad at it. My ego can’t take it. Also, I invested so much fucking time in sucking dick, I don’t really want to spend years perfecting pussy eating. Let me be an old dog. Don’t teach me any new tricks. Although, who knows, maybe eating pussy for me is what anal sex is to other people – gotta save it for someone special, right? Wait for marriage or some shit? I mean, I’m definitely not in a place in my life where I want to go out and lick a hundred different pussies just so I can good at it. Perhaps later in life I’ll find the motivation to get into eating pussy. Just…right now, not so much. Guess I’ll just let this crush rot in the ether because, honestly, I think the only reason I have this crush is because, well…this person is very hot, but she has such a trash personality, and I kinda just wanna see if I got game like that. The sexual fantasy that plays out in my head is definitely one where I seduce her at a bar, take her home, and then as soon as we get back to my place I say, “Actually, can you leave?” Which is a really weird sexual fantasy to have because it’s not very sexual at all, it’s more about ego masturbation than anything else. But, hey, sometimes it’s not about fucking someone, it’s about knowing that you have the option to fuck them that really counts, and then it’s also about rejecting someone just to be an asshole for your own gratification.

Stock Quotes

I was in some random bar the other day, all tarted up and trying to look professional, when I noticed this Steinbeck quote on the wall:

“I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.”

As I sat there, contained within my clothing and totally sober, I realized: oh, isn’t this what I do when I’m not at work. And here I am, working, trying to be the exact opposite of that, and, oh, isn’t this ironic. People are here, paying $16 for a cocktail with their money from their corporate, sixty hours a week jobs while perched underneath these immortal words, and here I am, eager to go home and do exactly those things that he talks about, but I can’t do it here because for some reason this place is actually the polar opposite of the idea put forth by this quote, even though that quote was put there to push people into drinking more. I kinda want to stand up on the bar, gesticulate wildly at that quote and shout, “I’m here! I am that person!” But I can’t, because that quote wasn’t put there so that other writers would feel inspired. It was put there to sell more alcohol. There’s something antithetical about the irony of this so-called poetry that was painted there to do the exact opposite of what it’s supposedly preaching. Which is why I’m confused: I think I’m supposed to relate to this because I drink and I’m a writer and I’m wild (kinda), but I can’t. Of course, I realize that as a woman of color, that wild white boy life will always be out of reach for me, but that’s fine. Me and my friends live by different quotes, ones that are modern and not forged within the fires of white, male heteropatriarchy. We’re more into “burn it down” and “punch a nazi,” but, I know, I know, those ideas don’t exactly translate into hip neighborhood bar wall quotes, and you can’t sell $16 cockails on antifa dreams. So, I tell myself to put more capitalism in it, make it cute, and walk away.

Emotional Labor v Emotional Investment v Emotional Chaos

I was chatting with a friend the other day who was bemoaning the amount of emotional labor around queer liberation she had to do for her cishet white male coworker. She was clearly frustrated that she was put in that situation, and while I felt for her, I have to admit: I don’t do emotional labor for people. I know that it’s an honorable thing to do, but I’m an anarchist, and I believe in the abolition of work, so I try to practice that as much as possible in my day to day life.

The idea of emotional labor is something that I’ve seen pop up more and more frequently in feminist and queer circles. I get it: we expend a lot of emotional energy trying to fix the world, and it’s great that we qualify it as labor because, yes, let’s get paid for this shit. However, we’re still a long way off from getting all those PayPal invoices cleared for all our emotional labor on the Internet and in person, so I thought I’d share with you my more practical approach to emotional labor: emotional investment.

Because I know that I’m probably not going to be compensated with money for emotional labor, I only do it for people I love. I view that as an investment: I’m going to invest my time and my energy and my emotions into helping educate and build this person’s consciousness of the world. And it’s going to be worth it, because that person is going to appreciate the time I put into our relationship, and that emotional energy will be repaid to me. This approach makes me feel a lot better about the emotional labor I do, and especially as it relates to people I love, it makes me feel less bitter about the work that I’m doing. Sure, not all my investments will pay off, and not all my investments will be appreciated, but shedding the transactional mentality around emotional labor and adopting an attitude of mutual education makes it a lot easier to tackle.

Of course, there are still those scenarios where you are expected to do emotional labor, but there is no potential for an emotional investment or an emotional payoff. Therefore: emotional chaos. This should be pretty self explanatory. If it’s not worth it for you to do the emotional labor, fuck it! It is literally not your job to do that shit. And this is the emotional labor that I am willing to do for you, dear reader: practice that bitch face. Practice that whole “not giving a fuck” attitude. Practice the smug comfort of moral superiority and walking away. Trust me, it feels good.

Just remember: it’s your call on when to invest and when to pull out. Start making the right calls.

What’s Your Dick Like, Homie? or,The Sexual Journey

Kelsey and I have been playing this game where we make educated guesses about what we think our mutual acquaintances are like in bed. It’s a game that I’ve played my entire life, but it’s pretty fun to play it with someone who is equally as (if not more) sexually seasoned as I am. So far, we have been really, really wrong about one person and dead on the money about another, and we’re currently building up the betting pool for the odds on a certain third party we’re currently researching.

I was pretty surprised when we were dead wrong about the first one. You fuck enough people, and you get a pretty good sense of what their sexual potential is. However, I’m glad to know that I haven’t reached my sexual limit when it comes to learning about other people’s sexualities. There are still things out there that surprise me! Which is a relief, I’d hate to be at the upper limit of human sexuality already. That’s a bleak prospect – I’m really hoping that there are still fun, exciting sexual activities for me to explore up until the day I die, but I’m probably going to have to slow my roll on a few things to ensure that I don’t dead end into sexual ennui (or criminal paraphilia) within the next five years.

Basically, the reason that I miscalled my sexual prediction was because I hadn’t accounted for what was an honestly very unexpected plot twist: a man in his 40s experiencing a sexual awakening of sorts. Having run among a crowd of very sexually confident and sexually experienced people for my entire life, it didn’t even occur to me that someone could enter my realm of social reference without being on the same sexual wavelength as everyone else here. A sexually repressed man? In his 40s? With money? And a totally sweet personality? And a willingness to grow and learn?

So, yeah, I know: this is not a common occurrence by any means. But the reason I’m so fixated on it is because, well, it gives me hope. My sexual prediction had basically been: you know when you go to those suburban buffets when you’re out there trying to do the decent thing and spend time with your family, but you’re there with your grandparents so you gotta suck it up and eat whatever weird jello salad retiree food they give you, so you go and grab a shrimp cocktail because it seems like the classiest and most palatable option possible (especially after breezing past tray after tray of weirdly gray meatloaf and sloppy joes and the obligatory Filipino dish that you have no idea what it is, but these old white dudes love wifing up Filipino ladies after that first disastrous marriage that spawned your family, so of course the buffet has Filipino food here), and then you go to eat it, and as you’re holding that piece of shrimp in your hand you realize: this shrimp has probably been sitting in a freezer for like six weeks next to an expired bag of frozen tater tots and five pounds of ground beef that were on sale at Big Lots, and now the shrimp has been thawed out but not quite completely and sitting in this weird, stuffy restaurant filled with recycled air that all these lifetime cigarette smokers have been wheezing in and out, and while the shrimp itself isn’t quite lukewarm, there’s something slightly salmonella about the whole situation, and you realize it’s probably not a good idea to eat this artificially pink shrimp, but it’s literally the only thing you grabbed to eat, and actually you’re pretty hungry, and if you don’t eat it your grandparents are going to give you grief, and if you do eat it, you’ll probably be sick for the next 36 hours, but fuck it. My prediction was basically the sexual equivalent of that. But I was wrong. And, my god, it felt pretty good to be wrong about that! Granted, I was pretty proud of the vivid metaphor that I painted for out little exercise, but I prefer faith in humanity over my own self congratulatory puns anyways, so I take this defeat with grace.

My current sexual prediction for another anonymous member of the local community is: bet she only fucks when she drunk. I know, not a very exciting prediction, and, honestly, a very tried and true, unfortunately all-too-common prediction that I wish we could eradicate from the lexicon of female sexuality because it’s so god damn played out and pathetic. (I know this from personal experience, as any long time readers would know, but, trust me, a love for alcohol and a love for sex do not need to be interdependent. PMA, ladies.) To expand on the prediction, let’s just say, you know when you’re newly single and you’re actually kinda heart broken about the situation, but you have too much pride to do the healthy thing and stay at home and drink fresh fruit smoothies and get 8 hours of sleep every night, so instead you hoe hop from bar to bar in search of literally anybody to fuck, but in order  to forget your ex and actually get into fucking some random dude, you have to get super drunk, like, no avoiding a hangover drunk, which also means that your inhibitions slip down, and sometimes that means you wind up doing some weirdly emotional and off color kinda kinky shit with a stranger, like ask him to choke you, but then he chokes you, and it’s too much, so you cry uncle, and just go back to four minutes of room spinning pillow queening it and asking him too frequently did he cum yet because clearly you’re not really into it, and then the next morning you do not talk about it at all, but for some reason doing one kinky thing makes you think you’re queer, and if you ever fuck this person again you’re just as drunk and weird as the last time because it’s not about being shy around new partners it’s more about a long term self loathing that results in a lack of sexual prowess or the basic libido that people think young women like you should have? Like that, except, after you do that for the majority of your entire adult sexuality there’s something kinda perfunctory and uninteresting about the desperation and drunkenness.

Now, the only question that remains is: who’s gonna fuck her, me or Kelsey? I mean, I have a feeling that neither of us are going to do it, just out of mercy, and also out of ethics, so the hunt is on for the answer to our burning question: how’s she fuck? Anybody want to help us settle this bet? Am I on the money or is there hope for humanity?

Lazy Sundays

I woke up this morning with every intention of writing, but instead when I rolled over in bed I noticed that my boobs were getting PMS big, and for some reason my own tits turned me on (they are so bouncy but still so pert when I PMS! And my nipples look so cute when they’re all stiff, like cherries on top of mounds of ice cream!), so I masturbated instead. Plus there’s something about the sunshine on a Sunday morning that makes me super horny. Now I can’t get out of bed, and I’m probably just going to masturbate until I’m so disgusted with myself that I decide nothing can be done with today except drink until I’m too drunk to have the patience to masturbate.

Wish you were here.