Whether users realize it or not, Myspace is the perfect example of a caste system. People are ranked by numerous qualities; attractiveness and blog hits are just some that come to mind. However, nothing contributes to one's virtual esteem, popularity, and stature quite like the ultimate form of Myspace caste:
The Top Friends list (TFL).
I can't express how much I hate that fucking list. It causes nothing but pain and suffering for people who base their self-worth on such frivolities (which would make for an interesting psychological study). This sucks for people like me who place people in their TFL so others will click on the profiles and say, "This person is the shit, and I'm glad I found their profile through Kristen". In other words, we see a Top Friends list as a form of sincere networking, not as a method of virtual name-dropping.
Some people might argue that networking and name-dropping are one in the same, but I beg to differ.
There are certain users out there who I like to call casteways [sic]. This is obviously a play on the word "caste", but it also describes the way TFL indulgers cast away TFs who aren't commenting enough on their profile, pictures, and/or blogs. Every time you go to their profile, there's a different set of TFs. There's no such thing as a TFF. Their TFL is busier than the turnstile at the Empire State Building.
(I actually don't remember if there's a turnstile at the ESB; it just sounded good.
And I'd just like to confirm that yes, apparently I'm riding an acronym wave tonight. WTF?)
For a long while, my profile was devoid of a TFL. Instead, I created a "View All Friends" link where people could check out my peeps (actually, the term "my peeps" annoys me, but I have it in my head because I just watched "Texas Cheerleader Scandal" on Lifetime [a sad glimpse into my current life – working feverishly on writing projects whilst watching Lifetime movies. Jesus fucking Christ]) if they so desired.
Obliterating my TFL was a rather double-edged decision. On one hand, I didn't have to worry about those "Kristen, why did you move me from Position 2 to Position 3? Didn't you like the picture comment I left you?" emails that I loathe. On the other hand, users didn't have immediate access to all my favorite people's profiles unless they clicked on the link. And we all know the majority of Myspace users are too ADD to do such things.
Eventually, I decided to reinstate my TFL because my page looked so . . . colorless. Lifeless, really. I have a few pictures on my profile, but I don't like to distract too much from the text itself. Writing is what I'm here for, after all (FYI for those who've asked: I prefer my simple black and white layout because multiple colors and graphics take away from the words, in my opinion).
My TFL has been back up for a few months, and for a while I had zero issues with it. But now, all of a sudden, there's controversy again. These past few weeks I've been getting messages like, "What does it take to be on your TFL?", "You're on my TFL, so how come I'm not on yours?", and "If you scratch my TFL back, I'll scratch yours".
I really hate that last line – it just screams Super Jabs and Bill Dawes. I don't like playing that game at all. Maybe that's why I've never done well in the corporate arena.
But I digress.
I honestly don't know why I've been experiencing so much TFL drama lately. It's not like I'm Tila Tequila (thank God) and can actually make a huge difference for someone if I put them on my TFL. Also, I've been somewhat of a Myspace recluse this summer because I've been traveling and writing so much, and when you're a recluse on Myspace, "out of sight, out of mind" becomes an understatement. And, as the moral of this blog goes, no one cares about being on the TFL of someone who isn't active on the site 24/7, 365.
Whatever the case, I've decided to toss my TFL once again . . . at least for the time being. I've never cared for that aspect of online social networking, and I'm really not here for that. I'm here to share my passion. I'm here to stimulate neurons and share a few laughs and connect with people through my words. I don't care how many people's TFLs I'm on or what "position" I'm in. I've always believed the caste system is bullshit, virtual or otherwise.
Indeed, my little black 'n white island of casteaway-free isolation suits me just fine.
I cry my eyes out every time I see this commercial:
This commercial is part of the "Let California Ring" campaign (aka the Protect Marriage Act, Same-Sex Marriage Ban, and Limit on Marriage Amendment). It will appear as Proposition 8 on the California ballot this November, and it's a matter I feel very strongly about.
I don't personally identify as gay, but I have a few close friends who do. It breaks my heart when I see the inequality and discrimination they face every day – even here in Los Angeles where we're supposedly more accepting and liberal. It upsets me as much as it upsets them. I just don't understand why people think it's such a big deal. Why are some people so threatened by same-sex couples? They're not hurting anyone, so why should people care?
I think the thing that upsets me most about people who vehemently oppose same-sex marriage is the fact that they're unable to see the matter from a different perspective. As the commercial asks, how would they feel if they couldn't marry the person they love? Can you imagine how horrible that must be? Why should certain people be banned from receiving the legal rights, benefits, and protections marriage offers simply because they have the same genitals as their partner?
Is it just me, or does it seem like wasted energy to worry about the gender of married couples? Shouldn't we be focusing on more important matters like global warming and nuclear war and poverty and health care reform and world peace and the asteroid that's scheduled to hit Earth in 2028 (more about that in my next blog)?
Talk about putting things in perspective. Seriously.
I believe that true love knows not the boundaries of sex and penises and vaginas. Love is an uncontrollable feeling and emotion that stands the test of time long after our physical bodies have broken down and we can't fuck like animals even if we wanted to (although I for one plan on milking it until the arthritis makes it impossible). Whether they'd like to admit it or not, everyone wants to experience love because it makes life worth living, and many people want to express their love and solidify their commitment by getting married. Why shouldn't everyone be afforded that basic right? Why should balls and clits determine approval or denial of a marriage license?
Are you laughing at the frivolousness of all this? Because I totally am. If you strip away the technicalities, this entire issue comes down to nothing but balls and clits. It's a fucking joke.
Sometimes the hypocritical nature of our nation is unfathomable. We like to revel in and brag about how advanced and progressive we are in this melting pot of a society, yet certain groups in this country are still denied basic civil rights. The discrimination and inequality homosexuals face in this country is much like discriminatory acts of times past. Women and most non-Caucasian ethnic groups dealt with discrimination and unequal treatment in the United States for over four hundred years, and even though the law would have us think otherwise, these groups are still not treated with complete equality.
We're getting better, admittedly, but it's still not good enough.
Now, in regard to same-sex marriage in relation to religion, I still don't see why people are so worried about it. I'm sure some Bible-thumper is going to comment and/or email me and say that homosexual marriage is an abomination, and my response to that is worry about your own fucking life and let God be the judge. I don't understand these hardcore Christians who think it's their right and duty to tell people what's right or wrong in the eyes of God. A true Christian should love and accept others no matter what, and that should include homosexuals. If they truly believe same-sex marriage is unacceptable in the eyes of God, then they should take comfort in knowing that even if gay couples were allowed to marry, God wouldn't see it as a valid union, anyway.
(That last line was a large dose of biting sarcasm, in case you couldn't tell)
The bottom line here is that this nation takes utmost pride in the fact that we are all (supposedly) created equal and enjoy the gift of freedom, but I call bullshit. We can't continue to fool ourselves into believing that mumbo-jumbo when not all people have the same civil rights. If we want to celebrate true freedom, we need to start here in California by voting yes on Proposition 8 (and on a future ballot in your state). It's not going away any time soon, and we need to buckle down and do the right thing. We need to Let California Ring.
Overall, I consider myself to be a happy person. I think this is a pretty amazing feat, considering what I've been through in my life. But once in a while, I find myself falling into these minor depressions. I stop returning phone calls, I spend a lot of time in my bedroom with the curtains drawn, and I listen to nothing but songs like "In The End" by Linkin Park and "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica.
I realize this is unhealthy behavior, but I've learned to just embrace it when it happens and wait for it to pass. Sometimes I even welcome it, because I seem to do my best writing when I'm in the depths of despair.
For the past three or four weeks, I've been going through one of the aforementioned depressions (and even more so since I heard about the death of Estelle Getty – what a bummer). I think a lot of it has to do with the subject matter I've been writing about recently. As most of you know, my memoir is a three-part series, and I'm currently wrapping up Book II. Book II ends with me being fired from my dancing gig, getting evicted from my apartment, and discovering that I'm pregnant.
I thought I'd hit rock bottom at that point, but the worst was still yet to come.
It makes me so fucking sad to think about that time in my life. I was looking for love and acceptance in all the wrong places. I actually convinced myself that every time my boyfriend hit me or told me I was a stupid whore or a fat piece of shit (his favorite term of endearment [even though I weighed about a hundred pounds at the time]), it was his subliminal way of telling me he loved me.
How fucked up is that? Seriously.
Even though I'm doing great things with my life and I've managed to turn the horrors of my past into something positive, the psychological effects of my time in Vegas will always be there. No amount of money, acclaim, success, fame, or therapy will ever change that. There's always going to be a deep reservoir of sadness right next to a fiery pit of anger inside of me. To be perfectly candid, I probably won't ever be truly at peace until I leave this world.
Virginia Woolf once said that "each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart, but his friends can only read the title". This statement is true for most people, but it doesn't apply to those of us who choose to share our past with the world. Most people don't want to share things that make him or her look bad, like the fact that they've been raped or they've had affairs or they've had an abortion or they've been abused or they've been arrested or they're a former drug addict/alcoholic or they've stolen things or they've stepped on people to get ahead. These are things we're ashamed to reveal because people judge us for them.
So why do we do it, then? Why do we memoirists put ourselves through the trauma of admitting to the world that we've acted like really shitty human beings?
Because we want to help people.
You know the old saying, "If you've reached one person, then you've made a difference"? I believe that to an extent, but my goal is to reach a lot of people. I truly believe my story can help people in a number of different ways, the main one being that no matter how far you've fallen, you can always find your way back up. You can always find your way back up. And you have to forgive yourself for mistakes you've made in the past – otherwise you'll never be able to move on with your life.
But that's not to say you'll ever forget those mistakes.
They say great art comes from great pain (gosh, I'm just full of cheesy expressions tonight, eh?), and I think that's exactly what I'm in the midst of right now. We have to go through pain in order to grow, learn, and become better people. I've grown and matured more than I ever thought possible since I left Vegas, but I know I still have a long way to go. However, I also know that growth takes time, and sometimes I have to remind myself that I'm only twenty-six years old, and it's okay that I'm not quite there yet. I still have my whole life ahead of me – assuming I don't fly off the handle and run away to Vegas again.
Heh. Bad joke.
I know this latest bought of depression will eventually subside, and at least I can say I've done some fucking awesome writing in the meantime. It's not the first time I've gone through it, and it certainly won't be the last. All I can do is roll with the punches...and be grateful that those punches are now figurative instead of literal.
Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time to go put on my Metallica CD again.
For the past month and a half, I've been on a painfully strict diet and exercise regimen. I haven't consumed any bread, pasta, dairy, or sugar since early June. I'm doing two hours of cardio seven days a week. My trainer kicks my ass on weights for an hour and a half every other day. My meal portion sizes are pitiful. I'm cranky all the time. I feel like killing everyone – especially the television networks that air Ruby Tuesday commercial six times an hour.
This perpetual bitchiness may also be due to the fact that I'm in dire need of a good pounding, but I digress.
I work out and eat healthfully on a regular basis, but, as demonstrated above, I've been pushing myself harder than ever lately. I haven't been this fit since my dancing days. And it's all for one very important reason (in addition to good health, of course):
In just three short weeks, I'm scheduled to pose nude for a certain men's magazine.
This probably comes as no surprise to some of you since I've blogged about it in the past, but actually going through with it...well, it's a tad bit nerve-wracking, to say the very least. And to say the very most, part of me is fucking petrified.
I've wrestled with the decision to pose nude for a long time. Although the aforementioned men's magazine wanted me to pose as far back as two years ago, I always declined because I didn't (and still don't) want to be just another nameless centerfold with jiz all over her glossy paper face and tits; I only ever wanted to do it to promote my memoir. I feel it's pointless to appear in the magazine unless I'm doing it for that purpose. If doing it is going to cause guys to check out my book (or at least tell their girlfriends/wives about it), then I've accomplished my goal.
However – posing nude doesn't come without complications.
There are a couple different reasons why I've wrestled with myself over the whole millions-of-people-are-going-to-see-me-naked thing. One of them is the disdain my family and close friends feel over it. Most of them don't think I "have to do that" in order to gain some recognition as an author. "Use your brain, not your body", they say.
You know what I say?
"Why can't I use both?"
In the past, I've worried that doing something like this would take away from my credibility as a writer. However, I've since realized that my worries were nothing more than frivolous insecurities. I know I'm intelligent, and I know I'm a decent writer, so why should I worry about being perceived in a certain way? Besides, it's not like I'm writing the great American novel, for Christ's sake – I'm writing an autobiographical story about sex, drugs, and hot, sweaty dancing in Las Vegas, of all places.
For these reasons alone, my readers are going to be interested in what I look like. It's just human nature. And doing a provocative pictorial coincides with the material in the book. It makes sense in that regard.
I realize the majority of people buying my book are going to be women aged 18-35, and that enthralls me because I'm writing this story as a cautionary tale for other women. I'm confident that any given woman browsing the tables at Barnes and Noble who sees my book will probably buy it (or at least flip through it). But any given man?
I'm not so sure.
If posing in a men's magazine is going to expose my work to an audience that might otherwise not be aware (i.e., men aged 10-100), I don't see why I shouldn't take advantage of that.
Truth be told that if Cosmo offered to put me in the magazine, I'd be all over that, too. But it's difficult to get your foot in the door in a publication like that unless you're an established name, you've sold millions of books, you're part of Oprah's Book Club, and/or you're a hot guy (take note, all you sexy male writers out there). Being a little-known author with a new book to promote just isn't enough – I might get a small plug at best (until Oprah invites me to be a guest on her show, that is). And that just wouldn't provoke the same attention as a sensual, Old Vegas-inspired nude layout in a men's magazine.
That's what my business and marketing-savvy mind thinks, anyway.
Speaking of nudity, the other issue perpetuating my internal wrestling match is the thought of posing au natural in an internationally-circulated magazine. I mean, what's the world population now? Almost seven billion?
Okay, I'm sure seven billion people aren't going to see me naked. But the eager sets of eyes will certainly be in the millions.
I don't have a problem with nudity itself. I think the human body is a beautiful thing, and the prospect of people admiring mine is flattering. But it's also a little scary, because you're exposing something that's extremely private and intimate. I feel the same vulnerability about the subject matter of my book and other autobiographical things I share about my life. I put myself out there in an extreme way because I don't believe in half-assing anything. But being so open and inviting people into my personal life also leaves the door open for hasty judgments, harsh criticism, and personal attacks.
I'm not complaining, because I realize my actions and behavior are conscious choices. I'm just saying that being caught with my pants down all the time isn't always easy. And throwing literal meaning into that statement intensifies the vulnerability I feel further.
You know what, though? Exposing your deepest vulnerabilities is empowering. I've never felt stronger in my entire life.
Getting back to my personal feelings about nudity: I don't really have a problem with showing my breasts. After all, I was a topless showgirl for five years. But the idea of "showing pink" makes me a little nervous (in case you're unaware, the phrase "showing pink" is used in the modeling industry and refers to the revealing of one's hoo-ha). That's something I've never done in a public forum. I think I have a nice hoo-ha, and I'm certainly not ashamed of her, but I've only introduced her to a select group of people. A very privileged select group of people, thankyouverymuch.
The magazine in question is known for presenting hoo-has in a very classy way, so it's not like I'll be spreading my lips and rubbing my clit whilst posing doggie-style. But still – I'm a little anxious about it. Sometimes I feel like I should keep some things for myself...and whomever I invite into my bed.
On the other hand, if I'm gonna do this, why not go all the way? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I know a lot of girls who would cut their hoo-has off for a chance to do this...
...on another hand, maybe it's better to leave something to the imagination. Maybe I should draw the line at tits only (after all, I'd still be "showing pink", essentially. I'll even ice 'em beforehand)...
...on still another hand, I don't like to cheat my readers, so why should I cheat my viewers? That'd be like cutting my book off in the middle of a sex scene...
Fuck.
And the match continues.
Who knew the color pink could pin me so effectively?
Whenever someone asks me about my political stance, I usually respond with a simple four-word phrase:
"Obama all the way!"
I love seeing the look on people's faces when I use this phrase. They either give me an enthusiastic high-five or their face contorts into an expression of disgust and disbelief (like my dad's). But whatever their reaction, they know instantly where I stand in regards to politics. I support same-sex marriage. I support freedom of choice. I support pulling the troops out of Iraq. I support the proposed tax reform. I support the proposed national energy policy. I support pushing the Republicans the fuck out of the oval office.
Like I said - Obama all the way.
I've always been interested in government and politics. In fact, before I ventured out to left field and went to Las Vegas, I was planning a career as a lawyer and political strategist. No joke. I still haven't given up on my dream of passing the bar. I'd love to get my legal license one of these days. And my MBA, for that matter.
Hey, why not? Anything's possible.
I've been looking forward to the 2008 presidential race for the past eight years, so needless to say, this race has had my undivided attention since last winter. It's been historical and groundbreaking in so many ways, and for the first time in ages, Americans are actually interested in the election, the candidates, and their respective policies.
I'm a huge fan of Senator Obama for many reasons. He's young, he's dynamic, he's innovative, he's cutting-edge, and unlike other candidates, he actually lives in the modern world and his policies and propositions are a reflection of that. Maybe he doesn't have as much experience as John McCain, but, lest we forget, John McCain is a hundred fucking years old (did anyone catch the press conference in which McCain was asked about Viagra? That's gotta hurt).
I honestly think there's a lot to be said for social skills and public presence, and I think that's what our country needs right now. Even if you've only briefly watched Obama and McCain perform at the podium, it's easy to see who wins that round. In my opinion, John McCain is a terrible public speaker. He mumbles, he constantly strokes his non-existent beard, and he always seems to be searching the ceiling for an answer. He has difficulty making eye contact, and he seems anxious and uncomfortable during interviews and press conferences.
Bush's public speaking is worse, admittedly, but McCain runs a close second.
I realize the bigger issue here is who would be better able to run this country, not who can effortlessly read a TelePrompter, but still - how can we have confidence in a guy who obviously dislikes being in the spotlight and engaging with people? These don't seem like qualities a leader should have. The President of the United States needs to be self-assured, confident, persuasive, and reassuring, not someone who's a timid little mouse whenever someone asks him/her a question.
Obama, on the other hand, possesses the aforementioned qualities every leader should have. He's an excellent public speaker. He's comfortable and at ease with people and in front of the camera. His performances have far exceeded McCain's in every debate. He's not afraid to hob-nob with the general public. The list goes on and on. It reminds me of the glory days of Bill Clinton.
Because of these qualities, Obama has gotten a staggering number of people interested in the election and its outcome, particularly young people (which is the most difficult demographic to reach). I've honestly never seen the American public so familiar with or interested in a presidential election. And I don't thinks it's just because there's a female (because she could still be VP) and a black candidate. I think it's genuine interest.
On that note, I'm not a huge fan of Hilary Clinton. I really wanted to like her because, like any woman, I'd love to see one running this country, but...I just don't. And I truly hope Obama doesn't take her as his running mate.
But that's a topic for another blog.
In addition, Obama's youthful optimism and innovation is striking in contrast to McCain's ancient traditionalism. Technology has been a huge part of Obama's campaign and proposed policies, and I think this is a wise direction to go in. Obama has emphasized the value of improving technology and implementing it to make necessary changes to our everyday lives (oil prices, national energy policy, defense, the environment, etc.). He's also used the benefits of technology to further his own position via the Internet and the media - two major promotional forums John McCain shies away from. McCain has even admitted that he's "just now learning how to get online".
What the fuck? Dude can't figure out how to get on the fucking Internet? Maybe he's still trying to access it with a modem...
And furthermore - am I the only one who thinks it's just plain stupid to admit to the technology and media-obsessed American public that you don't know a thing about the Internet?
Seriously.
I'm telling you right now that this country will suffer immensely if we have a leader who doesn't recognize and appreciate the value of or understand how to implement technology. I realize that, if elected {shudder}, McCain will have an army of advisers who will revise his policies to include some technological aspects (and hopefully speak for him and teach him how to check email). But the bottom line is McCain would still be the one running the country, and his policies and propositions would be a reflection of that.
Moreover, and perhaps most importantly, I think Obama has an advantage in this election because I don't think Americans want to see another Republican in office. Bush has fucked up so badly for so long that putting another Republican in the White House seems like a death sentence, which it probably would be. This country needs to make some drastic changes, and I don't think McCain would be willing/able to make said changes. I think we'd continue to sit at a standstill for the next four to eight years if McCain were elected, not to mention we'd have to continue to sit through more piss-poor public speeches a la George Bush.
Our country needs someone who isn't afraid to turn the White House upside down. We need someone who's eager and enthusiastic to govern us, not someone who's worn out, tired, and ready to die any minute. I appreciate the fact that John McCain is a celebrated veteran who has tons experience, but I don't think that means he's the best one to run this country. The time of the Democrat has arrived, and Barack Obama is the ideal person to front it.
That's why he's gonna go all the way.
***
In other news, a very interesting satiric cartoon involving Obama showed up on the cover of "New Yorker" magazine today. Click the picture for that story:
The Initial Do’s and Don’ts Test (or how to effectively land chicks...and keep them)
Category: Romance and Relationships
No offense, guys, but it constantly amazes me how clueless you can be when it comes to landing chicks. Seriously. It's like you're not even trying. It's like you expect us girls to just accept your passive, lazy, lack-of-initiative behavior without question. It's like the words "chase", "chivalry", and "courtship" don't exist in your vocabulary anymore.
It's fucking sad, not to mention frustrating.
One of the reasons why I favor older men (I typically date men ten to fifteen years my senior, which puts the minimum at thirty-six and the maximum at forty-one) is because generally, they have a better grasp on how to treat a woman. Concepts of chivalry, courtship, and "the chase" aren't completely dead and buried six feet underground with maggots feasting on their flesh. Most of the time, there's still one bony hand or foot reaching up into the sky, letting us know those concepts are still (somewhat) there. I'm sure this difference is a generational thing.
(Plus, in my experience, older men typically know how to fuck better.
I'm just sayin')
It seems that contemporary young men believe that showing up for a date in dirty jeans, beat-up sneakers, and a shirt that says "It Ain't Gonna Lick Itself" (which has actually happened to me [and which would be funny under different circumstances, but not on a first date]) is totally okay. They believe that taking a girl to the cheapest restaurant in town and encouraging her to order off the happy hour menu is completely acceptable. They believe that asking her to pick them up because they "can't afford to waste gas money" is a reasonable request.
Well, I'm here to tell you, guys – none of that shit is okay. Not if you want a fighting chance of landing a decent chick who has standards.
I think part of this male behavioral problem is that women are setting their standards way too low. In addition to my own experiences, I listen to the stories my girlfriends and female relatives tell me and I observe the way their husbands/boyfriends treat them, and it just makes me cringe. It reminds me of the way my ex treated me: with no respect.
My standards have changed a lot since I left my ex (when I say "my ex", most of the time I'm referring to the guy I lived with in Vegas for six years). In fact, my standards are so high now, it's difficult for me to move beyond a first or second date. This fact is unfortunate, yes, but in all honesty, it doesn't bother me too much. I'm not willing to lower my standards, and if someone isn't able/willing to pass the Initial Dos and Don'ts Test, then he's obviously not the guy for me.
Yeah, you read that right - The Initial Dos and Don'ts Test. It's a test every single girl (and guy, if privy to it) should live their dating lives by.
So what exactly is The Initial Dos and Don'ts Test, you ask? Well, it's a list of ten things I look for on a first date. If a guy I'm out with falls victim to three or more "Don'ts", he's immediately written off. That may sound harsh, and perhaps it's a bit pretentious to expect a man to pass a "test", but hey – I have a lot to offer, and the guy I'm with needs to reciprocate. It's as simple as that.
Besides, The Initial Dos and Don'ts Test isn't as bad as it sounds. It's pretty much just common sense in the dating world. Sadly, however, many contemporary men seem to lack said common sense.
Anyhow, I thought it'd be fun to share the Test with everyone, and I also thought it'd be a good way to point all those clueless guys out there in the right direction. Whoever implements the wealth of knowledge contained in the Initial Dos and Don'ts Test in his dating life will have more success with chicks in the long run – I'm sure of this.
In fact, I'll give you my word.
***
THE INITIAL DOS AND DON'TS TEST (and just to reiterate, "initial" = first date in this case, although if things progress beyond Date 1, keeping the following "Dos" in mind will help your cause immensely)
1. Do take the initiative to plan out the evening for you and your date (girls love a man with a plan). Don't wait until you're both sitting in the car outside her place to ask, "So, what do you want to do tonight?"
2. Do take your date to a place where you can hear each other and talk comfortably. Don't take your date to a seedy bar or a loud, crowded nightclub (those excursions should come later in the relationship, when you're in the fucking-in-public-places phase).
3. Do put some time and effort into your appearance (shave, put on cologne, style your hair, brush your teeth, tuck in your shirt, wear nice shoes, etc.). Don't forget how much women go through every day to look sexy, beautiful, and attractive.
4. Do make sure you thoroughly clean and trim your nails before a date (which you should be doing all the time, anyway). Don't forget that no girl wants to imagine a filthy finger rubbing her clit or penetrating her orifices.
5. Do clean your car (inside and out) before you pick up your date. Don't forget to open the door for her before you run back to the driver's side.
6. Do walk up to your date's front door like a gentleman. Don't honk the horn as a way of signaling her that you've arrived.
7. Do compliment your date on her appearance. Don't tell her you dislike her makeup, hairstyle, and/or outfit (this is only acceptable if you're living together or you've been dating for at least a year).
8. Do make sure you have plenty of floss, mints, or gum handy. Don't move in to kiss a girl after an evening of drinking wine or eating garlic unless you've checked your breath first.
9. Do listen and show some interest in what your date has to say. Don't blatantly stare at her tits and/or ass the whole time (we know you're doing it, but at least be subtle).
NUMBER 10 IS A HUGE DEAL-BREAKER, IN MY OPINION, SO PAY ATTENTION!
10. Do take note that the following "Don't" will probably cost you a second date. Don't ever, ever, ever, under any circumstances, drone on and on about your ex-girlfriend on a first date. Ever. If you find yourself doing this, then you obviously need to refrain from dating until you're absolutely certain you're over your ex.
***
So there you have it – a glimpse into what goes through my mind (and many other women's minds) on a first (and a second...and a third) date. I hope this insider information will shed light on why some guys fail miserably when it comes to dating. It's all about chivalry, baby. If you don't have it, you better dig up that grave and bring it back to life. I garuntee that doing so will help you land chicks...and keep them.
A few weeks back, my friend Scott wrote a two-part blog series that upset a lot of people. There were several points made in the blog(s), but the main point was that, whether we'd like to admit it or not, what's on the outside does matter. And it matters a lot.
I thought the blog was interesting, and I thought the responses were even more interesting. Society is obsessed with vanity and physical perfection, yet talking about the importance we place on such things makes people uncomfortable. It's almost as if people are in denial. And those whose balls are big enough to point out the fact that attractive people generally enjoy more success in life are considered "shallow assholes" and/or "insensitive pricks".
They say anger is really a mask for hurt feelings and/or the angered person's realization of the truth, and I think that's exactly the case here. Because you know what? Deep down inside, everyone wants to look their best. Everyone wants to look good naked.
Personally, I've never really believed in the expression, "It doesn't matter what you look like – it's what's on the inside that counts". I agree that what's on the inside certainly counts and is extremely important, but I don't agree with the other half - that is, the claim that what one looks like "doesn't matter". I just don't think it's realistic to apply that claim to our society. It's unfortunate, yes, but I think I'm stating the obvious here.
Case and point:
If you've been reading my blogs for a while, you're probably aware of the fact that I was a fugly (<--not a typo) duckling growing up. No ifs, ands, or big butts about it. I was fugly. If you're new to my blog and/or you don't believe me, here's proof.
(Usually, my personal photo albums are only viewable by people on my friends list, but today I'm making an exception and [temporarily] unlocking all of my albums. So take advantage while it lasts)
And please don't say I was "cute". People with coke bottle glasses, a lazy eye, crooked teeth, a back brace, and chub-a-lub are not "cute". By societal standards, they're considered fugly. Sad, but true. We can tell societal standards to go fuck themselves 'til the cows come home, but that doesn't really change anything.
My fugly years marked one of the worst periods in my life. I had no friends, I was constantly ignored and disregarded, and boys wouldn't give me the time of day. In fact, I was so awful-looking, boys actually ran away from me in disgust.
Seriously. It was that bad.
Sure, people were aware of my Mensa-like intelligence (heh), but no one wanted to listen to what I had to say because they couldn't stand looking at me. They couldn't get past the physical unattractiveness. Too distracting, I guess, not to mention they could never tell where my wandering pupil was looking.
But my, how the tables have turned.
I'm not saying I'm a supermodel now, but I'm pretty damn content with the way I look. And part of that contentedness comes from the fact that I went through a lot of bullshit to get to my current state: seven eye surgeries, two spinal surgeries, four years of braces, a countless number of hours at the gym, etc. etc. etc. x infinity.
It sure was worth it, though. Ding-dong, the fugly girl is dead. And life is much sweeter now because of that.
Is it fucked up that my life is better now just because I'm more physically attractive? Perhaps. But, as my father would say, "if you want to be successful in life, you gotta play the game". And I must say, it feels great to finally be an active player.
I honestly believe that in order to increase one's chances of being successful in life, one must make an effort to look his/her best (for the record, I'm talking about normal, healthy adults without medical issues who are perfectly capable of taking care of themselves). It's all about putting your best face forward. I'm not saying everyone should strive to look like Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt – I'm just saying that people should do the best with what they've got. Why? Because it's a proven fact that people who take pride in their appearance enjoy more personal, professional, and romantic success than people who don't, not to mention they live longer.
We live in an era in which there are plenty of tools/resources available to help people look and feel their best. So when I see someone who looks like this . . .
. . . or this . . .
. . . or this . . .
. . . I wonder why they're not taking advantage of said tools/resources. I have absolutely no tolerance for obesity, and I think people who let themselves get to that point are just plain lazy. To me, it indicates a lack of respect for one's body, one's health, and one's overall sense of well-being.
I know someone out there is going to say something about obesity in relation to socioeconomic status, and while that certainly has some impact, the bottom line here is that if a person truly wants to improve him/herself, he/she can do it. It's as simple as that. And I'm living proof of it.
In spite of what our hypocritical society leads us to believe (right after they glorify the physical perfection of Brad and Angelina), being "big and beautiful" and/or having "more to love" is not okay. Deep down, no one really wants to be overweight and/or physically unattractive. Aside from the social, professional, and romantic limitations that arise from being overweight and/or "letting yourself go", the medical issues/complications alone should be motivation enough to get to the gym. And, lest we forget, there's a reason why positive endorphins are released during physical actvity. Excercise does the body good. Feeling confident in one's physical appearance creates feelings of happiness, and there's plenty of scientific evidence out there proving it.
Now, don't get me wrong here - I'm not saying physical attractiveness = guaranteed happiness. Furthermore, I'm not saying that outer beauty is more important than inner beauty. It feels redundant for me to even reiterate that working on one's mind and soul is imperative; I think I've always made my stance on that issue pretty clear. But I am saying that what one looks like does matter in our society. It has an impact on the course of one's life. People are attracted to attractive people. It's biology, baby. Survival of the fittest. Darwin hit the nail on the head with that one.
I'm sure everyone wishes we lived in a world in which looks had no impact on our lives, and inner beauty really was the only thing that mattered. I know I do. But the reality is we don't live in that kind of world. It goes back to biology, essentially – animals are wired to seek out the fittest and most attractive mates so we can increase the probability of producing beaucoup offspring; ergo, the animal kingdom lives on. That's why we're still here today, playing the game.
It's all about playing the game. And it's all about playing it well.
Because you know what? Deep down inside, everyone wants to be a winner.
I know some people were shocked, horrified, and confused by my blog entry yesterday, so I thought I'd take a moment to explain.
The incident I wrote about is a true story, and I took it directly from a chapter in Book 1 of my memoir. Until I hit the "Post" button yesterday, no one, save for two very close friends, knew anything about that incident. For years, it was my burden to carry alone. I was too humiliated to tell anyone about it, and, up until recently, I always believed it'd remain a perpetual skeleton in my closet.
But now it's out there, and I feel relieved – at my readers' expense, that is. I hope you don't mind.
In spite of what some believe, I didn't share this ugly part of my past for the sake of being pitied. The last thing I want is pity. I shared it because people always want to know what caused me to drop out of high school, run away from home, and wind up on the streets of Las Vegas. It's a huge question, and one I've always had difficulty answering directly.
There were a number of incidents that led to my snapping at age seventeen, but I'd say this one was the most significant. It was the beginning of a long, rancorous downward spiral for me (hence the title of yesterday's blog). After it happened, I didn't care about anything. I went from a straight-A Honor Roll student to a juvenile delinquent practically overnight. I dated losers who treated me like shit because I didn't think I could do any better. I fought with my parents all the time. I felt like no one understood my pain or the things I'd gone through.
As a child and then as a young adult, I'd never been able to express my feelings with ease, so I buried things inside. But you can't bury things inside forever. Eventually, there's no more dirt left to cover the hole. And when that happens, there's nothing left to do but run away . . . and hope your past won't catch up with you.
So that's what I did. I ran away for six years.
But my past caught up with me.
And now I'm dealing with it.
I think the biggest thing to note here is that overall, I'm okay. I've been on a positive path for over three years now, and the future is looking brighter and brighter every day. I'm attending one of the finest universities in the world, I'm in the top five percent of my class, I have a great memoir in the works, and I have an amazing circle of friends and family supporting me all the way. What more could a girl ask for?
I'm a huge advocate of the notion that everything happens for a reason – the good, the bad, and the horribly ugly. We're never put through more than we can handle, and even though I've been through some massively fucked up shit in my day, I'm a better person because of it. Am I perfect? No. Am I happy-happy joy-joy all the time? Of course not. Will I ever fully recover from things that've happened in my past? Probably not.
But I'm okay.
Because yesterday, another skeleton was laid to rest.
***
Until that day in the near future when I'm able to start my own organization (which I fully intend on doing, along with opening a chain of relief centers for victims of domestic violence), I'd like to encourage anyone who is or knows someone who is a victim of rape to visit www.RAINN.org.
I feel lucky in that so many people are supportive of me and the sensitive matters I choose to write about. Thanks to everyone for your kind comments and emails. It truly means the world to me.
The nightclub was hot and crowded, the air laced with the scent of sweat and cheap tequila. It was midnight on a Saturday night, and every square inch of the building was packed with cocktail waitresses, bouncers, and gyrating bodies. From my position on the second level, I had a bird's eye view of the action below. I'd been standing there for over an hour searching for my friend Mimi's fire engine red hair, but to no avail. And I was extremely annoyed.
Another glance at my pager confirmed that Mimi still hadn't bothered cluing me in on her whereabouts. I hoped she hadn't passed out in the restroom. Or found some random guy to make out with in the parking lot. She was known to do either or both of those things from time to time.
The nightclub was located in one of the seediest sections of North Hollywood, and for the umpteenth time that evening, I asked myself what the fuck I was doing there. Mimi had insisted on taking me to a nightclub in celebration of my seventeenth birthday, even though neither one of us was (technically) old enough to get in. But the birthday gift she'd given me at school the day before had come in handy that night – it was a fake ID she'd won in an ebay auction. Or so she said. Mimi was full of colorful stories.
I'd been skeptical about the nightclub idea, being as the girl in the ID picture hardly resembled me. But to my surprise, the ID had worked, so there I was – blonde-haired, blue-eyed, one hundred and fifteen-pound Jennifer Davis from Tarzana, California. A twenty-three year old organ donor with corrective lenses.
Being an organ donor and wearing corrective lenses were just about the only things I had in common with Jennifer Davis.
I searched the dance floor for Mimi one last time. Her red head was nowhere in sight. I gave up my prime position at the second-floor railing and headed downstairs. I was in desperate need of a cigarette.
The cool air felt good against my skin as I edged past the long line of clubgoers waiting to get in. I felt like telling them not to waste their time. Or money. The twenty-dollar cover charge was a fortune for a seventeen-year-old girl living off the allowance Daddy gave her.
The designated smoking area was in a dark, secluded nook far removed from the club entrance. It appeared to be empty. I stuck a Marlboro Red in my mouth and rifled through my purse.
"Great," I muttered, realizing Mimi had my lighter. "That's just fucking perfect."
"Need a light, pretty girl?"
I turned around, startled. It was as if he'd come from out of nowhere.
"Here." He held a silver Zippo lighter to my lips and flipped it open.
I sucked in a lungful of nicotine and eyed the keeper of the flame. He wore ripped jeans, a navy blue hoodie, and black Chuck Taylors. His hair was short and blond, and his clear blue eyes danced mischievously under the orangey-yellow street light. He was different from all the other silk shirt-wearing, Cool Water cologne-reeking clowns raving to techno beats inside the nightclub. There was an air of effortless confidence about him – like he wasn't even trying. Like he'd been around the block a few times.
I was immediately intrigued.
"Thanks."
"Sure thing."
We smiled at one another.
"So what's your name?"
"Kristen."
"Hi, Kristen. I'm P______."
"Nice to meet you, P______."
He tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and stamped it out with his shoe. "Are you here alone?"
"Yeah—well, no. I mean . . . sort of. I came with a friend, but she disappeared on me."
"That was pretty shitty of her."
"Whatever. I'm not having very much fun, anyway. But I have to wait for her 'cause she's my ride home."
"Where do you live?"
"In D______."
"Well, I'm not having very much fun myself, so . . . if you want . . . I can give you a ride home."
"You were in there?" I nodded towards the building. "I didn't see you." I'd quickly realized the demographic of that particular club was mostly Hispanic, so every blonde head I saw stood out like a sore thumb. And I hadn't seen his.
"Yeah, I was in there. I saw you dancing."
Did I dance? I didn't think I had, but I couldn't remember for sure.
"Where do you live, P______?"
"Uh, near you."
"What city?"
"You know – close to D______."
I looked back at the club entrance. My gut instinct told me to walk away, but the thought of going back in there and fighting through a wall of sweat and drunkenness to find Mimi was torturous. I checked my pager again. Still nothing.
"What're you thinking?" He took a step closer. "It's just a ride home. Unless you want to wait here for your friend all night."
"I—I don't know. Maybe I should look for her one last time—"
"Look, my truck's right over there." He pointed to a black F-150 a couple yards away. "I've gotta get going, so if you wanna come with . . ."
He looks harmless, I thought. And I really want to go home.
Besides, Mimi leaves with random dudes all the time, and nothing's ever happened to her.
"Okay."
He took my arm and led me to the truck. His touch was gentle and soothing, and my reservations quickly subsided. He opened the car door and helped me inside.
The last thing I remember is digging through my purse for my pager.
Then – darkness.
***
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I tried to figure out where I was. I tried to swallow, but something prevented me from doing so. My mouth was filled with something thick and wooly. My head had never ached so badly in my entire life.
"Hey, she's waking up."
"Hit her with the crowbar again."
"We don't want to kill her, dumb fuck. Just hurry up and do your thing."
A face appeared above me. The guy with the Zippo lighter. He was supposed to drive me home.
I winced as he slapped me in the face, then pushed himself forcefully inside me. The more I came to, the more it hurt. I tried kicking, but I couldn't move my legs. I tried hitting him back, but realized I couldn't move my arms, either.
He must've felt uncomfortable having me look at him, because he pulled the fabric from my mouth and covered my eyes with it. As soon as my mouth was free, I began screaming.
"Shut up, you little whore!" A hand clamped down over my mouth. "Give me the crowbar."
"I'm not giving you the fucking crowbar! Just hurry the fuck up so we can get rid of her!"
He pulled out suddenly. "Fine, fine. Your turn."
Another hand clamped down on my mouth from a different direction. I bit the fleshy part between the thumb and forefinger as hard as I could. The blood was hot on my tongue.
"Fuck! You little bitch!"
Darkness.
***
My head pounded against something cold and hard as I came to once again. I opened one eye and was greeted by a mound of concrete and cigarette butts. Birds chirped somewhere above me. An ambulance screeched by somewhere beyond that.
The smoking area at the nightclub.
Sitting up was sheer agony. I touched the side of my head. It was warm and wet. The sight of the fresh blood covering my fingers made me dizzy.
I looked down at the state of disarray I was in. My shoes were missing. My dress was torn and barely covering my body. My thighs were streaked with blood. My fingernails were jagged and broken. I didn't even want to think about how my face looked.
My purse was also missing, which meant no more pager. I held my head in my hands and wondered how I was going to get home. I wondered how I was going to explain this to my parents. I wondered where Mimi was and where she'd gone the night before.
I stumbled toward the nightclub entrance, praying that someone would be inside. I pounded on the door for what seemed like an eternity. Perky pedestrians and jovial joggers stared at me in horror as they passed by.
"Yeah?" The intercom crackled.
"Please . . . I need help." I felt lightheaded.
"Club's closed, ma'am."
"No, please. I—"
"We open at ten."
"I'm not here for—"
Click.
I held myself up against the wall, the world spinning around me. The world fading around me.
I feel myself going through one of my "I hate men" phases again lately. It happens every now and again, and I've come to accept it rather than wrestle with it. I think it happens to the best of us. Men and women just love to hate each other. And that's perfectly normal and healthy.
If I could be a full-blown lesbian, I totally would. In general, women are much more considerate, sensitive, caring, gentle, and kind than men are. I often wonder what it would be like to have a romantic relationship with a woman. It'd probably be a lot easier to express my feelings without having to worry about the typical male response of "oh, shit, she just spilled her guts to me. Guess it's time to start putting some massive emotional distance between us now. Unless, of course, she's in the mood to fuck".
No offense, guys. But that's how many of you roll.
However, the problem with living a life sans men is that I require generous and frequent servings of protein-rich franks and beans. Large franks strongly preferred. Smooth, Irish Spring-tasting beans a plus.
Come to think of it, I've never experienced anything but large franks. No experience with Vienna sausages here. In fact, I'm pretty sure I have an inherent radar for extra-large franks. We're talking ball park status here. And not just ball park status - ball park plus parking lot and surrounding area status.
Yeah. It's all about the thick, juicy, bun-sized ball park franks. Especially if said franks know how to pound a woman into oblivion.
But I digress.
Every time I go through one of these man-hating phases, I try to objectively analyze what it is about male behavior that makes me wanna tear my hair out and castrate every man in close vicinity (after I've gotten my protein serving, of course). This time around, the conclusion I came to was relatively painless to figure out:
Men are not biologically wired to commit. Period. It doesn't matter how beautiful, talented, intelligent, or successful you are. It doesn't even matter if you're great in bed. Once a man thinks you're emotionally attached, he runs away as if there were a fire under his ass.
And that's the truth.
In spite of what many people assume about me, I actually haven't been in a lot of relationships. Sure, I date, but dating does not = relationship. I take the word "relationship" very seriously. Wanting to be in one is a big step for me. It means I like the guy enough to let him pass through that thick, massive brick wall around my heart. It's a wall that's thicker than most people's, and it's been built up over a very long period of time. The bricks are comprised of endless incidences of physical, mental, and sexual abuse, most of which are too painful for me to even discuss. The only place I'll probably ever acknowledge said incidences is in my book, and truth be told I had to work through a lot of pain, anger, tears, and frustration to get that stuff in writing.
Since I split with my first boyfriend three years ago, I've had one serious relationship. That relationship ended about nine months ago, and the breakup was extremely difficult for me. I wouldn't say it ended badly, exactly. But it was hard. I'd really grown to care about that person in a way that was much different from the schoolgirl infatuation I felt for my first boyfriend. I guess you could say it was my first "adult" relationship. The fact that I wasn't able to salvage it made me feel like a failure, and since then I've been ridiculously good at maintaining distance in terms of my emotional connection to men.
But then this one guy came along.
I recently found myself in a situation where I caught the commitment bug again. And I didn't rush into it at all, either - I was extremely cautious. I'd built up a good friendship with the guy over a long period of time, slowly letting him in. A future was often discussed, but there always seemed to be something in the way. But in spite of the obstacles (and there were big ones), I decided to put myself out there anyway. His words and actions indicated that we were on the same page as far as wanting to explore the possibility of a relationship, and as such I thought it was a good time to tell him how I truly felt.
Man, was that a mistake. Huge. My foot is still stuck in my fucking mouth. I probably have glitter on my tongue from that "Nude Shimmer" polish my pedicurist recommended.
The guy in question played off my emotional revelations with commendable casualness, but I know he was freaked out by the things I said. It's not like I said I was in love or willing to give up my life for him - not in the slightest. But he was still freaked out. His behavior toward me has changed considerably since then, and it's been extremely painful, confusing, and upsetting for me. Another failure. Another man unwilling to commit.
Is it because the chase is over for him? Is it because there's nothing left to work toward now that he thinks he "has" me?
Why do men always shut down when they're faced with the reality that women are sensitive creatures with fragile hearts and real emotions? I mean, am I just supposed to say, "You know what, fuck it. Who cares. Next, please"? I can't do that. I can't turn the switch off as nonchalantly as he can, even though it appears that I'm expected to. Suddenly, I'm supposed to act differently and change my behavior because if I don't, it'll make him uncomfortable and/or unresponsive.
It's just so incredibly fucked, you know? Seriously. I wish I would've kept my big mouth shut.
If it sounds like I'm angry, I totally am. I'm allowed to be. Because I put myself out there and I was shot down. Shot down after being given the impression for so long that he wanted it as much as I did. In fact, I remember an incident a few months back where he was the one pushing for a commitment, most likely because he felt like I was slipping out of his grasp. As they say, the person who wants the least amount of commitment has the most power.
Normally, I'm the powerful one. And I don't know how to deal with this newfound powerlessness. Perhaps this is what they mean when they say "what goes around comes around".
I wish it was easy for me to fall into a pattern of ignoring this guy and being conveniently busy every time he contacts me. I wish I could be as passé about things as he seems to be. But I have a bleeding heart, and I find it difficult to do that. I have a weak spot for him that will probably never cease.
That weak spot is annoying and scary as hell, but...well, it is what it is. We all bleed for someone. That's what makes us human. Humans love to love, and we love to hate.
And, unfortunately, we also hurt.
From now on, I'm concentrating solely on the physical. Fuck relationships. Every time I think I've found one worth pursuing, it blows up in my face. I'm perfectly content letting motherfuckers chase me for the rest of my life. Catch me if you can. The brick wall is now sealed and locked up tight. Closed for business.
Unless, of course, you have a bun-sized ball park frank.
