Wherein you are walking funny from excessive horizontal mamboing and are lucky if your friends don't throttle you, because every other sentence out of your mouth is some reference to the guy you have started seeing...
For fuck's sake, I almost want to throttle me. But we've already determined that I am Her Royal Highness TMI, Intergalactic Queen of Oversharing 1, so even though I attempt to edit myself, shit keeps popping out like champagne corks at New Year's. Usually while giggling like an idiot. Gah.
You can't see me, but the face palmage is epic...
In my defence, I think my brains melted out my ears about two weeks back, a side effect of shagging like two rabid weasels in heat. I heartily endorse dating a younger man, because WOO-BOY CAN WE SAY STAMINA?! My flat mates are taking great joy in teasing me, pointing out that I've lost my little love handles. Who needs a gym when you can fuck your way into bikini form?
Showing posts with label Stream of Unconsciousness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stream of Unconsciousness. Show all posts
11 May 2011
12 July 2006
Pity the Beautiful game has Some Really Ugly Fans
Throughout the World Cup there has been a continuous stream of greasy, diving, cheating, cattennacio-playing, undeserving, racist(?!) wop bastards comments on three of my typical lurk/occasional post sites (MeFi, MetaChat, & Sportsfilter) as well as in the English-speaking media.
I've typed up some nasty responses to said comments and then bit my tongue and closed the browser before hitting the post button. I'm just the American in Rome, and hell, why argue on the Internets.
But what with the Zizou/Matterazzi headbutt furor (neither of whom I consider saints, despite my fetish of the former and my sadness at his expulsion), the strategy of biting my tongue is proving painful.
It seems as if people, egged on by the media, willfully shut their eyes and play into their own personal confirmation biases. The aforementioned slurs on Italians, Germans as 'boring', France as 'formidable but, well, Gaelic', Spain as 'underachievers', English as 'hooligans', Brazil as the 'behemoth', Argentina forever to be mentioned along with the phrases 'Maradona' & 'hand of God', and the rest of the teams as second or third tier underdogs not worthy of too much consideration.
It's annoying. And saddening, especially on my aforementioned web lurks which are usually fairly intelligent corners of e web. Pre-Cup snark notwithstanding, can we really not get past the whole stereotyping shtick and just watch the games as they are played or must we all endure your disparaging, even racist insults in an effort to prove your flag pole is bigger than ours?
Because if it's the latter, then I guess I'll just save my breath trying to make a reasonable response to the contrary and just use small words:
HaHa. Fuck you. We won. Go peddle your cunty, insulting, racist stereotypes to someone who cares.
Damn. That last phrase has polysyllabic words. Let's try again:
HaHa. Fuck you. We won.Go peddle your cunty, insulting, racist stereotypes to someone who cares. Take your insults and shove them up your ass.
Anyhow, on to some thoughts on the WC in general.
I've typed up some nasty responses to said comments and then bit my tongue and closed the browser before hitting the post button. I'm just the American in Rome, and hell, why argue on the Internets.
But what with the Zizou/Matterazzi headbutt furor (neither of whom I consider saints, despite my fetish of the former and my sadness at his expulsion), the strategy of biting my tongue is proving painful.
It seems as if people, egged on by the media, willfully shut their eyes and play into their own personal confirmation biases. The aforementioned slurs on Italians, Germans as 'boring', France as 'formidable but, well, Gaelic', Spain as 'underachievers', English as 'hooligans', Brazil as the 'behemoth', Argentina forever to be mentioned along with the phrases 'Maradona' & 'hand of God', and the rest of the teams as second or third tier underdogs not worthy of too much consideration.
It's annoying. And saddening, especially on my aforementioned web lurks which are usually fairly intelligent corners of e web. Pre-Cup snark notwithstanding, can we really not get past the whole stereotyping shtick and just watch the games as they are played or must we all endure your disparaging, even racist insults in an effort to prove your flag pole is bigger than ours?
Because if it's the latter, then I guess I'll just save my breath trying to make a reasonable response to the contrary and just use small words:
HaHa. Fuck you. We won. Go peddle your cunty, insulting, racist stereotypes to someone who cares.
Damn. That last phrase has polysyllabic words. Let's try again:
HaHa. Fuck you. We won.
Anyhow, on to some thoughts on the WC in general.
04 April 2005
The Pope is dead
Rather late to this thread, and I have neither the time nor inclination at present to thoroughly read 300+ posts bickering about if the Pope was the Earthly Incarnate of Good or Evil.
I will also preface this by saying that, though I grew up Catholic, I have no love for the Church, nor for religions in general.
However...
The SO lives within spitting distance of San Pietro. Though neither of us believe in God/Dog/Bob/whathaveyou, Friday night we briefly stopped in Piazza San Pietro during the rosary services. I was struck by the quiet; in a country where 2 or 3 cell phones to a person is not unusual, not once in 30 minutes did I hear some tinny polyphonic tune. And I saw only one person smoking, furtively hiding his lit cig as one hides a joint.
Saturday after work, I once again made my way across town to the SO's place. We had just finished eating dinner when the news of Wojtyla's death arrived via SMS. We quickly grabbed our things and pelted towards San Pietro. Many people were actually leaving the piazza, as yet unaware that the pope had passed on.
We arrived to an unsettling quiet, punctured only by the occasional sob. The silence stretched on; saying that the entire piazza was stunned or shocked would be misleading, if only in the sense that in light of his serious health condition, death was expected. But there it was. An entire piazza of people all with suspiciously bright eyes and ruddy noses, if not with tears rolling down their cheeks. I felt vaguely ghoulish and somehow intrusive as we tiptoed our way further into the piazza.
From a small clearing behind me, a young man in his late teens/early twenties sounded a chord on his guitar, an attack on the instrument. It was an uncertain thin to do in the midst of that silence. You could sense a hesitancy yet he continued the introductory chords in the same strong manner. And then he began to sing.Allelujah, risorgerà Clear. Pure. Strong.
I will also preface this by saying that, though I grew up Catholic, I have no love for the Church, nor for religions in general.
However...
The SO lives within spitting distance of San Pietro. Though neither of us believe in God/Dog/Bob/whathaveyou, Friday night we briefly stopped in Piazza San Pietro during the rosary services. I was struck by the quiet; in a country where 2 or 3 cell phones to a person is not unusual, not once in 30 minutes did I hear some tinny polyphonic tune. And I saw only one person smoking, furtively hiding his lit cig as one hides a joint.
Saturday after work, I once again made my way across town to the SO's place. We had just finished eating dinner when the news of Wojtyla's death arrived via SMS. We quickly grabbed our things and pelted towards San Pietro. Many people were actually leaving the piazza, as yet unaware that the pope had passed on.
We arrived to an unsettling quiet, punctured only by the occasional sob. The silence stretched on; saying that the entire piazza was stunned or shocked would be misleading, if only in the sense that in light of his serious health condition, death was expected. But there it was. An entire piazza of people all with suspiciously bright eyes and ruddy noses, if not with tears rolling down their cheeks. I felt vaguely ghoulish and somehow intrusive as we tiptoed our way further into the piazza.
From a small clearing behind me, a young man in his late teens/early twenties sounded a chord on his guitar, an attack on the instrument. It was an uncertain thin to do in the midst of that silence. You could sense a hesitancy yet he continued the introductory chords in the same strong manner. And then he began to sing.Allelujah, risorgerà Clear. Pure. Strong.
01 September 2004
Begat By The Unholy Marriage of Marion Jones and Jenna Jameson...
Sitting at the bar with some colleagues in town last week, we marvelled at the plethora of obscure sports in the Olympics.
"Synchronized Diving?!"
"Hey if Curling made it in..."
"Sure but what's next?"
"Sex. They seem to have enough in the Olympic Village."
"I'd like to see them test for doping. 'But my doctor prescribed the Viagra for my, uh, flu.'"
"You'd have your artistic scores and your technical scores. You, know the difficulty of positions, duration..."
"'Faster, higher, stronger' indeed..."
"I think 'longer' and 'harder' would have to be added also..."
"Would multiple orgasms count for the technical or artistic score?"
"Dunno but just think of all the different categories there could be."
"Hell yeah. Between the various sex toys, positions, and sexual preferences..."
"Cat o' Nine Tails - Hetro.' Has potential."
"(announcer voice)'Representing Italy we have Roberto Cazzogrosso and Valeria Ficaspaccata. They will be attempting the 'Reverse 69 in a Fiat 500' which has a difficulty of 8.5...'"
"(announcer voice)'Oooo that's got to smart. Too much lube and Valeria has finished up on the gearshift. that's going to cost them, Bob...'"
"I dunno you two. I think the judges would have to be involved in some way..."
"Hmmm. Maybe. can you imagine someone's gold being stripped for fake orgasms?"
"They'd have to rename gang-bangs and orgies as 'Relay Sex'"
This is why my preferred euphemism as of late is Passing the Baton.
"Synchronized Diving?!"
"Hey if Curling made it in..."
"Sure but what's next?"
"Sex. They seem to have enough in the Olympic Village."
"I'd like to see them test for doping. 'But my doctor prescribed the Viagra for my, uh, flu.'"
"You'd have your artistic scores and your technical scores. You, know the difficulty of positions, duration..."
"'Faster, higher, stronger' indeed..."
"I think 'longer' and 'harder' would have to be added also..."
"Would multiple orgasms count for the technical or artistic score?"
"Dunno but just think of all the different categories there could be."
"Hell yeah. Between the various sex toys, positions, and sexual preferences..."
"Cat o' Nine Tails - Hetro.' Has potential."
"(announcer voice)'Representing Italy we have Roberto Cazzogrosso and Valeria Ficaspaccata. They will be attempting the 'Reverse 69 in a Fiat 500' which has a difficulty of 8.5...'"
"(announcer voice)'Oooo that's got to smart. Too much lube and Valeria has finished up on the gearshift. that's going to cost them, Bob...'"
"I dunno you two. I think the judges would have to be involved in some way..."
"Hmmm. Maybe. can you imagine someone's gold being stripped for fake orgasms?"
"They'd have to rename gang-bangs and orgies as 'Relay Sex'"
This is why my preferred euphemism as of late is Passing the Baton.
26 February 2004
WORSHIP AT THE ALTAR OF CONSUMERISM.
Praise Jesus Amen, Pass the Plate Around Again. I just received this from my dad:
15 September 2003
Snippets
*I want a soundtrack to my life. Barring that a big strapping Negro fellow following me around with boom box. Or an iPod with speakers. Whatever. I just want music following my every move, so that I won't just be some spaz who starts waltzing down the street to the music in my head.
*Why a big strapping Negro fellow? Well, are you going to fuck with a chick who has a big strapping Negro fellow following her around with a boom box? I thought not.
*I hate the Euro. Everything has doubled in price. Excepting of course, my salary.
*Above thought prompted by the discovery that floor tickets for Ani Di Franco tomorrow night are 30 fucking Euros. 60,000 Lire. 60 bucks old skool money for Ani Di.
*And I'm going anyway. By myself. How's that for loserville?
*The sector of tourism that I work in is not only fucking incestuous in terms of competition, it's also rife with copycats. Case in point? The new websites I did. There are already three -count 'em - THREE other places that have flat out stolen the text I did for our sites. Can we say "copyright infringement notice"? I thought we could.
*In other Evil Webmistress related news, I take perverse pleasure in redirecting certain people *cough*oldwebmasters*cough* to a special 404 page when they try to look for a way in to the admin side. One that says "The page you are looking for IS NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS. Thanks for logging your IP with us. Have a Nice Day."
That's fairly nice. Little script kiddies and spammers looking to exploit formmail get sent to Tubgirl (don't go googling for that unless you really really really feel the urge to scrub your eyeballs with steel wool and Clorox.)
*Why a big strapping Negro fellow? Well, are you going to fuck with a chick who has a big strapping Negro fellow following her around with a boom box? I thought not.
*I hate the Euro. Everything has doubled in price. Excepting of course, my salary.
*Above thought prompted by the discovery that floor tickets for Ani Di Franco tomorrow night are 30 fucking Euros. 60,000 Lire. 60 bucks old skool money for Ani Di.
*And I'm going anyway. By myself. How's that for loserville?
*The sector of tourism that I work in is not only fucking incestuous in terms of competition, it's also rife with copycats. Case in point? The new websites I did. There are already three -count 'em - THREE other places that have flat out stolen the text I did for our sites. Can we say "copyright infringement notice"? I thought we could.
*In other Evil Webmistress related news, I take perverse pleasure in redirecting certain people *cough*oldwebmasters*cough* to a special 404 page when they try to look for a way in to the admin side. One that says "The page you are looking for IS NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS. Thanks for logging your IP with us. Have a Nice Day."
That's fairly nice. Little script kiddies and spammers looking to exploit formmail get sent to Tubgirl (don't go googling for that unless you really really really feel the urge to scrub your eyeballs with steel wool and Clorox.)
13 June 2003
Is it the Italian blood?
It takes a lot to push my buttons. But once they're pushed...well
All right, so put up a guest entry and then I get some time to actually compose a few incoherent thoughts.
So. Button pushing. It takes a fair bit to get me really upset. But when I do, I don't scream (at first). Usually the frustration just overwhelms me and my hands begin to shake. And then I start to cry. Sort of. I hate crying. So I guess it would be more accurate to say I choke on my tears. Which just makes me even madder.
Like I said, I loathe crying.
All right, so put up a guest entry and then I get some time to actually compose a few incoherent thoughts.
So. Button pushing. It takes a fair bit to get me really upset. But when I do, I don't scream (at first). Usually the frustration just overwhelms me and my hands begin to shake. And then I start to cry. Sort of. I hate crying. So I guess it would be more accurate to say I choke on my tears. Which just makes me even madder.
Like I said, I loathe crying.
05 May 2003
Decisions Decisions Decisions
Spring is um, springing and layers of clothes are peeling off. Cue surging hormones.
My best girl friend and I were trying to figure out exactly how long we've been in bianca (ie secondary virgins) the other day. She was around the 6 month mark. I outdid her by an additional 4 months.
10 months of no nookie. No wonder why my right forearm muscles are more developed than the left. Christ. I wonder how many batteries I've gone through since then. Enough to power a small city?
Meh. What's a picky monogamous nymphomaniac to do? Lower my standards? It's not as if I have this huge conscious list of "Requirements to Date Me", like "Must be earning 6 figures and drive a bitchin' car" or "Mensa IQ required" or "Those hung like cocktail weiners need not apply"
My best girl friend and I were trying to figure out exactly how long we've been in bianca (ie secondary virgins) the other day. She was around the 6 month mark. I outdid her by an additional 4 months.
10 months of no nookie. No wonder why my right forearm muscles are more developed than the left. Christ. I wonder how many batteries I've gone through since then. Enough to power a small city?
Meh. What's a picky monogamous nymphomaniac to do? Lower my standards? It's not as if I have this huge conscious list of "Requirements to Date Me", like "Must be earning 6 figures and drive a bitchin' car" or "Mensa IQ required" or "Those hung like cocktail weiners need not apply"
15 April 2003
Cocktease
Because I can. Neener Neener.
If you bore me, I will play with you for my own enjoyment. If you didn't get the hint the first few times around and you continue to drool in my near vicinity, I will pick up the puppet strings and make you dance. My pants are tight, the belly is bared, the cleavage is in full effect, and I grow bored. I smile - you twitch. I dance - you twitch. I look up at you from underneath my eyelashes - you twitch. I insult you then laugh - you twitch. I walk towards the bathrooms - twitch twitch twitch. It's a tango of body language and you don't know the rhythm. I've got 17 years of training my body to speak in millions of voices without ever saying a word. I know exactly what you want and I can make you think the carrot is in your reach, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, but you'll always go forward. I don't even have to touch you. But this game I play grows easier as it continues and I am bored once again.
Game over. You lose.
If you bore me, I will play with you for my own enjoyment. If you didn't get the hint the first few times around and you continue to drool in my near vicinity, I will pick up the puppet strings and make you dance. My pants are tight, the belly is bared, the cleavage is in full effect, and I grow bored. I smile - you twitch. I dance - you twitch. I look up at you from underneath my eyelashes - you twitch. I insult you then laugh - you twitch. I walk towards the bathrooms - twitch twitch twitch. It's a tango of body language and you don't know the rhythm. I've got 17 years of training my body to speak in millions of voices without ever saying a word. I know exactly what you want and I can make you think the carrot is in your reach, sometimes nearer, sometimes farther, but you'll always go forward. I don't even have to touch you. But this game I play grows easier as it continues and I am bored once again.
Game over. You lose.
05 April 2003
Random Drubknen Ennui
Or: Gee, that ammarro I had as a digestif after dinner was stronger than I thought.
Am not going to comment on war, as a coherent argument/rant/rambling right now is not possible. Am tired as weird work hours for the past month are kicking my ass. (Read: 6pm - 7am, because the office is quieter during those hours). Long work project almost launched. Go me. Must stop this quasi-channelling of The Diary of Bridget Jones...
Never ever leave your depilation duties by the wayside for three months. I had (just about) everything below the belly button waxed yesterday and *that* was fucking painful. On the plus side, I no longer look like Sasquatch.
Anyway, must prepare to go out dancing. I need a break from this chirping glowing box. Rest assured, my faithful 10 (ten) readers, soon i will resume ranting about my government, sharing random details of life in Roma, and spouting off sexually frustrated musings on my tits/vibrator/altar boys/etc.
Am not going to comment on war, as a coherent argument/rant/rambling right now is not possible. Am tired as weird work hours for the past month are kicking my ass. (Read: 6pm - 7am, because the office is quieter during those hours). Long work project almost launched. Go me. Must stop this quasi-channelling of The Diary of Bridget Jones...
Never ever leave your depilation duties by the wayside for three months. I had (just about) everything below the belly button waxed yesterday and *that* was fucking painful. On the plus side, I no longer look like Sasquatch.
Anyway, must prepare to go out dancing. I need a break from this chirping glowing box. Rest assured, my faithful 10 (ten) readers, soon i will resume ranting about my government, sharing random details of life in Roma, and spouting off sexually frustrated musings on my tits/vibrator/altar boys/etc.
10 September 2002
Pre-Emptive Strike
This was written a year ago tomorrow. The first rush of thoughts. Tomorrow will be a nice little rant about my thoughts now a year later.
The boss is out of town. I've just cleared up a problem with clients and am trying to settle down to coding the new website update. New arrivals have just walked in the door. They are babbling about a plane that has just crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. I hear it peripherally, dismiss it as an accident, recommence trying to concentrate in my makeshift office. A second plane crashes into the World Trade Center, this time into the other tower. It doesn't register at first but even so I am jumping down the stairs from the loft. CNN is blaring on the satellite TV. I grow quickly impatient. Then the reply of the video footage.
oh my god.
Words to a being I haven't believed in since I was 14. oh my god oh my god oh my god running through my head a litany still ingrained despite all proof to the contrary.
A fire has broken out at the Pentagon.
oh my god oh my god oh my god
The boss is out of town. I've just cleared up a problem with clients and am trying to settle down to coding the new website update. New arrivals have just walked in the door. They are babbling about a plane that has just crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. I hear it peripherally, dismiss it as an accident, recommence trying to concentrate in my makeshift office. A second plane crashes into the World Trade Center, this time into the other tower. It doesn't register at first but even so I am jumping down the stairs from the loft. CNN is blaring on the satellite TV. I grow quickly impatient. Then the reply of the video footage.
oh my god.
Words to a being I haven't believed in since I was 14. oh my god oh my god oh my god running through my head a litany still ingrained despite all proof to the contrary.
A fire has broken out at the Pentagon.
oh my god oh my god oh my god
19 August 2002
Pithy Observations on Life
- There is no finer experience than good food, good wine, and better friends.
- Family and friends I will kill for, if neccessary. The rest exist either for my monetary gain or my entertainment.
- You don't ever want to become my enemy. Trust me on ths one. Fuck with me or (especially) mine, and you will pray for death
17 August 2002
Wandering
I get these moods where I just have to walk or I'll explode.
Guess this is what comes of expressing myself through movement for so many years. Face to face, when I get in these moods, I'm a stuttering idiot. If perchance, somebody asks me "What's up?", I find myself unable to respond, and actually it's better for all concerned if I head off by myself for a while. Writing doesn't help; I have to move. If I could run without my knees screaming in agony, I'd run all the way to the beach. So instead I walk. And walk. And walk.
Sometimes it's because I'm upset. Sometimes it's that restless itch of sleeping alone. Sometimes it's because I need to make a big decision. And sometimes, who the fuck knows. I've been doing it a lot this week.
Guess this is what comes of expressing myself through movement for so many years. Face to face, when I get in these moods, I'm a stuttering idiot. If perchance, somebody asks me "What's up?", I find myself unable to respond, and actually it's better for all concerned if I head off by myself for a while. Writing doesn't help; I have to move. If I could run without my knees screaming in agony, I'd run all the way to the beach. So instead I walk. And walk. And walk.
Sometimes it's because I'm upset. Sometimes it's that restless itch of sleeping alone. Sometimes it's because I need to make a big decision. And sometimes, who the fuck knows. I've been doing it a lot this week.
31 July 2002
As it comes to me
Random belly button pickings.
**Woo hoo! Thunder! One thing I've missed from Texas is the thunder and lightning storms. The climate of Rome is similar to that of Austin (slightly more humid than Dallas), but a bit less erattic. The saying I remember from Texas was "If you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes" This Roman summer has been weird. June was swelteringly hot. As in can't-fall-asleep-hot. July has been rainy, especially this week. Hot in the morning until about 2pm-ish, then the clouds start to roll in, and then we get torrents of water. Briefly. Then it's humid and cool, leaving you breathing the mist laying on top of everything. Just as long as the weather clears up for Sunday: I've got a tan to work on, baby.
**Woo hoo! Thunder! One thing I've missed from Texas is the thunder and lightning storms. The climate of Rome is similar to that of Austin (slightly more humid than Dallas), but a bit less erattic. The saying I remember from Texas was "If you don't like the weather, wait 5 minutes" This Roman summer has been weird. June was swelteringly hot. As in can't-fall-asleep-hot. July has been rainy, especially this week. Hot in the morning until about 2pm-ish, then the clouds start to roll in, and then we get torrents of water. Briefly. Then it's humid and cool, leaving you breathing the mist laying on top of everything. Just as long as the weather clears up for Sunday: I've got a tan to work on, baby.
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