God is a Douche

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

If you think about it, the concept of God as defined by the Catholic Church is the concept of this guy that’s a total douche. Seriously, just think about it.

He’s all powerful, all knowing, and he created all this why? Because he was bored, I guess? So this is like a social experiment for him. Create two beings that absolutely cannot resist temptation, then put them in a garden and tell them they’ll be damned for all eternity if they eat this one fruit. And then just sit back and watch the internal torment unfold.

So then they eat it, which he knew would happen, and he comes down like “yo it’s been like a week, you two are pathetic, I made you so much worse than I thought” and instead of giving up there and being like “ok that was fun, now let’s move on” he’s like “this was great, I gotta get more of this, there are so many opportunities for more fun with these idiots” and puts them out into a huge world for them to wander around and reproduce so he can just watch more of the shit show that is human fallacy until we destroy ourselves.

The great, all-knowing, perfect God. He loves us you guys, he really does, just not the way we think. He loves us in a “this is the best fucking comedy I’ve ever created” kind of way. And then people pray to him, look up to him, look forward to meeting him. He’s a douche. And we’re his entertainment.

It all makes reasonable sense. I rest my case. Goodnight.

White Girl Problems

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

When we visited my parents in California my boyfriend remarked on how many “diverse” friend groups there were. I had no idea what he meant. He had to explain to me that growing up in New York friend groups tended to be racially homogenous.  That didn’t seem to be the case in California.

This is exactly what I’ve been saying for a while now. There’s so much racial tension here, and it extends to everyone. I may not treat people of different races any differently, but that doesn’t stop them from treating me differently. It’s appalling how much hate people direct towards each other for things we can’t control, especially physical features and the cultural norms of where we were raised. And it isn’t just white people directing hate towards minorities. I’ve experienced a lot of white hate too.

My problems, for some reason, are not longer valid simply because I’m white. I apparently have no idea what real suffering is. Which in itself is fine for people to feel, I suppose. If they’ve been put down all their lives then they have every reason to be bitter and jaded, but they don’t want to talk about it. They don’t want to explain it to me to help me understand. The phrase “no, I don’t understand, enlighten me” doesn’t seem to work here. Maybe people think I’m being sardonic and demeaning? It doesn’t matter, honestly, because I’m met with hate regardless of what I say or do.

Again, my problems aren’t valid. I don’t understand true suffering. I’ve never suffered. I have no right to complain. My boyfriend received the same treatment. People assumed he was rich and spoiled because he dresses well, speaks well, and is confident. In actuality he grew up in Queens, and he and his mother live off her $1,000/month disability checks. Even upon learning this, people still dismiss him. They tell me he shouldn’t try to act rich, then, and that he’s being sketchy and deceptive when he tries to hide that fact. He does no such thing. He simply doesn’t talk about it. He’s afraid to. He’s afraid of the backlash, of the judgment. And this leaves him in a catch-22. He can’t admit to being poor due to the fear of judgment, but not admitting to being poor means people assume he’s a rich white boy and hate him for exactly that.

I was explaining to some people in my class the other day how I got my cat and why he’s the most spiritual cat on the planet. I explained that a spiritual guru type of person gave him to me before moving to India to be a teacher at an ashram. I tried to show these people a picture of her, and they were mortified that “she’s not brown”. No, she’s not. She’s white. I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. She can’t be spiritual and teach at an ashram in India because she isn’t Indian? The terms “cultural appropriation” and “white savior” were used. They compared her to Rachel Dolezal. She can’t be Hindu or live in India, or, God forbid, wear the correct spiritual garb at the religious festivals she attends, because she isn’t Indian. Doing so makes her a fake, she’s trying to be Indian and she’s not. What she’s doing is offensive, it’s cultural appropriation and who is she to go to India and impose her spiritual beliefs on these people? Look at that white savior complex there. She’s going to India to convert all the Indians to her religion.

The spiritual guides at the ashram don’t seem to have a problem with her teaching there. The people learning from her don’t seem to have any problems with the color of her skin. I don’t want to use the term reverse racism to describe these classmates, because that’s not what it was. It was just plain racism. It was slotting people into roles based on their race. Only Indians can be spiritual and worship Hindu gods. Only Indians can be enlightened and guide others to reach that same level of peace. That is what Indian people do, it’s who they are, and people of other races have no business being in India and doing what Indian people do. And yet I couldn’t say anything to these people, because I am white and they are not and telling them to shut the fuck up and cut that shit out is racist of me, apparently.

I don’t deny that I have been afforded several privileges as a white woman that others have not been afforded. I know that. But all I can do is own it. I can’t take those privileges away from myself. I can’t stop it from happening. I refuse to be hated for things I can’t control. I will not apologize for being white. I understand that racial minorities are subject to hatred for things they can’t control all the time. I understand that racial minorities are asked to apologize for their physical features. But the way to bring about change is not to try to subject others to the same struggles you’ve endured. You can’t fight hate with hate. Tit for tat doesn’t work. We need to learn to love each other, or we’ll get nowhere. We will accomplish nothing with hate, and that applies to people of any race, gender, sexual orientation, etc.

Love thy neighbor. I’m serious. Try it sometime.

Dirtiest City in America

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

The filth and grime and trash in New York has been driving me crazy lately. It’s disgusting, and I know other people find it disgusting too. This city is falling apart. So I’ve decided that I’m going to start a series highlighting the grime that’s endemic to what is supposedly one of the greatest cities in the world. It’s time for a change, let’s step it up New York.

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No Rest for the Wicked

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I like to think I’m a good person. I’m the kind of person you can go to when you’re having a bad day. Like a really bad day. Just got dumped? Let’s go out, drinks on me. Having a random panic attack? I’ll hold your hand and help you breathe until it passes. Having a flashback and running down the street, away from invisible threats? I’ll chase you down, grab you, and talk you through it. I’ve talked several people out of suicide without a second thought. I’m the kind of person who’s there when it counts.

I’m not a nice person, though. I’m not agreeable. My bullshit tolerance is zero. If you piss me off I will cut you to pieces and not think twice about it. I love helping people, but when it comes down to day to day life I actually fucking hate them. People suck. They really do. They’re petty. They’re selfish. They’re unforgiving.

What gets me the most is that oftentimes the people I’ve been there for, truly there for, are the ones who abandon me in my hour of need. Like I said, people are selfish. They take and don’t return.

I may be blaming them for my bitterness, but so be it. As I said, I’m not a nice person. I’ve been used too many times to still be naive enough to expect anything back from the people I give to. When you’re working, taking off your clothes and dancing and giving your body, your self, to other people, they certainly don’t give anything in return. Not the people I worked for. They want more, more, more. They want to see how much they can get for as little money as possible.

I didn’t work at the clubs where rappers showed up and made it rain. I worked for a gambling ring of greedy businessmen who stole the girls’ money. That was their game, and they played it often. They hand you your money after a few dances, and as you’re counting it and putting your clothes on they slyly grab your clutch and slink off into the darkness. And by the time you look up to tell them they shorted you $20 (also an often occurrence), they’re long gone. Out the door, in a cab, on the way home.

Talk to management about it? Hahaha. They didn’t give a fuck. And you better work hard to earn back enough to pay the house fee, or you’re out for good.

Wickedness breeds wickedness. Evil breeds evil. Once upon a time I thought I could remain kind and sweet and unfazed by all the evil around me. That’s why I have a lotus flower tattoo. They blossom in dirty swampy water. I wanted to be that beautiful flower in that dirty disgusting world around me. How naive. What a silly little girl I was.

I watched Sin City a little while ago with my boyfriend. It reminded me of New York, just a little. They say if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. It’s true. People will take you for all you’ve got, kick you to the curb, and leave you to pull yourself together and try again, if you’re crazy enough to think you can still survive here. Nobody here is nice. Nobody cares about you. You can’t trust anyone.

Everyone I know is on antidepressants. Nobody I know gets enough sleep. We’re all wicked. We use each other, we hurt each other, we take each other for all we’re worth.

I used to be a nice person. Sometimes I still am. I used to be a good person. I like to think I still am. I am far from innocent. I am not someone you should try to pull something on. I do not tolerate bullshit from people. I will easily walk away and not look back.

We’ve all heard that song. Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant. I can’t stop listening to it. It rings true with me. There’s no rest for the wicked here. Money doesn’t grow on trees. We all have bills to pay. We all have to eat. We get by any way we can, even if it’s at the expense of others. Sometimes I think it’s especially at the expense of others. In this city you can’t slow down, or you risk getting trampled. There ain’t no rest for the wicked, and if I am wicked, then so be it.

 

What’s the Difference?

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

Stripper vs. Escort

Given that they generally go hand in hand, it’s appalling to see the different reactions people have to each name. Being with a stripper is hot. Being with an escort is not.

I was out at a bar with an old friend a month or two back and he was bragging about how I hooked up with him back when I was a stripper. I thought I was reminding him, but I guess I was informing him, that I was an escort at the time too, and he was lucky because he got a good time completely free. It didn’t go over well. At all. He’s been avoiding me ever since.

I was talking to the same old friends (did I mention we met at work, back when I was stripping?) and they were talking about the “degenerate” that the old owner was, and how he hangs out with escorts. I reminded them I was once an escort too. They struggled to find some difference between them and him, and finally settled on the fact that I am a “former” escort, and since I’m not currently one everything is ok now.

My boyfriend LOVES to brag that he’s dating a former stripper, but the moment I say the word escort the conversation is over.

I don’t understand it. What’s the fucking difference?

I have a friend who was thinking about stripping, and I had to explain to her that if you want to make any decent money at all sex will be involved. You can dance for a while and get regulars, but the regulars are going to want more, or they’ll get bored and move on to another girl that will have sex with them. It’s that easy. That’s why they go hand in hand.

But for some bizarre reason, even when you are actively having sex with them for money, they will still say they are fucking a stripper. They will not say they are fucking a hooker, even though that’s exactly what it is at that point. They will refuse to view it that way.

A stripper is already a sex worker, so what changes when you pay her for sex? Isn’t it more understandable to be paying a woman loads of cash to suck your dick and ride you than it is to be paying her loads of cash to shake her ass and sit on your lap?

I will never understand. Someone please explain it to me, because seriously, what’s the difference?

 

The Art of Storytelling

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

“You should write a book.”

I’ve heard it a hundred times. Yes, I have gotten into some shit and amassed a series of stories ranging from incredibly bizzare to totally epic. But the thing is, it’s not about what happened as much as how you tell it. Anyone can write a book if they can figure out how to make everything sound interesting.

I could tell you “Yeah I got drunk last night and twisted my ankle. It was such a shit show.” Or I could tell you “Yo so I went to this kick ass house party in Brooklyn and drank way too much tequila. Like 5 shots in a row. And then I absolutely had to try the jungle juice…what’s in that shit anyway? Anyway so we were on our way out because Tina threw up and I was swerving hard man. Like so hard that I fell sideways off the curb and into the street. I completely fucked up my ankle. And I was so drunk I didn’t even realize until this morning! No more jungle juice for me.”

Which sounds better? It’s the same story. It’s how you tell it. Think about it. All you did was fall and twist your ankle. Sounds like a pretty standard Friday night in college. So is it even actually a story worth telling? Maybe not. But you told the story, and it sounded like a damn good time to me.

I could just as easily have said “Dude last night was awful. Never drinking again. I went to a house party in Brooklyn. Shoulda known that shit was gonna get outta hand. I was doing tequila shots, and then someone offered me jungle juice and I was so drunk I said yes. And then Tina fucking puked so we had to go, and I was swerving so hard on the walk back that I literally fell sideways into the street. Totally fucked up my ankle. No more jungle juice for me.”

Still the same story. Sound as fun this time? It’s all about how you tell it. You can even make shit up to make it more interesting if you have to.

Take Robert Frost for example:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

 

He didn’t take the road less traveled by. They were about equally as travelled. But what story would he have if he’d just said that he chose a road at random because they were the same anyway and it didn’t matter?

It’s not the story. It’s how you tell it.

Thanksgiving Baking

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I committed a felony over Thanksgiving weekend with my siblings. What can I say? It’s cultural. It really is. Maybe it’s bad parenting too, but it’s rooted in culture. I’m from California. It’s as simple as that.

We got baked for Thanksgiving. Most of the people I know from California got baked too. With their siblings or cousins or whatnot. Some with their parents. It’s the culture. That’s just how it is.

I didn’t go home intending for it to get this bad. I just wanted to be a good big sister and buy my brother some booze. I wanted him to know what it’s like and learn his tolerance. I didn’t know my tolerance when I went to college and it got me into all kinds of shit. So I bought him Fireball. It’s what he wanted.

Then my stepmom handed off some weed she didn’t want to my stepbrother. So he shared with us. And then my friend invited me to go wine tasting with her family. She’s my best friend. I couldn’t say no. So then I ended up getting wine drunk. And then we smoked on the way back because she has some really good shit that she wanted me to try. And then at home my stepbrother broke a bottle of apple cider vinegar on the floor, so my stepmom was like “if you guys wanted to smoke I’d do it now”, and you don’t turn that down.

So it got a little out of hand. Is that a bad thing? I don’t think so. We weren’t getting drunk at the dinner table and getting into a screaming match about politics. We got baked and played Cards Against Humanity. No fighting. No yelling. Nobody vowed to never come back to see the family again. Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is for most families? It’s kind of what it is when I visit my mom’s family. This was a much better situation. Family bonding. Chilling out, watching movies, and playing games. Isn’t that better?

My boyfriend is so anti-drugs that I felt bad about it for a minute there. I came home and he asked me if I’m gonna turn into a huge stoner again. I was never a huge stoner. Only in his mind. But that’s how a lot of people feel about it. Shocked that I would smoke with my family. That I spent most of my weekend baked. Like I’m some druggie escaping the intensity of a family gathering. Like my parents are irresponsible and enablers.

Well yes, the kids decided we can’t do family shit like Thanksgiving sober. I’ll own that. Is that really escaping though? I feel like it was more of a “yo this shit’s boring, let’s go get baked” type of situation. And let me reiterate: it’s cultural. Parents don’t say shit because it’s not a big deal. They smoke too. I had a good time. They had a good time. So before you impose your value system on me, stop and think for a minute about what people from other cultures would think of some of your values. Just because one culture views something as “wrong” doesn’t mean it innately is.

In Japanese culture it’s rude to look someone in the eye. In American culture it’s rude not to look someone in the eye. Which is right? The answer is both. It’s cultural. In European cultures kids drink wine at the dinner table. And go out drinking with their friends as teenagers. In American culture it’s illegal for kids to drink. Guess what? They still do. Just as much as teenagers in Europe (according to my exchange student friends). The majority culture says it’s “wrong”, yet everyone still does it. So what about cannabis? Your culture may say it’s wrong, but my culture says it’s fine. So who are you to judge my cultural norms and impose your own beliefs onto me?

 

Get Off My Mind

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

Have you ever had this one person in your life that, looking back, you realize could have been great? And then you feel like you fucked shit up because you didn’t take that chance when you had it.

I’m not talking about a boy. I’m talking about a girl. Not someone I loved. Not like that at all. I tried playing for that team and it didn’t work out. No. I’m talking about a friend. Which is almost worse than missing a chance or fucking shit up with a boy.

We had a class together. We were the two hottest bitches there, and we both knew it. She was an up and coming model. I was an escort. We both showed up to class everyday with makeup and hair done perfectly, outfits trendy and on point. She really wanted to be friends. I thought she was snooty and self-absorbed.

We had a grand time fucking around in class and such, I just wasn’t interested in having someone like her in my life at the time. She kept trying to act important and impressive, and I saw right through it. I think she liked me specifically because I wasn’t impressed by her stories about hanging out with Paris Hilton and Afrojack. So I let her go.

Now she’s big. Really big. Posting pictures from the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Repping brands on her instagram page. I see her face everywhere. It’s killing me.

And now it’s her turn to be better than me and turn her nose up. She doesn’t respond to my texts or facebook messages. I ran into her this morning and all I got was a polite smile, but no interest in conversation.

It’s weird, but it makes me feel ugly. I’m not sure why I equate beauty with being good enough, but I do. If I don’t feel good enough, I feel ugly. And right now I’m hiding in some random corner on campus because I’m afraid to show my ugly face in public. It’s ridiculously stupid but I can’t help it.

It’s not like my friendship with her would have lasted. She would have moved on to being friends with the other models instead of me anyway. I know I would if I were in her place. Why spend your time with some nobody friend in a coffee shop when you can be getting an expensive lunch with important people and get your name and face in magazines because of it? It’s not a hard decision to make. Not when you’re climbing up like she is. In that world you have to associate with the right people if you wanna make your way up. You don’t have time to waste with some escort nobody knows. She’s not in any place to bring me up with her, so why drag around dead weight?

And yet here I find myself trying to locate someone who’s decent with a camera and I’m filling out an application for IMG models. Because just like her, I get my validation from the attention. From hearing I’m pretty. From getting money for being pretty. From getting nice clothes for free. I may be materialistic, but it’s who I am.

So here I sit. Feeling down. But at the same time I’m using this to inspire me to try to move up. I can make my way up. Accomplish things. I’m pretty. People keep telling me I should try modeling. So why not? I’ll never catch up with this girl, but maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I just need to accomplish a little bit. Get hired. Model for someone. It won’t make me a better person, and it won’t solve my self esteem issues in the long run, but it’ll be nice validation in the short term. It’s a goal to strive for, and hopefully accomplish.

Here I go. I’m gonna try to be a model.

What? I’m Cute?

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

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A couple months ago I was at a cigar bar with my boyfriend and an escort friend of ours. Technically she was a tantric masseuse, but she also did overnight appointments (she lives in India now, hence the past tense). Through a haze of cigar smoke, and while sipping the wine she got for free because she’s that kind of beautiful, she explained to me how I need to love myself more.

She told me that growing up she didn’t think she was pretty. She wasn’t popular in high school. She was just an average joe living her life. It wasn’t until she moved to the U.S. that the boys started getting all into her.

“I was like what? I’m cute?!”

She was confused. She’d never thought that about herself before.

I was shocked to hear her say that. Before moving to New York she was rollin with the big dogs in Vegas. She has business cards with her face on them for God’s sake. She’s hot shit man. How did she not know at some point in her life that she was beautiful?! Now I was confused.

But looking back I felt the same way. I guess I was a cute child, but puberty was not kind to me. I grew lanky, my cheekbones grew incredibly high, and my face became very angular. I had acne. I had no tits. I was short. My eyes were small. My ears were big. My hair was thin. My jaw wasn’t set right. The self-critique was endless.

I spent countless nights crying about how I’d grown into such an ugly person and had to accept that I would forever be unattractive no matter how much I tried.

But when I was working the guys were all over me. A coworker told me I was the hottest woman working there. Granted, he was trying to sweet talk me into giving him a free dance, but still. The attention was endless. It still is. I’m a foot model. I’m a hair model. People keep telling me I should start real modeling. I may have thought I was ugly, I still do sometimes, but a lot of other people don’t seem to think so.

Audrey Hepburn said that the most beautiful women are the happiest. I agree. Once you accept yourself and love yourself, other people will follow suit. A beautiful soul will bring forth a beautiful body.

This friend had a talk with me a couple weeks later. She sat me down, literally made me get a pillow and sit on the floor in front of her, and she told me that we’re goddesses. I know that sounds a little kooky, but hear me out. She said that we are goddesses, and we need to treat ourselves as such. We need to respect ourselves, and we need to demand that same respect from others.

“These men, they’re falling at our feet. And they better be treating us as goddesses.”

Love yourself. You may think you’re the ugliest, most detestable, unlovable person on this planet and nobody is going to tell you otherwise until you learn to love yourself.