WHY I DO WHAT I DO.

"For you," he said.

...

i do it for the joy it brings
because i'm a joyful girl
because the world owes me nothing
and we owe each other the world
i do it because it's the least i can do
i do it because i learned it from you
i do it just because i want to
because I want to

everything i do is judged
and they mostly get it wrong
but oh well
'cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged
and the woman who lives there can tell
the truth from the stuff that they say
and she looks me in the eye
and says would you prefer the easy way?
no, well o.k. then
don't cry

and i wonder if everything i do
i do instead
of something i want to do more
the question fills my head
i know that there's no grand plan here
this is just the way it goes
and when everything else seems unclear
i guess at least i know

i do it for the joy it brings...

..........

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JokZeceao74

God help us.

BOMBSHELL, MY ASS.

This is for my sister... who, despite the unusual amount of misfortune she seems to attract, will always ALWAYS have my full-on, all-out support when it comes to her sharing her grievances as well as her accomplishments.

Unfortunately...

*cue Alfred Hitchcock suspense-thriller background musical score*


.....


Her "bombshell feature" in Uno Magazine's September 2009 issue was absolutely (and I mean, ABSO-fucking-LUTELY)...

Ridiculous.

***Hell, I wanna laugh because I can't even find the words to describe just how DISGUSTING the illustrations (yes they were illustrations, NOT photos) of her were. The article was fine.Typical of the Uno Mag that I've grown to like so much.

But damn...

I could barely look at the GARBAGE that was SUPPOSED to be MY SISTER.

Like *cue valleygirl ditzie sarcasm* SERIOUSLY?

SERIOUSLY?

*deep breath*

Ok.

I work for a magazine. Been working for one for three years. Been lifestyle editor for about a year and a half. Now, I'm not gonna say that I'm a fucking guru when it comes to the business but I AM GONNA SAY that I know what looks good. I know THAT frikkin' much. And my beautiful, Teresa Herrera-looking little sister DID NOT LOOK GOOD IN THOSE ILLUSTRATIONS. And what I wanna know is ----- WHO THE HELL ALLOWED THOSE HIDEOUS, AMATEUR WORKS TO BE PRINTED???!!!! Did not ONE PERSON during the ENTIRE PROOFING PROCESS have the brains and the discerning eye and the BALLS to say, "Hey! These drawings are ugly as fuck. What the Hell is this crap? Is this a joke??? Are we really gonna put these in here? Where are the actual photos? Why don't we just steal some photos from Veronica's multiply and use those instead since we're already pressed for time?"

At this point, y'all are probably gonna try to google the pics (or maybe even go as far as actually buying a copy just to satisfy your curiousity)... which is fine (I mean, "whatevs," right?) So I guess it would be ok to mention that those fugly-ass drawings of my sister were NUDE. Fine. Nude. I GET "NUDE". Hell, I DID "nude" when I was in college, lying down in front of 30+ art students buck nekkid as they moved from one spot of the room to the other to try to draw as many angles of me as possible. And I did that shit FOR FREE. I just got to choose whoever's drawing I liked to keep as my own.

I still have it ---- AND IT LOOKED GOOD. I looked like fucking Rose in Titanic.

Nude is fine. But UNO MAGAZINE'S PORTRAYAL OF MY LITTLE SISTER'S BODY WAS A LIE. A lie. And THAT'S A PROBLEM.

They should've just pasted her head onto Olivia Wilde's kickass body instead and called it "art" or whatever the people at UNO think "art" should be. (I use the term "people" loosely as I dunno who wants to own up to the dumbfuck decision of sticking with those illustrations.)

WHO WAS AT PROOFING?! By the way, for those who don't know, "proofing" is when the editors and art/creative directors get together and print out rough copies of each page of the entire magazine to "proofread" and "edit" before it goes to the actual printers for FINAL PRINTING. At least, that's how we at Gadgets do it. And it's a tedious fucking process but very important. And yeah, I know ours isn't perfect (tao lang, diba?). But if there is something MAJORLY WRONG with say, an article or a picture, WE WILL CALL EACH OTHER OUT ON IT. We will debate, cuss, shout, send derogatory text messages to each other until we can all find some sort of agreement.

Whoever agreed to print those pictures (AND TO DO A CENTERFOLD OF SORTS???!!!!! --- Seriously???!!!! Gosh, I thought mag space was helluh expensive?!!!) --- is visually-challenged. (Ugh, I'm so grossed out, I'm making words up.)

I'm just saying.

My sister trusted UNO. Theirs was a gross betrayal of her trust and they took advantage of her generosity (as some of the UNO staff are her friends). The illustrations, at this point, aren't even the issue. Hell, it's not even OF HER. Just an ugly body with a face that SORTA looks like her. The issue is the betrayal. The unprofessionalism. The nerve.

I am very disappointed.

....
....
....

Earlier today, Veronica and I came from our friend, Mark's final mass before the convoy to his actual funeral. It's been a stressful time for us and for those who held Mark dear. Today, I also learned that the creative director of UNO once said that the shoot I did with Veronica (I got her to model for me for a music feature, as one of my first gigs as a lifestyle/beauty editor)... didn't "capture" her true beauty.

Or something to that effect.

*Rubs wrinkles on forehead*

Really? *in same aforementioned valley girl tone*

I thought my sister looked "HOT" with her signature yorkie, overexaggerated smoky-eye makeup, holding up Inky's (of the Brigada fame) heavy-ass guitar up against her nude body and the tattoos she wore proudly.

Sure, it may have been cliche.

But at least it wasn't UGLY. More importantly, at least it was HONEST. There was INTEGRITY in it. And Veronica is as professional a model as they come. I was proud of her then and I'm proud of her now. She is beautiful. I am sorry UNO failed to "capture" that.

Sayang. Loss nila yun.

A THANK-YOU NOTE TO MEN

To you, whom it may concern,


To my Adam, who chose to be stupid and submissive in the name of love (not knowledge), for the apple that got stuck in your throat, maybe that's why you don't speak so well but feel so much that it hurts sometimes; you who gave me a duplicate to your heart, your car, and your home; for letting me use your razor, your t-shirt, your coat, and your shoulder to cry, sleep, and lean on when I was drunk with laughter and alcohol; you who made me scream with sheer delight and utter exasperation; for not understanding a word of english for the sake of argument but who understands a look perfectly well; a sophisticated neanderthal who will never get it, though you try, you really do; you who laughed at me for putting on makeup, you liked my oily face and disheveled hair just fine; thank you for the flowers and for screwing in the light bulbs and me when I needed it, and for all the things I couldn't reach; you helped me up, carried me on your back, to the car, to the toilet, to the garbage can, to the bed, and kissed me, who has lost all bearing and composure, goodnight anyway; for forgetting, always forgetting something, making me remember, keeping me on my feet; you stood beside me, behind me, in the front to shield me, honor me, protect and defy me; thank you for keeping me grounded and soaring, for taking my breath away and making me swallow that bitter pill of assuming of knowing everything because I seriously thought I did, once, then you came and fucked everything up; for opening me to your truth; you who swept me off my feet and left me on the floor to pick up the pieces of the mess you made; who knelt in front of me pleading like a homeless puppy for getting my knees dirty and licking my wounds with your tongue-lashing; you whispered in my ear as I slept and I swore they haunted my dreams like the ghost of past loves out to get me, but I laid still and you held me there, without pride, prejudice, or inhibition even as your arm lost all blood and feeling; a man, naked, singular, missing a rib. How do I love thee? You set my soul on fire. And I light up the world as you stand there in the shadows, licking that self-serving smile that found its way to your lips and mine; for giving me my sin again. You gave me that; you who kept me always in your heart, sometimes in your thoughts, but never in your debt. I am eternally grateful.

---Michelle Callanta


***Inspired by Mary-Louise Parker's A Thank You Note to Men

I LIKE KISSING MORE THAN F*CKING.

Yes. Seriously.

I'd rather have a great kiss than great sex. And that ain't even lip-service. *winks*

(Usually, the kiss is better than the sex anyway.)

*can I get an amen, y'all?*

...

So now I'm collecting kisses. I shall put them in a jar and keep em in my refrigerator and save em for those God-awful days when I need to feel for just a moment that I am on the verge of something WONDERFUL and MAGICAL.

*sigh*

I don't think people take kissing seriously anymore. =(




On that note...


the archipelago of kisses

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

--Jeffrey McDaniel

HE'S OUT THERE LOOKING FOR YOU.

You know how people try to make you feel better about being single by telling you, "Hey he's out there looking for you, he just hasn't found you yet!"?

WELL HE SHOULD GET A FUCKING GPS BECAUSE THIS IS BULLSHIT.

I have been waiting and I keep thinking that I've met him and instead I meet men who pee in front of me on the first date or act lovely towards me and then disappear from the face of the planet.

WHERE ARE YOU, PERFECT GUY FOR ME? Are you famous? Is that why your schedule is so busy? Oh crap, are you John Mayer? Please don't be John Mayer. Are you Chris Pine? I don't really care if you are, your name just kind of popped into my head. Hey Chris Pine, you were adorable in "Just My Luck" and pretty good in Star Trek, I guess, but to be honest I was a little distracted by your massive package. Sweet sassy molassy. I'm talking about the scene where he's going to do that green woman. That's like, an entire Death Star in those briefs. OK I know Death Star is a Star Wars reference and not a Star Trek one, but I think effort counts for a lot.

My friend says that I haven't met him yet (my perfect guy, not Chris Pine) because she needs to meet him first so she can make sure he's not a rapist and introduce me. How thoughtful. She says he will be funny and thin and creative. He will have dark hair and an odd sense of humor. And etc, I tuned out at some point. He needs to be amazing. He needs to have a goddamn job. And it should be awesome. He should be so attractive that I ovulate every time I see him.

Oh I know what you're thinking: "your standards are too high".

WELL DUH MY STANDARDS ARE HIGH. STANDARDS ARE WHAT SEPARATES US FROM ANIMALS. You don't see a dog freaking out over which dog's ass to sniff, a dog just finds an ass and sniffs it. That's the thing about dogs, they don't care.

If none of us had standards we would all be married by now.

What! I'm just saying! We would all be married by age 12 so we could immediately spend the rest of our lives with another person, popping out kids, like a farm animal.

But we don't do that because of standards. Standards are great. Standards make us feel like we have some control over my lives. Like, "Oh I haven't gone on a second date with Derek because I don't think he's liberal enough." No, it has nothing to do with the fact that Derek ignores your texts; now it's about YOU. You are the one in control, you are the one in charge of your destiny...and...emotions...and Spock...and I'm really trying to work in more Star Trek references but I'm having a hard time here. Help me, Obi-Wan Kanobi. DAMNIT, WRONG FRANCHISE AGAIN. Uh...I'm a doctor, not a...mechanic.

BUT THAT'S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

So look, guy, you better find me. I will be looking but I'm sick of doing all the work. I like to go out, to classy bars and such, so when you see me, just say "Hi". That's it. "Hi". As long as you do that and aren't ugly and don't pee on yourself, I'll know you're the one.


***Taken from: http://french-graffiti.blogspot.com/2009/05/hes-out-there-looking-for-you.html

....

APOCALYPSTICK --- My favorite blogger to date. A woman after my own heart. =)

DOES ANYBODY DATE ANYMORE???

(Taken from http://french-graffiti.blogspot.com/2009/03/does-anybody-date-anymore.html)

.......

This morning, while jogging, I had a revelation.

I haven't been on a date in years.

Instead I've been...ugh..."hooking up". First of all, I hate that fucking phrase. I used to say "hook up" instead of meet up. For example: "Hey Stacey let's hook up later at the Valley party." Ok first of all I don't know anyone named Stacey and I don't go to parties in the Valley. Which isn't to say that I wouldn't; I just never know of anyone who has Valley parties.

BUT THAT'S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

Lately my "dating" has been going to some dudes house and making out with him. That's not a date. It's kind of slutty. It's backwards, too. I find that after I've gotten fairly intimate with a guy I realized that I'm nervous about asking him on a date and that he could actually turn me down. That's messed up on all accounts. That's not how it should go.

Here's how it should go. You don't have to pick me up, because I live in the Valley and you probably don't, but we should on a first date meet at a restaurant or whatnot and NOT your house. I should not be in your house on the first date unless your first date is a house party. And it better be a good house party. There not better be any fucking red plastic cups. We're not 19 anymore. Buy some fucking glasses. BUT THAT'S NOT IMPORTANT RIGHT NOW.

We will meet at a restaurant and it will be a fucking classy joint. And we will maybe have a drink at the bar first so I can get all flirty and touch your shoulder and laugh and maybe even do my Blanche impression. Yes, Blanche from the Golden Girls, and yes, it is a great

impression.

Let me tell you this right now: you will pay for dinner. Yes, I said it. You are a man. I am a

woman. I am a hot woman. I am a sexy funny awesome hot woman. I am not paying for dinner. I am not going to split it. I am not going to do any of that shit. Because earlier that night I blow

dried my hair, put on make up, squeezed my Italian ass into a stretchy American Apparel dress, and shaved everything. And you're a man. I don't care if this is 2009 and I don't care that Beyonce is running around in a leotard shouting at us to be proud single ladies: You. Are. Buying. Dinner.

You are required to treat me like Audrey fucking Hepburn on this first date.

By which I mean do not be a douchebag. Be a gentleman. Pretend that the entire date

has Camera Obscura as the soundtrack. Is that fuck music? No, it is not fuck music. It is clean and beautiful and adorable. Like our first date.

Do not invite me your place afterwards for "tea" because that's bullshit.

You may suggest going to a bar afterwards or a cafe for dessert. That is totally acceptable and totally adorable.

You are going to kiss me at the end of this date, motherfucker. It is going to be so fucking pure and awesome that I should be able to hear Sixpence None The Richer playing in my head while it's happening.

You will then make plans for

the second date, right there and then. You will not say, "I'll call you." You will not say, "I'll text you." And under any circumstances will you NOT say, "I'll facebook you." If you say that I will facebook your FACE.

Because then I will not be able to stop thinking about you. I will be reminded of you every time I see a green M&M or an advertisement for 1-800-CLOSETWORLD. Why? Because we will have private jokes about these things. I will facebook stalk you and look at all of your photos and imagine me in them. I will never, ever tell you this. And then on the next date I will kiss you so fucking hard your face will FUCKING SHATTER. CAN YOU DEAL WITH THAT SHIT?

That is how you date in '08. Crap it's '09 now. Fuck

that. Here is what you do NOT do on a FIRST date:

-- "Hey, wanna watch a movie at my place?" Everyone and their Grandpa Fergeson knows that that is code for making out. Not only is that a skeezy first date but it's lame too.

-- "Hey, let's drink champagne in my jacuzzi, what what." This is not a first date either. I actually once had a guy ask me if we could do that in MY jacuzzi. I said, "You better be bringing the fucking champagne." He didn't. JACUZZI DATE OVER.

-- The worst date I have ever been on was with some poor soul college kid who didn't have anything planned and

had me meet him at Border's. Yeah, that was it. So from there we wandered around Westwood and I had to convince him to get our palms read because I'm quirky like that. AND HE HAD NO MONEY SO I HAD TO PAY. Then he wanted to take me to his frat house so we could play guitar hero (GH had just come out so I guess this was kind of a big deal to him.) I would have gotten out of there but he was my ride so I had no choice. I watched him and his friends play Guitar Hero. Then he took me for a walk around campus. Yes. Then we made out on the grass. That part was OK.

But then...

then...

HE PEED ON A TREE. IN FRONT OF ME. WITH NO APOLOGIES.

We were walking and he said, "Hold on a second", walked over to a tree, and peed on it. My mouth was hanging open and he said, "What's wrong?" And I said, "Uh...you're peeing. That's what's wrong." And he said, "There aren't any nearby restrooms that are open." And I said, "You're peeing in front of me." DATE OVER.