Chez Le Brazilian

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

I understand I have been MIA. I actually don’t have a valid reason so I wont lie and come up with the biggest bullshit.

Since yesterday I have been in these lectures/meeting kind of things. It takes up my entire day, I am forced to eat lunch with assholes and laugh at corny jokes. BFF NYU is obviously not here today to keep me busy while talking to some CEO/Editorial staff fuckers. So since I was stuck in a lecture hall talking about the upcoming international affairs and editorial pieces for the fall, I decided to text BFF NYU and find out what she is up to. Come to find out, she was getting a Brazilian.

And so I thought of this – sex and Brazilian.

I can seriously count on both hands good things about not having sex on a regular basis. Besides not catching any STDs (which I am extremely careful about) or getting pregnant (not in my case) or kick the person out of your house the next morning, or having to explain to them that you really have to be somewhere at a certain time.

I remember back in College when I went for my Brazilian. It was a huge phenomenon that practically everyone heard of or had it done. So me, little ole’ me went downtown to a spa where my mother frequents. I was obviously scared shitless. 1) Because I always shaved my lady parts and that was that and 2) no one gets close to my Vag with hot wax and strip of fucking cloth.

Call me ignorant. I don’t care. But once I started college, I heard that every girl did it. So shaving was so passé and the new hit thing to do was the Brazilian. My girls are all from NY, and so I thought they were all like me, only breaking out their Gillette triple blades to do the magic work or for others trim it down to prevent a bush and cause some Amazonian wilderness.

Not so.

My roommate back in college was the first one to try the Brazilian. Because I was clearly a pussy. For those of you not in the know, a bikini wax is simply a wax around your bikini line. A Brazilian, however, removed every inch of hair from your lady parts. And you better believe those lady parts include the two hole. All the they leave behind is a little landing strip, that let's face it, could have flashing lights and a big arrow and most people couldn't find my clitoris. I recently went back for my Brazilian at the same place downtown. I was actually more nervous than the last time – maybe because I knew that it fucking hurt. But why do It you may ask? Because it’s sexy and smooth. Obviously, NYC.Lezie’s private lady part enjoys a smooth ride.

The host sat me down, I watched carefully for any sign of facial expression that told me that “hey, do NOT go in” but alas, none. They were all happy. There was no screaming. I thought to myself “if these little skinny ass bimbos JAPS can do it, why can’t I? First of all, totally forgot to mention, when you make your appointment, they ask you not to shave for like 2 weeks. – geez.

Finally a cute lady calls me into her chamber of vagina death. She asks me to undress from the waist down (hey lady, you going to at least buy me a drink first?), and then climb up on the table that’s only made for tall girls. I am not kidding. I had to use some major deltoids muscles.

I lied and told her that it was my first time, and to please be careful cause I liked my lady part very much. I figured she’d go easy on me if it was my first time. She applies the very hot wax the front of my bikini line, applies the paper, pulls my skin taught, and !!!!!!!!!!!!

Holy fucking hell that hurt. She applied more wax, puts another strip down in a location near where she removed the hair before, and [insert all the cuss words in the foul language dictionary]I started to tear. Not happy tears fuckers. More like shit, I just fucking broke my arm kind of pain.This goes on for a few minutes, and it's agony.

Then she applies the wax a little farther back. Oh no no no no lady. Not there. Not there. Not there. Rrrrrriiiiiiippppppp!And there goes my vulva. I swear to God no one's labia was as attached to its pubic hair as mine was. I just shivered thinking about it.

Oh no, but it's not over yet. She keeps moving farther back. Oh you know where this is going. she applies the wax to my 2-hole. And I wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing.I relax a little and [insert all the cuss words in the foul language dictionary]

Oh.my.god.Once she is done with the longest 3-5 minutes of my life, she rubs powder all over me, but what I really want is a shot of morphine.

And believe it or not, just writing that just got my Vag hurting and throbbing. Not in a good sexy way either.

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Yep. It's friday

Friday, July 20, 2007

I’m forever in search of new material to write about. While, yes, I consider my life to be relatively interesting in some respects, one’s dysfunctional relationships can only provide so much amusement to people who should really be finishing up that Excel spreadsheet before 5:00 p.m. I wrote a 40 page manifesto on the Art of Putting on One’s Socks, but decided not to publish it because there turned out to be too many big words and I was afraid that you illiterates wouldn’t be able to follow it. Having a large vocabulary is a blessing and a curse.

People often ask me what type of women I date. So…I thought, yes!!! This would be a perfect blog post. It got to me to thinking. Do I have a type? And, if so, who is she? I feel that I owe it to you, dear readers, in case you’re out there wondering, well, really, have I got a shot with NYC.Lezie? Let me just clear that up for you right now.Probably not. Well, not unless you're Angelina Jolie. Or Heidi Klum circa 1998.

Assuming that you’ve dried your tears by now, let me just tell you that you shouldn’t take it personally. For the same reason that I found online dating just too creepy to really give it a go, the idea of dating a blog reader is awkward. I mean, let’s assume that you and I get married. What do we tell our grandchildren?

"Honey, I met your nana after I swooned for weeks over her publicly written bad love life decisions. Reading about her inability to find a long-term relationship just got me so hot and bothered that I couldn’t help myself."

You can see now why it’s never going to work between you and I. It’s something that we just have to accept. And... well... we’ll always have a connection here.But I digress.

My type. I pondered this for a while- until lunch of course. So here it goes:

Accents. Yes, that’s right. NYC.Lezie is a sucker for a gorgeous girl with an accent. Doesn’t really matter from where, other than Asia. I am not too fond of the Asian Accent. Well, no, that’s not true. I don’t have anything against Asians. I did, however, once fall head over heels for good-looking ½ Asian lass who got the nickname gym-addict (seriously). We dated for a little while. She insisted that we remain friends and so we are. Now, by and large, I’m not particularly good at remaining friends with women after dating them. It’s just that whole, "I’ve seen you naked and now I have to look at you with your clothes on?" thing.

A quick look back at my ex-girlfriends reveals a sort of who’s who of a very narrow view of the world beyond the U.S. France. U.S. Italy. France. U.S. Norwegian. Irish. Polish. And I’m not even counting the Canadian girl whom I was so in love with but she was weird and the fling only lasted a date.

Height. I was 5’4” at the age of 12, and then stopped growing. Being the height that I am, I’ve never felt truly comfortable around short girls. Dating somebody too small just doesn’t feel right, exactly. Most of my girlfriends have been around 5’5” minimum, and The Pearl is around is 5’9” or so. Then again, there are exceptions. Hope is about 5’1”. And I’ve dated girls below the You Must Be This Tall to Ride NYC.Lezie minimum. But not often. I just feel weird dating a girl who fits into my over the shoulder gym bag.

Hair Color / Complexion. Now, dating somebody based on the color of their hair does seem vaguely retarded to me. But whatever. The point of keeping this blog in the first place is to be completely honest. I’m a relatively swarthy lady: vaguely Mediterannean looking (I wish), with Light sandy hair and the most piercing green eyes you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s an opposites attract kind of thing. But most of my girlfriends / romantic pursuits tend to be blonde with amazing tanned skin. but I don’t know, I just figure that having a girlfriend tanner than me could possibly lead to competition, and that’s unhealthy in relationships. And, I’ve dated one redhead. Most people don’t even know her. There’s something about freckles that just kind of gets me going – I have a secret crush on Lindsay Lohan.

Religion. I was raised Catholic, and extremely proud of my heritage. But, my parents are children of the ‘60s and I was brought up to distrust organized religion. So there, sue me.I guess this is another opposites attract thing.

WASP-y girls do tend to turn me on more. And, as a female friend once told me, every girl in New York secretly (or not so secretly) wants a Jewish partner – but I am not even close to being a Jew (so there goes my chance).But everybody’s at least half Jewish anyway, so what difference does religion make?

Body Type. Somebody recently asked me what part of a woman’s anatomy I prefer. Am I breast kinda gal? Legs girl? Ass girl? And so on. I was kind of surprised by the question. I’m really kind of an overall package woman - And a sucker for a pretty face. Although I will admit to once being really attracted to a woman just because she had really toned forearms. It was pretty sexy how the light blonde hair of her forceps fell naturally over her extremely in shape arms. Maybe I need help.And, I will just state that I’m not one of those ladies who turns away in disgust at a woman who’s not in perfect gym-esque shape. There’s actually something quite sexy about a woman who has curves. It signifies a zest for life, a love of food and drink, a desire to partake of all of the joys that experience has to offer and, besides, I’m not exactly Gisele or Heidi myself. I could probably stand to lose about 15 pounds myself (post-beer). And I once dated a model who was so skinny that I could literally pick her up with one arm. It was pretty weird. The Writer and I had many, many laughs over that one.

Profession. Being a creative type, if you work in the financial industries sector, I just don’t see it working out between us. Now, maybe I’m being judgmental, but when people say my job doesn’t define me, I immediately think that’s probably because they hate their job. Or themselves. Our professions do make up a significant part of who we are, if only because we spend so much time doing them. And i-banking is right below kicking puppies on the ethically dubious scale.

There are other professions of people I tend to shy away from, but that’s just because they tend to be fields that don’t allow for lots of vacation time. Lawyers. People who work at big computer places. Two weeks per year? What the hell? Or too much vacation time – slackers, trainers, slackers, trainers, slackers. Now, if I had any brains, I would probably find a sugar mama who does one of those things. Oh, and one other career I tend to shy away from: activists

Now, before you fire off hate mail and / or leave a nasty comment, this has just been my experience. I know many wonderful activist, but I just couldn’t date them.Things That Don’t Matter. This is really a question of taste.

As you may’ve gathered from this blog, I have a love for the Arts. I don’t expect my girlfriend to share that with me. I once dated a girl who hated Art (absolutely found no purpose in Art), Which one may consider immediate grounds for breaking up with. But, really, who am I to judge? Also, I don’t really care about how stylish a woman is. Sure, there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to look stunning for a night out and can really make her clothes and makeup work for her. But there’s also something about a girl who fills out a pair of jeans perfectly. Basically, I dated a total frump who was a demon in bed. So, again... this gets a pass.

A Very Important Thing. Intelligence plays a big role in my search for my next potential dater. I like brain- it turns me on. If you know Satre, Flaubert, Aristotle then we are a perfect match made in heaven.So, in a nutshell, that’s it. Feel free to tell me how shallow and self-absorbed I am. I love the attention.

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I want to know...

Thursday, July 19, 2007

I know, I know, you are patiently waiting for part III of my weekend – but I need to think more about it before I write stuff down.

So instead…you have this:

Today at lunch we were talking about bad dates that we had to endure and the good ones that lasted well over 3 dates. So I compiled a few (5) things that I want like to know about about {you} on a first date.

I want to know:

That you don’t need any sort of substance abuse as a crutch. Ex: illegal drugs, alcohol. You have to be able to hold a conversation over a cup of coffee or water – I don’t care. It should go without saying, but if talking to you is like talking to a statute, I’m going to pass. Also, despite my love of beer and other alcoholic drinks, I’d rather we not get trashed on date one. Because if you can’t make conversation unless you’re two drinks in, then you probably aren’t a good conversationalist. This is why a coffee date is a nice way to start things off. No?

I want to know what gets you going, why you get up in the morning, what excites YOU.
I hate boring people with no lives, no attitude, lazy couch potatoes, no discipline and finally no hobby. Let me know if you play a sports. Hey, how about the Mets? Like ‘em? I know how lame it is to collect coins or stamps these days, but seriously if that’s what makes happy, then I’m excited. There is nothing better to look at when someone gets super excited over something they love. Their whole facial expressions change and its just beautiful.

I want to know what career choice you made and why.
Nothing describes someone’s personality better than what they do. Your career says everything about you. I’ll leave it as that. Pornstar? I like active – social people *cough

I want to know where is your favorite bar or place to hang out.
It’s always good to know going in if we’re socially compatible. Not that we only eat at the same restaurants or get coffee at the same shops, but compatible in the kinds of places we like. I don’t want to go to a dive bar all the time, sometimes, I just want to put on a cute cocktail dress and some heels and be a classy broad (while holding a bud in both hands)

Finally…Its not really something I want to know, but rather something I would like us to have and that is: something we can joke about later.
I want to have a little inside joke and ultimately pull it out whenever I want. Or something I found utterly funny about something that you did and I want to poke fun at. Nothing harsh. But something dorky and cute.



So there…These are my rules for any first dates.

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The Weekend - Part II

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

…Walking is one activity I had to do and hardly enjoyed except for the walk The German and I took along the JP pond. We literally walked everywhere – to get breakfast, to grab coffee I mean everywhere except when we went to see Peter Li in Saugus. If you are ever in the Boston area and you are starving you should head to Saugus (forgot the restaurant’s name) and have some Saugus wings. They were a delight.

Saturday morning, I woke up next to The German, her arms wrapped up around my waist and I must have wondered where the fuck I was. It was early- around 7am. I am an early bird, so I woke her up and asked if we could grab coffee. We did a quick dressing and went out (walked) to this really cute café – something you would find in the east village. We decided that we were hungry, we headed to a cute restaurant not too far from the coffee place and ordered some ginormous omelets, which I couldn’t finish because I felt like I had the worst hangover of my life – head pounding, eye blurring and all. I probably looked like shit, but whatever.

When we were done, we walked towards the JP Park and sat on a bench and people watched while I nursed on my coffee and The German was in doggy land. We talked to almost every dog that walked by us. It was cute. She is so fond of dogs that it is just heavenly.

The afternoon crawled in and we found ourselves in a car heading to Saugus for the famous wings. We had a couple of volcanoes, ate for the children in Africa and stogged our life away.

That night was the Old School Hip Hop Party. I blinged myself out, track suited my shit to the top, diamonds in my ears and fingers and I was old school FO SHO! I wasn’t expecting lots of people to dress up, but The German’s roommate (lets call her Queen) along with The German dressed up. Once we arrived at the shindig, almost everyone had their costumes on. It was pretty cute.

The night ended with The German and I….


To Be Continued…

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The Weekend - Part I

Monday, July 16, 2007

I ventured out to RedSox land for the weekend to visit The German. For those who haven’t been to Boston and are Yankees fans, DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT go. You would seriously feel the need to bust out some NY punches because I swear everyone I saw had on redsox tee-shirts. Although I am a hardcore fan of Blue and Orange (for those who don’t know baseball – It’s the METS) I felt awkward walking the streets loaded with Bostonians completely dressed in Bosox gear. They have a huge pride for their home team and sadly we do not. It’s not the same. The hate is stronger. The love is stronger. It’s one of those love it or hate it. But love it ‘till you die kind of thing.

I hopped on the Chinese bus sans the chicken and goats attached on the side of the bus and headed to Boston MA. The ride was splendid. I slept through most of it and attempted to read my book but I was too far interested in looking out the window and looking at nature. There is something definitely peaceful about that.

I arrived in Boston around 3:30p and headed outside for a quick cig break and read the paper while I waited for The German to get out of work. After an hour or so, I got in a cab and went to The German’s job. We took the subway and headed to her house. By the way, for us NYC folks, the subway system goes by either numbers or letters, theirs go by colors.

But anyhow, we got home, switched my outfit and headed south to a Melissa Ferrick boat cruise with a couple of her friends. I couldn’t think of anything gay-er than a MF boat cruise loaded with lezies of all sorts and even to my surprise, there were heteros. Melissa was great, funny and witty and absolutely adorable. I had a great time and so did The German. C’mon I am so charming, who wouldn’t want to be in my presence?

The German was as splendid as MF. We unquestionably connected and with every conversation we had – even the tiny ones were priceless. I know its sounds corny, but I actually never felt connected to someone like that in a very long time. She has brain and she can actually hold her liquor – two of my favorite things.

And then…

To be continued…

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Rainfalls

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

My grandfather passed away this past week and as I was stumbling to find something to read at his memorial, I went back to some of my old writing and pieced together something…
The old Soul left on a Tuesday Night
Nine fifteen to be exact

Leaving the old Charm and Character

That Night, the rain teased the rooftop
Tapping like you wanted them to
Drums of my childhood
Proudly sitting by
Your fireplace
Dusting
They aged
You aged
In pain


Leaving your soul on a silver platter

That night, the old Soul never woke up
And so I never said goodbye
You left me, me, me
The thumb wars
The stories
The laughs
Me, You
us, me
mom


Leaving a life you once belonged to

That night, with the sweet tenderness of the rain
You left me the last bit of your spirit
Knowing there was no hope
Not a tear was shed
Life just goes on
Rain, only rain
When it rains
I’ll know
It's you

Leaving with the rainfall

Because only you
Believed the magic of rainfalls

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A 10pm Stogie

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

It seems that every night when I go for my last stogue for the night, I imagine my future, I reflect on the past and present, (Take a drag) I examine every little bit of what life has to offer and finally…(exhale) I am confused.

Every time I lean on my window, staring at the stars, I feel empty. I have goals. I have ambitions and yet, I am not complete. Strange.

I know people would die to be in my shoes, or so they say. I tend to be quite radical with that. I’ve come across pretty good professional liars and I’ve learned my lesson. You see, TRUST is such a strong, liberating, profound word and yet, I take it for granted (one more drag, long deep release of smoke through my nasal canals and I feel high).

I wonder if my neighbors think I am crazy because I talk to myself. Hmmm…

Lost…

What am I doing with my life? (drag)

On the other hand, I'm fine. Content. true.(Exhale)

hmmm? (Drag)

Ha! And I always thought it was perfection. (Exhaling slowly, realizing that once again I am talking to myself: shit!)

I can only walk forward. Don’t look back, because it might just be what you don’t want to see.

What are the probabilities that I might be an editor? 1 out a 192837384978347565765389783? I work for Newsweek don’t I? Ok. 2 out of a 287324874378973458938797538.

Oh boy! What about a writer? Scratch that.

(Fighting for that one last bit of drag, perhaps it will be my omen)

(Exhale)

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I am trying I guess...

Monday, July 9, 2007

Growing up, I always held the ideal of the 'NY woman' as my aspiration -- fashionable, feminine yet assertive, tough, and always extrodinarily put together. I acheived my goal when I was 18, during my first year of my women's college experience. I was always well dressed, 15 lbs thinner, make-up on perfectly, the perfect first date who laughed at the the dumbest jokes and struck the balence of making a woman feel like a million dollars yet making her second guess whether you were completely into her. The year I began my first year of college, I was unstoppable when I went out. I would walk into a straight bar and I would end up pushed against the wall being ravaged by some hot sexually confused woman.

Now let's examine where my I am 6 years later. 15 lbs heavier, forgotten how to put on make-up, there is something always eskew with my outfits (yesterday I ran out of clean clothes and had to febreeze myself and this morning I got deoderant all over my black summer dress that did not quite fit perfectly), and I lost my nasty streak -- the streak that made women find me so insanely attractive.

See, my undergrad was co-ed, but I considered it more of a women’s college due to the lack of men and the absurd amount of lezies and bi curious girls from no name towns. So, with that said, my “women’s college” education made women more assertive, allowed us to pursue our intellectual potential with minimal male classroom domination and all in all, a women's college education makes us better humanbeings. If I am such a better humanbeing, why am I pining away for the days when I was 18? The days I would laugh in a girl’s face if she didnt kiss well, buy me my drink on time, or wasn't hot enough for me. Granted, I am a nicer human being, I no longer laugh in girl’s faces, give everyone a chance (because there may be a diamond in the rough), and try to keep in mind that even the less fornuate looking women are humanbeings with a story to tell.

Fuck my education, college gave me a conscience.

Living in sweatpants for 4 years will mess with a girls sense of fashion and her self esteem. Granted during those 4 years I worked on my "self:" I can debate the validity of Nietzsche, hold intellect in the highest regard, and value life experience rather than the mall experience. I learned to value myself as an intellectual as opposed to a cute well put together NYC Lezie. Hence why I have been sorta single ever since. Living in those sweatpants taught me that sometimes fabulous people dont always look so fabuous.

For the past two years, having become a bonafide NYer, I have tried so hard to become the woman I once was..the woman who always had her hair- did, always had a quick joke, an a cigg dangling out of her mouth ( not too sexy I suppose). The woman who would never get horribly drunk, who sipped her vodka as opposed to chugging, and cured hangovers with water and fruit as opposed to scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast. I tried hard within this past year to become the woman I was at 18 but since I work in publishing, and there are no eliglble lezies who I work with, I went back to old habits – the partying, the “I don’t really give a fuck look” You may have chugged coors light back in the day, my friends and I chugged shots of absolut vodka while playing power hour.

Now that I have everything in place that would force me to become the woman I have always wanted to (appearance and alcohol consumption wise, everything else I am really happy with myself), I think I forgot! This morning I got my deoderant all over my black summer dress. Instead of making a big deal, scrubbing it out, I shrugged my shoulders and rationalized that we are all human, as I pulled my hair back into a messy bun.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

I have spent the last 5.5 years romanticizing the messy intllectual, the quiet one with a nose in her book, who always looks slightly astray. I am 24 going on 25... I am working with cute straight ladies with probably even cuter friends. Oh 18 yr old me...where are you?

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Word of advice

If you are at a party, and there are pictures being taken, don't assume that they are not going to photograph you--especially if you are dressed up very stripper-ish, I mean elegantly. Furthermore, in this day and age of internet, don't assume that they will not put up the most uncomprosiing pictures of you.

Evidently I was even more scandelous when one sees my behavior in snap-shot form.

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A Lonely Thursday

Thursday, July 5, 2007

This, my friends is what happens when you work in Publishing and it is a Thursday afternoon.

me: shoot me!
NYU: only if u shoot me at the same time
me: ha! I’ll try
NYU: arghhh
me: how are you keeping yourself busy?
NYU: im on college humor. I need coffee... again
me: hmmm...try to think of something else to keep u awake
NYU: like... sitting here with nothing to do?
me: yeah. That can help
NYU: oh it’s working already!
me: i bet. Don’t you worry. U only have 2 hrs to go
NYU: an hour and 50 minutes haha
me: actually an hour and 53 min. according to my pc
NYU: its wrong!
me: really? Shit. My phone says the same thing. ur pc is wrong
me: you are just trying to get out 3 minutes earlier
me: shame on you

5 minutes later:

me: how do you feel about the name "Lucy". I know its random.
me: hmm I wouldn’t even know how to begin answering that
NYU: it reminds me of I love lucy
me: lol
NYU: Why?
me: yeh. This lady from edit just came to say hi to me. She just had a baby. And so I said, "oh, what's her name" she responds with a "its Lucy. Isn’t it cute?"
me: so I lied. I said "yes, its beautiful"
me: but truthfully, i think it may be the worst name in the baby book
NYU: ya I don’t like that name. I thought u were gonna say it was your moms name or something
me: nah.
me: couldn’t she have thought of something cuter? I wonder what tiff is going to name her kid.
NYU: apparently not. Haha hmmm lets ask her
me: u do that. She already thinks I’m like this pregnant women hater
NYU: haha
NYU: nathaniel shea or haley joy
me: shea like shea stadium?? Hardcore Mets fan.
NYU: totally.

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The Ex is a Douche

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

I am starting to think that I should start a blog with the title “My Ex-Girlfriend is a Little Bitch”. There would have been ample material to update every week--on some occasion’s daily. We've recently stopped talking. Or, to be more specific, I stopped talking to her months ago. She has started to text me randomly, which I guess involves some amount of speaking- sorry, typing on her part but mostly it's me ignoring her pitiable attempts to upset me.

However, this is not exactly what relegates her to little bitchdom. What downgrades My Ex-Girlfriend to Little BitchdomEx-Girlfriend has had some crazy times at work. Unfortunately, she has a real job but is one of the company bitch. So she complains a lot and wants me to listen and be a friend. This is unfortunate because I am not one of those girls who can wish exes well. I wish them a lifetime of poverty and sexual abstinence. I kid, I kid.

She finds occasion to whine about everything endlessly in a 5-minute phone call. After a cursory glance at the caller ID on my phone, I find that the call was largely due to a horrid day at work/girlfriend issues, roommates’ drama. It is highly unlikely that a misogynistic douche-bag would suddenly find the time and motivation to go out and make horde of female friends that come over and chastely play a dyke game of Pong. One can only conclude that I have made it onto the list-serve entitled "Girls I am Fucking or Would Like to Fuck or even better – girls I pretend to be friends with" hereafter referred to as GIFWLF.

On these GIFWLF calls, lines are often included to target a specific girl/issue (and I suppose to reassure to me that she is in fact a little carpet muncher - eww) such as "that girl is so hot" or "ugh, she lives so far, I can’t be in a relationship with someone I can’t see". I tried to make myself feel better for a bit by pretending that the whole operation was a clever way to get under my skin. However, I am not that easily manipulated, even by my own self. The truth is I have left the confines of a serious relationship to enter Ex-girlfriends harem, which includes one other ex- and short-term projects.

My presence on the GIFWLF call list insults me, but in a horrible girly way that no lesbian’s logic could comprehend. This is partly my fault for refusing to accept that any girl I have slept with could actually be a misogynistic douche-bag with no redeeming qualities.

But I think I'm coming around to the idea.

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Pussy Status

Monday, July 2, 2007

There is a CEO who...terrifies me. Scares the shit out of me. Makes me want to hide underneath my desk.He is blonde with a very cute boyish smile that he only uses when delivering bad news. When he makes (what I think are) jokes, he does not smile at all. Sometimes he will laugh, which I believe is intended to be reassuring but is actually frightening since he has mastered the strange art of laughing without smiling.

Jokes include:"I don't see why your position isn't part-time."
"You're saying you sent that e-mail? I'm saying you're a liar."
"You are completely useless to this company."

Thankfully, none of these have been directed at me. Maybe he senses I am fragile or a bitch from NY. He does, however, issue vague yet urgent directives which I run around trying to complete without asking for clarification because he is so fucking scary. For example: At 10:00 this morning, CEO told me to get some sales figures. The actual words out of his mouth were "You know how to run that sales report for 2006? I need it for this meeting." He then marched out of my "office" leaving me with the thoughts: What meeting? Which sales report? What the fuck?When he left,

I had a fit of panic and figured I could just get all the sales figures for all our ads. I am just now realizing this is a stupid, stupid plan, and I need to go ask him what exactly he needs the figures for. Unfortunately for me, an hour has passed since his request and so I will appear either retarded or lazy. Instead of dealing with the situation I am writing this, further compounding the problem.

I know, I am a total pussy

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