No quarter

Yeah but guess who the girl is who thinks she's fat but is nothing but gorgeous?

And yes, I was hung over. YEEEEAH!

Three Bottles Later.....

HEY OKSANA! HOW'S THE HANGOVER TREATING YOU, YOU BEAUTIFUL THING? IS YOUR KIND, SMART FRIEND FEELING SHITTY TODAY TODAY TOO?

Props to you for posting drunk. I feel your physical pain.

how to start

Ooh girls. Let's get a man's perspective here.

So I show a man I love and trust pictures of all of us.

"She thinks she's FAT? My god. What the fuck."

Essentially, what the fuck is wrong with women that the beautiful smart ones feel inadequate? That the smart kind handsome men feel lost? Where have we gone wrong, when we're single and we feel like the last ones standing, unmarried at 36 and suddenly feel like old maids, when we can't embrace our beauty, power, intelligence?

Fuck this stupidity. We have to stop this kind of thinking.

Only beauty. Only truth. Only power. OK? No more bullshit.

What is, is.

I looked at a picture of myself tonight taken when I was 26. I remember thinking at the time that I looked incredibly fat. I was in Nepal, covered in coloured powder (it was the huge Hindu festival of Holi). I looked exhausted, exhilarated.

I was tiny.

Dear Bacovegetarian

Dear Bacovegetarian,

I am a 30 year old woman who has been single for over a year now, and
I need some advice. Now, I'm not looking for the Dear Abby style of
advice, I'm looking for some pearls of wisdom from a man who is a
self-proclaimed guilty meat-sneaking vegetarian. Feel free to get off
topic whenever you like.

Why am I coming to you for advice? Well, you have consistently
provided me chicken nuggets of wisdom - and that's the kind of wisdom
this ghetto bitch needs.

(Did you know that their chicken nuggets are infused with beef fat;
their "shakes", with chicken lard? Now that's bacovegetarianism to the
extreme. But I'm getting off topic.)

Here's the thing: I live in a major urban centre that is just too damn
small, and I am finding that my sex, er, six degrees of separation
have whittled down to about two. And in a town like this, that's just
too narrow a dating margin ... "we can't keep meeting like this,
really... no, really. No, I'm not being nice. I mean it: we have to
stop meeting like this".

I know that moving to another city and starting afresh, is really the
only complete solution to my problem, but that's not currently an
option. So, how can I turn my dating pond into a lake? How can I
recover those lost four degrees?

Please Bacovegetarian. You're my only hope. The Last Ghetto Bitch
Standing - the queen of single, the Violette le Duc of Vancouver,
the expert third wheel - needs your advice.

Here's to restating the public/private divide,
Violet

Ya well...

it is a n-affair if you shag in a sprout farm then violently stuff mini cupcakes in your face.

A new best fiend for Coco

Dear Sprout Hopper,

Now, I know that constantly clearing one's metaphorical cache can suck up what few precious drops of spare time you have remaining after slaving away at a week's worth of white collar labour, so I have found you a new best cyber friend. He is always with you. He will never leave you. And he won't tax you with his psychological hangups. Oh, and he's discreet and very professional: Online Alibi Services.

Yours in hermitage,
Violet

N-affair-ious

Now this ghetto bitch is here to weigh in on a post-love situation: so po-lo it hurts. Real bad. It’s not so much that she didn’t listen but that an agitated state dulled her senses with its’ deafening roar. For days she replayed the Halloween madness: Coco’s ass hanging out of some frilly pink panties sold by a tattooed priest. A doppelganger and a yo boy. The strange thing for Coco was not so much the events that went down through night and on in to day and early evening. Not so much those as the presence of a boy who she barely knew wandering around her house and generally falling in to the role of boyfriend number 2. Watching it all unfold, listening to suggestions of the communal living arrangement that would leave her pulled 3 distinct and different ways (some of them highly pleasurable). Coco started to think that perhaps a 2 boyfriend model might work though never under the same roof. But she’s aged about 6 months for every day that has gone by since then. She has moved quickly through dysfunctional social models to a model of solitary confinement involving a pile of books and maybe a camera. This boy stuff is so damned distracting. As though she’d fallen down the rabbit hole she was determined to watch where she was going in the future. BUT he leaves her just so damned breathless…. Is it a n-affair if all you do is text each other? Is there harm in this? Isn't this some arbitrary conceptual communication-space? What are the boundaries? Does it “depend”? Is it wrong to meet under trees and make new wear patterns with your shifting feet as they tippie toe? Just as long as you don’t lie down says Violet. Be sure to buckle up if you do.

Not gone yet

Ah yes, thank god I never post. Forget it--am back. Have been too paranoid to post at work since the day some tech in Calgary started moving my cursor around on my monitor, and I realized, probably too late, that they can watch me whenever they want.

So I don't work freelance and can't post as much as Violet. But damn, I thought I had the Lithuanian greeting down correctly... Why does Salesman Toby look so scared?

IMG_6310
Originally uploaded by thermistor.

Speaking of PandaCams...

IMG_6280
Originally uploaded by thermistor.

Parasitic Subway Project by German Mindfuckers

Parasitic Subway Projector: See Sharks Swim in NY Subway Tunnels
View the [Quicktime]
So what if I've ripped this off Metafilter?!? This subway art projector project is so ghetto beautiful (just the way we like it)...and German, it deserves another blog.

Plus we're ghetto bitches, and so, it is our duty to comment on these German Artist Boys' flair (they all look like the dude squatting down in the lower right-hand corner of the image)...

Ready? Suck some air in. And spew forth.....

What the hell?!? The stereotypes abound in these artist-boy units - they are, like, totally German: high-concept artists in all-black, tailored clothing. Cyber Bald. Neatly-cropped hair and pointy, black leather shoes. Obsessive-compulsively clean. Techno-fetishists. Design hoars. Invisible uber-American humour.

German boys are such mind fuckers. We kinda find that hot (et tu Coco?)

Get the Fruit

Get the fruit... BUT don't let the panda hit the ground. Wouldn't want to turn him into a blood orange.

Wow. I still think the panda cam is my favourite, but there sure are tons of "cams" out there:
Times Square Cam
Fish Cam
Venice Cam
Volcano Cam
Corn Cam
Montreal Cam (Hi Valentine! Hi Rajipie)
Old Faithful Geyser Cam
Loch Ness Monster Cam

We!rdo Manifesto

Hey you! We!rdo...Yeah, I'm talking to you. See this image? The cute little orange creature hanging out on a Montreal trash can, looking all classy and DIY? Well, that creature is you. That's right. You're a We!rdo. But then, who isn't?

So, let me take this opportunity to welcome you - my dear We!rdo - to the group.

It's pretty fun here. We do goofy things: it keeps us from taking ourselves too seriously. "Serious" is murder—something will die if you take yourself too seriously, whether it be your vim, your vigor, or your art and soul. Just take a look at the news from the "norms": it's killing them...and their ratings.

Now, my new little We!rdling, don't you go conflating serious with integrity— we have a healthy regard for the latter. As you can see from the picture, you still choose to wear a crown. You know a little pride enrichens the spirit; itegrity, the world.

But what? What are you saying? You won't join us if you can't be ironic? Well, We!rdo, check out your t-shirt logo. It's an inverted crown. Hell, if irony is dead, it means that we're all zombies ... so we prefer to think of our irony as turned upside down—jumbo shrimp, if you will. We say screw hiding the scarlet letters, we're proudly wearing ours in orange!

Alright We!rdo. (Yes, I'm talking to you.) Now that you're officially in our group, you must help us write a manifesto. What should a We!rdo manifesto should include?

Tequila Face Redux and Revised

IMG_6214
Originally uploaded by thermistor.

Okay. I don't remember Halloween so good. But thankfully I had three wits still hanging about my very inibriated person: one, you're drunk; two, you're bored; three, get out and grab a cab. So I ever so gracefully exited the party and and left my gun holster of tequila with Juan Valdez (no joke).

But what the hell? Look to your right: Who is this sales man? And why is my tongue fondling his moustache?

Oh. Wait. The tequila haze is lifting... I'm rrre-member-ing: he's Oksana's new boyfriend. I think his name's Toby... that's right. I remember now: He's Lithuanian. He told me this is how Lithuanian's greet each other. Whew. I thought it was something sexual! But I was only being polite.

THANK GOD OKSANA NO LONGER POSTS HERE. Because she is one jealous byatch. If she saw me greeting her new squeeze, or saw me post a picture of it on this blog, she'd don her saucy ninja outfit and slowly gouge my eyes out with her Tai Chi Sword.

(Hey, if this is a Lithuanian greeting, I wonder what a Lithuanian squeeze is like?)

On another note: My roomate and I were discussing the content of my last posted link. (I've left the dirty parts out - brown bunny my ass, he's just a lonely guy.)

Roomate: I think Gallo is becoming barely un-retarded. You know, he's _________ and that means she _________. Of course if his mother ___________ then he might be _________.
Violet: Mother? Mother! No! What's that got to do with _____? He's not about the mother. Leave her out of this.
Roomate: That post redeemed him: his irony is straight up. He's a particular kind of voyeur. It's not the attention he's seeking, it's the response. Of course he also found the one way he could _________ with ___________ and have splattered all over ___________. 'Tits gotta be nice to piss off ________ers.
Violet I think that Gallo is suffering Kristeva's Melancholia. I mean, look at how he _________ with the ____________. He just found a contract, and swapped up the language. It's legally sound. I mean that's the real horror, not the content.
Roomate: Yeah, I think he's okay with that.
Violet: What?
Roomate: Yeah. I guess...

Clear you Cache

Dear Cookie (aka Heartless),

May I suggest clearing your cache - literally and metaphorically? No electronic residue. No poetic trail. And remember to buckle up. Better re-freeze that key.

~Violet

If I had a Million Dollars, I wouldn't spend it on him

Dirty. And funny. And pontentially profitable...(p.s. scroll down page until you see the word "sperm")

I'm like a Fig

A boy gave me a compliment:
He told me I was like a fig.

I gave him a quizzical look.

He explained that I was as rich like one.

And so I considered its merit:
sweet pink flesh
safely encased in a teardrop skin,
the secret to a fine lamb stew...

How delightful. I'll take it.

I am a fig.
And rich like one.

What a wholly unique and delicious compliment.

Petit Mort on Halloween

Dear Heartless,

You didn't listen to me, did you? I give you great advice and you don't take it! You could've have easily locked the key in a block of ice. I know you: you have a hairdryer. You could have escaped your own chaste prison. (Trust me, a boy licking the steel edges of your belt would have vaporized that ice block in seconds - yum.) But I guess you're more glass princess than iron maiden, now aren't you?

May I recommend belladonna "soothe" your next issue?

Dilated pupils, I've heard, are considered attractive on women. Something about our, ahem, "souls" being wide open. I wonder what that's all about? I just read an article that suggested men prefer women who are quiet. Open? Closed? Which way to go, my heartless f(r)iend?

As you know, I come from a long line of witches and hags, and I recommend belladonna to kill - I mean quell - what ails you. Trust me, we've been using it for years to look good, feel funky fresh, and drop dead weight.

So what if your vision's a little blurry and your heart rate increases? You're used to that. Administer it as a tea or offer it up raw: you can produce vivid hallucinations, described by many as a 'living dream'.

Isn't that what you really want, my dear belladonna? A living dream? Something you awaken into? Isn't that worth the threat of a petit morte?

Iron Maiden

I AM THE BEST FRIEND EVER! I GIVE INCREDIBLY PRACTICAL ADVICE ON LOVE AND RELATIONSHIPS.

BEHOLD!

MY LATEST AND GREATEST NUGGET OF ADVICE:

Dear "Heartless",

There are these neat belts...they have a metal pad that goes in between your legs, and a lock in front of your pussy. If you want to remain faithful to _________, I would recommend you buy one, lock yourself into it, and give him the key. I know they sound a little old fashioned, but they do the trick.

I say, why bother working through those pesky emotional ties, when there's a simple material solution? Free yourself from feelings. "Down with emotional ties, up with material bonds."

You bestest singlest friend,
Violet

(p.s. The ghetto fable is a'comin' and I foresee an iron maiden and a glass princess in the story. Hmmm. Maybe they should have a cat fight.)

Wolf Eyes versus Shark Tooth

Disco Naps are out: Ghetto Naps are in.

While lazing about on the opened futon couch, laughing at the antics of the Desparate Housewives, eating cookies off of our bellies and sucking back beers (who knew prone breasts make a convenient beer holder?), Coco Channel - my charming friend and cohort in the way of the ghetto nap - suggested that I should beware of Wolf Eyes.

She was contemplating the mess we had stepped into the previous evening.

"Nice. Coco," I replied, "You have such a way with words."

I furiously stuffed an olive in my mouth while I waited out the hideous flashback to the previous night. I muse out loud: "Why would Wolf Eyes - someone who never wanted to see me again (because it hurts too much) - spend an evening slobbering all over my chest, repeating the self-help mantra: "I'm okay, you're okay"?

Coco purrs, "Because he's pissing on his territory: 'If I can't have you, no one else can', hissss".

"Oh lord, I'm not even a housewife." And waiving my beer around in the air like a lefty pamplet, I announce in my throaty, Deitrich voice, "This kind of drama should remain in the box, daahhlink."

I wipe the beer spittle off my chest with the duvet. "Maybe I should call this the summer of 'Beware of Wolf Eyes and The Shark Tooth'? I'll make it a bitch fable on the blog."

Coco huffed and chortled, "He just kept looking at you with wolf eyes, waiting to devour." And swinging her head toward me without disrupting the obnoxious platter of heathenry precariously balanced on her chest, she hissed at me with mad eyes and said prophetically: "Beware the Wolf Eyes. Don't get trapped under his spell".

Stay tuned for the charming ghetto bedtime story: "Beware of Wolf Eyes and the Shark Tooth".... Trust me, it's required ghetto bitch reading.

Won the competition, lost the boy

Yup. I am the only ghettobitch left standing. Therefore I am the winner. And I must confess: I WANT TO GIVE MY CROWN BACK.

Please!?! Can I give it back. Let the runner up don the tiara of single-tude. It sucks being single in fall and winter. Summer is ghetto bitch time, and I've had fun watching all my challengers head toward the love lights like bunnies on the road home from Burning Man.

Ah summer: girl bitch, boy bitch, it didn't matter, they all fell, and I cackled with schmee glee. Two of my main competitors actually started dating each other. I'd like to think that I manipulated them for competitive edge, but the femme bitch actually manipulated me (willingly) in order to date the boy bitch. Talk about a mental game.

But now? It's gloomy, moist and melodic. I desire a boy with whom to wear matching sweaters, and sip mugs of hot cocoa laced with Baileys, while snuggling up all cosy-like next to the fire — Falcon Crest lovin'.

Tequila face

31790568_1b2bd67536
Originally uploaded by Oksana1000.

No reason, just love the compadres of summer.