January 2006 Archives

Hi * waves*. You know, it’s really nice when you can interact with someone of the opposite sex and not have any… how would you say… expectation attached to it. I hate that feeling of discomfort when you try to work or be friends with someone you are attracted to. And it’s not like you choose to be attracted to them. It just sort of happens. Then you’re stuck being attracted to this person, trying to interact with them while desperately trying to keep your inner stalker in check. It is very annoying and very tiring. Not that I am stalking anyone right now. It just dawned on me (like these things always do) and feel it is worth exploring. God (or Goddess) knows I have shit pop into my head all the time that is complete rubbish, so I don’t think it would be wise to ignore the good thoughts as they are so slight and far between. But to expand on this epiphany, I could easily get into the great debate about why we are attracted to the people we are attracted to and what attraction really is.

You all know I’m one of those deep thinking peeps who likes to analyze everything until it can’t be analyzed anymore (It’s a gift of mine that I cherish deeply), so you can understand why I look at this from a very cynical point of view.

I am not a romantic. I very rarely cry because of a love story. I mean, that shit has to be touching… like really touching to get me to cry, and even then I’ll only get misty.

I don’t believe in love. Especially “love at first sight.” I believe in “lust at first sight”, because really, when people talk about falling in love at first sight, what they really mean is that they saw a person that they could totally see themselves fucking, right there, on the dance floor, in front of everyone. I admit that is a very powerful feeling. I bow down to the elusive “lust at first sight”, but it ain’t love, its sex. Let’s keep it real, people.

Basically, everything boils down to sex. It’s the base, the lower stuff, the building blocks. For if not, why would you need to have sex to perpetuate the species? It’s just the way it works. It’s the important thing… the all important thing and we need to resign ourselves to that, which is why we are hardwired as humans to look for certain cues in those of the opposite sex (or the same sex) to determine fuckability.

I say fuckability, not fertility because that is what it is, fuckability. I guarantee that most of us didn’t get here because our parents wanted to “do their duty”, be fruitful and become many. Bullshit. We got here because our parents saw each other across a dance floor, a produce aisle, a washing machine at the coin-op laundry and had “lust at first sight.” And then… we were conceived. Hallelujah.

Now when I say hardwired to look for certain cues, I literally mean hardwired. Every time we look at someone we are performing complex mathematical calculations in our heads determining symmetry which in turn, determines health and yes, fuckability.

Symmetry is beauty. The more symmetrical you are, the more beautiful you are. I know it sounds too simple—that the most beautiful girl in your class, whom you hated with a smoldering passion, was beautiful and popular because one eye was only minutely higher than the other and both her arms and legs are only longer than their counterpart by a fraction of a fraction. What’s more, a supermodel is a supermodel simply because she is symmetry in the flesh. And in that light, symmetry gets you fuckability points which in turn will get you laid, which produces children, spreading your genes across the land, which in turn spreads more symmetry, which means that all of us are pretty symmetrical because our ancestors bred most of the ugly people out leaving more room for symmetry to flourish. It’s you basic survivals of the fittest… or in this case, the prettiest.

And it’s not just limited to the face. Symmetry spans the entire body. That is why certain body types appeal to the masses as opposed to others. Whether the trend is super skinny or a little plump, I bet you most people (women in particular), still had the same proportion ratio. It’s not about size at all, it’s about proportion. For example, a woman can be 220 pounds, but if all her weight is distributed in the right places to balance proportion and she has the coveted 0.7 hip to waist ratio, she will be more attractive and get far more fuckability points than her skinny and far less curvy counterpart. The perfect measurements of 36/24/36 are truly that, perfect. This proportion ratio dictates health and health equals fuckability because let’s be honest, who wants to fuck a sick person?

Symmetry is God, which can be a little depressing as it proves to show just how powerless we are. Our lot in life, our ability to succeed is tied up in how we are perceived on a physical level. It’s the luck of the draw—the roll of the dice in the expansive genetic craps game that determines all.

I could go on and on about symmetry and fuckability, but I won’t. Basically, life is this—when you’re sitting at lunch, by yourself, wearing the badge of unpopularity, plotting the death of that well-liked girl in your office with her sickeningly symmetrical features, remember this. It isn’t her fault she is freakishly beautiful. Blame it all, your crappy job, and your crappy apartment, your lack of money, everything… on symmetry.

Hi * waves*. So it’s been quiet around here lately. And it’s not because I don’t have anything to write about (in fact, I have a great deal to write about); it’s just that I haven’t had time to write. My life has been kind of hectic as of late.

My dad had a stroke about a week ago. I was going to write this long, weeping entry about it, but then changed my mind. I started writing it and it brought up all these feelings that are still very fresh in my mind. Plus, I think the post would have been too personal. Although I pride myself on being very open on this blog, there are some things I just don’t feel comfortable talking about… even to you, dear reader. So that is that. I am fine, my dad is still alive and I can only hope for the best.

So yeah, that is pretty much what has been going on lately. I’ve been trying to work and visit my dad as much as possible and as you can imagine, I am extremely exhausted. All those other times I complained about being tired were bullshit. That was very minor sleep deprivation compared to what I have experienced in the last weeks. I spent the entire weekend just sleeping. I was so tried. And instead of having my usual “Sucker Free Sunday” (I spend my Sunday in my bed, in my room, with my cellphone off and my TV on, just vegging out), I had a “Sucker Free Weekend.” I didn’t want to be bothered with anyone or anything. I just chilled in my room, sleeping, watching TV and enjoying every minute of it. It was great.

I’ve also come to a realization about these past events (as usual). Needless to say, I’ve had an interesting couple of weeks. I’ve tried very hard to… how would you say… keep my mind off things. As all of you already know, I have a vivid imagination. I can take something that has happened, or something someone has said and go all the way home with what I think should, could, or would happen, in varying shades of reality, and in varying collections of time and space (What can I say, it’s a gift). So it’s really easy for me to imagine the worst, then go beyond that and imagine the worst still. Usually I try to keep myself from delving into the murky waters of fantasy as I tend to become a turtle in its shell or an Ostrich with its head in the sand. That is not good and has contributed to my notorious late-blooming. But this time I think I deserve a little siesta from reality. Not just because the situation with my dad sucks beyond belief, but also to save my sanity. Like I need to have a “Sucker Free Weekend,” I need a “Reality Free Mental Vacation.” I need a flippin’ break or I’ll go completely mad with all these decisions and responsibilities that are overwhelming me.

And the funny thing about all this is, despite my Dad not being the best father in the world… despite the drugs, and the domestic abuse, and the disappearing for years. I still love the bastard. He is a manipulative, tragically selfish man, but that didn’t stop me from crying when he had to call me from the hospital himself, barely able to speak, to tell me he had had a stroke.

I’m sick of life being all sacrifice. When do we get our fucking reward?

Hi *waves*. So I’m sitting here with my faux wedding rings on, trying to get an entry in before my Ambien starts to kick in, and it got me thinking about marriage and what role that plays in my life.

I’ve never thought of myself as marriage material. Considering the fact that my mother has had three failed marriages and I have a very slight almost non-existent chance of having a baby, I really don’t have much to bring to the table as far as a man is concerned. Also considering the fact that I can cook, but don’t, can clean, but only if a gun is to my head, and have a problem acquiescing to authority, I just really shouldn’t get married or even think about the subject… yet I do. Deep down, I want the husband and the house and the kids. I want happiness and sex from someone who is obligated to put out by law. Yeah, I want all that and it pisses me the fuck off.

See, I am a big fan of logic. Logic is our friend. It tells us when we are being stupid. It reminds us of the natural order of things. And when we try to fuck that up with our selfish wants, logic slaps us on the ass and promptly drags us back to reality. Seeing as I have a tendency to loose myself in fantasy, I need a smack on the cheeks every once in a while to let me know that I am tripping. And I thank logic for providing that service. Really… I do. So why is it that logic has not stepped in, given me a swift and tart whack on the booty and said, “No, Tiffany. Marriage is not for you. Stop thinking about it; stop talking about it. That will never be apart of your life. You are one of the freaky people.” I think logic may have abandoned me or worse, been over taken by my biological clock which longs for love and companionship *shivers with disgust*.

All this is being dredged up because in the last two years, I’ve been really noticing man and quite frankly, getting crushes on them. I am not the crushing type. Two years ago I wasn’t the least bit interested in what a man thought of me. I was just myself, destined to spend my life as a widely talented yet tragically stunted spinster under the thumb of her overbearing mother. And the sad thing is, I was okay with that. I’d resigned myself to that destiny. Of course I was in the turbulent throws of a vicious depression that danced thoughts of suicide in my head, but still, how pathetic. I know now that my life isn’t going to end up like that. I’ll be damned if I let it, but I don’t think my new path is going to fare any better and this crush thing is getting out of control. Literally.

I don’t have the social nor domestic skills to be in a relationship with anyone. And for a minute there, I breathed a sigh of relief. When all my friends were getting into relationships and experiencing sex and love, I was left behind, being that notoriously late bloomer that I am. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was experiencing this except me. Did I wonder why? Sure I did, but I felt blessed and also had a chance to witnessed what happens after the love fades and your boyfriend has found himself a new bitch. Yeah, I was the shoulder that everyone cried on, and I could be that because I didn’t have a date, so I had plenty of free time.

I think I want that bliss and fulfillment followed by languishing pain and heartbreak. I want the life experience, not because I’m jealous of those who had it, but for the simple fact that it is a life experience. And if I am going to try and navigate this thing called life… I need to jump right in and do it all. Leave no stone unturned. Leave no life experience unlived. Leave no relationship unloved.

Hi *waves*. I need a new fucking cell phone. The battery on mine has the life span of a goddamned fruit fly. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to fork over 60 bucks to get a new battery for this piece of shit. I hate the phone anyway and it was free! Why would I pay 60 dollars to replace a battery on a phone that was free? What would they want next, my first-born child? Fuck that shit. I’ll just have to bite the bullet and get new shit. I want a camera phone anyway.

So it’s what, Five days into 2006? I hate the New Year. I like New Year’s Eve and crap, but that first week of January just kicks my ass. I swear this has been the longest, most grueling week of my entire life. I just want to roll up in the fetal position and die until Friday at 5pm. Then I would magically rise from the dead (like Jesus), refreshed and renewed and ready for a blissful, fun filled weekend. Dude, if I was “the second coming”, I’d be too much rock for one hand. I’d totally abuse my “god status”, but who gives a fuck. There be no war or hunger. Just sex, drugs and rock and roll, baby… and hip-hop. I can’t dis my peeps, ya heard.

Yes, this is “selfish Tiffany” talking right now. I’ve been feeling really “fuck the world” lately. Which is weird cause what’s the fucking point of taking anti-depressants if they just make you a moody bitter bitch? As I recall, it’s supposed to do the exact opposite. Pharmaceutical companies lie… LIE I say!

Anyway yeah, if you haven’t noticed I’m a bit on edge. Probably because of weaning myself back on the Zoloft but also because another year has passed and I am, if not more, pathetic than I was the year before. I’m exceptional at being average and that pisses me off so freaking bad. I have no motivation. I get it from my mother. I am being rather anal about cleaning though, which is always a good thing. I cleaned my room. Yes, it’s true. I actually got off my lazy ass and cleaned my room. Amazing, I know. I also washed dishes without my parental unit yelling at me to do so. I know… hell is freezing over as we speak. But I see it this way; I work 40 hours a week to help keep all of us in the lifestyle to which we have become accustomed, so I don’t see why she can't wash a fucking dish from time to time. But yes, to prove my point and not go off on some random tangent, I do get little bursts of motivation. They are short and rarely sweet, but they do occur. I guess I’m not a completely lost cause.

Speaking of lifestyles to which one wishes to become accustomed. I’ve decided to be on the look out for a sugar daddy. A nice older gentleman to pay my bills and shower me with affection for barely legal, if not completely illegal sexual favors. See, I think I would be really good at being a trophy girlfriend. I know how to spend ridiculous amounts of money on useless shit I don’t need and I’m not afraid to “sing for my supper”, so to speak. I gotta earn that paper after all. You know, keep it real and shit.

Anyway, I’m going to leave it at that as I sense that I am frightening you, dear reader. Please, don’t be scared. Tiffany is okay. She just needs to steal a Valium… or two for her mother’s “candy store”. I’m so turning into a junkie, but I’m high class about it. No street drugs for this spoiled bitch. Only the prescription shit.

Yeah… I need to go. See you peeps on the flipside. Peace, Love and blessed it be.