This is why I don’t buy magazines.

But I *am* glad my landlady has a subscription to People that gets delivered here… Guilty!

First of all, I’m super glad I renewed this domain for 3 years only to realize that I’m mainly interested in discussing crass things. One day when I’m a doctor and my future patients google me to see if I’m legit they will see my blog posts from 3 years ago that outline in detail what a piece of shit I was/aspired to be. Great. If anyone knows how to make my shit on Twitter/FB/larbage unsearchable, please tell me how. For the health of humanity! Remember that sucking a billion dicks at the rate of ten dicks per minute tweet? Google does.

Seriously though now, in all seriousness, I am really sick of seeing skinny bitches everywhere. I’m not talking about toned, lean, or thin women. They are great. I’m talking about walking skeletons. Pardon my insensitivity to anorexics, but for the love of god eat something. It is Fashion Week in New York and all I see everywhere is women who will die by the time they are 35 unless they eat something. And probably stop smoking also, or doing blow. I am from this moment forward refusing to buy fashion magazines. This pains me greatly because left to my own devices I have no idea how to assemble an outfit that is not a one-tone sweatsuit. But I cannot participate in any sort of perpetuation of the idea that “model” women look like they would fall over and break their matchstick limbs if I were to flick them. The look is weak, literally. I want designers and stylists, and whoever the fuck picks men and women to be models on runways and in magazines and catalogs and wherever else, to start using athletes. I want to see healthy bodies. I’m sure athletes will continue to fuel a whole host of body dismorphic disorders but at least we will be looking at people who engage in healthy behaviors, who are inspiring ideals and who do not look like they are about to die. Big thighs, big asses, people. Bless Nike for showing me these things. Thank god someone’s doing it.

Riddle me this.

I’m only going to rant about this for five minutes and then I have to get back to studying. Let’s talk about diamonds. Diamonds, in my opinion, are quite pretty. And incredibly, incredibly stupid. First of all, I think it’s silly to spend a large quantity of money on something that is unnecessary and has no inherent use or value outside of the one it’s been assigned by society. I’m sure similar arguments can be made for clothes or shoes or purses although all of those seem to have a functional purpose unless you are living on a nudist colony, which is totally cool. There is absolutely no use for diamonds (not talking about their industrial uses).

Jewelry in general then could be called useless. Yes, it is (although it can really spice up an outfit). I’m pretty sure the demand for silver and gold and cubic zirconia and pearls, and I don’t know what else – emeralds, is not resulting in anyone’s death. Please correct me if I am wrong so I can boycott those too. People are tortured, raped and killed all for the sake of mining diamonds. This is a thing that is happening, today (it’s 2011), and somehow we are choosing to ignore it. I am not trying to rain on anyone’s parade, or judge, or offend. I just really want to know why it is, and let’s consider engagement rings for the purpose of the next argument, that we are keeping a tradition that calls for death.

Let me get tangential for a second. If we are sticking to “tradition,” gay marriage is not “traditional.” Yet we protest that tradition as young, educated critical thinkers. We disagree with tradition because it is wrong, because it is withholding rights from fellow human beings. Because we are smart and we will not stand for something so ridiculous. We do not however protest a tradition that withholds LIFE from fellow humans. Somehow there is a dissociation, I do not know where it comes from or why on earth/how on earth, but somehow it is okay to ignore that wearing a diamond ring is like wearing blood on your hands. Or a diamond watch, or a diamond necklace. I don’t know what the odds are that any particular diamond has caused a human death; I don’t particularly care. I feel like if there’s a chance that something I own has anything to do with people being murdered, I’d rather play it safe and not buy it in the first place. I think marriage is awesome. I’m just not sure why part of celebrating love is marked by wearing a diamond that someone had to die to get you.

Maybe though this has nothing to do with tradition and what I just said was silly. Fine. Am I crazy, or have we agreed as young, educated critical thinkers that wearing fur is fucked up? I think we have agreed to that. I think some people respond by drenching fur coats in red paint. I have heard of that happening. Even if we’re not assaulting fur enthusiasts and painting them red, I think at minimum we have agreed not to wear fur. At least I don’t know anyone who could wear fur around me, or my friends, who wouldn’t get shit talked on. That is because animals must die in order to have their pelt extracted. And animals are so cute and fuzzy! (Africans must not be cute and fuzzy, sad). And people who eat meat protest fur! Which, okay, slightly skeptical face, but one is for nutrition and the other is for sadistic donning so I can live with that. Yet, again, we are okay with wearing diamonds and HUMANS are dying as a consequence. I am not going to even try to turn this into a human life over animal life argument (I REALLY love my dog) but I am comfortable at least saying they are equally valuable. And I believe we could agree that it would be fucked up to wear a human pelt. YET. It is okay to wear something that a caused a human to die. Maybe I’m getting annoying with the repeating. I just really do not get it. Does not compute. How is this okay.

I am not trying to attack individuals here. I know plenty of people who wear diamond jewelry. I just really think we need to revisit this as a society. I don’t really think we get to say we are progressive, or considerate, or aware, or conscientious until this changes. It is irresponsible not to try to stop contributing to the demand for diamonds and I don’t think there is any pass, or rationale, or justification for buying them. It’s fucked up, period. Forget about the death part. Even if people were not dying, they are still getting raped and tortured to supply a commodity that as a stand alone is fucking useless. It is shit like this that makes me wonder how I can ever live in this world.

Heebee jeebies.

I really like my boyfriend. I love him, in fact. I don’t think I even need to clarify that – the fact that he is my boyfriend speaks for itself. I don’t boyfriend people I’m not wildly enthusiastic about. In any case, I feel like I should clarify this because I’m about to talk shit on “couples.”

First of all, how great is it to evaluate people separate from their relationships? It’s pretty superb. I don’t like “couples,” otherwise known as units of people. I like individuals. And sometimes I like two individuals who happen to be having sex with each other exclusively, and sometimes I do not. It’s extra neat when two cool people date each other, for the sake of everyone involved, but I am not trying to give the benefit of the doubt to someone who happens to date a badass/roofied a babe and never left/gives good blow jobs/whatever other bamboozling tactic was used.

Point #2. I hang out with awesome people regardless of their marital status. Getting laid tends to make a person happy and better rounded but I really don’t give two shits about the (sex) lives of others and whether their laying happens on a regular basis, with the same person, with chicks AND dudes (hawt), or ever for that matter. Couples have the inherent benefit of potentially introducing you to one more neat person (as well as the built-in lameness of cashing out early and generally being less down to party) and single people provide the amusement of gratuitous make-outs, one night stands, and other tomfoolery with strangers through which I can either live vicariously or just be entertained (way to take one for the team, single friends). If I turn into a person who only wants to hang out with other couples, you won’t even need to take any action because I’ll be too busy barfing on myself in a corner.

I feel like I need to make a third point here, just to make my argument more persuasive, but that’s really about it. I exist in a realm where I am a person and I want people to know me as an individual, not a function of another human being. Not because he is not awesome, but because he is him and I am me. And because I think it’s overwhelmingly lame when people identify themselves through their significant others. And because the coolest couples I know are distinct humans who have their own interests and have room to coexist separately. So there, rant over.

I'm talkin pedicure on my toes, toes.

I just want to take a moment to acknowledge the full musical transformation I’ve undergone. Who was I talking to recently… I can’t remember. Something about indie bands though, and scouting them out before they get big and seeing them at small venues so it “feels more intimate” or whatever. And I just stopped him and said “I don’t have the energy for that shit.”

Unless Kris or Joe are feeding me new indie bands that I should be listening to, I just cannot stomach seeking out obscure music. I want to listen to Nicki Minaj – hotter than a middle eastern climate – spitting rhymes, and to Katy Perry bopping about teenage dreams, and Ke$ha talking about e’rybody getting krunked. I am into pop jams and that’s it. And mainstream hip hop, except for Wacka Flocka because he likes his own name too much. Wacka! Flocka! Wacka! Fuck that.

Dealing in stereotypes.

My favorite New York moments thus far:

Walking outside of a diamond shop in Midtown, I saw two gentlemen standing outside. A third approaches: “Ey, Frankie! This’ll look great on you!” And puts a diamond bracelet on his wrist.

A man stands on the corner waiting for a cab. Dolapo and I start walking down the block to the next corner to avoid competition. The man yells at us: “Hey, that’s not fair!” I turn around and yell back: “Be proactive!” Because when you live in New York, you get to be a dick.

Young gentleman of Italian descent walks down the street in Soho, talking on his cell phone: “Ey, Ma! You’re talking to a paid actor!” I just wish I could’ve heard her on the other line: “I’m so proud of you, Joey.”

Question.

How do y’all feel about beds? I think they are a perfect representative of the idea that sharing is caring. Perhaps I ate too many happy pills in my life  but I get on a fluffy bed and I say, have you felt how joyfully soft this is? Come sit here with me! I want everyone to join in touching the bed and experiencing how wonderful it is. Beds to me are a place to gather with friends and family and hang out. They are much more comfortable than sofas.

More is better on a bed (there is a maximum capacity after which point you must begin to replicate a person tightly bound by saran wrap without the actual presence of saran wrap and then it’s uncomfortable – I have found this to generally be four people on a queen, five on a king). When I visit my mom, most of our conversations take place while lounging in bed. I find little purpose in going downstairs to sit on the sofa. If my sister is also there, all three of us laze about on the bed. When I am visiting friends, or have friends visit, I expect some time period of laying on the bed and catching up.

One of my favorite things is the morning wake-up and immediate bed-meeting/snuggle session. This generally occurs when there’s a guest room. You both sleep in separate rooms but either before going to sleep or immediately after waking up there is a hang-out session on someone’s bed.

In addition to bed lounging and chatting on bed, I find the Sleeping In Master Bedroom experience to be superior to Sleeping In Other Bedrooms. Anytime cousins Jamie and Joe are not in their bed, I am quite delighted to lay there and eat Wolfgang Puck frozen pizzas while watching Law & Order. Long after I moved out (when I lived with them they tended to want to do things on Sunday while I wanted to recover from a hangover so there were plenty of opportunities to Lay In The Master Bedroom), I would sometimes go over on weekends, or house sit when they were gone, specifically to lounge in a giant luxurious bed.

Is this weird? Do other people do this? Is laying in other people’s beds odd? (NOTE: THESE SCENARIOS DID NOT OCCUR IN NEW YORK AND NONE OF THESE PEOPLE HAVE BED BUGS) Please contribute whether you find this to be weird.

There is one place where bed-sharing is very uncool and than place is Greece. It is 100 degrees. And Ba has cots. Four people, four cots, one bedroom. Kris said it best with “I’m not sleeping in your cot with you.” Nobody wants to share a cot, not even me. Well, not even me if it’s 100 degrees.

It’s 1:35 am and my flight leaves in less than six hours. It’s possible those Jagger shots were a bad idea. I’m off to share my last “cot” for the next week. This was my drunken post for the evening. Adieu!

Whiskey.

Oh, whiskey. Whiskey makes people drunk. That much we know. Does it also make people crazy? It’s possible. It is difficult to gauge whether it makes me crazy specifically because it is quite likely that I am generally a lunatic and whiskey, along with other fine spirits, merely exaggerate this.

You’ve heard me complain that I’m too grown up and I don’t rage. Blah blah blah. There is a reason for that. I drank Bushmills last night. I spent all day, or between barfing at least, wondering “why did I drink Bushmills last night?” It started with Weird Fish and drinking unnecessary amounts of wine with Kris, Graham and Meghan. And then after being wine drunk we went to Pop’s Diary emo punk night. It’s difficult when you’re told you’re attending a punk night not to actually act punk. So I got a Miller High Life and a shot of Bushmills and, of course I have to drag other people down with me, so I made Graham also participate in this shot.

And then I was wasted. When I am wasted, I run my mouth so much. I talk people’s ears off. I had not seen my friend Ryan in like a year and, really, all I can say to people generally is try not to go a year without seeing me because I will talk your ear off. So much rambling. And rambling to Kris and Patric about moving. At all times talking and being a drunkard.

And because I am not used to closing down bars on Tuesday nights and pounding the champagne of beers, I had no snacks for drunks in the house. I wanted to eat a pizza, or at least a bag of jalapeno kettle chips but I am not usually consuming these snacks so I woke up this morning and found a pile of almonds on the floor. I can only guess I attempted to eat almonds and they fell out of my mouth. What kind of sad excuse for a partier is that? Healthy nut snack. Bullshit. It made me feel more hung over today because I woke up sans that pizza layer I’m used to.

So I learned too important things here, I think. I reminded myself that I am a lunatic and consuming copious amounts of alcohol does weird things to my head. I also learned that if I’m trying to Bushmills my face off, I need to remember to keep pizza in my freezer. Or potato chips in the pantry.

To be in lurve

I was chatting with my yoga pal, Atosa, last night and telling her about why I think having a dog is the best idea in the world. I was talking about Walter’s unfaltering pleasant nature, his positivity and his unconditional love. She used a very excellent phrase. “Dogs start over.” Any time I fuck up with Walter, he starts over and still loves me like nothing ever went wrong.

What puzzles me is why it’s so difficult for humans to do the same. I am always skeptical of people who date/marry/etc someone they dated when they were 15, mostly because I have changed so much since I was a pop can bong wielding teenager. But I think about everyone I have dated in my (semi) “adult” life and they all had hang-ups. They could not get over whatever scars their exes inflicted on them, perpetuated their own wound salting by doing the same things that caused them misery in the past and shelled up because they could not start over and love like it was the first time. I think it’s fairly obvious when someone is out to break hearts and I can’t say I’ve found that to be a common occurrence. So why are we all so inhibited?

Maybe because we loved the shit out of our first loves and they didn’t work out. And now we’re all cynical and think it can never happen again. And how foolish to think I couldn’t live without someone, I am my own person and I don’t need someone else around to complete me, I can live without anybody, I can carry on no matter what. But maybe I don’t want to? I think those teen love turned life partner folks might be on to something. They are probably much better at loving each other than us salty motherfuckers who struggle to let go and start over.

Dear god, it better get sunny soon.

There are times when I look back to my life two years ago and think to myself holy shit, I could not live like that anymore. And there are other times when I reminisce and wonder what the hell happened and how the fuck I ended up here. I am experiencing the latter scenario at the moment.

I’ll start with admitting I’m uncomfortable with the quantity of “growing up” I have done recently. I feel like a sour senior citizen. I am far too young to feel this old. And I am far too young to call it a night after one beer. This is bullshit.

The amount of consideration I put into decisions is excessive. I long for the balls I had when I was 19. If I wanted to do something I just fucking did it and figured out the rest later. Now I contemplate and calculate and I’ve become so terrified of failure, or even the possibility of failure that I am at all times shaking in my boots. And my boots are those Steve Madden boots that every person in San Francisco is strutting around in. Two years ago I would not have given a shit about that fact but now I think about it every day. I should really get a new pair of boots, one whose leather is not worn to shit, a pair my boyfriend doesn’t make fun of every time I wear them. Fuck those boots and fuck being too poor to buy a new pair.

I find that every time I drive toward the Sunset, the Outer Richmond, Laurel Heights, Baker Beach, anything on the western side of San Francisco anyway, I take 17th up through Cole Valley. One could argue it is not the fastest route, what with Geary Street existing and everything. But I seek out the nostalgia I feel every time I pass Clayton. It reminds me of a time I had a lot more guts and a lot more fun. I cared a lot less in a good way.

The memories I have from Cole Valley are some of my favorite memories of living in this city. Maybe it was because I was a fresh transplant and imposing myself on people in order to form friendships. I remember one of the first weekends I went out – in North Beach of all places – I wasn’t feeling the scene, and I called the only person I knew at the time, Graham. I invited myself over to his house where I made his roommates drink with me and then forced them to listen to Mala Rodriguez while I had my own dance party until 4 o’clock in the morning at which point Graham kindly said he would call a cab for me.

Since then and up until recently, so many adventures! I like adventuring and having conflict and overcoming. And maybe it’s because that is the safest thing to like in my situation. It is safe to like conflict and instability and battles because I still have so many to fight and no matter what I try to tell myself, I am not in a place where I can afford the luxuries that create a smoother ride. This attempt to make like it’s summertime and the living’s easy has put me in a worse place, one where I feel like I’m always trying to keep up as opposed to enjoying myself and chilling the fuck out. Remember me? I’m Corinna. I’m as type B as it fucking gets. I chill and eat burritos, REMEMBER? I don’t even remember the last time I ate a burrito. I sincerely do not. I can tell you the last time I went to a Michelin-rated restaurant I couldn’t afford though.

Anyway, there has been some struggle lately but not the kind I’m used to. Internal wars. Self-doubt, etc. And a whole lot of missing. Missing the people that came and went. Missing Rikki and the fun we had together. Missing living with James and singing in the kitchen. Missing Luther and Amanda and those first few months of living together, all relatively new to the city and trying to hash out our existence here. Missing my summer with Katie last year and what complete out-of-control nutbags we were. There was so much hung over puking. So much. And I miss that. Because I am 24 fucking years old and sometimes puking your guts out after a wild night of partying is a great way to remember you’re alive. Now I’m at the point where there is so much chaos in my head that I would be delighted to spend some time purging myself of all this bullshit and feeling empty for just five fucking minutes feeling completely empty. I miss the calm of emptiness.

Mostly, though, I miss my connection with people. In this attempt to “make my life” I feel like I’ve lost my people. And it’s mostly my fault because I am a giant flake but seriously guys, where are you? Can you forgive me and can we hang out? I really need to experience some of these things I’m so nostalgic for.