Some tranny & her fag hag...

Wrote me.

(Sigh) Look, I'm queer friendly. But the only way I'm hitting that ugly tranny is with a baseball bat.

"She's so mean!!!"

Hi.

I'm a numbers person. Algorithms. Rudimentary mathematical equations. Geometry. Algebra. Calculus. Fuck trigonometry. No one understands trig. But I do this for fun. So (kinda) Asian. My filing skills rival any 10GB file share, but towards the end things get a little dodgy. Be that as it may, like with sex I have to be in the mood. If I'm not in the mood I'll use a calculator. It's my binary vibrator. Gets the job done fast. Move on. Go about my day. 

Math. Sex. Art. Three things I like doing but could never do for a living or it would ruin the sport. As the years go on, and on, and fucking on, for what seems like FOREVER these things become more hunt, than sport. 

Take this moron couple who just wrote me assuming I would be interested in them because they're white and claim to be "sophisticated" and "wealthy" and are looking for a "submissive unicorn"...

Once upon a time I would have written them a polite no, most likely before the age of 21, because I was raised to be polite, but since their "sophisticated" upbringing didn't raise them to be polite, now I'm just going to be an asshole.

I read articles where news reporters suggest when humans have either run out of wild animals to kill, or tire from killing animals, will pursue humans. These "sophisticated" people who seek "submissive unicorns"  are my lab rats. And that's exactly how I view them, lab rats. Filthy human lab rats. Have to stress the word "human". If they were actual animals, I'd care about them. So already suggestions of human-hunting are in part, true, on both ends. More than that, my human lab rats and their inclination to find submissive women, are increasingly on the rise. Human algorithms. The weak attempting to find inner strength. Etc. etc. Read the reports.

"Hi. We're white, rich, sophisticated, looking for a submissive unicorn..."

Who introduces themselves that way? 

All I heard was, "Hi. We're collectively 12 years old."

I'm going to design an auto-reply...

"Hello. You are receiving this auto reply to monitor if you are intelligent and/or old enough to receive a response from the person you just emailed... Please accurately connect items from the left column to items in the right column... 1) Geometry. 2) Pyramid. 3) chemical abbreviation for Sodium Dodecyl Sulfate. 4) choo choo train."

Pimp your game. Lie faster.

Here. Let me help you.

"Can you talk on the phone?"

You know I'd love to but it's Memorial Day (Thank you servicemen and women!) and I'm with family/friends still. Can I call you tomorrow when we can have a private conversation away from my vanilla friends who won't understand?

I would be an a-hole if I said no.

3 1/2 days between 800-1,000 emails

At least. I kid you not. I did however get [this close] to success.

No one can talk on the phone. No one.

"Everything is awesome!!!"

Funny;)

I hate conversation texting

Talk on the phone!

I've turned down hotter, mister

We're texting. We're both home. Why are we texting??

"Can you talk on the phone?" I ask.

He clearly doesn't want to. He doesn't answer the question. Instead he just avoids it by throwing compliments at me.

"Why don't we just talk?" I say again.

He doesn't reply.

Yup. Ok bye then.

Look, there's no way getting around my vetting. We're both home. Let's talk. Can't talk? See ya.

It's a shame. A real shame. (Sigh) But...

I'm not a parent, but...

So I guess it's easy for me to criticize. However, if my keys, cell phone, or purse isn't on my person, I know it within 15 seconds. So if my keys and cell phone are more important than your kid...

Let's see if the parents sue the zoo

Bet takers anyone? Let's see if they murdered an innocent animal so con artists could sue a zoo.

There are other ways to kill your kid, ya know? Of course the other ways require a life insurance policy. If you need assistance on how to put a life insurance policy on a toddler, I know a batshit crazy woman who can tell you.

Next time kill the shitty parents

Fuck zoos. They hunt, trap, and cage wild animals, then charge stupid humans to look at trapped wild animals, then some stupid shitty parents let their kid go into the trapped confines of said wild animal, so the zoo kills the animal. What happened to tranquilizer guns??

Next time kill the shitty parents.

let me help you with that

CIDR IP conversion. Put some effort into it.

I know you know.

I simply don't care.

I want to meet that guy

I need know what all those numbers tattooed on his side, mean.

Bodega?

Wherever. I don't care.

Zinque?

Rustic Canyon? You know I'm still in bed right?

Fine.

Up.

No. Not. Can't. Ungh.

Taking second nap. Still beat. Fuck. Old.

Snapped. Minnesota. Could still happen??

My dad died knowing I was taken care of. His crazy ex-wife stalked me until I was like 30. My brothers kept giving her my phone number and home address! For all I know she's still stalking me. I've gone into hiding a few times now since dad divorced her. Fucking nutjob. I'm not even her kid.

The last time I went back to MN just to visit one of my brothers, that bat shit crazy loony woman found out I was in town but just hours before my flight back to LA, and she called my brother nonstop screaming into the phone, "PUT HER ON THE PHONE!!! PUT HER ON THE PHONE!!! I HAVE TO TALK TO HER!!! I HAVE TO HEAR HER VOICE!!! I HAVE TO HEAR HER VOICE!!! PUT HER ON THE PHONE!!!

I hadn't talked to that loony nutjob in some 13 years!

Jesus Christ. My brother finally turned his cell phone off that day and raced me to airport. He was afraid. We both were!

I don't know what makes people spiral out of control like that. My dad, my aunt (her sister), and my grandma (her mom, may she rest in peace), have repeatedly apologized to me for her mental state, while my brothers still tend to their crazy mother, loyally, even to this day.

(You guys know she doesn't have any money, right?)

I'm AMAZED my family didn't end up on an episode of Snapped.

I could still end up on Forensic Files?

(Though it really wouldn't be a mystery.)

Aunt V.

Ok fine. Maybe not "wealthy" but she never worries about money. So whatever that is.

Is there something more than wealthy? Stupid wealthy. That's YOUR aunt.

Inspiration for new drawings

I want to tell you about my grandma, may she rest in peace.

My dad, may he rest in peace, was married once to a very unstable woman. During this marriage I had gotten to know her mother as "grandma". 

Grandma lived in a suburb of St. Paul, maybe 10 miles from where I grew up. She lived near an old drive-in movie theater that rarely played movies anymore. Often grandma and I would walk through the drive-in lot during the day and look for pennies. My grandma had a thing about finding pennies made before 1950. Not just at the drive-in theater, anywhere. It was our own little scavenger hunt. Kind of fun actually.

My grandma didn't talk much. I honestly cannot recall a single conversation with her. We spoke to one another but in language you would find mid conversation. A sentence here. A sentence there. She would say random things like, "Mary said paint was on sale but I like the color of my living room walls just the way they are." And that was it. That's all she would say about it.

My grandma drove a giant white old Lincoln Continental, type car. Perhaps a Cadillac. That might have actually been the car. Cadillac. White exterior. Red interior. Grandma was a pimp! No. Of course she wasn't. Grandma was a very proper lady who always wore gloves when she drove. She wore a dress, hat, and gloves, complete with matching accessories whenever she left the house. "I hate the way my daughter dresses you." Grandma would always say just before taking me shopping. The ONLY person I wore a dress for when I was a little girl, was for my grandma. She had a way of saying things, doing things, which were very simple and suitable.

The reason I started spending my young childhood weekends, school breaks, and summers with my grandma when I was a little girl was because of (what my grandma calls) a religious experience I had when I was about 7 or 8 years old. I was suddenly awakened in the middle middle of the night. Alone. I looked around my room and saw two small yet piercing bright lights on my bedroom wall, up high towards the ceiling. Diamond shaped lights, radiant, the way light hits diamonds in the sun. I sat up in bed to get a better look. Strangely, the lights didn't illuminate my entire room. It was like a pair of eyes shaped like diamonds shining in the sun, but in the dark. --Anyway. Back to grandma. She believed it was God, blessing me.

The following morning after my "visitation" I walked into the kitchen, saw my dad and his wife, and for no apparent reason in particular, rather angrily demanded to know why we didn't go to church. 

My grandma, a devout Lutheran, was a musician. She played the organ piano and was the organ player at her church. After my young childhood "Godly" experience, my grandma was convinced I had been blessed by God's presence. Afterwards I attended my grandma's church Sunday school, bible camp, and church services. I had both children's bibles and adult bible. I was very content. Over the years that followed I read them both, repeatedly. I still have a bible in my home today. Four of them. And while I'm not religious anymore, contrary to the grief I gave my dad for becoming born-again, I DO have a lingering respect for those who believe. Biblical stories are fascinating. Ridiculous but fascinating. 

Back to grandma. 

She had two organ pianos. One was very nice. Expensive looking. The other was a practice organ. It had a switch that could be turned on, and each individual key lit up with the note that key represents. A beginner could learn how to play and learn how to read sheet music at the same time. Turns out my grandma was only the only real musician in the family.

"You have nice hands." Grandma once told me. "Lean fingers" -- Lean fingers just not meant for playing the piano. I was awful at it. No independent limb dexterity. But grandma was determined to find out what my hands could make. Through trial and error, I didn't like sewing, or cooking, or playing the piano. I did however love being outside, and I loved to read. But grandma would say things like, "You're better than that." I didn't understand what she meant. What was better than being outside reading??

My grandma had a beautiful rose garden. It was gorgeous. She loved that garden all year around. Even in the blistering Minnesota winter during the month of January, my grandma and I would shovel a path through a foot of snow, all through the garden so grandma could visualize where she wanted to plant seeds the moment the ground thawed.

In the spring, grandma would have her garden bonnet on, gloves, bucket of gardening tools and just lose herself in the garden for hours. I would occupy myself on her porch with books, and play with her tiny dog, Taffy. "Those hands were meant to do something, child!" She would yell while ascending into her garden. --Apparently my hands weren't meant for gardening either. I was horrible at that too.

My grandma had one of those old Barbie dolls. The one where Barbie is wearing a black and white one piece bathing suit. Blue eyeshadow. 1950's hairdo. I think it's a collectors item now. She had the Barbie doll on a stand. The stand probably came with the doll. I used to wonder: who invented this doll? Was it made after someone? Why the name Barbie? --Because kids, when I was your age there was no internet. 

"You can play with the doll if you want." My grandma would offer. But I had no interest in dolls. Just books. I was merely curious as to the birth of Barbie's existence. Women in Minnesota didn't look like this Barbie.

One weekend I went to my grandma's house and there waiting for me were paints, paintbrushes, watercolor books, and paint by number canvases. I was maybe 10 or 11 years old. My grandma was determined to see what these hands could do. Prior to this day I had the typical children's art supplies, crayons, street chalk, play-doh. My oldest brother was a teenager and already becoming a brilliant painter. Some people just have it. Back then I idolized my oldest brother. He was very independent. Very talented. 

Together, grandma and I learned about water colors, oils, and brushes. Soon after when grandma was in her rose garden, I was on her porch, painting. Taffy, sleeping by my feet.

Everything my grandma did for me, my dad matched and mirrored. Quite possibly dad felt I was getting a female role model best suited for me. My dad's wife on the other hand, grew increasingly bitter that I had grown close to her mother and not her. Funny thing about that is, and very typical of crazy people, my dad's wife didn't want anything to do with me, therefor she (definitely) did not want HER mother to have anything to do with me either.

My grandma had two daughters. One married my dad. Not bad. The other daughter however married "well". There's marrying a good man, my dad, and then there's marrying "well" an abbreviation for "well off" aka wealthy. My dad made GOOD  money but my grandma's other daughter married wealthy. 

My grandma's other daughter was the pretty daughter, the popular daughter, the favored daughter. --In my house I was the favored daughter, the only daughter, but more than that, I was clearly my dad's kid. My brothers belonged to their mom. I was my dad's. And I was also my grandma's grandchild. I never saw my cousins at grandma's house unless it was a holiday. 

Favoritism in families are unavoidable. We're people regardless of our relations. Some people you get along with, some you don't, Including parents and their children.

My grandma, however, had three children. Two daughters and a son. My grandma never spoke about her son. I didn't know of his existence, not entirely until I was in my 20's.

Hanging on the bedroom wall across from my grandma's bed was a large photo of a boy. He was maybe 10 or 12 years old. He was at the beach. Swim trunks. Wet. Tussled hair. Smiling at the camera. Happy. An afternoon at the lake. And while I was always curious about the photo, I didn't know until years later that was my uncle Michael. As I mentioned earlier my grandma and I never had actual (real) conversations. Things back then aren't what they are today. Back then kids didn't speak unless they were spoken to. Propriety. "Yes. Please. Thank you. Mrs Smith. Mr Smith." Parents made all the decisions back then. Not like today where parents want their 7 year olds to make all their own life decisions. 

Years later, I kind of assumed my grandma never spoke about my uncle Michael, due in part to grief having lost her husband at an early age. The only time I ever saw my grandpa, I was very young and he was hooked up to life support machines at home. I never saw my grandpa as he was. I only saw him dying. And then one day he was gone. My grandma never remarried. She never dated. She never took off her wedding ring. And I never saw her cry. My grandma was a tough woman. Not mean. Tough. Strong. "A tough broad."

My dad's (then) wife had real emotional problems. My dad, my grandma, and my grandma's other daughter had secret meetings regarding my young well being. My grandma and her other daughter (my aunt) both wanted to raise me as their own. When my dad's (then) wife learned of their plans she threaten to kill herself. That became her threat. If we didn't do what my dad's wife wanted she threatened to kill herself. And then she ordered my grandma and my aunt to never see me, or speak to me ever again or she would kill herself. 

I was about 14 years old last time I saw my grandma. We were never allowed to see or speak to each other ever again. Not for holidays. Not for birthdays. Not ever.

My dad had enough. He threw his crazy wife out of the house. --And that's when things really got messy. The woman has a severe uncontrollable temper. She gets worked up over nothing and spirals out of control.

My grandma died when I was in my mid-20's. By this time I was living in Los Angeles. Not speaking to my dad, my aunt told me when grandma died. We had reconnected. She told me about the fights over who should have had custody of me when I was little. She told me why I was sent to live elsewhere and attend private school. My grandma and aunt didn't think my dad's wife would kill herself, they worried she'd kill me, my dad, or them if they tried to take me. I was sent away because they thought that was best for everyone. That's how things were done back then, behind closed doors. If someone in the family had a drinking problem, a drug problem, extra marital affairs, child abuse, rape, dodging the cops, you took care of your business behind closed doors. No matter what.

"Who was the little boy in the photo in grandma's bedroom?" I asked my aunt.

"Your uncle Michael." She replied. 

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"He died." She said. "He died the same day that picture was taken. That same afternoon in fact. Michael drowned in the lake."

"How??" I asked. "Did he know how to swim?"

"He sure did." My aunt replied. "He was a great swimmer." 

But that's all my aunt would say about it. My aunt insisted she didn't know how Michael drowned. One minute Michael was swimming in the lake, playing, and the next thing they knew he was face down in the water, unable to be revived.

My grandma blew up the photo of uncle Michael at the lake, framed it, and hung it on her bedroom wall. She saw that picture every morning when she woke up, and every night just before she went to bed. Her little boy. My grandma lost her husband to illness, and her son to a swimming accident at the lake. (Accident?)

My grandma had a crystal whisky decanter set, on a silver tray. She kept it on the living room credenza. The decanter was always filled 1/4 way full of whisky. Grandma didn't drink alcohol. It was my grandpa's. And when the sun shined in the living just right, you could see cuts of light echo off the decanter set, like little diamonds.

I wish my grandma was still alive. 

It's funny what things we remember about our grandparents. Things I'm remembering still. Things I've been remembering for the past two days. Pianos. Dolls. Pennies. Roses. Art. Taffy. Whisky decanters. Cadillac. Michael.

SO what you're saying is...

You wanting me to sit in the audience while you're on stage bashing me in your comedy routine...

Is like me telling you to sit there and watch me fuck this guy?

Gotcha.

Just say it in a language I'll understand. That's all.

The last chapter, however long it takes.

Ever see WALK THE LINE, directed by James Mangold?

I love this line in the movie...

SAM PHILLIPS: Bring... bring it home? All right, let's bring it home. If you was hit by a truck and you was lying out there in that gutter dying, and you had time to sing *one* song. Huh? One song that people would remember before you're dirt. One song that would let God know how you felt about your time here on Earth. One song that would sum you up. You tellin' me that's the song you'd sing? That same Jimmy Davis tune we hear on the radio all day, about your peace within, and how it's real, and how you're gonna shout it? Or... would you sing somethin' different. Somethin' real. Somethin' *you* felt. Cause I'm telling you right now, that's the kind of song people want to hear. That's the kind of song that truly saves people. It ain't got nothin to do with believin' in God, Mr. Cash. It has to do with believin' in yourself.

See...

The problem I have with "women in the arts" groups, is the one-direction scope most commonly used to guide agendas not necessarily artistic. (This group) has a feminist movement attached. (That group) has an LGBT measure. (This group) has an exclusive social political benchmark. (That group) censors background checks of potential contributors...

What about the art? 

These agendas on their own are fine. But I don't want it in my art. We have a hard enough time defining art, as it is.

Is it porn or is it art?

Is it violence or is it art?

Is it a sock glued to a canvas or is it art?

But then throw in some angry vaginas with an agenda and WHO KNOWS what kind of group will unfold? 

(I'm definitely getting emails for that last sentence.) 

Are you a woman? Are you an artist or a patron of the arts? Yes? --Well there's your women of the arts, group!

But... 

Unfortunately that's not the way it is.

Women in the arts, you say? 

Hmm.

I don't believe you. 

Women in politics? 

That, I believe.

Fuck it. Who needs a group??

And like our Mr. Philips, told Johnny Cash, "One song that would let God know how you felt about your time here on Earth. One song that would sum you up...."

Most people would say they're a power tool of progression. Their part makes the future happen. And while this might be true, there's something to be said about the lost art of simplicity.

One song that would sum you up.

One song that would let God know what you thought about your time here on earth.

I'm watching the world around me die so young...

I'm an organ doner. The most valuable thing I have is probably a kidney. I'm pretty sure I've got at least one good one to give. But I can't let that be the thing that sums me up. 

I'd like to see simplicity make a comeback. I'd like to see more independent films. More story telling. More painting. More drawing. More sculpting. More musical instruments. More cooking with food from the ground. 

More thought. 

Find this one simple thing and be amazing at it. Make it amazing. 

And finally...

I just got all my artwork back that (for a long time) was piled up on Aramis's home office floor collecting dust. --Sorry about that Aramis. I was being lame. 

So now I ponder...

One song that would let God know what I thought about my time here on earth. One song that would sum life up.

For a long time I thought it was this drawing https://instagram.com/p/BFvRrVgpLHT/

Therefor when my hands became arthritic I quit drawing. But looking at this drawing again before me now....

It doesn't say enough. 

I'm not done.

ZIPPER

Watched Zipper on Netflix. I get the moral of the story, but...

The way my brain works, all I (really) got out of the movie was how much I would enjoy having sex with Patrick Wilson. Even just movie-sex. Handsome tall muscular blue eye'd white man just like Minnesota used to make. Still makes, I'm sure. I like variety but there's nothing like home cooking.

Anyway. So...

This is my thing? This is my mid life crisis? An identity crises?

I thought I straightened this out last December, new look, new inspiration, reinvent, further development, a glossy maturity.

People like me...

Women like me, short, small, Asian, we can be 20 years old forever, or we can be 50 years old forever. There is no in between. There is no being 30. There is no being 40. The only change we can make is weight and hair color. I have no interest being fat, so that's out.

I have a vision what I will look like with long styled grey/white hair. Hopefully I'll settle into a nice glossy 40. Might possibly feel more my age then. I could perhaps get into the wine industry, or occupation museum curator, or politics starting with a junior administration level and work my way up. But I have to feel this part. Never underestimate the way a woman looks, is without question how she feels. 

I still feel like a little kid. I still look (in the face and body) like a little kid.

But in the process of this change, so far only women see where I'm going. Only women see my direction and vision. Men do not. Men see women like me as being 20 year old little girls, or 50 year old moms they can toss their laundry to. There is no in between. It's frustrating. Even gay friends are calling me "grandma" BUT if it means I'm not a fantasy "little girl" sex toy any more, then what other choice do I have? --I'm not interested in men who have sex fantasies with grandmas, by the way. Uh. No.

Nonetheless...

I'm staying the course. I am determined to see this through. I need to feel comfortable in my skin again. I'm not interested competing or getting into "beauty contests" with 20 year olds. And I'm (really) not interested having 1:1 relationships with men who want "little girls" in order to feel like a man. 

I think it's because I'm really short. Trapped in a little girl's face and body. 

"Oh my god! You're teeny tiny!" 

Fantastic. 

Did you ever see the 2009 movie Orphan?

No. You don't understand.

You clearly don't understand. 

You would have me be a "little girl" Forever. 

No more.

Maybe people don't age in YOUR world. 

They do in mine. https://instagram.com/p/BFr3JPTpLJy/

He wrote me too

Like seven times in the last three days. I'm not coloring my hair. NOT coloring my hair! This is my hair color now. Not open for debate or conversation. We went through this last January.

happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts

When it gets rough out there I do my best to calm the mind with happy thoughts. Things that made me laugh. Treasured memories. Like...

It was a luncheon on the lawn for a ladies auxiliary (something something) club. Formal afternoon attire. Warm sunny day. Tea. Cello player. Beautiful garden. (Up until what followed next) making my grandma proud, may she rest in peace...

The cello is a very loud instrument, by the way. I don't know how people sit through entire cello concerts like Yo-Yo Ma. Brilliant musician, but my hearing is going in such a way that any loud repetitive sound (at any pitch) will very quickly generate buzzing in my ears. --Though I've since been told this condition isn't necessarily an "age" thing but a hearing sensitivity.

Anyway we'd been drinking tea...

Plus whisky from a flask.

One too many spikes of flask whisky for Georgina, and we started slinging "Your mother is whore" with every refill. By the third round, Georgina's feminine voice was replaced by a slightly intoxicated roar as she tried competing with the cello, "No, YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE!" just as the cello stopped playing.

When I'm old and retired, little senior citizen, sitting in a park somewhere feeding the birds and laughing...

It's this.

Human Zoo

"Is that your natural hair color?" She asked?

Yes.

"Is it just now coming out? It looks kind of sudden." The other woman observed.

Since cutting off my hair last December, to let my real hair color grow out, 1/3 of my hair is now natural grey/white. The ends remain old black dye. I explain to the women I simply don't feel like coloring my hair anymore. I've been coloring it since high school covering grey hair. I'm done.

The two women are looking at my face. They're looking for wrinkles. I'm Asian. I don't have any. It's confusing. Grey/white hair. No wrinkles. All three (of us) women are GenX era. 

"I should stop coloring my hair." One woman said. 

"At least you have hair." The other woman said.

"You have hair" I tell her.

"Feel my hair" she says.

I feel her head. She has but a thin veil of soft blonde hair. 

"Why did you stop coloring it? Just sick of it?" She asks me.

Sick of it. No need to color it anymore. Zero fucks given.

For all the griping getting older, waking up to pee in the middle of the night (twice every night without fail), all over body pain in the mornings, lingering pain under my right knee, hearing shot, arthritis from my elbows to my fingers (both hands), BEHOLD, my menstrual cycle remains the one reliable full force, month after month, after month, after (Jesus Christ, really??) another month. Tired of that too. Really tired. Tampons. Overnight pads. We women lose so much getting older but that ONE THING seemingly just goes on and on - forever. 

I'm told menopause is a blessing. I hope I live long enough to be blessed. If I die before menopause I'm going to be pissed. 

"Yeah but your face looks young." She says.

I know.

"You don't have any wrinkles." She says.

I know.

"If it wasn't for your grey hair you'd look really young..."

I know. It's a curse. 

I'm not young. I'm old. 

I don't fear dying. And I'm probably obsessing on it too much these days, BUT when I die, I don't want to be "that woman who lives alone in (that) apartment who no one knew was dead until rent was late."

I never wanted to die that way. 

Rewind...

I'm a news junkie. I love news. I never wanted to be a reporter, I just like knowing what's going on in the world. And what's going on is nothing good. Ever. Planes are crashing and disappearing...

In Rèunion, cats and dogs are (still) being used as shark bait. Live cats and dogs, grappled by up to 5 hooks at a time, squeezed and bled on the hooks, all while still alive, then thrown into the ocean (still alive) for shark bait. 

If that doesn't rip your heart out... 

Luckily for pet lovers in that region they have the Brigitte Bardot Foundation, GRAAL, The Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, The Royal Society, and Thirty Million Friends Foundation, pressuring the French Government to stop this practice once and for all. Imagine seeing half eaten dogs washed up on shore. 

"Don't humanize animals. Don't humanize your pets." 

Yes. I don't want cats and dogs used as shark bait. And I'm the a-hole. Right.

A woman in Florida recently proved you don't need cats and dogs to illegally trap sharks. Just stick your arm in the water. Splash around. You've seen JAWS, you know how this works. Reportedly, a small Nurse Shark, bit a woman on her arm while in the ocean and wouldn't let go. The woman was admitted into Boca Regional Hospital, with the shark still attached to her arm. Google it.

I'm an EMPTY THE TANKS supporter. Its disgusting when companies profit off trapping/imprisoning animals, torturing and starving animals to perform tricks for food, using these animals with no regard for their lives, not even when they die from one form of animal dysentery and/or starvation.  

And still...

I'm the a-hole?? 

Ignorance is bliss. Perhaps? I'm jealous of those people. Kind of. No. I guess not really.

Did Pamela Anderson, contact Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, in regards to stopping Canadian seal hunting? --I love her. Isn't she from Canada? I'm willing to overlook that part. 

"Maybe we should get 19 year old boyfriends..." She says.

Um. No.

My conversation with the two women steered in this direction.

I'm not (sexually) attracted to younger men. A certain type of younger woman, yes. Men, no. If there was another element involved like "he likes to watch me have sex with a young stud" or I'm getting paid, that's different. But 1:1 I've never been interested in younger men. Do I find some attractive? You bet. But that's where it ends. 

Philosophy. Visuals. The written word.

That's more intriguing than younger men.

Good or bad, when something is stuck in my head, I don't connect with what's in front of me. Blindsided, you could say.

And lately, since reading about it, since seeing the photos, for the past 3 nights, in my head all I see before going to sleep are cats and dogs being hung up by fishing hooks, used as shark bait, all while still alive. Just suffering in excruciating pain until death finally relieves their suffering. 

Humans. Some truly are disgusting filthy fucking useless animals.

I'm buying a whip.

AND THEN

Also in the same report regarding doner penis transplant, reportedly a 21 year old guy in Africa, also had a successful doner penis transplant after a botched circumcision. Happy ending, he successfully got his girlfriend pregnant. --Ok, let's go back to botched circumcision resulting in needing of a new penis. HOW... Did the doctor explain that one? Or did the poor young guy realize it on his own after hearing the doctor say, "Oops... fuck... Um... ?"

Or...

Did the poor guy grow into his botched circumcision, later in life concluding he wanted/needed a new penis?

What about hermaphrodites?

I don't understand bathroom laws. Ever been to Firefly in Studio City? Their bathroom is neutral. Men, women, whoever, peeing in stalls next to each other, washing their hands in sinks next to each other. No problem. So what's the problem? 

I've pee'd in mens rooms. 

Sometimes even in their bathroom.

(Ha! See what I did there?)

Aramis, are you tired of me saying "See what I did there" yet?

Oh I'm sorry. Not peeing. "Squirting." Says the scientifically researched data provided by the prestigious united institute of swingers and porn. 

You know what offends me? Women who after they pee, somehow manage to miss the toilet bowl with their used toilet paper, and it lands on the floor, AND THEN they just leave it there. On the floor! How did you miss the toilet bowl? How??

WWJD?

Thomas Manning, age 64, (reportedly) had a successful doner penile transplant. Cancer made it necessary to have a surgery removing his penis, and now through a doner, and a 9 hour successful surgery, Manning has a new penis. Aside from --how strange will it be using another man's penis?? I'm assuming a dead man's penis?? MY QUESTION is, there is (I'm guessing a woman with a name like Anne) reportedly on the penis doner waiting list --if Anne successfully receives a doner penile transplant, which bathroom do politicians want her to use?

(What would Jesus do?!)

All the writers of SNAPPED

(According to Wiki) are men. And I'm almost entirely sure each one will agree with me when I say...

For as many examples YOU find why 16 year old (let's say) girls aren't emotionally/mentally mature or stable enough to have sexual adult relations...

I can list a bunch of legally adult women who were clearly not either. Starting with Lorena Bobbitt. 

I could probably just stop there. Point made.

But...

Remember Clara Harris? She ran over her husband in a hotel parking lot THREE times (murdering him) with her step daughter in the passenger seat, after Mrs. Harris, caught her husband with his mistress at the hotel.

Was Mrs. Harris, mature enough to have adult relations??

TV shows like SNAPPED, don't run out of material. 

I could write a 500 page chapter on nutty legal adults who were clearly not mature/stable enough to have sex. 

It's funny, now that I live alone, everyone from my dad's widow, to my coworkers, to the man I write my rent checks to, joke around about being a "swinging beach single" when the only person I've had sex with in my (four) month new apartment, is me. 

I've yet to meet a man in the past four months I want knowing where I live. It's different when you have male roommates. Guys are less likely to just show up and act stupid. My friends are always welcome. --They're people I know. 

But, the moment you add sex to any relationship you run the risk of there being "an incident"...

At any age.

Senate, government, president

In my opinion, 16 should be the age of consent. The legal right to one's body.

Pick one age: 18 or 21, as government, state, and presidential adulthood, to vote, be active in the military, leave home, drink, pay taxes, etc.

(one) legal age

Who wasn't hot for a teacher? For me it was 7th (and 8th) grade drawing teacher, Mr Dale. I didn't need his drawing class the following year, but since it was offered again as an elective class in 8th grade, I took his class again, as did most girls from the year before. Rugged, blonde hair, blue eyes, 6 foot, 30-something outdoorsman, and artist. How old are you in 7th grade? 12? 13? 

The varied legal ages of driving, drinking, smoking, sexual consent, voting, and joining the military, is ridiculous. 

We could learn to drive at 15.

Drive at 16.

Smoke at 17.

Vote, have sex, join the military, and move out of our parents house at 18.

Drink at 21. (Now buy cigarettes in some states at 21)

When realistically we do all this stuff (usually) by 16. Government agendas mess with our lives so much, every time I read this headline, "16 year old girl (or guy) had sex with their teacher" or rather "teacher had inappropriate sexual relations with 16 year old student" I think back, if my art teach would have invited me to "stay after class" when I was 13, I would have. As would all the other girls who took his class the following year. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying I would have stayed eagerly and willingly. --It became a joke for many years into my 20's even, "It's too bad you didn't have the hots for your science teacher. Imagine what you could have accomplished." 

13, agreed is too young, but the (wanting) was nonetheless there. 

A 16 year old girl having sex with her teacher, is this really even a story? Is it better if the guy is 16 also who's probably not educated on birth control? Or mature to handle the situation? Girls mature faster than boys. Again I'm not saying it's "right", I'm just saying...

Pick a legal age. One legal age for everything. 

If at 16 years of age you're legal to get behind the wheel of a 6,000 pound SUV made out of high strength steel/metal, and gasoline, any time day or night, regardless of the mood you're in, I think (just my opinion) the government should then also stay out of your sex life. 

If at 18 years of age you're a legal adult to be active in the military, vote, pay taxes, and leave home, then why is it 21 to drink? 

How does the government gage maturity? I've met people in their 40's who shouldn't be driving, voting, having sex, drinking...

None of it makes sense. 

Until the government picks (an, singular, one) age for everything, a 16 year old having sex with a teacher isn't news. 

It's gossip.

One day, Mia Farrow

Will just get over it. Your marriage is over, sweetheart. Get a job and move on. Doesn't that woman have (any) friends?? There's being a bitter ex-wife, and then there's acting like a batshit crazy "Mia".

Becky, might be a whore... But Mia, needs a straight jacket.

I'll read about it next day

Caps/Pens vs Blues/Sharks... Meh

Belgian Belgium (Whatever, Jackson!)

Did you know they really do eat French fries in France? 

(See what I did there?)

Are you tired of me asking "See what I did there?" Yet?

America, well...

It's that time of year again. NHL big game? No. If it's Caps and Penguins, I'll read about it online the next day. I'm talking about Budweiser. The king of epic commercials. (Do they have a DVD?) 

Love their commercials https://youtu.be/U1qEZHhJubY 

Love https://youtu.be/rF711XAtrVg

Love them https://youtu.be/1k074D5r3jg

No animal abuse scandals? I hope not. Only clowns don't appreciate a circus fat woman getting bucked off a horse for love https://youtu.be/Wfw7DF-H4QE

And of course THIS commercial makes everyone cry even if you aren't premenstrual https://youtu.be/tTbLBL2P6YA

I don't drink Budweiser. The small Midwest town I grew up in was Pabst Blue Ribbon, country. --I don't drink Pabst, either.

Point being...

Apparently It's America, time. Budweiser, changes its cans temporarily to read "America". Will it sell more beer?? For novelty sake you really only need the (one) can. But you know, go big or go home!

Looking forward to the new Belgian-Brazilian owned Budweiser "America" commercials. Ha!! I mean that "Ha!!" as an outburst of irony.

I like how they flick the fruit off the beer glass (being one of two beers I actually drink: Stella & Hoegaarden) in their commercial. 

Oh right! Stella & Hoegaarden. Both beers from Belgian. 

Again, Ha!!

"Oh beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain..." 

(See what I did there?)