Hey guys, quick Q:
Is it possible to have a Boone's Farm hangover, or could it be I just feel really ashamed of myself?
I write to you now from Detroit, Michigan--aka The City That God Forgot. I'm celebrating the 93rd birthday of my dear grandmother, and couldn't be less annoyed by it.
I know, I know, I'm going to hell.
Hey guys, one more Q: Have you ever shared a bed with someone going through menopause? Well, I have. Cause my uncle's also here, my mom and I are sharing a bed, and home girl is having hot flashes like whoa. So, you know, random thrashing about, turning on and off the fan, and stripping are the course for the night. Hence my bright-and-early bloggery before 10am.
Sunday the whole fam gathered to celebrate, and the awkwardness set in. Although I used to spend every summer in Detroit until I was about 13, I don't feel remotely close to my family at all. Perhaps it's because they teased me for 'talking white' or because my cousin would ask me incredulously how I could 'like a White boy.' Or maybe it's because they teased me for being so dark-skinned and said my toes looked like roaches (they don't). Being an only child, I wasn't used to such teasing and never found it particularly pleasant or manageable. And the fact that these things are still brought up over 10 years later causes me to bristle.
One of my cousins is a year older than me and graduated college about a year ago--which is a hot mess. He actually just self-published a book that would fall under the category of 'urban fiction.' In the first paragraph, we follow our protagonist as he awakes from dreams of being violated by his stepfather. It's hardcore.
Anyway, he'd mellowed out since I'd seen him last, and was talking with his sister about her latest 'man friends.' My cousin says she doesn't have a boyfriend, just 'various dudes I kick it with.' I don't think this means she's bending it like Beckham, though. Her broface got pretty annoyed and made everyone be silent as he imparted the following words of wisdom:
"Men cannot be friends with a woman," he yelled, slamming his can of soda--oops, I mean pop--on the table for emphasis. "If you are not willing to be intimate with a man, you need to leave him alone. Or hook him up with one of your girls who would like to be intimate. If you can't do that, you need to cook him some food. There has to be a physical need met by your presence, or you are useless."
Is he right? What do you think?
I was two seconds away from thinking he was an idiot savant when I heard him offer this next pearl of advice:
"Nah, nah, for real dog--If you need work done in yo' house, you gotta get one of them good, high-functionin' crackheads, who used to be an engineer or some shit. My boy Young Ju got all his Ikea furniture put together by John who live down the street for, like, 20 dollas. And cracky did that shit in about an hour."
Think there's any way I can move up my return flight?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Why I Am Getting Rid of All Online Dating Profiles
Unsolicited IM from Random Dude: Today is a perfect day to make love.
Me: Are you insane?
Random Dude: Why?
I just want to make love.
Me: Are you insane?
Random Dude: Why?
I just want to make love.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Beginning of..... The BLACKpacker Diaries
Sometimes I feel like I’ve barely been gone at all. Like 6 months was barely anything and I have no excuse for being so jarred, drained, or awkward in the NYC-world I was dying to come back to when I was on the road. On the other hand, I am….jarred, drained, and feel like my Asperger’s/awkwardness is flaring up, especially when friends ask me about my trip.
“We have to catch up, I want to hear your stories!” one friend wrote me.
I wrote her back, assuring her there was nothing special. What did I have to say? I just hung out, did some stuff, met some randoms, spent too much time thinking about a gingerbread man, and learned that the world is both huge and miniscule--which I guess I already knew in this age of social networking sites. On the other hand, I now speak in slang that comes from a foreign land, have journeyed into Middle Earth, and jumped off a canyon of my own volition.
I’ve been back from Europe for a week, and finally have to accept that I am back home for the long haul. And I’ve been going out, trying to get myself into the social world that I missed so much, and find I don’t know what to say or where to begin. I know my trip was amazing, but I’m not even sure what to make of it. I want to share it, but am not sure how much anyone really wants to know. So I've decided to tell some stories in the easiest way I know how—via bloggery. For those who wondered where I was those 5 weeks when I was traipsing about on the other side of the world, or why I'm being so weird now, here are pages from the blacktress’ actual diary. It’s the real deal. My thoughts, plans, randomness, issues I thought about each day. It’s raw and uncut—okay, well, cut a little bit—but it’s not neat and tidy, and may not be appropriate for sensitive readers. (Note my NC-17 rating to the right) I will post a new installment each day, in hopes of sharing, entertaining, and clarifying for myself what it was all about. Tuck in, gentle reader, as I begin….
Sunday 8 March 2009
I’m in Adelaide!!! YAY!!
Oh god, who am I kidding? I’m in a city of less than 1 million people, 999,900 of whom seem to be hiding from me, and I keep showing up ½ an hour early for everything (for more on that, check out my first post from Adelaide). On an up-note, I got to hang out with Justin, a friend of mine who was my primary reason for visiting the city.
Well, maybe ‘friend’ is an exaggeration.
I met Justin in a hostel in New Orleans back in ’05, where my fascination with traveling Aussies and their backpacking lifestyle began—although I couldn’t quite understand the desire to travel to such places as West Virginia and Oklahoma when they were from such exotic lands as, um, Staffordshire. I mean, hello—a a shire! Justin was just shy of 21, but with the crazy way Aussies list the date (dd/mm/yy), he was able to pass for 21, and got drunk off his ass the first night I met him in the Big Easy. Most of the night he kept asking me to show him my boobs in exchange for beads, and while I admired his tenacity, I repeatedly declined. Thanks to F-book, we were put back in touch, and knowing so few people in Oz, I reached out to everyone I could when I first landed. Although I’d heard Adelaide was boring and lame, I wanted to get off the beaten path, and figured getting a local’s perspective would give the city a bit more life.
Although I hadn’t seen him in nearly 4 years and barely knew him to begin with, we instantly started chatting and hanging out, and had a nice day, soaking in the great weather. It felt really nice to reconnect with someone, and know that you can spend years apart and have there be no awkwardness. I also sometimes feel that, being on my own so often, my social skills get rusty and I’m not quite sure what’s appropriate. After not talking to anyone face-to-face for a few days, I have a tendency to word-vomit, and then feel a bit guilty, but Justin didn’t seem to mind. He explained that the city appeared post-apocalyptic because it was a holiday weekend and most people were away. Because the Adelaide Fringe Festival was on, we tried to get tickets to a show at the box office in the “Garden of Earthly Delights,” which is a basically a carnival that runs the entire month of the Fringe. They’d set up rides and stalls, and children were running around like Tasmanian devils, hyped up on sugar and delirious from heat stroke. After getting tickets to a random show, we wandered inside the Garden, barely able to move. I was instantly drawn to the tent that touted “Fun Freaks,” such as a bearded lady and a man with flippers, because it’d be like a real-life discovery channel, which you know I heart. Nothing keeps my petty whining in perspective like watching a documentary about someone with a genetic anomaly who learns to live and love, or who gets cured through a nail-biting, grotesque surgery.
Unfortunately, the tent was charging $10, which just seemed ri-goddamn-diculous, no matter how bearded the lady is. Justin also appeared mildly frightened by my enthusiasm, so we just decided to leave. As we waited in a crazy-long line to exit, we had to listen to a man on a bullhorn try to get kids—well, their parents, really—to come into “the Spiegeltent,” where actors put on kiddie shows. He was doing the used-car salesman ramble, speaking so fast that anyone mildly interested would be worn down by his barrage of words and simply pay up. I was trying my best to tune out when he said, clear as crystal:
“Remember kids: If your parents don’t get you a ticket to the Spiegeltent, they don’t love you.”
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.
Best marketing tool ever. It made me want to have a kid (or, better yet, steal one that was wandering around) and take it inside, just to prove I was capable of love.
Justin and I then headed to the Botanical Gardens, where I tried to hold up my end of the conversation, but literally kept falling asleep during our conversation because I was so knackered from my 8am flight. For some reason, I decided it was a brilliant idea to simply not sleep the night before, seeing as I’d have to get up so early anyway. Justin, ever the summer peach, didn’t seem to mind, and just rambled on. Most of it was a blur, but I do recall a trio of ducks walking around us, and him taking a keen interest in them. “I like those ducks,” he said casually. “They’re very plump and don’t seem scared of people. They’re plump and trusting.”
“Is that how you like your women?” I asked, momentarily roused by his random comment.
“And how.”
I think I’ve found a new back-up husband.
Oh, and as for the show we saw later that night: Couldn't tell you a damn thing about it. I fell asleep after about 5 minutes.
“We have to catch up, I want to hear your stories!” one friend wrote me.
I wrote her back, assuring her there was nothing special. What did I have to say? I just hung out, did some stuff, met some randoms, spent too much time thinking about a gingerbread man, and learned that the world is both huge and miniscule--which I guess I already knew in this age of social networking sites. On the other hand, I now speak in slang that comes from a foreign land, have journeyed into Middle Earth, and jumped off a canyon of my own volition.
I’ve been back from Europe for a week, and finally have to accept that I am back home for the long haul. And I’ve been going out, trying to get myself into the social world that I missed so much, and find I don’t know what to say or where to begin. I know my trip was amazing, but I’m not even sure what to make of it. I want to share it, but am not sure how much anyone really wants to know. So I've decided to tell some stories in the easiest way I know how—via bloggery. For those who wondered where I was those 5 weeks when I was traipsing about on the other side of the world, or why I'm being so weird now, here are pages from the blacktress’ actual diary. It’s the real deal. My thoughts, plans, randomness, issues I thought about each day. It’s raw and uncut—okay, well, cut a little bit—but it’s not neat and tidy, and may not be appropriate for sensitive readers. (Note my NC-17 rating to the right) I will post a new installment each day, in hopes of sharing, entertaining, and clarifying for myself what it was all about. Tuck in, gentle reader, as I begin….
The BLACKpacker Diaries
“I’ve never seen anything like you before. You’re so… black.”
– James from Barrytown, New Zealand
“I’ve never seen anything like you before. You’re so… black.”
– James from Barrytown, New Zealand
Sunday 8 March 2009
I’m in Adelaide!!! YAY!!
Oh god, who am I kidding? I’m in a city of less than 1 million people, 999,900 of whom seem to be hiding from me, and I keep showing up ½ an hour early for everything (for more on that, check out my first post from Adelaide). On an up-note, I got to hang out with Justin, a friend of mine who was my primary reason for visiting the city.
Well, maybe ‘friend’ is an exaggeration.
I met Justin in a hostel in New Orleans back in ’05, where my fascination with traveling Aussies and their backpacking lifestyle began—although I couldn’t quite understand the desire to travel to such places as West Virginia and Oklahoma when they were from such exotic lands as, um, Staffordshire. I mean, hello—a a shire! Justin was just shy of 21, but with the crazy way Aussies list the date (dd/mm/yy), he was able to pass for 21, and got drunk off his ass the first night I met him in the Big Easy. Most of the night he kept asking me to show him my boobs in exchange for beads, and while I admired his tenacity, I repeatedly declined. Thanks to F-book, we were put back in touch, and knowing so few people in Oz, I reached out to everyone I could when I first landed. Although I’d heard Adelaide was boring and lame, I wanted to get off the beaten path, and figured getting a local’s perspective would give the city a bit more life.
Although I hadn’t seen him in nearly 4 years and barely knew him to begin with, we instantly started chatting and hanging out, and had a nice day, soaking in the great weather. It felt really nice to reconnect with someone, and know that you can spend years apart and have there be no awkwardness. I also sometimes feel that, being on my own so often, my social skills get rusty and I’m not quite sure what’s appropriate. After not talking to anyone face-to-face for a few days, I have a tendency to word-vomit, and then feel a bit guilty, but Justin didn’t seem to mind. He explained that the city appeared post-apocalyptic because it was a holiday weekend and most people were away. Because the Adelaide Fringe Festival was on, we tried to get tickets to a show at the box office in the “Garden of Earthly Delights,” which is a basically a carnival that runs the entire month of the Fringe. They’d set up rides and stalls, and children were running around like Tasmanian devils, hyped up on sugar and delirious from heat stroke. After getting tickets to a random show, we wandered inside the Garden, barely able to move. I was instantly drawn to the tent that touted “Fun Freaks,” such as a bearded lady and a man with flippers, because it’d be like a real-life discovery channel, which you know I heart. Nothing keeps my petty whining in perspective like watching a documentary about someone with a genetic anomaly who learns to live and love, or who gets cured through a nail-biting, grotesque surgery.
Unfortunately, the tent was charging $10, which just seemed ri-goddamn-diculous, no matter how bearded the lady is. Justin also appeared mildly frightened by my enthusiasm, so we just decided to leave. As we waited in a crazy-long line to exit, we had to listen to a man on a bullhorn try to get kids—well, their parents, really—to come into “the Spiegeltent,” where actors put on kiddie shows. He was doing the used-car salesman ramble, speaking so fast that anyone mildly interested would be worn down by his barrage of words and simply pay up. I was trying my best to tune out when he said, clear as crystal:
“Remember kids: If your parents don’t get you a ticket to the Spiegeltent, they don’t love you.”
HAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.
Best marketing tool ever. It made me want to have a kid (or, better yet, steal one that was wandering around) and take it inside, just to prove I was capable of love.
Justin and I then headed to the Botanical Gardens, where I tried to hold up my end of the conversation, but literally kept falling asleep during our conversation because I was so knackered from my 8am flight. For some reason, I decided it was a brilliant idea to simply not sleep the night before, seeing as I’d have to get up so early anyway. Justin, ever the summer peach, didn’t seem to mind, and just rambled on. Most of it was a blur, but I do recall a trio of ducks walking around us, and him taking a keen interest in them. “I like those ducks,” he said casually. “They’re very plump and don’t seem scared of people. They’re plump and trusting.”
“Is that how you like your women?” I asked, momentarily roused by his random comment.
“And how.”
I think I’ve found a new back-up husband.
Oh, and as for the show we saw later that night: Couldn't tell you a damn thing about it. I fell asleep after about 5 minutes.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
There's No Place Like (Someone Else's) Home
Here's an excerpt of a conversation I had with my mother on Sunday:
Mamadukes: Sojourner, when are you going to stop spending all your time with gay men?
Me: When they stop loving me, mother, when they stop being true. That's when.
She thinks that this is the main reason I am single. What she fails to realize is that for the first time in a rather long time, I could care less. I'm not a 'fag hag', but a Future Gay Icon, making my way through the gay ranks until I'm a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race, so fierce in my performance that they let me compete even though I have lady parts.
I started to form this master plan over the weekend, and it all came together on Monday evening.
Friday night I met up with a great gay pal who was visiting from Australia, and spent the evening club hopping in the West Village and Hell's Kitchen. The highlight of the night had to be Peaces, a gay club in the West Village, where we met a bevy of boys. My favorite would have to be a man named--no joke--Robert Christmas, who stuck his finger down my butt crack and his gin-and-tonic straw in my cleavage before giving me his business card and saying, "you know you wanna facebook me." The man is a Christmas miracle.
See, it's that kind of straight-forward, no-bullshit tactic that the hetero males need to be taking if they want a shot with the blacktress--well, except for the ass-finger and straw-cleavage moves.
After an excellent night, I came home only slightly buzzed, as I didn't have to drown my sorrows of being surrounded by d-bag heteros with way too many vodka-sodas. I then was able to awake bright and early on Saturday and have lunch with two of my favorite boys, a couple that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out. They invited me to a fellow friend's graduation party for Monday night, and I said, "Evite be damned, I'm coming!"
I woke up Monday with a heap of errands and to get myself in a can-do mood, I put on an outfit inspired by Joan Holloway from Mad Men (my latest addiction. I am obsessed with repressed White folks, high-waisted skirts, and 1960s social conventions). As I walked through midtown running errands, I noticed that a bevy of banker types were lightly eye-fucking me--I guess the sexy secretary vibe was working for me. Thank you, Joan!
However, it wasn't until I arrived at the graduation party that evening that I was truly the belle of the ball. Surrounded by professional gay couples, drinking white wine, I remembered why I feel most at home in moments like these--it's because when I'm with the gays, I'm the prettiest girl in the room! I met the graduate's parents, who had come from Witchita, Kansas, to celebrate their son and his boyfriend. As I took mom's camera and played paparazzi, I got to meet everyone and learned that Kansas is a hotbed of gay activity. How great is that?! My favorite people had to be the 18-year-olds who just moved to New York City together and are in a realationship! In their gray slacks and pastel button-downs (the gay uniform for events), they were just the cutest ever! I am kind of obsessed with their young gay love, and offered to buy them booze whenever the need arises--you know how I love to enable addictions.
As the party wound down, I chatted with the parental units, and they thanked me for taking pics, and then told me how pretty I was. "Where's your boyfriend, sweetie?" Mom asked me tenderly.
"Oh, he's right there," I said, pointing to one of my friends across the room. "And there. there. Oh, and there's another one there," as I pointed at various homosexual gentlemen. I then asked if I should move to Kansas to find a strapping lad who could handle a blacktress. Mom said yes, and next thing you know, she's taking down my blog address and wondering where she can see me do stand up.
I am now, like Dorothy, on a quest to return home to the plains of Kansas. Or, better yet, I am Diana Ross in "The Wiz." I am done with Munchkins and the lollipop guild. I will no longer be fooled by the little man behind the big curtain. I am ready to ease on down, ease on down the road.
Before I go, let me go ask one of my gays for a pair of sparkly red Mary Janes--teehee.
Mamadukes: Sojourner, when are you going to stop spending all your time with gay men?
Me: When they stop loving me, mother, when they stop being true. That's when.
She thinks that this is the main reason I am single. What she fails to realize is that for the first time in a rather long time, I could care less. I'm not a 'fag hag', but a Future Gay Icon, making my way through the gay ranks until I'm a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race, so fierce in my performance that they let me compete even though I have lady parts.
I started to form this master plan over the weekend, and it all came together on Monday evening.
Friday night I met up with a great gay pal who was visiting from Australia, and spent the evening club hopping in the West Village and Hell's Kitchen. The highlight of the night had to be Peaces, a gay club in the West Village, where we met a bevy of boys. My favorite would have to be a man named--no joke--Robert Christmas, who stuck his finger down my butt crack and his gin-and-tonic straw in my cleavage before giving me his business card and saying, "you know you wanna facebook me." The man is a Christmas miracle.
See, it's that kind of straight-forward, no-bullshit tactic that the hetero males need to be taking if they want a shot with the blacktress--well, except for the ass-finger and straw-cleavage moves.
After an excellent night, I came home only slightly buzzed, as I didn't have to drown my sorrows of being surrounded by d-bag heteros with way too many vodka-sodas. I then was able to awake bright and early on Saturday and have lunch with two of my favorite boys, a couple that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out. They invited me to a fellow friend's graduation party for Monday night, and I said, "Evite be damned, I'm coming!"
I woke up Monday with a heap of errands and to get myself in a can-do mood, I put on an outfit inspired by Joan Holloway from Mad Men (my latest addiction. I am obsessed with repressed White folks, high-waisted skirts, and 1960s social conventions). As I walked through midtown running errands, I noticed that a bevy of banker types were lightly eye-fucking me--I guess the sexy secretary vibe was working for me. Thank you, Joan!
However, it wasn't until I arrived at the graduation party that evening that I was truly the belle of the ball. Surrounded by professional gay couples, drinking white wine, I remembered why I feel most at home in moments like these--it's because when I'm with the gays, I'm the prettiest girl in the room! I met the graduate's parents, who had come from Witchita, Kansas, to celebrate their son and his boyfriend. As I took mom's camera and played paparazzi, I got to meet everyone and learned that Kansas is a hotbed of gay activity. How great is that?! My favorite people had to be the 18-year-olds who just moved to New York City together and are in a realationship! In their gray slacks and pastel button-downs (the gay uniform for events), they were just the cutest ever! I am kind of obsessed with their young gay love, and offered to buy them booze whenever the need arises--you know how I love to enable addictions.
As the party wound down, I chatted with the parental units, and they thanked me for taking pics, and then told me how pretty I was. "Where's your boyfriend, sweetie?" Mom asked me tenderly.
"Oh, he's right there," I said, pointing to one of my friends across the room. "And there. there. Oh, and there's another one there," as I pointed at various homosexual gentlemen. I then asked if I should move to Kansas to find a strapping lad who could handle a blacktress. Mom said yes, and next thing you know, she's taking down my blog address and wondering where she can see me do stand up.
I am now, like Dorothy, on a quest to return home to the plains of Kansas. Or, better yet, I am Diana Ross in "The Wiz." I am done with Munchkins and the lollipop guild. I will no longer be fooled by the little man behind the big curtain. I am ready to ease on down, ease on down the road.
Before I go, let me go ask one of my gays for a pair of sparkly red Mary Janes--teehee.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Fuhrer of My Heart?????
Last night I was reminded why I always date awkward dudes who aren't particularly attractive to anyone but me.
It is because I am really awkward around hot people. Hot men especially.
Remember how I lived in the quaint Sydney suburb of Lilyfield, with a flatmate who was a hottie-mchot-hot German guy?
He was so hot, it was awkward for me to live with him. Seriously. I didn't poop for about 6 weeks. I was also really awkward, and since he was mostly studying and not too chatty, we would have sporadic 10-minute conversations where I babbled like an overexcited schoolgirl and he spoke with sharp German efficiency.
One time, I came upstairs and he was in the common area at his computer (per usual), wearing no shirt. I got really flustered and excited, and said, 'Dude, why are you not wearing a shirt? Put on some clothes.'
Unfortunately, he did not know it was Opposite Day, and what I really meant was, 'Dude, can you please take off your pants as well, and spoon me?'
He has the features I have discovered are quite common in the German man: a chiseled jaw and lips like a girl. Seriously, I have been swooning over these strapping lads. I love it!
Anyway, he is back in his homeland and I got to see him last night. I was really excited to hang out, even though we weren't close, mostly because he's just so damn fine, you know?
He suggested we head to a place called Winery, which warmed my heart because he knows I don't like beer, and I know that's all he drinks. It was a cool spot, where you only pay 1 euro for your glass, drink as much as you want, and pay what you feel you should. It might actually have taken the place in my heart that was once reserved for the Bourgie Pig, which has simply become to bourgie for me to afford.
Anyway, we were meeting up with some of his friends, which prevented me from probing deep into his soul as I'd hoped. I was late to our meeting, and being an efficient German, he chastized me thoroughly. I don't know if this is possible, but he was actually hotter than I remembered. This instantly caused me to start rambling about what I'd done so far, and how huge my crush was on Berlin, and my time with the gay mafia (I can't say more about them, for obvious reasons). This ridiculous rambling and interrupting took place whenever we'd start to chat throughout the night.
I was so rude and silly. Of course, because I want him so bad that I can't really think clearly, I have told him about man drama--you know, I'm trying to de-sexualize him and treat him like a gal pal, in hopes of making myself less weird.
It does not work. Now I just feel like this really hot guy knows way too much about me.
Like the fact that I was worried about "my vag hanging out" while riding a bike in a short dress through the streets of Berlin.
I did get to know much more about him, though. Apparently he has siblings, is getting a master's degree (can i call it a 'fuhrer' degree?), and has had his heart broken by a girl. He may have lived on struggle strasse briefly (more on that later). He has a lot of female friends, but not in the sketchy way. He is really funny and we spent an inappropriately long time quoting 'Team America'.
He is certainly a unicorn.
And he lives across 6 times zones.
Clearly this is the safest crush I can have at the moment. Nothing has happened, there is no way he could hurt me, our interactions have only been positive, and he doesn't have red hair! There's no chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that he would ever want me, and I can simply think of how pretty his face is.
I think the cold storage shed where my heart used to be can only deal with this much risk at the moment.
Who have I become?
It is because I am really awkward around hot people. Hot men especially.
Remember how I lived in the quaint Sydney suburb of Lilyfield, with a flatmate who was a hottie-mchot-hot German guy?
He was so hot, it was awkward for me to live with him. Seriously. I didn't poop for about 6 weeks. I was also really awkward, and since he was mostly studying and not too chatty, we would have sporadic 10-minute conversations where I babbled like an overexcited schoolgirl and he spoke with sharp German efficiency.
One time, I came upstairs and he was in the common area at his computer (per usual), wearing no shirt. I got really flustered and excited, and said, 'Dude, why are you not wearing a shirt? Put on some clothes.'
Unfortunately, he did not know it was Opposite Day, and what I really meant was, 'Dude, can you please take off your pants as well, and spoon me?'
He has the features I have discovered are quite common in the German man: a chiseled jaw and lips like a girl. Seriously, I have been swooning over these strapping lads. I love it!
Anyway, he is back in his homeland and I got to see him last night. I was really excited to hang out, even though we weren't close, mostly because he's just so damn fine, you know?
He suggested we head to a place called Winery, which warmed my heart because he knows I don't like beer, and I know that's all he drinks. It was a cool spot, where you only pay 1 euro for your glass, drink as much as you want, and pay what you feel you should. It might actually have taken the place in my heart that was once reserved for the Bourgie Pig, which has simply become to bourgie for me to afford.
Anyway, we were meeting up with some of his friends, which prevented me from probing deep into his soul as I'd hoped. I was late to our meeting, and being an efficient German, he chastized me thoroughly. I don't know if this is possible, but he was actually hotter than I remembered. This instantly caused me to start rambling about what I'd done so far, and how huge my crush was on Berlin, and my time with the gay mafia (I can't say more about them, for obvious reasons). This ridiculous rambling and interrupting took place whenever we'd start to chat throughout the night.
I was so rude and silly. Of course, because I want him so bad that I can't really think clearly, I have told him about man drama--you know, I'm trying to de-sexualize him and treat him like a gal pal, in hopes of making myself less weird.
It does not work. Now I just feel like this really hot guy knows way too much about me.
Like the fact that I was worried about "my vag hanging out" while riding a bike in a short dress through the streets of Berlin.
I did get to know much more about him, though. Apparently he has siblings, is getting a master's degree (can i call it a 'fuhrer' degree?), and has had his heart broken by a girl. He may have lived on struggle strasse briefly (more on that later). He has a lot of female friends, but not in the sketchy way. He is really funny and we spent an inappropriately long time quoting 'Team America'.
He is certainly a unicorn.
And he lives across 6 times zones.
Clearly this is the safest crush I can have at the moment. Nothing has happened, there is no way he could hurt me, our interactions have only been positive, and he doesn't have red hair! There's no chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that he would ever want me, and I can simply think of how pretty his face is.
I think the cold storage shed where my heart used to be can only deal with this much risk at the moment.
Who have I become?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Am I a Lovefool.... for Sweden?
Hello Readers,
I am blogging to you live from INSIDE CAUCASIA. The mood is tense--primarily because I can't really figure out how to type on this Swedish keyboard.
I am currently in Sankt Eriksplan, in Stockholm, but away from touristy stuff. I'm staying with a friend's cousin--and I think I have a mad girl-crush. I'm not sure if it was when we were looking for a pub and she referred to former party-hard self as a 'club fox,' or when she stole a poster advertising Britney Spears' upcoming Stockholm concert off of the subway wall, but all I know is, I'll never be the same again.
It was quite sunny and nice our first few days, but now Swedish weather has reared its ugly head--it's cold and rainy, and we decided instead of going to a pub or a club, it was better to rent a movie, drink Absolut pear flavored vodka with Fanta, and eat candy. You know, the logical alternative.
The movie was a Swedish film called 'Let the Right One In.' It involved tween human-vampire love and was surprisingly gory and random. It was also kind of tender, as it would be when 12-year-old Oskar asks his vampire lady friend if she "wants to go steady."
Nothing about this country is average! They are a cold people, still grappling with race issues, but also have a knack for design. I mean, it really is ingenius. I've stayed in a studio apartment with three other women and everyone's had a place to sleep! Talk about structure and space maximization!
I would expect no less from the people who brought us IKEA.
In fact, there heaps of things I can thank this cold nation for:
H&M
Ace of Base
The Cardigans (love me, love me, say that you love me!)
Beloved children's book character Pippi Longstocking
The Nobel Prize
Smorgasbords (heaps of all kinds of foods, meant to be eaten in order, from salty to sweet--brilliant!)
VIKINGS (I love to pillage and plunder)
However, I would have to ask someone about the whole 'active white supremacist population.' It makes me a bit scared to look some dudes in the eye.
I am blogging to you live from INSIDE CAUCASIA. The mood is tense--primarily because I can't really figure out how to type on this Swedish keyboard.
I am currently in Sankt Eriksplan, in Stockholm, but away from touristy stuff. I'm staying with a friend's cousin--and I think I have a mad girl-crush. I'm not sure if it was when we were looking for a pub and she referred to former party-hard self as a 'club fox,' or when she stole a poster advertising Britney Spears' upcoming Stockholm concert off of the subway wall, but all I know is, I'll never be the same again.
It was quite sunny and nice our first few days, but now Swedish weather has reared its ugly head--it's cold and rainy, and we decided instead of going to a pub or a club, it was better to rent a movie, drink Absolut pear flavored vodka with Fanta, and eat candy. You know, the logical alternative.
The movie was a Swedish film called 'Let the Right One In.' It involved tween human-vampire love and was surprisingly gory and random. It was also kind of tender, as it would be when 12-year-old Oskar asks his vampire lady friend if she "wants to go steady."
Nothing about this country is average! They are a cold people, still grappling with race issues, but also have a knack for design. I mean, it really is ingenius. I've stayed in a studio apartment with three other women and everyone's had a place to sleep! Talk about structure and space maximization!
I would expect no less from the people who brought us IKEA.
In fact, there heaps of things I can thank this cold nation for:
H&M
Ace of Base
The Cardigans (love me, love me, say that you love me!)
Beloved children's book character Pippi Longstocking
The Nobel Prize
Smorgasbords (heaps of all kinds of foods, meant to be eaten in order, from salty to sweet--brilliant!)
VIKINGS (I love to pillage and plunder)
However, I would have to ask someone about the whole 'active white supremacist population.' It makes me a bit scared to look some dudes in the eye.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Journey to the Center of CAUCASIA
In approximately 5 hours I will board a plane bound for Stockholm, Sweden, where I will spend 2 weeks. This will be plane number 14 in approximately 9 weeks. It will be my third journey into a different time zone. It will be frequent flyer miles 5,298,001-8,515,210.
I'm excited.
And fearful.
Not only will this be my first trip with one of my best friends--and the first time I've traveled with someone since developing my comfort and habits as a lone wolf/blackpacker--but I'll be in Scandinavia. The epicenter of Caucasian culture. Where pigment is a mere figment of the imagination!
I'm scared it's going to be very.... Village of the Damned.
AAAHHHH!!!! Inside Caucasia!
One friend said to me, "You go to the whitest vacation spots." Well, I'm sorry if this diminishes my 'negrosity,' but I believe that only by going deep inside Caucasia can I truly learn their ways. Like Nicholas Cage in Face/Off, I will go deep undercover--incognegro, if you will--and find out about Swedes. Packing list features:
-Hip boots, to combat the 40-degree temperatures.
-Sunglasses, to fend off the Swedish paparazzi who'll think I'm Michelle Obama.
-Eclipse, the third book in the Twilight series. After all, nothing prepares you for Caucasia like pasty vamps.
-The movie Juno, freshly uploaded onto my iPod. I'm not really sure why. Maybe cause it shows what trials and tribulations Caucasia can get through with a few smartly placed quips?
Okay, I'm off to finish packing and learn key Swedish phrases (such as "Do you have a girlfriend?" and "I'd like red wine, please"). Wish me luck! I hope to have hard-hitting news from my journey into the center of CAUCASIA* very soon.
*I hope my use of 'Caucasia' doesn't offend anyone. I mean, some of my best friends are White.
I'm excited.
And fearful.
Not only will this be my first trip with one of my best friends--and the first time I've traveled with someone since developing my comfort and habits as a lone wolf/blackpacker--but I'll be in Scandinavia. The epicenter of Caucasian culture. Where pigment is a mere figment of the imagination!
I'm scared it's going to be very.... Village of the Damned.
AAAHHHH!!!! Inside Caucasia!One friend said to me, "You go to the whitest vacation spots." Well, I'm sorry if this diminishes my 'negrosity,' but I believe that only by going deep inside Caucasia can I truly learn their ways. Like Nicholas Cage in Face/Off, I will go deep undercover--incognegro, if you will--and find out about Swedes. Packing list features:
-Hip boots, to combat the 40-degree temperatures.
-Sunglasses, to fend off the Swedish paparazzi who'll think I'm Michelle Obama.
-Eclipse, the third book in the Twilight series. After all, nothing prepares you for Caucasia like pasty vamps.
-The movie Juno, freshly uploaded onto my iPod. I'm not really sure why. Maybe cause it shows what trials and tribulations Caucasia can get through with a few smartly placed quips?
Okay, I'm off to finish packing and learn key Swedish phrases (such as "Do you have a girlfriend?" and "I'd like red wine, please"). Wish me luck! I hope to have hard-hitting news from my journey into the center of CAUCASIA* very soon.
*I hope my use of 'Caucasia' doesn't offend anyone. I mean, some of my best friends are White.
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