Life is this constant onslaught of dicks, metaphorical and otherwise. Every time someone looks me up and down on the street: BAM! DICK PROD! Every time someone saunters up to me at the bar with fake nonchalance and pretends to be interested in my art: POW! IT'S A DICK! Every time someone shakes my hand so gingerly, like they're afraid they're going to break it: METAPHOR DICK coming at me! Every time someone addresses all their comments to only the other men in the room, because they think that I won't understand: DICKS IN COMMAND! Dicks beating me down, or trying to gain access, or just generally making sure that I know they're around, in case I forgot.
Often when I walk down the street I imagine myself doing this anti-dick karate, like every time someone looks at me like that, or yells from their car, or spits on the ground in front of me, I do an imaginary dick block, WA-PAH, a roundhouse dick-kick, BAM! BAM! It's this constant dance keeping out all the dicks that are timidly poking at my being, trying to find an opening; or else trying to dickslap me to put me in my place.
It only really gets depressing when the dicks start to dress up like something they're not, when a dick masquerades as a genuine interest in my well-being, or a desire to get to know me as a person; when it puts on a little "I really like you" hat and a "we have a real connection" bowtie and starts getting all tricky. I believe they call this "spitting game." Sometimes I feel like my mind is just this obstacle course that you have to navigate through to get to my vagina; like it's only there to mediate between your dick and your goal.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Mom & Dad
My dad deposited my Last Ever Check today. The umbilical cord has been cut. It was getting pretty withered and infected, anyway; they aren't really meant to stay attached for 23 years. I've gone through all the motions of growing up already – I moved all my stuff out of my old bedroom and started referring to Baltimore as "home" years ago – but it's all been a front, there's been a fleshy cord drawing nutrients from my dad's B of A account and into my bellybutton this entire time.
Now I just have to prove that I'm viable. Sooner or later the universe is going to give me a big wallop on the back, and then presumably I'll start breathing.
In other news, I'm quitting smoking. My mom has been hassling me about it for years; now that I haven’t had a cigarette in three days, she's hassling me about how much I'm eating.
She pointed out that I can't afford an entire new wardrobe of fat clothes, which I have to admit is a good point.
Now I just have to prove that I'm viable. Sooner or later the universe is going to give me a big wallop on the back, and then presumably I'll start breathing.
In other news, I'm quitting smoking. My mom has been hassling me about it for years; now that I haven’t had a cigarette in three days, she's hassling me about how much I'm eating.
She pointed out that I can't afford an entire new wardrobe of fat clothes, which I have to admit is a good point.
Welcome
My name is Alexis and I'm 23 and not really all that drunk.
I'm here, busting my blog cherry, because I just graduated from art school and I'm finally beginning to accept the fact that I should have spent the last four years writing instead of fronting like I'm going to break into the New York gallery scene someday.
My title "Near Beer" is ripped from Nabokov; there's a sentence where he describes a man as being "near-genius, in the usual sense of near beer." Aren't we all. Good at something, but not something practical; talented, but not talented enough to carry us forward; eloquent, but worthlessly so. It's a reference to my own sense of impotence as I step forth into a cold and apathetic post-college world. Also, when I write I am usually near at least one beer. So it works on multiple levels.
I'm pretty much just going to be writing about things that I think are interesting, which for me means people and how they work. I tend to get caught in the trappings of my own mind, and I find it helpful to ruminate on things I observe both within and outside of myself.
I'm here, busting my blog cherry, because I just graduated from art school and I'm finally beginning to accept the fact that I should have spent the last four years writing instead of fronting like I'm going to break into the New York gallery scene someday.
My title "Near Beer" is ripped from Nabokov; there's a sentence where he describes a man as being "near-genius, in the usual sense of near beer." Aren't we all. Good at something, but not something practical; talented, but not talented enough to carry us forward; eloquent, but worthlessly so. It's a reference to my own sense of impotence as I step forth into a cold and apathetic post-college world. Also, when I write I am usually near at least one beer. So it works on multiple levels.
I'm pretty much just going to be writing about things that I think are interesting, which for me means people and how they work. I tend to get caught in the trappings of my own mind, and I find it helpful to ruminate on things I observe both within and outside of myself.
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