*55

Day Dreams (MyKill Remix) - Midi Matilda

Today’s theme: Aggressive procrastination.

You know what? Sassy McJean-Shorts is fresh out of the gym rocking a killer smile and looking a helluva lot cuter than that birch pole of a supermodel behind her, so fuck it. She wins all of the style points.

*47

Home Sweet Home - Mötley Crüe

This one goes out to my homegirls making drunken fools of themselves tonight at the bowl.

Coke Talk of the Day

I woke up this morning in a fog thick as soup, an extended version of that final stage of sleep where dreams still have more clarity than whatever reality you’re facing. Some part of my conscious mind had latched onto a key phrase that seemed very important, and I had to memorialize it immediately.

I reached over to my computer still open on the floor next to my bed, and I hit ⌘V on the keyboard, fully expecting it to paste my thoughts directly onto the screen.

Nothing happened. I was confused for more than a second until it dawned on me that even if the technology did somehow exist to bridge a direct neural link to my MacBook Pro, I had forgotten to hit ⌘C first.

I quickly typed out the phrase that was floating in my head, one that dissolved into the ether in the very moment I wrote it. Satisfied, but still not quite awake, I rolled out of bed and began my morning routine.

When I came back to my computer freshly scrubbed and fogless, I looked down to find the cursor still blinking at the end of my dream sentence:

Diagram the gem of the eternal tides.

Yeah. I have no idea what it means either. The only thing I remember is that it felt terribly significant at the time. Still, I dig it. It’s as though I received a mysterious order from my subconscious.

I love that just over an hour ago, I existed in a state where the command to “diagram the gem of the eternal tides” made perfect logical sense as part of some grander dreamscape narrative, and in that unconscious pastiche of people and places that promptly receded into the depths of some black and unrecoverable trench, one tiny little sentence managed to crystalize and become solid, the words dropping like fresh die-cast metal into my waking life, still glowing red from their transition.

I love that every night a whole other hidden world flashes its momentary existence through our synapses. I love that it’s a part of us, but it’s somehow not ours to keep. I love that we occasionally catch glimpses and fragments, and while most of the time they may mean absolutely nothing, every once in a while it can still feel like they’re dripping with magic.

I went ahead and got In-N-Out for breakfast. This skanky yet somehow adorable little club kid couple were comatose on the benches by the door, proof that when the meth finally wears off, you sleep where you fall.
If I had to guess, I’d say our 90’s raver-era Sid and Nancy crawled out of some after-hours sewer (most likely Avalon) sometime after the sunrise, walked like zombies through Hollywood until reaching In-N-Out, only to find that it doesn’t open until 10:30 on Sundays. They promptly passed the fuck out waiting for the promise of animal style cheeseburgers, and the security guard took pity and decided not to poke them with a stick.
Pretty sure they’re still there.

I went ahead and got In-N-Out for breakfast. This skanky yet somehow adorable little club kid couple were comatose on the benches by the door, proof that when the meth finally wears off, you sleep where you fall.

If I had to guess, I’d say our 90’s raver-era Sid and Nancy crawled out of some after-hours sewer (most likely Avalon) sometime after the sunrise, walked like zombies through Hollywood until reaching In-N-Out, only to find that it doesn’t open until 10:30 on Sundays. They promptly passed the fuck out waiting for the promise of animal style cheeseburgers, and the security guard took pity and decided not to poke them with a stick.

Pretty sure they’re still there.

No One’s Gonna Know - Tristen

I’d have started posting playlists a lot sooner if I’d known you guys were gonna introduce me to so much good music.

I knew the evening was doomed the moment my friend extended a dinner invitation to our drug dealer. He did it without thinking. Between the cocaine and his permanent erection he had absolutely zero blood flowing to his brain, so he didn’t recognize how bad an idea it was until much later.
Of course, our drug dealer immediately accepted. There was no way he was passing up an opportunity to rub elbows on the Chateau terrace. In addition to delivering high quality party favors directly to the hotel suite, he had musical aspirations and was a bit of a social climber.
He was also the type to never show up without at least two women on his arm. This night was no exception, although to call them women would only be correct insofar as it identified their gender. These were girls, not women. In fact, they were prostitutes. More specifically, they were ratchet ass hoes. (I would never slut-shame a woman for being a sex worker, but I’ll style-shame a bitch all night long for being a tacky, gum-smacking hoodrat.)
The table for six had become a table for nine, and I’m still amazed they were able to accommodate us. Our original party included an award winning documentary filmmaker and his wife, my friend who is the head of production at a major company, his friend who is the head of security for a major celebrity, my BFF, and me. At the last minute, we added our drug dealer and two hookers.
I ended up seated next to one of them at dinner, and let me tell you, aside from her confusion about the silverware, bringing a street-walker to a fancy restaurant is nothing like the movie Pretty Woman.
At first, I thought she was a sweet kid, but after she gulped down a few glasses of Bordeaux (accented heavily by the Passionberry Twist gum still in her mouth), all hopes for an adult conversation went out the window. She talked loudly about nonsense, she gawked at celebrities, and she ordered the most expensive piece of meat off the menu for no other reason than she could.
What was supposed to be a pleasant dinner filled with sparkling repartee quickly became an exercise in biting my tongue. My BFF and I spent most of the evening communicating our mortification through sideways glances.
Still, there were several priceless moments. When the other girl reminded our drug dealer that she had to be on stage later that night, the documentary filmmaker assumed she was in a play. I’ve never seen a bushier pair of eyebrows raise higher than when she told him the name of the strip club instead of the name of a theater.
The documentary guy obviously wasn’t used to this kind of mixed company, and true to form, he started asking the hookers a series of personal interview questions that would have made Errol Morris proud. The moment that defined the evening happened when the girl next to me revealed that her earliest lesbian experience had been at age fifteen, and it had been with the middle-aged mother of her boyfriend at the time.
Every other conversation at the table immediately stopped, and all eyes went to her. Without missing a beat, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “What? It’s not like she did anything wrong. I was into it.”
I saw the documentary guy’s finger go up, and I knew in my heart he was about to explain to her the statutory nuances involved in that kind of situation, but before he could say another word, his wife kicked him in the shin so hard underneath the table that we all felt it.
By that point, it had dawned on my friend the sheer enormity of the mistake he had made, and as is customary when one no longer gives a fuck, he decided to remedy the situation by drinking heavily. The rest of us followed his lead.
By the end of the dinner, the celebrities were the ones staring at us, and that’s not a good thing. Thankfully, the staff never once batted an eye. (Those dudes have seen far worse than our little wine-soaked shit show.)
I hit my limit when the hooker sitting next to me asked for a to-go box for the rest of her steak. A fucking to-go box. At the fucking Chateau. Every fiber in my being wanted to scream, “This isn’t Applebee’s, bitch!”
I didn’t, though. It wasn’t my party. I too was just a guest. Instead, I looked over to my BFF who already knew exactly what I wanted to say.
Oof. When I think about it now, it still makes me shake my head. Then again, a doggie bag may very well have been the most perfect way to end that meal.


I knew the evening was doomed the moment my friend extended a dinner invitation to our drug dealer. He did it without thinking. Between the cocaine and his permanent erection he had absolutely zero blood flowing to his brain, so he didn’t recognize how bad an idea it was until much later.

Of course, our drug dealer immediately accepted. There was no way he was passing up an opportunity to rub elbows on the Chateau terrace. In addition to delivering high quality party favors directly to the hotel suite, he had musical aspirations and was a bit of a social climber.

He was also the type to never show up without at least two women on his arm. This night was no exception, although to call them women would only be correct insofar as it identified their gender. These were girls, not women. In fact, they were prostitutes. More specifically, they were ratchet ass hoes. (I would never slut-shame a woman for being a sex worker, but I’ll style-shame a bitch all night long for being a tacky, gum-smacking hoodrat.)

The table for six had become a table for nine, and I’m still amazed they were able to accommodate us. Our original party included an award winning documentary filmmaker and his wife, my friend who is the head of production at a major company, his friend who is the head of security for a major celebrity, my BFF, and me. At the last minute, we added our drug dealer and two hookers.

I ended up seated next to one of them at dinner, and let me tell you, aside from her confusion about the silverware, bringing a street-walker to a fancy restaurant is nothing like the movie Pretty Woman.

At first, I thought she was a sweet kid, but after she gulped down a few glasses of Bordeaux (accented heavily by the Passionberry Twist gum still in her mouth), all hopes for an adult conversation went out the window. She talked loudly about nonsense, she gawked at celebrities, and she ordered the most expensive piece of meat off the menu for no other reason than she could.

What was supposed to be a pleasant dinner filled with sparkling repartee quickly became an exercise in biting my tongue. My BFF and I spent most of the evening communicating our mortification through sideways glances.

Still, there were several priceless moments. When the other girl reminded our drug dealer that she had to be on stage later that night, the documentary filmmaker assumed she was in a play. I’ve never seen a bushier pair of eyebrows raise higher than when she told him the name of the strip club instead of the name of a theater.

The documentary guy obviously wasn’t used to this kind of mixed company, and true to form, he started asking the hookers a series of personal interview questions that would have made Errol Morris proud. The moment that defined the evening happened when the girl next to me revealed that her earliest lesbian experience had been at age fifteen, and it had been with the middle-aged mother of her boyfriend at the time.

Every other conversation at the table immediately stopped, and all eyes went to her. Without missing a beat, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “What? It’s not like she did anything wrong. I was into it.”

I saw the documentary guy’s finger go up, and I knew in my heart he was about to explain to her the statutory nuances involved in that kind of situation, but before he could say another word, his wife kicked him in the shin so hard underneath the table that we all felt it.

By that point, it had dawned on my friend the sheer enormity of the mistake he had made, and as is customary when one no longer gives a fuck, he decided to remedy the situation by drinking heavily. The rest of us followed his lead.

By the end of the dinner, the celebrities were the ones staring at us, and that’s not a good thing. Thankfully, the staff never once batted an eye. (Those dudes have seen far worse than our little wine-soaked shit show.)

I hit my limit when the hooker sitting next to me asked for a to-go box for the rest of her steak. A fucking to-go box. At the fucking Chateau. Every fiber in my being wanted to scream, “This isn’t Applebee’s, bitch!”

I didn’t, though. It wasn’t my party. I too was just a guest. Instead, I looked over to my BFF who already knew exactly what I wanted to say.

Oof. When I think about it now, it still makes me shake my head. Then again, a doggie bag may very well have been the most perfect way to end that meal.

If you don’t understand how this Bill Hicks bit perfectly encapsulates the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, then you don’t know shit about the world.

We Are Fine - Sharon Van Etten

There is no better song for driving through Friday morning LA traffic. It changes your perspective on all the stop-and-go madness. It makes you look around at the other drivers and love them instead of hate them. It reminds you that we’re all in this shit show together.

I was hoping “You’re the Worst” would be good. Turns out, not only is it fucking hilarious, but it’s pretty much a show about my life. The characters are all charming and horrible, the jokes are deadly accurate, and Aya Cash is amazing. Everybody should immediately start watching.

I was hoping “You’re the Worst” would be good. Turns out, not only is it fucking hilarious, but it’s pretty much a show about my life. The characters are all charming and horrible, the jokes are deadly accurate, and Aya Cash is amazing. Everybody should immediately start watching.

I added two more playlists to the collection this morning, Musical Xanax and Songs That Remind Me Of Exes. They’re pretty self explanatory. Enjoy!

I added two more playlists to the collection this morning, Musical Xanax and Songs That Remind Me Of Exes. They’re pretty self explanatory. Enjoy!

"Beauty privilege is very real. None of us are imagining it, and if we aren’t born genetic lottery winners, our only option is to compensate with style, grace, and charm. Of course, none of that shit comes cheap. That’s kind of the whole point. It’s all meant to be aspirational and exclusionary. We’re supposed to feel depressed by our skin, agitated by our bodies, and anxious about our invisibility. That’s the insidious subtlety of social control. The worst part is that we know in our rational minds that it’s all bullshit, and yet we’re still plagued with self-loathing when we can’t live up to unattainable beauty standards. No matter how much self-acceptance we achieve, we can still look in the mirror and instantly catalog all the things about ourselves that we don’t think measure up. It’s maddening. It makes us feel like hypocrites even though it’s not our hypocrisy."

The Coquette @ Adult-Mag

(I love this. There’s nothing that makes me happier as a writer than finding my work quoted and reblogged all over tumblr.)

Break My Fall - Golden Coast

Thanks for the tune, Michelle. You’re right. This is an excellent summer jam.

crabmidge:

crabmidge:

I’m so disappointed 
I’m too chicken to reblog this and I need to sleep so here’s a screenshot
Didn’t think Coquette would be a racist scumbag atheist :( 
That’s right, ignore history and blame everything on the backward religion and lack of rationality of everyone in the Middle East. If only everyone in the world was a rational white person. 

More on why dearcoquette's last post bugs me, which I didn't have time to write out yesterday.
She uses the correct definition of racism and she knows what white privilege is, but she didn’t take it into account when she answered this. The question was shit anyway, because it implies  that “peace in the middle east” is some hypothetical, impossible thing.
Checking your privilege means treading carefully when, as a white atheist/secularist, you discuss PoC religions, because many white atheists use their atheism to hide racist views.
For example, every racist French person will tell you that no, they don’t have a problem with Arabs, they are just wary of religious fundamentalism, and since many Arabs are muslim, and Muslims tend to be more religious than Christians, that’s why they don’t want an Arab to marry their daughter or be visibly Muslim in public. I’ve heard so many variations of this excuse growing up.
More to the point, it’s willful ignorance to blame unrest in post-colonial countries on ‘religious extremism’ without mentioning US and European intervention and colonization. You don’t get a pass because as a Rational White Humanist you consider yourself above anything related to religion.
Exaggerating the importance of religion in conflicts in the Middle East and Africa is a cynical strategy used by western media anyway. Then you can blame everything on petty religious quarrels and play on the racist trope of the irrational savages who don’t know what’s good for them. Then, like Coquette, you imply that people who live in a state of “ancient tribal bullshit” don’t deserve peace…

I understand your knee jerk reaction to my use of the phrase “ancient tribal bullshit.” Hell, just the use of the word “tribal” is enough to set off everyone’s “check your privilege” alarm. Thing is, I’m using it in the proper sociological context. I really am referring to tribes, and I really am being critical of their bullshit religions.
Tribalism is a social modality. Religion is a ritualized belief system. Both social modalities and belief systems are intrinsic to what defines a given culture, but culture is different than race. Hell, the very concept of race starts breaking down when it comes to regional conflicts that span millenia, especially within the context of contemporary political correctness.
I know you’re most comfortable defending a position when you can shout “racism,” but you don’t get to claim that flavor of moral high ground here. You would be more accurate accusing me of imperialism than racism. It’s not my white privilege you want me to check. It’s my hegemonic privilege, specifically my Western privilege. (To further this point, you don’t even know what race I am. You merely assume I’m white.)
So yes, feel free to tell me to check my privilege — just get right which ones. It’s fine if you accuse me of being problematic. I am, and I know it. I choose not to tread carefully when discussing, as you put it, “PoC religions.” I won’t give organized religion a pass just because you can cite the fact that historically white people have been ethnocentric assholes on the topic. I know they were, and thanks, but I’m an entirely different kind of asshole.
Also, let’s be clear. I’m not blaming unrest in the Middle East on religious extremism. I’m blaming it on religion in toto, and the basis for my opinion extends back for many centuries before colonialism was even a factor in the region. When I say fuck organized religion, I am an equal opportunity offender. Fuck Judaism. Fuck Islam. Fuck Christianity. Fuck them all, and fuck the patriarchal tribalism that historically has always come with them.
Personally, I find it a little silly that I can’t be critical of irrational, patriarchal tribalism without you accusing me of playing into the “irrational savage” trope. That’s your white guilt bullshit, not mine. This isn’t about savagery. It’s about the systemic othering inherent to a “Your God vs My God” mentality and all of the horrible violence that ensues.
I happen to believe that tribalism is primitive and religion is irrational. As a species, we can do better. If we all evolve a bit, hopefully we will. If you find that belief problematic, so be it. If you think that makes me a “racist scumbag atheist,” then you are cordially invited to go fuck yourself.

crabmidge:

crabmidge:

I’m so disappointed 

I’m too chicken to reblog this and I need to sleep so here’s a screenshot

Didn’t think Coquette would be a racist scumbag atheist :( 

That’s right, ignore history and blame everything on the backward religion and lack of rationality of everyone in the Middle East. If only everyone in the world was a rational white person. 

More on why dearcoquette's last post bugs me, which I didn't have time to write out yesterday.

She uses the correct definition of racism and she knows what white privilege is, but she didn’t take it into account when she answered this. The question was shit anyway, because it implies  that “peace in the middle east” is some hypothetical, impossible thing.

Checking your privilege means treading carefully when, as a white atheist/secularist, you discuss PoC religions, because many white atheists use their atheism to hide racist views.

For example, every racist French person will tell you that no, they don’t have a problem with Arabs, they are just wary of religious fundamentalism, and since many Arabs are muslim, and Muslims tend to be more religious than Christians, that’s why they don’t want an Arab to marry their daughter or be visibly Muslim in public. I’ve heard so many variations of this excuse growing up.

More to the point, it’s willful ignorance to blame unrest in post-colonial countries on ‘religious extremism’ without mentioning US and European intervention and colonization. You don’t get a pass because as a Rational White Humanist you consider yourself above anything related to religion.

Exaggerating the importance of religion in conflicts in the Middle East and Africa is a cynical strategy used by western media anyway. Then you can blame everything on petty religious quarrels and play on the racist trope of the irrational savages who don’t know what’s good for them. Then, like Coquette, you imply that people who live in a state of “ancient tribal bullshit” don’t deserve peace…


I understand your knee jerk reaction to my use of the phrase “ancient tribal bullshit.” Hell, just the use of the word “tribal” is enough to set off everyone’s “check your privilege” alarm. Thing is, I’m using it in the proper sociological context. I really am referring to tribes, and I really am being critical of their bullshit religions.

Tribalism is a social modality. Religion is a ritualized belief system. Both social modalities and belief systems are intrinsic to what defines a given culture, but culture is different than race. Hell, the very concept of race starts breaking down when it comes to regional conflicts that span millenia, especially within the context of contemporary political correctness.

I know you’re most comfortable defending a position when you can shout “racism,” but you don’t get to claim that flavor of moral high ground here. You would be more accurate accusing me of imperialism than racism. It’s not my white privilege you want me to check. It’s my hegemonic privilege, specifically my Western privilege. (To further this point, you don’t even know what race I am. You merely assume I’m white.)

So yes, feel free to tell me to check my privilege — just get right which ones. It’s fine if you accuse me of being problematic. I am, and I know it. I choose not to tread carefully when discussing, as you put it, “PoC religions.” I won’t give organized religion a pass just because you can cite the fact that historically white people have been ethnocentric assholes on the topic. I know they were, and thanks, but I’m an entirely different kind of asshole.

Also, let’s be clear. I’m not blaming unrest in the Middle East on religious extremism. I’m blaming it on religion in toto, and the basis for my opinion extends back for many centuries before colonialism was even a factor in the region. When I say fuck organized religion, I am an equal opportunity offender. Fuck Judaism. Fuck Islam. Fuck Christianity. Fuck them all, and fuck the patriarchal tribalism that historically has always come with them.

Personally, I find it a little silly that I can’t be critical of irrational, patriarchal tribalism without you accusing me of playing into the “irrational savage” trope. That’s your white guilt bullshit, not mine. This isn’t about savagery. It’s about the systemic othering inherent to a “Your God vs My God” mentality and all of the horrible violence that ensues.

I happen to believe that tribalism is primitive and religion is irrational. As a species, we can do better. If we all evolve a bit, hopefully we will. If you find that belief problematic, so be it. If you think that makes me a “racist scumbag atheist,” then you are cordially invited to go fuck yourself.