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'"

Cherry Tree

Upon a languid summer day,
As the wind tickles every timber twig,
I find myself resting under this cherry tree.
Initial buds of flowers, Like a maiden awaiting to bloom
Guard upon its branches,
Like robins upon picket fences.
A sweet smelling fragrance,
Hovers in the air,
Fondling and caressing my skin, nose, Hair and bones,
Like a lover breathless moans.

While between the soft moist ferns I lay,
In the shadows seductive.
A mirage starts lurking my way,
Slowly sketching in the sizzling heat.
Young man with chestnut thick locks,
Upon his head like woven gold.
Eyes a further vibrant blue,
Than brightest sapphire gems,
That a queen’s crown condemns.
Body of a tiger wild,
Every muscle bursting through,
In outlines like a ornate web,
Of a spider with ample thread.

Every single drip of sweat,
Like stolen treasures in a crow’s nest,
Glisten, shine and blind the eye,
A delusion more stunning, luscious,
Than I’d provoke to comprise.
Swiftly, like a panther agile,
He swoops at me,
Like an eagle, rapid, vigorous,
A hunter with its captured prey.
Excitement, vigor, thrill and threat,
Chill me to the bone,
As if the intense sun rays, I could feel no more.

And out of nowhere,
Warm and gentle,
A breeze comes blowing by.
Awaking me from my sweet dreaming,
Another mirage, intense illusion,
Swept gently into the sky.

Syndrome of the Voluntary Whore

I believe in the deep catacombs of my heart that being different, in whatever way, is substantially better than walking in row with the crowd. It's the difference that makes anyone memorable. I never had an affinity for people who were assertive about their opinions to the extent that they lost the scope of tolerance and got a little aggressive. That was until I met a person who is now a dear friend of mine. Being extremely shy and emotionally secluded, it struck me as a surprise that this woman could be so passionate when it came to something that has perhaps even become overrated in modern society. Dignity.

In today's world, many cultural standards have progressed and the lines have been pushed back to places for the individual to decide upon. Teachers and students talk about smoking pot and laugh at implicit jokes about penises, your father tells you he wants cocaine for his birthday and 15 year old children are all around you, humping away (Humping? Really? It's like two monkey on a tree, what a disturbing image). But yes, humping. So does anyone really have a right to judge? I must say that I am happy to live in today's society, when it comes to being open about oneself, open about wants and desires because I truly never have enough of those. But, the woman I came to love as a dear friend made me ponder the very issue that creates all boundaries. Dignity.

Is it dignified for women to sell of rather strangely active sexual lives off as a use of their given freedom? Is it correct for circa 15 year old girls having an average of 3 sexual partners, which they do quite frequently exchange amongst each other? (No, that is not my case, Hallelujah). It really does make me wonder. Of course, a necessary factor in any single judgment is knowing the person and as you are probably aware of, I do not know every single girl (I hesitate to use the word woman) on this planet that follows this pattern. However, I can say from experience, that a majority of these girls are not even aware of the fact that they are in fact misusing this freedom or that they have that freedom to begin with.

Although to people that know me this sentence might seem as a paradox coming from me, modern society is definitely over-sexed. The boundaries have been pushed so far that people deem this kind of "I'm-a-15-year-old-virgin-shoot-me" phenomenon as nearly normal. Let's not be hypocrites, I'm young and I love sex and people that judge will always say, "But I'm different". But what if I too, am part of this phenomenon, this culture, this trend? I lost my virginity to a man I loved and was in a year long serious relationship with. Always told myself, one night stands? Nah, never! And then, whadayya know, 2 months post brake up, there I am, in bed with another man I met twice before. Accident? I don't think so.

I admire my friend deeply for being capable of being realistic, fun, womanly and charming yet very aware and passionate about her dignity as a woman and the thresholds she put out for herself. Not many women today can do that, and when they do, to stick to it. Are we all victims of the syndrome of the voluntary whore? Or is there really a difference between me and the girl out there, with viciously long nails and the IQ of the chair I'm sitting on, talking about her boyfriend's reproductive organs (en quote: bananas)? I really hope so.

Immortal Words, Fragrant Flowers and Compliments

Heart racing like a race horse in it's stall, hearing nothing but the beat of it's own heart before the clock reaches zero and the gates open apart. There I was, standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for him. Calendar date - February 14th. Looking around, I squeeze in my hand the luxurious chocolate box and think about the dinner I planned out, his favorite food in combination with my nudity. Should be good. Finally, I see him, walking my direction. The surge of emotions is powerful, I want to embrace him, passionately kiss him, but I know I can't, we're at school. Next thing I know, he hands me a chocolate box and says "Happy Valentine's Day, could you just quickly open it? I'm hungry and been looking at it since last night, you should be happy I didn't eat it", then smirking and continuing to walk.

I don't really know what I was expecting, I knew him well. However, it is during days such as these when one falls under the magic spell of images of crimson roses, a "You really look lovely today" here and there and an occasional treat that reminded him of you. It's one thing to love someone, it's another thing to make it last.

In today's society, many people deem flowers, compliments and the power of loving phrases as merely overused cliches or god forbid, as unwanted relationship elements according to certain radical feminists (I still think most are just women who need to shave). Why tell her when she knows it anyways? Thankfully, the situation is not as bad as it is with recycling. However, why is it that men in particular have so much difficulty with living up to such expectations? Why is it ridiculous? The fact that it has become an almost unreachable expectation from women in many relationships to have her man surprise her with something from time to time is nothing else but sad, however "natural".

On the other hand, when I look around, all I see is women who ponder the exact same question in their relationships or women that receive the kind of mentioned treats from men who do not genuinely love them. Is there some kind of pattern? Are women, on an emotional, physical and chemical basis merely attracted to men that cannot fulfill their needs and wants to the fullest? Are these the only kinds of relationships that have the potential to survive because they are the only relationships that require an element of tolerance?

Whatever the answer to these questions is, I shall not find out anytime soon and do not believe that I will know the answers to these questions even when I'm a gracefully be-wrinkled old spinster reading porn novels instead of sewing socks. However, I wish that one day I will meet someone who will instead of hunger, present himself with a simple flower. Doesn't everyone deserve a modest piece of life's infinite supply of warming charms and delicate surprise? Doesn't everyone deserve to be treated with an immortal word, a fragrant flower and a simple compliment?

Gossip is an Oxymoron

Life is full of oxymorons. People are oxymorons. Oxymorons are everywhere.
Oxymorons are people? Life is full of people. People are everywhere.
People are full of life. Usually that is.
Life is an oxymoron.

But to the point. Sometimes, people end up in places and situations that they didn't expect or would not have expected to find themselves in. And for a little heads up, it's never too good of an idea to claim that it was "an accident" or that you are completely innocent. Completely that is. I believe that there is an element of choice in nearly every of life's situations, including downing that one extra drink and abortion (oh my, she said abortion). Do people really say "Yes I want to have passionate sex with you" and believe that STD was an accident after? I don't think so.

Thankfully, I don't have an STD. Yet, that is. Being in love with words and their endless beautiful combinations probably since the first time I lay hands upon Isabel Allende's Eva Luna at the age of 10, I have an internal problem with gossiping. Illustration:

"Oh my G O D, can you see that bag? It's like, what, like a complete fake! What a whore!"
"Like, totally."

Fellow indulger, this doesn't just happen in cinematography. It's real. So you might see where this internal dilemma derives from. However, as in any proper piece of writing, there comes a big but. One t short. Being a woman, however linguistically predisposed to speak like someone from Shakespeare's plays, makes it hard to avoid gossip. And to actually not like it.

I have not yet commented on the way people dress or of what textile quality any piece of their attire and garment are (as far as I can recall, which isn't really credible) because I couldn't honestly care less, but on occasion, I realize that my recollections of social events basically are gossip. Everyone has that maniacal tendency that when describing a "hot" event, frequently describe the girl's boobs, boobies, balloons, excuse me, breasts (you see, it's already begun!), as being not large but huge and so forth. Exaggeration is the blood that runs through gossip's veins.

Speaking in a dignified way does not in fact at all out rule that one can still bitch about people. Gossip is an oxymoron, we love it, yet hate it. We supply it, yet stay clear of it. It is dangerous to gang up with the Oh-My-God-Becky kind of women, they seep under your skin. Because deep down under, we all love it, want it, crave it. Deep down, underground, we're all mistresses of viciousness and modest jealousy. We are all gossip girls.

* "New car, caviar, four star daydream" *

There are not many things that I am more sure about, excluding that the word "nice" should have never been invented and that chocolate is great before and after sex, than the fact that the word money is one of the most frequently used words in any language. English especially. The amount of cliche phrases that exists about money making the world go round and such is probably larger that the frequency of the world itself. So I shall not bore you with such whimsical and original hors de'oeuvres because it's been a long day and originality isn't unfortunately seeping out of my every pore at the moment.

However. As the immortal genius of Pink Floyd cares to suggest, one of the main things money is about is luxury. Beautifully dangerous Louboutin's clad on perfectly disguised imperfections of young women exploiting the monetary situation of their proximity, sniffing in lines of delicious cocaine through their neatly done noses while holding a piece of Coco in their French manicured fingers. Fabricated fantasy of horrid tabloid magazines and concerned mother's who get paid for writing a book about the same old shit not even said differently? No, ladies and gents. I am no stranger to money or the fraudulent phony world of social class. But what I find grotesque is that this hedonistic lifestyle has crept inside the minds of people not old enough to bear a driver's license. My comrades.

Can you imagine? Paint a picture in the sky... I open my closet, feel through the endless silk, lace, denim, cashmere, cotton, sequin and velvet carefully crafted in the hands of people like Mark, Karl, Zac, Stella and many others. Strapping on my crimson garters, I make my way into the porcelain bathroom where I spend an hour pomading my lovely puckered face with lotions, ointments, creams and administering picture perfect make-up. Hair voluptuous like Angie, I embellish myself in a perfect strapless Gucci. Not forgetting to place my stash of white heaven into my purse and slip into my Dolces, I open the door, slide into the cab with leather seats. I spend an evening in the most top class club in town, drinking my fancy Yoo-Hoo, excuse me, Cosmopolitan and flash my unnecessarily uncovered cleavage at the boys, no - not men, I came to impress. I am 16.

Many girls and boys in my proximity alike find this image so attractive they nearly live up to it. Nearly. As far as I'm concerned nobody is on coke. Although they do speak about it. Why is it that I don't find these things appealing? No need for speed in my old mind. How come I don't have the need to light up, sit in uncomfortable chairs listening to overrated DJs and pretend I can hear my friends, of course, till dawn? Of course, I am no virgin or innocent baby to any of these vices and pleasures, but it's like the French say, comme ci, comme ça. In my proximity, there are a few golden exceptions to this rule, people who can put simply, handle their shit. But a golden exception is there to prove a rule, a trend. Trend up your coke asses, my friends.

I am living life to the fullest. Against all odds without glance and glamour. Yet still wild, passionate and unusual. Of course I love a drink or two, fancy beautiful clothes that outline my figure, jewelry and expensive food. Yes, money makes me happy, let's not be hypocrites - it's what we all live on/off, but in no case does it float my boat. Ka-ching!

"Stack up your bills,

as you sign away your free will,

there's no need to represent,

the truth of self has now been spent."

Hormones, Chocolate, Vodka, Peace?

In life there are several things that arouse in me what I like to call Mini Orgasms. I think if I was leading a sexually active life (I complete agree with Diablo Cody - the term sexually active is awful. What, was I deactivated all the while before I rode the train of love? I don't think so! No deactivation button there, my thoughts have always been dirty), I wouldn't feel the need to express my gratitude at the existence of this phenomenon in my life. But since, as is implied, my sexual life is not as fruitful as the fertile Nile Delta in the wet season (pun intended), I am left to be thankful.

Yes, Mini Orgasms it is. Although I cannot put my finger on the origin of all the warm fuzzy feelings that explode within my body from time to time, I'm sure that has to do with the fact that I'm naturally hormonally imbalanced. I don't have it on paper but I'm positive I could collect an ample amount of witnesses to nod to the statement "She's one hell of a special person" or in other words, moody and annoying. My last mini orgasm came when I was thinking about playing Twister in our garden at night with Frankie Lymon. So yes, the origin of some of these remains shrouded with a veil of mystery.

However, there are quite a few that I can name quite specifically. Music, food, engaging in an activity that makes your heart swell with passion (i.e. my current embarking on putting down my thoughts), food again, a good drink and content of the soul. For me the feeling of standing up on stage, moving my body to the exact intricate sounds of music that seemed carved for it will never cease to make me feel alive. Neither will the feeling of delicious food melting in my mouth in an explosion of tastes (no I am not taking this from a Jamie Oliver cookbook nor do I mean it in a kitchy way). Last week, I had steak laid on top of roasted bananas with pine nuts and coconuts. However odd, I felt at one with the universe while ingesting the food, however futile. (yum yum yum!)

Of course, there is then the enemy of all, alcohol. However dangerous, tabu and over (or under) rated, when I put on my finest clothes and sit by that bar, sipping on something that literally makes my insides warm, I don't feel anything close to sin. Forbidden fruit is always delicious if you know how much to savor. It's because of these mini orgasms that I appreciate life a bit more and I'm saddened that the word orgasm carries with it a vulgar connotation. For although life can be vulgar sometimes, the appreciation of it never should.

Melodic Nirvana

What would the world be without music?

A barren desert left to our eyes to soothe our souls.

Many people make a fuss out of what other people "listen" to. What kind of playlist they have on their iPods or whatever those things are called (I remember when I got mine, my mumsy had the cute but misleading assumption that since everyone walked around with it it was "the thing" - is not! Where am I supposed to stick that brick? Up my vagina?! ), or what kind of lyrics they can recite to you by heart. I include myself in that group. Of course I will think you sock because you listen to Spice Girls or ... Hillary Duff (mini vomit). But the point of this written contemplation, and music in general for the matter, is something entirely different.

A universal medium of expression, a juice to thought and flow, music rocks our worlds. Whether you are creating or listening to music, you're making a choice, making a decision to at that moment express exactly what those fine tuned notes allow you to. It gives infinite power. Of course, without music, there would still be sound. But its when those sounds come together in whatever harmony suits the specific persona that stars explode and people cry. With the increasing number of people upon this planet, the variety of genre and sound within the musical universe expands, just like the cosmic universe around us, galaxies far far away (ever listen to the soundtrack to Star Wars? A - ma zing). The more people, the more intense the need for each of them to find some kind of tune, that when it reaches their amazingly constructed anatomical hearing structures, chemicals go crazy and simply put, people become music.

It's because music is a treasure box of emotions that we cherish it so tenderly. It can make us mad, joyful, unhappy, it can make us cry, laugh, smile and move. Music is the adrenalin to both soul and mind. There is nothing quite like it. Sure, looking at Van Gogh's Sunflowers or Degas's beautifully disformed ballerinas can stir those cords deep within the imaginary concept of our souls, but music is beautiful for is ungraspable fluidity.

Maybe people love music so much because just like our mind's, we cannot touch it. Its something that we think we can feel but that we will never really lay our hands upon. Just like our mind, music is something that we can only lay our heart upon. Whether its a soothing Afro-American voice that takes out out into the battlefields of America's racial scene or just a lonely Spanish guitar player taking you into his bed, its the element of the imaginary and the surprise that people love to hear. Pun intended.

Love K.O.

One of my friends shared a theory with me today of love being a jungle. Quite frankly, I think that it's b.s. (for those of you not indocrinated in youth slang its bull shit). A concrete jungle would be more adequate. Of course, we've all heard this overly used phrase more than we'd like to admit, especially in magazines such as Vogue (praise thee Fashion Divas) and Marie Claire. Concrete referring to global urbanization and all. But I think the metaphor fits quite well. Love has become a ruthless and mean concrete ring in which people fight, growl and tear at each other until somebody gets a K.O.

Because we have so much access to all kinds of information, the game of love is no longer between two people involved in the relationship. It has become a global fight in the ring of "How To Get a Woman Into Bed in 10 Days" and "Say No To Chocolate! - The Ultimiate Brake Up Manual". I'm even beginning to think that the few sane women left, those that when going on a date don't think of tips they read in a magazine (or god forbid a blog!) but actually rely on their own charm and wit, that even those golden posies in the middle of love's barren winter have those evil thoughts rooted somewhere in their subconciousness.

Even if I exclude the whole existence of mainstream media feeding us with tips on how to get rid of my cellulite (yes, I have some. Get over it), the fact remains the same. And that is that genuine love is slowly receiving more K.O.s then any of us would like to admit. We might all have our own definitions of what genuine love is, it might be that the season of winter has drawn frost over my world, but I really wonder. Why is it that so many people around me are unhappy? Is it a problem of unreachable expexctations? (If so, I have a cure for you all. Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary. If you end up finishing that book (I haven't yet), its a lesson to be learned). Or is it because the pressure on the game of love has gotten too large for anybody to handle?

In my opinion, love should have never become a game in the first place. Nobody is a professional, who is supposed to find the motivation to carry on in the endless battles? If just a few more people entered the love ring with their weapons down, the world could be a better, lovelier place.

Conversations Between My Imaginary Dick and I

I have never gotten much along with ladies. Females, women. Whatever label they do or don't deserve. In 5th grade I told the girls in my class to "fuck off and rip the heads of their Barbies off" when they didn't want to talk to me because I had hair lice. My teacher told my mother he thinks I have "gender issues". Maybe the fact that I was never into female stuff (whether it was Barbies from age 0-10 or nails and kitchy novels from age 10-forever), has something to do with the fact that I have a very progressive and awesome mother for century or time. But the fact remains true. I've never been a ladies woman.

Maybe the element of artificial in the female world is appealing to some, but certainly not to me. If I had to make my pick, which I did, between a group of seemingly ruthless young men which can seemingly only talk about whores, computers, German fecal porn and degregation of the female species and a group of young girls that twitter and tatter and insolently blabber about nails, magazines, brands, labels and how they just CANNOT speak to that boy because he will thinks she's oh so foolish, I would definately pick the boys. Whatever happened to not judging a book by its cover? Of course, the fact that I have breasts inherently carries within it the judgment that all I'm trying to do is get laid by talking to men, but hey, if that's what it takes to have fun and not get judged for having a fake Burberry bag, then I take it.

Of course, men can be superficial, disgusting and brutal. But why can't women be like that as well? No one is picture perfect 24-7 and running full intellectual speed all the time is impossible. I actually quite like having a laugh at a prostitute joke from time to time. The fact that it made me a prostitue amongst the circle of my aquaintances really just makes me laugh (not in the sarcastic but literal sense). Men can actually be charming, witty, fun and genuinely good at heart. Call me naive or an optimist but being told I have an imaginary cock (awful awful word) actually genuinely made me smile and it's something I pride myself in. If being brutishly open about everything from anal sex to my own feelings got me there, then so be it.

Post-coitum-brake-up

Why are relationships sometimes so fucking hard to manage? Not hard in the penile sense, but hard in the I-really-can't-get-this-sudoku sense. At the moment I am 4-5 (I stopped counting after New Year's) months into what could be called post-coitum-brake-up. Of course, I've always seen it in those movies where someone like Carmen Electra with unnecessarily large breasts would be crying into hankerchiefs and still have perfect make up (and digesting sinful amounts of double stuffed Oreos but still looking perfectly fuckable), but I must admit, I didn't see all this drama flying my way and smack-dabbing me in the face. Post-coitum-brake-up time really is just shit (no use saving up on invectives, it just wouldn't do it).

Of course, I don't find it strange that after being together for over a year (that's more than 365 days of quality couple shtuff - good/great sex, movies, dinners, vacations, skinny dipping ect.), two people might find it hard to avoid one another. And however it goes down (who on who, or rather who at who), its always going to be a shit time. My ex-significant gave me about a handful of reasons why he left me. Amongst which were stereotype, boredom and another woman. If someone doesn't feel like shooting their brains out after such a blatently put statement then they definately must be made out of stone or be on LSD. But after all this, I still have a hard time deleting him from the list of my emergency contacts.

It isn't even about how its put, where, whether its over candlelight, over getting someone so drunk they can't remember it and read it in a text message the next day (yes, that did happen to me) or at a bus stop while your bus is just arriving - "Ba-bye Honey, just so you know, I want us to brake up. Now off you go!" (unfortunately, that happened to me as well). It's merely in the fact that it happens. It always feels like the end of an era and I'm not surprised that many people find themselves wearing pink togas on a Ferris wheel in the middle of Vienna not being to remember anything during Post-coitum-brake-up time. No wonder, after endless days of "Hey Gorgeous, want to do it in my parents' bed?'" and various other intimacies, being thrust back into "reality" can be quite harsh.

So how does one "move on"? I dislike the phrase itself. What, are we talking about furniture here?! But in any case, starting fresh is never easy. Is it really good to throw out all old pictures, burn all the foolish stuffed crap (thankfully I don't have any of that in my EX-files stash), get new hair and a "I'm fabulous" tattoo on your ass? Well, different things work for different people. For me, the hard nut to crack was, and is, realizing that it's o v e r. No "let's be fuck buddies and pretend it works", no "we can completely have normal conversations", no "wanna go to the movies, as friends?". None of that stuff. This seemingly awesome plans gets difficult only when the X-significant other gets all ballistic that i.e. you don't put a smiley face into every goddamn sentence you send. Oh well, brace up ladies! Shit needs to be fought with a head held high.

Sex on a Silver Platter

Copulation, in all it's form and fame, is everywhere. Although this might sound like the contemplation of a modern woman (and all I'm missing is a cigarette so everytime I have a dramatic thought I can blow out a puff of erotic smoke), there is no denying that just like Hugh Grant once almost said "Sex is all around". It's in your bathroom inside your "Vanilla Paradise" shaving cream, in your closet amongst the overly exposing garment pieces, in your morning coffee and your seemingly innocent dreams about your college professor. Sooner or later, it'll just come biting you in the ass.

This omniscient presence of sex in our lives, however entertaining, incorporates in it something what I like to call "Element of Danger". Very few people can process the presence of sex even in their refrigerators in a healthy way. Of course, the word healthy is an understatement of the year. The number of ladies and gentlemen in my proximity that instead of exchanging warm words and genuine feelings exchange their bodily fluids is increasing day by day (it was alarming to begin with). I am not surprised by the fact that so many young people are generally motivated by sex and loose what intellectuals call a "moral code" if they have David Beckham's crotch popping out of every magazine and children sniffing cocaine off of each other's stomachs and genitals in TV shows airing at 10 am on a Sunday. Although the tendency of my generation to over-sex everything is hard to resist for some people, there has to be hope!

My mother once told me that the sexual desire is one of the easiest desires that one can supress. Although generally speaking my generation's threshold on acceptability has decreased and we're all rushing into things in one way or another, I like to think of myself as one of those people that when sex is offered to them on a silver platter, will refuse. It's never just sex, so take the time to see the shades of grey.

Love Theatre

Throughout the centuries that have feen fortunate enough to be mapped in words, there have always been people to ponder the subject of love. So many profound, or not so, things have been said about it. What would poetry be without love? Death and religion. And isn't that a bleak image. Love is the cornerstone of human existence, whether it is the reason for our beliefs, our hate, conflicts or deeds.

I don't believe that love can ever truly perish. Even when the hormones inside one's body stop producing the endorfines and the chemicals don't add up to create the sparks, the imprint of love stays in our minds. I find the expression "stay in my heart" misleading. Maybe I am too much of a visual person but I certainly don't see thoughts pumping through my aorta. It is in the realms of the imaginary that we store thoughts and memories and ultimately, the feeling of love. It should be "stay in my mind", because it is the mind that is the ultimate source of our existence.

It is when one stands in the theatre of his own life, just after he's done watching a superb love tragedy, that they realize they're not getting an encore. The show doesn't always have to go on. But the echo of the applause will ring in our mind's till another, louder one replaces it.

GHUA - God Help Us All

After loosing what some could deem a worthless piece of plastic today (red heart shaped earring the size of a baby fist - the 70s will never grow old), I came to another one of "those" conclusions. You know, those that rock your world, as people like Michael Jackson once put it. Not being the oldest of the Homo Sapiens that occupy this planet, things that might seem obvious to others hit me in the face at the strangest, odd-timed moments. Like when I realized that the phrase "dead as a dodo" reffers to an extinct specie.

But sometimes the conclusions amount to more than mere zoology. And that is how so little can mean so much. A classic observer might say to himself, "Much ado about a piece of red plastic" or "Woman". But I belive this whim of mine can be shared by an extended audience. For instance, there is one thing that never fails to quite frankly piss me off - my generation's extensive use of words that shouldn't have EVER been given that title. LOL, LMAO, ROFL, BTW... I could bet my bottom dollar there are many more in the stash of young people around me but thankfully, I am not aware of them. Maybe my obsession to be willing to pay that extra fine for actually spelling out words properly in text messages is strange (it is NOT u but y o u), but there should be borderlines. For me, these "coinages" are the black abyss of the English language, just like the Dirty Sanchez when it comes to sex (no can do honey).

We all know perfectly well that we live in a technological society and all you hypocrites that deem yourselfs special for not having a TV at home can stick it up your behind. There's no denying that escaping technology in today's society is quite difficult. But people, just because it's more efficient and quicker should (mind the use of the word should) not mean that words cease to exist. Laughing out Loud? Why can't people instead say "I find that very whimsical" or "Oh aren't you a funny one!". Words that were once so simple, easy and straightforward now take on sophisticated connotations - (I was once stopped by a fellow age colleauge for using the word sophisticated. Really?!) Not only have these "coinages" taken over cyber space but they are slowly creeping into the mouths of people around us as well. Think of the world ROLF. When pronounced it actually has the sound of a decent hurl (TMI ?).

I don't know whether this linguistic phenomenon is a result of some strange desire of our "fresh" society to just get everything done in the blink of an eye or an act of group belonging (LOL right back atcha' bro!). However, it would be nice to see a few more people that instead of verbal and written stupidity would be impressed by elaborate conversation and verbal expression. Conversation that CAN include the word sophisitcated, for example. There isn't anything wrong with witty slang or verbal puns, but it would nice if the young generation at least got their syllables right. Dress your Language to Impress*