My mustache is too hairy, my penis is too short?

Don't get fooled, I do not (and hopefully won't) posses the male reproductive organ that is often called referred to in different terminology including penis, cock, pork-sword, dick, scrotum or, god forbid, weiner (can you believe you get no entries for "penis" when typing it into Thesaurus.com?). It is actually fascinating how creative the English language gets when it comes to derogatory language and taken from a purely literary perspective, it is almost genius how even invectives can have specific connotations. I'm lovin' it. But more on that later. To the point that I don't have something bobbing in between my thighs. I don't. And thus, I cannot desire for it to be longer. Quite straightforward, right?

But, in this case, there is a hairy but. Literally. I have always frowned upon men complaining about their penis length, and trust me, I've gotten a lot it. "No, don't look, we do sleep together but you can't look at my penis, it's too short!" ?! Exactly (I am very tempted to use derogatory phrases but it's lent and I'm cutting back on invectives). Why were they always so worried? As long as they were capable of satisfying me and their beloved significant others (yes, they were), where was the problem? I always had this ridiculous image in my mind of big and chunky men standing washing themselves, in their nude glory, in public showers after going to the gym or in prison. Even men in prison have the right to stare at each other's penises but I'm told that's for different reasons (Oops, I dropped my soap). The men would be standing next to each other, stealing looks at each others genitalia and thinking to themselves something along the lines of "Damn, what a package" or just stare down at their own in abashed silence (no man would ever admit to this, I'm sure). So what kind of ideal were they trying to live up to? You can "rise and shine" without looking like Everest.

Why do so many people, against whatever logical and self-assured realization still have this strange need to be beautiful and sexy and fine and BIG? Everyone has their little imperfections, a mole, a piercing. This and that. When I was 11 and we were taking pictures for the school yearbook, the photographer returned mine with a little smirk and a Hercule Poirot connotation. If you don't know, Hercule Poirot, other than being almost absurdly charming and intelligent, was famous for a beautiful moustache. So go figure. Thanks to my tan complexion and darker features, I did have a protruding moustache. Did. When I was younger I had a couple turbulent hormonal episodes in which the only thing I could think of was ridicule and wax, but after that, things settled in and truth be told, I really didn't care. So what? It was a part of me. Then last weekend, as I was leaving the premises of another flaming partay full of booze and "beautiful" people, waiting for my cab to arrive, a group of inebriated young men came my way and screamed "Hey!" my way. Upon my turning around, all I could hear was the sentence "Nice moustache", followed by a cadence of monstrous laughter. I repeated this funny anecdote to my mother the next day, and although she shared my laughter, she was the one who suggested a change. And so right then and there I decided, why not?

And today, as I am writing these words, moustache-less, I feel like a different person. Many people have already noticed and I quite ostentatibly look different. Different features of my face are more visible than others and I feel like a figurine from a wax museum. Picture perfect. Which brings me to the point. Although it might be too soon, and it will only be a matter of getting used to, what if I just should have stuck to the good old hairy me? The strange feeling of nudity that I've had since the moment of the "operation" is quite bizarre. Do people really only learn from their "mistakes" or are some things capable of being avoided entirely? Isn't it exactly those small imperfections that make people more beautiful? I have always been disgusted by artificiality and am now wondering. Did I agree out of a subconscious need to please "waxy" standards? Or was it really just a spontaneous, improvised and inevitable thing? However it is, I know that in some time I will stop wondering and be completely fine with using my dad's shaving cream. I just hope that there won't anytime soon be men racing to clinics to "get" longer penises.

"Perfection itself is imperfection"

Books, Intellect, Looks - Whip Me Up a Charm Coctail

This morning, while walking into the kitchen looking more like Angelica on literal fire rather than Angelica in her legendary I-always-look-perfect-and-never-salivate-on-my-pillows bed pose, my mother handed me a package she said came from Canada. Canada? Who in the name of maple syrup do I know from Canada? And then it hit me, like a piano falling from the sky. I carefully opened the package (apparently they're fans of superglue-ing bubble wrap in Canada) and extracted from its deformed contents a book and an envelope with my name printed in grotesquely large lettering across it. As if that wasn't disturbing enough, the title of the novel read something along the lines of "How To Become a More Effective Person In 10 Days" (if it ALREADY isn't clear to you, this boy was doomed the minute I read the book title). Seriously, who READS bullshit like that? Or if they do read it, WHY? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? (Excuse my over-reaction, I'm not a fan of utter literary crap).

To continue this dis-enheartening tale of a Valentine's attempt gone wrong, I open the envelope and immediately, two read sticker hearts fall out. There is no, absolutely no elaboration needed upon why that fact within itself is just nauseating. But oh no, ladies and gentlemen, it doesn't stop there! The last line of the letter read "Would you be my Valentine?" For clarification, this man is 20,21? What kind of a sick combination does it take a man to try to charm a woman with a worse than mediocre motivational book and a line like that? Someone definitely got their ingredients down wrong there.

So what recipe does it take to charm a woman? Of course, we have the classic - looks. Anyone who is remotely superficial enough to pretend that the physique and picture frame have nothing to do in the intrinsic foundation of charm is sadly and bitterly mistaken. Looks, great, delicious, amazing, good looks will always sweep one away. However cocky, over selfaware or just plain out there, if one looks good, an immediate sturdy foundation for the quality of charm is created. A woman is more likely to think a great looking man with mediocre conversational skills is charming than an ugly turd who can engage you in a fascinating conversation about phosphorylation. Whether it is chemical programming, sniffing the testosterone until you get a mental hard on, looks lay solid charm foundation. On the contrary, I must point out that at least with women who have a large enough mental capacity to comprehend mind realms and perverse obscene thought, men who are dumb-butt stupid will never be charming. However delicous.

A dear friend of mine met with a person of the opposite sex the other day. This man, however physically unattractive (fine, he's not that bad. But an auburn goatee?!), seems to have the competence and mental capacity of at least 5 great minds on TED.com (I cannot find the copyright symbol, you know who you are). How big of a factor does intellect play? Of course, a man who is capable of engaging you in such an intellectually spurring and inspirational converastion that utterly stimulates your entire being must have something into him. However, is intellect really that important? Yes, I do believe so. If a man comes up to me and tries to talk to me about my shoes, however gal-friendly, I am not getting a mental or any kind of hard on for the record. If you got the brain package, you got a package, that's for sure.

But is that all enough..? I was pondering the other day the nature of the whole "spark" phenomenon. "Oh yes, there was a definite spark between us". Bullshit or reality? Is it possible that the entire concept of the spark is based entirely only upon the desire of people to fabricate charm where it really isn't present? Is it possible that people basically live in the illusion that they click, charm, enamour people? However it is, I believe that charm is illusive and never unintentional. Everyone has their specific coctail, or lack of it, that they whip up for themselves and the opposite sex to indluge in. Bartender, whip me up a French accent, love for books and dancing and an affinity for obscene passionate sex. Ran out? Pitty.

Sex and Patience? WHO SAID THAT?!

Really, who the hell is ANYONE kidding. I was "accused" today by my English teacher for having quite blatant sexual tendencies, apparently noticeable in an ample amount of things I say and do. "Accused" because he doesn't really care, quite the contrary, he's a charming Scottish man in his older years, speaking with an accent out of movies but with a heart and wit that would sweep anyone away with its freshness and boldness. Yeah, he's rude, yes, he's awful. But I still love him. In a platonic fashion of course, not like Aschenbach in Death in Venice. I'm no Tadzio. But back to the point! Sexual tendencies. Yes. Sex. Again. He (to the pleasure of my prudent classmates) expressed during class today the notion that I only passionately react to themes that are implicitly sexual, choose to write about sexual things and smirk at any double entendre. This publicized comment of my 60-something professor got me thinking. Is my sexual subconscious taking me over?

Implicit or explicit, it is so there. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is true. At the moment, I am experiencing what is by some called a dry spell but to which I inwardly refer to as my personal Sahara. And no, there are no refreshing delicious oases. Which brings me to the point. After a person who is very fond of physical love, loves the pleasure, the heat, the passion, the scratching and choking (okay, I'll stop, no need to heat up yet), it is hard to suddenly look around and realize, God, I have no one to fuck! I'm sorry for using derogatory language... I believe that the bond of physical love is something special and unique and it is exactly at thiiiis tiiiny little point that the problem comes in. Is no one really "good" enough to screw? (at least in my hungry and yet glutenous proximity)

No. At first that is. I have always prided myself in patience, I was capable of sewing and entire iconography of a Christmas tree with 9 little presents when I was 10. And many other activities that require minute attention (no, I am not thinking of sex again). I meant things like delicate decoration, babysitting my own children, no wait, not my own, I have got to stop calling them that. My beloved siblings, all younger than me. And yes, there's a few. But back to the point! (I am definately not a patient thinker). But! (and there's always a huge hairy, chunky, big-ass butt) The longer I wait for my ideal, charming, sweeping, touching, kind-hearted yet so damn sexy I want to rip his shirt of into tiny little pieces like a silver chocolate wrapper man, the less he seems to be willing to get his ass over here. Juicy bottom like a peach... Yes, as you can see, it is bad. My mother has always told me that the sexual desire is one of the easiest to suppress, and she is right. However, I have my hormones and youth as conscious excuses and if there's any time to indulge, should it not be now?

I have never been, and doubt I ever will be, a fan of one-night stands. You people out there that could practically turn this into a cult, go ahead, do your thang! It's not my bees-wax. But I personally am not attracted to this sensual phenomenon. But they do say, never say never right? The thing, issue, problem, matter at hand is that the longer Mr. Handsome doesn't seem to be arriving in any kind of sex chariot my way, the more unbearable it gets. And apparently, this implicit and subconscious need has not only crept into English class but also into my STANDARDS. To my astounding finding, I have become to take as "fuckable"", "lovable" and "do-able" material people that I would under normal circumstances (ones in which I am fucked), never even consider. Merely look at and go, hm. No. But now, as the deadline of officially frigid is creeping at my toes, I find myself designing elaborate schemes of how to get objects of interest, interest that is completely fabricated by my abstinential imagination, of how to get them into bed. Things like making love to a very very physically and personality wise charming teacher against the school copy machine. Please help me.

But yes, patience and sex do not get along. Never have, never ever will. Wait, didn't I say never say never? Never mind. I just hope I shall not wake up one of these morning next to a delicious Italian and the realization that I have.. wait for it. Genital fungus. Mon dieu.

The Destructive Samaritan

I believe that any friendship is based on the mutual need of two people to help each other out in times of need. In times when you have upcoming exams, all you can eat is Cadbury caramel chocolate, drink 8 Starbucks a day and get increasingly more stressed, in times when your period is late 5 days and you've ripped out half your skull in anxiousness and of course, in times of relationship dismays and troubles. If this ingredient is missing, the friendship lacks guininety and I don't think can be classified as real. However, how far should one go in trying to maintain some kind of label, status to a relationship? Of trying to, en quote, "keep it real"?

My ex-boyfriend of 13 months and I have catastrophically been attempting revival of friendly communicating for 2 or 3 months now. Details put aside, it just did not work. We either fought and argued like a married couple after way too many evenings spend in front of the TV arguing whether they will watch Oprah or NFL, ignored each other like archenemies or inevitably, spoke together in a civil yet very suggestive manner. No pattern of communication seemed to work and I got frustrated to the point that I threw a vase out of my window (and was incredibly pissed off the next morning as it was quite a beautiful vase). And now, imminently after a 3 and a half hour conversation with him in which I helped and advised him in his relationship problems with a women he left me for, I am wondering what the fuck I and the women in my situation think they're doing.

How far is it too far when it comes to the topic of helping people in need with their personal problems? When is it that people cross the line of caring and delve into the line of loosing their own self dignity a inevitably sacrifice themselves for the cause of some fabricated image of a functional relationship unit? It is hard to say. I feel strange about the conversation I had with my ex-significant other. And other than the fact that I am exhausted to the fullest, I don't think it made him any less confused about his situation, but gave me much more information to work with and inevitably, I feel a certain clarity has settled upon my relationship vision. Same can be said in situations in which the person I am helping out is not someone I used to be emotionally involved with on a profoundly intimate level. How far is it too far to help someone in need?

I doubt that a mark will ever be placed upon this imaginary boundary, for it is to thin and fragile. People of all sexes, ages and races will inevitably learn from their own mistakes and move onto to deal with situations in different, more self protective ways that will still prove beneficial towards both sides. It is never worth sacrificing a piece of yourself in order to please someone else or create the illusion of a harmonious relationship. I suffer from the complex of the destructive samaritan. I can't live with, or without it.

Hypocrites

"Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies."

Although such statements coming from a poet who devoted his life to deep and profound religious practices, to the love of God (not for), might seem slightly odd, it is not in any case unsettling. It is true that love between two people based merely on physical beauty has the life expectancy similar to that of the memory of a goldfish (3 seconds), for beauty can never feed your soul to the point where you are ravished till you breathe your last breath. Although beauty too, can be body and time consuming, can touch you at the core of your being, it is a fleeting illusion, which, tying into what Oscar Wilde once said "Illusion is the first of all pleasures", is never the last pleasure.

However. I believe that physical beauty has always been, and will forever be, one of the cornerstones of human society. Every single century, era, ethnic group and culture have had their perfect embodiment of physical beauty, an idol which everyone strove to compare themselves with. Whether it was eau de natural style of certain ethnic tribes (I still wish someone would have invented bras for those poor women - you see?) or perfectly pearly pale complexions and waists the size of my calf (no, I do not happen to have gigantic calfs. Yet, that is), generations have always had a physical ideal which they craved, wanted, were aggravated by, turned on by, an ideal which they were and weren't.

Whenever I look at baroque paintings, with the perfectly plump women in all their glutinous glory, showing off their layers and layers of perfectly seasoned fat, all I can do is envy them. Yet, one cannot ever win a fruitless battle and that against beauty ideals can bear nothing sweet. Although inherently, when I am contemplating this issue in my mind I am thinking of women, men do not escape the watchful eye of beauty standard either. Dear David might have set an impossible task for some men to accomplish, even if he is made of marble. Yet, because men have however unfortunately been stoically in the position of those who choose for centuries, their beauty is less concrete, less materialized. When was the last time you called a man beautiful?

Back in the day, when things were simpler in comparison and all I would have needed was a guitar, bandanna and a couple needles, there were too women that somehow managed to step out of the ever changing circle of beauty, form the boundaries, push them somewhere else. If Twiggy were to appear on a baroque painting with her bony legs and ridiculous haircut, I would probably think it is the piece by someone with a great sense of humor. However, for her time, she was something different that people started to look up to. It is apparent that the ideals of beauty are never constant and always change. So why do people care so much?

Anyone who tries to deny the fact that they do not care about the way the look, that they do not care about the way other people look like is a complete hypocrite. People in today's society should be extremely grateful because now more than ever have the boundaries of the circle of beauty been distorted, pushed, stretched and challenged. Because of the extensiveness of global human communication, our individual ideals have mixed to create somewhat of a melting pot. Although people even today tend to make generalizations (Yes, I would fuck Angelina Jolie if I had the chance, she is drop dead gorgeous), I do not think beauty can be generalized. Ever, that is. And to stick to not being a hypocrite, I do not think everyone is physically beautifully. Thankfully, those people that are not touched by the grace of my judgment still have a realistic opportunity to be touched (pun intended) by someone else. In today's world, any physical form can be beautiful. Anyone can be, but not everyone is.

"Everything is beautiful. Pop is everything."

Andy Warhol

Hello, My name is Valentina and I'm a Linguoholic

I knew I was never going to be a nuclear physicist from the moment it took a month for my 5th grade teacher to explain to me what decimals are using all sorts of educational tools, ranging from classic yellow building blocks to chocolate Smarties. I think it is because of this traumatizing experience that I cannot stand Smarties. Which is a huge pity since they come in all these funky colors and make your teeth look like a distorted rainbow. Yet, I don't think even the eventual epiphanies of "Oooh, 0.1 is one tenth of 1!" (even that sounds complicated), would have ever strayed me off the thing that I was destined to be. A lover, creator and player of words. A linguoholic.

I sometimes wonder whether people who for instance have a strong and omniscient passion for music think of things in term of sounds, musical tones, melody and harmony. Because my perception of the world if one giant novel that has so many fine and horrid pages to explore, so many delicious words and word combinations to come in touch with that let express every hue and shade of the story... I am, in fact, addicted to languages and their mediums of expression.

Of course, in today's society, nobody underestimates the almighty power of language any longer. It is everyone, fuels life and communication. But the love and addiction that I'm talking about surpasses this superficial level and takes things to a complete new... extreme. When I hear people speak, I think of synonyms, of novels, of authors, of phrases, themes, thousands of little universes within my mind form and create around a single word. Its like a little factory, designed for flexibility.

What I love abut this is that different forms of language that could be deemed as unclassy, uncanny and weird do not mutually exclude each other in this little factory of mine. I find invectives, words taken from other languages and strange coinages just as creative and interesting as the classical core of the English language. It is for its flexibility and fluidity that it's so beautiful.

Out of all the addictions that one can possess, I'm proud to say I'm a linguoholic. Severe one as well. Abstinential syndromes include raised blood pressure when hearing "Dude, that's trippy" 50 times a day. Beware.

Pisces, Jack Daniels, God and Recreational Substances

It's a Friday evening and me and my exhausted self decided to take a break from the demanding role of a socialite and spend time in the comfort of my Swedish Pottery Barn double sized bed, watching Pulp Fiction, overgrazing on cinnamon tarts and inevitably, spending some quality alone time with my thoughts. When along came a fellow socialite talking about (how surprisingly), men and more surprisingly, horoscopes.

I have on general terms never been a believer in the "power" of horoscopes, never bought all that mystical "Gosh, it says I'm going to have a bad day, damn!" kind of stuff. At the same time however, I have been numerously confronted with cases where general "sign" descriptions have been quite accurate. I don't know whether this is because people have the tendency to find themselves in anything they're presented or that it really makes a difference. However end of the line is I don't think its complete nonsense. What I found interesting was that my dear friend said she looks for hope and comfort in her horoscopes. Hope and comfort?

Doesn't every single person on this planet inevitably have a religion they follow and trust in? A shade of grey of their own reality, their own comfort zone and blanket? Horoscopes might provide the people that believe in them the exact same comfort, guidance and answers to confusing questions such as talking to priests in wooden cubicles might do for Christians. Another socialite of mine, I realized, lives according to the party religion. When she dresses up in fine fine clothes and designer jewelry, sits at the bar with her JD and coke, it's then that she find comfort and security. It's her form of prayer. It's just a matter of perspective.

So why do people disagree when a person with a high threshold and affinity for marijuana says it's his/her religion? Same can be said for books, music, writing, clothes, meditating or climbing up mountains because the one up above told them to. Why is it so difficult for people to believe that all these things can be felt and taken from a very spiritual perspective? That people can truly feel divine intervention when listening to a beautiful tune or reading a touching excerpt. If religion and faith are supposed to serve the purpose of being there for the person, being a comfort blanket with which they can wrap themselves in in times of need, then this assumption and claim shouldn't be difficult to understand at all.

However, the opposite is true. If it's because of the way history has presented us with and developed the concept of religion or just basic human intolerance, many people struggle to take such concepts seriously. As for me, there is nothing that believe in more than the individual, in myself. A horoscope might say I'm supposed to be having passionate sex and the moment or crying over spilled milk, but it all comes down to what I feel, provide, receive, need, feel, want and share. If there is anybody in this world that can comfort me, provide me with guidance and change the course of my life, it's me. And although I hesitate to state so, because of the inherent egoistic connotation, I am a pracitioner of the religion of self. I love, function, receive, tolerate, dislike, act, breathe, move on, believe. I am me, without wooden cubicles and fancy horoscopes. I am spiritual.

So my advice? Look around you and feel the imminent power of security and comfort than is all around us, that people will always search for in different ways and receive it in different ways. Accepting differences in belief should be just as easy as accepting differences in appearance and personalities of mankind.

"See, now I'm thinkin', maybe it means you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. 9 Millimeter here, he's the shepherd protectin' my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. Now I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm tryin', Ringo, I'm tryin'"