Posts in category "Random"

Snowflake

I have this the­o­ry that there’s no myth to the female orgasm. There are some who can have one and some who can’t. Most of the girls I’ve dat­ed have been able to achieve cli­max (or have led me to believe so), but there was one who nev­er did and nev­er seemed to care. There is no set attribute for all women.

This may be sup­port­ed by the fact that it’s the same with the types of orgasms, which vary not only from woman to woman, but from each occur­ring time as well. Some are implo­sive, some are explo­sive. Some are cen­tered in a region, some affect the entire body. Some cause lethar­gy, some cause ener­gy.

I think the abil­i­ty to have an orgasm is most­ly men­tal. The girl­friend who nev­er had one was a stone in bed, and I lat­er real­ized that she had the men­tal capac­i­ty to match.

Another girl­friend was of a sim­i­lar demeanour, but I could tell that she had the abil­i­ty to be taught at the right time, and the right per­son would have the patience to teach her the right things. I find that men­tal­ly strong girls are the ones who have the best orgasms. They’re also the most fun, because they know what they like and they aren’t afraid to ask for it, allow­ing for a lot of explo­ration. It was only when I met a strong girl that I was com­fort­able push­ing her body, com­fort­able fig­ur­ing out what she liked. She had the best orgasms, and she’s the only one I know who’s been able to have two very dif­fer­ent, very dis­tinct orgasms in a row, or orgasms that would last longer than a minute.

Even the expres­sions after­wards are unique, whether it’s a joc­u­lar look of “Don’t touch me, I’m over­stim­u­lat­ed” or bewil­dered “What the FUCK did you just do?” or “Give me a minute, I can’t feel my brain”. Guys are total­ly dif­fer­ent. Their expres­sions are linked to their orgasms, and they only have two: the angry face (aggres­sive, dom­i­nant, empow­er­ing), and the con­fused face (soft, whim­per­ing, almost sor­ry, à la Ben Stiller in There’s Something About Mary).

But that’s just my the­o­ry.

A New Breed Of Comment Spam

I’ve been bom­bard­ed (about 50 a day) by a new kind of spam com­ment late­ly. It’s been slip­ping through my MT-Blacklist fil­ters, because it cre­ates intel­li­gi­ble sen­tences by vary­ing verbs (like “check” and “vis­it”) and nouns (like “site” and “pages”). Sometimes, when I’m brows­ing through oth­er sites I see the same spam com­ments, so I fig­ured I would post the reg­u­lar expres­sion I wrote to block it in case any­one hap­pens to be search­ing for one, like the one I wrote a few months ago.

(check|visit)[\w\-_.]*(pages|sites|information|info)[\w\-_. ]*

This has been the most dif­fi­cult spam vari­a­tion I’ve had to deal with. The one weak­ness of most com­ment spam is that it’s bound to a sta­t­ic web­site address. Since spam is usu­al­ly gen­er­at­ed through robots, there are pat­terns that can be matched in order to block it. The key is fig­ur­ing out what the pat­tern is, whether it may be a reoc­cur­ring IP address (very unlike­ly and unre­li­able), or a reoc­cur­ring web­site address (most like­ly). This one is dif­fer­ent though, because the adver­tised web­sites keep chang­ing. Not only that, but the sen­tences used to present the site are also incon­sis­tent. The pat­tern, as a result, is more com­plex.

The Shirt Tucking-In

I’ve start­ed tuck­ing in my shirt. The only two times that I remem­ber tuck­ing were both at wed­dings; Dr. Lea’s and Jono’s. I did­n’t even tuck for my cous­in’s wed­ding, even after (or should I say, espe­cial­ly after) a chid­ing from Priscilla’s unpleas­ant boyfriend. Admittedly, I have a very thin waist, and tuck­ing always makes me look extreme­ly skin­ny. I don’t always tuck now, just when I’m wear­ing a dress shirt with cer­tain new v‑neck sweaters. If I don’t tuck, the sweaters end up bunch­ing up odd­ly around my mid-sec­tion and make me look even skin­nier.

I don’t mind it so far, although it feels a lit­tle odd to have so much mate­r­i­al stuffed into my pants, like I have a skirt on under­neath (not that I have ANY idea what that feels like, or ever pre­tend­ed I was Candice Bergen from Attenborough’s Gandhi after find­ing a cache of my moth­ers old clothes as a con­fused ado­les­cent). I’ve always been most com­fort­able with the casu­al untucked-shirt with tie or blaz­er style. I’ve been against tuck­ing for so long that it feels like I’ve sold out, start­ed lay­ing down to the prover­bial “man”, but real­ly, I’ve only start­ed to tuck my shirt in on occa­sion.

I’ve also start­ed try­ing to sit up straight. I think that pos­ture is an impor­tant part of self-image, and real­ized that I’m con­fi­dent enough now to project it. My par­ents would always tell me to keep my shoul­ders back, because they’re gen­er­al­ly for­ward in a sleazy slouch. I’ve been try­ing to go cold turkey and not slouch at all, instead of only sit­ting straight when I feel rest­ed. The great­est chal­lenge is sit­ting up straight while eat­ing soup. The extra dis­tance the spoon has to trav­el to the mouth is scary, and after a while, I end up slouch­ing again to pre­vent stray drip­pings from mak­ing large splash­es.

This Is Why You're Not Allowed (Save It)

This is the rit­u­al.

We meet. Usually by Greyhound.

We get stoned. In the car, in the park, or in the apart­ment.

This is what we’ve been sav­ing for. What we’ve cho­sen to deny our­selves of, until the present com­pa­ny, so that the expe­ri­ence is more intense. The rea­son why we’ve with­held for so long.

We intro­duce to each oth­er what we’ve dis­cov­ered on our own. Songs. Videos. Experiences.

There is no pride. No bias. No judg­ment.

We cher­ish these times. These week­ends. These mem­o­ries.

When we can grow from one anoth­er.

Because we’ve grown from our­selves.

Ride

A lit­tle while ago, I shared a cor­re­spon­dence with a woman who once found this site by search­ing for “cool futon cov­ers” on the web. She was a sin­gle moth­er (the search was for her daugh­ters’ new futon), and she told me that she gained a new con­scious­ness after read­ing my entries. She led me to believe that this some­how changed her life, a woman who was begin­ning to real­ize that she had come to the end of the direc­tion of her life in her ear­ly thir­ties, and that she grew up too quick­ly, and could­n’t relate to her teenage daugh­ter.

She had always been ner­vous, and what I believe was a lit­tle intim­i­dat­ed, with our cor­re­spon­dence; I could tell that she was putting up a wall, a sort of sep­a­ra­tion to keep her dis­tance. When I brought this up to her, she acknowl­edged it. Later, she sent me this let­ter.

This is me. Without spellcheck or the com­fort of a cut + paste option. Ink is hon­est. Even more I hes­i­tate before com­plet­ing the thought/sentence. But I want­ed to give some­thing more and this seems like an accept­able amount for now.

What if I am just “trite”? I estab­lished that opin­ions are irrel­e­vant, so what the hell.

I had a mas­sage tonight + I feel bet­ter, phys­i­cal­ly. I can move my neck and look over my shoul­ders. I was begin­ning to look like a lit­tle old lady when I drove, turn­ing my entire body at the waist to look left or right. It cost me $80 to not be in pain. Funny, that’s about the amount that my com­pa­ny paid me to get in this shape. Ironic.

I just climbed into Jessi’s top bunk of her bed + hugged her. She did­n’t hug me back, but she did­n’t push me away either. That’s progress. We argue over the most insane­ly stu­pid things. It is usu­al­ly by acci­dent that we find our­selves get­ting along these days. Putting forth an effort does­n’t seem to work at the moment. I sup­pose that will change over time….but I sure do miss her.

It is late. I’ve had my bath, I ate din­ner (egg sal­ad + chee­toes). I won’t read tonight. I have enough in my head right now. Besides, I’m afraid I will be tempt­ed to stay up too late. I can’t func­tion on a few hours of sleep like some peo­ple. I need a sol­id sev­en hours minimum…and that’s been rare late­ly. I have a big clos­ing at 8am with a very impor­tant client. She is there because of me. I’d love to tell the pri­madon­na bitch to kiss my ass, but she pays my bills…so instead — I will kiss hers. Being a grown up sucks.

I won­der what it would be like to “check out” of this world? To give in to the notion of insan­i­ty and be for­giv­en any­thing + every­thing for lack of a func­tion­ing mind? Perhaps that sounds a bit dra­mat­ic — but for me it sounds like peace. If only I could some­how be sure that I could find my way back — maybe then it would be a viable option. I’d nev­er have the guts. I could­n’t let go of the con­trols. Voluntary insan­i­ty — — now there’s a fan­ta­sy I could play with. But alas, I would nev­er make it in a world with­out log­ic + order. Wow. I have writ­ten non stop. No more hes­i­tat­ing. I real­ize I’m no longer break­ing up the para­graphs cor­rect­ly: and I’m sure I’m start­ing sen­tences with the word “and”. Ha! I haven’t reread one thought, haven’t ripped out a page + start­ed over — see — it’s just me.

I could tell that just from talk­ing with me, learn­ing how I under­stand my life, she was begin­ning to under­stand many parts of hers that she was­n’t com­fort­able think­ing about. Raymond Lindquist once said, “Courage is the pow­er to let go of the famil­iar”, and I admired her for what seemed to be a great effort to share her­self with a stranger.

For a while now, our cor­re­spon­dence has stopped. It was her deci­sion, and some­thing I assume to have end­ed only because she has giv­en no response and no rea­son. She always told to me of her dreams, to one day buy a motor­cy­cle and take the high­way to the woods, instead of her exit home. From there she would save the world, one tree at a time. I’ve always hoped that that’s what hap­pened. That the rea­son why she stopped reply­ing was because she took Jessi with her, and left every­thing else behind.

And I wish her all the best.