How To Not Get Laid In High School

Write what you know.

Become a bureaucrat

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Hermes: bureaucrat of the future, and “Futurama” reference 1 of 2

In the losing battle between the sex-crazed masses and the enlightened few (some of whom might read and act-out this blog!) there are none more sagely and adept at sexual-deflection than the government employee. My personal favourite is the token crazy cat lady/bureaucrat who seems to have found a real home nestled into the bosom of the bureau of transportation. A recent failed attempt to get my G license lead me to one such form-shufflin’ cat fucker lover down at the London BoT. Upon having my fated number come to life in red lights on the small black screen (D7, to be exact) I sensed almost immediately I had been outclassed. Before me was truly a master, not only at squelching any sexual impulse which might saunter her way, but at killing point blank the joy in the sex addicts who paraded by her cubicle on an almost constant basis 5 days a week. Regardless of the fact that this miserable bitch wise woman refused my request for an extension on my license, her impact on me has been significant.

The bureaucrat is a truly a sacred vessel in today’s morally bankrupt society. Burrowed away in small fiefdoms located in government offices across the land, the bureaucrat efficiently and with an air of irrepressible superiority, deals misery to the undeserving masses. Few people realize that the duties of a bureaucrat extend far beyond the padded walls of any mere cubicle: indeed, it is a lifetime process. As a child, the bureaucrat forgoes the pointless flights of fancy and “sexual development” so lazily persued by their peers. Rather, the young bureaucrat focuses on developing skills which will aid them in their careers as misery mongers. Favoured childhood games include “you need to fill out the correct form before booking an appointment,” ‘Proper Line Formation,’ and “You’re in the wrong line (idiot).” While the bureaucrat is just as likely to be as physically attractive as you or I, a healthy diet of sneering and glowering begun at a young age can help make even the most attractive face emit a potent air of gloom and stress.

If a bureaucrat marries, it is only because they feel they have found someone whose spirit can only be broken as a long term goal. If the bureaucrat is goaded into performing ‘marital duties,’ it is only for the purpose of producing children and is handed out at a very generous once bi-annually. “Is that 2 a year or once every 2 years?” your asking, you coy thing. What the fuck do you think?

Oh yes, as I sat in my uncomfortable metal chair, waiting for the slight chance that someone might miss their test so I could rush in and steal their place, I couldn’t help but admire the strength and complete sexual disinterest exuded by this lonely, sour-pussed woman. A true loin-girded warrior in times when fighters for the not-getting-laid cause are few and far between.

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Patty and Selma from “The Simpsons”: a source of untapped bureaucratic potential on account of an unhealthy fascination with lust.

***

For the sake of appearing reasonable, I will concede that government jobs of this nature are no cake walk. You probably have to deal with a lot of hostile, angry and maybe even (a few) really stupid people on a constant basis. That being said, your attitude does have a huge factor in how you perform your job, so maybe assuming all of the people who come to your business are stupid/hostile/ angry is not the best way to deliver (any) customer service. I recognize everyone has reasons for hanging on to jobs which involve doing things they find annoying or gruesome (the above example’s being any kind of human contact) but not everyone has the satisfaction of being able to be a total piece of shit at their job and getting away with it. That’s a behaviour I have encountered almost exclusively in government jobs, a realization which leads me to believe it is incredibly difficult to get fired from one of these positions.

Musical accompaniment while reading this blog:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CgVcSrXXU1s Apologies to anyone who is not “in” on the “Futurama” joke. Watch the episode, fer chrissakes. 

Get your black belt in your first year of high school

Today is a fine day to not get laid in high school, especially if you’re a lady. I have a tasty morsel wrapped in a bitter memory of hard-won advice from my own lay-less high school days. This particular detail of my life requires a bit of planning in advance or, at the very least, commitment to a long term goal.

There are a number of different ways you can be physically stronger and more muscular than your male peers. Weight-lifting might seem the most obvious way, but it’s hard on your back and requires a lot of space. Playing American football is another, but for most women that simply isn’t an option. Most women, that is, but not this one. Saw that beauty on “eTalk” while getting a pedicure. It was such a feminine thing to do, I nearly started menstruating all over the place. I know you’re hoping I’ll elaborate, so here it goes: all the men in that division in that sport maintain a similar appearance—dare I even say having a large build might be mandatory in order to participate in this sport?–but for some reason this young woman gets this special, near-condescending pat on the back. She is only presented as this sub-female athlete. Anyways, back to that thing I was talk-writing about earlier. My particular plan of attack—or perhaps my cunning father’s plan of attack working through me—was karate. Yes, none other than the sacred art of the empty fist. In addition to being remarkable discipline, it also taught me that people with too much to prove love physical activity. I remember one particularly bald, particularly farty-smelling individual who liked to punch block and kick quite hard even when I was nought but a young fawn. That was almost 10 years ago, so by now I imagine the top of his head has begun to erode, showing the empty brain underneath and he has upgraded that fart smell to a full-blown shit waft.

Yes, being a black belt at the tender age of fourteen. More than just a way to make strangers hilariously say “Guess I better not mess around with you! Hyuk hyuk HYUK!.” Also the creamiest of boy repellent creams. Didn’t like that analogy? Stop fucking reading then. Yes, those were indeed the days—I was a shy and socially awkward teenager trapped in an athletic 12 year old’s body.

Not that I regret that experience at all. ACTUALLY, it was kind of awesome being one of the fittest people I knew at that age, when everyone around you is super self conscious, even more so because that was the beginning of the “obesity epidemic.” Not that I thought of myself as in shape at the time. As a matter of fact, one of my favourite ways to torment myself was to gobble down a pound or two of candy (flirt with diabetes—not boys) and then whine in front of my mom’s mere so that she would reassure me multiple times that I wasn’t fat. Thanks mom!

But I owe them—my parents, I mean—big time for making me stick with it. Even when sensai got the call of the feudal and went completely samurai on everyone. What do I mean exactly? Keep up the good work. Curious minds don’t get laid.

Ultimately, being in “good” shape (because it’s never good unless it’s Cosmopolitan good) means little if you have no self-esteem when you begin. It’s like throwing a log on an unlit fire. So here I was, fit as a fiddle but not able to make eye contact with myself in the mirror, hating myself and gorwing increasingly fearful of boys. What’s wrong, too personal for you? Be sure to leave this open on your computer when you’re done with it. Then any partners interested in copulation will be deterred because they will think you’re in to expressing your feelings and shit.

I do sometimes miss being in that kind of shape even though I wasn’t enjoying it st the time. Perhaps it’s because my metabolism is slowing down, or because I have to cook food for my own lazy ass now instead of reaping the spoils of my mom’s good cooking. You know what, last sentence? And don’t appreciate the way you refer to my ass as lazy. It may be slightly larger than normal, yes, but I don’t agree with your presumption that largesse somehow correlates to laziness. So fuck you, four sentences ago.

To do:

  • Make a comic. Someday
  • Go on that Band camp website
  • Book G Test
  • Paint room in orange zebra stripes to stimulate creativity and recirculate chi
  • Stephen Frye
  • What I’m Listening to Right Now:
  • The gentle of an electric furnace.

Always keep “Sailor Moon” in your Heart

There is a part of my brain which has never recovered from the dazzling effects of Sailor Moon. Oh, my feminist ethics have taught me to expect more out of a heroine and my teenage years were a sobering period in which I reconciled with some questionable themes—such as a 14 year old girl dating a 20-something man—but no, I still love it. I would probably be watching it right now if it were on, and if I had cable. Sure, there are probably millions of places to stream it online, some of which I will likely discover after I finish this very important entry. However, it is my duty as the creator of this blog to explain the genital-deflecting potential of a pet love for “Sailor Moon.”

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Ah, so visually stimulating

In high school, my love for “Sailor Moon” was put aside for more teenage-oriented activities. New places to sulk, for example. Which mascaras had the highest yield with the least investment was another. How to make your palms and armpits sweat simultaneously and profusely whenever a boy talks to you was something I perfected to an art back in those days. Yep, I sure was busy back then—no time at all for Bunny/Serena/Usagi and her broad. But the lessons I learned through those early years of ritualistic watching served me well. Well, not really.

You see, in terms of being a super hero, Sailor Moon is pretty terrible most of the time. No villain—major or minor—was ever triumphed without a healthy dose of wailing and cowering first. Yet somehow the four sailor scouts who repeatedly demonstrate more bravery and self-sacrifice are way less powerful than Sailor Moon herself. And if you think there is no sense in being a bitter critter about a children’s show which ended more than 20 years ago, be warned; that’s exactly the kind of attitude which could get you laid (in high school).

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Lady Gaga

 

AND ANOTHER THING. Those outfits were ridiculous, a criticism which can be raised about the attire of most female super heroes, Japanese or otherwise. Why do people see women fighting in heels and think that is an entirely reasonable way to combat the forces of evil? Is it because most of the people who create these heroines don’t and probably will never wear high heels, or is it because female crime fighters should still look good, even when they are protecting ‘our’ way of life? The heels never made since to me. Of course, I have feet like a human-duck might have, making it very difficult for me to wear high heels and resentful towards those who can.

So perhaps “Sailor Moon” is light on the substance. Fine. It still gets big points for being colourful on a scale which only drug users could correctly identify and understand. Also, it was very sparkly. Additionally, the outfits of the female villains and heroes alike were spectacular, and have continued to influence the get-ups of artists today, Lady Gaga being a prime example.

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You see it too, right?

All the memories and emotions I have about “Sailor Moon” came flooding back when I discovered the series had been rebooted in graphic novel form. According to the website I just read, they are also coming with a new translation. Just so you know.

Likely, there are a few more things I would like to include regarding my beloved “Sailor Moon,” but I have just discovered a bunch of Nibs at the bottom of my back pack. I am going to pick the change out of them and it eat it, and once that sugar high kicks in I won’t be able to sit still long enough to think.

I had an idea for my next post, but right now I can’t remember what it is.

What Just Happened:

  • I learnt how to upload pictures–can you notice?
  • I farted and it smelt terrible. 

What I’m Listening to Right Now:

  • My landlord fixing a banister which has been broken for the majority of time I have lived in this house.

To Do:

  • Draw 
  • Pick up pay cheque

Seek out controversial members of popular culture and have complicated feelings about them

Seek out controversial members of popular culture and have complicated feelings about them

A sure fire way to shrivel an opportunity for copulation–like a penis dunked in ice water–is to pollute polite conversation with long-winded opinions about things you are emotionally invested in. This method is foolproof because a) it overestimates the other person’s investment in the conversation and b) means you have swayed the conversation so that you can talk about things you know a lot about. The more scatter-brained and indecisive you seem, the better. If you can’t get your shit together, it means you will talk in circles for several minutes—potentially hours—without ever coming to a conclusion. Good luck in advance.

Back when I was in my sex-repellling prime, I would use this technique often and with great success. It is a conversational “tool” I still use from time to time, one which explains my recent fascination with Tyler, the Creator, and my eagerness to talk about him at any given opportunity. “Oh, you just read Genesis, did you?” I’ll ask, “Did you know Tyler, the Creator directed his own music video, ‘Yonkers’?” If you try hard enough, you can pretty much bring up whatever you want in a conversation as long as there is the vaguest of connections. Give it a try the next time you have a party. Impress your guests.

It all started when I was studying for my final exams in the final semester of my final year finally. I simply couldn’t bring myself to concentrate and was left unfulfilled by studying. Like anyone who has been in this situation, I turned to the Internet for fulfilment and a distraction, both of which I got. I got so much, my fulfilment declined in value, like a sports card in the early 1990s. It began with Nardwuar—a Canadian treasure and icon—interviewing Odd Future. I was mesmerized by the gap between Tyler , the Creator’s front teeth; it was as if it was calling to me. I was also impressed by his fidgeting, the combination of immature dick humour and intelligent answers he gave. Prior to this first viewing of Nardwuar versus Odd Future, a friend of mine showed me “Yonkers.” So I watched that again, about 7 or 8 times. Then I watched “She.” Then “Rella.” And all kinds of songs in between those.

One thing which appealed to me about Tyler, the Creator’s beats (can’t say “Tyler,” that seems to informal) is how explicitly gruesome they were. For the record, I am against the use of violence and feel that violence against women—especially trans women and women of colour—is a problem on a global scale. “But,” you are thinking, “how then can you enjoy the music of someone who writes such violent and misogynistic content?”. Because I think someone who inserts violent and misogynistic content at random is more concerning than someone who tells a story revolving around violent and misogynistic themes. FOR INSTANCE, Tyler, the Creator wrote “Bastard” from the perspective of Ted Bundy, a serial killer from the 1980s. Bundy, a white middle class man, would charm women into going out with him, then he would brutally rape and murder them. What is the value of reinvigorating such an evil person? Because there is something about serial killers which appeal HUGELY to North Americans. We just love’em! So while the mental health of the creator of this content should be taken into question, writing a song about one of the most famous serial killers in history is a REALLY smart business move when you are an North American artist, or someone trying to penetrate a North American market.

Then my friend’s lousy boyfriend told me he slaps female audience members at Odd Future shows. “He did,” Said Lousy McLouse, “he slapped a female photographer.” Well, that’s actually not true, and don’t let McLouse tell you otherwise. At a show in Toronto, Odd Future member Left Brain slapped a female photographer. Tyler, the Creator was there, but did not take part in the violence IN THAT INSTANCE.

In “Golf Wang: The Movie,” Tyler, the Creator gets out of a moving car and slaps a female pedestrian on the street. Then he runs away. In an article written for the New York Times, Jon Caramanica details how he tossed a frosty at a group of people from a car. Pretty unacceptable behaviour. AND THAT’S ONLY THE STUFF I KNOW ABOUT.

I’m probably going to buy “Goblin.” at some point in the near future. It’s a good album, and I suggest you check it out. This interession (interest+obsession) with Tyler, the Creator has inspired me to finally take listening to rap music seriously. Not that I didn’t respect it as a genre—I just lacked the motivation to pay attention to the music. They were too fast, you see. That’s all in the past now. Hopefully I have inserted enough concrete information and binarized opinion to assist you in thwarting the amorous intentions of others. If not, I am by far not finished expressing my feelings about Tyler, the Creator and his broad. Maybe I’ll do Jasper Dolphin next. He’s my second favourite—my little “Loiter Squad” silver medal.

To Do

Next blog post: Sailor Moon!

Work on some zine stuff-can’t get too specific here. Hint: the words I will be using in my zine are scattered throughout this post.

What I’m Listening to Right Now:

The Cramps–Domino

Have strong opinions about things which are seemingly irrelevant

There is a commercial for a particular women’s rights-focused charity which has left me fuming with rage for the last few months. I haven’t–YET–located it on the internet, however, I will include it on this post once I do. I will also keep this paragraph, since it fills up the page nicely.

As for this commercial–you have probably seen in. It opens with something to the effect of “no one understands what it’s like to be a woman in the developing world better than a woman in the developed world.” When I first saw the commercial/heard these words, I immediately began yelling at the TV, interchanging each shouted yarn with an incredulous look at my boyfriend. “NO,” said I, “no, no no, no.”

The commercial goes on to show a lot of beautiful young women of colour smiling at the camera. They are all connected by a long, flowing scarf, a number which I think was borrowed from a skin cream commercial a few years back, and which probably originated from a tampon commercial at some point in time. “Silky glide,” as they say. One of the redeeming qualities about this commercial is that it does not go into detail about how better one’s life would be if only they had some skin creamed sweetened  with the afterbirth of some young Russian mother (bet you didn’t know they used placenta in hand creams, did’ja?) or how much more you are able to accomplish when you are unencumbered by those diaper-like sanitary napkins. Winky face.

The problem I have with this gaytarded commercial is  this: it espouses this false idea that all women share this mutually agreed-upon understanding about what it’s like to be a woman. It’s really, REALLY offensive to liken the experience of women in the developed world to ANYONE in the developing world. Do I know what it’s like to be gang-raped when I go to the well and get water? No. Do I know what it’s like to have moderate to extremely invasive surgery on my genitals so that I won’t turn into a “bad girl”? Hell no. Do I know what it’s like to be harassed because I am a woman driving a car? Yes, but that has more to do with my at-times lousy driving than it does with my gender.

It’s not right to equate the experience of people living in developed countries with those of people living in developing ones because we have absolutely no idea what it’s like to be women living in those circumstances. You never hear people referencing the international brotherhood of shared men’s experiences. Why? Because people recognize the experiences and responsibilities of men are all individual, regardless of where those men happen to live.

A good way to not get laid in high school is to denounce attempts to glorify the made-up international sisterhood of menstruating girl sister womens. Women are individuals, and their experiences of the world are unique. This idea of the great universal connectedness of women is extremely elitist, as it relies on this construct of women as the bearer of children. Because all women are united through their capacity to have babies, right? But what about women who are infertile, or older women, or trans women? Do they not count?

Alright, I’m done.

To Do

  • Zine sketches
  • Post about Tyler, the Creator–stay posted!
  • Listen to “Enter the Wu Tang” and “Doggy Style”

Can’t get out of my head

Harry Johnson, “It’s Nothing to Me”

What I just did

Quit radio show (poo-poo)

Having Too Many Shoes

I have a lot of shoes. It’s a habit which started early on in my adolescence, when I discovered Winners and took a very flexible approach to my shoe size. If you are not familiar with Winners, that’s sad and I feel bad for you. It is a store—usually large—stuffed with clothes which range from ridiculous to surprisingly good finds. It’s also a good place to develop patience: learning to shop at Winners provided me with the fundamentals to tackle larger shopping projects, such as Value Village and Goodwill.

But the shoe aisle in Winners. Oh, the shoe aisle. One of the best things about Winners was the clearance shoe rack, where even a little newspaper-delivering shit like me could afford the likes of Steve Madden and Rocket Dog. Of course, these shoes ended up there because nobody except twelve year old girls and other thrifty thrifty eccentrics wanted them, but who cares as long as everyone gets what they want in the end.

Yes, shoes. Whereas I wanted so badly to wear narrow-toed, platformed boots in flashy colours, my Scottish heritage had other ideas. Indeed, through the process of lamarckism, my likely bare-footed ancestors developed very wide feet so that they could maintain balance while walking across the craggy Scottish rocks. While I have never been to Scotland, I’m sure a rocky landscape populated by wide-footed people is not for from reality.

I settle for more practical fair now. Doc Martin’s and Chuck Taylor’s carefully sought out from rows upon rows of used shoe racks. Yet while I was busily not getting laid in high school and when I wasn’t being goaded into buying much-hated uniform shoes, it was I who wore all those unloved shoes at all those unspeakable prices.

It this very moment, I’m looking around my house at all the shoes I have for all the different events in my life. There’s walking shoes, fancy shoes, work shoes, boots, running shoes, shoes I never wear, strolling shoes, and tough guy shoes. And it’s really hard to justify all these freaking shoes. In a lot of ways, shoes have always been an indulgence for me. Not having a lot of money as a kid, it was nice having a vice. But when that vice is becoming impractical, it’s time to cut the apron strings. By the way, apron strings don’t make good shoe laces.

Better jokes will be available some day.

Projects On the Go

  • new zine idea
  • figuring out which shoes to give away and which to keep

Stuck in My Head

Biz Markie, “Just a Friend”

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