SHEdefining

“Under my shirt, have to amass
Sling the tainted words” Wolf in the Breast - The Cocteau Twins

“Nipple“.

That word is such a creepy turn off to someone like me. Me, the female that has no intention of reproducing (at least not until my Master Satan returns from the underworld with his holy plan - oh wait, I am Satan*).

I realize that long ago when anatomical monikers were being decided upon, women were mostly relegated to “baby factory” status only, but in times where women are not just vessels for screaming, bald brats, it would seem appropriate to “she” define some things.

I’d like to start with “nipples”. Men have them too, but they’re apparently for decoration only (Linen’s and Things doesn’t carry much of a selection) or for shaving off when LSD points you in the wrong direction. At my request, my mom felt up her male Chihuahua “T.T.” in search of nipples, but alas he is without. Go figure. My cat Scoob dentally objected to my groping him, but according to a few web sites, all cats have nipples regardless of machismo.

For the females that choose not to or can’t have children, nipples are still functional, though only in the sexual sense. I don’t know if men are aware of this, but sometimes stimulating this area alone can bring your girlness to orgasm. So even if you’re not a “breast man”, one should still delicately massage the berries if one is at all considerate (trust me, some aren’t).

I’m not really into the cutesy names for body parts; “nips”, “ninnies”, “nippers”, “headlights”, and such aren’t always fitting or suitable for some personality types. I know there are a bazillion slang words to describe breasts and their elements, but none really appeal to me, especially when engaging in the act of sexual expression. I totally can’t get it up if thinking about babies, and hearing my peaks called a food source can completely dry a She up. Barring cannibal attacks, I’ve never envisioned mine ending up on anyone’s menu, so a name unassociated with infantile cuisine would be preferable.

“Areola” is no better than “Nipple” either, as it sounds too close to “Aioli” (again food) or the font "Arial", which I always use in this blog.

I think in sexual situations, this area should now be called a “Vey” (rhymes with “lay”) or “Veys”. It’s short, to the point (heh), and when you need to direct someone’s attention there, you can just say “Oy Vey”.

*I have references.

Currently listening:
Twin Peaks (Season One TV Soundtrack)
Release date: 1990-08-31

Best Text This Week

"Emily, Kristine, Adri, and the lesbians await your arrival" - Received from my friend Maxwell.

Still doing reposts. This one I pulled out in honor of Annie Rhiannon's post
The Sad Truth of it All:

Needle and the Damage Done 3/19/08

Nope, it’s not about the infamous Neil Young song.

I had some blood taken a couple of weeks ago and I went in for the results this afternoon.

I hate needles, I hate blood, and I especially HATE pain of any kind. I know some people get off on pain, but I definitely don’t ride that bus. Tickle? Yes. Slap? Hell no! I’ll take some tenderness with a drop of gentility, thank you very much.

OK, the phlebotomist who had previously removed my life flow was awesome. Mosquitoes are more invasive, so kudos to her! Unfortunately, the results revealed several vitamin deficiencies and I had to get an IV of what is called a "Meyer’s Cocktail". Cocktail? Yes. IV? Oooooh nooooo.

I was a little more than perplexed, as the nurse who was going to stick me had an undecipherable, deep southern accent and she could not stop hacking. One false cough during her quest for a vein could land me the lead story on tonight’s local news - "Distraught IV victim beheads pregnant nurse with her IPOD but SAVED THE BABY! See how she did it at 11!"

I would have a better chance at discovering true love at a KKK rally than this woman did at finding a vein. I didn’t cry but my top lip disappeared as I started to tell her, through my oh so clenched teeth, that I needed the smallest needle they have. SIZE DOES MATTER in this case. She assured me this was the smallest and proceeded to stab at me with the finesse of a three year old making mud pies.

"Weelllll," she drawled, "lets try the hand." OMFG I’m trapped in "Hellraiser Part DUH: The Hick’s Revenge"!!! YOUCH!!! It was in - we thought.

I sat back and got lost in Damian Kulash’s voice until something felt weird.

"Hey, should my hand be all cold and sting-y and making me feel the need to chop it off?" I yelled.

A vehement wall of "No’s" shot back as some other nurses rushed over to stop the beginning of what looked like a very unhappy hand about to give birth. The needle wasn’t in right and was shooting fluids under my skin and they had nowhere to go so they just sat around stinging and swelling until further notice.

New nurse said she couldn’t understand why OLD nurse didn’t use the smaller needle. I then requested a pen so I could begin my suicide note.

She started over on the other arm, THIS time with a children’s needle (insert every expletive known here).

It was in and she ordered me not to move, as if THAT’S what happened. I didn’t move, as hard as that is when one is listening to "Oxford Comma", instead, I mentally plotted to relocate to Austria. It just seemed like the thing to do.

The physical pain was over, finally, and I would take it any day over the mental pain you get with heartache and loss. Luckily, I’m not dealing with anything like that right now and I’ll try to remember that next week when I have to go back for the next one. UGH!

Currently listening : Oh No By OK Go Release date: 30 August, 2005

Play Her Isms

I was recently contacted by a local university in regards to a student being investigated for plagiarism.

Apparently, they do a random web sweep of certain phrasings and found my blog came up. I can’t wait to find out who it is (I have my suspicions), but I’m not sure how I feel about ruining someone’s academic life.

I will refrain from posting anything new until this is resolved, but hate to leave a gap (who doesn’t?) so will gently pluck from the archives here and there.

(repost)

I'm Not Human, I'm Just Stuck in One, Pt. 2

I was just having a chat with my friend Candy about Marlon Brando in that scene in "Last Tango in Paris" where he's shoving butter up that woman's ass.

Who thought that one up? Is/was this a common thing, butter-packing? Do you think it inspired others to squish some "Land O' Lakes" between the cakes?

Imagine the director, Bertolucci, telling Brando "Ok, the butter…you put uppa her ass, no?"

Brando was probably like "But then what do we put up mine, paté ? Frozen, or fresh? I need to know how to project the texture - it's a Stanislovski thing."

I do wonder how one mentally prepares for a day of filming that requires a straight face while implementing a stick of butter into someone else's rectal area. Or for that matter, being on the receiving end of the dairy product. Was there like 20 takes with a big cooler of fresh butter from craft services at hand? Can you tell the difference if they use margarine instead?

Think of the conversations between the stand-ins while the lighting is being tested for this shot, or better yet, imagine the actress, after the scene, deciding the best route of removal. Let it melt or is it latex glove snapping time?

Were there other items that Bertolucci first opted for butt plugging, but found they didn't suit the scene? What was the deciding factor that butter was the clincher?

I used to play with this drummer who let me have a go on his kit whenever we took a break at practice, that is, until he told me his girlfriend would shove his drumsticks up his ass whenever they had sex. I can still hear the clicking sounds of the sticks when they fell from my very sorry hands to the unsuspecting floor below (that floor never did forgive me). I scrubbed like a surgeon about to crack open a lawyer after that tidbit of information (there is a limit to how well informed I want to be). It certainly gave new meaning to the term "rim shot", if nothing else.

I guess I'm boring vanilla, since I'm pretty much an "exit only" person when it comes to the workings of my butt, though I don't begrudge those that get hopped up on the old "reach around", I guess. Your thing is your thing.

How does one broach the subject these days? Especially if butter is the insertion of choice. Do you just stop off at the fridge on the way to the bedroom, point and raise your eyebrows? Or do you discuss it beforehand, over dinner when the bread arrives?


Currently listening:
I Should Coco
By Supergrass
Release date: 1995-07-18

Word to Your Mummy

“I think your mummy is pretty hot” Ur Mummy - Niyi

She unloaded the giant jar of loose change (as opposed to "tight" change) onto the horrified State Farm Insurance agent’s desk, all $170.00 worth. The agent glanced my way as if I was going to reveal that this was indeed a joke, but I was existentially blank aside from my left hand fiddling with the collar of my faux leopard coat.

They needed time to count it, so we went to the bathroom and each dropped a hit of LSD.

Next to the bathroom was an arcade that upon entering we were promptly thrown out of for not having any ID during school hours. We were 19 and 20 respectively, and didn’t think we’d need them since we had taken the subway, so we loitered elsewhere until it was time to collect our receipt of payment from the clenched teeth on legs back at State Farm.

The acid kicked in when we arrived at the first museum. We didn’t stay long as I couldn’t take seeing those paintings trapped in frames; they just looked too painfully boxed in and my empathy was bringing on an attack of claustrophobia.

We went to a café for a drink and as we made our way to a table, she gasped behind me. I stopped without turning around and with the widest of eyes asked what was wrong.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” She said, “For a second there, I thought I had no clothes on!”

I immediately shrieked and clasped my arms to my chest causing her then to ask me of my issue. “I just figured that if you didn’t have anything on, then neither would I” I snorted. She started to giggle too, and then we quickly stopped in suspicion of ourselves and everyone around us.

The Museum of Natural History was perfect for the next eyeful; incredibly bad taxidermy, people in long lines to see a very shiny rock, and MUMMIES! Dead encased in glass, demanding complete quiet or hushed tones. Each see through, resting place had a marker on it explaining whether a male or female resided there, where it was found, and how old it possibly was.

We and a vast group of others were encircling the one that was an unidentified female who was about 4 feet tall, and had given birth three times. Not a word was uttered as people pondered whatever it is one processes when looking at a rotted corpse from another era altogether, or any corpse for that matter.

“Someone FUCKED that!” I yelled, breaking the silence with a Ball Peen hammer.

Sounds of disgust and even the beginning chokes of vomiting were heard as hard stares focused on me and my pointed finger. Realizing I said that out loud backed me right into a fit of uncontrollable cackling. She was already on the floor crying the best kind of cry and trying to express her disbelief that I actually said that, when I suggested we dash in case I really upset someone.

As we took our exit, I looked over my shoulder at the unidentified female and hoped that she laughed that hard at least once in her short time outside the glass.

Currently listening:
Taking Drugs to Make Music to Take Drugs To
By Spacemen 3
Release date: 2003-09-23

The Sound

“Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear” Run - Snow Patrol

A bloated moon was trying to con its way into my room early Saturday morning, as if it felt the need to witness my insomnia once again.

My eyelids finally weighed in over my thoughts and I do believe I drifted off for approximately fifteen minutes, or maybe a lifetime, depending on your perception. It was the “wee” hours, when most tongues are collectively engaged in something far more enjoyable than verbiage, or they have signed on for snoring and swallowing detail only, so it was relatively quiet.

These January nights allow for open windows and where I live in Florida is quite flat so noise of any kind carries through screens without effort. The soft rustling of eyelashes brushing pillow every time I blinked was the only recognized layer over the silence, until I heard the sound.

That sound. Many have heard it and for some, it was the last thing audible. The unforgiving, callous sound of taking. The sound that took everything from me once, so I knew what came next.

5:17 A.M. Ten minutes passed before I heard the sirens. No helicopters.

That evening, on my way to pick up my friends, I saw the herd of mourners already placing floral markers in the dark.

My return trip was encased in fog that even werewolves would stay out of (I wonder if they drive?). It was nearly 24 hours later.

I found the story on the internet. The sound took three, one with the same first name as mine who was taken from me.

The name immediately triggers thoughts about those eyes that used to see the real me without expectations - they see for someone else now. The heart that symbolically belonged to me (even though I didn’t deserve it) saved yet another. All in all, what was taken from me was given to 6 others.

I take that fact and cover my ears with it, but I can still hear the sound.

Currently listening:
Final Straw
By Snow Patrol
Release date: 2004-03-30

My Middle Beast Solution

(Please note the following is sarcastic. The author does not support occupations or invasions of any kind.)

“Bomb, bomb, bomb us back together
A new way into a lost answer” The Answer - Bloc Party

I say we solve this Middle East conflict in true American form.

Let’s pull an “Iraq” on Cuba and make it the new Israel! (Jew-ba?)



Why the fuck not? It makes perfect sense to me. It would be easy to do now that Castro is becoming all but obsolete, and I think we may actually get greeted with flowers this time (or at least a good sandwich). What’s another bearded led regime to us ay? It’s a perfect solution.

All Cubans will be absorbed into the U.S. boosting baseball to another level, and cutting down on raft deaths. They can just do a massive house swap with all the Jews in South Florida, who can then set things up for the Israelis to arrive.

I know there are religious based land issues, but if a mountain can be brought to Mohammed, then surely we can uproot a few sacred sites and transplant them “double wide” style for a couple of Seths and Rachels, no?

Now I know the weather would take some adjusting to, but hey, hurricane season is far more survivable than suicide bomber season. One other perk too, is if anyone starts feeling nostalgic about the old Israel, they can go picnic down in Guantanamo Bay and get screamed at by the Arabs imprisoned by the U.S. One afternoon full of “Death to Israel”s and that homesickness will float seamlessly away. Aaaaaahhhhhh.

There’s already a built-in cigar industry waiting for them, not to mention a tourist bonanza just waiting to happen (Disney on the Mount? Oy-Cot Center?).

I realize there are downsides. Making cigars legal will rapidly stink up the U.S., and when the Cubans find out they don’t have free health care here, they might get a bit pissy, but we need to focus on the positive. Particularly the saving of the billions of dollars that we send to both sides of this insanity every year. Maybe WE could have healthcare with that? Or you know, maybe some folks at the Pine Ridge Reservation could get some running water with that money - I’m just sayin’.

If we don’t do something soon, they may blow us all to Antarctica. I’m subject to chapped lips as it is and if I’m blown to bits, it’s much harder to apply the Burt’s Bees, ya dig?



Currently listening:
Tinderbox
By Siouxsie and the Banshees
Release date: 1990-10-25