Huh?

Why do I blog anonymously, someone once asked -- because he couldn't find my blog. Well, its because I hate to Facebook-ize a blog. People think that every creative work is a literal one. That if you post a story about unrequited love, you are in the throes of it. If you post that you are disappointed people think its a status message. Geez.

Anonymity allows me a bit of creative freedom. I post a memory and I don't have people clucking over my recent act of stupidity that is so unbecoming of the likes of me (in my real life, I'm allegedly pretty respectable). I can empathize with someone and internalize their feelings, write about great loves and not have to worry about people wondering, who the hell is she talking about? Do we know him? Worse, I don't have ex-boyfriends peering into this and thinking, was that about me? She's still hung over me? Oh please, get over yourself. Hah. Even worse, present boyfriends may bring these up in a moment of pettiness and it won't be a pretty sight.

In short, anonymity provides me with a measure of freedom, the kind that novelists have. People don't parse their novels thinking he or she must have a had a depraved childhood. My short stories do not contain clues to my personality, and my essays are usually about what I think, rather than what I have been through myself.

I love the internet.

Ideas

I have a confession to make. I don't masturbate. And I feel so alone.

Whenever I feel these urges, I reach for my... phone. I've heard about this thing called phone-sex, but somehow, I haven't found an appropriately shaped Nokia. So I talk it to death. I mean, nothing kills an urge faster than talking with my friends who have children below the age of five. Two seconds into the conversation, you hear a tiny voice in the background saying, "Mommy, I think I stuck a coin up my nose..."

But for those days when I'm really alone, I think of my ex. And then I fall instantly asleep. That would be my first ex boyfriend of course. Thinking of the second one just makes me giggle uncontrollably. I mean, size does matter sometimes, right? Oh, okay size matters only when its under four or over eight. And by that, I mean inches. I haven't gone metric there yet. Too tough to think in terms of centimeters. Some don't even make it that far. Mili is all they will ever be when they're excited.

So yeah... masturbation is man's best friend. But for women -- or for me anyway -- I get kinda picky and obsessive. I've heard about dildos of course. But I've also heard about the Chinese toy warning that toxic paints are being used on them, and that sort of killed the buzz for me. And lets not talk about my nail polish either. Or my nail polish remover.

So porn for me is out too. Its like reading a menu and then being told by the waiter that they're fresh out of everything you want. I think that's what happened to my old television set. I busted its screen. I mistook it for a waiter.

I was told that blogging is like masturbation, but I found out that the endings aren't the same. Oh well...

Thoughts on Wall Street

I wonder if the cops beating up demonstrators on Wall street and other such areas of protest feel the crunch of the bone of the teenager they just shoved face down onto the street. I wonder if I will face you across a barricade, and feel your disinterested boot on my back.

We are so different in everything. But the water that makes up your beautiful body is the same that fills my cells and my brain. In bed there is no seam between what was yours and mine. When you are inside me, I am inside you.

But tomorrow you will raise your fist against my beliefs and I will kiss your tears tonight.