Thursday, July 31, 2003


All this stuff in the news about Kobe Bryant and the chick he (allegedly) ass fucked against her will got me to thinking about the word “victim”. The story came out and right away people are on the news or in papers either saying she was a whore or a victim and pretty much the same old smack people always talk when they can’t stand to think that someone they admire might just be dwelling in the garbage can of humanity.

I’ll bet that girl isn’t as pissed off at being called a whore as she is at being called a victim. I hate that word. Victim of anything sucks.

When people say “victim” they’re basically putting you in the same place, over and over. Being helpless is a bitch but being reminded of it day after day after day, well that’s just torture. It also tends to make people pity you. Empathy is someone holding your hand. Pity is someone patting you on the head. Very different, I assure you.

I spent many years (and tortured a lot of boyfriends) believing that being raped is being victimized. It’s not. It’s being told to let some other kid borrow your favorite doll and never wanting to play with it again or finding out that someone you trust has betrayed you. No power, no choice, and most of all, no take backs. All you have left is global anger and sometimes fear and everyone in the world telling you to forgive. Fuck that. That pisses me off worse than what happened in the first place. Forgiveness goes only to the people I love and that’s like, two people in the entire world. Forgiving someone is the most sacred thing you can ever do and the hell if I’m wasting it on some pervy fucktard. The only thing I want to waste on that psycho fuck is a syringe full of Liquid Draino.

The book for every male or female who has been tooled like that is called “Lucky: A Memoir” by Alice Sebold. She’s pissed. She’s as pissed off as I am. She wrote a poem called "If They Caught You", which you can find at the bottom of this post. I suggest reading it because that’s how a person feels when it’s all said and done. Also, I love the way it makes me feel. The poem makes me feel spiky and not like a victim at all. It’s a MIRV missile right in the face of everything we are taught to believe women and men should say or do after the fact. I love that it’s not someone suggesting daily affirmations which always made me feel stupid and that someone who doesn’t know me is trying to tell me who I am. It's the voice of an angry woman whose body was invaded and will never be completely her own again.

My hope is that people will begin to understand that victim is a state of mind. As long as they identify with that word, they’re dooming themselves. Being pissed off about it negates the victim within. With the American media focusing on this guy and all the people taking shots at this woman for having the temerity to accuse him of anything, we girls and guys out there who’ve been borrowed for a few minutes of fun can keep in mind that anger is your friend and can be used to your advantage. Never let the bastards grind you down, spake Margaret Atwood and with her I agree. And next time someone tries to give you the victim-must-forgive sermon, I suggest you give them a little gift of your own: a stiff middle finger.

"If They Caught You" by Alice Sebold

If they caught you,
long enough for me
to see that face again,
maybe I would know
your name.
I could stop calling you 'the rapist,'
and start calling you John or Luke or Paul.
I want to make my hatred large and whole.

If they found you, I could take
those solid red balls and slice them
separately off, as everyone watched.
I have already planned what I would do
for a pleasurable kill, a slow, soft, ending.

I would kick hard and straight with a boot,
into you, stare while you shot quick and loose,
contents a bloody pink hue.
I would slice out your tongue,
You couldn't curse, or scream.
Only a face of pain would speak
for you, your thick ignorance through.
Should I hack away those sweet
cow eyes with the glass blades you made
me lie down on? Or should I shoot, with a gun,
close to the knee; where they say the cap shatters immediately?

I picture you now,
your fingers rubbing sleep from
those live blind eyes, while I rise restlessly.
I need the blood of your hide
on my hands. I want to kill you
with boots and guns and glass.
I want to fuck you with knives.

Come to me, Come to me,
Come die and lie, beside me.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Sexo Manifesto

I’ve had an almost pathological obsession with sex for as long as I can remember. It is laughable when I consider the limited number of sexual partners I’ve had, but quality over quantity is what I go for and if you exclude the hours of self-stimuli I’ve achieved, I can count the number of satisfying partners I’ve had on one finger. My sexual appetites are curbed largely because of my romantic nature, where, as one great mind put it, everything has to be fraught with meaning.

My latest read, “The Lisa Diaries” is the single most entertaining sexual memoir I’ve encountered. It blissfully lacks the self-conscious irony one finds when thumbing through the diaries of everyone’s favorite smarmy noodle head Ana├»s Nin, replacing that pseudo-hedonism with depth that I doubt Nin ever felt even in her darkest hours handing Henry Miller her table scraps.

Lisa’s book isn’t marked up for shock profit and it doesn’t try to ruffle any feathers as much as it peeks beneath them looking for something interesting.

The greatest strength of this book and really, of all Lisa’s books is that she writes with such depth that when you’re reading, it’s like eating the tastiest croissant you’ve ever had, with rich flaky layers, something you’ll remember for days afterward. She can talk about going to a porn shop and buying a dildo and make it seem like an odyssey, which, incidentally, it becomes in subsequent pages. There’s a great entry wherein Lisa describes her new dildo and makes it sound like a Freudian amusement park where the roller coasters are made of sweaty skin and latex. Also, I’ve never owned a dildo and have been in very few porn shops, so this is twice as nice.

I’ve found that a lot of people like to use sex to illustrate how free spirited they can be, or how amazingly guilt-free they are for screwing and forgetting about it later. Sexual show-biz, I call it. It’s about as convincing as a chick screaming “Oh yeah!!” in a porno and about as boring to hear. I used to work in a very seedy nightclub where people led others about in chains, which would be interesting if they meant it. Usually, it looked as though they should be wearing signs that say, “Momma didn’t love me” or “Behold, my feigned indifference!” Not to mention it was in the heart of Cincinnati, where one chick spanked people for money while wearing fishnets so tight that her grotesquely obese legs oozed between the holes. The only turn-on there was a light above my head that told me to run like the wind that passed between her enormous ass cheeks.

You won’t find bullshit or inhibition in Lisa’s book and you’ll be entertained AND maybe even turned on. And no grotesque ass cheeks can be found lurking behind strained latex. Not even a little bit.

Buy it! You couldn’t be putting money in the pocket of a cooler gal.

Monday, July 28, 2003

Shooting it in the Vein of the Universe

I think I have a virus. When I went to go score a Sprite from the machine, one of the junkies looked at me cautiously and said she hopes I don’t have the SARS. Me too, Supernova. I call her that because she's so thin, she looks as though she's going to collapse onto herself. I tried to give her some bread once but she said she wudn’t hungry. Funny thing about her and her girlfriend, they never seem to jones. They always look a bit feral but are quite calm most of the time and really, their faces are always austere. Wow, I live in the only place where we have Buddhist junkies.

They should have t-shirts that say, “Shooting it in the Vein of the Universe”. Jesus, if the Chelsea Hotel was in Northern Kentucky, it would be my building, only not as much now that the closet gay guy and his wife left a few weeks back. What a badass he was. He used to leave the nastiest porn on his computer so his wife wouldn't catch on. She'd just get SO pissed and he'd be explaining away money shots and big tittie sites, no doubt thinking "Heh, psych". She's really nice though. Now a carpenter is moving in. Not nearly as much fun.

As usual when I’m sick, my imagination gets to ride shotgun while the normal, so-called “rational” thoughts are locked safely away in the trunk, where they sniff fumes long enough to be interesting once they get back behind the wheel. The next few says will be the spent in the bosom of NyQuil and blessed comatose sleep. I don't know why the Spiderman people didn't do a Green Goblin/NyQuil tie in. They're both equally unnatural and equally deadly. I guess NyQuil just puts you to sleep while the Green Goblin kinda kills you. Maybe they didn't want the connotations. Plus it would be hard to fit that pumpkin thing in there, unless they did a NyQuil Fall Collection.

Whew, too deep for me. 'Night all.

Sunday, July 27, 2003

It's All Over For Us!

This is about the most fun I have ever had reading about the end of the world! Now, don't think it is merely the text of the article that is so intriguing. No, it's the pictures.

First off, the little nanobots are so cute, I don't know how bad I'd feel watching them devour the guy in the office next to me. He probably wouldn't be sweating my demise either, but that's a different story. Wow, it's like being eaten alive by Sea Monkeys wearing armor!

Secondly, everyone seems to be having a monstrous orgasm on doomsday. Note the "Aahhh's" present in many of the pictures. My only explanation is that Nathan needs to get laid...or at the end of one's life, you get a resolute nod from Mother Nature.

Last but not least, the guy brushing his teeth and seeing the giant mushroom cloud right outside. "Gaahh" is all he manages, as though he accidently overshot his upper teeth and his toothbrush sailed into the toilet!

I want to meet this Nathan guy.

Hate Mail, Shmate Mail

Yes, I got my first hate mail today. Actually, it was Friday but I got drunk Friday and didn't get up early enough on Saturday to post anything.

So, two great things this week: Drunk enough for the entire party to be remembered as some kind of grey smear, except for the part where I did not sing, no, singing is way too dignified, but shouted the wrong words to Bob Marley songs, thereby completely screwing up the whole "Peace, Love" vibe that we so love from our favorite dreadlock Rasta. Yes, and then to remember that I got hate mail for being such a commie or whatever it is that you are when you're not a lemming with a flag up its ass.

All in all....great weekend!!!!

Friday, July 25, 2003

Al Jazeera Was Criticized and Bullied by The U.S. Government Who Later Have a Change of Heart

"Last weekend, the U. S. government criticized the Arab network for airing photos of U.S. POWs and dead soldiers. Al- Jazeera says the United States asked that the footage not be shown until families of those soldiers could be notified, and it complied with that request."

Reported in the Roanoke Journal, March 28, 2003 by Columnist Lana Whited

one of many articles mentioning this stuff

And yet, today, Uday and Qusay, Saddam's sons and apparently, his partners in the arts of being warmongering pigs splashed (quite literally) across every fucking website I see AND this only months after they hand Al Jazeera their walking papers at the NYSE AND bomb their Baghdad headquarters, killing one reporter.

I'm so pissed off right now. I'm so pissed off right now.

So, the deal supposedly is that the Pentagon "thought it through carefully" before they decided to publish the pictures and that ultimately, the pictures were displayed only because they wanted to show the Iraqi's that the evil duo really were pushing up dasies. Ok. What the fuck ever, assholes. Like any fucking Iraqi citizen is going to be surfing the fucking web right now? With that over abundance of electricity they have, no doubt.

Now, I'd love to link you to the article where I'm getting this last bit of info but it's showing those pictures and I don't want to be anyone's toll-booth to gross out pictues of dead guys. You can find it if you read Cursor, though.

So, what this entire thing comes down to for me is a situation I've seen many, many times before, on a smaller level and committed by much smaller people: Turn the flashlight on everyone else to keep the rest of the world from seeing your own cockroaches. Hypocrite isn't a strong enough word to describe people like them and chances are, their supporters aren't ever going to allow themselves to see the shitpile around which the flies buzz.

Anne Tyler once wrote, "Free speech, that's all we've got. We can say whatever we want but the government goes ahead and does what it wants anyway. It's like we're on a big ship, headed someplace terrible and you're not allowed to jump off."

I'm going to go autistic for a while and bang my head against the wall.

After calming down for a while (days worth), I've figured out one of the reasons I'm so pissed. I really fucking hate it when people villify others for doing things that they themselves have done. It's bullshit and people try to play that crap because they often think that their reasons for doing things are the only correct ones. The way that I see it, if you're going to fuck someone in the ass with your petty finger pointing, be goddamned sure that you're not guilty of the same crime.

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

My New Boyfriend

I don’t know his name. In fact, I barely know what the hell he looks like. I only saw him briefly today, beckoning from within the pizza delivery truck down the street, totally stoned and bearing a striking resemblance to that drooling kid from the short bus on South Park.

I e-mailed a friend yesterday, telling her about him because I think he’s sending me love notes. I came downstairs to buy a soda (this is how we met: the Coke™ machine is right across the street from the pizza joint, directly in front of the cool-alternative scooter/scenester store) and looked at trunk of my car and the word “Tits” was written in the six inches of dust that even the most torrential downpour shan't remove. I wondered what kind of male leaves love notes like THAT? Well, as you’ve read before, Newport boasts a special breed of people, so I suppose one must allow for a certain amount of eccentricity, non? Though I am not positive it was him that wrote it, I am going to pin it on him because it makes him more interesting and more mysterious. And a guy like that really needs a slap with the James Bond glove here and there.

So tonight I’m walking for yet another Coke™ (some day, I’ll buy a 12 pack but I’m just not ready for that level of commitment) and I hear this whistling coming from, yes, the pizza joint. Usually, this guy is doorway lurking, a very compelling pastime from the looks of things on the block, yet tonight he went from doorway lurking to c3, proving once again that pawns can only move straight ahead, just not too far. His whistling got louder and louder until I had to yell at him to stop trying to woo me. I am not sure if he understood though. I think that the voice of the Ganja God was far louder than my shrewish screeching.

Ok, on one hand, a whistle here and there is fun! I like it and in my town, hell, you get whistled no matter what. Yet, with his face so relaxed it appeared to be melting off his skull, I really felt like a manatee being spotted by a horny sailor after a year at sea. Dude, whistle at me when you’re sober or I won’t believe it.

I don’t know what will become of our relationship now that I’ve rebuffed his suit. I did yell at him once before though and that was before he wrote “Tits” on my car.

I think he likes it when I play hard to get.

Sunday, July 20, 2003

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Being Ripped Off

I spent a little time deliberating before I posted anything. Probably everyone does.

I thought about how to introduce myself to the one or two people who are going to happen upon my little page while searching for that Schizophelia from Canada, the 17 year old who seems to be angst ridden and miserable, or that Schizophelia with the tattoos who says she likes to eat babies and fuck. I’m not sure if there is a ritualistic component at work there, but I am sure that I don’t eat babies. I do fuck though.

Those are a couple of other chicks who hijacked my name after seeing it somewhere on the web. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I say that until you’re big and famous and everyone in the world knows who you are, imitation is the sincerest form of being ripped off.

No matter. Being ripped off doesn’t have much to do with who I am. The name, however, has everything to do with who I am.

But that’s another story. My story of introduction isn’t going to be about initiating either of the two of you into my cult of personality. It’s going to be about Newport. The White Trash Moulin Rouge.

When I moved to Newport the first time, I was crazy. No doubt about it. I had done a stint in a mental hospital (if any of you other Schizos can produce documentation by a medical professional, you’re in) a few months prior, which really isn’t as romantic as movies try to make it seem. Romantic? Oh, ok, so why wasn’t Angelina Jolie sucking on a cherry in my movie? Or Brad Dourif being a weirdo, mother lovin’ psycho, groveling before a stern ass nurse (who, by the way, is one of my personal heroines; I want to see another movie where the lady dominates the world and lobotomizes asshole 70’s gorilla men like Jack Nicholson) or even a silent Indian standing around being, well, silent. No sir, mental hospitals are no slice of Sara Lee. I’d like to have moved to Newport sooner and saner, because that’s where the romantic mental hospital really is.

I was driving home from the grocery store this morning when once again, I was assaulted with the very vibrancy of this town: Its freaky ass people. This woman was like, almost running down the street but was so large that at first, I thought it was one person carrying another on their back. Then I realized it was only the one lady and then I saw what she was wearing: A little catholic schoolgirl outfit, complete with flat, black shoes and crooked piggy tails. One of them was perched on the upper left side of her head and the other seemed to have been a by-product of whatever creative impulse drove her to make the first one. She was walking with the same kind of purpose that Ophrey had in “The Color Purple” and she (the piggy tail lady) had this contented look on her face like she had just been elected president or had just gone to the bathroom after having to wait a very, very long time. Oh, and the best part was that she was wearing some kind of smock, like the kind women used to wear at dime-stores. It was red and tied at the sides, so I’m thinking that she was either walking to the bus-stop to go or had just been dropped off from her job in the fabric department at Wal-Mart. This woman, like most people in Newport, is incredibly intruging to me. You just want to watch her to see what happens next, if only to watch the faces of those around her. Living in Newport is like throwing pebbles into a different pond every day. I never tire of feeling brand new ripples lift my ass up (like a duck, which is my spirit animal, by the way) and set me back down on the smooth water to contemplate what the air was like two inches above me.

I moved away from Newport for a while, back into the jaws of the West Side of Cincinnati. Bad idea. Good Northern Kentucky people scoff at Cincinnati. The way I see it, Cincinnati is not for fierce people like me and that was a lesson I learned well. Northern Kentucky is for people who don’t exactly want to take life by the balls, but who are the BALLS (or highly fertile OVARIES in my case) of life! I moved to Cincinnati four or five years ago and never stayed in one place for more than six or seven months. I’ve been in Newport for over a year now and really, I don’t know if I’m going to leave. The tempting aspect of great grad schooly goodness is making my intellectual mouth water but how can I leave a place when it is the only place that has ever felt like home? Yes, that’s right, home to me is a David Lynch film, and complete with dwarves (I swear this lady right down the street is only 2 feet tall. The first time I saw her, I thought she was a toddler) whores and pimps [the whores are sickly looking, pale young men, the pimps are large diesel dykes with bad mullets (what’s a good mullet, eh?) and greasy t-shirts] strip bars (Don’t ask about the strippers here. Just don’t ask) and its own special breed of dog, the “Newport”, which is just about the friendliest and sweetest dog in the world (I know a fellow who has one) and can be identified by his cheap suit (dirty black fur with a white spot at the neck, like the cravat of a dead guy who was buried in his butler uniform) and intelligent brown eyes.

If you ever come to Cincinnati to visit, blow it off and come on over the river to Newport. If it sucked, would I have wasted this much time on it?

If a person can be defined by their space, Newport is where you'll always be able to see the bumpy antique window into my head. But exercise extreme caution and please, don’t forget to NOT wipe your feet on the way in.