Monthly Archives: April 2010
There is no such thing as sex addiction. Porn addiction, maybe, but sex addiction? Nope. And don’t get porn and sex confused. They aren’t the same. There IS a distinction.
Successful men, such as Jesse James and Tiger Wood, are addicted to their ego–not the sexing. They like the chase, the feeling of being irresistable to women…maybe as Tiger said…felt they were entitled to ‘help’ themselves. Help themselves to skanky booty, that is.
It’s an EGO problem, not a penile problem. Let’s get that straight. Men, real men, should have control over their egos and their trouser snakes.
Pedestrians that break the law by just walking out in front of my car when I have the right of way. Good thing they don’t live in NYC, or they’d have been run over.
People that bend my paperback books spine so that the front and back covers meet.
People that give away the endings of novels or movies I haven’t seen yet.
Me: Where do you want to go for dinner?
You: UH…I don’t know.
Me: Red Robin?
You: I dunno.
Me: Old Spaghetti Factory?
You: I dunno
Me: Izzy’s? (A Pizza and Salad Bar Buffet)
You: I dunno. You decide.
Me: (Silently go ARRRRRGHHHHH!!!!!) Ok. We’re going to my mother’s for dinner.
You: NOOOOOO!!!! Let’s go to Izzy’s.
My step mother used to make me go visit a few old people. I didn’t understand why; they were adults and adults could take care of themselves, right? Don’t get me wrong. I liked hanging around them. I appreciate old people because they have wisdom and can see beyond a superficial appearance –you can have a real conversation with them. A conversation that means something. OK, some of them are old, ornery coots, but I get a kick out of them too. And, most of us will be old someday. I plan to be of the ornery, but loveable, coot variety.
I liked spending time, most of all, with an elderly woman named Violet, who was a family friend. She didn’t have any family handy; they all lived on the East Coast. The old folks shared one common trait: they all hugged me and gave me treats and made much out of me. I got so many hugs, I thought my arms would freeze in a hugging position. I’m not complaining. I’ve always liked embracing people. There is so much comfort to give and to take from it.
I did some chores for them, light chores, but my main duty was just to provide companionship for them. I also didn’t understand why they stayed at home all the time. Maybe it was the impetuousness of youth, but the difficulties of having failing health didn’t register with me.
All of them were desperate for human contact, now that I think about it. Due to health and finances and uncaring (or unable to) relatives, they were shut off from society. Shut away in their homes, tombs for the living.
Desperate loneliness is a horrible feeling, which I have come to understand all to well, as it is a symptom of clinical depression. Those people, who my step mom “encouraged” me to visit, had that loneliness, had that craving for human contact. If you see anyone who is so bone gnawingly lonely, embrace them and let them know they are cared for. As a fellow human.
Some Yapper: “Musicians (or other celebrities) should keep their yap shut about politics. Our soldiers rock! What do they know?”
What Yapper Means: Because they are against the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, they are complete idiots who should be kept quiet. What makes them qualified to say anything?
Here’s my two dollars: (My view is worth more than two cents)
What makes 99% of Americans qualified to even vote? Most of us don’t know how the political system is supposed to work. Americans tend to vote with their emotions, rather than cold hard facts. I, personally, would like there to be a test requirement before one can vote.
It all boils down to the individual making the above statement being butthurt because his favorite band not agreeing with the policies of the people in charge. (Because government should never be questioned, donchaknow.)
Besides, butthurt people forget the celebrities have a constitutional right to say what they believe. Just as ordinary citizens (even ones that blog) do.
A long time ago in a high school far, far away… I played flute in the band. Our band instructor thought it might be an awesome idea to do a parade. The Starlight Parade. How wrong he was…that was and still is my opinion.
We had to learn how to march and play at the same time. It is not easy to breathe at the correct times when playing an instrument, let alone moving at the same time. We wore itchy polyester black and gold uniforms with bright yellow, fuzzy hats that had the semblance of a Marge Simpson Hairdo. We called them Q-tips. (They were handy for storing stuff, though.)
To my dismay, all the bands were evaluated by a member of the Marine Corp before the actual marching part of the parade. Yeah. Fun times. Anyhow, he examined EVERYONE in the band and when he came in front of me…well, I have a weird reaction when I get nervous. I laugh hysterically. Don’t worry, I held it in because I didn’t think the Marine would take it kindly if I burst out in laughter. He must have caught a fleeting glimpse of my nervousness, because he ran a white glove over my flute.
I never want to be almost nose-to-nose with a Marine again. I apparently I passed inspection, though, because he left me alone.
Then…there was the ‘joy’ of trudging along a two and a half mile route being gawked at while tootling on my flute. It wasn’t a FUN experience and it taught me that marching, in a band anyhow, is basically a pain and not worth the bother.