ESCRIBIR ES UNA MISERIA Y LOS ESCRITORES QUEREMOS MORIR » Social Inadequacy

Equal Opportunity Hater

nycjen — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 18:37:23 +0000

There’s always one person in each class every semester that makes me sick, pisses me off or irritates me by their very existence. (How dare I? Right? Well here’s how I dare, by indulging my ego. Of course I know now that those people most likely possess qualities which I need to work on in myself, but I have to vent here first.) My Spanish teacher is from Spain, he’s retired. It’s a mid-level intermediate class now. So my fluency is still improving at least I sound a little like someone whose had some schooling (though there’s nothing wrong with Spanish slang). Still, there is a young man in my class whose last name means “wise old man” in Italian. The meaning in Spanish is very similar. It’s obvious that his diction is good (his parents are Italian he is a first generation Italian-American). His thing is this: if the professor makes even the slightest of mistakes he needs to bring it to attention (loudly), if the professor uses a word that has more than one meaning he needs to say “Oh, but doesn’t that also mean ____” (which is the same in English, take for instance the word “light”), if the professor asks a question about something he has to conjugate as loudly and abruptly as possible. In short, he annoys the fuck outta me. He’s an obnoxious snob brown-nosing, I-want-everyone-to-know-I’m-a-gringo-who-knows-some-Spanish prick.

He’s got this sweaty, greasy, dirty-blonde hair (I hate blondes) and a ridiculous red nose. I sit about 3 inches from the door, as usual, and he sits on the other side of the classroom in my row. So we’re both against the wall. Since I first noticed his condescending know-it-all attitude, I’ve periodically given him dirty looks during class to portray my disgust (I’m sure he probably doesn’t even notice or give a damn but it’s for my own contentment). Because I slip out of class the minute it’s over and strategically position myself near the exit, I had never seen ‘Old Wise Man’ leave the room. But last class I did. In the middle of class he rolled across the room toward the door to go to the bathroom. He was in a wheelchair. Initially, I felt absolutely nothing. Later, I felt surprise that I still felt nothing. Then I wondered if this was the moment where I was supposed to cease loathing this guy because he was in a chair. Well, I didn’t. I just loathed him more because now he was rolling around being a jerk instead of walking around being a jerk–which basically meant he’d get there faster.

Moral of the story: if you’re gonna be a hater, don’t discriminate.

Vibrators & Feminists

nycjen — Mon, 23 Oct 2006 16:04:18 +0000

Feminist chicks at university are always taller than you are and they make you feel inferior for being a midget. They wear hoodies all autumn and winter and in the student lounges, even though there is an adequate amount of seating, they sit on the floor cross-legged with their books sprawled out and open–that way they can cross-reference and everyone around them can know that they’re intellectuals. The white ones buzz-cut their hair 50s style or they wear pixie-cuts; they have dark hair and never lighten it. The buzz-cut feministas are both naturally tall and naturally thin. They drink insane amounts of water and pierce their noses. They always wear small, loop, silver earrings (if they do at all) and worn denim jeans.

Then they’re the girls like me who oscillate between great capability and absurdity, fervency and ambivalence. Ones who stroll the campus ridiculing people with friends because secretly I worry that by the time I’m 30 my pussy won’t be tight anymore–embodying “the path of least resistance.” When that happens, the only two friends that I have now (who seldom speak to me) will desert me. I worry that my ass will start spreading even more than it already has (my love for chocolate brownies & ice cream has seeped into the mornings and now that I have a cubicle job sitting in front of a computer screen I’ve found myself nibbling chocolate muffins as a replacement and drinking (cow!) milk). Feeling bad for not working out for the past 3 weeks in a row. I purchased the vibrator above as a gift for landing the job I wanted all summer. At least that’s what I told myself. But the truth is that it’s not a gift for landing my job–I needed it because no one wants to have sex with me. Yes, I mourn the loss of two of my dearest past vibrators, one that broke because of over-usage, the other from sheer negligence. Walking down the halls, through the parks, by the lounges (alone), I count 1-2-3 squeeze, 1-2-3 squeeze, 5 minutes 3x’s a day clenching my kegel muscles. I’m not tall, skinny, cute or adorable; I’ve got saggy gorilla tits–I gotta keep my pussy tight–it’s the only thing I got goin’ for me. Life is hard at the bottom of the barrel. And to top it off: I’m Black, an immigrant and I got bad credit.

That was Awkward

nycjen — Tue, 26 Sep 2006 04:12:38 +0000

Part of the problem is that I don’t know WHEN to be embarrassed or feel “awkward.” That’s not to say that I’m completely clueless about what constitutes and embarrassing episode for parties involved, however, it does oft relegate me to something closer to daftness than “embarrassment.” I’ll give you a few examples. But first, I will explain a little about what I find embarrassing. There are many things that embarrass me. My sister is probably the only person who knows the majority of them, and she thinks that I am a complete nut; she says that what I choose to interpret as embarrassment is ridiculous. And there is only one person who knows when I’m ‘blushing.’ For instance phrases like “meet me on the dance floor,” make me shrink with shame. Someone said that to me once and I thought I would implode from the embarrassment. When I see those boys at the gym walking around with gallons of water all day and flexing their pecks in public, I get embarrassed for them. When men start licking their lips when they look at you–like it’s supposed to turn you on or something, I get embarrassed (that’s just funny). When people don’t alert me to the fact that the way that I might be “acting” could be embarrassing–I get embarrassed too. I’ll give another example: I was out with a good friend of mine (not an aquaintance, but someone who I am close enough to share personal stuff with). I was wearing a pink cardigan but it was buttoned wrong (of course I didn’t know it), so that the shirt looked lopsided. We spend hours together, my friend and I, walking around, looking at shoes we’d never buy, talking, peoplewatching and taking pictures. And the whole day, she never told me about my sweater! There’s no way that she could have missed it! But for some reason she never said a word to me. What embarrassed me was not that I walked around like that, the truth is that that didn’t bother me at all, what embarrassed me was the fact that the next day, once the pictures were developed we both looked at them and she never mentioned anything about my ridiculous lopsided shirt in the photograps. I mean she looked at it like it wasn’t even there. Before I said anything, I waited a few minutes to see if she’d bring it up, but of course, she didn’t. So I said, “Dude, why didn’t you tell me my shirt was messed up?” And she said “O, I don’t know, uh.”

So I started a new job recently–it’s a great place for me to work. Anyways, my boss is this kind of spiritual, yoga, reiki, sexual/tantric, meditation healer guru and when I leave the office, he always gives me a hug. Thing is, he doesn’t just give me a normal 2-second hug, you know the kind you reserve for people you’ve just met or are only vaguely familiar with. There is a small window after what I’ve called the “cold-hug” for it to remain a cold hug. If you can remember back to first dates, maybe when you meet at the door or at a café or maybe at restaurant, you hug. It’s a very brief hug, but it is intentional. If you get along well during the afternoon or the evening, then the hug at the end of the night is a more prolonged hug, it’s warm and it lingers a few moments longer than the initial hug. (But you know that’s if you make it out of the back seat without giving head–only sluts do that–and of course I’d know nothing about that sort of thing.) But when a “stranger” gives you the warm hug, it can be awkward. Especially if you’re pulling away but they’re still holding you. Then you feel like a jackass because they’re just being friendly and here you are making them feel like a creep. And what’s more is that when you resist and pull back they normally let up at that moment but it’s always a second too late so when they let up you sort of re-hug them again so that you’re not being a jerk and both your heads are going back and forth next to each other all jerky–like a scratched record. That’s fucking embarrassing!

My sister told me that I should out-hug him–that’ll throw him off. And it sounds like a good idea. I do it on the street all the time. I learned this thing from someone–when a homeless person is walking up to you and they’re gonna ask you for change (and you know they are), I just stick out my hand first and say, “Hey do you have a quarter for the telephone?” Now I know it’s a real asshole thing to do, but honestly, I ain’t got no damn money, besides, c’mon gimme a break; or when people act crazy, literally psycho, you just act crazier than them. That’s shit makes them feel strange and they just don’t know what to do. And I can act crazy better than anyone.

So like I said, I’m working on my embarrassment levels now. Trying to be, you know, adequate and stuff. The funny thing is, when I get home and relay these little episodes and my friends (haha) okay my little sister, the only person who talks to me, always says, “you idiot, you should’ve been embarrassed” that’s when I get embarrassed, because I didn’t know I was supposed to be. And then when I come in contact with the person with whom I should have been embarrassed with, I’m embarrassed for not being embarrassed when I was suppose to be. That’s all for today.

Dancing on table tops is not my thing

nycjen — Sat, 22 Jul 2006 19:19:54 +0000

Tim Brantley and the Tenth Street Boys is a very good Atlanta band. I went to their show last night. Sometimes the worst thing about bands isn’t their music or stage presence. Sometimes it’s the fans. Everything else is great about this band–except that. Over 90% of the crowd is either a member of some sorority which required all new pledges to dye their hair blonde, wear miniskirts, and wedges or of a fraternity where all the members had to be clean shaven and the ones who weren’t had to intentionally sculpt their hair to look disheveled. They wore button-down shirts and made sure to be continuously holding a beer bottle. It’s always more depressing when the venue is 21+ because at least with teenagers there’s always some sense of “clique-ing” or “posing” that can be expected.

But these were adult men and women. The third group of people was what I call “pre-middle-agers.” These guys had obviously come after work to the bar to “throw back a few.” (They use phrases like “throw back a few.”) Perhaps they arrived around 6:30 in afternoon traffic. They ordered the bar equivalent of the Pu-Pu Platter–hot wings, onion rings, cheese sticks and chicken fingers–all fried in 2-day old lard an sprinkled with beer batter. They thought they were so cool because they were the only mid-late 30-somethings in their respective offices who weren’t married. Too, they know that college-aged women are interested in dating older men with money, at least that what they say. The “middle-pushers” have a unique role to play in an environment like this. They have “one up” on the frat boys, i.e., their cars, condos and cash. The only other problem they have, besides their wardrobe, is cleanliness. “He’s too clean-cut,” the women say. And depending on how much he’s willing to spend on her and all of her friends will determine whether or not the cleanliness can be overlooked. That said, the middle-pushers stick out like a sore thumb here–sorta like me–which is why I can relate to them.

I sing the praises of fat chicks. My “readers” know this but if you’re new check out GWLSE–girls with low self-esteem (an earlier post). I will define fat chicks by my standards. Fat chicks are not chicks that just carry a little extra somethin’ in the trunk. For example, a woman who is 5′3 and under 125lbs is skinny in my opinion. She’s average if she’s under 150lbs. If she’s between 150 and 170lbs and her weight is distributed in such a way that her ass and thighs are “round” and her tummy is a little soft but she has an “cinched” waist–then I don’t consider that fat–that’s actually hot as hell. I know that mainstream media think that’s fat and that’s okay but when I say fat chicks, I’m talking 5′3 and 180lbs upwards. Unfortunately, most women who are ‘thick’ aren’t always lucky enough to have genes that allow the fat in their bodies to accumulate in the most flattering body parts (or more accurately those parts that Westerners prefer–breasts, thighs, ass–well for some). Some have chicken legs and larger torsos; some have big bottoms and tiny tops. Some are shaped like pears, others like watermelons. All are beautiful. They are not beautiful in this setting though because these standards for beauty in women are very rigid and prohibit women who don’t throw up after every meal from being appealing.

Thus, fat chicks also have an interesting perspective in this instance as well. The “beautiful” (and honestly they are never even that attractive, they’re just skinny) women look at them and don’t want to be assholey so they smile and wave and stuff. The men ignore them, but in a very nice way. They won’t make an effort to just shoot the shit with them as they do with the pretty girls, but if they bump into one they’ll apologize profusely, because they wouldn’t want to come off like an asshole. Really, it’s hard for most people to address fat chicks for so many reasons. Don’t get me wrong there are advantages to being the fat chick. It’s just that they’re so few of them in the crowd. There were only four that I could find. One advantage, for example is band participation. The fat girls can pretty much move up through the crowd to the front of the stage because everyone else feels sorry for them– assuming that they wish they were skinny and “beautiful.” Too, band members are always way chummy with the fat chicks. When they interact with the “beautiful” ones, especially the wannabe groupies it’s always with a discerning eye–because they don’t want crabs.

What I wish the fat girls would do is organize. If they unite at these venues, they will be unstoppable. I hesitate to be the one to organize them. They wouldn’t consider me fat even though there’s quite a bit of junk in my trunk. However, I do fall into another minority group in this environment, so maybe they would believe that I was working on their behalf. In fact, I fall into several of those mgs, which can be very amusing. If the Black girls, Asian girls, Fat girls and Goth girls united–shit we’d be like the anti-establishment crew. I would even venture to include the drunk-sluts. Because all the other women hate her overt sexuality and candor–and the men only get close to her behind closed doors–she might be a good spokesperson.

Well I’ve gone on longer than I wanted to but there’s also another group–the hot Asian chick. But I’ll have to talk about this in another blog–because in order for them to be appealiing they can’t look “too Asian.”

By now, I have no idea what this blog was all about. But I have to tell one thing that happened that was just too funny. I went to the show alone that night (Thursday). There was a fat chick and her friend standing next to me as I waited for the headliners to come on. It was pretty quite for me I didn’t speak to very many people and nobody really talked to me either except to say–”O I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.” (Wish I had a dollar for every time I heard that one.) But I started talking to one of the drummers from the first band that played. And then he ran off to go behind the stage. I guess she must’ve noticed that I wasn’t with anyone in particular and she says to me, in the same tone that you ask five-year olds when they fall down “does it hurt?” she says, “Are you here all by yourself?” I looked her in the eyes and said, “Yea, I’m Sunya.” She replied, “Aw, well if you want, you can be with us (pointing to her friend).” “No thanks,” I said and that was that. It was so hard for me not to bust out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, especially since I was quite drunk and already amused because I was studying the “pre middle-agers” and acting like I couldn’t feel the eyes of some people nearby who were staring at me like they would eat me alive. So after a few minutes, so I didn’t appear rude, I ran to the bathroom and cracked up in the stall. It was a great show. I was up at the very front moving along. Tim grabbed my hand twice!! Whoopee. Yea I think we had a real connection, I vaguely remember him mouthing “I love you baby.” He’s probably at home right now thinking about the girl with the gap in her teeth.

To the individuals who were as bored/amused as I was between sets—I was perhaps the obviously tipsy girl in the corner who was half-crazy for laughing to herself, but had on a great pair of peep-toe shoes.

How to Make Friends

nycjen — Tue, 18 Apr 2006 17:07:28 +0000

Lately, I have been experiencing something foreign to me–the longing to be convivial with people whose company I enjoy. I have finally begun to understand why people need people. I live with my lover who is 20+ years my senior. There are 2 or 3 individuals who are very close to me. They are my friends. But we seldom meet to catch up and they aren’t partiers (nor am I, generally). I read incessantly, I protest, I organize, I rally, I chant, and I write (not nearly as much as I should). I’m the oldest 23-year old that I know.

Last week, I went to see a rock band. I had blue hair that night. It was great. Three bands played and they were good. I stood at the bar and watched how people hovered around each other. They were all stuck together like sushi rice. Chatting, talking, looking around the smoky bar. No one had begun to play and so they didn’t know what to do with their nervous energy. So they started doing what the “cool” kids do at shows: the stance. You cup a beer and hold it near your chest. You hold the beer with all five fingers–you see because your hands have to be occupied. Every inch of your body has to be posing, or you will look awkward. Being awkward is not cool. The other hand is usually in the pant pocket. The pants are usually “vintage” jeans, straight leg or cigarette style. They lean with their backs against the wall looking across the place to pick out the girls who are drunkest.

I stand at the end of the bar, because that’s the only space. I don’t have a beer in my hand. But I order a drink. I know they’re not gonna look at me–I’m not blond and I don’t look like a hipster. (You see, hipsters put out.) So I look around too, in my unassuming way. Things are hazy so I squint my eyes. This inevitably makes me look like an outsider because the cool kids smoke too (they can’t get the cancer because they’re vegetarians). I order a drink, the one I order when I’m broke, gin with lime. When I have money I like to order apple martinis. I always pay for my drinks because I’m not pretty enough for anyone to offer me one.

After trying to bribe the bartender to sleep with me for sixty dollars, I start to feel a little good. I make faces at the people around me. None of them can believe that I’m making faces at them so they turn around looking for the real person I must making faces at. “I guess her friends are here and they’re behind me,” they think. But there’s no one here waiting for my fat ass. So they look at their friends and raise their eyebrows like “what the hell is wrong with her.” After that, they avoid my gaze.

There were only about 20-25 people at the bar, and eleven of them were members of the three bands. The place could comfortably hold maybe 175 bodies. So this gives you an idea of how sparse the floor was. In the middle of the floor was a group of six people. They were all hipsters. Everyone else was stuck to the bar–trying to look comfortable. So I walked out onto the floor and stood there with my drink. Several eyes followed me because, after all, I was alone. So I just stood there sippin’ my drink. Then I started fake tap dancing. That’s when the group took a few steps away from me; they moved in unison, like a flock of birds.

I went back to the bar. Hung around. Made faces. The bands started and the only person who spoke to me was this hippie dude. He was a real hippie. So I gave him my number, maybe we can go to a concert sometime.