Personal trainers take my money but then it seems like I do all the work. Lame. I wish I could have a pixellated private parts area. Then I wouldn’t have to wear pants. Pants are a drag.
A low-resolution cunt is still a cunt, so you’re not going to escape pants that way. Plus, I’m thinking pixels chafe.
Don’t hate on your HD vaginas, girls.
akachan-yurei-deactivated201508:
Yes
I don’t mind girls with tattoos, as long as they don’t mind men with belt sanders.
I’ll remember that smile later, long after you’ve lost it.
A round of miniature golf still makes for a great first date.
I’d be into it, but I have the sneaking suspicion that if I ever found a way to replicate myself, I would end up like •••• •••••••’s character at the end of ••• •••••••.
(It’s the man’s only really good movie, so I’m not gonna spoil it.)
(Also, thank you, perv.)
On Tumblr? I consider myself a writer, first and foremost.
But somewhere in our gear bag, hidden away in the closet among the paddles and floggers, there’s a one-off business card that someone made for my twenty-somethingth birthday, which reads:
My Daddy
master-dom, esq.
So I’m definitely something.
Heh. Amusingly, I never intended Sir Michael to become my spirit animal. My intent was to swap the photo out every few weeks with another older and vaguely creepy B-list actor, but it never happened, for several reasons:
1. I was watching The Borgias at the time, and wanted to put Jeremy Irons into the rotation… until I figured out that Jeremy Irons means something very specific to Tumblr. I briefly considered trading in the man himself for a head-shot of Scar from The Lion King, but realized that might only make things somehow worse.
2. I was also thinking Tom Sizemore, but rejected him because he’s now creepy and sad.
3. I’m pretty sure half my audience would prefer to passively believe I’m a drunk, embittered Mr. Blonde, smoking my way through a pack of Kools in a dirty Motel 6 at 4am, feverishly writing tortured fuck-monologues while hunched over a creaky, ten year-old laptop, as a coke-dusted hooker with two black eyes snores noisily into a semen-crusted pillowcase on the bed behind me. Why would I want to take that away from them?
Someone privately asked:
How does a man identify a broken girl?
I’m not sure how to answer the question, because I (rightly or wrongly) feel like I’m atypical. Unless you count this blog, I’ve never actively sought out broken girls; they’ve always found me. More predatory men are undoubtedly clued-in to things I don’t see, but I think there are some broad generalizations I can make.
Broken girls tend to react disproportionately to displays of common decency and respect… their standards are often incredibly low on all but the most superficial of levels. A BG doesn’t feel accepted by the most loving of friends and families, because even those well-meaning folks see her as a problem to be fixed, or a lost soul to be transformed… no one looks at what she is and appreciates it. A man who can look at her, tell her she’s a fucked-up, hopeless mess, and then just… let it go, not turn it into one more mountain for her to climb… well, she’ll be drawn to that man in more ways than she knows how to express. She’ll change everything about herself —evolve into something completely new— just to keep feeling his quiet validation.
What comes of that metamorphosis, of course, depends entirely on the man she picks, and BGs are not well-known for their reliable intuition. Which brings me to what I think is another common characteristic: overwhelming emotional complexity wed to the calm, calculating decision-making capacity of a nervous golden retriever. This isn’t to suggest that BGs aren’t intelligent; in my experience, they’re usually above average. It’s just that their intelligence —as with their beauty, charm, and every other appealing characteristic— seems to invariably get them deeper into trouble. The voices of doubt and shame and fear start screaming in their heads, they freeze in place, and Shit Just Happens around them. They open their eyes after the dust settles, brush themselves off, and wait to see who’s going to make the next big decision in their lives.
Things Tumblr Has Taught Me
Guys are always arguing, “Hey, I’d love the attention!” And they’re right, the attention is awesome. But awesomeness has issues with scale, as it turns out. Being a sexual object is like being the most Z-list celebrity on the planet; people are generally nicer to you, but some people are inexplicably nastier. And that attention, which used to feel like a refreshing spring rain on your parched ego, occasionally turns into a flash-flood of shallow compliments and come-ons that wash past in a meaningless blur.
As a large, older man with a certain sort of personality, I rather enjoy a nice downpour and can easily keep my footing, especially since I can isolate the experience to Tumblr. If I were a small, younger woman with a different sort of personality, and no ability to compartmentalize the experience, I could see it becoming maddening and fucking exhausting.
I have all of you out there to thank for this new level of empathy I’ve attained, and obviously, you’re also to blame when I use that empathy against you in the next story I write. Enlightenment is my weapon of choice.
One of the most brutally violent songs of the ’90s, and yet largely ignored at the time by people who were more worried about what NWA might do to the police.
Of course, Johnny’s song does have something that most of Dre and Cube’s stuff lacked: comeuppance and remorse.
