Raaaaaambles
May. 1st, 2008 08:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
parasitegirlDear BOE
This behind a desk with no internet access and with no classes shit is getting silly. I do study, but my brain feels full.
If you keep this up I’m going to seriously have to dig deep into my brain and pull out stories that I haven’t told because, frankly, they aren’t that interesting. My brain needs feeding, not draining.
Like my first grade picture, or is it kindergarden, the one in the icon up there? The photographer had this bright idea to make us look smart and caught in the act of being kids...or some such shit...and sat me in front of a basic puzzle and shoved two of the puzzle pieces in me hands. At this point I would promptly put my head down, see the puzzle, and plunk those pieces in, goddamn it. The photographer had in mind me just holding those pieces, like I was slow about spacial relations and happy about it, so he would come back, take those pieces out, and shove them back in my hands…and I’d have them back in the puzzle before he could shoot. We did this a few times. I wasn’t having any of his cute little games, puzzle pieces are for sticking in puzzles…asshole.
See, not that entertaining. It’ll do. I’m too tired to postulate how it fits in with my lifelong issues with being in front of the camera or the history of my smirk.
And now, firing at random.
NPR warning: The following story is not explicit but does address the existence of sex and “bottoms”
D:
D lived next door to me my first few years of art school. I suspect he might have been the author of the “sex note” my father and step-mother saw when first visiting my apartment. D had a crappy tattoo on his thigh from being in the Navy, before art school. It was The Little Mermaid. Yup, Ariel. Yup, Disney. Perhaps his later actions were marked by needing to overcome the mermaid…I don’t know much about Navy culture, but I think in most cultures getting The Little Mermaid on your thigh means: Girl, Bottom, or Both.
By the end of art school he had befriended some other art students learning to tattoo, and ended art school with a very, very, very crappy cover-up, half Venus-De-Milo half “My first acid trip.” I suspect that the design came from the crudely hacked-at pillars for his final senior project “The Sex Bed.” The culmunation of his 4 years at art school was this “Sex Bed” a raised monster of a bed, with poorly carved pillars, a bed you’d sort of have to launch yourself into, compartments for sex toys and some crappy “sexy” fabrics. When me and the boy drawing majors were feeling stressed out about our final gallery shows we’d go into sculpture area and laugh at the sex bed for a while until we could face our inner demons/drawing boards/art teacher god mad again.
D was a slut-boy who claimed to be all “secretive and protecting the identities of his many conquest’s honors” in a grandious manner so annoying that those of who had had sex with him didn’t feel much guilt about shrugging shoulders and making a “meh” face when asked what the lover boy was like. This commonly known “meh” (art school was under 400 students) made the Sex Bed all the more laughable. To go with his sex bed he’d sculpted a bunch of little hand-holdable sized metal penis-vulva things…one for each girl he’d bedded…each one differently finished, shaped, sized…We’d poke at them and grimace. I guess we were supposed to guess who was who or be in awe at the numbers but it mostly suggested a high turnover rate. With D, as with fast food, elderly homes, and a variety of minimum wage jobs, a high turnover suggests that what you’re getting isn’t worth what you’re getting.
Word.
You guys have any topics you want me to dwell on tomorrow?
Any favorite stories from real-life that you’d like clarification on?
This behind a desk with no internet access and with no classes shit is getting silly. I do study, but my brain feels full.
If you keep this up I’m going to seriously have to dig deep into my brain and pull out stories that I haven’t told because, frankly, they aren’t that interesting. My brain needs feeding, not draining.
Like my first grade picture, or is it kindergarden, the one in the icon up there? The photographer had this bright idea to make us look smart and caught in the act of being kids...or some such shit...and sat me in front of a basic puzzle and shoved two of the puzzle pieces in me hands. At this point I would promptly put my head down, see the puzzle, and plunk those pieces in, goddamn it. The photographer had in mind me just holding those pieces, like I was slow about spacial relations and happy about it, so he would come back, take those pieces out, and shove them back in my hands…and I’d have them back in the puzzle before he could shoot. We did this a few times. I wasn’t having any of his cute little games, puzzle pieces are for sticking in puzzles…asshole.
See, not that entertaining. It’ll do. I’m too tired to postulate how it fits in with my lifelong issues with being in front of the camera or the history of my smirk.
And now, firing at random.
NPR warning: The following story is not explicit but does address the existence of sex and “bottoms”
D:
D lived next door to me my first few years of art school. I suspect he might have been the author of the “sex note” my father and step-mother saw when first visiting my apartment. D had a crappy tattoo on his thigh from being in the Navy, before art school. It was The Little Mermaid. Yup, Ariel. Yup, Disney. Perhaps his later actions were marked by needing to overcome the mermaid…I don’t know much about Navy culture, but I think in most cultures getting The Little Mermaid on your thigh means: Girl, Bottom, or Both.
By the end of art school he had befriended some other art students learning to tattoo, and ended art school with a very, very, very crappy cover-up, half Venus-De-Milo half “My first acid trip.” I suspect that the design came from the crudely hacked-at pillars for his final senior project “The Sex Bed.” The culmunation of his 4 years at art school was this “Sex Bed” a raised monster of a bed, with poorly carved pillars, a bed you’d sort of have to launch yourself into, compartments for sex toys and some crappy “sexy” fabrics. When me and the boy drawing majors were feeling stressed out about our final gallery shows we’d go into sculpture area and laugh at the sex bed for a while until we could face our inner demons/drawing boards/art teacher god mad again.
D was a slut-boy who claimed to be all “secretive and protecting the identities of his many conquest’s honors” in a grandious manner so annoying that those of who had had sex with him didn’t feel much guilt about shrugging shoulders and making a “meh” face when asked what the lover boy was like. This commonly known “meh” (art school was under 400 students) made the Sex Bed all the more laughable. To go with his sex bed he’d sculpted a bunch of little hand-holdable sized metal penis-vulva things…one for each girl he’d bedded…each one differently finished, shaped, sized…We’d poke at them and grimace. I guess we were supposed to guess who was who or be in awe at the numbers but it mostly suggested a high turnover rate. With D, as with fast food, elderly homes, and a variety of minimum wage jobs, a high turnover suggests that what you’re getting isn’t worth what you’re getting.
Word.
You guys have any topics you want me to dwell on tomorrow?
Any favorite stories from real-life that you’d like clarification on?
