It's called "Ewok Village Sex" and it will blow your mind.

Genophobia: (n) A fear of sexual relations.

Erotophobia: (n) A fear of sexual relations; physical love.

"Physical love."

"Love."

Hmm....

How do you know when a fear you have is an actual issue? A legit phobia that makes your head spin in circles, and your attitude sexually apathetic as a defense mechanism?

It's not so much the risk involved that I fear, or the fear of losing a friend, or physical pain, or whatever have you. It's gotta be something else. Something deeper. This I'm sure.

Maybe it's the vulnerability. The fear of feeling something so strong in the moment, and then not feeling anything right after. Or the next day. I guess what I'm really saying, is that I fear I actually do have those feelings towards sexuality stereotypical of a man. Why is that such a bad thing? I guess that's what a Maneater is. But I'm not a maneater. Which is why my feelings create conflict between my head, my heart and my hormones. The 3 H's. Hell.

Or maybe that's not it at all. Maybe I value sexuality too much. Do I?

Do you think that's a bad thing?

I don't think it's a bad thing. I just think it's my thing.

My thing, to myself. For myself. But in an unselfish kind of way.

There's nothing better than the feelings I have for friends - with friends. There is no having of the sex with friends (well with my friends anyways). The focus is just on having good times together. Making "a night."

Picture this. There's a bunch of us. Friends. We decide to go wander the forests of Ewok village. I think it's some sort of amusement park that's like a recreation of Ewok village in Star Wars.

Anyways, a few of us wander off, and we find a girl's purse. Some urbanite Asian chic who we saw just ahead. She must of lost it. That sucks... for her. But we're a little hazy so instead of returning it... we go through it. Not for money. Just to fulfill our curiosity.

Inside one of us pulls out this jar of face glitter. You open it and we start throwing it around. And it shines, like, in the moonlight and stuff. And the colors start to blur like lasers. And it's crazy. And we laugh. Maybe we took ecstasy. I don't know. We're foolish sometimes. But it's fun. So fun.

But why is it fun? Is it because I want to flirt with one of you? Is it because a few of us wandered off to be alone and touch and give each other adolescent hickeys and handjobs and stuff?

So is it because of the sexual tension?

But I thought the fun part of being with friends is that there was nothing sexual about it? That we don't have to worry about all the sex and the tension and that perplexing gaze?

That's wrong. There's always something sexual about every situation involving sexes that are attracted to each other - whether opposite, or the same.

And it all goes back to that theme in When Harry Met Sally. That iconic, heavyset question about men and women and if they can truly, sincerely, HONEST TO GODLY be friends without at least ONE of them thinking of their friend AT ONE POINT in a sexual way.

I think it's true.

So much for getting high in Ewok Village on a platonic level. But if it was all platonic... would it be just as fun? I don't think so.

Does having a crush on someone you're hanging out with, make it all the more exciting, even if nothing happens?

I think it does.

xoLO

So, who have you undressed with your eyes lately?

410

Lada Gaga is ridiculous, but fascinating. She's insane. I admire her the way I admire Asia Argento...these crazy broads who are crazily talented in really weird ways.

-I

Water found on the moon

June whatever, 2008 (FUCK ALL p.m)

Yes. There is a girl. I wasn't big enough to ask for her name. He said that he "loves hanging out with me", he "loves my mind" and that he STILL wants to go to &&&& with me. But he doesn't want a romantic relationship and that he's sort of seeing this girl and that's when that piece died inside of me. You know, the one in my chest.

I still like him. A lot. And fuck, does it hurt. And damn! Do I feel ugly and unloved and unspecial. And shit, did I cry. I cried and I cried and I sobbed and I asked God, angrily, "Did I not know it? Did I not see it? And did I not say, please, let me be wrong?"

And no. I wasn't wrong.

I was right. I was RIGHT. And I lied anyway. Because being wrong was all I wanted, ignoring this gorgeous mind that ##### so loves. Well...enough of that shit. I was right. ANd self-deception is for assholes. And I am not an asshole. At least, I am no longer an asshole.

So it still stings and what I've learned rom my misadventures is that the stinging goes away. And I'm not going to wallow in it. Because ther really is one choice in this whole affair and that is that you mourn and then you recover...and the more time you do this, the more you realize how boring the mourning part is. And that recovery is where it's at. And that there is so much more fun in the part that isn't pining for what you can't have.

Ugh. I should stop this before I grow some character.

July 9th, 2008 (8:18 p.m.)

I really wish I had written down the date of the last entry. As it stands, I have no idea how much time has passed since I've seen him. I'd say, a month, if not more. Fuck.

I'm going though an over-eating phase. It just started, now that I've been through a not-eating + exercise phase. Three english muffins and a hand-full of malt balls doesn't seem like a lot, but I feel fucking bloated. I think I'm going to get my period soon. Joy. Seriously.

My job...well, it's not great, it just doesn't suck like the flames of hell. Bah. Whatever. I'm sleepy. I'm going to sleep.

(9:56 p.m.)

I didn't end up going to sleep. I went and bought wine instead.

July 11th, 2008 (8:30 a.m.)

Of the things in my life I don't regret the most (?) [sic] yesterday is way u on the list. Instead of going to my Pop Culture East and West class, I went to the Indigo at the Manulife Centre and saw David Sedaris read. And he signed my copy of 'When You Are Engulfed in Flames'. In it, he wrote:

"To Inari,
Diabete is for lovers.
-David Sedaris."

It was, in a word, thrilling.

Woke up in the middle of the night, deeply upset. I think I had been having a dream about ####, but I can't remember if it was a bad dream or a good dream from which I disappointingly woke up.

Today is the first da I can expect a letter. It will be torturous.

p.s. If you want to kill anybody's orgasm, say you're Dutch.


July 13th, 2008 (1:38 a.m.)

Being high...kinda blows. A lot of the time pot is not my drug. There, done and done. I'm too insecure to be a pothead.

God I miss ####. I miss how %%%%% used to be, before he got all morose and political. Oh, yes, though...####. Miss him. Miss him. Misshim.....


Poor cow.

-I


Dead fish do not float during stormy weather.

You’re the H1N1 vaccine, but he’s just a sneeze.

I replied to a Craigslist advert for a production assistant gig, and I got the very honest reply that I was “overqualified”.

Would that not be the perfect thing that a would-not-be potential lover could tell you?

“I’ve reviewed your application, and honestly, I think you’re a bit overqualified to be my girlfriend. You see I lack the ability to commit. I’m addicted to sex, and I couldn’t care less if it’s with my girlfriend, good friend, or stranger (especially when I’m shitfaced). Vulnerability scares me, and I’ll mistake your ability to produce feelings for you just being some psycho bitch.

I see here that you are willing to always be there for me. You’re open to love, and you hope for the best of all situations. You might even get upset if I cheat on you.

Really, right now I’m just looking for a gopher to run some errands. To shine my shoes, and my dick.

I wish you the best of luck in your girlfriend career.”

Yep. It’s like when the CFC says “We were impressed with your application, but you’re the youngest [white, Toronto-residing] person we interviewed. It’s bittersweet rejection.

Except when instead of “overqualified” the person you love more than anything says “I will never love you.”

That medicine is just damn bitter. It’s actually quite disgusting.

Desiree Thrash

I am not a bitter person... I am not a bitter person... I am...

I remember our first kiss...his beard and the cats circling our ankles

Maggie Gyllenhaal's character in 'Stranger than Fiction' is why I love to bake.

No. My first cookbook was a children's guide to baking that showed you how to make bear-shaped bread buns and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

No. That brownie recipe.

I have existential anxiety. My existence makes me anxious. My authenticity is always in question. And the people I love break my heart every day. No wonder nobody makes it out of this crazy world alive. Let's aim a little higher than mere tolerance and say it like it is: I will die happy the day I feel true empathy, when I meet that person who answers 'Do we speak the same language? Do you hear me?' with a resounding 'Yes. Very much so.'

What are you, total cocoa puffs?

Just chill, man. Just chill.


Yours,

I


If I were some metaphysical construct, I would be....subtext. Whoa.

I've got a flask inside my pocket...

...we can share it on the train.

I. Can't. Stop. Thinking.

I. Can't. Stop. Imagining.

I. Can't.

I. Can.

I.

Will.

Fantasize.

As.

Much.

As.

I.

Want.

TO!

xo

This is a reminder to LO that infatuation isn't real. It's just an illusion.

Or is it more than me wanting your pheromones?

Psycho

Being a female is a double edged sword. No. It's a psycho sword edged 15 different ways used during the most bloody of combat.

I hate birth control. The only reason I'm on it is because I think it's some sort of rite of passage you have to adhere to once you hit a certain age and you're a woman. Inevitably. I'm so upset right now. I'm generally a happy person. But seriously since I started this stupid pill I put on like 20 pounds. FUCK YOU BIRTH CONTROL. FUCK YOU to all the skinny girls who were always skinny. I know this is a really shallow rant. But seriously when you're a FAT child and you become skinny and then you become fat again. It's pretty much a terrible feeling. And it doesn't help when you're sister's fucking Lady Gaga, and you're best friends are all tiny little fairies who can eat and eat and eat... and it goes I don't know, NOWHERE.

See, when something really bothers me in the morning, I just rant away on Sexless and I realize how ridiculous this problem is in comparison to the REAL problems of the world... and all of my anger about being huge suddenly fades away amidst my rage for social issues. But now I'm angry about forced prostitution, and sweatshops, and the United States of America.

Oh God. I won't. I won't go there. I won't go to the extreme again. I rather be healthy then fucked in the head. I rather be me now, then be 90 pounds or get hooked on coke or smoke cigarettes.

I thought I was supposed to be brave? Where is my bravery? Where is my goddamn mother when I need her?