Rage Against the Washing Machine

Tuesday sucked balls.

I feel like I have the authority needed at this point to identify the act of sucking balls – both figuratively and literally.

Tuesday literally figuratively sucked balls. Oh yes. I just said that.

BS – remember the ridiculously cute guy in the red shirt from yesterday? – came for a burger after buying a ticket to a movie he almost ditched on. I tried to be friendly but got hit in the face with a fucking icy wind of doom.

So I took the super mature approach that night and invited him to get drunk and do laundry with me. Somewhere between taking the obvious and blatantly correct actions when someone cold shoulders you, I decided that the easy road is a way better idea and – despite my still-existent feelings of serious foreboding – that I want to date him in a more “you shouldn’t be sleeping with people. I want your dick go be mine, but I don’t actually want to use it” sort of way. ( I think most people would say they were entering into a monogamous relationship in these circumstances, but let’s be realistic here; no matter what I may want to- or actually be, I am not a liar. )

So that was a thing.

Apparently I’ll ask you when I’m good and gorram ready, thank very much.

Then there was a fucking waterbug of doom on my wall which is a great thing for your shiny new boyfriend to see like two minutes after he agrees to date your indecisive ass. It was like two inches long. No. Fucking. Joke.

And we were doing laundry – we never actually had drinks, irritatingly – and some fucking bitches put my shit – no, not shot, thanks though, phone – put my clean laundry on this dirty-ass table because they couldn’t wait literally 5 minutes for me to change it with my other washer.

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They also did that. Because the machine kept saying “lid” and they apparently interpreted that as “[ beat the fucking shit – no, not shut, thanks – out of ] lid”

So that was also a thing.

The morning was alright though. We decided to fuck sleep – not “in our” and not “in the ass” like I want to fuck the sun, more in the “meh, whatever” sort of sense – and got noms from the IHOP that everyone goes to at 4am on weeknights. My pancakes were made of win, our waiter wanted my boyfriend’s girlfriend’s cock, the coloring sheet was marginally less shit – no, still not shot – than the one at the IHOP in Vaguely Dallas that we went to last time.

Then we sat in the car and watched the dawn listening to Bond. He commented on my eclectic – remember how I said that word was pretentious? – taste in music and then we kissed in the magical pink-gold light of a newly born sun.

So that was alright.

We also had yoghurt from Yoghurt Story or somewhere. Gotta love teh pr0nz.

레몬 우주 비행사

I was gonna blog about something clever and serious.

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Then we drank this. Om nom nom.

I have a Korean keyboard because my boyfriend is Korean. This is us being drunk.

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And also really cute.

Yay kaiku! Or something.

Or stuff.

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I’ll blog for real tomorrow. I started writing it but I’m too drunk to complete it before midnight.

His name is Banana Splits ^.^

Being American

We watch sports at work. We have that old fashioned diner mixed with wannabe sports bar ( sans alcohol ) vibe going on.

Saturday, we were watching pro bowling. I spent three years on a league and I freaking loved it. I have my own ball, my own shoes, my own bowling nickname ( I used to be called “Spares” cuz I was quite good at picking stuff up. After Sunday’s games, I would say I’m still quite good at that; shame it doesn’t work on girls ) and a passion for the only sport I’ve ever actively been a part of.

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This is me. Kissing my ball. My gosh, I love putting my mouth on balls.

A big, burly, manly man came in with his conspicuously attractive female and started making fun. I told him we’d be showing the USA v Mexico game later in the evening and asked him if he liked soccer. His response was “I’m American. You know, apple pie, football…?” His lady friend smiled indulgently as he chuckled at his own wit.

And I smiled, quietly acknowledging that I may not be American.

I despise apple pie. It’s too sweet; cloying chunks of sugared apple are not my idea of om-noms. I don’t like American football – it’s slow and overly padded. I can’t seem to get along with my fellow Americans, finding Europeans or Asians or Africans far more agreeable and similar in disposition and temperament to myself.

When I was in high school my friend Jule said I had a European spirit, and that I should never let myself forget that here.

So what makes an American an American? Is it pure and simple love for this country? Because that is something I have in abundance. I love this place – Texas in particular – more than anywhere I’ve ever been. But identity is a funny thing; people think I’m Jewish because I celebrate Hanukkah and wear a Star of David and don’t eat pork. Do my European sensibilities make me European? Does my newly discovered love of sport and my fondness for sticking my tongue in other girls’ mouths make me a dyke?

These are not rhetorical questions.

What do you think? Am I American? Are you? Is identity objective or subjective? Is Nationality? Is orientation? For that matter, is gender?

These questions fascinate me endlessly.

Also, I got 104, 93 and 129 Sunday. I freaking love bowling, nationality be damned.

Contains: Semi-Nudity and Hope

This blog post will absolutely contain nearly naked pictures of me. Well, one. You should not read it if this bothers you. Or on the off chance that you’re related to me.

Very first things first, please see me from just over a year ago. Notice how it’s not a body shot? I didn’t really like my body.

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My gosh, my hair. >.<

That picture is from just before I got my first bike. ( You know, the one that got stolen? ) I had terrible hair – some things never change – and I was around a size 18/20. I weighed about 210 lbs ( 15 stone ).

Yesterday, I bought a pair of denim shorts – the first female shorts I’ve ever bought, I usually wear swim trunks or guys cargo shorts – from TJ Maxx. They were not the largest size in the store. They were not a special cut. I nearly hyperventilated before trying them on because I was so nervous that they wouldn’t fit.

But they did ^_^ I was, and am, ecstatic.

So, since they fit, I got a bunch of new stuff. I got new underwear ( this is where the nudity comes in )

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Orange with white polka spots! And yeah, that’s a bikini top. I spent 30 minutes looking for a bra that fit me properly then gave up. A cup doesn’t need an underwire anyway :p

It makes me so happy that I don’t feel disgusting showing off my body. I mean, I obviously still have some work before I’m where I want to be, but I’m now at 184 lbs ( around 13 stone ) and my legs are firm and my body is not reflective white and my hair is definitely less bad than it was. I’m not the biggest girl in the room anymore and I’m stronger and healthier. It’s awesome.

To go with my inner-wear, I got the aforementioned shorts and a really fun tank top thing.

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BS – that’d be short for Banana Splits, explanation in a minute – bought my tops for me. He has a really bad habit of buying everything. He even got mad at me for not using his credit card to buy the shorts. It’s kind of nice, honestly. Makes a change from guys who want me to give them the money when our server isn’t looking so it seems like they paid.

I had a good day yesterday. It started with sleep. Sleep is the best start possible. Especially when it carries on until like 9.30 in the morning and follows a fantastically relaxing back massage with yummy-scented oil. ( As a note: I have quite an extensive collection of oils and lotions. Not because I enjoy the sexy slick times, but because I really like massages. Have oil, get back rubs. )

We had pancakes for breakfast at an IHOP conveniently located five IHOPs away from my house and listened to some 30-something guy argue about why drugs aren’t bad with his 60 year-old mother really loudly. I wanted to stab him a lot.

Then we wandered around. I spent a lot of my time saying no and getting dirty looks and exasperated sighs. Mainly because I don’t feel comfortable having people buy me random stuff. That’s not the way my life has EVER been. It’s weird.

I got dropped off at a bookstore to wait for familiar duties to be taken care of and I realized I looked like shit. Because I pretty much always look like shit. Because I have no nice clothing. :/ Behold: the impetus for a shopping trip down the strip mall.

And now I’m here, on the other side of three games with six splits – hence his nickname – and some delicious empanadas staring at ten long weeks of nothing.

I am sort of excited. I get to start school and get hotter and make vlogs and do this, right here. And I get to do it alone. I get to do hard things by myself and prove that I am strong.

But I really like him. I like falling asleep holding hands and being the one who wakes up last. I distinctly dislike being freaking murdered at air hockey, but I like doing things outside of my house. Things that make him shy and me happy.

I think my fast is necessary. I want to be happy on my terms and because of them. I don’t want him or Ziggy or anyone else to make me happy anymore. I don’t want other people to make me feel okay. I want to do that myself.

I wonder if Harry Potter will be too soon. I also wonder if you’re going to show up or not. I would like you to. I want your eyes to light up on my purple hair and wizard robes.

But I also want to be undeniably and unconquerably Dru.

Maybe I will be by then. And maybe once I am who I am, I will want to be your girlfriend.

I think so. We’ll see if you’re around to find out.