Holy wow it’s been awhile!
I am at the LA airport. All by myself. So I thought, why not, while I wait. I’ll just write a quick little blog. I thought the LA airport was supposed to be really weird, like full of really strange people, but it seems to have the same amount of weird as every other airport. It’s always the business people. The business people being all busy and businessy; whatever they have to do is way more important than whatever everyone else has to do, which is usually nothing, because they’re traveling for non-businessy things. So, I guess that makes sense. And I just have to put up with the fact that they’re having loud important businessy phone calls next to me. Perhaps if I pretend to be busy as well, by writing this blog and typing hurriedly while I suck down this coffee I will be able to, by proxy, join the weird businessy club. Probably not. I’m not wearing a suit.
Two little old ladies in front of me on the plane.
1: Is your jacket warm enough? Is it lined?
2: Oh, yes it’s lined.
1: So you can take the liner out if it gets too warm?
2: Oh, yes it’s really nice. And it washes very nicely.
1: Oh does it?
2: Yes, it’s what I always wear when I travel.
1: Oh yes, I remember it.
2: Like when I went to New Zealand in April but it was their fall because they’re backwards to us. It worked well there because you never know about the weather.
1: True. Truuueee. You never do know about the weather.
Sometimes I forget about Palm Trees. Having rarely ever experienced Palm Trees when I see them I think, “oh yes, palm trees.”
Other times I notice people looking at me trying to figure out if my glasses have lenses in them. Yes, people, my glasses have lenses, what they don’t have is glare. Because who likes glare? So, sometimes it appears, when they are clean enough, that a person could just stick his or her finger right through the frame, but one cannot in reality do that, because there are indeed lenses there with an actual prescription. I do, and I do not lie, need them to see. I am not that hip.
I have had, on occasion, men claim that the reason I cannot reach orgasm with them is due to the fact that my vibrators have desensitize me. I’d just like to state for a moment, as a sex educator, that this is not and cannot be true. The reason I am not having an orgasm is because maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to make them work for it. Whereas a vibrator has no opinion in the matter. And because it has no opinion I can just let it do its job. Because it is a job for the vibrator whereas with another person it is actually supposed to be pleasurable. It is supposed to be fun. But if they’re pressuring me to climax it’s going to take A LOT longer for me to do it; I don’t like to be told what to do.
Suggestion while sexing: people, just say, “I don’t care if you come or not I’m just going to do this until I get lockjaw.” And then just do it until you get lockjaw, like you promised.
Sometimes I think they only things that keep me from jumping off a tall building are really good writers and tater tots. I am not a really good writer, but perhaps one day after reading all the really good ones I can become okay. And that would be better for the world, or at least for me, than jumping off a tall building. What a mess!
I’ve realized that one thing good writers have is the ability to capture the mundane thoughts “characters” have in a way that actually fully develops them into people. People that we can relate to and not relate to. And I’ve realized that I can use my super judgmental side to my advantage—I just have to take it further than I ever have before—I have to do an external judgment of who I think they are, but then analyze their motivations for decisions, which is turn will help me figure out what they think. And when I know what they think and why they think it then I can figure out how to take them, the character people, and put a few of them together into situations and make what they call stories.
I’ve have also realized I am one of the only people in the world who looks at other people and pictures what they were like when they were kids or what they be like when they’re old. Or both. Like, what did their parents thought of them? What moment did they make another person so proud? What were their faces like when they opened their birthday present in 2nd grade? Will they have a cane or one of those walkers with tennis balls on the legs? Will they become curmudgeons? Will they dye their hair and get botox or will they accept their fate as aging old farts and let their wrinkles spread deeper and darker across their faces?
This guy next to me has all these receipts spread all over the table. One of them is for a place called Mr. Pickle. There are so many opportunities here. I can’t even begin with the joking. I cannot even start. I just hope that one day I’ll have a Mr. Pickle of my own.