begin harmless innocuous post

begin harmless innocuous post guaranteed to illicit elicit pity and cease quarrelling... NOW.

i'm sick. i never get sick. i don't like getting sick.

at present: my nose is stuffed up, my head hurts, my eyeballs hurt, my neck hurts, my throat hurts and my soul is in torture. this last one has nothing to do with my sinus infection.

things i want: a backrub. my mommy. ginger lemon tea. a clean room. someone to give me a bathtub bath. a nice fluffy clean white robe. some warm soup. someone to read a book to me. altogether less snot.

instead, i'm talking online to two of my favorite people. and because i am Independent Woman of Substance, i will not wait for someone to give me a bath, make me soup, and put to bed, and get my act together, drag self to grocery store, and buy miracle tea ingredients like this sweetie is commanding me to do.

but not before i sniffle a little and bemoan my loneliness.

*sniffle*

right next to "gullible"

right next to "gullible" in the dictionary

someone explain to me the point of "joke" blogs. i don't get this. like this blog? and its corresponding blog, written by her "adoring model boyfriend"? i mean, i get that it's fake. i do. but that doesn't make it interesting to read. so she's mocking a style of human being, right, the self-absorbed ditz? by writing a blog just like a self-absorbed ditz? i don't understand how this is really any kind of humor: wit, satire, commentary, or irony ... it's a one-trick joke.

and then you'll come across the blogs, like this one, that almost seem too have to much material invested in them to be fake. i mean, why would anyone go through so much trouble to write an entire fake blog, and a fake 100 things, to mock the classic southern redneck who's got a dixie flag on his 'vette and who says things like 'squirrel covers' for underwear and wants women to 'ride my 'stache'? i don't think that character would be all that funny in real life. much less on a blog.

the question becomes, where does the revealing journal-style of the blog end, and the fantasy world of blog-creation begin? is it a joke if the author never reveals the punchline - namely, 'ha ha, i'm kidding!'? is it a joke if you're cariacaturing real-life personalities that perhaps aren't as one-sided as 'vette-driving, 'stache-wearin' southern boys or self-absorbed princesses?

i don't know. i don't mean to insult these bloggers, or imply that they don't deserve to have weblogs. by all means, create as many fake blogs as you want. but for my two cents, the joke only lasts until you get it. and then it gets old.

Lighting a cigarette from

Lighting a cigarette from the Easter candle?!?!? How dare you! Show some respect, literally, for Heaven's sake! Who do you think you are? An ignorant, immature little girl it sounds like, who wasn't reprimanded nearly enough growing up. Had I been there I would have plucked that cigarette right out of your mouth and thrown out the door. Who the hell smokes at Church?!? If you find Mass so bloody amusing, stop going before you offend other parishioners. Church is not a game- it's a place for those who are adamant and serious about practicing their faith. If you're there to just screw around without any intention to worship The Lord, leave His house until you can be mature enough to attend Church.

"appalled" no email address was noted, or this editorial reply would have gone directly to our fire-and-brimstone righteously indignant reader.

editorial reply: a little appalled myself

appalled, there are many sins in the book of sins, but not having a sense of humor is certainly among the worst. let me tell you a little something about me, appalled -

i'm not religious. i don't believe one sees god in a church any more than one sees god in the faces of loved ones, in the heroism of humanity, in the curl of a leaf, in the swirl of a galaxy. i believe, too, that we see god in sin - we see god in the betrayal of trust, we see god in greed and vice, we see god in negligence and abuse. if there is a god, my friend, it has created everything around you.

including me. just. as. i. am.

i go to church, you self-important wanker, because i pay my respects to the deities i cherish - love and friendship and respect. the greek church means a lot to my father. he has lost most of his family and the greek orthodox church is his last connection to his childhood and his country. i go, every year, at easter. my father does not pretend that i go to seek salvation from god. he himself does not go to seek salvation. he goes to pay tribute to his ancestry, to say a silent 'i miss you' to his mother, and his father, and his brother. he goes to honor tradition. and he knows that i go with him, to honor him.

and his judgement, his understanding, is what matters to me. the judgement of those who matter to me is the only judgement that has an effect on me. not the church. not a thousand-year-old holy book written by gifted men who had an agenda, albeit an honorable one, of bringing morals and principles into the world through the tenets of religion. not even jesus, whom i regard as a right stand-up bloke with a good head on his shoulders and some very good principles.... and certainly not your judgement, my cowardly stranger friend.

so, yes, i lit a cigarette with an easter candle. in truth, i wasn't paying attention and automatically did it, only realizing later with a laugh what i'd done. but you know what, you sodding windbag? it's a candle. it's not my Light of God. and it's not your place to judge, or chastise, or despise me for my actions.

but you know what? we'll all hold hands and forgive you, my appalled close-minded reader, because you know not what you do. how's that for blasphemy?

spot the cardinal sins:

spot the cardinal sins:

1. scoping the chapel for hotties.

2. realizing the priest looks a lot like sir ian mackellan and the pretending he's gandalf and you're an elven princess.

3. reading the liturgy book and marking your place when you stand up, because it was at the juicy bit about virgins.

4. telling your dad you need to use the bathroom, then popping outside for a quick smoke.

5. making faces at the chubby little greek girl in front of you because she keeps turning around to gape.

6. taking two pieces of communion bread because it's two in the morning and you're hungry.

7. once outside, lighting your cigarette from the ceremonial candle you're supposed to carry all the way home, and then blowing it out, forgetting it's not a match.

what can i say. there's something about the void of irony in all religious ceremonies that brings out the snarky heretic in me.

bringing it out on

bringing it out on the playground, y'all.

here's the thing. i'm looking for a roomie. starting june 1st. and craigslist is just not getting my rocks off. so i'm turning to you, blogworld. you're all fabulous, except for the ones who are scary freaks and i'm sure none of those people are my readers. i'm looking for a roomie and i've posted the ad over here, complete with pictures of my fab flat and the room you'd occupy. you already know i'm fun, and cool, and other positive adjectives. i don't have to sell myself to you. so if you're a workin' girl here in manhattan and you're looking for a place to live come june 1st, send me an email or leave a comment after the beep.

bring it on, kids. let's find me a roommate, blogger-style.

UPDATE: clearly, i need to be more specific. you have to follow the link to the ad. then you have to read it. after you've read it, you need to assess whether or not you fit any of the criteria. and n.b. guys, it's going to take a very special boy for me to pick a boy over a girl. you think you're that boy, alright, but i'm picky about living with guys. then you leave a comment with your contact info and any questions you have. seriously, folks, please don't just leave comments saying you want info just to be cute, yar?

thanks!

friday five i was

friday five

i was going to write about oral sex. but in 24 hours i will be sitting in a greek church, for midnight easter mass. there will be a lot of chanting, that will sound like this: "ahhhblahblahblah BLAH blah" to my ears. there will be a lot of standing up and sitting down, and there will be the blood of the savior*. it seems a little scandalous to write about cunnilingus on the anniversary of JC's untimely crucifixion. on his birthday, sure, i mean that was a pretty happy day. but to honor the brutal whacking of a stand-up bloke, i think i'll steer clear of the sex talk for today.

*depending on your side of the transubstantiation fence, that is.

instead, five things about five friends:

erin. erin has an annoying habit of picking at her split ends when she's nervous or bored, and don't even mention to her how small her hands are, but the best things about erin are: she'll drive me to magnolia's when we're stoned, she'll expertly parse clueless-guy-speak with me for hours over the phone, and she is still friends with me even though she knew me in eighth grade.

raychul. raychul is the most graceful lunatic i've ever met. she can talk you through an existential crisis as smoothly as helping you pick nail polish. i witnessed her ravenously inhaling two burritos ten minutes before her wedding. she's probably seen every simpsons episode ever, and her and her hubby like to prank call their friends on weeknights.

seastreet. if sea were an animal, he'd be a porcupine and i mean that in the most affectionate way possible. he has an incredibly infectious laugh and a habit of saying "nevermind" like a five year old when he gets frustrated. he carries a ratty black backpack with him everywhere and is capable of convincing me to do almost anything, including drive 10 miles to get food at three o'clock in the morning.

fulminous. ful is the biggest rock star i know without actually having any musical aspirations at all. he will call you from outside a mexican restaurant to chat about nothing for twenty minutes and he will let you stay on his couch and watch movies if you're feeling lonely. he looks suprisingly like mark-paul gosselaar with black hair and he leaves the funniest voice mail messages ever, most of which start with: "oh. my. god. so. okay..."

my mom. my mother rarely calls me by my name, usually resorting to pumpkin ["paamkeen"], zuzuca, or lovey-dovey [laahvey-daahvey]. her style and flair could kick martha stewart's ass into the ground and then turn the remains into a pleasing flower bed. she goes shopping for me and brings back stuff i'd never find, and gives me shoes all the time. she also gives out her best advice at two a.m. in the kitchen, chain-smoking with me and drinking tea. she's the strongest woman i've ever met.

what are five things you love about a friend?

i'm not filling out

i'm not filling out another motherfucking spreadsheet until ...

somebody gets me some goddamned flowers. you know why? yesterday was administrative professionals day and in the name of all things holy, i motherfucking deserve some motherfucking flowers.

and some chocolates.

got it, motherfuckers?

crawling back under the

crawling back under the Stupid Rock from whence i came.

i know you think my life is all pretty handbags and witty soirees and torrid love affairs and tra la la.

you're right. it is.

but then every now and then, little elves come in the middle of the night and beat me over the head with the idiot stick. and i do something really dumb. so, to make you feel better that you rarely partake in my witty soirees [except you, ful, because you are my witty soiree.] ... i will regale you with stories of all the stupid things i've done while under the curse of elfin idiot magic:

when i was one, i was tottering around my aunt's house, buck nekkid except for a diaper. i happened upon some mosquito-warding device that consisted of hot citronella paste in some sort of little electric pot. the details are hazy. suffice it to say, i stuck my curious little finger in it. it was predictably, very hot. so what did baby christina do? she wiped the steamy bad hotness on her bare little chest, of course. the little burn scar remains, under my right breast. no, i won't show it to you.

once, i made a pot of coffee. only, i didn't put in the filter. so, really, i made a pot of mud. it was all kinds of foul.

up until i was sixteen, i thought you made pasta by putting the pasta in a pot of cold water and setting it to boil. keep in mind, i had maids growing up. but still. no wonder my mac'n'cheese was always soggy.

in high school, erin and raychul once made a joke about someone named "phil ashio". i didn't get it. until much, much later. around the same time, a british tv sketch comedy show did a "rock song" called "kinda lingers". didn't get that one, either.

erin and raychul again, 1996, in the car, singing along to the police's 'don't stand so close to me'. krissa: "what book by nabakov?" yeah. i was naive. which necessarily leads to the fact that i didn't know why they called amy fisher "the long island lolita". i know now, okay?

i used to pronounce feng shui, well, like it looks. then some pompous asshole told me it was fun shway. i stopped discussing the matter all together and have never said the word outloud since then.

most of my boyfriends. yeah. they count. specifically, the one who drunkenly carved my name in his arm with a pen knife but spelt it wrong. oh, and spending two years with a parrothead.

putting my foot into my docs in the nairobi national park without checking for siafu - fire ants. and then lacing them all the way up before realizing it.

fracturing my pelvis. shut up, you pervies, not like that. worse - doing the jump splits on a hardwood floor in socks without warming up.

that's about it. well, no - erin, raychul, and sea could probably regale you with more idiotic things i've said or done. and no doubt, they will. with friends like that, honestly ...

what's your catalogue of idiocy?

the revolution will not

the revolution will not be rent-controlled.

let me tell you something about something. let me tell you something about the revolution. it starts with this, my friends. and here is how events will unfold.

the upper-crust, the creme-de-la-creme, they are going to lose their doormen. poor little rich people, you say. poor little rich people indeed! do you know what will happen? can you see it?

these poor little rich people! pity them. they do not kill their own scampering cockroaches. they do not sort through yards of junk mail. they do not jimmyrig toilet handles. they do not take out their own trash, oh no. in fact, they don't even know where to take the trash. they do not hail their own taxis. they do not jiggle their own fuse boxes. no, no. they don't do any of these things. their doormen do.

do you know what will happen to the streets of manhattan gentle readers? oh yes. the change will be subtle at first. a gentleman in an armani suit with a banana peel stuck to his heel. a woman wearing manolos, standing in a hardware store, asking what in the sam hell a wrench does. whole cocktail parties of swanky folk, standing in the darkness of an upper east side loft while two or three "men" discuss the mythology of the location of the mysterious fuse box. women getting sprayed by rainwater as they pathetically hail their own taxis, dainty limp wrists dangling desperately.

for, of course, this breed of beautiful people - porcelain, bejeweled people with haunty, uniformed doormen - they are not like us savvy street people. oh no. they do not know to jump back from a rainy curb when your coveted taxi cab screeches up to you! they are the glamorous, the flawless, the wads of cold green cash sashaying down fifth avenue. but this is their little secret, isn't it - they cannot find their fuse box. they do not know the proper double-bagging technique that will save them the ignomy of trash breaking over their feet like an army of infection storming a beach. they do not know, these beautiful people, what to do in that horrible moment when the toilet will not flush. why? because of the doormen, of course!

and then the change will be noticeable, on the streets. who will be sashaying down the bowery with a sense of style? who will own manhattan? why, the stylishly downtrodden masses, of course! the savvy street people who have long taken out their own trash. and jimmied our own toilets. the wired peons, who have always trudged ten blocks through five feet of snow to get to the subway because hailing a cab is reserved for drunken nights and mad hospital dashes. we will saunter past their cafes on the west side, where they sit. and instead of discussing whether or not Geoffrey Zackarian's new restaurant is as delish as his old one ... they will be discussing toilets! and trash! and sorting your mail from your vicious neighbors! and taking in your own dry cleaning!

and the savvy masses, on our way to grey's papaya, we will chuckle a little at their rumpled demeanor and their shocked, rude awakenings. we will say to each other, "well, i've always known where my fuse box is."

and we will have won a tiny, tiny victory in the revolution that is new york.

this should be taken lightly. if you have a doorman and you're outraged at either me, or your doorman, you're not paying attention.

Becoming Responsible Woman of

Becoming Responsible Woman of Iron Will, or Similar

this morning, i accomplished the following:

1. Made appointment for dentist, thus relieving Father-Worrier of daily irritating phone calls on subject of Teeth Repair/Maintenance.
2. Made appointment for obgyn, reasons obvious.*
3. Refunded Father-Bank for trip to brasil, also cheering him up considerably.
4. Filled out Complicated-Looking Flexible-Spending-Account** Withdrawal Request to pay for Also-V.-Responsible purchase of new contact lenses***.
5. Paid both phone bills. v.v.good, as actually paid this month before long-overdue.
6. Paid off a third of Nagging Credit Card Debt.

In Addition, complete transformation into Responsible Creature of Adult Substance will necessitate the following minor changes, effective immediately:

1. No more than one hour of Soul Sucking Television a night.
2. Will power-walk around neighborhood [with hand-weights to smack Insolent-Attackers on head with] in order to shed few pounds and live up to friends' effusive compliments concerning self's loveliness.
3. Same goes for dieting. Will resist ordering Domino's. This will be easier, as will no longer be spending Hours On Deadly End sitting on couch in front of Soul Sucking Television. Ergo, less Fatty Pizza****.
4. Save money by bringing lunches from home more often.
which will require:
5. Waking up at 7am more often and eating hearty whole-wheat toast breakfast and anti-oxidizing teas, dressing with leisure and preparing lunch as well as taking-out-of-garbage and dish-washing.*****

*must keep equipment in smoothly running condition for future happiness and Mini-Hiboux-Production someday.
**Account whose concept i have yet to fully comprehend but was told to use by Father-CPA.
***in order to keep eyes in relatively working condition so as to be able to actually see future mini-hiboux.
****will complementarily stop fooling self that Thin Crust Pizza is, in any way, less fattening.
*****This method will be infinitely preferable to waking up at 8:30, throwing back a cup of ulcer-giving coffee, smoking cigarette while getting ready and running out the door with panty-hose on backwards.

hurrah! in order to celebrate New-Found Responsible Inner Goddess, i think i'll have ... cheesy potato skins for lunch.

shut up, Inner Goddess!

much thanks to bridget jones for being funny enough and fictional enough that i can unabashedly rip off her style for this entry.

isn't she lovely? stephanie,

isn't she lovely?

stephanie, looking every inch the million-dollar-gal she is.

and with that pretty face gracing the introduction, the beginnings of a photo album are stirring over at le deuxieme hiboux ... go check it out!

what was that story

what was that story about the guy, and the lake, and the flower?

and now presenting ...

and now presenting ... wait, wait, no.

like that song "who let the dogs out", bryan adams may no longer have the power to make girls take off their shirts, but he'll always be around for baseball games.

like capri pants, bryan adams may be a couple seasons late but i still keep him in my closet.

oh well. what's up, bryan adams. welcome to the party. everyone, this is bryan. bryan is funny and wicked smaht. bryan, this is everyone. and, well, they're a giant mass of people and relatively indistinguishable from here.

now - mingle.

i'm waiting impatiently for

i'm waiting impatiently for the inferno

i know you're all going to hate me for saying this. but i'm itching for summer to get here. my feet are poised above the sparkly strappy sandals. my skin is waiting hungrily for that glowing humidity that makes my cheeks shine and my eyes twinkle and my hair curly. my stomach is ready for summer too - for the watermelons and the hamburgers and the mangos and the ice cream and the margaritas and the sangrias. a veritable smorgasboard!

other things i'm eagerly anticipating: barbeques. ful's backyard. brunches in the slope. rooftop sunsets in astoria. exercising in triboro park. steve's place for sunset beers. summer weekends in rhode island. sticky sweet sundays at coney island. the 'clone. feet hanging off the pier, eating churros. flowery sundressed and sticky cotton-candy smiles. cotton-candy kisses. hot manhattan sidewalks. the freaks in washington square park. going to the met to cool off. walking around the apartment in my skivvies and a smile.

and more!

sea coming home. sunday mornings reading the paper in bed. the fifth harry potter book read-a-thon. screaming profanities at the ice cream truck. making margaritas. making margaritas, while drunk. having my scrabblemate back again. outdoor cafes. tanned freckled shoulders. flip flops.

hurrah!

what do you love about summer?

people who are bored

people who are bored have no inner resources.

i get bored, at work, a lot. usually this occurs in between doing little bits of menial monkey work. during the actual menial monkey task, i am not bored, because my brain is doing something.

then, the menial monkey task ends and its time to move on to another small menial monkey chore. and this is where the boredom kicks in. you know what i do?

i play pretend.

sometimes, its just a little game i play with some friend online. "yarr!" i'll say. "are you a pirate?" they'll ask. "ar. and i've come to shiver your timber." this usually ends right about here. something about saying "yarr!" for no reason really cheers me up.

sometimes, i'll distract myself by pretending i'm buying a luxury home, somewhere exotic. i will plan the whole thing. i will pretend-purchase a round trip first class top notch air ticket. i will pretend-rent some sort of car - a bentley, or a snazzy-colored convertible. i will then pretend-shop for a home. depending on how bored i am, i will come up with a name for my pretend-ranch, my pretend-soulmate, and my pretend-animals.

this usually distracts me for about 17-29 minutes.

my favorite thing to do, though, is chat with ful. i love chatting with sea too, but he just doesn't get silly with me. ful will make a little pretend-bird, and when i say, "that's me in a nutshell", ful's pretend-bird will eat my nutshell, leaving me completely shell-less. then ful will engage in an absurd argument with me about what kind of nut my shell came from, and whether or not it was fair of his pretend-bird to eat the shell, and how to beat a bird to death with a pretend-dead-sea-lion [my weapon of choice of late]. ful will allow this sort of absurdity to go on for up for 45 minutes at a time. he will discuss fashion items with me. he will console my neurotic boy-wonderings by little e-pats [pat pat pat, he says]. i command him to help me come up with all the ways you can answer in the affirmative. he does. without a minute's hesitation.

ful, in short, rules and is my best defense against boredom. but best of all, we've come up with a silly new game .. the introductions game. we come up with pithy, scathing and funny little introductions for all the people we know.

see?
"this is ful. he does some techie thing that is entirely unrelated to his personality. he likes to make his mother squirmish by pointing out iconically-gay pop stars, enjoys playing with his mohawk and blinking sarcastically at most things petit hiboux says. he doesn't realize that everyone already knows how incredibly smart he really is." - petit hiboux, introducing ful.

"Hey. This is petit hiboux. She's great at applying makeup, being witty, and looking sultry. She lives too far away from everybody, but is slowly being subsumed into the Park Slope Collective nonetheless. She is good at giving advice and somewhat resistant to taking it, but she comes around eventually. She has already moved away from more places than I will ever move to. She has a newfound love of discussing masturbation, so just ask her if you have any questions." -- ful, introducing petit hiboux.

he's also really absurdly good looking. which is nice.

he's the best guy pal ever. and deserves a crown.

but instead, i will have poles at my wedding. he knows why.

written by a team

written by a team of llamas

i'm feeling rather stodgy and boring this morning. so instead of saying anything of substance [because you all realize how overwhelmingly substantial yesterday's post was] i'm going to fall back on seastreet's post instead. if you have the inclination [and you should], go there and answer them for him as well.

okay, i'm ready for my close-up now:

(1) What personal qualities and skills do you think politicians should have, if you hold out for politicians with qualities and skills at all? Explain.

aahh, crap. i'm failing the test already. well, since sea thinks i should run for office someday, i guess i'll just be cunning and parrot back what he always says to me. politicians should at least have gotten into the game for noble reasons. ignoble reasons include but are not limited to: because your daddy was a politician. because you are attention-hungry and desperate for acceptance. because you think god wants you to. because the army wouldn't have you. because your mother didn't love you.

my point is, i think people should run for office if they feel like they've got some fresh ideas to contribute to the dialog. they should be agressive and passionate without being bullheaded, and always remember the point of democracy is to come to conclusions together. while some element of meglomania will exist with any public figure, they should know that they're only as good as their constituency believes they are, and work hard to constantly prove their worth for the job [sadly, except for the supreme court... they get to be as pigheaded and arrogant as they please. regular machiavellis, the SC.] and yes, politicians need to be people-people. they need to be able to work with people, please people, and be open-minded.

(2) If you're to design a semester's curriculum for a literature course, and your students can buy and read ten books, what do you put on the list, and why? What's your course called?

ooh. this one is more fun. i'm not going to bother giving this course any kind of title. it's going to be my maniacal attempt to teach people how to appreciate great literature, both contemporary and more classical. the books are chosen simply based on what they have to impart about the craft, about life, and about humanity. they're vastly different novels, and all of them have something different to teach their readers - when the readers come to it with the joy of reading and an open mind.

candide, by voltaire. because satire never goes out of style, and voltaire makes the journey fun and exciting to the point that you don't really notice his grand final point until, well, the grand final end. and by then, you'd believe him if he told you the sky was made of marshmellows.
the count of monte cristo, alexandre dumas. you literary snobs will probably turn your noses up at this choice, but i think it's an important inclusion to show how plot can be carried out so precisely, and so minutely detailed, without a single slip. and what's more, still concentrating on the vital character development that lends gravity and severity to the twists and turns of .. well, outrageous fortune. ha. that was almost a pun.
the hotel new hampshire, john irving. again, turning up your noses will do you no good. irving is a master of the storytelling genre, but he does it with more humor, wit, satirical observation and flair than the colleagues he shares a stage with ... king and his ilk. the book is a marvel of characters, of narrative, of wit and compassion alike. irving's special talent of affectionately toying with the lives and dreams of his characters deserves a closer look than more airport-book-store readers bother to give him.
the unbearable lightness of being, by milan kundera. chosen for its brilliance. pure and simple. and more specifically, kundera is the master of an often confusing medium of writerly styles - weaving social and philosophical values and ideas into an engaging and revealing story-line. many others have done it, but i would argue not as well as kundera. the effortless way he threads new, invigorating ideas, with age-old philosophical wisdom, and allows his characters to portray them without cramming it down your throat is a skill all serious readers must come to understand .. in order to separate the wheat from the chaff when it comes to philosophical literature.
white teeth, zadie smith. this might seem like a premature choice for such a weighty class. smith is young, and perhaps in ten years her seminal first book will be considered trite and sophomoric. but there's a valuable lesson to be learned from smith herself, as well as through her clean, revealing writing style. smith has written with passion and clarity about growing up mixed in north london. the novel is about religion, love, sex, race, poverty, class, passion, friendship, family .. it's about everything. and perhaps, our protagonist is smith herself. but the most telling, beautiful thing about the novel is that smith allows her writing to stand alone. unlike eggers, she doesn't beat you over the head with the facts of her life. she writes it, revealingly, open-heartedly, but at the end, allows it to be its own piece of art. i have enormous respect for that, in an age of tell-all and reality-life-brow-beating. smith may very well be that mixed girl from norf lundun, but she is first and foremost, the artist behind a creative, powerful, and fearless work ... of fiction.

i think five is enough for now. you can tell, at the rate i'm going, this'll take forever. to be dissected and explained later: one hundred years of solitude, gabriel garcia marquez. kavalier and clay, michael chabon. anna karenina, leo tolstoy. gravity's rainbow, pynchon (once i read it. which i bloody well will if it kills me). and one of my favorite works concerning feminism from one of my least favorite authors, thomas hardy's tess of the d'ubrevilles.

phew. next question: (3) What book has influenced your life more than any other?

you should know better than to ask me this. all of the above, you dolt.

(4) What's your impression of the study of philosophy? Useless bourgeois indulgence? Useless intellectual indulgence? Useless bourgeois intellectual indulgence? [nearly nonsensical rambling a la seastreet replaced by me pulling an irritated face and turning his words into so many little dots] .......................

i will admit, i've never been able to read straight philosophy. sure, its a luxury of those with roofs over their heads and a diversified-enough social framework so that there could be people to sit at home and navel-gaze and come up with brilliant concepts. and sure, all those old greek guys have their place in history, for what is a human if not a constantly evolving, self-analyzing, rational creature? i have respect for philosophy. but if i'm going to spend my time reading weighty complicated life-questions ... it's going to be politics.

(5) I'm thinking of something... green. Something green.

a leprechaun!

(5) That was a joke. Ha, ha! Seriously. Is this the fifth question, or the sixth?

seastreet: brilliantly absent-minded, or absent-mindedly brilliant? i'm still not sure.

(5) The posers of the previous question have been sacked. For keepsies this time. Sleeping with your coworkers. What's your feeling? (Not that I am now or have in any way considered sleeping with coworkers lately. I promise.) Have you ever? Do you refuse? Morally wrong? All your coworkers are ugly/stupid/boring/probably bad in bed?

you have so considered sleeping with your co-workers, you little rosy-cheeked liar you. my feeling: one shouldn't if one has constant/direct contact with said coworker all the time. unless you're running for office and sleeping with your puppet-master campaign chief, in which case you'd just be an invicible hot power team and probably get a cameo on the west wing. have i ever? does being editor of the phoenix count? and yes, all my current coworkers are one of the above, or married. but if i was working alongside, say, colin firth, i'd say .. bring on the office sex!

that's all, kids. now it's your turn. let me know where you've posted your answers ... i, too, am interested. unless this is one of those surveys that only nerdy verbose obnoxious book-snobs like seastreet and i actually enjoy answering. at which point, you can just read the self-love post again. have it your way.

mirror, mirror, on the

mirror, mirror, on the wall ... and in the bed ...

when i was a wee whippersnapper, my mother bought me this book. it's all about these two hippos [george and martha] and in the book, george gets so tired of martha looking at her reflection all the time that he paints and ugly picture on the mirror to freak martha out. although i would never endorse the freaking-out of hippos [trust me, i've been there, it's not pretty] ... the story had a big impact on me, because i was always looking in the mirror.

surprised?

my whole life, i've been a touch vain. when i was little, i would stand in the bathroom on tiptoes and make funny faces at myself in the mirror, or talk to my reflection, for hours on end. after my mother bought me the george and martha book, she took decisive action on this habit, warning me with a "martha, martha!" every time she caught me indulging in the cult of narcissus. but i persisted. as i got older, the mirror habit got more discreet, but no less persistent. now, the only time i spend staring in the mirror is, oddly enough, when i'm on the telephone. i'm pretty sure i'm the only person who does this. for some reason, i find it comforting to be looking at a face when i'm on the phone, even if it's my own.

but the vanity doesn't end with mirrors, alas. there's one more little thing, so little, that i forgot to tell you. there's a peculiar result when you combine a relatively skilled portraitist photographer and a vain little mirror-starer - the indulgent art of self portraiture. and when i've got a digi on hand? why, i can barely take my eyes off ... myself.

last night, it happened again. it started innocently enough - i was testing my new makeup. but then of course, i got to staring at how enormous and sultry my eyes looked, and how pouty my lips were. and my hair! it looked like chrissy hynde, all rocker-messy. and before i knew it, i was dragging the trusty tripod into the bathroom, and setting up the nikon. after a heady fifteen minutes, it was all over ... and i was left with a spent roll of film and the sinking feeling that i'd done something incredibly naughty. but my hair still looked hot, so i trotted off to bed, and needless to say, the shameless self-love continued.

i am somewhat ashamed of this dirty little habit. the camera one, that is. i've seen what happens when this gets ugly. people with entire webpages devoted to their moony attempts at artsy self-photography [without naming names]. amateur porn. the guy at your photo lab looking at you funny. and of course, that irritating little feeling you get after making photographic love to your own reflection, that feeling that says, 'is there such a thing as too vain?'

is there even a difference between physical self-love [which dr. ruth tells us is healthy and sexually necessary] and the more apparent narcissism of self-portraiture? they're both things we do alone to make ourselves feel beautiful, satisfied or desired. of course, a lot of artists like cindy sherman and yasumasa morimura have made their living off the social commentary of self-portraiture, and i don't know too many public masturbation artists. and i went to sarah lawrence. but ultimately, they're both expressions of the same needs - the need to love and appreciate yourself ... either sexually or physically.

i'm kicking down the door of this particular closet. self-love, self-portraiture .. i'm an avid fan of both. and on that note, i'm picking up my film today at five and i still hope i look as hott as i felt last night. both times.

various and sundry i

various and sundry

i try and keep my posts relatively cohesive, with a clean middle, beginning, end, you know, an instinctive writers' tic. but there are many disparate things to be said today, so instead, we will have sort of a list-y thing here now. ready?

first, first first: matthieu, as many of you know, has been really special to me. anyway, unbeknownst to readers of my page, our shy matthieu also keeps a livejournal site that he may think nothing of, but i love reading because he writes ... well, he writes just like he talks. he writes about nothing, and then you'll get this moment of brilliant, brilliant matthieu. it's the man [that used to be the boy] that i know and love, and i will cry at his wedding because someone else was lucky enough to keep him, cry in the best possible way, cry because he's my friend and i love him. that matthieu. he keeps a live journal. and i check it, often. so i hadn't checked in a while, and i went back and started back-reading today. and i got to a post about his other major exgirlfriend and [you knew i would, mattchoo] started formulating a rant in my head for not writing that sweetly about me. then i went down another post, to the friday, april 11 post. and read all the sweet things matthieu had to say about me. go, read it. that's what friendship is, no doubt. i love you, mattchoo. for all that and more.

secondly: perhaps there will be an interesting chapter six after all. or, at the very least, an epilogue. no more will be said on this matter until, well, mid june. sorry kiddies. some stuff simply has to stay under wraps, n'est ce pas?

thirdly: this weekend had many, many layers to it. there was friday night movie marathon, with fulminous and the lovely shiverylove. then on saturday, there was an ill-advised but thrilling cosmetics shopping spree. then sunday brought brunch with pennyfunk and some unexpected crying-into-the-pillow afternoon action. this was ameliorated by drinks with mulzer and chris - mulzer and i meeting each other through seastreet, continuing to prove his excellent taste in friends. it was a good, full weekend. nothing productive was accomplished. hurrah!

fourthly: i think i have invented a word. i like collecting offensive state-insults. because it's funny. like, massholes. and floridiots. and mainiacs. but i think i came up with this one on my own. why? because people from illinois are? that's right ... illinoying. spread the word, kiddies. and remember... you heard it here first.

and fifthly: the best quote from the weekend was roomie genevieve saying, "well, everyone has to deal with .. their own face." another brilliant, timeless, nugget of wisdom from the pigman herself.

relax. we're professionals. this

relax. we're professionals. this is designed with your well-being in mind.

welcome to the new spring palate at petit hiboux. come in. have a cocktail. stay a while. we've chased winter away for good ... he won't be bothering us anymore.

so get out your floppy straw hats, your favorite tatty flip-flops, and a blanket for the park ... it's spring!

design update

the one hundred things have been moved, cats. from that horrible, embarassing jpg to their own sleek page, here. from now on, that page will have all the about stuff, as well as a couple pictures on rotation. so check it out every now and then.

ta!

things that make me

things that make me cry without fail

i'll be home for christmas.
certain commercials about dads and daughters.
the scene in all about my mother where her father doesn't recognize her.
the end of charlotte's web.
my mom crying.
jim croce's 'time in a bottle'.
love.
college graduation speeches.

and most of all,

judy collins' open the door.

what makes you cry without fail?

why buy the cow,

why buy the cow, indeed.

i've made some interesting choices on the dating battlefield. i've dated various breeds of italians [always a wild card], fallen hard for a guy who lives a million miles away, stepped in the same stream twice with mixed results, managed to date/sleep with ex-boyfriend's friends more than i'd be proud to admit, and spent two years in love with a man who's favorite musician was jimmy buffet and greatest ambition was to be the Camel Guy. yeah, i've chased the impossible, cushioned the needy, dumped the perfectly acceptable, and kissed... well, a lot of frogs. but of all my dating war stories, there's only one that my friends like to recount to complete strangers, just to get a laugh. [on second thought, this might mean i need new friends. hmm.]

his name was brian. we met at nyu, when we both lived in a washington square park dormitory during the summer of 2000. i had just finished my sophomore year, and my parents were abroad, leaving me to flounder, jobless, in the big city. the first night we met, a big group of us were going out dancing. when i saw brian standing at the other end of the hall, my jaw dropped to the ground. impeccable button down, sexy, lowslung jeans, and hip leather sandals. blond hair. firm jawline. blue eyes. even in the dingy dorm hallway, he looked like a million bucks, fresh out of a ralph lauren ad.

well, it took about two minutes of talking to him for the gaydar to spring into full effect. brian wasn't a flaming 'mo, he was more the 'subtle pink' variety of gay. but hey, i went to sarah lawrence, right? i was used to meeting impossibly delectable specimens who insisted on batting for the other team, much to the female detriment. so i linked arms with the gorgeous 'mo, knocked back my cosmo, we started dancing, and there bloomed a friendship.

brian and i went everywhere together those first couple of weeks. we went to plays. we lounged in the park. we got soused every night, on that underage-drinking-mecca of a street, macdougal. we'd dance like fiends in any bar playing music. brian would dip me just low enough so that the bartender would get a good eye-ful and we'd get free drinks. we'd stagger back to the dorms, laughing and hammered, and make a big show of kissing each other goodnight and getting coffee first thing in the mornings, to nurse our hangovers. remembering those days still smells like espresso and brian's aftershave.

and then, one night, we were at our favorite after-hours bar, where we'd go on our way home from some other bar - minetta tavern, where the bartender inexplicably called me his "fresh mozzarella" and predictably didn't charge me for my cosmo habit. i don't remember how the conversation happened, because i was sloshed, but the important part went like this:

krissa: penny [for your thoughts].
brian: you want the truth, or the lie?
krissa: the lie first.
brian: the lie is, i'm not attracted to you. the truth is, i am.
krissa:....
brian: krissa?
krissa: i think... i'll be back.

after ten minutes of staring at my reflection in the bathroom and attempting to form cognizant sentences in my brain, i tottered back to the table. i had gone from fag-hag to femme fatale in ten seconds flat. suddenly, brian wasn't pretty arm-candy, but potential pretty bed-candy. and to give myself credit, i really liked brian. predictably, for a girl like me, brian was the perfect match. well-read but a fantastic dancer, gorgeous, funny, charming, knew his way around a good restaurant and around bloomingdales ... what girl wouldn't have fallen?

of course, falling into bed with him may have been a little ... well, short-sighted. we never really hopped on the good foot and did the very bad thing [secretly, i think it was just too much for his pink side to handle], but we did a number of other things, which are probably illegal in several developing nations. we couldn't get our hands off each other that first night. i think at some point, i attempted to make tea - then brian accosted me in the bathroom and i accidentally left the water running for about an hour while i was preoccupied in the, aherm, tub.

a week after the hayrolls started, they abruptly stopped - having something to do with brian's conversations with his gay posse back in houston, no doubt, attempting to knock some well-needed sense into him. we broke it off - for a day. on that day, my conversation with my best gal-pal, erin, was particularly amusing. after i told her the whole story, how we got together, why we've stopped, erin became uncharacteristically sympathetic, for a girl whose cartoon personality double was daria:

erin: oh, you poor thing, that's just terrible!
krissa: i know!
erin: i mean, did he cry, or anything?
krissa: cry?
erin: when he came out to you. was that the first time he admitted it?
krissa: huh? no, brian's been gay for three years now.
erin: what?!
krissa: yeah, i mean, i knew he was gay when we started.
erin:...
krissa: erin?
erin: yeah. i'm going to have to recant all previous sympathy, you stupid cow.

but we went on, brian and i - going out drinking, making out all over our dorm rooms, in elevators, in corners of hallways... and it was fun while it lasted. sure, there were times when brian would want to drag me to a gay club and i'd recoil in horror at the thought of competing with a roomful of gorgeous men for my gay boyfriend's attention. there were a lot of stares, sometimes, from strangers at bars or acquaintances at nyu, and you could hear the words forming: "but he's ..." "yeah." "and she's not a .." "yeah." "and they're?" "yeah." "weird." "yeah."

and when brian and i parted ways, it was peacefully. we both knew it had a shelf-life, this little experiment in fluid sexuality. and i thought we'd remain friends, from houston to new york, because, well, why not?

brian thought differently. after we went back to school, i started realizing that i called to chat with him, not the other way around. so eventually, i stopped calling, to see if he would. there would be no reason for the silent treatment, we'd parted friends. but there was. because five days after we said goodbye, brian started dating a guy. and didn't know how to tell me, which i told him later was absurd and unfair. we never talked to each other after i confronted him about ignoring me. we didn't have anything to say to each other.

i don't know what brian's doing. his family has a lot of money, a lot. and perhaps, coming into that money, and realizing the world he was about to embark into - well, maybe brian wanted to see if he could play it straight. maybe he wanted to see how much easier it would be for his high-society, big-roller family to accept their heir when he could do the wife, the picket fence, the tow-headed children. maybe brian was trying to find a way to back-pedal into the closet, because maybe he hadn't accepted his sexuality as normal, and natural.

i don't doubt brian was attracted to me, and i still salute the bravery it took for him to admit it to himself, but i often wonder how much of his attraction was a desperate need to see the world from this side of the fence - the side where no one asks you, 'so, why are you straight?' because no matter how many shows like will and grace there are on television, coming out and saying "i'm gay" is still something of a show, something of a trial - as if it's important to come out in order to acknowledge you're different from everyone else. and in a world where "coming out" is still even a necessity - when pointing out that you're gay somehow implies that you've chosen such a vastly different path - i suppose brian choosing to fool around with a girl is a little bit more complicated that just, well, fooling around with a girl.

and although i joke about being that girl, the girl that dated an openly gay guy ... it taught me a lot about sexuality, and desire, and boundaries.

oh, and hooking up when you're drunk. that too.

****

11:04am - random somewhat-related update: the best thing i took away from that summer, my darling friend stephanie, just reminded me why the brian story is so funny.

my screenname: are you... interested in andrew?
her screenname: no, he's too gay.
her screenname: plus he has a girlfriend.

aahh, and it goes on.

oh delicious arm muscles

oh delicious arm muscles irony

sometimes i love my life. i'm dear friends with two ridiculously hot men i can't shag for various reasons, and another ridiculously hot man i could shag, except that he's not sodding here, is he.

pity me.

or, just browse through some more sexy party pictures. i'm the one with the bob and the enormous smile.

april crushes bring may

april crushes bring may blushes

there are several main reasons i've picked this month's boy-blogger-crush:

he writes charmingly and uses the queen's english.
he hasn't linked me [nothing like an aloof boy, honestly.]

and some auxiliary reasons:

he makes camden sound charming.
he plays proper six-a-side in the parks.
he has a regular pub, and there's something irresistible about a man with continuity.

and so, for all this [and he's wicked cute, girls] the april 2003 crush goes to london mark*.

so, go flatter london mark. go have a cuppa with him. read his walking with mark series. it might make you cry. listen to his melancholy radio mixes but don't be fooled. he can be absurdly funny sometimes.

and perhaps now, after some careful flattery, the cad will link to me.

*approved by both petit hiboux and mrs. kennedy.

mayday crisis at petit

mayday

come on, internet. is this all you've got?

disaster averted. the ever-cool-headed wang, aside from being a charming drunk, also knows how to slip into a girl's template, take a quick look-see, and come back with a minutely detailed prognosis:

him: "you're missing a < ."
me: "this is all because of a goddamned < ?!?"
him: "yes."

so, that solves that, kiddies. some of you might have seen the tragically-short-lived post concerning the april crush. it will be revived, later today.

rockin' the retro saturday

rockin' the retro

saturday night's house party produced three very memorable digital images.

the dining room table, holding about a third of the total consumed alcohol products.

fulminous, looking every inch the hottest man in the room. and those hip-hugging pants that decency won't let us post? rawwrrr.

the third picture, we cannot show you. because it's just a little too raunchy, and my reputation as a lady would be, shall we say, under duress. right boys?*

UPDATE: *apparently, ful had absolutely no reservations about posting said raunchy pictures. as i knew he wouldn't. because he is a raunchy, raunchy boy. so, head over here to get the, er, ful story.

* * * * * * * *

le petit hiboux's handy guide of signs re: impending apocalypse

carson daly
ryan mcginley, showing at the whitney
ice-skaters performing to creed songs

are all prime examples. but the most obvious one?

snowing. in april.

all that's left is to see four horses galloping at breakneck speed down fifth avenue.

friday list tonight: bend

friday list

tonight: bend it like beckham with jason .. popcorn, movie-theatre-smell, pizza before-hand and beer after. hurrah!

tomorrow: cleaning house, buying flowers, getting nails done, setting out the ice bucket and the punch bowl ... all classic 60's housewife chores ... in preparation for swingin' retro house party. motown. rolling rock. gimlets and fizzy drinks. we're going to shake-a-tail-feather until we drop.

sunday: classic hangover brunch with overnight pals, ryan mcginley at the whitney, and possible tra-la-la-ing around central park in predicted-gorgeous weather.

faboo weekend, kiddies!

you know what they

you know what they say about time, and the wounds it heals?

the phone rings at about five. i answer it, with my usual stating of Magazine of Employment name. "_____," i say, hoping it's not some complicated agent/press-officer/writer/photographer on the other end, demanding another hour of work from me. "krissa?" the voice has an accent. is it..?.. no, it can't be. "yes," i say. "ciao, M." it is, i think.

M. invariably, pals that read this just let out a groan of frustration. how many hours did they have to listen to this? how many beers did i cry into over this? countless. M and i knew each other in high school, in kenya. he was this lanky, awkward boy who had yet to grow into his long arms and brilliant mind. in that open-hearted way of naive schoolchildren, we fell rather in love with each other. nothing ever happened, of course, between us. but it was always there, this palpable tension. in all his affectionate gestures, in the way he looked at me, in the way i flirted with him and sidled up to him, in the mornings, at our side-by-side lockers. oh, i was coy. i knew. but that was then.

when we reunited, a couple years back, in london, it was though both nothing and everything had changed. M still had the same way of lecturing me gently while looking down from 6'3" and smiling with that crooked smile. his mossy green eyes still did the same twinkly, half-shut thing when he laughed. only he had grown into this strong, tall, absurdly handsome man and his heart - it wasn't the same anymore. M was less loving, less open, less reckless with his emotions. he'd made up for it by being recklessly devoted to his own hedonistic pursuits, but deep down inside, it was the same sincere, beautiful boy who'd tried to teach me archery and made me heart-shaped wooden picture frames and biked to my house on sundays.

this story is a retread, friends. you know how it goes. he came to new york. we rarely left the bedroom. it was magical, of course it was magical. it was seven years in the making. but what were we doing? trying to recapture the past? making up for our tortured platonic innocent love? it didn't matter. deep down, i knew what i was doing - i was loving something that would simply never love me back. that simply couldn't love anyone enough to hold still.

and he left, of course. and i cried, a lot, and looked at pictures of him, and had dreams of meeting him in exotic train stations, dreams of running away to london and making him love me. i did none of these things. eventually, i bucked up. i stopped thinking about M all the time. i stopped calling him at random intervals, trying to act as breezy and careless as possible, hoping the way to catch a wild animal is to pretend you're not interested. it didn't work. M was adoring and charming and kind - and not an inch more.

eventually i stopped calling him. we kept emailing - and then in december that trickled off too. until today. when i heard that lilting european accent on the phone. it only lasted a second, the heart's little leap. it only lasted as long as it took me to remember the color of his eyes. but then, it faded. as i sat at my office desk, feet propped up, chatting and laughing about various absurd new medical discoveries, whether men can feasibly give birth children, how stodgy most english girls are, various good pranks to pull on roommates, and our mutual cadre of crazy friends - i realized something. i wasn't missing him. i wasn't thinking of ways to make him pace in front of my cage, and finally step inside. i wasn't thinking of ways to tame him, ways to make him want me. i was just enjoying a conversation with an old friend.

and as we chatted, i was looking at a picture of another friend, a much more important friend - someone who knows me for who i am today, and not for some darling golden innocent child i used to be. in the picture, he's sitting on my couch, looking at me jauntily, with that mona lisa grin of his, and as i talked to M on the phone, i inadvertently smiled and winked at the picture. I told M all about him. without any hesitation. whatsoever. M laughed and asked if it was any different than him. "completely different." and i was right.

it's been a year, more, since M swooped into new york for a week and swept me off my feet, like i knew he would. and it's been a year since he slipped back into the ether of his own life, leaving me with nothing but a charming smile and a certain weakness for moss green eyes. but it took this phone call to convince me - my feet have landed on terra firma again.

and that, my friends, deserves a drink.

hurrah!

The Rape of Persephone,

The Rape of Persephone, or Fruits to Avoid At All Costs.

i feel like telling you a story. sit down. relax.

so, we've got this goddess, her name is ceres. she's the goddess of the harvest, the environment, that kind of thing. plants and shit. so she's got this gorgeous daughter, persephone. really a looker, this kid. about seventeen years old. one day, persephone is out tra-la-laing in the fields with some pals, right? right, so hades sees her. he's the god of the underworld, and zeus's brother. and hades, he's kind of an impulsive guy. so he just moseys on up in his fiery hellish carriage - and really just snatches his bitch up. he's all like, "you're MINE, chicky." so she's all screaming and shit, but the earth just, well, it swallows her. because you know, he's the god of the underworld and has mad skillz like that.

so anyway, there she is, poor thing, and he's like, "you're going to be my bride". and she's like, "you're straight-trippin', boo." meanwhile mom is up on terra firma, freaking out because she can't find her baby girl. and she absolutely refuses to shine the sun, or let it rain, and the earth is turning into this agricultural war zone. famine, drought, plagues, pestilence... hades hath no fury like a wheat-goddess scorned, right?

so zeus tries to intervene, get his brother to give back the girl, make nice-nice among all the gods and goddesses, because obviously by this point mount olympus is a pretty divided place. but hades is like, "nothing doin' bro. i'm keeping the girl. and what's more, if she eats one iota of food down here, she's my bitch forever. you know. magic curses and the like. wicked stuff." so persephone refuses to eat, obviously, because she's not stupid... or is she?

after a lot of back-and-forth, and some pretty heated plate-throwing up on mount olympus - zeus just can't deal. privately, he's probably all like, "go hades, you dog you!" but ceres is giving him such a terrible headache over this, he's afraid he'll have another child spring outta there. so, he's heading down there with his bling bling thunderbolt, to straighten li'l bro out. only, before he gets there, dumb chicky eats just one little pomegranate seed, poor little twinky is so hungry, and she thinks, it's just one seed, big bad hades won't notice, right?

not so much, twinky. hades notices all right, does a little victory dance, and zeus loses a little of his thunder, because after all, sodding girl was told not to eat anything. so he finally strikes a deal between a ragingly inconsolable ceres and stubborn, pedophilic hades - they have to split the girl. ceres gets her six months, hades gets her the other six months. which, coincidentally, explains the seasons.

but the biggest moral you should take away from the story is - pomegranate seeds are evil and you never know what kind of deal you might be inadvertently striking with perverts who live in dark caves.

when you find your

when you find your polar opposite, does the universe die just a little bit?

because what the world really needs is another guy like this.

all i can say is - he must have an enormous dick if he can afford to be that picky about women. but even if he does, he probably has no idea what to do with it.

twenty minutes later: let me rephrase that a little more eloquently, since that last attempt came out cattily and rude. guys like this really get under my skin. i fucking curse all the time. i'm a liberal. i'm a feminist - if by feminist, you mean believing that women are unique, important contributers to society, that we deserve to be given every opportunity afforded to men, and that we deserve to live a life free of discrimination, patronization, and bullshit patriarchical stigmas. i am pro-choice, rabidly so, and i chain-smoke. i have sex. i get drunk every now and then. and all in all, i'm still a pretty fantastic woman.

what this guy is looking for - that's not a woman. he's looking for an extra limb. or a car. or a baby-making machine. he's not looking for a human being that will complement his life, who will challenge him to be a better person and love him with all his flaws. he's not looking for love. love is about cherishing another person's essence as equal to your own. love isn't about finding someone else who will fit into a skill-set you've pre-determined - smart but not too smart, sexy but not sexually-threatening, woman but not too woman. that's not love. that's consumer-shopping. that's how you buy a washing machine.

but maybe all this guy needs is a washing machine. bully for him.

warning: detour ahead krissa

warning: detour ahead

krissa mood is: mass carnage. bloody. wear galoshes. very bad business. too-too bad.