Chronic Ruination

I graduated high school with a 4.0, 2140 on the SAT, 32 on the ACT.  I’m 96 hours into one of my degrees and 57 into the other with a 3.8 and 4.0 in each respectively.  Thanks to genetics and a hypervigiliant team consisting of my grandmother and aunts, I’m more than a little intelligent.

Other experiences and “achievements” have made  me smart. There’s a gulf of a difference between being intelligent and being smart.  I’ve got my Mom to thank indirectly for making sure that I’m smart.

I’m here to talk about things that I just don’t get.

I just don’t understand the inability of some people to compartmentalize. How can a person not keep their emotions seperate from their needs and basic drives?

For example,  let’s talk about rosie.  I’ve mentioned rosie previously in my wordpress.com blog that got TOS’d and briefly in this one.   rosie is a holdover from a few months in my life that could have basically ruined the rest of it.

I got involved with a guy who considered himself a male dom.  I know I know…that’s like saying I did yoga on Wii Fit with Santa Claus and afterward we talked about Paris Hilton being a valued member of society while eating turkish delight.  Some things just cannot happen in this reality as we know it.

I’m going out on a limb here but I’m sure more than 5 handfuls of people will agree with me when I say that, for the most part,  there’s absolutely NO SUCH THING AS  A MALE DOM!!!!!

I will shout that from the rooftops, until there’s nothing left of my vocal cords.  I really don’t believe in absolute truths, but that is one of mine and it’s rosie’s too.

I hate to kill the fantasy a few of you may be forming in your heads of a smartass, bitchy hottie living on the reservation and enjoying the best of life on the backs of weak, desire-driven males, but that’s not how things are.  I grew up EVERYWHERE.

I spent some key years in the South, but I’ve lived in every region of the country.  Most of my family is upper Middle-Class by pre-George W. Bush economic standards, at least the part I know.   My father died during my Tickle Me Elmo obsession days.  I remember more about Tickle Me Elmo than I do him.

No big deal, his mom, sisters and aunts made sure that I knew where I could go in life and encouraged me to be nothing but the absolute best I could be.  They felt they  had to work in spite of my mom whose idea of a great life for me was pushing me into pageants and every single modeling or bit acting gig she came across.

The money I’d made modeling as a kid exceeded the  “college fund” purpose that my mom used as her battle shield whenever anyone else in my family told her that it probably wasn’t the best idea for me.

It really wasn’t the Oprah topic they were making it out to be.

I had ALOT of fun as a kid.  We moved around a lot so I could be close to whatever agent/agency was getting me the most work. Contrary to popular belief, that’s not a bad thing for every kid.  I learned a lot about people; social skills that you can’t get spending grades pre-K through 12 in the same town, in the same school with the same people.  Whenever I had to move, friends weren’t the problem.

I always had the best clothes(mostly freebies and discounted stuff I’d get as partial compensation or bonuses for some jobs) and the cool mom. She never had a stable career because she was busy trying to give me one.  She worked odd jobs doing event planning, or being a PA.  She always did grunt work but still managed to be fabulous in every way imaginable.  She even managed to have a now Z-list former kid actor come hang out with my “friends” for my 10th-birthday for like 15 minutes. Making friends wasn’t ever a problem;  overly concerned teachers and other parents were.

At  school, I’d want to do things on my own in my own time.  I hated and still hate being taught.  I love learning/discovering things on my own.  That’s not valued in any school system in America so I butted heads with a lot of the teachers, administrators, and  nosy, xanax-driven moms who made cupcakes for the class.

I answered all their questions about my life and my mom the same way they asked them…rudely. My behavior at school caused a lot of problems between my cool Mom and I.   All of a sudden she wasn’t cool anymore to me because she didn’t have hair like that chick from Friends and  she bought her cupcakes from pastry shops.  It’s not like she didn’t try in her own little way.

Her thing on Friday nights,  if I didn’t have to be up too early the next morning, was to try and make up for all of the things I’d accused her during the week of not trying hard enough to do.  She’d get these huge cupcakes and we’d split one followed by a biotin to boost our metabolisms to handle all the fat and the sugar with fat ambition.Then  we’d stay up  to watch Style with Elsa Klensch on CNN .

She didn’t want me to be like the Ambers, Haleys, and Chloes who weren’t told that the carbs you eat today will be the ones that say hi to you from their new home around your hips tomorrow.  I hated her for that, but I loved her because the Ambers, Haleys and Chloes all told me how lucky I was to have such an awesome mom.

Long story short, work for me dried up around the same time my crush on John Galliano fizzled out when I learned what gay meant.   We moved to Mississippi because her side of the family lives on the coast and she sold it to me by telling we’d live by a beach.  Beach….whatever..it’s the dirtiest part of the Gulf of Mexico.   I hated it. I hated the people, hated the stifiling heat and the stifling overall way of life.  So did mom.  We took it out on each other for about 3 years then I legally emancipated myself from her.  Kiddie divorce.  I went to go hang out with an older cousin that summer in N.O..big mistake :).

Family intervened and I went to live with one of my grandmother’s sisters in Tennessee.  I’ll call her Aunt L.

Aunt L is very Catholic and  very no nonsense.  She’s  very in your face and up your ass all at the same time. She’s the type of person that can walk into a room and instantly make it seem as if 75% of the oxygen is all hers and you’d better have a good reason why you need a portion of the remaining 25%. Aunt L is a straight shooter and, to her, diplomacy is a waste of time.  My mom hated her and the feeling was mutual.  So any sort of relationship that my mother and I could have possibly had that wasn’t severed by the courts was blown to hell the second I went to live with Aunt L.

Within the first week, I was enrolled in Catholic school and the rest of my summer was dedicated to Kaplan practice tests and volunteering at the child care center of a battered women’s shelter.   I had zero time to myself, zero privacy.

Things just became worse when school started. She’s very active at the Church she made me attend with her and made sure that all of the people at the school I attended knew who she was and knew who I was.  We were at the mall a Sunday afternoon a few weeks into September of that year when she just got this huge stroke of genius that I looked athletic and should find some sort of sport to do.  She bought me a bunch of soffe shorts, some running flats, a pair of cross trainers and that following week I was on the cross-country team.   It was like she knew about the clove habit I’d picked up at 14 and she was trying to beat it out of me in her own way.  The following spring, I was on on the track team too.

So there I was, finally a “regular” kid.   Aunt L was patting herself on the back to anyone would listen.  I was grateful, but miserable.  Quiet, different kids in school caught absolute hell from my “friends” and I.  I needed an outlet and they  were it.  Until….

My senior year, I started hanging out with Aunt L’s daughter…she was 22 at the time.  She’d just finished up her degree and moved back to be closer to home.  She had her own place and hanging with her was the only opportunity I had to stay out past 10pm.

My cousin, I’ll call her Kate,  is everything her mom had raised her to be on the outside.  As soon as she’d pick me up from her mom’s house for a weekend, totally different story!!  She’d get me into bars, clubs, whatever I wanted to do.  She had a lot of friends that were kind of decent indie musicians/bands in the area so that was always cool.  I went to live with her in March of my senior year.  No real argument from Aunt L, she knew Kate was a “good” girl.

Yep, good girl…

Instead of my senior prom, I went with her to Coachella.  It sucked, but I rolled for the first time while I was out there and that sort of made up for it.  The rest of my time with with her is like a big blur.

I’d graduated and was just having a blast before I started college in the fall.  Life was good.  We had a late night after we got back in from doing the bar thing one night.  The house was full of people, all ages, races, whatever. She was gone and couldn’t drive so while I drove us back home, she got on her cell and called just about everyone in her phone.   The night was crazy.   Kate was crazy.  We got into huge fight because I started telling a bunch of people they had to leave because her neighbor came over to complain about the noise twice and was going to call the police.  I was 17, and there was a lot of green, pills, and a lot of other factors that would have sent a lot of people, including Kate to jail that night.

One of the guys there  calmed her down enough and helped get the situation at the house under control.   Most of the people had gone, Kate was officially passed out and I’m sitting on the couch, hoping that the guy who thinks he saved the day would take his cue and ride off into the sunset so I could go to bed.  He was really tall, 6′5″,  with that weird,  pale olive skin that only looks right after 5 or more hours in the sun.   He didn’t leave.  He didn’t say anything, he just sat there.  I didnt want to just go to sleep with this guy sitting there so I asked him his name.  He told me and then just starts talking non-stop afterwards.  I’m going to call him Chris.  We talked about everything from politics, to sex to cartoons.  He told me he was 28 and that he was going to college in the fall, just like I was…same school and everything.   I asked him what he was studying, he  just said he was getting a liberal arts degree.  Nice and ambiguous.

The gray in his hair and in most of his answers to my questions should have let me know that he wasn’t exactly a boy scout.

Longer story short…he turns out to be the weird kind of cool that works for me.  I think it was mostly because Kate and I were getting on each other nerves more and more everyday and she was tired of “babysitting”.  Chris let me come live with him.

As soon as he moved me in, things went downhill pretty fast.  It turns out he was actually in his 40s. It turns out he was  a male who had done some obscure Euro porn and was basically what amounts to an escort who styles himself as a “professional” male dom.   He was a burnout,  man-whore mama’s boy with horrible anxiety and OCD.  The dom act helped him cope I guess. Oh, and he wasn’t a student studying “liberal arts”.  I got sucked into his bullshit.  A lot of people got sucked into his bullshit, including rosie.

rosie was just a not so innocent 40-something.  A lobbyist with a VERY recognizable, sucessful firm and family man. A church-going,  good ol’ boy on the ouside; inside he’s a godless person in search of God via sex workers,  sex toys and expensive lingerie shipped to random P.O. boxes and kept safely  in storage 50 miles away from the wife and kid.

rosie found her way into our mess, because the dommes/girls weren’t making the HIM still left inside feel ashamed and disgusting enough for the things that the she inside  had done and stll  wanted to do.  rosie  sought out a guy like Chris in an attempt to finally get rid of the HIM and allow the her to live more freely.

I was  part of the not so safe stuff that rosie ended up doing.  rosie was part of me being stuck.  I was too seduced by being finally free from either not being free enough or entirely too free to see that I wasn’t any kind of free.  I was just stuck in every way anyone could imagine.  rosie was too.  Chris had a lot of stuff to hold over both of our heads.  As much of a blackmail slut rosie is, it wasn’t the “fun” kind.  So we helped each other out of a bad situation.   That’s why we’re still stuck with one another in some way.

rosie helped me to transfer into one of the BEST colleges.  I finally have a life that’s what I want for the most part.  I have most of everything I could possibly want.  Why do I still want more and have to have more though?   Why does rosie still want and expect more from me?

Why can’t rosie understand that when I ask for a Macbook Air, that doesn’t translate to just sending me some regular Toshiba piece of garbage that’s on sale and that will probably die in a month?

Why can’t rosie understand why I uploaded a bunch of pics to the  piece of shit laptop.  Nothing major, just commemorations of her favorite things. Wearing MAC Lady Danger lipstick, her face covered in jizz , and the offending monster cock still in her hand  inches away from that gaping, grinning overused fuck hole in her face.

Why can’t rosie understand why I’m going to  dispose of/lose that piece of garbage in the middle of a very highly trafficked Barnes and Noble later on this evening?

Now that presents 2 sets of problems:

Number 1: I’m not going to have a laptop for a huge assignment I have to do for my internship on Tuesday, playing with random pervs, to blog, or to compulsively check facebook unless rosie comes through in the right way.

Number 2:  Someone is going to be a good samaritan, find that laptop, and see that all the software registration information has been switched to rosie’s real info.  I don’t even have to go into the deal with pictures.

This is all because rosie can’t compartmentalize her emotions from her drives.  I think she’s a little hurt because she’s been getting what she begged me for a year ago.  She thought she was giving me some sort of twisted,passive-aggressive, father-figure style tough love by not getting me the MacBook I wanted because I didn’t plan anything for our anniversary today.  Sorry babes, my love is tougher.  She forgot that no matter what, beneath everything she’s just a cocksucker who’s not man enough to be a fag all by herself.    She’s just a faggot, cum slurping whore who will ALWAYS come groveling back to give me what I want anyway in all respects, Now she’s going to have to suffer for thinking her wants and needs matter more than mine.  So sad.

Luv ya rosie, happy anniversary!!!

MUAH!

FORCED BI ME, CRAVE COCK

SWALLOW, GAG, SPIT, REPEAT

RISK DIVORCE, CRAIG’D!!!

I hate haiku…gayness!!!   Senryü is more my thing.   It’s 17 syllables or less about a situation or an incident. It usually offers some insight into the human condition; lame assed reference to nature not included.  This one is for my favorite fag,  rosie.

For all of you GLAAD members out there wringing your hands and gnashing your teeth in ACLU-approved mental anguish, fag is a term of endearment for my 40-something “girlfriend”.  I “helped”  rosie suck  78 other guys off since last summer.    You would think that someone as helpful as I am deserves to have her best girlfriend come over and do some much needed cleaning right?   Apparently rosie thinks it’s more important to spend “a quiet day with  M______”.  Now she did offer to pay her cleaning lady to come over and do it, but I don’t want some stranger.  I want someone who  I KNOW will do a good job.

rosie’s 1 year anniversary with me is coming up on July 27.  Coincidentally, rosie’s wedding anniversary is on July 28th…wow!   Just think about that time frame people.  Some people might think that maybe I planned it that way so that rosie wouldn’t have any problems remembering her most important date.  Those same  people might think that a responsible-by-day “girl” like rosie is being a little too careless with the schedule I gave her.

Consider the sentryü part of your pre-anniversary present,  rosie  ;).  You’ll make it up to me.   I’m not accepting any calls, emails or texts from you.  This is the last warning. I’ve emailed a suggestion to u that will make everything better, for both of us.  Make everything right and I won’t play fill in the blank with wife #2’s name or any of the other little things that I plan on doing mentioned in the email.  Wife #3 may not be so easy to come by with a ruined reputation, alimony and a Princess to pay for.  Just a thought :)  MUAHZ!!

A week in California, 2 weddings, whoring myself out for an  unpaid internship.  My summer has been crazy so far!

I’m supposed to be at an intern meeting/dinner/bullshit fest  right now but… I’m not. That would have meant a MINIMUM of a 45 min drive with the other intern I’ve been letting bum a ride with me.  Not happening! Not in the mood today!

I’m going to Bebe later to find something cute for this weekend and then hang out by the pool until later on. I hope she found another ride or knows the train schedule!   She’s 24 years old and STILL in undergrad! On our first day, I made the mistake of introducing myself and attempting to have a conversation  that included open-ended questions.  I must seriously hate myself.

She talks nonstop about her “pets”.  Interestingly enough, 95% of them could one day easily be found all dressed up in cling wrap, resting peacefully in a styrofoam tray at your local grocery store.  Yes, she’s a farm girl but not the type some of you pervs like.   I’m sure she loves her poultry, pork, beef, and lamb as if she whelped them herself.  I’m sure they fill some sort of void in her life.

I mean I’ve got pets too, but I don’t think she could handle hearing about “rosie”, my lobbyist turned lipstick slut. It’s really amazing what a grown “man” will do for permission to wear her lipstick. I’m thinking of letting my rosie go pick us out some things at the MAC store.  It’s my favorite little game.  I show up 5 minutes after she does, then text everything that I want while I’m browsing.  She pays for it all then I pick one thing out just for her and buy it.  Then we meet up somewhere fun for playtime and gift exchange.

Anyway, out of stream of conciousness blogging/dommespace and back to cowgirl

If I  talk about movies, she turns the conversation to her “pets”.

If I talk about whatever it is we’re working on, I get 1.50 minutes of relevant conversation, then back to the fucking underweight breeched calf, Gabriel, who defied the odds .

If I want to talk about guys, well that’s a bit different.  She’s a born again virgin and reminds everyone around her of that “fact” if anything even remotely close to a sexual topic comes up.  HAHAHHA!  Yeah, me too!!    I’ll be one until this weekend probably.  Then I can just wish/pray myself another spiritual hymen until, my flesh decides it wants to get weak again.

Ok, I need to stop!!  I’m trying to be more spiritual and stuff.  I’ve been reading the Tao and I’m trying to be a little more sensitive these days.  I even listened to her for the first few days….REALLY listened.   At first I thought maybe  she had a mild case of Asperger’s or something.  She’s kind of sweet, but in a really, really slow way.

I think she’s just “good country people”; kind of like in that short story.   Loves her God, loves her country, loves Bush/McCain/whoever wants to play toy soldiers with real people.  She’s charming. Who doesn’t love people swaddled in the security blanket of not having to look past Daddy’s working-class politics?

One day, at lunch, one of our supervisors was talking about how ignorant Michael Savage(Savage Nation) is.   Cow girl didn’t know who he was, so the supervisor starts filling her in.  One little jewel that the supervisor shared was about Savage’s belief that Mexican migrant workers doing #2 while  harvesting was the cause of the spinich/e.coli fiasco.   Cow girl starts staring at me midway through the story.  As soon as the supervisor pauses to thank the waitress for filling her glass, our cow girl blurts out:

“I think it’s so wrong that everybody does you guys so bad and says such messed up stuff about you guys, but that’s just so trashy and nasty. I know a lot of really nice Mexicans  that help my Dad and his friends but those people doing that stuff to the spinich is why they need to tighten the border.  Things like that make it unfair for the people that work hard and are decent”

Give or take a few helping verbs, that is pretty much exactly what she said.  Unbelievable!

I think I was transported instantly to the set of a film called: “Rudyard Kipling’s New Nightmare”.   Mel Gibson was directing and getting a sloppy blow job from cowgirl.  He was yelling at me to flash  some tit  as   some  relatively unknown white actor fucked my ass.  Nearby, a relatively unknown Native American/black actor Rudy Youngblood is forced to watch while bound, sweaty, gagged and baring his teeth in anger.

That prety much gives an adequate visual of the place that her words took me.

Mexican?   Haven’t heard that one since elementry/junior high days in Mississippi.

I took some time to explain to her that I was Choctaw, not Mexican.  Clearly, her public and/or home schooling  has failed her.   It really wasn’t the place for a huge history lesson, but I let her know that actually being born in Mexico makes a huge difference in whether or not a person is Mexican!!  The brown skin thing can go either way, people, FYI

I told her that simply identifying racially with someone who says something stupid does not mean you owe everyone who doesn’t identify an apology for any slights.  The black person who is making sure we get course credit, and her queer Jewish roommate were not about to call Al Sharpton or anything so I don’t know why she turned red and started crying right there at the table. Wait, yes, I do.

I understand the burden that some people feel when they’re around someone who is different from them in some way.   The pressure of knowing that you’re so right and not quite understanding when other people “just don’t get it”.  Mix all of that with  pressure to say the “right” things;  the politically-correct things.  All of this  pressure takes the possibility of discovering any real  truth and turns anything that’s left it into  what Gabriel will leave behind if he makes it past the veal years.  Call it the white man’s burden.

Im not white or a man, but  I feel it every day when I want to ask cowgirl what sort of perverted affirmitive action-style program allowed a Jerry’s kid all grown up to work alongside people with 4.0’s and SAT scores over 2000.  (Note to Michael Savage:please cover this strange new trend.  It has to be some strange new adult version of No Child Left behind.)  Instead, I just say something nice and ambiguous like, “It’s a good thing we aren’t actually getting paid for this right?”

Ok, enough ranting.  Be more than just another random visitor to my blog,  let me know how you feel about things like this, leave a commment. I don’t have time right now to respond to every single email that was in my Niteflirt inbox, so here are some quick messages for the sluts who almost ruined their panties when they couldn’t reach me for a bit.

If you just  overloaded your coke spoon, leave me a confession that will make me laugh, then arrange a call with me using a button on the right.  I’m talking to you molly.

chrissy,  I’ve had enough of your one million and two excuses for everything then your whining when I’m away.  I think we’re going to bump your “first date” up a little.

I’ll be around on Niteflirt sometime around 10 or 11 pm EST.  Just ignore the schedule in the All About Me section; it’s obviously not going to work, I’ll delete it later.