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Saturday, January 31, 2004

We have a culture of obnoxiousness.

Exhibit A: T-shirts on middle schoolers. Today’s fashion is to wear a shirt that says (I kid you not), “Stop looking at my shirt and get a life,” “If I throw a stick, will you leave?” and the proliferating “You smell.”

Meanwhile, these kids’ parents are off falling behind their president, who proposes we go to war with random countries he has a beef with. No American war since WWII has created lasting peace or democracy; yet we keep on fighting them, and we keep buying bumper stickers that say “Love it or leave it.”

You think the disastrous bubble of Vietnam would have proved the peaceniks right, but ours is a nation of cowardice; get behind the president and support the troops or you have no business in the global discussion. Already, CBS won’t run a “controversial” ad during the Super Bowl. “Controversial?” It criticizes the Bush budget.

We kill people in numbers exponentially larger than those of other countries (with bloodier pasts), we elect wrestlers and movie stars in hopes of solving fiscal crises, and we buy books with names like “Treason: Liberal Treachery Blahblahblah.” Truly, ours is a nation idolizing raw power. Might makes right is the new rule of global conduct.

Free trade is in. 21st century American economists propose doing away with all boundaries of capitalism, creating a sort of anarchy among states. Like any anarchy, power tends to flow to the top, to the skyscrapers where the Ken Lays and Michael Eisners of the world contemplate how to justify enslaving third world children. Radio hacks dismiss third world labor as beneath American consideration, and economists assure us that whoever has the most money earned it.

Ours is a nation dissolving into anarchy, a nation that abuses its power and tells people to be wary of those purchasing almanacs and other suspicious literature. A nation in which “enemy combatants” can be locked up at will without trial, and all of Congress bends over and takes it, for fear of losing their jobs to the rabid “Support-the-troops” legion (never mind that the President hardly supports the troops). A nation where fear reigns, logic is ignored in favor of military action, and what’s on CNN more important to us than the future of the free world. In crisis, our President tells us to go to Disneyland and spend, spend, spend. Close your mind. Let the fear surround you. In the bubble of American capitalism, you will be free.

That is, until the landlord comes to repossess your home, because you just got fired from your shitty nine-to-five job because illegal Mexican immigrants are cheaper and can now be legally enslaved, leaving you with nothing to do but smoke pot and watch Wheel of Fortune until you die...



Oh, but back to the culture of obnoxiousness thing. America is famous for its brazen rudeness and lack of consideration for others (on a personal and national scale), and that’s reflected in every facet in its culture. I saw a girl at my Winter Formal wearing a shirt that said “I promise to be nice and to share.” I wanted to kiss that girl, besides for the usual reasons. It’s like a shining beacon of hope when politeness is seen as fashionable.

I’m going to write a book on all this, I think. I’ll call it “Knee-Jerk Country...”



Oh, but the point I was trying to get to, but failed, was that such false courage as pounding drumbs for war is really just the flip side of cowardice. It's easy to make a fist, it takes sacrifice to make peace.
Oh, and by the way, today’s fantasy was being plucked out of the ground by a giant man (rather cookie-cutter handsome, I was sort of disappointed), scaling his enormous body until I disappeared down the warm, soft bed of his tongue. Mmmm.

(To give you a sense of scale, his penis was about twice as large as me. I started to lick the tip of it, but my body told me I was going to come soon and I wanted to land on that man’s tongue before checking out, so I kept climbing.)

Agggh. I have to go early to school next week to take the state tests. Here’s a primer on Leticia’s Opinion on Standardized Testing:

  • It’s stupid

  • It’s misguided

  • It sucks

  • It expects standardized children


  • Beyond that, the public school system in America is in a sorry state, with bureaucrats covering for bureaucrats and the President needing to show that he, in fact, performed a Texas School Miracle (which, by the way, was a disaster.)

    You see, if you focus your entire school system around standardized testing, test scores will go up. Duh. Since most voters equate standardized test scores to quality of schooling, this means that schools have gotten better and students are learning more.

    However, other factors can be at work:

  • Make tests easier. Want your students to test at an eighth grade level? Move eighth grade back to sixth grade! Moving the goalposts can be an easy and efficient way to make your students look smarter. (For instance, the state math test I took yesterday contained only rudimentary algebra and geometry. I am in eleventh grade and am currently learning about quadratic functions, but you’d be hard-pressed to find something that difficult on the state test.)

  • Teach to the test. If your whole school is focused on testing drills and you’ll-have-to-know-this-for-the-state-test kind of teaching (as Bush proposed), test scores will go up. Your students have now learned to regurgitate somewhat useful information. Congratulations.

  • Axe art, music, and sports. Without anything to engage a student who isn’t academically inclined, they’ll drop out, and average test scores go up. Congratulations! You’ll see them downtown soon, smoking pot and begging for change.


  • And finally, a few words on The Achievement Gap. The best way to close the Achievement Gap (so called as if filling in circles achieves anything) is to move the goalposts backwards, evening out test scores between the races. Congratulations! However, it’s time for the government to admit that a poor, black person in a poor, black neighborhood school has shit for chances of going to college right now. Give good teachers incentive to go to the “bad” schools (you might call them “at risk,” “urban” schools...), and maybe the students might learn something beyond the mechanics of a gang war. (Which, I imagine, is probably pretty interesting, but best learned in political science.)

    And while you’re at it, Mr. President, set a good example for the kiddies. Play nice, make friends, and clean up your messes. I believe you’ve been reaching into another kid’s toys, destroying them and selling the remnants to your rich friends; go take a four-year time out.

    Friday, January 30, 2004

    Betta watch'at, comin' at'cha! Betta watch'at, comin' at'cha! Betta watch'at, watch'at, watch'at watch, watch, dat, dat-- ... --the funky rhythm comin' at'cha!

    Okay, here's part 3 (cont'd from below):

    Julie found herself naked, floundering around in a giant mug of beer. Nothing could drown out the noise of the Beer Demons peering over her and recounting all her painful memories.

    "Juuuuulie!" they spoke, as one. "Buy! Buy! Buy! Do you remember that guy in sixth grade you failed to ask out?"

    "But he liked me too?" she answered, faintly.

    "Yes! And now he's sleeping with a beautiful French prostitute?"

    "And I should care?!" she snapped.

    "Hey! That's... ooggh, let's try this again. Remember the candy bar you stole from your mother when you were three?"

    "Faintly..."

    "Exactly! You feel BAD! Now take your grief and sorrow, all the collective mistakes of your youth, and let it all go in one enthusiastic purge! You must BUY MORE BEER!"

    "Beer! Beer! Beer!" the demons chanted, dancing in a circle around Julie's giant beer tub.

    "Let me out of here! I wanna go home!"

    "No, Julie! You must remain in this hole you've dug for yourself! You've painted yourself in this corner of sorrow, and the only way out is to drown yourself in corporately subsidized drink, now only 2.99 at the corner Moe's!"

    "Aaaaauuggghhh!!" she shrieked.

    "Drink! Drink! Drink!" the demons chanted.

    "I don't want to! I--"

    Julie heard the sound of a door creaking.

    "Sorry about that," said a giant Mr. McLauglin, towering over the demons, the beer mug, and especially tiny Julie. He swatted away the demons and they turned into mist. "Loathsome buggers. Trapped me in a giant vat of laundry detergent just the other morning." He turned to poor, naked Jamie.

    "Hey!" shouted Jamie. "I'm a little... vulnerable..."

    "Sorry, miss," he said. "Now, there's only one way out. Are you committed to it?"

    "Well, I guess..." Julie squirmed.

    "Down the hatch!" McLauglin said, confidently picking up the beer mug and chugging down Julie and her bath water.

    Julie woke up in the Cosmic Interstate, clothed, in her car, and drenched with beer and saliva. McLaughlin resumed driving. "Mr. McLaughlin?" Julie asked.

    "Yes, miss?" he answered.

    "Never, ever, _ever_ do that again." she snapped. McLaughlin squirmed in his seat.

    "Sorry, my dear," he said arrogantly. "It was the only way out of that particular predicament."

    They arrived at Paul Totem's Reality Reconstruction Office. McLauglin rapped on his door. "Mr. Totem, we'd like a word with you."

    Julie butted in. "Let me do this," she whispered to McLauglin.

    The door creaked open, and the dumpy man with a mustache appeared. "Paul Totem's Reconstruction Service," he grumbled. "What can I do fer ya?"

    "Oh, dearest Mr. Totem," Julie pleaded, "I was just eaten by one of those awful--"

    "--beer men?" Totem offered, feebly.

    "Yes! Oh, it was terrifying! And now I'm covered in beer and spit, and..." she brushed back Totem's hair, playfully, "you wouldn't mind fitting a bath into my personal timeline, would you?"

    "Of course!" he said, his eyes sparkling for once. He took out a box of slides. "Let me see... I can make you have taken a bath five minutes ago, or maybe a shower two minutes ago..."

    "Oh, you men are all the same!" she whined, dramatically. "I can't find a single man who is living in the..." she tipped his hat with her finger, "...present." She winked at McLaughlin as she went in for the kill.

    "Oh dear me, how did I get myself into this," he grumbled, as he slipped himself through the door. "I know we have no evidence against him, and yet I break into my childhood friend's office on a hunch!" While Julie kept Totem distracted, McLaughlin found his way to Totem's study.

    "Oh, that's not the only thing you'll doubt yourself over," said a mysterious voice.

    "Who's there!" McLaughlin shouted. "Don't doubt me! I have much experience with disembodied voices!"

    "Oh, but I'm one much closer to you..." the voice said, before appearing before McLaughlin in person.

    He was McLaughlin, twenty years older.

    "We have some catching up to do."

    TO BE CONTINUED
    Let me tell you a story....

    She was a private eye. Julie Schieffer could take on any case offered her in the cruel and gloomy city of downtown Orgathops. But she could not handle the news of what was coming to her next.
    "A giant... robot... penguin," she bellowed to her trusted assistant, Mr. McLaughlin.
    "Ah, not quite," he said. "It's quite a marvel. They've genetically engineered this penguin to escape reality's sense of scale. It is any size it wants to be."
    "Get to the point," Julie said, taking an impatient drag on her cigarette. "What can a private eye in Leslie Square do about a giant penguin?"
    "As you know," McLaughlin explained, "we in the advanced city of Orgathops have discovered the very roots of reality. You must find those who have been manipulating reality to create this giant penguin."
    "Any leads?"
    "Just one," McLaughlin confirmed. "This guy."
    McLaughlin tossed her a photo of a dumpy looking guy in a moustache and blue jeans, along with his business card.
    Julie read from the business card, "Paul Totem's Reality Reconstruction. Reality Altered While-U-Wait. Is this a joke?""
    McLaughlin mourned, "A very cruel joke indeed. If this man thinks he can alter reality for the common man..."
    Julie lept from her desk. "I'm on it," she said, throwing away her cigarette. "Make me a pick-me-up for the car. We're going to meet this man." She gestured vaguely towards McLaughlin. "And... how do you connect this guy to the penguin?"
    "He... likes penguins. He told me... when we were friends in first grade."
    "Excellent," she droned, sarcastically. "An attachment. Get the door, will ya?"
    McLaughlin sighed as he picked up the cigarette from the floor, tossed it in the garbage, and opened the door. Julie strutted outside into the rainy night on her way to another silly adventure...

    Well, how was that? Stay tuned for part 2 of Leticia's giant penguin story.

    ...which I'll write right now.

    "He always dreamed of having his own giant penguin shop," McLauglin explained. "He'd tell me, 'have you seen a giant penguin lately? 'Cause I'd sure love to have one o' them creatures...' Adults would tell him that there was no such thing as a giant penguin, but he couldn't believe them. It was too important to him to imagine himself protected under the wing of a gargantuan fuzzy penguin."
    Julie was asleep.
    "Julie, wake up! We're about to hit the warping hole!"
    "Whaaaa?" Julie said, with a jump, just before the car dissappeared into an intersection.
    As the car made its way through the eternal nothingness, advertisements for beer and cola floated by them. "This here is the Cosmic Interstate," McLaughlin explained. "It is a space between moments. It technically should not exist; it is itself a logical conundrum, borne of human fiddling around with reality to the point where mathematical paradoxes became actual locations. Having nothing else to do with a giant void in space, the government sold it to the beer companies for advertising space. Pretty, isn't it?"
    A holographic man in a Budweiser shirt caressed a disinterested Julie's shoulders. "Just fine. Tell this guy to keep it up."
    "Ah, be careful with the Holographic Beer Men," he said. "They threaten to take you into the-- Julie? Julie!"
    Julie's eyes closed with pleasure as she was sucked into the beer man's body, taking her away to the forbidden Beer Dimension.

    TO BE CONTINUED

    Thursday, January 29, 2004

    i read the most depressing thing ever in Naomi Wolf's book, Promiscuities. An account of scientists from as far back as the sixteenth century finding this little button thing inside women's vaginas and saying, "Golly gee wilickers! The female pleasure organ!" over and over and over again, as evidence of female pleasure is continuously cleansed from the public memory by puritanical interests. It's like the whole sexual revolution has been repeating itself over and over again, like one of those episodes of Star Trek TNG where the Enterprise keeps blowing up every ten minutes thanks to a temporal loop and nobody can figure out why.

    We've gotta escape this cycle, people. Naomi Wolf describes that women may think themselves doing something radical when they take the mirror and the good light to look inside their personhood, but we've been doing this generation after generation. It's a blessing that we have the Internet to blow the open secret, but think of all the middle school kids who are growing up thinking their sexuality is wrong...

    ...like me...

    never mind.

    Wednesday, January 28, 2004

    When I'm anxious, I have a nervous habit (dead serious) of singing Pokémon songs in the hallway in vibrant, emotional tones. Here's a sample:

    I'm AAHHHHHn a MAAAAAsster QUESTER QUEST!

    I want the whole WORLD to see AAHHHH be-LIEEEEVE

    ...and so on. Pitiful. I hope nobody punches me into a locker one of these days.

    (All right! LETICIA has been captured!)

    (When I was little, I had fantasies of Pokéball-play...)

    (never mind.)
    I'm in one of those moods again. Spent my math class in a sullen daze. My math teacher (who is an excellent guy, eerily reminiscent of Professor X from the X-Men) asked me if there's something wrong. Yeah there's something freaking wrong. I'm everybody's patsy, everybody wants what they can get from me on the cheap. I don't have any real friends, just a bunch of people I try to be really nice to in hopes that maybe they'll return the favor.

    oogh.
    Ooogh. I drag my GameCube all the way to school, and Dante refuses to share his controller with the little kids. He sticks his tongue out when I insist on him sharing.

    Why is it that the little kids seemed much older than him in that situation?

    (Oh, I told him, "Share, or we all play Watch Leticia Play Sonic Heroes." That worked.)
    I'd love to do one of Leticia's Classic Masturbation Posts again, but I hate to say masturbation has become a tad boring. I've mapped myself out, I've figured out everything that turns me on. This is a huge letdown; it's like beating the best videogame I've ever owned, and then finding out there's nothing after the credits. Not even a challenge mode or some secret characters.

    Although, there is always the two-player mode...

    but I'll save that for later.

    Tuesday, January 27, 2004

    I saw a documentary featuring teenage girls getting into dodgy relationships because they wanted to affirm their womanhood.

    ...Yeah, I'm _completely_ in that trap. I really do wanna affirm myself as a woman out of my own insecurity surrounding my gender identity. So! No more sex work stuff until I've gotten myself sorted out. I thought I'd be pretty mature at 17, but it turns out I'm not, so I think I'd do best to discover myself first and then think about the nasty.
    A Message:

    We at Leticia McKenzie Holdings Inc. on principle, do not run issue ads. Well, except maybe that one saying "Bush is Better than Your Guy," or "Real Cool Teenagers Don't Have Sex, Unless They are Seventeen and in Love, but By Golly They Don't Use a Condom." But, really, how can you expect us to run this ad? It's just so... liberal.

    You might offend somebody with that fiscal responsibility thing. We prefer the "Drink Beer, Have Sex" angle. And the "Be Complete, Wear Perfume" angle. Little kids packing grocery bags might just wake people up to the open secrets, which damn well better stay open secrets, lest my boss lose his job.

    I mean, really? Why can't those liberals just be content by having the world's greatest economy? ...Which is in the crapper? Or... maybe they could be content with America's goodwill abroad? ...which has been a disaster, killing thousands and spawning terrorists right and left? Then, er, why can't the liberals be content with No Child Left Behind?.... which actually left quite a few kids behind?

    Here's a tip, kid. Don't read the fine print. Ignorance is bliss, us Americans follow that principle every day of our lives.

    Pass the remote.

    (this post was brought to you by Mom, apple pie, and sarcasm)
    I had a deam last night where Omega, in Sonic Heroes, went crazy after Sonic destroyed an Eggman base. Omega, being a robot receiving orders from this base, lost it and tried to kill Rouge with disturbing glee. I was shocked by this, and wondered if Sonic knew his actions could have such unintended consequences; how many people have died from robots going haywire after Sonic destroyed so many Eggman bases?

    They say dreams always parallel something going on in your life. This means I have done something that seems ultimate and good, when it has actually done harm. Uh oh.

    Monday, January 26, 2004

    Lovely Encomia asked me how I got my pen name. Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale...

    "The truth? I was in the hippy section of the local bookstore, reading Naomi Wolf and periodically dazing off and thinking about how amazing my new blog is gonna be. And I'll call myself... Leticia McKenzie...

    But really, 'Leticia' probably comes from an old teacher, and 'McKenzie' probably comes from Ms. McKenzie, a character on Cardcaptors, the English dub of CLAMP's Japanese series Cardcaptor Sakura."

    There you have it. Straight from the whore's mouth.

    (sorry, couldn't resist...)
    Somebody sent me an E-mail saying that if I’m having trouble writing, I shouldn’t keep writing self-referential whinings about how I can’t write. Thanks, Sherlock. I’ll remember that next time I can’t write.

    In the meantime, it said, I shouldn’t write about masturbation every single friggin’ post. This, I concede, is a legitimate criticism of how my writing is all about masturbation. So, if you are of this fellow’s persuasion, I suggest you use Word’s “find and replace” and replace every mention of “masturbation” to “bunnies.” There! Now I am no longer obsessed with diddling myself.

    Okay, okay, seriously: I’m glad this guy was honest and wrote serious criticism to me, but the problem is, he sounds just like the Stupid Editor Guy in my head that keeps me from writing. So, in reverence to this fellow’s E-mail, now that I have written a self-referential whining on how I can’t write, I’m going to share with you (shocker!) a masturbation fantasy.

    Well, no, I just laid down with a good friend in a giant bed of a tuna fish sandwich. You see, it wasn’t like I was having sex with her (really!) it was the intimacy that got me, as we laid down in the mayonnaise and the Giant Pony-tailed Guy proceeded to place the other slice on our bodies and eat us for lunch. (Our cute li’l feet stuck out from the center of the sandwich, of course.) I didn’t come to this—I didn’t feel like it (my head’s been hurting lately, I’ve got Adolescence Syndrome)—but it did make me feel kinda warm and/or fuzzy inside.

    Shit, I need friends. Not for the purpose of sharing a giant tuna fish sandwich with, but, you know...

    (edit: Yes, I did want to have sex with her, with our bodies intertwining in a fresh layer of tuna and mayonnaise, spreading it on each other with delight. There. I fucking said it.)
    What the--?!

    Well, I found this on my hard disk, and I can't quite fathom what it is. Read:

    Oh, Leticia was enjoying it now. Being reduced to streams of data in some freak scientist’s laboratory; it was dark and foreboding, like mashed potatoes on top of rye bread with butter. Ooh, how it spread Leticia across the universe.

    She wanted to be flushed, down into a great abyss, with no return for her. She would unravel until her very essence spread into the basic makeup of the universe, until Leticia was one with Gaia. Then, she realized... she was Gaia! She was, at one moment, having sex with the entire universe, and didn’t realize all the star constellations swirling into her cunt and devouring her from the inside.

    She disintegrated like fuzz and was eaten up by mangy lab rats. Sexy.
    Oh, a roundup of Saturday's cartoons:

    Astro Boy "Rocket Ball": pretty good
    Sonic X "Adventures of Knuckles and Hawk": okay
    Static Shock "She-Back!": awful. Writer is inept and has no grasp of human nature. A few years in the school of cartoon hard knocks will do him well.

    It's hard to watch cartoons these days without thinking of a billion ways to make them better. I entertained a brief fantasy (ohhh yes) of growing up to write kids' cartoons (after being inspired by Astro Boy's creator, Osamu Tezuka), but I don't know if I could handle all the political drama and corporate overhead involved.
    Last night, I dreamt I was peacefully in my room at night when I heard the sound of helicopters. A black helicopter hovered outside my window, as spies got out and lined up outside my room. I had a dark sense that this was the outcome of the Patriot Act; the government was now spying on every citizen, making sure none could turn against their rulers. I rushed to my closet, clutching a teddy bear and hoping they couldn’t see me in the darkness. However, soon the wall was merely a large set of blinds separating the room from the outside, and an agent of the FBI began observing my moves. I hoped that they wouldn’t be able to see me in the dark, but alas, it would have been better to stay in my room; I made myself obvious with the limited space in the closet, and the darkness was no help with their flashlights. The agent reached in and felt around my teddy bear, finding my hands and making me leap into action...

    “My name is [Leticia’s real name]!” I barked. “Who are you and what do you want with me?!”

    At the front of the squad were two women, one tall and with black hair, the other ash blonde and slightly stumpy. The black haired woman—the one who touched my hands—assured me of something (I don’t remember what), as the blonde woman questioned me.

    They seemed like nice fellows, despite their gray suits and secretive demeanor. Perhaps I would have hung out with them under different circumstances. But anyway...

    The blonde woman decided to probe my creativity. “Tell me a story about... us,” she said, gesturing towards her troop. I smiled and said, sassily, “I like you.” It was true; I searched my brain for a way to say that I hated them all and the Patriot Act nonsense, but that I liked that this woman was trying to appeal to my sense of storytelling to find out more of who I am.

    I noticed that she had, on her gray uniform, a Subway logo patch. I found it kind of charming; it seemed as though it was meant to humble her so that she could appear more welcoming. Really, despite the prestige of her FBI get-up, it was not much more different than a uniform at a fast-food joint.

    I smiled a little as I tried to think of a good story. Let’s see, I thought, they’re spies, so they must live on the fringes of society...
    Naturally, I thought about it too hard, and woke up.

    “...but alas, forks are not so forgiving. Animatronic buffoons do not the best gardens make, but spoons of a different color can change one’s life indeed.”

    --Nobody
    When I’m nervous, I want a guy’s penis at the back of my throat. Really. I can’t understand what’s wrong with that, but something just is. Do I not respect myself enough? Blah blah blah...
    But the truth is I’m no different than any other girl, we all yearn for sex and we all need to respect our boundaries. So, I’m going to stop the self-pity routine and I’ll just respect my own sexuality. Got that? From here on out, I respect my sexuality. (Let’s see how long this holds up...)

    (edit: yes, this is a very typical lump-in-throat routine. However, you have NO IDEA how liberating it is to even TALK about a penis in my throat on the Internet, even hiding beside a pseudonym. So do not click on Outlook Express and especially do not start writing that E-mail to me about how I need to stop writing about sex while shrouded in so much shame, because you know you enjoy it. Come on.)

    Saturday, January 24, 2004

    There’s some new lesbian show out. I hear it sucks; but the topic of today’s blather concerns a friend who told me about columnist Maureen Dowd’s (earth tones! Run!) take on the show: that it’s no better than a beer commercial, of men exploiting women’s affection for their own erotic gain.

    (edit: A Google search resulted in the original column at the New York Times, locked up for pay. Can somebody do something slightly left-field and send me the article, so I can see if I should eat crow or not?)

    Now, I have seen neither the show nor Dowd’s column (it’s the morning, I avoid reading these times), but I’d like to barf. I’m sick of how no woman can ever express her sexuality without being “controlled” by men. We’re all sick puppies who need to be freed by the stranglehold the Penis has on us. Oh, have I mentioned the Penis and the Phallic Symbolism? Penis Penis Penis! Oooooogghhhh!!!

    So yeah, I was at school once and heard a discussion of “feminism.” Most people in our group, mostly girls, were afraid to call themselves feminists, because the label was inherently restrictive on what they can and can’t do with their bodies. This broke my heart; feminism is supposed to free you to make your own choices. When did the switch happen?

    Anyway, for the record, I don’t need healing, and I’m not being pulled by puppet strings reaching from the Galactic Penis that threatens to homogenize our society with the far-reaching penis of patriarchy. (And while you’re at it, stop critiquing what kind of sex we have for the content of its gender politics. I see this all the time in the queer community and it makes me want to puke all over some guy’s penis. Really.)

    So, anyway, also for the record, feminism means you believe in equal rights for men and women. Men and women can join the party. Come on, like Rebecca West said it, “I do not know what a feminist is, all I know is that I am called feminist when I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat.” (Actually, the full quote is “doormat or a prostitute,” which kind of pisses me off. Why should prostitutes not be allowed to be feminists? But let’s move on...)

    So let’s all get to work and differentiate ourselves from doormats. After all, doormats aren’t very sexy, right? (giggle)

    ---

    (written in my Morning Haze; I start out with strange openings, so forgive me if they throw you off. It's the only way I can write)

    Come on, I feel sick. I wanna go home. Take me home and fuck me long into the night so I can feel like I have a purpose for maybe an hour or so.

    Yeah, Naomi Wolf says that’s seen as the female existence, a lot of women give themselves up to teenage boys thinking of it as their right of passage into adulthood. That makes me wanna cry, but yeah, I’ve felt it before. I’ve felt that I need to defile myself early on, because I’m going to be in the missionary position for the rest of my life and I might as well enjoy it. It’s part of what’s fueled this blog; yes, I enjoy it, but sometimes I go a little to far in the feminine passivity department. I don’t need to be passive to be a woman, and I can enjoy sex without succumbing to it.

    Oh, man, I do need healing. I need to have that naked walk on the beach in the sunset with my mentor, with me about ten years younger, so we can bond and she can tell me all the secrets of womanhood and we can pace around get sand on our feet and be one being for just a little while, and I’ll be safe inside her aura. I... need a mother figure.

    Ugh, this is too much. I’m’a go do homework.
    Hey, yo, one and all. This is Leticia McKenzie, reporting from Poseidontown’s Sad Sorry Sluts Division.

    I can’t say what’s gotten me down so much. Maybe it’s my tears, and how I can never get them to come at the right moment. I can’t get myself to feel—but yeah, I cried once during Pokémon when Ash left Charizard and it was SO SAD.... but I can’t get myself to cry over things that are important.

    Like Dante. Yeah, if I had more emotional fortitude, I could be his mistress. But no, I need the person I’m having sex with to have a relationship with me; I’m too fragile and insecure for anything else. I couldn’t handle the thought of my sex making somebody happy, who will then forget about me when the lights are dimmed and the candles are lit and he goes to have real love.

    So I had a dream. I had friends over at this family vacation home, but I promptly forgot about my friends anyway. I looked at my room; wow, there were three beds in it. I could call my other friends right now and have that girly sleepover that I always wanted to have. I needed intimacy, I needed bonding, I needed to sit in the middle of the bedroom floor in my pajamas and giggle and talk about boys for hours like all the other girls did in, oh, elementary school. I needed friends.

    So anyway, there was this raft in the backyard. Er, the backyard was a great big lake; it was the evening, and the sun was setting beautifully. I sat on a raft a step away from the back door, admiring the sunset and writing in my diary. For some reason, I was naked (this happens at least once a dream) and I yearned to swim out to the sunset, to touch it, to taste it, to feel its warmth. It was late, but the water was not yet cold, and I wanted it to envelope my naked body.

    But, no, I put my clothes on and went inside instead. I accidentally dropped my diary in the water, so I needed to dry it off. Besides, I had to go do my homework. What would I have done if my parents had seen me naked? I would have died. And so on and so forth. End of dream.

    So, if anyone has Beautiful Sunset real estate out there, make me an offer...
    Reporting from the Winter Formal:

    It sucked. It wasn’t any fun. Especially when Leslie, Dante, his darling fiancée, the school playboy Jack, and I got in a great big cuddle-puddle and I French kissed Dante, only to have everybody leave me alone when the Last Dance began.

    You see, I slow-danced with Leslie, and I thought I was finally somewhere with her... or maybe I’m somewhere with Dante, because we flirted and made out... or maybe I’m somewhere with ONE PERSON in this whole freakin’ cuddle-puddle but no, Leticia’s fun for a fling, but nobody wants to have the Last Dance with her.

    Yeah, that’s how my existence is; everybody loves me, but nobody wants to get close to me. Poor, poor Leticia. Pity jar is to your left.

    (Oh! But I got free burritos. That makes it all better, I guess.)

    (Oh, and Dante's tongue just felt really weird and unwelcome. The previous time I had French kissed someone, it was a girl, and it felt... ethereal. This was just like, whoa, there's only room for one tongue in here! Please back off so my tongue can have some personal space...)

    (But, yeah, I'm glad I did it. I needed that French kiss out of my system for a while.)

    (Oh, what am I saying?! Next time I'm going to have sex with him and be like, "oh, it sucked, but y'know, that's how it goes..." I wonder if I'm going to admit I'm a lesbian and go for what I really want anytime soon. Probably not, but I'm scheduling it for 2005 or so anyway.)

    Friday, January 23, 2004

    Sorry, no blogging today. Mental breakdown. Be back tomorrow.

    (By the way, I've withheld the E-mail addresses of all the fine folks who've written in, for fear of spambots; if you want to E-mail them, send it to me and I'll pass it on.)
    Nintendo DS.

    Do-whaaa?

    (It's not like I've ever played Sonic, pining for a second screen... nobody can keep their eyes on two screens at once anyway, I have a hard time remembering to look at the radar in Halo. If your game, for some reason, really needs a second screen, giving the next Game Boy a really wide screen and just splitting it in half for such a game would be just dandy.)

    (I kind of feel like a dual-screen portable would just have a really wide screen with an unbreakable line down the middle... Nintendo, this is stupid. You have some great ideas, and some not so great ideas.)

    (A Game Girl Advance editor [where the hell are the girls lately?! Although, if you need one, count me in...] seems to think this idea has merit. I wonder how bad status meters have gotten to require another screen. Who wants to jerk their eyes at an entirely different screen every few seconds of gameplay? It's not like I see the world through two pairs of eyes or anything... okay I'll shut up now...)

    Thursday, January 22, 2004

    I am absolutely crushed that Sonic Team is making an Astro Boy RPG using the Half-Life 2 engine... for the PS2 only.

    Sonic Team, making Astro Boy, on PS2, the only system of the three I don't have.

    Curses.

    By the way, if I had a PS2, here are the five games I would get:

    1. Puyo Puyo Box
    2. RPG Maker 2
    3. Rez (w/vibrator!)
    4. Virtua Fighter 4: Evolution
    5. This newfangled Astro Boy thingy

    The good Lord willing...
    Sorry, friends, no blogging today. I'm having one of my "How could I be DOING this?!" panic attacks and I need to recuperate. If I'm not back tomorrow, I've converted to Mormonism.

    Okay I lied. Here we goooo:

    I've been having the dumbest masturbation fantasy ever. I don't like writing about it, but here goes.

    Sonic pasta.

    Okay, you remember those Spaghetti-O's variants that they used to make, with Sonic and friends? Well, er, I masturbated about that. Yeah. Well, we'll fill in this blank right here:

    I was at Dante's house (with his darling fiancee; yeah, I spent most of the time playing Halo) for New Year's, and I couldn't get myself to sleep. I was lulling in bed and thinking about, oh my god, what if...

    Here's how it went. Sonic and friends get sucked into a giant can of Sonic pasta, implying that they, in fact, ARE the pasta, and this is some silly marketing scheme, like those awful commercials where Donkey Kong gets squashed by a Game Boy or something. (I hated those ads. Which is PRECISELY why they now turn me on. Ooogh...) It was so light and happy-go-lucky that it couldn't possibly think it demeaning to Sonic's character or his attitude. But, you know, that's hot.

    So, that's been going on for a while; I've been guiltily (izzat a word?) imagining Sonic, you know, getting turned into action figures and T-shirts and various American promotional items. It's terrible. I feel guilty now, looking at Sonic's mug, and thinking of how I've used my childhood hero for my silly girly fantasies. That, might I add, are really dumb.

    (For the record, it also really turned me on to think of Kasumi, from Dead or Alive, trapped in a little glass cylinder, being gradually turned by a demonic scientist into... orange juice. You may commence heckling of my fantasies now.)

    So... previously, I've been able to live with my fantasies, being that the object of being turned into cardboard/green alcohol/ice cream has always been me, but man, I feel SORRY for Sonic. I've degraded him, somehow. I love him. How could I be thinking this when I'm so attached to him?

    (of course, the fact that I'm so attached to him is WHY it turns me on... but anyway.)

    (of course, it would turn ME on to imagine somebody coming to the thought of me being, say, run through a meat grinder...)

    (all, you know, in theory.)

    (Leticia out.)

    Wednesday, January 21, 2004

    Let's open the mailbag!

    A fine, fine woman named Emma Harvey wins Leticia's Coolest Person of the Day Award by sending me the long-lost lyrics of the getting-eaten-by-the-crocodile song. Let's have a singalong, everybody!

    "Oh, she sailed away
    On a fine and sunny day
    On the back of a crocodile.
    You see said she,
    He's as tame as tame can be,
    I'll ride him down the Nile.

    The crock winked his eye
    As the lady waved goodbye,
    Wearing a great big smile.
    But at the end of the ride
    The lady was inside
    And the smile was on the crocodile!"

    Yum, yum. Chomp, chomp. Oooh....

    Okay, now we move on to Octavia Arena, who sent me a link to her fine blog, and a fine letter of support that made me warm and squishy inside. But I don't want this to become Leticia's Pity Corner any more than it already is, so let's move on to one academic young woman (who would've gotten my coolest-person-of-the-day award, but I already gave it out to the crocodile song person), Natalia Lush Antonova, offering support after my recent fantasy...

    "Leticia, I absolutely guarantee you that you are not the only one out there that ever came while entertaining a vision or two of the Great Detective. My own fantasies of Sherlock even made their way into my Victorian Lit term paper. The result was a B grade, but the professor said she laughed a lot. The big pipe/penetration by the heroin needle conundrum lends itself to all sorts of interpretations and images. -N."

    Thanks, honey. Here's what I wrote in response:

    "It was the magnifying glass that got me, with the analytical expression and the silly hat. It was weird, because he suddenly popped in at the very end of my fantasy, right before I came.

    The game is afoot!"

    Good night, all, and have grand visions of great detectives with great big... pipes...

    (on a side note, I have _got_ to start reading Sherlock Holmes...)
    Quick political analysis:

    For those left wondering why Bush would use the State of the Union address to promote something as bizarre as a Constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, here's the reason: gay marriage is a very divisive issue and _everybody_ has a strong opinion one way or the other; however, the anti-gay-marriage folks (boo! boo!) slightly outnumber the sensible folks. So, if he can make himself the "Protect the Institution of Marriage" candidate, everybody with an opinion against gay marriage will vote for him, and he won't need the pro-gay marriage folks anyway. (This is why we need to push gay marriage as a political issue; it's one of Bush's strongest weapons, and unless we change people's minds about gay marriage somehow breaking down the institution of marriage [dooo-whaaa?], it could guarantee him the election.)

    Not to mention the South, which is full of immigrants and right-wing lunatics, generally not of the same persuasion. So, to appeal to both groups and retain the Republican stronghold, he proposes a new immigration law that will grant "temporary worker" status to illegal immigrants holding jobs. To the casual immigrant listener, this will sound like progress; but the rich white guys who love to manipulate immigrants will see the law's invisible ink reading CHEAP LABOR. (The law ties their legal status to their job status; if they don't clean the kitchen right, they're fired and must pack their bags. It's a SLAVE CLASS, the most appalling political maneuver since, well, slavery.)

    (By the way, I'm planning on majoring in political science; so gear yourselves up for the great Leticia for Whatever campaign...)
    Well, you see, there's this new girl at school. And she's a lot like me; she loves Sonic Team, she is overtly sexual in her Internet writing, and she's shy. So I really really want to get to know her.

    But there's a kick. You see, we both like this one boy. I have since gotten off of him (he's nice and he's handsome, but other than that...?), but he seemed to like her more than me.

    So I realized, dear Lord, this woman is stealing my identity, to the point where she's a better me than me! Deary, deary me. So, feeling insecure, I tried really hard to be her friend, because our friendship would be the only thing keeping me from tearing her guts out.

    But, here's the problem: she keeps blowing me off. I say hi to her, she keeps walking and pretends it was a gust of wind. Fucker.

    So, the more I try to be friends with her, the more I hate her, and the more I want to be friends with her for fear of hating her. I try not to hate people, even when it's hard; and we have a lot in common, and it's important to me that we have a friendship around that rather than a (one-sided) rivalry.

    Because not too many teenage girls both like Sonic Team and sexualizing themselves for the general public on the Internet...
    Goddammit, I _still_ can't get to sleep. Well then, I'll just have to share with you one more thing: (wwaaaan moaaah thing! whap!)

    When I came to that last fantasy, I came right on top of my brothers' copy of Scientific American.

    Ooops.

    But anyway, this brings me to my once-in-a-lifetime offer to Win Leticia's Come Stains! Simply be the first reader to send in a fair-condition copy of the January 2004 issue of Scientific American with no come stains to this address, and she will exchange it for an exclusive Half of Leticia's Babies edition! Call now for your--

    On second thought, never mind. Somebody might run a DNA test on the come stains and figure out my true identity.

    Later.
    Before I go off to Dreamland, I'd like to share with you an E-mail I just got from Frank:

    ---

    Hi Leticia,

    please don't feel hauted. A writer is always an exhibitionist, showing
    off his/her inner thougts, sometimes trying to tell a story that never
    really happened. Writing is entertaining. Writing into a diary is
    masturbation, writing a blog is sex.

    Do you know the difference between masturbation and sex?

    Either is big fun but with sex you get to know more people.

    Entertainig people is a gift. Presenting a report, reading homework in
    front of class, telling a fairy tale to a child sitting on the bed,
    defending an awful war in front of Congress - all these things are
    messages wrapped in entertainment. Well prepared, performed properly, holding
    up tension, keeping pace with the audience, you can transmit every
    message you want, if you want, or if you just like to take centre stage.

    --

    Aww. Thank you. It was heartfelt. It brought a tear to my eye.
    Ohmanohmanohman. Well, y'see, I couldn't get to sleep, so I resorted to my favorite pasttime. Except, I was very annoyed that I couldn't come up with a fantasy (see, I had already masturbated this morning, to the dumbest fantasy ever, so I had trouble getting the juices flowing. but never mind). But, I happened upon me and my fellow porn-star comrades (yes, in this fantasy, I'm a porn star, and yes, I have comrades; this is my dream), shrunk onto a tabletop and wearing silly day-glo knit bikinis. We are, of course, waiting for Big Blonde High School Guy to come along and devirginize us (I think i was planning on him licking up our ickle bodies) but instead, this guy comes in, a very particular guy, leering at us with a magnifying glass.

    He is Sherlock freakin' Holmes.

    Now that Sherlock Holmes has snuck his way into my masturbation fantasies (yes, I came; how embarrassing), what's next? Wesley Clark? (Dear god no.) Peter Pan? (No no no.) Walter Cronkite? (Big no.) You know, I need to stop naming names, lest I reveal something embarrassing (and you know, there are things left...)

    (edit: No! I don't find any of them sexy! I was just naming names! You know, the first ones I came up with! Aggghh!!)

    So anyway, far away from Diddle-land, I have something to share with you. I have an adult mentor. You see, I may write like an arrogant politician, but I still feel myself in need of guidance; I also have something of a missing mother complex (not because I have a working mother, but because my mother and I have a somewhat fake relationship) where I latch onto every adult woman in sight, hoping that they'll be the ones to Show Me The Way. Sadly, this impairs my abilities to make friends; so I'm hoping that this woman (arranged through a local youth agency) will help me vent my feelings of missing guidance and allow me to move on with my life and relationships.

    So anyway, nudity. I'm going to switch subjects abruptly because I really, really, really, really need to write about this. You see, I love to get naked. Now, that sounds stupid, but it's true. You see, I got one of those obnoxious porn spams once and it said, "Hi! I'm Lisa and I love to get naked!" and I was totally like, "Dude! We should be best friends!" for about a millisecond until I realized it was spam and deleted it. But anyway, that's beside the point. I... I wanna be naked, with my mentor, at my side, with me about seven years younger, clutching her leg, looking into the sunset and pondering what a big bright world is out there.

    And she'll tell me, "Someday, Leticia. Be strong and you will live your dreams."

    And I will say, "But, what if I fail, dearest mentor?"

    And she will say, "Do not doubt yourself, Leticia. That is the first step to EEEP EEEP EEEP EEEP EEEP"

    And then I will realize that she is actually my alarm clock, and I will punch her in the gut, sending my alarm clock flying across the room and exploding in a mess of a mechanical cuckoo carcass. And I will be happy that I silenced that fucking cuckoo once and for all, but I will be sad that my dream has been metaphorically shattered, and then I will bitch and moan about how this defining moment of my adolescence was ruined by school opening too early, against every study that says teenagers wake up too early in the morning for their health, and then I will complain about how our first class consists of doing nothing but eating cookies and watching Dante flirt with her darling fiancee, as visions of the two of them fucking the night away take up monstrous portions of my unwilling cranium like a heap of porn spam taking over my hard disk.

    And then, I will go and play Jet Grind Radio on my Game Boy Advance, but I will smack into every freakin wall in the game, and Professor K will tell me, "Yo Leticia! Did you eat breakfast today? Because you've been splattering your poor character all over the pavement with no remorse! Not sure what connection that would have with lack of breakfast, but yo, you've been stinkin' up the--" Then, I would ignore the revolutionary prospects of interacting with a videogame character and punch him in the nose, watching his gelatin face wobble around and do the silly eyebrow thing that he always does. He would then suckerpunch me (through the GBA screen) into next Tuesday, at which point, I will discover it sucked as badly as last Tuesday.

    Not only that, but next Tuesday will be a post-apocalyptic future where soda machines accept nothing less than oral sex, and public officials are elected by elaborate tournaments of Ping-Pong. You see, in this hideous post-apocolyptic future of next Tuesday, the giant global consciousness of Ping-Pong players has evolved into its own dimension, as the hideous Ping-Pong critters begin to invade out own dimension. Our entire culture is based around the game, and in order to get a date, you have to be good at Ping-Pong. Naturally, I will suck at the game, and be laughed out of the Ping-Pong bar by all the handsome men in my school and in my childhood. (Of course, this Ping-Pong bar is actually the cornerstone of a burgeoning galactic regime; three young boys stand to change the face of the Ping-Pong Dimension forever. But that's a story for next Tuesday. I mean, the one after.)

    So, as revenge for my Ping-Pong sucktitude, they push me into a portal into the Ping-Pong dimension, in which I must fight for my life against hordes of critters manifested by the very act of humans playing Ping-Pong, unbeknownst to their feeble minds. But, the cute guy takes pity on me and sends me back to the real world, and instead, the punishment for losing is that I must be run through the Beer Machine that gradually turns me, as I shout and squirm inside that tight cylinder, into a bright green alcoholic drink that is proceeded to be drunken up by all the cute boys. Which, you know, isn't so bad. The End. (Coming soon to a theater near you.)

    (And yes, Sherlock came complete with knit cap and pipe. Batteries sold seperately.)
    Oh, and before I go to bed, my top five videogames of all time (off of the top of my head...)

    1. Jet Grind Radio
    2. Metroid Prime
    3. Sonic Adventure 2
    4. Halo
    5. Puyo Puyo 2

    (only _one_ of which, Jet Grind Radio, was not part of a larger franchise upon release. Huh...)
    Well, to continue on that theme: My Blogging New Year's Resolution is to stop worrying all the time. I should focus on my next post, and that's it. For all I know, a giant cement mixer is going to slam into my blog RIGHT THIS MINUTE and turn it into a pancake, which will proceed to be eaten by a slutty dominatrix, licking it off of the pavement with ellegant style--(kcchtchhhcht)a cement mixer?! AAAAAHH MY BLOG(ptchoooo...)

    Tuesday, January 20, 2004

    Lovely KillBunnie 23 inspired me by encouraging me to try and get a book deal with my blog, saying that (in her sweet words) "you got the goods." Being the premiere teenage masturbation blogger, (well, not quite, I imagine; but I like to think I am!) I oughta take my sex-positive outlook on the road. I've always wanted to shake things up and sexually liberate people. But as of late, I've been staring at a blank screen, wondering what eloquent sex-positive words should come out of me, to no avail. (This is the frustration that led me to what I wrote in my last post, which I feel sorry about already. Sorry!)

    So, being that every good writer starts small, I oughta blog a bit more. I... don't know what to blog about. I'm uninspired. Help me.

    (Besides, well, politics. I love politics. Hey, did you hear Bush boasting that inflation is down? Yeah, inflation's down, because the dollar is IN THE CRAPPER!! Oooghh...)
    I wrote this a few days ago, and I'd like to post it here. Except... it's a venting piece, and it's very deliberately aimed at my readers. So, I know this sounds weak, but I don't mean any of it. I'm just bitching. It'll allow me to write again. Please don't think I'm actually mad at any of you; I'm just venting out of my own insecurity, which will become evident near the end. Onward!

    --

    Well, I’m angry. I’ll tell you why. I don’t want to be a blogger anymore. Why, you ask? It’s a big fucking pain in the ass... I can’t stand waking up in the morning, wondering about what the fans will think of my latest creation. I can’t stand pulling down my pants to masturbate and wondering if it will produce good material. I can’t stand living each moment knowing that, even if I am a nobody, Leticia McKenzie is a superstar.
    So lately, I’ve been masturbating about something awful. You won’t understand Okay, maybe you will. But you know what? I don’t fucking feel like writing about it. Piss off, you fucking groupies. You’ll all leave me when the next big thing comes along, so why should I care what you think of my work? You’re all just big jerk-offs with nothing better to do than invade the private fantasies of a 17-year-old girl. Perverts.
    Oh, yes, I’m gonna write what I feel. I’m gonna write that I hate this blog and I want to burn it and/or wipe my ass with it, that I think about it with disdain every waking moment, that I can’t understand why anybody reads it when it’s total crap about why I like to be sealed in plastic wrap. It’s the dumbest fucking blog ever, and I don’t want you telling me it’s good because it’s not.
    I can’t understand what turns you on about this. Me getting run through a meat grinder? That’s last Tuesday compared to what a real porn author could come up with. But, nonetheless, it is my only way to express my sexuality when, in my real identity as a boring high school student desperately seeking an identity, my total value in global discourse comes dangerously close to zero. So I have to fuck my computer, over and over again, in full view of the entire Internet, for the simple reason that I am a stupid sad slut who can never hope to be fucked by a Real Man who Really Cares.
    So, come on, everybody, start the mass migration away from Leticia’s blog. Go to somebody with real experience writing about sex. I’m just lonely and a loser and I would prefer it if you don’t feed my exhibitionism with kind letters.

    Cheers,

    Leticia

    Hey yo, all. I have a desperate plea:

    At my weeklong summer camp, we all sang a song at dinnertime that went to a tune something like that of the "mm-aa went the little green frog one day" song, except it was about a woman. In the first line, she eyed a crocidile. In the second line, she pondered that this crocodile would be perfect for crossing the Nile (see, it rhymes). In the third line, her hopes are dashed as she winds up in the alligator's belly by the fourth line. The song was so nonchalant about the prospect of being eaten by an alligator that it turned me on and I couldn't get it out of my head, anxiously waiting for my return home so that I could run to my room and masturbate.

    Except, I totally forgot all of the words. Can anybody help me out, here? I'd like to masturbate to that song again...

    (yes, I did a Google search for "lady, crocodile, Nile" to no result relevant to my masturbation. Dammit...)

    (edit: I was completely wrong about the tune and structure of the song. But thanks to Emma Harvey, I found it!)
    I saw Lost in Translation yesterday. It was... eh. Good filmmaking, no plot. This can pass as a movie in certain circles, but not with me.

    (But naked women do make every movie better...)

    Leticia Score: 2 out of 5.
    Hello there! My name is Ms. McKenzie. Sit down in between the girl with the ponytails and freckles and the boy who eats potato chips too loudly and we will begin today's lesson...

    Have you ever imagined being turned into a commodity? No? Wel, let me explain. Every time you move, think, or dance, you are really moving a collection of tiny, invisible elements called molecules, which exist in space portioned into smaller elements called quanta. In essence, your existence can be boiled down to a set of numbers and equations, rules and attitudes, a simple program containing every element that you think is you.

    Now, what if those elements were to be broken down, and those actions and reactions were to be precisely recorded? What if you were reduced to your earthly function, if everything you think was unique about you was actually programmed and calculated? You would become nothing, flat as a computer disk, with no personality, free to be manipulated by your peers, who may or may not be brawny football players but that’s a subject for another lesson.

    So, my friends, go out into the world, and be glad that your existence is not as flat and predictable as a computer disk; revel in your complexity, honor it, the chaos that is you. You can be defined by no brawny football players. You are your own woman.

    (Or, man, as the case may be.)

    Monday, January 19, 2004

    Well, hello, friends. Leticia is not used to fame, so she’s staying up at night, wondering what to write next. I, Suzy, Leticia’s fair guardian angel, have no such inhibitions; so follow along and I’ll tell you a story:

    ---

    Once upon a time there was a girl named Chimiko. She was lost in life, always living to the next day, never stopping to wonder what the purpose of life was. So she met Lara one day, as they ate lunch, on a rare occasion in which Chimiko did not have her friends to play with.

    “What’s wrong, Lara? You never talk. I’d like to get inside of that head of yours.”

    “Go away,” Lara protested.

    “Now, that’s not the way to talk to one of the most popular girls in school. You should be ashamed of your demeanor.”

    “No, you should be,” Lara retorted. “Listen to you, talking to me like it’s charity work. You could be on television, one of those angry talk-show blowhards who act like they’re the center of the universe.”

    “Well, that does it,” snapped Chimiko. “I’m not leaving until your manners improve.”

    “I admire your persistence,” admitted Lara with a giggle. “Sit down, maybe you have something to learn from me.”

    “Well, okay,” Chimiko accepted, nervously.

    “Now, look at those two kids. One is white and the other is black, right?”

    “Right.”

    “Now, they’re fighting over who gets to use the basketball; the white kids or the black kids. It is the best-pumped basketball in this whole pathetic school, and both groups want to use it. It never occurs to them that a more exciting game may result with both races playing together.”

    “Fueled by racial tension?” Chimiko asked, critically.

    “Exactly!” Lara exclaimed, proudly. “Well, no, not like that, but I mean, they have no better use for their hateful emotions than to argue over a ball, when they could be having some fun.” She took a bite from her bean burrito. “Unless, of course, you think fighting over a basketball is fun.”

    “I don’t get this.”

    “You don’t understand. I love thinking up these situations. That lunch lady is about to be fired for her poor manners. Of course, her manners may have come from the fact that she is constantly under the threat of being fired thanks to budget cuts; but nobody thinks that. It’s everybody for themselves in this world. It makes me sick.” Again, another frustrated bite from her bean burrito.

    “So... is this why you cut yourself off from the world?”

    “Maybe I can make some sense of it,” she mused. “But I’m trapped. I see too much. Every time I look at a situation, I can see ten different solutions. See that? Those kids are—oh, never mind.”

    Chimiko giggled.

    “All the time that I’m contemplating how worthless humanity’s quibbles are, I could be enjoying a quibble myself. I could be somebody swept up in the games and scores and rules of human intercourse. Instead, I’m stuck on a lunch table eating a bean burrito, wondering why everybody else is so stupid and yet they seem to be having fun.”

    “Don’t worry,” Chimiko assured her, “it’s overrated.” There was an awkward pause.

    “You know,” said Lara, “maybe we should be friends. I... I don’t like seeing the world from the outside.”

    “Yes,” Chimiko agreed, “I don’t like seeing the world from the inside.”

    Lara took hold of Chimiko’s hand and something special happened. It’s like, for one moment, they were one person; and they collectively knew everything. The whole universe floated meaninglessly around the point where their hands clasped. It was like they must have started supernovas or opened black holes somewhere in the galaxy with the impact of their connection. It was a convergence of the human consciousness. It was real.

    Then they went off to their separate classes, to learn about test scores and optimum results and scientific methods, Chimiko wondering what there was on the outside of all this, Lara wondering what meaning she could find on the inside.

    ---

    Well, I hope you found that entertaining! Leticia will be back later to talk about masturbation or something.

    Sunday, January 18, 2004

    No blogging today. Sorry, I need a break. In the meantime, think about Creamy Chocolate Leticia happily sailing down the tongue of a willing, blonde gentleman.

    And be sure to visit this woman's website, because she kicks ass.

    Over.

    Saturday, January 17, 2004

    I happen to be a huge fan of the Astro Boy comics by Osamu Tezuka (now published in English by Dark Horse), and I just saw the premiere of the new Astro Boy animated series. I must say, I am impressed; I yelped for joy when I saw in the opening credits that it's written by Chiaki Konaka, story editor for Digimon Season 3 (Digimon Tamers) as well as Serial Experiments Lain, my favorite anime of all time.

    As for the premiere, it was very Tezuka in its artwork and voice acting (good dub acting! Dear lordy), and with a concise story full of Astro's character and heart. Oooh. Very very excited.
    Since I have become more comfortable with the thought of masturbation, I have no anxious masturbation material to share with you any more. Sorry, y’all. If it helps, just now I imagined myself at a fast food place, offering myself to a nice young clerk with spiky hair and pimples so that I may be sold in one of those Styrofoam cafeteria trays, sealed in the fetal position with plastic wrap.

    Friday, January 16, 2004

    Sorry, folks, it's off. I forgot to mention one little thing: Dante is taken. It's not like I couldn't have started on him two years ago and have his heart (and, er, something else) firmly in my clutches for the rest of eternity by now. But, sadly, he met somebody else. Truth be told, I don't like her that much-- she's nice to me, but her sense of humanity towards others is lacking-- but that's how it goes. Besides, if I get off of Dante now, I will be a freer woman.

    Meh! Who needs a man! I can be happy by myself... and my fish... and my bicycle...

    Phooey.

    --Oh! Anyway, Dante's been dating her for a month or so now, but I figured I still had a viable backdoor into Dante's heart, but such a plan was thrown out the window as they started planning their wedding on the bus!

    This relationship is going to be disaster of teenage proportions. Trust me. Betting pool begins now.

    Oh! But the good news is, I get to be, in her words, "a slutty beer wench" bridesmaid. Fun!

    (p.s. Yes, I'm exaggerating; my heart tells me that these two are a much better pairing than the emotionally volatile mix of me and Dante. So it goes. I'm sure I'll have a boyfriend sometime before the next coming of Halley's Comet, you know?)
    I am fucking sick of the "Your Body's Not Good Enough!" ads on Yahoo Mail. I'm about as skinny as they come, but I still happen to enjoy the little pouch on my tummy below my belly button. It's soft and fluffy and you can poke it. Oooh..

    But this morning took the cake. I open my inbox and I am treated to the sight of a giant... bouncing... hamburger.

    I happen to be vegan.

    This tears it.

    (Bush, if you happen to be operating a giant moon laser yet, I can tell you the secret terrorist hideout of the Yahoo cult...)
    Well, hello, children. Let’s talk Dante.

    He’s a sweet kid that I met on a park bench outside school one fine afternoon. He was playing Pokémon on his Game Boy, and I’d like to say it was love at first sight and Bellossom danced in the moonlight while we exchanged Ice Berries but, rather, it came gradually.

    That kid is freakin’ hairy. Okay, that was gross. But really, he’s got this silly goatee and sideburns and big glasses and, when he takes is shirt off, I am treated to a wonderful line of lair down his chest that looks terribly fluffy and... edible. (His chest, I mean, with the accentuation of his chest hair.) He looks like a big geeky creampuff. Just to complete the ensemble, he wears a cape (dead serious) everywhere he goes, along with his waist pouch that carries his manly weapon: a Game Boy and a deck of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards. (I am tempted to speak of getting my lips around his deck but I won’t.)

    So I started to get a crush on him as we became better and better friends. As we rode home on the bus, I learned that he knew of Sonic The Hedgehog (yes, that sealed it), and he was the only person who knew the games’ levels as intricately as I did.
    But, I neglect to mention something: this kid is lonely. At that point, he’d have done anything for a good girlfriend. So, about a year and a half of being friends, at a party I told him the big secret...

    And we kissed.

    And it was the worst fucking kiss ever.

    You see, now we were serious. Now it was a big deal. He had “evolved,” as he put it, I had changed him, cured him of the darkness that had so plagued him. We were now “us,” an unstoppable duo that together, we could fight for justice and righteousness and live in the mountains and have wonderful adventures where he learns the intricate ways of magic and I fight tigers in my skimpy jungle-girl outfit. (No, I made most of that up, but on second thought...)

    But anyway, in short, he wanted me really bad, I wanted him really bad, I really didn’t want to be sucked into Dante’s world of magic and darkness and where I would be his trophy girlfriend, the only thing that would keep him from succumbing to the dark forces.
    (Dante has had a verifiably shitty past with a rotating cast of fathers and several schools of varying quality; he needed a serious dose of Leticia Hope in order to get past his preconceptions of his miserable existence, and I wanted to keep the Leticia Hope firmly tucked inside my vagina until the Big Day where I’m Mature Enough.)

    Oh, and Dante loves magic, and you will find magical runes and swords doodled all over his schoolwork. I don’t mean to sound so condescending; it’s quite cool, and he wants to grow up to be a healing mage, traveling the world and rescuing people from their various ailments. I have an ailment of my own that I know he could cure with his, er, wand, but I won’t get into that right now.
    (Ewww! How did I just write that?!)

    But let’s get on with it. Actually, no, I can’t get on with it, I have to get a move on or else I don’t get to go to his house today and behold the geeky creampuff himself. Well, that’s all for now; check back next time for Part 2, where you will learn something about Leticia that you have never known before, except you won’t be terribly surprised anyway.

    (By the way, Dante has had a crush on me for just as long; I don’t mean to sound like he only likes me because he’s desperate or something...)

    (You know, I’m really turned on just from writing about him. I’m’a go to my room...)

    We were supposed to go on a field trip to Poseidontown University today (not a chocolate factory, unfortunately), but I overslept, and the teacher made a frantic call to my answering machine, giving me mumbled directions. Long story short: I spent my morning wandering aimlessly around the local college.

    Well, it's good excercise.
    I heard that "graffito" is singular for "graffiti." Is that true? Either way, it makes me hungry for a bag of Graffitos.

    Thursday, January 15, 2004

    Industrial music pioneer Genesis P. Orridge, as quoted in "Cyberia: Life in the Trenches of Hyperspace" by Douglas Rushkoff:

    "We openly declared we were inventing an anti-muzak that, instead of cushioning the sounds of a factory environment, made use of those very sounds to create rhythmic patterns and structures that incorporated the liberating effects of music by unexpected means. This approach is diametrically opposed to the position of official muzak, as supplied by the Muzak Corporation of America. Their intention is to disguise stress, to control and direct human activity in order to generate maximum productivity and minimum discontent.''

    He may sound crazy, but every time I stand next in an elevator, he becomes more and more vindicated.

    (Or even listening to the radio at the aforementioned Japanese joint. Music these days seems more intent on sedating the listener then entertaining them, especially when the radio stations have slogans like "Poseidontown's Non-Stop Party Station!" or "Keeps you Buzzing at Work!" I'm serious, folks; this goes in the file on why we are living in a bad science fiction novel.)

    (In George Orwell's 1984, [not a bad science fiction novel, but still relevant] the creation of music is seen as manual labor.. and already, according to Slashdot, music companies are creating computer programs that identify the hit potential of a certain song, based on established patterns in previous hits. Holy cripes.)
    Hey, yo. I want to say that the guy who E-mailed me about contradictions with wanting to be a commodity was more curious about my beliefs than trying to tear me down; he sent me a courteous, apologetic E-mail, and I accepted his apology. For the record: of all the E-mail I've recieved (eighty or so and counting) none of it has been of the "WHY R U SUCH LESBOS?! SIK FUX" variety.

    Thanks, y'all.
    Well, isn’t this great. My boyfriend Dante--well, he’s not really my boyfriend; I just like to say that because of my erotic fascination with him--well, he, er, likes me too. This should sound ideal, but it’s not. This means that I am one step away from falling into the abyss that is Leticia’s Attraction, where if I fall into the trap of living my dreams, I may never go back to a mundane high-school lifestyle.

    Take stripping. I can never, ever let myself admit to wanting to be a stripper. Why? Because then, all my hopes of growing up and living in a white house with a picket fence in the suburbs and marrying a handsome businessman who slaves away at OmniTech Industries making gadgets for the local fat cats, and having sex with him precisely 2.3 times, to result in 2.3 children, one of whom will be a boy star baseball player, one of whom will be a girl ballerina dancer, and the point three will be a tomboy assured to grow out of it—all my hopes of this (and a dog, named Rufus, who never has to shit) will be dashed. I can never let myself be who I want to be, because, as Dan Quayle might put it, I run the risk of failure.

    Fuck this, man. I’m going all out. I’ll call back when Dante’s bending over for my love.

    (p.s. Today’s fantasy is at the chocolate factory, the hidden enclave of eroticism. On a school field trip there, we are standing on a bridge while the air-headed tour guide is busy explaining the inner workings of the giant mechanical abyss surrounding us. Then, the Evil Mean Preppy Girls [with their nasty black jackets and pink hair clips] laugh and shove the shy, pleading Leticia off the bridge and into the Big Chocolate Machine, a giant mechanical iris thousands of feet below us. I wanted to get to the part where I come out of the other end as Creamy Chocolate Leticia and get eaten up by the football players, but I came too quickly. Dammit.)

    (oh, and the Dante issue isn't new, our mutual attraction has lasted for about two years now. We are the definition of "dysfunctional.")

    (Like in those old Stan Lee comics...)
    I just got a whole bunch of E-mail supporting me after I freaked out on my blog. Thanks, y'all. You guys are better than a tub full of pudding.

    While I was sleeping, something clicked in my head. I woke up... and I didn't feel bad about wanting to be a stripper any more. Seriously, this has taken three years. I'm so happy I could throw off my clothes and roll around in the grass with abandon.

    Cheers, and don't forget your G-string,

    Wednesday, January 14, 2004

    You may have heard of President AWOL's latest billion-dollar whim to swing over to the Moon for some extra vacation time, with Mars next on the itinerary. Now, my mother suggested Bushie's real motive behind this: he's militarized space, now he must want to militarize the moon. (All in theory, of course; after all, a President who's spent barrels full of cash on militarizing space may not really be tempted to utilize a giant rock the size of the United States that constantly faces the Earth as it revolves.)

    Anyway, a recent documentary (can't remember the name or origin) revealed, according to my local newspaper, that the President is fond of impersonating the Austin Powers villian, Dr. Evil. Realizing the similarity in demeanor, I quipped, "you know, he wouldn't have to try very hard!"

    And just now I realized, oh my god, wasn't a giant laser on the moon the whole plot of Austin Powers 2?

    "I don't know, I heard that somewhere."

    We're doomed.

    (This post was motivated by--I kid you not--Halliburton's contracts for drilling on MARS. You know. The big rusted ball. I'm gonna be sick.)

    (How far can Bush possibly take the cartoon-world he's put us in? I mean, there must be some things Americans can't believe...)
    Here's one of my Big Long Dream Analyses that tend to be long-winded and overly detailed, so fair warning. (I write these whenever I have a dream that I remember; they're quite fun, and it's neat to have an archive of what your brain comes up with when you're not paying attention.)

    (a little background: Antalyna is the most popular girl in the school and I keep trying to be her friend but she tends to ignore me. Sad.)

    So I had a dream...

    My dad was playing a Flash version of Sonic the Hedgehog 3, perfectly rendered from the Genesis game (he was on the Angel Island Zone). I marvelled at the little splash balloons under Sonic’s feet reading “Pow!” (each time his feet touched the ground as he ran, little “Pows” would emerge from his sneakers.) I said, “Wow, they must have had to render each little ‘Pow’ as a Flash element,” or something like that, before realizing that such an effect was not in the Genesis game. He said, “it’s ‘pause,’” and I realized that the splash balloons did not say “pow,” but “pouzu” (pause) in Japanese katakana, indicating that my dad was actually just pausing and un-pausing the game constantly. The makers of the Flash version, I figured, added the splash balloons to indicate when the game was paused.

    Later, my dad brought up from the basement a laptop with a Game Gear cartridge slot that was capable of playing Game Gear games. I was very excited as I turned it on and started playing Sonic Chaos. (Except... I think it was called Sonic Blast. But I know it was supposed to be Sonic Chaos, and it looked more like Chaos than Blast, even if the level was unlike either.) I (Sonic) ran through a cave-themed Zone and noticed that Sonic had a new move; by running off of a ramp, if he kept running while he was falling back to the ground he would bounce himself back upward when landing with his circular feet motion. I thought that was cool, and it got me to some higher platforms; but when I fell back down, I had no way of getting back up there. Phooey.

    I got bored and headed off to the bathroom. I thought of older fan-made Sonic outings, and how they’ve improved sharply over the years; when I was ten or so, I played an amateur Sonic platformer in which Sonic could run and jump and destroy things but there were no real game physics (this is true). I recalled more recent (again untrue) Flash games that were less faithful then the port of Sonic 3: like a port of Sonic & Knuckles with a giant-flower-themed Zone, and a port of Sonic 2 with an endless-house-themed Zone. Weird.

    At this point, I was sitting on the can. I had left some muffins next to the bathroom sink, and they seemed to be staring at me, since I wanted to eat them; I wondered how I would be able to do my business with these muffins staring me in the face. But anyway, later on the dream became such that I was in the middle of a party; while I was still on the can, Antalyna, Jenny, Naomi (popular girls from school), and Casey (Antalyna's boyfriend) walked in, discussing a comic book (okay, it gets weird).

    As they described the comic book: Once upon a time there were two sisters. One of them (we’ll call her Cynthia) was searching for herself. She had a tumultuous love life and I believe she had broken up with a longtime boyfriend; but no matter, she had a newer, better boyfriend, tough and with a beard, and they were in love and getting married and la la.

    Cynthia was in her sister’s bedroom with her boyfriend nearby, talking to her sister (We’ll call her Carmen) about how they were going to have sex soon and that would seal their relationship. Carmen delivered a crushing blow to her spirits: there was an STD going around called “clone disease.” If you catch the disease, it clones you (I am not making this up). Carmen offered an alternative, however: she invited Cynthia into her bed for a warm, gentle hand job. Cynthia turned away from her boyfriend and accepted, feeling enveloped and protected by her sister as she pleasured her. She could feel her life coming back together already.

    Antalyna, back in the dream world (and I’m still on the can; this takes a while), expressed how touching this was, and everyone concurred with an “awww.” Antalyna says, “she [Cynthia] always goes to her [Carmen] for a refill.” They knew Carmen was a better choice for Cynthia than her boyfriend.

    I never caught the beginning of the conversation, so I didn’t know what book they were talking about; I tried to think of it, and for some reason, Strangers in Paradise, a comic book I’ve never read (true) came to mind. (Strangers in Paradise is supposed to be quite good, and I’m sure any of my readers who are familiar with it can assure our other readers that it is not, in fact, about incest.)

    Antalyna told me that she needed to talk to me about something important. I asked if it was about her relationship with Casey, and she said no. I asked if it was about her (and Casey's) relationship with me, and she said yes. I told her to hold on and look away for a moment; they looked away, and I wiped my ass and pulled my pants up. I really, really wanted to know what the issue was, because it seemed like Antalyna and I were finally seeing eye-to-eye.

    I looked at the muffins and saw that the ones by the sink were gone. Phooey. Then, I noticed that there were still three in the package. I was pleased.

    Antalyna was somehow distracted for a bit as I waited to ask what the issue was, and Jenny started making noise (what she does best). Antalyna's father called from the adjacent bedroom (in reality, it’s my parents’ bedroom), telling us to quiet down. This caused Jenny to respond sarcastically, and I opened my mouth to protest her hostility when the dream went away...

    And I never heard what Antalyna wanted to tell me! Phooey!
    Sometimes, when I'm stuck, I like to write complete nonsense. This is one of those times:

    Stardust on the empty palace, looming for what foretold the gloomy substance of the midnight fruitcake. Behold, she said, waxing over the moonlight, that sometimes your castle must be a sterile laboratory, unfettered by promises of cake or wheat. So you can’t underestimate the power of dildos, but that does not translate to Belgian when you run it backwards through a copy machine. For lo, everything in the universe boils down to one tragic episode: Formulation. Control. Episode 37: The Global Anti-Vacuum. Tenderfoot bottoms are not allowed in these premises, unless you have a slice of cheesebread to feed me. That is un-wholly, she said, while downing a glass of orange juice with pickles. That is the result of a subspace distortion wholly unlike that of your pants.

    So when cheese spits up at you from the bottom of a ravine, just tell yourself, I am whole with the universe. Then the universe will suck you in, like a great big anti-vacuum, and you will need to be disengaged once you are reduced to subatomic particles at the core of the universe’s being. Ciao!
    This has been lying around on my hard disk since the day Poseidontown froze over. Read:

    I’ve been living in Poseidontown since 2000 or so, and so I’ve been going to that school for three and a half years. In those years, I’ve wavered within a popularity quotient of everybody liking me to a superficial extent but not having many real friends. (This, I imagine, is the story of many of us in high school; but let me finish.)

    I’ve always tried to be friends with the popular girls, but the truth is I’m really shy. Really really shy. So much so that I have a hard time forming relationships with anybody who doesn’t have a huge crush on me. I’m a pretty personable girl, but even though I say “hi” to about a third of the school as I walk down the hallway, none of my relationships run very deep.

    So, at the local Japanese joint, the popular girls, the most popular girls’ boyfriends, and I ate rice and veggies and watched the snow pile up outside while we talked about Lord of the Rings. As the usual Legolas/Aragorn discussion began to surface, I offered that I like Gimli (the dwarf) the best; he may not be a prettyboy, but you know he’d be a loyal boyfriend. Other than that, I was pretty invisible, as usual. Oh well, I have a year and a half to go at Poseidontown High, you never know when I could become prom queen....
    I consulted with the Goddess of Sensuality (yes, I’m into hippie spirituality—got a problem with that?) last night about my fears, and she told me I need to own my writing, that I need to do it without fear of what other people might think of me, because it’s for myself and not them. I felt better after that; I came to the fantasy of the entire universe swirling into my vagina and then I slept like a baby.

    (You may recall the Goddess of Sensuality being turned into a fruit cocktail a few days back; do not worry, she has since regained her humanlike form. My imagination is such a fun place...)

    Yes! I COMBED MY HAIR! (does the victory dance)

    Now that I've got all those fweakin' knots out, I can die happy.
    Back. Feeling better. Sorry if I scared anybody.

    Tuesday, January 13, 2004

    I always write about wanted to be kidnapped or chopped up or whatever, but right now, I just wanna be held. I feel bad about my blog all of a sudden, and I keep second-guessing myself as to whether or not I'm writing the right or wrong way. This is awful.
    Somebody E-mailed me asking how I can claim to respect women while, at the same time, fantasize about being a commodity. Easy, I'm a free woman.

    But, just to clarify: by fantasizing about abuse, I am not advocating it. Thus, when I fantasize about rape, I am not saying I want to be raped, or that anybody should be raped. That is as silly as it is disgusting.
    I can’t stand not being able to tell anybody my secret identity. I’m so excited finally having an audience and a place to express my thoughts, and E-mail is pouring in (which I love) saying things about womanhood and masturbation and identification and suddenly... I’m not alone in the world... I’m just hiding behind a wall through which nobody can see my identity but everybody can see inside my brain. It’s creepy.
    Something else I wrote this morning: (warning: allusions to rape)

    Hi. This is Leticia. I really want a good masturbation fantasy, but at the same time I can’t think of one at all. Let’s see... I get eaten by a client, I come on a client and his is wiped out of existence, somebody takes a bath in my come and is sucked into the void, I come on myself and disappear, I melt into an oily puddle of Leticia goo and I ooze into a sewer drain, I get eaten by a monster...

    Ah, getting eaten by a shark. I got it. Let’s say... I’m in a girly swimming contest , and everybody wants me to win, but I get eaten by a shark to no consequence. No, the shark tears off my innocent little one-piece and I flail around a bit before being crushed by his piercing jaws. Or... I get stuck in a copy machine and get turned into a porn magazine, much to the delight of the boys sitting around, who put me through a paper shredder once they’re done with me. Oooh...

    Or I’m taking a warm bath, and it swirls inward until I am captured by the drain, at which point I am shredded into nothingness, or maybe another pile of raw meat, which is digested by the sexy union dockworkers who’ve decided to make a cameo in this fantasy. Oh, yeah! Or maybe I’m freeze-dried and placed on a pedestal in a museum, for all the upper-class twits to stroke their chins and gawk at my artistic potential (while staring at my butt-crack), only to grope me lusciously once the museum guards have turned the corner. They throw off their stupid suits and their status with them as they revive me with their warmth, only to rape me, four-on-one, and leave nothing left of my flesh but maybe my spine and a few innards. Oh, and my clitoris. Unless they pick it off the floor and put it in one of those tin mint boxes, for later usage.

    I’m so hopeless! I’m’a go to the bookstore. Toodles!
    Something I wrote this morning:

    You have no idea what I’m going through right now. My next masturbation has to be really really good. The last one I had was excellent, and it was two days ago; a record unmatched for several weeks. So I’ve been dreaming up fantasies all morning, but can’t find one that will sufficiently turn me on so that I can feel justified in coming all over my floor.

    (No, I come onto a tissue, I just liked that turn of phrase.)

    So, dream me up a good fantasy. Make it involve horny women and chocolate syrup. Ooh! And whipped cream, and cherries. Give it an atmospheric bog and some alligators, with gnashing teeth... while your at it, throw in a giant meat grinder and some pistons. Oooh, pistons. Yeah, and fire poles. (runs off to her room...)
    Blinky Flink E-mailed me and informed me of her fine blog, in which she writes that she is unsure of whether I am a man or woman. For the record, I am a woman. I asked her what I wrote led to the ambiguity, and she pointed out that in the first post, I refer to "when I was a lad of 14 or so." I completely forgot that "lad" applies only to boys. Oops.

    Now that a Freudian slip has completely marred my first post...

    (edit: changed "lad" to "girl." History will forgive me.)

    Monday, January 12, 2004

    A reader asked me an insightful question: (he's quoting me in the first part)

    ----
    > I want to be a commodity. I want to be licked off the floor by eager
    > men wanting more of the tantalizing Leticia taste. I want to be
    eaten,
    > in full, without clothes, so that somebody can know what I taste
    like.
    > I want to be part of the world.

    That is quite charming, and it's a very provocative statement. As a
    commodity, what would define your value? Would Leticia the commodity
    mind being used at will and then discarded? What would it mean for a
    commodity `to mind'?
    ---

    He asked for me not to print his name, but I’ll give you a hint: it does not rhyme with “chartreuse.”

    I suppose what would define my value is how much sex I had, or how good I was at it, or to what extent I could giggle girlishly as I came onto my client’s body, reeling him in to the tantalizing Leticia taste. But really, that piece I wrote was so emotional, I couldn’t bring myself to read it again until this fine chap pointed it out to me (I know, I shouldn’t be afraid to read it if I posted it on the Internet...)

    So, Leticia the commodity is on sale cheap, take ‘em away at 500 gold pieces. She wants the whole world to see what she’s made of. Bite into her and feel her life force oozing out. Let her flesh balance on your tongue as you suck out this bright young woman’s energy. End her as you take her persona into your own. Then wash it down and prepare for a good night’s sleep, until Leticia’s grieving family catches up to you...

    --Leticia

    P.S. This guy is somebody who seems to “get me,” (in that he’s polite about my sexuality) and because of that I am awarding him ten Leticia points, redeemable at fine Leticia outlets near you.

    P.P.S. Speaking of commoditization; I wonder what it would feel like to be made of cardboard, with everybody around you manipulating you like some kind of stand-up, as they jeer at you and fondle you and wonder why they would possibly bring you into the office, but they have a few moments of fun with you before sending you and your bright smile sailing down the paper shredder, soon to join the legion of rejects at the bottom of the recycling bin. Ohhh....

    Sunday, January 11, 2004

    Here's an E-mail that's been sitting around my inbox for too long: a fellow blogger informing me of her blog, Bellow, that just happens to be really freaking good. Go visit her; but unfortunately, since her blog is much better than mine and about the same stuff, I won't have any more readers after linking to her. Shoot.

    (oh, and she wrote an entry to me. Awww, man. I'm touched.)
    Did you notice that Rafah Kid's blog has Tetris? (IE only) More blogs should have Tetris on them. I got to Level 10, with 16,660 points. How did y'all do?
    Leticia writes about the Democratic primaries in the States:

    Okay, I'm going to write one of those "Well, this candidate has the earth tones, locking in the major swing state" blahblahblah articles, so to begin, Dennis Kucinich is the best guy. Really. Look through his position statements, but be sure to keep a tissue in hand for the incoming orgasms over his vision of America.

    So, anyway, a lot of people (appearantly) have been saying "Kucinich has great ideas, but is unelectable." Well, the problem is, it's really true; but that shouldn't dissuade you from recognizing the content of his beliefs. So, let me explain some things that, if I were Kucinich, I would do better:

    -- Push the "scrap Star Wars and send everybody to college for free" plan. I mean, the only place I've read about it was in the local indy paper devoted to giving jobs to homeless people (if there is such a paper in your area, stop reading my blog until you buy one). Everybody I talk to about that plan thinks it kicks ass. Kucinich could (or would have, if he had started earlier) have a chance at the big time if he painted himself as the candidate who would send your kids to college by scrapping Reagan's silly space toys.

    -- Don't be so cocky. I listen to him on the radio, and he sounds just like I sounded when reciting my talking points during a seventh-grade class debate on "Huckleberry Finn." That is, I wouldn't sit down, and I waved my arms around with vigor as I slam-dunked everybody else's points into the verbal junkpile (reality: "Letica, sit down and stop waving your arms around!"). Kucinich, you have great ideas, don't let the fact that they are obviously better than everybody else's ideas make you sound so frickin' arrogant about it.

    -- Emphasize that there's nothing the U.S. can do in Iraq. Admit it, everyone, the longer the U.S. is in Iraq, and is seen as the occupying force, the worse the violence gets. Kucinich is the only candidate pledging to withdraw from Iraq completely and hand the transitional process over to the U.N., and I agree with him. However, he got his ass handed to him during the last Democratic debate, because Dean and Braun emphasized that America has a responsibility to help Iraq. True, but it cannot do it from the front lines. Kucinich sounded like he just wanted to bail out; if he had emphasized that the longer the U.S. stays in Iraq, the worse the situation gets, he could have turned the debate around. (After all, $87 billion would be better spent by a country who isn't seen by the Iraqi people as terrorists. Hand Iraq's transition over to the French! Yes, that'd do it.)

    In general, Kucinich seems like the one taking all the liberal masturbation fantasies (hah! Managed to put that phrase into yet another post. I'm going for a record) and trying to build a candidacy around them; he needs to show that he has political competence as well as ambition if he is going to succeed.

    But dammit, don't let that stop you from supporting him. He has great IDEAS, and that's the point, right?

    (Oh, by the way, Dean's very "fatherly" image, I think, is what is helping him the most as the frontrunner. He inspires confidence as somebody who is going to educate YOUR children and balance YOUR budget; along with Wesley Clark, who just seems undeniably badass. [C'mon, women, you want to give both of them a hug, don't you? Especially Clark... all that power... I mean, shit, I'm a pacifist!] Kucinich looks endearing, in a condescending, Wallace-and-Gromit sort of way; and that's not what's going to inspire confidence in the hearts of the American people. But again, the point is his ideas... [But I do want to hug Kucinich, especially since he has no blood on his hands that would make me feel icky afterwards.])

    (I would, however, support whoever gets the Democratic nomination.)

    (Even Lieberman.)

    (Who has the blood of Iraq's children on his hands, but thankfully not the pixellated blood of Mortal Kombat.)

    (A cookie to anyone who knows what I'm talking about.)
    In case you're wondering why the United States went to war...
    Oops, I gave you all the wrong URL for Kitten Blue. It's fixed now; previously, the link led to her December archive.
    Hello there. This is Leticia. I’ve been lulling in bed for several hours, kind of bored, kind of afraid to get up. I get in these moods every once in a while, but they increase when I’m stuck at home because Poseidontown is frozen over.

    So here’s my masturbation fantasy of the moment: The Goddess of Sensuality descends upon the bar, blessing the handsome man sitting there with her presence. But, as her warmth resonates across the bar, her long flowing robes... get stuck in a juice machine! She desperately tries to pull her robes out, but is flung head-first into the machine, her robes falling inward to reveal her backside and flailing legs before she disappears into the machine. Immediately, Sex Goddess Cocktail flows from the bottom of the machine (it’s bright red!), to be drank up by the handsome man with a confident grin and short black hair. Oooh. That made me come.

    Okay, let’s talk Sonic Heroes (comments w/more light spoilers, highlight to read.) It just isn’t fun. It feels like such a chore to decide which character to use. (Um, that looks big and strong and breakable, I’m’a use Knuckles! Er, that thing shoots lightning, I’m’a use Tails! And that thing, well, I don’t know, but Sonic as leader makes the game somewhat resemble a Sonic game, so I’ll use him!) Moreover, the other teams are barely any different; moves are mostly the same, with slight variations on level design (Team Rose being the easiest, followed by Team Sonic, Team Dark, and Team Chaotix). I must admit, though, I’m fond of the Chaotix; all of their missions are Billy Hatcher-type quests like “Find ten hermit crabs” or “Find the lost Chao” (aaagh!).

    It’s been three days since I got my grubby mitts on Sonic Heroes, and I’ve played it for maybe eight hours, getting about halfway through the game. That’s bad, mmmkay? For comparison, Sonic Adventure 2 I played for seventeen hours straight as soon as I got it. I don’t think I’ll ever match that feat of fangirlishness; but if I, Sonic fangirl extraordinaire, do not care to play the latest Sonic game for hours on end, it’s a bad sign for the franchise.

    Memo to Sonic Team: The Sonic formula wasn’t broken. It didn’t need fixing. It especially didn’t need to become so complicated as to induce headaches on the player. Love, Leticia.

    (It’s also worth noting that by controlling three characters at once and constantly switching off the leader, it reminds me that I’m the player and not a character. I love getting lost in other people’s video-game worlds, but in order to play Sonic Heroes, I must constantly remind myself that I am merely a spazzed-out fangirl who’s sitting at the couch playing Sonic Heroes because she has nothing better to do when all of Poseidontown is covered in a sheet of ice.)


    Toodles, all. Love,

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