Benedetto, Charlotte

Three Homeless Men of Baltimore, Who Loved Me

2012-01-19T13:50:00.000-08:00

Three Homeless Men of Baltimore, Who Loved Me

There are some pretty nice sunny days in early spring in Baltimore. I was walking home from MICA along Mount Royal Avenue smoking a cigarette (I don't anymore, but I occasionally used to smoke.) A homeless guy fell in beside me and asked for a cigarette which I gave him. He was a fiftyish black dude, no stink, a totally normal wino type brother.

I was feeling wacky, like I had a piece of springtime up my ass or something. . . so I did something silly. I sat on a parking truncheon and crossed my arms and legs, and made like a weird “smoky-face” scrunching up my mug like I was a real card, while smoking my cigarette. Then the homeless guy also did the same. (Whoa! He gets me!) As it turned out we were walking the same way so we both did weird shit like shaking the street signs or dancing for one another, pulling a buffalo stance, etc, making jokes like we were old friends as we went along. He would freestyle a bit and sing little rhymes.

My homeless man friend ran up to a bread truck with oversized pictures of bread and cakes and doughnuts and whatnot, and pretended to eat the giant starchy loaves and treats. “Oww! Ma teef!” he cried out and curled his lips over his white teeth as if he only had gums. We walked on towards the BP station at the corner of St. Paul and Mt. Royal. I got money from the ATM and the homeless guy bought a candy bar. We went out into the sun, and he was munching-- actually chewing up the candy bar like a starved person. It was a plain Hershey's bar.

He opened the candy, and it sweated on his naked hand, which was quite dirty, and asked if I wanted “A skwayuh oh two,”

“Mmmmm. . .okay!” I said. He put one hand on my chin, and using the other hand, popped it right in my mouth and we smiled at each other, making eye contact the entire time. I had to go left on Guilford to get home and he was going right. He hugged me and told me he loved me and that I was “orright.”

“You too,” I said noncommittally. He smelled like malt liquor. It was only when I got home that I realised that I definitely ate some homeless man's fecal matter that day, and it really didn't bother me.

2.

I used to work a weekend only job at a used bookstore in Federal Hill. I had to be there at 9am or something on a Saturday AND a Sunday, which I assure you was a real struggle. I was always fucking exhausted or hung over so I would constantly close the shop and go get food and eat it to cure myself of my whininess. At that time I really had a weird love for that neighborhood and I would roam around poking at the alleys and whatnot, even when I wasn't working that day. So the homeless men noticed me and I noticed them, and once I bought a bunch of wooden cigar boxes from a particular one who always had a fucked up leg.

After work I would piss away all the money I made every single week at Cross Street Market buying gourmet chops and stuff and the reduced floral arrangements and boxes of Naron candy for myself (I would share it with my boyfriend, but yes, I was crazy). I used to ride my bike with these things all the way across town to the Copycat Building, too.

One day I was riding back from that job when I saw these two homeless men. One was the guy with the fucked up leg whom I always saw. The two homeless dudes admired me as I rode by and said something about my having flowers. For some reason I had to stop my bike again about a block down and they ended up passing me on foot.

The guy who loved me was like a tattooed sailor, or a West Virginia type of toughie. . . spiderweb tattoo on his elbow, blue tracings of all his exotic trashy lifetimes all over his body. with strawberry blonde hair, and a white-gold beard. His eyes were like blue laser. Hot, angry, watery. He had seen some shit. He looked like he might actually have the right to call it "'Nam."

“Hay gurl, you sure are real pretty.” he said. I extended, and shook his hand over my bike. He did this weird thing where he held my hand and sort of “wanked” my forearm with his other hand, sliding his fist up and down over my wrist and forearm, which was weird, but his skin was admittedly, pretty cool to look at up close. It was like an india ink drawing on a creased leather handbag.

“You remind me so much of my old wife, she's dead now.” That part of the sentence was quiet and resigned, and he seemed disappointed to be remembering it, again. Suddenly, he was just a burning pair of blue, burning, burning blue eyes, in this woolly fog of gold and white hair and eyebrows and beard. Like a skinny santa, you could hardly see anything of his pink, granular, granite face.

“If I ever get my shit together I'm'a come and marry you girl, will you be my wife?” I think I probably smiled like 'maybe,' and laughed, but it was so sad, I was soul-freaked. I gave him a hug and rode away on my bike. When I got home I cried, and cried. I cried so hard for him. Because that guy will probably never get his shit together. I will never be his girl. His friend lost hisn entire leg later that summer. I never saw him after that. God I hope, I just hope he's on a boat somewhere but I know that is just to make me feel better. He is dead. He is probably dead now.

3.

There was only one place I liked going to the ATM after 10pm in my neighborhood, once I moved to the west side, and that was the 24 hour Sunoco. It was of course where all the other reprobates and drunks and vulnerable idiots who need drug money would go after 10pm to use the ATM.

One day I went in there and I guess I had just gotten paid. I got my money out from the ATM, and I decided to get the crack-food they sell at Sunoco. I would typically eat a particular brand of crack-food in a ritualistic manner.

The Sunoco was like a shack with a bulletproof cage inside it. The ATM and a bare, heated area were outside the cage, and that's where the customers waited. The coolers, ice cream freezer, bags of snacks, blunt wrappers, fake pot, crack pipes and cigarettes, all the things you can buy, were INSIDE the cage. So one or two teenage Indian dudes from suburban Maryland would be hanging out inside this bulletproof box, and you'd speak to them through the speaker and tell them what you wanted.

It was always busy. I'd have 100 or 200 bucks on me and I'd be the only woman and definitely the only white person in this crowded little area between the door of the gas station, and this bulletproof cage. I got in line and I was fine, I'm not saying I was nervous, a lot of street thugs are relatively courtly, but I was aware of my vulnerabilities. I was pretty crazy at this time, and carried a piece of wood carved to the shape of a gun in my outer pocket, so the swing of my coat and the bulge in it would suggest I was armed.

A homeless guy came in. He was leaning in everyone's face, stumbling, weaving, winding around us, talking in Spanish. . . and waves of winy odor poured off him. He had a torn white tee shirt and white painter's pants on, contractor wear, and that's all, in like 34 degree weather. He was Hispanic, and he was like, 4 foot 11. He had a diagonal scar across his entire fucking face, which was brown, creased, leathery, and looked like a troll doll crossed with a narcoterrorist. So as soon as he comes in, everyone who was already in the place, we're all like family now. Because this guy is obviously big trouble.

I get to almost the front of the line. I am wearing a WWI Air Force Medic's Coat and a fur hat, and I am a small white woman squeezed in between phalanxes of huge, puffy, quilted black down jackets worn by enormous black men. Homeless guy cutting in and out of line. Looks are exchanged between everyone, as homeless guy is now saying something about “heese kniyeeffe” to someone, to one of the enormous black men with a pillowy jacket that makes him size of a fridge. Someone gives him their change, and homeless man drops some of it.

It's now my turn in line-- I get my crack. It's a Mountain Dew, Utz cheez curls, and probably a Snickers ice cream bar. I go to walk out and as soon as I do, I feel the big, puffy-coated black men relax a bit and suddenly get chattier-- once I've gone, there's no chance there will be white lady trouble.

My hand is on the door. But wait! The Hispanic homeless guy has stopped me. He blocks me with his body, very very close to me, he asks for my change, and I give it to him: In a flash, he leans in, he's on me. His face just a few millimeters from my face, I see the flecks of white paint clotting his hair, his eyebrows, tiny white splats on his skin it rushes up right up to my face!

The homeless man kisses me full on the mouth, and then gently on the neck, catching, and fouling, some of my hair in his winy saliva. I smell his fetid, pronouncedly bad saliva on my lips.
“Ay, ay,” he breathes right into my mouth and face. We are looking into each other's eyes. His breath is like a Newport pickled in rubbing alcohol. He tucks my hair behind my ear! “Ay luhve you.” Then his hand is flat on my chest, fingers touching my neck.

Time stands still. He deeply, deeply loves me, and I feel it, I feel something pressing on me, emanating from his eyes, and it's brass bands sugar skulls, incredibly blue skies, dry golden farms wetted only by a gash of blood, donkeys loaded with purple onions, bars of gold, white lace, thundering horses-- pressing on me in that moment. It's like an entire love affair between me and that homeless man, pressing on me. I am suddenly thrilled with fear. I am very confident, but so afraid of what is he going to do next?

The well-dressed Indian boys behind the counter have gone gray, and are wide-eyed. His hand is on my collarbone, he is mumbling. All the black men in puffy jackets have stopped chatting. “Yo,” one of them says, breaking the spell. “You aight?” one of the jackets asks me. “Yeah I'm aight.” I squeeze the homeless man's hand and lower it, in order to break away from him. I smile at him, walk out and trot home.

I put the Snickers bar on the windowsill to refreeze. I wash my face and brush my teeth. His spit is in my hair so I try to rinse it out, but it sticks, giving me fleeting nuances of shit-spit and wine and cigarettes, until I shampoo it out later that night.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something syrupy

2009-08-06T23:53:00.000-07:00

Ideally I would like myself on a gold brick patio, the sun's rays are oblique, there's a great deal of hooker's green vegetation. However just to the west of the paddock, a level up from the underground porch, every morning you should see me feeing several dozen black cats a shimmery stinky silver fish mash. The cats eat several of them from one large silver flat bowl, and from above it looks like black daisies, one two three four. With fat black gatos as petals. The un-spayed and un-neutered cats disappear into the forest and commence to cat business.

After feeding the cats and breakfast I'd prefer to spend the first part of every day swimming in a pure clear mountain lake, walking barefoot in the forest, doing yoga, smearing myself with rare oils (or being smeared), fishing half naked on a sunny rock, smoking Bob-Marley sized spliffs, doing crochet in a shady hammock, having very slow and almost nonsexual sex, collecting rare botanical samples, cliff-diving into water and sunbathing nude.

Then it's sushi for lunch. No too-big slabs of rockfish or funny chewy squids thanks, and there are valuable phytonutrients to be had in the yellow oshinko roll. After lunch it's more Kona coffee or white tea with pomegranate, then wrestling and running around lightly clad with my snarling pack of killer dogs. Once the mutts are panting in the shade and well watered, I'm putting on my boots and helmet and tacking up a capable little pony. For a little rowdy fun I might go chasing trespassers to my watering hole on horseback with a whip, or just galloping around my vast property, visiting the various projects I have set up-- the still, the fishery, the gardens, the secret altar to Ishtar, the black-cat grotto, the boobie traps.

Stick around for the rest of the daydream, I'm planning a barbecue at my secluded estate in the hills of central Mexico. My Aztec maids have boiled 100 eggs, there is brown rice scented with the umami of the gods, an entire fatted calf sizzles poolside in a grill smoker the size of a VW. The larder tables are crowded with nine kinds of squash. Butter loaded with vitamin A is embossed with the house crest-- a gothic arch and initial C-- it bobs, cooling sweetly in an ice vat. My sharp-witted chefs will prepare enough guacamole to kill a man, but I insist you sample the faux-caine first before you go. I'm going to slaughter a Guinea fowl, and you can keep the feathers, they'll look great on your hat later when we're all tripping on the ayahuasca I've got steeping in the smokehouse. Look, here comes Juan Concepcion, my spiritual advisor up the path now.

I'm just a powerful and irresistible money love attention hatred outrage and neon colors magnet. I attract curios, antiques, interesting trash, junk objet d'art and neat clothes like a semi-solid supercooled electromagnetic superconductor pulls in the electrons. I'm like a junkyard for poetic obscurity. I have a hard exoskeleton of vintage jewelry and little girl's barrettes. I apply a thin sheen of beet-juice derived gel to my hairdo to secure everything, and I live approximately 27 days inside a cocoon of basic black and a pile of antiques cemented together.

Everyone deals with stress differently

2009-03-18T16:56:00.000-07:00

You might go and buy cigarettes, or leave dogshit on the sidewalk, or put Guinness in your opaque SIGG, or drive fast. I eat a whole bag of Wavy Lays instead of lunch.

500 calories
36 g of fat (out of a recommended minimum of 40g)
44% my RDA of Potassium
20% of the day's carbs
4 g of fiber (16%)
80% of my daily allotment of vitamin E
24% of niacin (Scientology's favorite nutrient) and 24% of good ol' B6
16% of phosphorus & magnesium (for breast-milk, strong bones)
8% Iron, thiamin
40% of the day's sunny sunny vitamin C

Then I pound a ruby-red grapefruit to wash away the fattie shame and scarlet sin of the Utz whore of Baltimore. It's blooming organic acid; enjoying a cool sunset at the nature preserve, observed after roasting in the salty sun all day somewhere cheap and tawdry like Six Flags.

I could do a lot worse I guess. Check out this Whopper with Cheese:
Calories 780
Calories From Fat 423
Total Fat 47g (72%)
Saturated Fat 17g (85%)
Cholesterol 105mg (35%)
Sodium 1390mg (58%)
Total Carbohydrate 55g (18%)
Dietary Fiber 4g (16%)
Sugars 9g
Protein 34g
Vitamin A 0% - Vitamin C 25% - Calcium 3% - Iron 167%

loose noops

2008-03-20T14:52:00.000-07:00

"Ya'll I got them loose noops over heah, loose ones."

"Loose ones, loose noops."

"How you doin baby?"

"Hey how you doin."

"Loose ones. Got them loose ones."

"Looose noooops."

On sunny weekdays, there is an older man in a motor chair. He gets doped up or something, and he sits in the sunshine, in burgundy polyester pants, saying, over and over:

"Lucifer, lucifer. LOOSEY fuhh, loosey FUH. Lucifer-ahh-lucifer." He has a crony a guy in brown, who sells Xanax for 5-8 bucks each. In front of the pawn shop, a skinny white woman has a lot of gold jewelry, her eyes won't stay open, but her pale paw holds a skinny cigarette. She seems to be falling down, sort of, but her body won't quite tipple over. It just stumbles back and rotates around without her feet moving, in a sluggish radius.

Another block up is the bum who seems to have less body every time you see him-- first he has no feet, then no legs, finally, on today's visit, his torso ends in a stump, with a knot tied in his jeans. I give him a quarter, and when I look up to smile at him, I see he is wearing a knit cap that reads, in olde inglish script, "I GET MONEY," with a halo embroidered in gold around the "I." After I give him a quarter, immediately a man in an apron, pushing a cart loaded with spray bottles and papertowels asks me, "Can I get a dollar?"
"No. You got a job," I reply,
"So?" he smiles,
"And you got legs," I say, and I laugh. I walk away. They don't laugh at this.

I go and get sushi, against my better judgment. The last time I got sushi in the ghetto in the middle of the week, it wasn't so fresh, and the rice was a little dry-- it did something to the inside of my mouth that made the entire day insipid. I decide I'll go light on the sashimi. When I get home, and I pop a piece in my mouth, it is so fresh, it's like a wet flower in my mouth. It's like the smell of a clean empty beach on a slightly cold day. It's like a rainbow.

The cat enters and puts her paws on my knee-- her eyes are superbright, crinkly gold, smoothed, like the gilding on an 18th century chair. When I give her a piece of salmon, she is my best friend.

Some Wild Predictions, disincluding interference by an alien race

2008-01-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

1. Google will become self-aware. Eventually there will be information-collecting devices in our food that transmit our internal information. There will be transmitters and devices in our eyeballs recording and indexing everything we see. There will be bird-like things that fly about simply recording information and this is sent wirelessly to a network of sorters. There will be androids that look human but are actually gathering information, “google-bots.”

2. People will fuck robots, have relationships with robots, and it will be as normal as having a car. Sometimes people will hide the fact that their spouse is actually a robot. Robots will have rights. People will have babies without sex. People will have babies with robots. People will have robot babies and sexy baby robots. Everything in culture will push towards extremes of super-sexuality-asexuality. The underclass will continue to breed and fuel the armed forces. The stupids and lumpen-underclass will continue to get knocked up and they will continue to change trash bags forever. That is, until the overclass decides we have to exterminate them, which they will do within a new framework of morality that even the underclass will support due to skillful propaganda manipulation.

3. Radical Christians will take over a section of the current United States and ethnically cleanse this section either by putting people into camps or by expulsion of unwanted groups. This will include people like lifelong bartenders. pot heads, tattooed people, black criminals and girls who had abortions. My money’s on that swath that runs eastward from Utah, south of Minneapolis to Cleveland or so. You’ll have a choice of getting gay crying with your new prayer army brethren vs going to das work-camps for starvation and tumors.

4. The rich will begin to flee the planet. Those with the means will export themselves to the bottom of the sea, the moon, biospheres (think a gated community style living) Mars and other space settlements. If you're unaffiliated with a corporate overlord, or don't have the wealth, you will be faced with thirst, infertility and slow death from pollution, radiation, strife from race and water wars; or you'll need to sell yourself into indentured servitude as a servant of the wealthy.

5. The bees, fish, frogs and most rare animals will eventually disappear from the planet. A vast homogeneity of life will spread out. Once common foods such as bananas and Brazil nuts will become a thing of the past. Energy-dependent imported specialties will skyrocket in cost. People will eat weird things because of new water conservation techniques in agriculture. People will pollinate plants one by one, by hand, using illegal immigrants and pollen-smearing paintbrushes. Certain kinds of plants will die out unless preserved in auto-pollination cultivation areas. People will steal water from one another to grow food. People might even eat people.

6. It will become so commonplace to alter one’s body, a backlash will occur with people preserving their natural appearance as a political statement, or by people making use to new technology to make themselves ugly or grotesque on purpose. People will be able to use money to alter and extend the body in unimaginable ways. Implants and bodily add-ons will have fads and fashions like video-games and cell phones do today. There will be temporary gene patches. Where we have implants today we will have completely new limbs tomorrow, and pills that cause us to regrow nonregenerative tissue.

7. Everything in the ocean will start to become scarce and poisonous and a bunch of the underclass will die from this like really far away. Because of this, sneakers and dollar store items will suddenly become really costly. Because of this, our natural urge to collect will become even more devaluated—cults of plastic toys are everywhere now, imagine a cult of plastic straws. Of plastic containers with lids. Of plastic wrappers. People will fixate on the nostalgic, plastic-jammed world of the past.

8. The Japanese are the ones who are manufacturing the simulacra that will replace and make the body superfluous. The 10,000 year old warrior culture, neutered, and combined with gender issues, has created the most serious economy on the planet.

Strong Women, the Bitch, the Diva , and the Onesie

2007-09-02T10:44:00.000-07:00

A woman who will wear anything with the noun “Bitch” legible on her person, as plain as a label--she is to me, no longer a woman to be taken seriously. Bitch written in rhinestones on one’s hat can only mean “lesser specie,” an unpitiable, uneducated, unpalatable, wanker. Someone that can only be regarded with disdain.

To all the “smart bitches” and “mean bitches” and “strong bitches”: You are not “reclaiming” or “empowering” anything. A bitch is a female dog--man’s best friend/servant, beloved, loyal, often bred for violence and known to gobble cat shit as if it were sweetest fudge. It means “female dog” in modern English, and dogs will eat their own sick and come back to a master that kicks them again and again.

There is more to “female empowerment.” It’s not a magic spell that turns words like “bitch” and “slut” and “cunt” into compliments or blessings. These labels make women appear as one-dimensional and silly as some men wish they all were. The classic alternative to the self-applied “Bitch” label is the “Diva” label.

Diva comes from “deva”: destroyer-demon in some mythologies, a heavenly goddess in others. Diva in today’s parlance actually means “Brat,” or “Neurotic,” or “high maintenance.” A girl in a “DIVA” t-shirt is a Phantom of the Opera fan who takes pride in the fact that she is unreasonably demanding. A Diva is the proverbial woman whose pussy is made of gold. Fortunately, there are plenty of males in search of El Dorado Vaginal, or the Diva could not afford her sparkly t-shirt.

The major distinction between the other two groups is that Divas are leaner and fancier, all-round “prettier” than strong women or bitches. They certainly at first glance appear to have more male genitalia and fake-nails per capita then other groups. There are some “gay” and lesbian divas, but “strong women” and “bitches” are more like the lesbian population that is NOT sexualized by masculine fantasy. You know, fat ugly dykes with mullets--the Birkenstock kind of lesbo. That brings us to the most important group—the “Strong Women.”

“She is a strong woman,” there is no more subtle an insult. When called a “strong woman” you may as well be called “a stinking woman.” The world despises a strong woman. A strong woman is a lonely woman, a fat-bitch. “Strong woman” is to “virago” what “Rubenesque” is to “too fat.”

When people praise certain artists for being “strong women,” or when women in the media are described as “strong women,” they really mean “witch” or “dyke.” Or sometimes “loudmouth,” or “fattie.” Strong women are routinely more masculine, perceived as bitchier and fatter than the other kind or woman, which is not defined by any clear nomenclature.

Call me psychotic, big, fat, wide, churlish, jolly—call me aggressive and masculine. But don’t fucking EVER refer to me as a hipster, and if you value your credit rating, don’t call me a “strong woman.” There is no term more ruinous. Even bitch connotes the respect one has for bulldogs. Even diva implies performance and glamour.

“Strong,” are you referring to my odor? My biceptuality? What gives? How come nobody ever says “strong man”? Is it because all men are strong, while some women are not? Doesn’t the phrase “strong man” conjure up balloon biceps and a striped onesie?

Onesies, how barbarous. The onesie on adults should die a thousand deaths. A onesie is what you wear onstage when your character is reincarnated as a nanny in Communist Ukraine. A onesie is what babies wear, are you going to turn up at a club in a Christening gown with a lacy yarmulke next? Fuck your baby clothes.

Onesies, rompers, and frilly little girl dresses are undignified. Too many women dress like babies. Baby-doll dresses, with Empire waists, ribbons, and other princessly confections that forever deny maturity. A frilly sundress with a wide ribbon sash, narrow pointy slippers . . . un-complex. She has only the mystery of a present still wrapped. Not that I have anything against pretty girls, no indeed—I am against pretty girlishness. Pretty childishness.

I am against pretty-girlishness because the full grown woman in a little girl’s outfit is the touchable child. Presentation of the full grown woman as eminently fuckable kid. Ours is a culture obsessed with pedophilia, and rooting out child rapists with comical desperation, but simultaneously fetishizing youth. A coltish tall female in a romper, it simply makes me shudder. Mom on laundry day? Early-blooming adolescent?

This is where radical feminism failed us. It gave us ideology, but no hard technique, no fashion tips, no marriage guides, no recipes for self-respect. Its demands were punitive—stop shaving, give up makeup, have abortions, fuck only women. Instead another few million Western women have been led down the garden path again. Where does it lead? To a pack of women-or-little-girls-or-both in pink fairy gowns, popping pills, puking up their lunches, drawing "prettier" faces onto their face, and talking about how fat they are.

To position myself within this dialectic—I represent the little girl in camouflage pants hanging out and listening to black metal with their boyfriends. If modern feminists are represented as pro-ana girls in lavender “Bitch” hoodies, then I declare myself to be the ideological equivalent of the bully who is waiting to steal their Lip Smackers money. I will eat their lunches with the glee of robust health. I will inherit their ruined city.

The All New 2008 Womazon: It's Quite a Ride.

2007-06-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

The all new, fully modernized, Womazon 2008.

Womazon has become synonymous with trouble-free longevity and a world-class 30 year or 30,000 mile warranty. But now the Womazon has taken on a new. . . dimension. Strength-- and excitement. Economy-- and elegance.

Today’s Womazon features more mature and experienced styling. Authentic body type derived from only our finest hybrid heirloom designs and vintage pin-up advertising. The once-plain Womazon can now be fully customized, ala carte: petite or full size chassis, extra-wide grill, all power accessories, a voluptuous, industrial grade rack or extra large trunk. (Not available on petite or Asian coupe models.)

An inviting, super-soft interior that never loses elasticity—the Womazon is—and stays--a tight ride. Chemical re-engineering eliminates knocks, shocks, schizophrenia, battery misfires, depression, neediness and cling so she’s always a delight to own. Infinite fuse, and encyclopedic all-automatic agricultural, and domestic instinct built right into the frame; power steering, bodypiercing, bi-curious navigation system and GPS available on some models. Under the supertight lifetime coating, Womazon’s classic skeleton ensures live, high-performance babies from easy pregnancies and unbelievably low mileage.

Hundreds of skin tones, customizable tattoos and color customizations available. Seven body styles sized from the family-friendly, wide-hipped crew-cab down to the European stylings of the youthful “Ana-Mia” coupe.

We like to think there’s a Womazon for everyone. A high octane personality, ready to please and free from mental disease, and now with NO food/animal allergies, Womazons are perfect for the outdoors. The all-new 2008 Womazon is a natural at camping, hunting, offroading, and goes great with animals, children and rugged games. The Womazon is as modern as they come, newly independent, and capable of handling up to three small children without commitment ceremony or emotional assistance.

Womazon has the highest intelligence ratings and lowest maintenance in her class. The Womazon will always have the assertive-aggressive temperament, and superior road-handling performance you have come to expect.

*the smaller right breast and Womazon logo are registered trademarks of Womazon Inc. USA.

**Studies show a smaller right breast improves safety and handling in sword, bow, firearm and brat trials. High speed turning radius on right handed Womazons has also been shown in studies to be far better. A $10,000 left hander after market customization charge is available but is not recommended.

***Made in USA of parts from Italy, Britain, North America and Asia.

I can only love monsters.

2007-06-23T19:22:00.000-07:00

"Subject copes very poorly with rejection"

Oh, I love you SO MUCH. I love you SO MUCH. I LOVE you SO much I think about you and sigh. When you call me I will drop anything to talk to you about anything, and I sit with my back arched and the phone pressed against my ear so that not a drop of you can escape. I love you so much it's more than just love for you as a person, it's like I LIKE you in my favorite color, I love you in lacing my best shoes, I love you in my love of the beach, favorite dinner or song or kind of bicycle, I feel you in my thoughts and it is like a feeling, a buoyant uplift of love, you're so perfectly amusing and wonderful and so complex, I love you like one loves the thing that always pleases to think of or see, like a breeze up under the dress, the world SIGHS you into me, it breathes my love for you into me in everything I see. I love you. . . so much. I love you like I've never seen the sun, and you are there holding a Maglite shining it right in my eyes.

You're just . . . so great. And smart and funny, and so brilliant, and critical, and so troubled and intriguing and complicated. I just like you and the things you say and do so much I want you always inside my own bones, inside my own skin. I want you always around me. I just LIKE you and LOVE you SO MUCH. I would follow you anywhere. Treat me any old way. I love you so much I can see past anything you do

But what do you mean you don't love me. . . sure you do. Of course you do. I mean, I love you, of course you love me. I love you enough for both of us. You could learn to love me. No shut up, you're just confused, you do. Stop saying you don't love me. Really? You really don't love me? Well I just can't believe that. You love me, just on some other level, right? No? You really don't?Are you sure? You're sure that you're sure? You don't love me. You don't. love. me.

Well then I HATE you. I Hate you. I hate you. Ihateyou. ihateyou. I HATE YOU. I hate you so much I wish I'm going to tell you everything that is wrong about you and trust me pal, there is plenty. I'm going to use sex against you. I'm going to threaten to be pregnant and then pretend I never did that and then tell you how I WISH I WERE PREGNANT so I could KILL part of YOU because I fucking hate you so. much. I hate you and you are evil and you and your lack of love for me SICKENS me. I will tell everyone about how fucked up and evil you are. I will curse your name to the heavens and don't even think about retaining any mutual friends because the power of my hate-love will tear even your dog's love away from you. I will air out every festering wrong you committed against me. I will tell everyone everything about how you used me, led me on, disrespected me, lied to me, never loved me, called me by another woman's name, cheated on me, threw me down the stairs, tried to kill me, pimped me out, treated me like shit, beat me, raped me, made me steal, made me lie, how you enslaved and killed my family starved my cat and stole all my ideas, time, money and car.

I will spin a tale without end. The only moral is I hate you and you should be dead. The only plot will be how you are evil and I am good. The sequel will be about how you are evil and I am good and that if you don't love me, you should be destroyed, ostracized, ignored, eliminated, deleted from friends and erased forever, exiled, banished, wiped from the face of the earth.

Are you sure you still don't love me? Because I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for all the things I just said. None of it is true, I only love you, I don't hate you. My love for you paralyzes me. I still love you and I miss you terribly. I miss you so much I wear your t-shirt and cap to bed. I try to get at your absent smell by wadding it up and inhaling it. I licked the sweatband of your hat. I pinned your pin to to the inside of my favorite hoodie and I wear it all the time with the metal on the inside so that no one can see. I miss you so much I pick your hairs out of my jacket and old sweater and look at them in the light and cannot bring myself to throw them away. I miss you so much I dream of you at night and when I wake up there are these bruises all over my arms that look just like grasping fingers. I miss you all the time and think about you so much that I can't eat or sleep. My friends buy me food and make me eat it and make me socialize because I can't do anything on my own but brood and cry whiny tears and long after you and stalk you on the internet.

This is love. It's my version of love. I hate you. I love you. I miss you. I hate you. I hate myself. I love you. I never meant to hurt you, I adore you, I worship you, I was so angry and I'm so sorry, because all I want in the world is for you to take me back, take me back, take me back or I'll kill you, I'll ruin your life, I love you so much and if you don't take me back I'll die, I'll make you regret it, I loveyou, takemeback!

I put your name into google alerts, I look at your website to see if you've updated it. I download everything you've ever created and keep it in a special folder. I have dozens of pictures of you and I look at them until my blood gets fast or until I cry. I miss you so much it makes me want to set fires. It makes me want to become a prostitute. It makes me want to rob banks. I miss you so much I want to throw my life away. I see things that are funny and beautiful and I want to share them with you, but when I realize I can't and that you don't love me, I hate things that are funny and beautiful. I see men who look like you and I want to hurt them. I see your name or just your initials and I want to smash things and cry.

I look at your myspace. I look at your best friend's myspace and your ex-girlfriend's myspace and all your female friends' myspace. I need scraps, I need clues, I need to know which fucking bitch distracted you from me and when I find out there will be an unstoppably vengeful torrent of witchcraft directed against her. My teeth grind in a circular motion when I notice you've logged in three times since I sent you my last email. I hate you so much. I want you so badly. I want to kill you. I want to marry you. I want to kill myself. I never want to see you again. I never want to be away from you. Take me back. Please please take me back.

I can only love monsters. Because I myself am a monster.

How I Slept With Ten Guys

2007-06-19T21:15:00.001-07:00

In order of freshest to oldest. I did originally have their last names, too, but I don't want to get sued; one of them is married, one of them is the Prince of Darkness, and one of them is pretty mad at me for some bullshit I pulled when we broke up. And also, who wants their name to come up in a google search under having rolled that crazy bigtittie bitch from Wham City?

10. Joseph Anthony ("Joey")

I really liked him, but he got bored of me, and wouldn't be even remotely serious about me. I mean, he was into me, but then not, then into me, then scared off, then into me, and all the while I really really liked him. Really. Tall drunk and handsome, and a CHAMPION at the makeout. Hugely tall (6'7") and legendarily unpredictable (read: exciting and crazy) but in the end, another go-nowhere, do-nothing relationship with someone who will not take me seriously as a woman or a partner in life. Sad.

I still give him an A+ though, probably because I'm still into him. Also we had sex the first day we met. He hooked me somehow, and he's not that attractive, I don't know what the fuck happened; I fell for him instantly and nose-bleed hard. Not a big winner on longevity, but the sex was so intense, plus he's got other skills. A compelling oral partner, very skilled at the fingerwork, and fucking amazing really at missionary. The best EVER at that. Well endowed and knows what to do with it. (I hate him a lot right now, and thinking about it still makes my heart freeze.) Missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggie, "so-drunk-I-don't-know-I'm-doing-anal," X-position, sideways, squashing the deckchair, me half asleep, me fully asleep (awakened by) and that one where your toes touch your ears. Careless with birth control but in a hot way.

Grade: A+

9. Aaron Neil ("The Evil One")

A long, horrible relationship, and the less said about it the better. Sex was the only thing that kept us speaking to each other, and I literally slept with this human piece of garbage several (maybe a dozen) times JUST TO PISS HIM OFF. This guy told me he was an orphan from Minnesota for three years-- when he is a typical Jewish kid from Silver Spring, with family attached. We lived together, so all the old standards plus a few showstoppers: standing, in the shower, on the fire escape, on a ladder, over the kitchen counter with the roomates home, etc. Super-prolonged psychological S&M, and both female-on-male and male-on-female, rape. Careless with birth control, indeed. A very impulsive, manipulative, neurotic, sexually gifted and easily pushed around, lying sack of shit.

Grade: a grapey, rapey C-

8. Tim "Class War" Meysenberg

The only person who will indeed be 100% proud to be first and last name, on this list. Tim is a polyamorous, swinging, good-natured, highly skilled and completely amoral (amoral not inethical, there is a huge difference) uncircumcised (although I didn't notice at the time) awesome lay. I recommend his long slender member to anyone and he will too, as he is a lay-of-all-trades, ready to fuck you blind, walking intellectual anarchist ethically promiscuous manboy, a superslut, a boddhi-slutva, of a sort. Really a great friend and I consider him marriage material aside from the fact that he could never, EVER be monogamous. Doggie oral and missionary, we had one night together while I was living with Aaron and it was hot and loud. (Aaron hated him for all time after this incident.) Woke me up for round two. Seriously hot little bod, a nice package and a butt like two melons. Cut and ripped and a hot little guy all round. Tim, you're my best friend and I loves ya. But let's not bone again unless it's for offspring. Or the p0rn c0llective. A true lover and a true friend. I'd let him knock me up, maybe in a couple years. Really a great guy.

Grade: A+

7. Matt "Costanzie"

Another one-time deal, Matt was a schizophrenic neighbor of mine in his 20's. He was attractive enough, and one day he begged me to "please please make out with him so he could feel human again." I was into it, I was just going to give him a little cuddle and MAYBE a handjob but he had these moist, green-blue eyes and was okay at kissing so I went for the gold. I really felt for the guy, he was so sad all the time. His ex-girlfriend called him again and again until he answered during the actual act. He answered, she was in the next room; he lied, she screamed, etc. Oral and backwards missionary (girl on belly.) Also a few moments of doggy while he answered the phone. He cried afterwards, which is touching. This was not a bad experience, on the contrary, it was rather sentimental. I hope he's still alive somewhere.

Grade: B

6. Robert ("Bob")

My friend Bob is 59 and a pilot. He's incredibly kinky, and like ridiculous, and I am not really. One night we had a few beers and since he's so old and never gets any action, (and I mean, I care for him as a human) I threw him a bone. It was fine, and fun. You'd think he'd be super, endurance-wise (older and shit) but you'd be wrong. Also "had a vasectomy in 1990" but I'm not about to believe that. We're still buds. Missionary, reverse cowgirl and male standing female prone on table. Also: he shaves, and cursed like "Christ son of a bitch Holy Mary Mother of Godddd!" when the magic moment arrived, which was twice. Weird. But hilariously ok. Totally never doing that again. His knees actually creaked, which made me pity him.

Grade: B-

5. Charlie "Chandranatha"

A long, loving relationship which I ruined with infidelity. (see "Aaron Neil.) Charlie teaches yoga and can walk on his hands. Seated, standing, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, squashing the deckchair, spider, suspended (we had a loft) just about everything you can name except anal and anything mean or nasty. A healer, not a disciplinarian. Adequately endowed and of average size genitally but really, really cut bod and obscenely strong with serious talent. Would not repeat for personal, non-sexual performance related reasons.

Grade: A

4. <>

A real charmer. A hilarious friend and very good in the sack. A small, hairy man, but with the genitals of a Greek God. Would recommend. Mostly cowgirl, but a little sideways and doggy, few instances of missionary although this is his weakest positiong. Great on endurance and very considerate and pleasing to be with. Would repeat with proper coaxing. . . maybe. We fought like two devils however when we were involved in a sexual way. Only gets a B- because of the fighting , and this one night we were pretty much over, but still in the same bed together, and he left the bed to go jerk off to another girl. That was definitely weird.

Grade: B-

3. Mickey "The Only Blipster at Burning Man"

I know, I know, it's bad to sleep with someone you just met, and I have done it twice. I met this black kid from Detroit waiting in line for the toilet at Burning Man. I don't know what came over me, but I smiled at him and he smiled at me and after we peed, we started making out and rolling in the dust next to the porta potties like we were fucking retards. We literally RAN home to his place (his place= the bed of his pickup truck) and started doing it in a very hot way. (There were condoms involved, don't get all worried.) AND for fuck's sake, he didn't even get to finish because this girl he was sharing the pickup truck with (girlfriend? I sure hope not) showed up. We tried to get her to join in but she was having some sort of menstrual crisis so it was like, she crashed the party and ended it. When I climbed out of the pickup there was applause. I was halfway home when I realized I left my sunglasses, and when I went back, they were fighting. Ooops. What's especially hilarious is there ARE NO BLACK PEOPLE AT BURNING MAN and I found the ONLY one, and fucked him, and I came, and he didn't. Missionary and cowgirl, and if Mickey hadn't lasted so long, he would have got his.

Grade: B+ (for daring, and for the only "crazy stranger" sex I had at Burning Man. And I went three goddamn times. )

2. Kevin "Beardo Keyboardist"

Now this one I'm not proud of. I clearly took sexual advantage of this guy. He was on acid, I hadn't been laid in a year, he was redheaded, and I got a real thing for the redheads. He went in my room and laid down and (ready?) WE LISTENED TO HOLE until he started touching my hair. You know, Courtney Love's Hole? Anyhow, I climbed on up that tripping, key-noodling, heroin-dabbling, cute in a Clifford the Big Red Dog kind of way motherfucker and cowgirled it all the way. He attempted some doggie after I had had my way with him but he was fucking tripping face and although I was like 23 at the time, I was NOT ATTRACTIVE AT ALL. He was a real good sport about puttin' it in me but couldn't keep a hard-on to save his life. I then was like "Hey, time to go, I gotta go to work now. Out." Not really proud of this. He handled it well for me being like a 200 lb retarded psycho and him not climaxing. Always use a condom kids. Always.

Grade: B-

1. Charlie Funk

Charlie Funk was my boyfriend for much of high school and until I moved away to PA. He was the first guy to ever make the fireworks and even before this, I really loved him. We were dirty teenagers and fucked every which way and every day sometimes twice. It was crazy. We did it in his car mostly, but also at my parents' house, his parents' house, our friend Carmen's house, in the woods, in parking garages, everywhere. I was on the pill. He was a 6'6" chunky beast and between the two of us we must have weighed 450 lbs. I was no tiny fattie at this time, weighing in at about 195 lbs and 4'11 , so it was true love, yo. I loved him dearly. Once we were doing it at his parents house in the hot tub, cowgirl style, and he sank down like, ju-u-ust above the water, and the remainder of the encounter was finished like that. I felt kind of weird at the time, like we were being watched . . . A few days later he told me that his dad had caught us, and played it cool just watching us; and he asked Charlie about it later, and Charlie had pretended he had never been there, and he told his dad that I was masturbating ALONE on the hot jets in the hot tubs. Although that was pretty fucked up to not step up and take responsibility, his dad's name is "Chico," would you want to admit that to a guy named "Chico"? it was also pretty fucking hilarious, and it happened ten years ago, so Charlie Funk gets an A. Well an A-.

Grade: a youthfully indiscreet A-

how to make yourself sick

2007-06-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

1. verbalize the worst things you have ever felt or the worst thoughts and desires and feelings that are inside you.

2. say them to someone else, especially someone you care about.

3. repeat.

long hot summer of dissatisfaction

2007-06-19T12:28:00.001-07:00

So frustrated and angry in my life.

A whirlwind inside.