Okay, okay, I'll start blogging again.
It's just difficult to navigate the hard ego-tripping waterfalls of this acerbic little diary. Imagine an animated Pocahantas singing about the "colors of the wind" or whatever, and then snagging her ass on some crags (*the crags symbolize my own psychotic attempts to sabotage the utopian musical that could be my life). That's how I feel. Like Vanessa Williams; washed up and slightly black. Is she still on ER? I am consistently amazed by her eyebrows. They are like 15 feet from her nose and seem alive in a way that the rest of her cadaverous person is not. She looks like a mannequin/zombie. Zombiquin!!!! Someone should make a movie about her....no, not you Mel Gibson....fucking crazyass...should've stopped at "Braveheart"...can't fucking believe I liked you in "Mad Max"....you fucking seriously deranged Christian cracker...go live in a fucking farm with your 80 wives...man, i thought Australian men were hot...hmmmph....you fucking ruined it.
So, I am reading this awesome book called "Pledged: the Secret Life of Sororities." It is so good. This reporter went undercover as a sorority girl and shone a light on all their dirty little rituals. It sounds like their Tiffany's EtaGam necklaces were corroded not only by demure tears, but also by chunky barf and catty hairballs. Seriously though, as a social/psychological study, it is really striking to read how much "groupthink" can influence some of these sisters.
One sorority chapter went and got their hoo-hoo's pierced just because an executive board member suggested it. Of course, they were following the old Mayan ritual of the "Sacrificial Cha-Cha," wherein a native priest makes a vaginal offering to "Clitorian" the ancient god of hedonist pleasure and pillowfights.
*This ritual has been immortalized by Missy Elliot whose Mayan roots prompted her to write the song "Work It."
She also cites an instance where 2 girls drowned in the ocean in Cali from a hazing ritual that forced them to face the waves blindfolded. Gross.
Mini-confession; I was in an "eating house" in college. which resembles a sorority in some ways. I didn't really participate after my freshman year, but still some of these stories remind me of that time. For instance, I had a "big sister." Her last name was "Hyman." Seriously.
In other news: I am done with school, done with teaching my class and am now working on a piece for ArtHouse in Jan. I am spending a lot of time in coffee shops. I wish I was one of those people who knew the names of the people who work at their favorite coffee-houses. I don't understand how that happens, but eventually I would like to be able to say "I'll take my regular, Frank!" And then Frank will wink at me knowingly, slide me a soy latte and give me an extra apple turnover. And I'll say, "Frankie, you da bomb." And then Frankie will slide his hand up my skirt as l shirk awkwardly in my seat. And then I'll never return because I just don't want to go there with Frankie. And every time someone suggests that coffee place, I'll be like, "I just don't like the waitstaff there." And then everyone will look at my weirdly, because everyone likes Frank. That's what I want.