Sunday, February 29, 2004


I'm really really horny. Very horny. So... I'll keep it short. Yes, I've changed my mind about Kekko Kamen. It is the best thing in the universe. In fact, you shoudl right now grind me into apple sauce and make a pie out of me, baking me for half an hour and serving me garnished with little fairy prostitutes all around. Oh, yeah.

But besides that, I'm a sex addict. This is terrible. And my cats better stop clawing at each other or I'll have to throw a shoe at them.

(Suzy: Leticia hasn't masturbated for a day and a half. She's going to die. This is terrible. I don't know what to do for her. So I'll just let her blog. It seems to make her feel better, so as long as she can't stop imagining being stowed away in the back of a spaceship to be carried away to the seediest woman-trading joints in the galaxy, headed by a really big fluffy guy with a goattee, puffing away at his cigar but you can never see his face because he wears a beret and sunglasses. Ohhh.)

(And she's helpless and is crying for mercy and reaching through the bars of her tiny crib with nothing but a rubber ducky and pink frilly toys to keep her company, but all her skinhead teenager captors [with big scary dragon tattoos] do is lick cherry sauce off of her, and gradually she reaches the point where her skin desintigrates and becomes dust around her lifeless skeleton [and little bugs come out of the eye sockets] so they take the Leticia Powder and make it into Kool-Aid. Yeah. That's how it works.)

(Am I helping, Leticia? I mean... can you answer that?)

(Leticia: That Kool-Aid guy always creeped the hell out of me. How could you be so mortal as to be drink-able? And why does he seem so much like a pimp with his wide stature and deep voice that always goes, "Ohhhh Yeah"? And why does this start to sound like one of my fantasies?)

(Ohhhhh, no.)

(Hah! Got you there. No he doesn't turn me on. Unless maybe somebody decided to strip me naked and dump me in his exposed lifeblood. In which case, I would just melt right then and there, and all of the adolescent boys visiting him would immediately smash him open and lick his/my remains off of each others' naked bodies.)

(Aaahhh! No!! I'm'a go play Halo and escape this madness. Toodles!)
Don't laugh at me.

In one of my stupider moments of feminist empowerment, I rented a porn anime-- Kekko Kamen, the naked superhero, from the creator of Cutey Honey. Um, it was dumb. I know, I know, it's just a silly action porn anime; but I was kind of hoping I'd get to identify more with the hero, or with the hapless naked schoolgirl (aaaaaahh!) who was being beaten up until Kekko kicked the aggressor's ass. Instead, the identification was switched to the evil perverted male bad guys, and the drama of Kekko and her young victim friend were merely the toys of their male power, which was powerful even when they were powerless. Er, I mean, they always enjoyed either kicking the victim's ass, or being kicked themselves by Kekko.

That said, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that (but Jesus, is that really what you guys are like inside? I feel like I just got trapped inside the male mind for half an hour and I can't wash the stench off--sorry), I was just sort of hoping that the naked woman superhero would be sort of Leticia's Female Nudity Empowerment Superhero, which she really is not, more of the plaything to the perverted men to which the show is marketed toward (who are, really, quite lovable, when you get to know them. Awww, siwwy widdle men, always pining for our cute widdle boobies).

That said, be on the lookout for Leticia's Female Nudity Empowerment Superhero, coming to a theater near you in 2006 or so. Be warned.

(edit: I wasn't offended by any of the content, being the sex-positive person I try to be, it just bothered me that I didn't get into tho girls's eyes or their brain. I have no issues with an anime featuring a schoolgirl being beaten naked by a whip, so as long as I'm the schoolgirl. Oh yeah.)

(And Kekko did kick ass. I found myself fast-forwarding through most of the porn scenes, but stopping to watch Kekko make her big entrances and glorifying her own body and saying badass things like, "I cannot forgive you for what you've done!" and "Nobody knows my face, but everybody knows my body! I am Kekko Kamen!" Oh yeah.)
The People's Republic of Leticiastan has been founded.

Come to... the place where the tropical breezes flow...
I was just kidding about that whole "going bitter and joining the Establishment" thing. Really. I like the idea of sexually liberating people. So do your friend Leticia a favor and run around your neighborhood naked, okay? It'll make me feel better about my role in society.

(No! Don't! You'll get arrested, but Leticia will put your name on the website and cherish your activism forever and ever, as well as think you're really hot. But hey! I was only kidding! Don't do it until I do it. If I'm not brave enough....)

So anyway, we shall continue with part 4 of that dumb story.

"Oh, dearest Totem," Julie said, placing her head on Totem's naked chest. "You're the best villian I've ever seduced and had sex with so I could uncover his evil plan."
"No! This was all a set-up! Curses! But it was good sex. I will now make my getaway!" Totem shouted, before snapping his fingers and the Giant Robot Naked Woman appeared.
"Oh, shit--" Julie said. The sight of the robot woman made her uneasy. So skinny, such huge breasts.... the ability to stomp entire buildings flat... oh, how she wished to be like that naked woman--

"Oh, man!" Mr. McLaughlin shouted at his older self. "Well, don't tell me anything. Don't spoil my life for me. It's..."
"Go!" Future McLaughlin said. "Run that way and you might be able to catch the giant robot naked woman that's carrying your partner away to a volcano."
"Um, sure," McLaughlin darted in the direction his future self had pointed toward, only to find a giant naked woman carrying his naked partner away, as Julie bit on the giant woman's finger.
"Oooaaaaaaggghhh!! Help me!!" Julie shouted.
"Unravel her in your mind! Absorb her DNA! You can do it!"
"Just imagine her unraveling and coming into you. You can absorb her powers! You have it inside you!"
So she closed her eyes and focused, and before she knew it, she was Giant Naked Julie, stomping her way through uninhabited city blocks [we don't need unnecessary deaths--Leticia]. She felt freer than she ever had. She skipped around with her giant ponytail bobbing through the air. She tripped and fell into a lagoon, which was more of a kiddy pool to her. She splashed at McLaughlin.
"Good to see you in good spirits," he said. "Are we going to get you any clothes?"
"Well, we'll fetch a weather balloon for me to wear, later. Would the Goodyear blimp make me look fat?" She chortled.
McLaughlin stared blankly. "Not funny."
"Well, we have a reality-altering goon to catch!" she said, and ran off in the general direction of the evil Paul Totem.

I'm experiencing a post-temporal collapse in neural integration, or somesuch. In other words, my warp core is breaching. So I need a transplant of bioneural gel packs along with ten thousand gigaquads of... gigaquads? (imagines some really scary bodybuilder) aaaaaahhh!!

So it all went down something like this, my friends: Sonic and co. enthusiastically applied at the Big Cereal Factory for a job to be made into mashmallow cereal. (Ohhh yeah.) After being measured up with tape by corporate flunkies, and their mug shots being posted to a board with the captions, "Candidates for making into mashmallows," they were thrown into the Big Marshmallow Zapper Machine, stuffed into the big box of Sonic Cereal now on sale for $20.99, Leticia came, and all was good. The End.

(whoooo) Exhale, Leticia, exhale....

(Oh, and you should all see the anime Fooly Cooly, especially if you read this site, which you are presumably doing right now.)

(And this week's Strong Bad E-mail is the best one ever.)

Saturday, February 28, 2004

You all remember that I wanted to be a stripper at the tender age of fifteen, right? Mainly, it was overenthusiasm over the joys of pubescence and entering the world of being a sexual woman, but beyond that, I wanted to liberate people. I wanted to get in people's hearts and pants. I wanted to be a sex worker. I wanted to bring joy to the world.

Well, you know what?! Things fucking change. Now I'm'a work some boring nine-to-five job and join the Establishment. Toodles.

(note: bitter and cynical)
From the Observer:

Climate change over the next 20 years could result in a global catastrophe costing millions of lives in wars and natural disasters.

A secret report, suppressed by US defence chiefs and obtained by The Observer, warns that major European cities will be sunk beneath rising seas as Britain is plunged into a 'Siberian' climate by 2020. Nuclear conflict, mega-droughts, famine and widespread rioting will erupt across the world.

The document predicts that abrupt climate change could bring the planet to the edge of anarchy as countries develop a nuclear threat to defend and secure dwindling food, water and energy supplies. The threat to global stability vastly eclipses that of terrorism, say the few experts privy to its contents.

'Disruption and conflict will be endemic features of life,' concludes the Pentagon analysis. 'Once again, warfare would define human life.'

Needless to say, I have a massive orgy planned for 2020. All invited. Bring toys.

Friday, February 27, 2004

I beat Spider-Man: The Movie: The Game: The Cheese Sandwich: The Conspiracy. (highlight the white text for full review) But anyway, it was fun. Err, but it lacked direction, like a distinct gameplay mode.

The controls are colossal. On the “advanced” setting (which you need on to complete the game), one button webs up your enemies (using precious web fluid,) one fires a web-line into the nothingness above so that you can swing (which looks really weird, like in the old cartoons where he would swing on webs heading into the clouds), one button fires a web-line to use as a grappling hook (Spider-Man does not have the ability in the comics or movie to retract his webbing back into his web-shooters, but neither do his webs have the ability to stick to nothing so we’ll let it slide). (So to speak.) Finally, one button does miscellaneous web-stuff in combination with other buttons, one button jumps, one punches, one kicks, one locks the camera on to a target (use the right stick to switch targets), one slices bread, one makes your dinner, and one removes that stubborn ketchup stain.

But anyway! Over the course of the game, you will fight ferocious villains in silly costumes, scurry around for that precious power-up, and sneak past guards in some rather fun stealth missions. The graphics are beautiful, the animations are stunning, and the voice-work is authentic; but I kept not knowing what I’m supposed to be doing for a given level. Each game needs a simple gameplay dynamic to be fun; Sonic runs and weaves through robots, in Grand Theft Auto you run from cops, jack cars and kill people, and in Jet Grind Radio you run from cops and spraypaint stuff while doing tricks. (The best example of good simplicity in gameplay is Tetris: maneuver falling blocks into neat little rows. Prepare to lose hours and hours of time at work.) But in Spider-Man, you’re doing... what exactly? Mainly you just advance from area to area beating up bad guys, and as much as super-heroing occupies my personal fantasies, mindless brawling just isn’t much fun. But when a big crowd of thugs is advancing upon you, some with guns and some without, often it becomes a game of strategy as you decide where and when to use your web powers (remembering to conserve the precious fluid), which might be kind of fun, but with the controls at a PhD level it’s more of an experiment in quantum physics than a day at the races. Viewtiful Joe exemplified what should and shouldn’t be in a good brawler, and Joe this game ain’t, but I’m getting off-topic.

Sooo! While you’re deciding where you should apply 20 cc’s of web fluid, the dominant gameplay mode I often found was budgeting power-ups. Spider-Man, despite his spider-prowess, seems to have the proportionate power meter of a roly-poly. So you’ll have your webbed ass handed to you in a few hits if you don’t collect those spider-power-ups in a jiffy; and they’re often very limited. So, given that the fighting system is so clumsy (next paragraph) that there’s no way to defend your power meter entirely, you’ll have to take note of where and when you will inevitably lose a little bit of Spider-Health and where you should grab a Spider-Emblem to avoid becoming Spider-Carcass. So you’ll spend a good deal of time exploring to find these power-ups (as well as web fluid), which can actually be kind of fun, given that you can do whatever a spider can.

With punch and kick at your disposal, whenever you attack an enemy it becomes a one-on-one fighting game just like that. (Unless it becomes two- or three-on-one, which you must avoid, lest it become three-on-none, if you know what I’m saying.) You have plenty of combos at your disposal, and more to collect with the gold Spidey emblems, but the ones I found using the most were punch-punch-punch and kick-kick-kick, because they were the most dependable. Really, with about thirty thousand ways to fire your web, you can hardly be bothered to learn Martial Arts 101 all over again. But the fighting engine is so simplistic you’ll never be able to defend yourself from attack; just kick-kick-kick and pray. Phantasy Star Online and Viewtiful Joe both had elegant hack-and-slash gameplay where it was always the player’s fault when they got hit, but in the case of good old Spidey, losing health is an unavoidable part of the gameplay economics, and I find that really damn annoying (especially when trying to replay the game on harder modes; I can’t even pass level 3).

But, ah, the stealth levels. These are fun because your movement is so limited that it becomes a real challenge to be able to beat them even with all your spider-powers. There’s none of that silly brawling to be done because the robot guards can beat your ass all the way back to Treyarch, but I enjoyed studying the levels and figuring out how to beat them. Take your time; fools rush in where yeah yeah.

So, what did I think of Spider-Man? A whole silly lot of wasted potential. It was lots of fun getting to do whatever a spider can, but this is an example of a game that, like Jet Set Radio Future, you are capable of SO MUCH that the game becomes nearly pointless. So I hope the next Spidey game simplifies the controls and gives the player a set gameplay dynamic—not just “beat the bad guys,” and if it is, do it with some freaking class—because I think the game is a great concept with great overall design that lost its footing somewhere in the level design.

Leticia Score: 3/5. Beating up bad guys is significantly more fun than I make it sound, and the game really has solid control (if a little complex) and play design. But the proof is in the pudding, and games are truly made in the moment-to-moment playtime and not in the overall framework. I couldn’t help but feel Spider-Man was a tad rushed; so I hope Treyarch keeps this in mind and pours their heart and soul into the nuts and bolts of Spider-Man 2: The Movie: The Game: The Fruit Flies: The Spoiled Milk: The Tractor-Trailer.

(The review now continues, with some spoilers. I wish I could make this text even whiter but I can’t.)

I felt that the game, atmospherically, was lacking; I felt like pushy director was shoving me around from scene to scene with no regard to my personal growth as a super-hero. The game was also clumsily paced, with super-villians interrupting often with no purpose to the overall plot (again, like Jet Set Radio Future). But when I finished the game, and Spidey made a hilarious self-referential remark at the end, I started to feel like maybe this could have been done well; even though I felt like the game didn’t really follow my personal path as a superhero (as in, I felt pushed along), but perhaps it could have been directed more as though I was floating through Spidey’s personal dreamscape, being pushed from scene to scene as I got more and more precious glimpses of what it’s like to be in Spidey’s shoes. Such an approach would have been fascinating; I suggest Treyarch begin by cutting down on cheesy in-game voiceovers.

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Well, I started writing a paper on immigration in my writing class and it became something like this:

Well, the whole immigration plan is pretty damned silly, given that it's tied to your job status, making you legally enslaved. But no, I can't write about politics, because I got that fucking letter about how "my only claim to fame was being an anonymous whore." A whore? A whore?! Well, er, I am a whore, but that's beside the point. I mean, I never sold out! I'm a whole person! I don't want to think that I'm stuck with sex blogging, because honestly, my sex life (with, er, myself) hasn't been very exciting lately.

Which is to say, it's all been those dumb Sonic fantasies. Yeah, they're awful and make me cringe, but it's made me come every time. It's like, Sonic's that important and that precious to me, that I find it that much more disturbing (and therefore a turn-on) when he becomes commoditized, rather than me. Kapeesh? Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, complaining about complaining and writing about how I can't write.

So if I don't wanna write about sex, I don't wanna write about sex. Read Belle du Jour. Deal.

(Beyond that, my best sexual fantasies--that is, not the ones I come the fastest to, but the ones I actually enjoy--ar the ones where I have a friend, somebody to hold my hand while I'm ground into raw meat or somesuch. And right now, I'm lacking in the friend department, and I care more about that than about sex. So I'm not going to stress about sex for the time being, which means I won't have any material for my blog. Again, deal.)

(Spider-Man. Let's talk about Spider-Man. He spins a web, any size, ya know? He also catches thieves, just like flies. That's badass, you know? It gets me hot. He can do whatever a spider can.)

(Who am I kidding, I'm going to stress about sex no matter how much I try to think about Spider-Man or whatever. I'm hopeless. You might as well run me through a meat grinder.)

(But aww man, the reason why I stopped posting turn-on stuff on my blog is because it took so much out of me, emotionally, and I'm emotionally fragile right now. I repeat: I am seventeen fucking years old. Why are you expecting me to turn you on, anyway? That's sick. I bet you're imagining me right now in a Gap tank-top and hip-hugger jeans, while you honk your horn at me and I throw a rock at you, which turns out to be a rock-bomb, which creates a temporal distortion sucking you into my dungeon dimension, which is filled with horny adult men that I punish by emerging in my dominatrix outfit and stripping and whipping and scalding them to death in my giant puddle of lava. Ohhh, yes.)

(Ohhh, fuck! Why did I have to go and do that?! Jesus, I'm hopeless. I'm'a go convert to Mormonism.)

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Upon being bored and looking through other countries’ governmental systems at the CIA World Factbook (they’re watching you), I noticed that many countries elect a parliament that elects a president, rather than a popularly elected president. Tyrannical as it sounds to an American (me), after thinking about it it might be a good idea. Americans are used to a top-down management style where the big guy calls the shots and everybody else scurries to make him look good (hence, “the deficits are Clinton’s fault!” blah blah blah).

In America, most people are not aware of their own local politics, but everybody’s aware of the big presidential races and how Clinton is a liar and Gore invented the Internet and yeah yeah. I think that, in the Republic of Leticiastan, government would be divided into smaller popularly elected units that would elect higher units for more diplomatic reasons that dictatorial; if smaller counties made the big decisions, than sweeping reforms would trickle up rather than down, and people would be more aware of what’s going on around them, resulting in more self-sustaining communities.

Then again, sometimes sweeping, dictatorial reforms can be a good thing; abolition of slavery/lynching/electioneering etc. in the South was often fought with the words, “they’re trying to end our Southern way of life!” (A life of slavery, lynching, and electioneering, that is.) Without a President to call the big shots, we might still have politicians trying to scrub black voters’ from the rolls under false pretenses—waitaminnit...

Forget I said anything. And come visit the Republic of Leticiastan, with sparkling beaches, chocolate strippers, cheap government housing, and legal nudity. Hey, they did it up in Oregon, and the world didn’t end...

(Oh, and about the top-down thing [“top-down” sounding sexier by the moment]: I think a lot of the reason America has been ambling around the war on terror is that they don’t understand that terrorists can work without a head. America thinks that they can waltz into Iraq, cut off the head [Saddam, that is; let’s face it, he did have ties to terrorists and did lots of nasty things, even if not with al-Qaeda], and suddenly, all the terrorists below him will disintegrate once they see Saddam hung on Fox News, like in Star Wars Episode I and stuff. Not likely; these people live and feed on hate, and the angrier they get, the more they kill, and the more effectively they operate. They’re like a virus and they’re killing more people in the Third World every day, and America has got to stop prancing around in the Giant Robot Flightsuit of Doom and pretending to be Top Gun with a steel resolve if they’re going to do anything about terrorism.)

(That said, WAR BREEDS TERRORISM. Think about this, world leaders. Hold back on buying that next big sexy cruise missle and buy food for everybody in Iraq instead; they may not forget that you gunned down their whole family, but at least you’ll look a bit better in the eyes of the common man. Come on. Terrorism is a disease, and you can’t fight it with leeches.)
The Cloud is back.

The Cloud of Womanly Uncertainty that I so yearned for those weeks back has returned, in full force, and I realize: I have assimilated all the information I need from it anyway, it’s just hanging there, dense and yet empty, lighter than air and heavier than a ton of bricks. It’s invisible, on another plane, and the embodiment of my shell that keeps me from interacting with anyone.

Fuck this, man. I’m joining that local stitch and bitch I saw at the bookstore once. I can’t stitch, but I can sure bitch, and I’m sure those nice women in hand-me-down Birkenstocks will show me how to work the needles. It’s about fucking time I deemed myself worthy of interaction with other women.


Monday, February 23, 2004

By the way, you should see the BBC movie I Capture the Castle. I know, I know, it sounds cheesy; but it’s _me_--if you ran me through the Movie Machine and I emerged as a videocassette, it would be this, or a porn movie maybe. But still. If you’ve ever wondered what goes on inside my head, this will let you know.
Yeah, it’s really annoying to hear Sharon say that Palestinian independence depends on attacks decreasing, when attacks will decrease when Palestinians get their freaking independence. (bangs head against wall) Yes, this is negotiating with terrorists, and while I don’t think killing anybody for any reason is a good idea, Sharon is a head of state and should realize to put people’s lives ahead of looking like he has the resolve of steel.

Now on the other end, I don’t really think that Palestinians should act violently. Every time there’s anther attack on the Israelis, no matter how much they deserve it, Sharon just has another chance to say “Look at what they’re doing to us! Look at us victims! Poor, poor us! Now let’s go bulldoze an activist or two” and the US just writes another big fat check to Israel from its taxpayers bank accounts, with no human rights strings attached.

The war between Israel and Palestine has been going on for millenia, and there’s no reason to believe that peace will be won through force. The only option may be through Israel’s democracy; I know this is a pipe dream, but infiltrating Israel with Palestinian politicians and integrating the lands, eventually, someday, may be all we can do.

Then again, I am entirely uneducated on the subject. Man, it sucks that all the world’s conflicts boil down to natural resources. There’s enough fuel and food in the world for everybody to live on, but for some reason, some people gotta have more and some people gotta have less. Ooogh. Y’know, socialism’s (AAAAHHH) time has come.


Speaking of which, my ideal governmental system—that is, the Republic of Leticiastan—would involve basic food, money, shelter, and electricity for everybody, so that nobody will needlessly die (we’ll just tax the bejeesus out of the rich; they can spare a BMW or two). Then, to please the “ya gotta WARK in this society!” folks, if you want your scented power outlets or motorized nosehair trimmers or foot-petal rubbish bins, you’ve gotta hit it big. Sorry, but it’s capitalism. Do pass me the can of government pears, would you?

Sunday, February 22, 2004


This... kicks... ass.

Thanks to Rafah Kid.
Okay, here I am going to smear my wonderful housemate, who, for the record, cleans the house and dishes in a manner that nobody in this family could possibly achieve. That said, her music sucks.

No, really. This is downright terrifying. She listens to pop...Christian...radio. How does this differ from normal pop radio, you ask? It's simple; instead of greasy hard-bodied blondes singing lustfully about sex, greasy hard-bodied blondes sing lustfully about God. It's disturbing. But not as disturbing as this:

One of the songs I heard was about how the "seasons turn, turn turn" (I hastily made my oatmeal and cleared out as quickly as possible) and how there is a "tiiiiiime for X, and a tiiiiiime for Y." Two of the lines were,

"A tiiiiime for war, a tiiiiime for peace"
"A tiiiiime for love, a tiiiiiime for hate."

Whataminnit. Christians have, I repeat, a time for hate? Have I been asleep? If we're supposed to love our enemies, and love our neighbors, who do we hate? Fence-sitters? Insurance salesmen? Hard-bodied prettyboys? But really, this follows a general trend in pop music; if your music makes a statement, or defines itself in any way, it alienates listeners. That is way pop music lyrics are as vague as possible, following this general pattern:

"I want to have sex with you really badly"

"I did have sex with you, and I want to tell the world"

"I have lots and lots of sex, and you besta bend over at my whim, being that I am a man" (but do not, repeat NOT, show your boob)

If a song has any kind of artistic merit, or strikes a chord in a particular listener, or expresses a statement that is not "sex is great," it is out. So, most of this religious pop I have heard goes something like this:

"I love God."

"I love God."

"Oh, and by the way, there's this one deity I really like."

Now, I hope we have a good relationship with our Creator and all, but there are all sorts of respectable Christian musicians who spread the words of "love your neighbor" and "give away your second coat" and blahblahblah. But the reason we get the "turn turn turn" song, which comes from a more obscure verse in the Bible as my mom tells me, is because talking about peace or justice on the radio would alienate listeners who are uncomfortable with that whole social justice thing. And so, Christians are stuck in this cultural rut, unable to express any mainstream message other than "god is really great," making us look like dorks.

Lets repeat: Religion doesn't, and really shouldn't, matter. Whoever you believe in, if anybody, is A-okay. Religion without conscience, without purpose, however, is merely a righteous fetish and it's plenty useful for personal reasons but evangelizing for the God Fetish is pretty counter-productive.

C'mon, say it with me now. "Love your enemy." Maybe if we say it over and over again, the popular perception of Christians as war-mongering lunatics will come to an end.

(edit: okay, most people don't think Christians are war-mongering lunatics, most people [in America] think Christians are the pinnacle of righteousness regardless of what they do or how they act towards others, and that's a big part of the problem. Religious arrogance abounds in the US, and when you put that together with our curious culture of victimhood you get a volatile and absurd concoction.)

(oh, and why is it that a man can sing about sex all he wants and glorify his own promiscuity, but if a woman wants to act out of her own desire, she has to seek permission from her male betters in order for it to be culturally sanctioned? That really gets my panties in a knot.)

Saturday, February 21, 2004

I met with my mentor and exchanged a lot of personal stuff. It's really difficult, because I love her and she loves me but she really needs me, and so I feel like I have to perform for her, be the best Leticia I can for her, and make her proud. Normally, when a role model is this emotionally entrenched in me, I reject them as a defense mechanism, but I happen to get along with her and think we are really similar people and there's a vein of emotional energy that runs between us.

I discovered we both have a lot of unresolved issues... but mainly the same unresolved issues, which is why we get along so well despite her being twice my age. Beyond that, I'm mature for my age and she's immature for hers, and so our relationship doesn't feel all that... mentorly.

I don't know, I'd like to believe I'm past the point where I need a mother figure (I broke it to her that I needed a mother figure from her, and she said that's exactly what she wanted to be for me); but if you look at my drawings, motherhood appears again and again, including the most recent/pathetic drawing: tall, broad-shouldered mentor woman holding baby Leticia in one hand, between her boobs as baby Leticia is certain that this is where the universe begins and ends.

(I also drew myself in the palm of somebody's hand. I'm not sure. Of course, if somebody informed me of a good image server, I'd be able to show y'all....)

Yeah, okay, I need her to see me naked. Okay, I am dead serious about this. If I can get over my body issues, I need an adult woman like her to approve of me in the all. I had all these dreams about it with my _last_ mentor (who was much more with it, but much less dependable), and, well, I just want to be naked, in the forest, gripping her leg, while she tells me all the secrets of womanhood... yeahyeahyeah...

But it would mean _everything_ to me if we could be naked together, somewhere, like at a nude beach, because I've wanted to shed my material trappings for quite a long time but never quite gotten over the fact that I have, and always have, kept myself emotionally distant from my parents. (Case in point: I really really really wish I could walk around the house naked.)

There. I said it. I'm a freak. Now leave me alone.

(okay, the dream in particular about my last mentor involved the two of us using some shower facility, with me in the bathroom stall and her in the shower stall, and I was naked for some reason [as it always goes in dreams] and I really really really wanted to stay that way so she could see me in the all, but no, a shirt materialized on my body and I was too ashamed to take it off. I just about died under the emotional strain. Oh, also, in the dream, I felt younger, like maybe about ten years old. Golly gee, I have a backlog of a girlhood to catch up on. I don't really feel like talking about my childhood here, but rest assured, it sucked.)
I woke up naked. This means I am either extremely anxious or extremely turned on, and given that my brain is cloudy and I can’t think and I’m not particularly turned on, I would imagine the former is true. But I did have a dream in which I found a local newsletter, I believe it was called “Speak Out,” that so embodied my sexual and spiritual values that it began a whole new era in my life, getting naked and painting my body and hanging out with other cool, weird, people, who were also naked and may or may not have had dreadlocks.

But then, of course, I had to wake up. Fuck. And now my brain hurts, partially because I’m anxious, but mostly because I haven’t masturbated in 36 hours—a sure sign that I am addicted. And so, I’m having collossal trouble writing.

I hate this. Shoot me.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

The DNC's new blog is called Kicking Ass.

Here it is.

I think I'm going to have an orgasm.
Dean's out.

Well, then, everybody, let's vote for Kucinich! Since Kerry's got this one in the bag, and I think he would be a fine candidate to run against Bush (Kerry's ahead in the Kerry vs. Bush polls--seriously), let's have our last hurrah be one great big show of support for our favorite idealist, who would, let's face it, be the bestest president in the whole wide world. C'mon! If every one of my darling li'l readers votes for him, we could have enough to hold... a party... with chocolate... and strippers... and strippers and chocolate... oooh....

In any case, I look forward to Dean's "campaign for change" within the Democratic Party (we've needed it for a while), and I hope it involves chocolate and strippers.


(I neglected to mention that if Kucinich is struck by the Leticia Curse that causes anybody I endorse to drop out within days, go ahead and write in me for president. C'mon! A chocolate stripper in every home. I think that's a fine platform.)

(Or vote for Sharpton, because the debate would be hilarious. Seriously. Any of the Democrats could kick Bush's ass with one hand tied behind his back, but oh, Sharpton would do it with style.)

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

On the camping trip, in the cabin, I changed my clothes and laid for a second, halfway sitting up on the bed, butt-naked. My long legs stretched to the other end of the bed with my feet down, and I straightened my back to pick up my clothes when my friend, in the cabin, remarked that her contacts were out (and her eyes blurry) and I looked like a mermaid.

A mermaid, lying on the bed naked, sitting halfway up and straightening her hair before heading out into the world.

Holy mackarel.

That rocked.

(When Leslie saw me in the all, it was less significant; more sexual and less... sacred. I felt, and I hate to say it, cheapened. If I had to choose between being a whore and a mermaid, I'd be... waaaahhh! I'd wanna be a mermaid, but the sacred prostitute is still an ideal to which I aspire. It's like, with my extravagant personality, I have to be the most ideal woman in the world; and to me, that woman is a prostitute, catalyst to the global machine.)

(So I guess the moral of the story is, be yourself, and don't expect too much out of your own human capacity.)

(And stop using so many god-damned parentheses.)

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

Kind reader Larry Held informs us that,

"1. Jesus was Aramaic, not Arabic

2. Jews worship on Saturday, not Sunday"

Um, yeah. I knew that. I just, er, wanted to make sure you knew. Yeah. That's it.
(Hey, that was quick. Yeah, these breaks never last as long as they should)

I was writing down a dream and started ranting. The dream involved my class watching a foreign film with naked women, and that's all you need to know:


Is there really anything special about femininity, when it seemed to burden these women so? Should I even be a woman, so sacred that I should never show my body or my personality? So desirable that I must be cut off from the larger world so as not to be polluted? So carnal that I must be restrained to prevent me from becoming a prostitute?

Fuck this, man. I’m taking back the original order of women. We’re going backwards, and I just want to shoot whoever declared that women were, as of now, completely useless except for pumping out babies and raping. I want to sleep on that giant bed where all women share a consciousness; but no, I’m a whore, I’m a lesbo, I’m so far removed from the bed that I can’t help to find any sisterhood there. No woman’s an island, but I’m floating way out there, with no company but the palm trees and my own smoke signals that waft into the sky, with nobody around to see them.

I feel like I’m going to explode. My own head is caving in from these thoughts. I want to crawl out from under this rubble and claim my life back. Because, at present, I can’t do anything without that giant boulder on my head reading, "LETICIA! ARE YOU A REAL WOMAN?!" and I imagine all the Keepers of the Clit wagging their fingers at me and telling me all the different ways in which I am exempt from their sisterhood.

Yeah, for a moment a few weeks ago, I coulda sworn I was growing into a real woman. Yes, it was when I read that Naomi Wolf book and realized, holy shit, I’m normal. I’M FUCKING NORMAL. Every woman is carnal, and that’s how the world has worked since the dawn of homo sapiens. And there was this giant cloud reading, "should I do this? should I do that?" right over my head and clouding my consciousness; but I swore to myself that if I just pulled right through the cloud, eventually it would go away, and I would emerge a True Woman, because the thoughts contained in the cloud were ones I should really think about.

But no, instead I went and decided to write my fantasy of the moment on the Internet again, and all of that went away. The cloud was gone, but so was my hope of emerging with the cloud integrated into my personhood as a True Woman. Now I’m just another teenage girl whining about how she can’t find herself.

I'm'a go drown myself in ginger ale.

Monday, February 16, 2004

Sorry I haven't updated for a few days. I'm beat, my head is flooded with information, and I've been sick. Besides that, I can't think of anything to write about. So hiatus again. Bye bye.

Okay I lied:

Yeah I feel really stupid for writing about nudism on my blog. But so what? I am not ashamed of it at all. It's not like reader responses form my general self-esteem or nothing. It's not like my whole worth in society is determined by the fact that my only real voice in the world is through my blog because all my peers ignore me, or nothing.

Dammit. I need to take a break to get my head out of this rut. I'm slipping farther and farther away from my friends with the knowledge in the back of my head that I have a secret identity. It's like, wha ha, you mock me now, but I'm REALLY Leticia McKenzie, dashing superhero by night. You only _think_ I'm shy and reserved-- you should see what I'm like under a pseudonym.

Which is the whole problem. I've dragged myself to two extremes: me, who never talks about anything, and Leticia, who talks about everything. So I'm going away for a while. I don't feel guilty any more for writing about sex, it's more that I need to reexamine more in my life now that I realize that I am not, in fact, a total loser.


Saturday, February 14, 2004

Upon reading this, I seriously did a spit-take. The Bush administration is refusing to grant money to close-caption TV programs that don't meet their criteria as being, well, appropriate for deaf people. The shows in question? The Simpsons. Scooby-Doo. Power Rangers. Ninja Turtles. Law and Order.

Holeeeeeee SHIT. Now, if you are hearing, pretend for a moment that the Bush administration wants to ensure that you watch The Simpsons in silence, because otherwise you may exercize poor cultural judgment.

It has begun. Fire up your tape recorders, we'd better archive the Simpons and put it in a tin-foil bomb shelter, in hopes that future generations may see it without fear of Bush the Thirty-Seventh deciding that Simpsons gags wil enevitably cause riots in the streets. Because once Law and Order is hearing-impaired contraband, who knows what is next.

I'm scared. Hold me.

(I can just imagine Bush defiantly pointing his finger at the TV camera and saying, "Homestar Runner, you're next!")


(Okay, by the way, I'm dead serious. If you are deaf, closed-captioning is the only way you can watch TV and have any idea of what's going on. TV is where we get much of our information about the world. If the government can control this much of TV for just this one segment of the public, I don't have to say "imagine what is next"-- it's terrifying as it is. So, my hearing comrades, learn sign language. Interpret The Simpsons for a deaf friend. Take heart when he/she laughs at Bart's latest escapade. The future of the free world depends on it.)
As you all probably know by now, Clark has dropped out of the presidential race, just days after I endorsed him. Fuck. I hope he wasn't running scared from a Leticia McKenzie endorsement.

In any case, go vote for Dean. I would support Kerry or any of the others running (thankyouthankyouthankyou for dropping out, Leiberman), but Dean really has his heart in the right place. (Well, Kucinich is the best, but y'know...)

Here's my quick Pokémon-style analysis of how the election might play out:
(analysis meaning guesswork)

Far right vs. far left: Far right wins
Moderate right vs. moderate left: Moderate right wins
Far left vs. moderate right: Far left wins
Moderate left vs. far right: Moderate left wins

There's been murmurs that Bush could dump Cheney and dash towards the middle, so the Democrats had better be prepared. Most of Bush's supporters seem to be so because they are uneasy about electing a Democrat during wartime; if Bush abandons the veil of "terror terror terror", the Democrats had better be up to kicking his ass and showing the world his empty flight suit.

Weapons of mass destruction, indeed.
Time to open the mailbag!

Natalia Lush Antonova says,

Quoting Your Blog:

"...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..."

A a side-note: Before you rot into oblivion, John Ashcroft will get your neighbours to rat you out for the pot, and you will most likely be spending the rest of your days watching Wheel of Fortune next to your butch cell-mate, in between exercise hours and being ritualistically beaten by the guards. That is, if you have a TV at all. After all, it's not like you'll be in a white-collar, minimum security resort for the rich assholes that are currently robbing this country blind with the full support of the current administration.

I do appreciate everything you do, Leticia.


Why, thank you! All that and I kept fucking forgetting to link to her wonderful blog. You. Go. Read. Blog. Now.

Speaking of which, read this blog too, which I also should've linked a long time ago. Mea culpa. Go visit them and ease my guilt.

Here's one from a fine woman who's name I will withhold just in case (she's a fellow blogger), but for brevity I'll call her, er, Carmen:

Hi -
Just thought I'd write on the off chance you wrote back. Yes, you should have sex with Leslie, but make sure it is as sweet as it is hot. I suggest going camping with her as soon as the weather gets nice. Nothing is sexier than naked chicks in nature, and I do speak from experience :-)

If you're ever really, really bored here's my Blog:
I'll link ya if you link me.pretty please?
With whipped cream on top?

Only if the whipped cream turns into a giant whipped-cream monster and devours me whole. Oh, but first, I should grip his fangs like jail bars in hopes of escaping, before his serpentine tongue snaps at my back and I am sent sailing down his throat. Yeah. You got it.

Here's my reply:

Actually, it was on a camping trip that she confirmed her sexual desire for me. I suppose we coulda done it then, but we would have gotten in trouble...

Whoa, actually, what I remember she asked me was, "would you have sex with me right now?" (not _quite_
like that--it was more of a truth-or-dare sort of question--but not far) and I said "no, we would get in trouble." "So if we wouldn't?" "Yes?" "Alright. Same with me."

Ohhh yeah.

(Thanks for the "naked chicks in nature" comment; it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside ^_^)

Now I want a detailed description of Carmen's lesbian encounter, on a postcard. Pretty please? With an elegant dominatrix covered in cherry sauce on top?

Now we move on to a letter from our dear friend Samuel Gee, but I'd rather just refer to him as "a fine gentleman" like I did last time. Everybody, including him, sent me some variation on "get a freaking hotel room" re: Leslie. (This was, of course, before the big letdown.) Here's what I sent him:

That leaves me with a choice. In Poseidontown, a hotel might cost about sixty bucks. Sixty bucks I coulda spent on:

--Three books, so I wouldn't have to keep lounging at the bookstore to read
--Paying my library fines, with enough left over for a used videogame
--A subscription to Xbox Live, with enough left over for the Gamecube/GBA link cable
--Two Game Boy Advance games (I'm thinking Yoshi's Island and Sonic Advance 2)
--Two Xbox controllers, so I'll have all four
--Lots and lots of really good sex.

Decisions, decisions...

To which he replied:

Go for the sex sweetie.

Just imagine her next to you, naked and licking.

Fucking library fines indeed.



Aww, man. I can't bear to read that. I'm gonna have sex someday, right? Peoples?

Well, that's all for now. I gotta go to bed. Good night! Dream of naked women covered in cherry sauce, okay, darlings?
More on the Boob; this is from a British perspective, and it's a good time to remember how nuts they think we are.

Stay tuned for updates on the Nipple from the Topfree Equal Rights Association.

If your wondering why this is so important to me (when I try and say how crazy the media are about it), boobs in general are important to me. They're stuck to us and they bounce around when we walk. We whip them out and feed our babies we them. We tease men with them and attract mates with them. We play with them when we're bored on the bus. They're important to us. Respect them. Dammit.

And I want to see the day when my floppy li'l bunnies can play freely in the sun, enfettered by worries of Michael Powell with a sniper rifle in the bushes, taking aim and preparing to pop my balloons, sending milk splattering all over the park in which this takes place. Ewww.

But yes, I am a nudist, I think we all ought to respect the makeup of our own bodies. Let's celebrate the gift that God has given us in our flesh. We're not too fat or too skinny or too short or too round or one boob is bigger than the other or whatever new thing we have inserted on our train of insecurities. We're all human beings, and we're all beautiful in that. Let's all rip off our clothes, all at once, in defiance of the unwritten rules that jealous humans have placed upon us all. Let's show our bodies freely and without shame. Let's kick some ass. Let's get naked.

(Today's invigorating speech was brought to you by the fact that Leticia does not know many people who play with their boobs on the bus, but they oughtta.)

Friday, February 13, 2004

Quick political analysis:

Some of you may be wondering why Bush's "war war war" re-election strategy is circling the drain. Permit me to offer my two cents:

Take a look at the State of the Union address. He backs up the war in Iraq, feebly saying that the war in terror must continue lest our job be unfinished (and we all know quite well he's bailing out anyway). He veers straight into the economy, telling us how great it's going, but everybody knows it's in the crapper and those who support Bush blame it on Clinton (riiiiiight). Then Bush bolted towards Clinton-era hard-right nonsense, like abstinence education and an amendment banning gay marriage, before high-tailing it into the supposedly safe territories of SPORTS. As you can see, Bush has absolutely no plan "B" in case Iraq imploded, and he's not quite sure if he's hard-right or right-of-left-of-center or upside-down-to-the-front-left-knee-in-the-head. He's lost, and the deer-in-the-headlights expression has finally caught up to him.

Recap: Karl Rove's big strategy was (A) steal the election (more insidious than the butterfly ballots were the hundreds of thousands of black voters with their names scrubbed from the rolls in Florida by independent contractors; black Floridians are overwhelmingly Democratic) (B) sit on Clinton's plans to attack al Qaeda (C) start lots and lots of bloody wars, with was helpfully facilitated by al Qaeda attacking the World Trade Center (wonder how that coulda happened on Rumsfeld's watch? Oh yeah, he was COMPLETELY IGNORING THEM) (D) Terrorism, terrorism, terrorism, 9/11, and God Bless America. Repeat. The re-election is yours.

(Since I made so many egregrious statements here, I'm'a state my sources: The Best Democracy Money Can Buy, by Greg Palast, offered a detailed exposé of Bush stealing the election in the book's first chapter. Lies and the Lying Liars who Tell Them, by comedian Al Franken, has a chapter on what he called Rumsfeld's "Operation Ignore." Finally, everybody knows the Bush administration has been refusing to hand information over to the 9/11 commission and is censoring their reports; and you gotta admit, that's pretty fishy.)

But something happened; there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. No biggie, find some tractor-trailers and pass them off as the harbinger of civilization's end. The media was primed by the Clinton Wars and the 2000 election to believe whatever the Right says, anyway. But then, in an amazing turn of fate, people are starting to wonder why, if Bush supports the troops, is he sending them in droves to their deaths? Why aren't we seeing pictures or reports of the soldiers who have died, to honor them for their service? Why is the media pounding the drums for a war that is killing our youngest and poorest while making the Middle East crises worse?

(keep in mind that I cannot speak for the American public; I'm making educated guesses, but rather hopeful ones. I'm so out of touch with the slouching-and-eating-cheese-doodles-while-cheering-O'Reilly American population that I wouldn't know a Nacho Cheesier from a Ranch Extreme-o.)

And then the big words came down: International Cooperation. Yeah, yeah, Bush gave the UN the middle finger, and we need their help to clean up Iraq. Why the hell is the US in this war when the Iraqi people, who were supposed to be cheering us as liberators, are deriding us as invaders? If your small, poor, proud country had just lost it's brutal dictator to one who was even worse (yes, Bush has been worse for Iraq than Saddam, and that's pretty freaking bad), wouldn't you see little choice but to rise up and defend your nation? And if your a poor soldier who has been duped into serving your country with the promise of college money, wouldn't you see no choice but to defend yourself from those who would attack you? When you think of this hopeless double-bind, it makes you wonder who set up this mess, and why it's such a convenient distraction from American oil companies illegally making off with Iraq's spoils.

Well, Bush set up this mess, and the public is becoming increasingly aware that a pre-emptive strike was neither useful nor just. So, we better veer into the economy... oh, shit, it's a disaster! Well, then, we'll talk about abstinence education-- oh, shit, our pregnancy rate is astronomical! Well, then, we'll just go into gay marriage--WHAT?! Americans are embracing TOLERANCE? What do you mean the government has no business appointing people's families?! Well, then, we'll just make a last-minute dash into SPORTS. Hah! That's the ticket! Deride steroids and be sure to include that unforgettable Clinton-era mantra: "What will we tell the Cheeeildren?"

And, as hard as they tried to make you not believe it, everybody hated the Clinton Wars. I can't imagine a single person who thinks a 200-person FBI investigation was necessary for a blowjob. Uh oh, this just in--a NIPPLE has been PARTIALLY SIGHTED... ON NETWORK TELEVISION! What will we tell the Cheeeildren?! I mean, we certainly can't have children actually knowing what goes on down underneath the bra! Soon we might have to start.... breastfeeding! EEEEK!

Away, to the Right-mobile! Once we initiate Operation: Deride the Boob, we will bounce back with a vengeance! Once we paint John Kerry as the Candidate of the Boob, we'll have people burning his posters in no seconds, er, flat!

Leticia out. Remember: the terrorists WANT you to vote Democratic!

Thursday, February 12, 2004

Well, hello there. I’m sorry, but Leticia has been turned into a vat of cream custard. You’ll have to excuse me as I, the fair guardian angel Suzy, updates while bathing naked in my former client’s remains.

It’s been a really hard day for her. She’s been snappy and arrogant inside, but fluffy and invisible on the outside. She’s bottling up her anger and hiding the fact that she would sooner blow everybody’s head off then tell them politely that everything they do to her bothers her.

Yeah, this might have something to do with her lack of close friends. Her constant passivity must not be very attractive to the other friendless out there. Of course, it helped her in her encounter with the moon men, who were displeased with her whininess and turned her into a vat of cream custard and sold her for $4.99 at the galactic Kmart, which she really didn’t mind. Odd. In any case, she tastes pretty good, even when contaminated with my sweat and blood. Of course, at any moment her giant mouth could form and swallow me whole, so I’d better--MMMFFF!! MFFF--mmm.... (slurp)


Hello. This is Leticia, giant vat of cream custard, reporting. Actually, after I ate my guardian angel I was mostly eaten up by football players, but you're welcome to lick the sides of the plastic vat (it reads "It's Leticialicious!") and possibly get some of her remains in the bargian. We taste pretty good together, I reckon.

Oh! But Leslie, sadly, no longer wants to have sex with me. Oh! I said that already. Umm, and my last fantasy I came to was this: I was a big-headed, big-eyed Korean stationary mascot (Pink Hana to be specific) and I was being lead around the factory on a bridge (with the abyss of clanking and pounding machines below me), wearing all my glitzy glammy fashion stuff with matching bag, when a businessman pushed me off. Soon I was eaten up by the machine below, and turned into an assortment of Leticia merchandise like stationary and handbags. Hot.

(do I get off on capitalism? Ohh, baby, supply and demand me...)

This is Pink Hana; if you like the pictures, save them before the links go broken. (From Fancy Space.)

(Speaking of which, does anybody know of any good image hosts? I'd like to post my drawings here...)
Oooooaaaggghhhh! I feel like shit. I've had a storm cloud gathered across my head, hanging over me like, er, a storm cloud. So many questions. Is this what womanhood is about? In that case, I want my girlhood back.

I tried to call my mentor and bitch about life, but I called the number she called me on and got some faceless manager who didn't know her name. Oh, and Leslie doesn't want to have sex with me anymore, she said her mom would kill her. Awww, shit! I was hoping she'd at least tell me how _she_ felt...

So I just wanna curl up and die. Feel free to join me, we'll have a pity-party at my house at 3. Bring spiked drinks.

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

Well, I asked her if she'd like to have sex with me. After the initial shock, she asked me where this came from (I reminded her of the trip) and said she'd think about it. I was certain to reassure her that neither my identity nor my self-esteem was staked on this decision of hers (halfway true), and all in all, I think it went pretty well. stay tuned--Leticia may or may not get laid--but either way, I'm doin' all right. No big deal. I'll have sex someday anyway.

But more importantly! The boy I was going to ask out wasn't there. Aww man! This has been a thoroughly anti-climatic day. Wake me up when the world is being blown up or something.
Last night I really enjoyed the following fantasy, in which Leticia the Popstar was told by her agent that, unfortunately, she overlooked a clause in her contract that said she would have to be run, naked, vertically, through the Song Machine that, while she sang, would turn her into pure audio for recording on a smash-hit album. I get off on corporate fantasies. Weird. (Yes, I had been reading too much Jennifer Government.)

Oh, but before that, my naked popstar trio was kidnapped by space bandits who placed us in a giant... clamp thing (you know... the WinZip logo!) at the back of their ship and turned the crank. (The space bandits were teenagers, with scruffy hair and impeccable hygeine. I think they rebelled and stole their rich dads space shuttle to go around picking up naked popstars. But anyway...) We moaned and giggled and forced weak smiles as the ceiling lowered and eventally we were crushed into... something. I think a Game Boy Advance cartridge. I seem to fantasize about those too. What?

(oh, the cruel and yet pleasurable entrapment of plastic...)
I have gotten quite a few E-mails asking me why I feel like I _need_ to post my masturbation fantasies. Well, here's the cold, hard truth: I have no boyfriend. I have no outlet for my own eroticism. I have a hard time feeling appreciated. So, I fuck the Internet, in ful view of my dear readers, so I can feel somewhat like Somebody Who's Having Sex.

But more importantly, I feel its my calling blahblahblah. I _want_ to turn people on. There's a concrete satisfaction I get from it. I recieved an E-mail from a woman saying she was about to go fuck her husband over my ice cream sandwhich fantasy, (edit: my fantasy did not involve ice cream sandwiches, but it should've) and it touched me in ways you couldn't imagine to think that I was enriching somebody's sex life, if for one moment.

So, on that note, I am a WHORE. The end.

(Oh, I finished my state test; I actually had a fair amount of fun with it. I'll post my final submission soon. But I spaced out and imagined myself, lying in a soft bed of take-out rice, while rubbing my sea of soy sauce over my nipples and around my body. Oooh.)

(update: the poll is about four to zero at the moment, favoring me fucking Leslie all night long. I'm'a think about it. Somebody voted "do what your heart says," which is something like "reply hazy, ask again later." Phooey.)

(Oh! But tonight I plan to ask a boy on a date. Wish me luck.)

Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Handy sex tips from kind reader Chris:

  • Sex is a basic human right.

  • Even Russia gets too hot in the summer to have sex anywhere but the balcony some nights.

  • When having sex in your friend’s bathroom at a party, ensure that the door is indeed locked; getting walked in on, even by the most understanding friend, can be quite the mood killer.

  • No-one uses the stairwell on the 9th floor of an apartment building, when there’s an elevator; this leaves the stairwell open for all kinds of on-the-run co-ed opportunities.

  • Park benches can be great places for a quickie, if you put your heart and soul into the endeavor.

  • Well, that was informative. Next, Leticia tells you how to clean your refridgerator with a banana peel! Good night!
    Now that I've ranted about America's Perpetual Boob Sickness, I wanna know: has anybody written a book on the subject? 'Cause if there ain't, I might have to write one...

    (speaking of which: Tom Tomorrow keeps abreast of the situation.)
    I don’t want to have sex with Leslie. Y’see, it’s just not right. I’m honestly not all that attracted to her. I just want to leave her and have her find happiness with some man who will please her and make her happy. I’m not him.

    Moreover, I need a man, and it just wouldn’t be honest to pretend to be as infatuated with Leslie now as I was in eighth grade. The sex would be calculated and robotic, with me trying to please her to the maximum level but saving none for myself. It would be good sex, probably, but cold and emotionless.

    Nevertheless, there’s a large hole in my stomach that I have yet to fill. I just want to find my mentor, put my head between her boobs, shrink three feet, and have her hold me in her arms and tell me everything’s okay while she strokes my hair and breathes the entire universe.

    I’m pretty sure I’ve become a woman by now, but I don’t know when it happened. There was no fanfare, no party, no quest to find my inner vision of the world. No large naked women telling me the secrets of motherhood. Nothing. I can finally say I “have my shit together,” but for naught, for all that everybody’s noticing it. I’m growing up in the middle of the forest, without anybody to hear me.

    Dammit, I need a fucking bar mitzvah. I would go back in time and convert my parents to Judaism just so I coulda had a bar mitzvah. It woulda meant the world to me. I’m going to have to improvise something before the adulthood rush wears off.



    (edit: About sex with Leslie, I'm still mulling it over; keep voting in the poll, I just might decide to have cold, emotionless, but nonetheless very good sex with her.)

    Sunday, February 08, 2004

    Yello. I finally finished Promiscuities. It was such an emotional experience for me, I spaced out and changed sittings literally hundreds of times. If I put all my sittings end-to-end, they would stretch out to the Moon. But anyway...

    The book speaks of sexual coming-of-age rituals, and how we need them. I realized how not-strange I am for wanting to be a stripper all those years, that me throwing away any possibility of normality at age fourteen was for naught, because every girl goes through wanting to be watched.

    So, now that I can finally touch back down on terra firma and confirm that I, indeed, am a Normal Girl, I can look back on my past and finally not feel contempt for my younger self. I can move on. That means a lot.

    I'm'a go watch Astro Boy.

    I would comment on Janet Jackson's tit, but because it seems to be a fixation of the general public at the moment, I won't. Actuallly, I will anyway.

    Two things disturb me about this (recap: some popstar ripped Janet Jackson's shirt at the Super Bowl and we got to see her breast, although with a nipple clamp. Cue America going nuts):

    1) That a naked woman's breast would be called disgusting and vulgar.

    2) That children _don't_ see women's breasts. I mean, really. If you're complaining that children shouldn't see such things, why hasn't your kid seen YOURS?! No excuse.

    3) (okay, three things) That a naked breast would be a larger cause for concern than a song about the singer coercing the woman to have sex with him, and the implied sexual abuse in the performance.

    Seriously, folks. This is a huge problem. Our culture is awash with sex, and yet when a woman wants to display her own sexuality, she is called a tart and a whore and the FCC spends ungodly amounts of money on an investigation. It's the constant message of the media that women's sexuality belongs entirely to men. Men men men. Can't you just feel your eroticism being sucked in by the Galactic Penis?

    But beyond that, goddammit, children really need to see naked people. Studies have shown that children of nudists (Dear Lord!) grow up to be better adjusted. We need to be more adjusted with the human body to halt our society's road trip in a handbasket.

    That said, I have more to say on the subject of the Boob.

    Until recently, I believed I would never be able to breastfeed. Thanks to the miracle of modern science (woohoo!) I have been reassured that I will be able to lactate once I have children (I don't feel like getting pregnant; I'm gonna adopt). I excitedly told my friends, and they seem to be telling me off for this. Too shy/too nervous/too busy/too unclean to have a baby sucking away at their nipples. Now that I'm safely away from their earshot, I would like to say screw them. When I have babies, they're going to be sucking my milk factories like baby cows. (Or baby humans, for that fucking matter.)

    But really, breastfeeding is the way to go. (Yes, better than "formulas.") Babies grow up better adjusted, healthier, and we need to get over our perpetual Boob Sickness in America. You have boobs for a reason. Use 'em.

    (I'd hold up my boobs in solidarity for y'all, or stuff 'em in the scanner, but that would compromise my secret identity.)
    Official Leticia Endorsement!

    (before I begin, how do I get my personal DNC page working? I want a Boot Bush button like Atrios has...)

    I, Leticia Jeanette McKenzie, do officially endorse Welsey Clark as the Democratic nominee for President.

    Yes, he's a general. Yes, he sends people to their death while earning medals in his easy chair. Yes, that goes against everything I believe in as a Quaker. But by golly, he's going to remake our image of the pansy, taking-it-in-the-ass Congressional Democrats, and earn those votes in the South and in the swing states we so desperately need. I recognize that I'm walking a thin line by making such a contract with the Devil; but getting Bush out of office and electing somebody who says that "war is an absolute last resort" will save so many lives it will make your resident wingnut's head spin.

    Do the right thing. Whoever you support, vote vote vote vote vote. Democracy is not a spectator sport. We're sitting back on the couch eating Cheese Doodles and watching the country be taken over by knee-jerk reactionaries who think they still need nuclear weapons aimed at the whole world when they are the world's most powerful nation anyway. Let's take back this country. DNC.

    (Or, in other words: We're going to Pennsylvania! We're going to East Rekjavik! We're going to the Moon! And then we're going to the White House--er, where was I? Oh yeah, YEEEEAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!)

    (Love that Dean yell. He still rocks my socks.)

    (Upon reading that again, I just realized that I equate being a pansy with being somebody who takes it up the ass. Sorry, I meant up the ass legally, not up the ass coitally. Men who practice anal sex are still as butch and manly as the ones who have hard vaginal sex on top of their polished Harley Davidsons 68x 21p x2000's.)

    (Or, for that matter, anal sex on their polished Harley Davidsons. Oooh, I gotta think about that for a while...)

    (a bit later: For the record, I'm really enjoying thinking of my blushing, tuckered-out naked body on top of a motorcycle with my ass red from sexing. Feel free to do with that image what you wish.)
    A few thoughts on religion.

    To my Jewish readers: if any Christian (self-professed, anyway) accuses your culture of killing Jesus, you would do well to remind them of two things:

    a) the Spanish Inquisition
    b) forgive and forget.

    After all, it's not like the Christian Monolith is responsible for bombing Iraq...

    Anyway, I'm Christian, but it sickens me to watch people play the "my-religion-is-better-than-your-religion" game. I'm Quaker, and it makes me rather proud that George Fox welcomed the (pagan!) American Indians to his services, saying "they worship the Great Spirit; they worship God." If I could, I would just have every sect of religion split and split and split until there was precisely one for every person on the planet, but that's none of my business. I'll just keep enjoying Quakerism, going to a cramped room with folding chairs and peeling white paint, being silent until people decide to stand up and say, "By golly, things are going REALLY bad in..."

    But anyway! Back to the killing Jesus thing. Jesus was Jewish (and Arabic! Imagine what the Religious Right would think of him today), and I can think of thousands of people who need to have that little factoid rammed into their brains a couple thousand times until it sticks. Secondly, Jews killed him, but not THE Jews; it's not like all the Jews took a vote. Jesus was Jewish, the disciples were Jewish, there were poor Jews, rich Jews, Jews with small noses, big noses, ones who preferred to go to church on Sunday, ones who stayed home and slept, blahblahblah. However, the rich, powerful Jews were pretty scared of this Jesus guy, calling himself the Son of God and saying you should love your enemy and give up your second coat or somesuch. So these fellows, who are probably analogous to today's Religious Right (or more accurately, the Bush administration; after all, Gen. Boykin freely admits that they're fighting a war against Islam), decide to give him the Cross. A few hundred years later, some of the Jews start a sect around Jesus, some don't. And that's how it's been for a few thousand years, with the exception of the appearance of this radical Mohammed guy; and soon the rich, aristocratic Christians want him and his followers dead. (Can you see where this is going?)

    (by the way, my summary of Christian history is off the top of my head and completely unresearched. If any Bible experts are reading this, feel free to shoot holes in it.)

    In short, it wasn't the Jews who killed Jesus, it was the crazy Jewish wingnuts. And if you're still concerned about crazy Jewish wingnuts from 2000 years ago, you might want to focus on crazy Jewish wingnuts who are occupying Palestine and bulldozing their homes and shooting them dead. (At this point, you can segue-way into reading Rafah Kid, since he's got the scoop on that.)

    Anyway, I think that's how it works. I believe in God not because I'm particularly convinced of anything (Bertrand Russell, after all, was my childhood hero), but because it's what I grew up with and what I feel strongly about. When I talk to God, not only do I see a woman, but I see a sacred prostitute, with a perky, motherly demeanor; so what would I know? (Everybody sees God in their own way, you know; although it does piss me off that all the paintings of Jesus are of a skinny white guy. Does anybody seem to realize we're killing his descendants in the Middle East?)

    Okay, and now a message for my Christian readers. Yeah, the Bible is full of silly rules and contradictions and strangeness. And while the Fundamentalists can come up with a billion different obscure passages to say that women are evil and need to be punished or that gay sex is a sin or that you shouldn't eat pears on Friday or whatever, Jesus did say a few things over and over again, things like:

    1) love your neighbor
    2) love your enemy
    3) treat the alien as one of your own

    And that's pretty cool.
    Kind reader Nick C advises,

    "Finally I urge you to hunt down Dante, release your animal urges, and get the whole issue off your shoulders, no strings attached."

    Ah, I can only imagine. (It will involve whipped cream.)
    To make the poll question more interesting: should I have sex with Leslie, and where? (The more logistical details, the better.)

    Saturday, February 07, 2004

    Oh, new books I'm reading. I have to read the Poisonwood Bible in class. I have the attention span of a gnat, so the book's convoluted writing style (and metaphors; DEAR GOD THE METAPHORS) are a little much for me; but it's a solid story with solid characterization. I'm just not sure I have the time for all the semantic hoop-jumping.

    I've also been reading Jennifer Government: FANTASTIC. Imagine 1984, about the Right instead of the Left, ramped up a couple notches and reworked as the sickest Saturday morning cartoon you ever saw. Great fun, and has helped plentifully my appetite for dark humor and fast action (with plenty of swell philosophical gobbledygook). I've never gotten lost in a book quite the way I have with Jennifer Government.
    Okay, here’s an update. Leslie is the one I wanted to have sex with for a long time. She wants to have sex with me (more later; I wrote a blog entry in my notebook that I shall transcribe). On the way back from the trip, she pretended to lick up my exploded remains (don’t ask) and said “wow, Leticia, you really are sweeter than sugar!” (I tried to imagine my remains tasting like peach cobbler, or fruit compot. Mmm.) (Compot, not compost.) She draws doodles of me in which I have my hands behind my back, large angel wings, and a great big heart to match my great big smile—the most perfect girl in the world. Holy geez I’d like to have sex with her. But anyway...

    Because of the trip that I forgot to tell you about (and the real reason for my absence; again, more later), I haven’t masturbated for days. So finally I got down to business when the horniness impeded on my ability to do homework (really), and decided to masturbate about her licking up my remains and giggling. I tried a thousand different variations (including us sharing a giant ice cream sundae; as bedding, not as dessert) until I settled on her saying “I could eat you up;” but no, suddenly, instead of Leslie saying that, it was some brawny ridiculous Southern guy with a beard in a creepy bar as the cigarette smoke wafted past the red lights. I came.


    (Yes, the reason I'm concerned is because I only ever masturbate about boys. Well, maybe sometimes I masturbate about women, but you know, I always kind of identify with them... whatever... I'll stop second guessing my sexuality...)

    (Oh! But the real point is, this begins the Should Leticia Have Sex With Leslie poll. Answers on a postcard, please. Keep in mind that I'm not going to take these results seriously; I just thought it'd be fun to keep a tally.)

    (One tragic problem is the _logistics_ of sex; where would we do it? I don't think either of our parents would allow it in either of our houses, and I'd rather not play the do-you-hear-footsteps game...)

    Friday, February 06, 2004

    While reading Naomi Wolf, I knew _exactly_ the person I should talk to. She has dreadlocks, a short attention span that belies her intelligence, and she talks about sex and the Earth in excited tones and in broad gestures. If you are this woman, CALL NOW (1-800-LET-ICIA; toll free!) for this one-of-a-kind chance to WIN A FREE BEST FRIEND! Operators are standing by.

    (Yes, you realize that this is my ideal self that I am projecting onto others out of my own insecurity. Quiet, that bit of maturity is not scheduled until May 2005.)

    (Oh! And she should talk about energy...)

    (and like Sonic a lot...)
    Hey, yo. I just saw about five seconds of The "L" Word, and, par for the course, I feel educated enough to comment on it.

    Weeeeelll, I couldn't watch it. I know I defended its portrayal of women as (My God!) sexual beings, but y'know, it's televised pre-packaged sex, and that always creeps me out. But lesbians in particular are a culture I've tried (and failed) very hard to get into, and I didn't want to be such a loser that I'm watching them have sex and think "oh, man, to be accepted" while all my friends are like "HA! Lesbian sex is MUCH better than THAT! But not as much fun as... crocheting..."

    Phooey. I'm'a go have sex. With, er, myself. Hey! That's lesbian sex, innit? When do I get my rationed leg warmers?
    I embarassingly spaced out for a few moments just now, but it made me think of my Ideal Governmental System:

    Republicans work on strong economic policy, while
    Democrats work on making daisy chains and getting naked for peace.

    How about it? I'm thinkin' that if I ever start playing Nation States, I'm'a make sure the Republic of Leticia has the Strong Government Policy Party and the Getting Naked and Making Daisy Chains party. That's what I call SYNERGY!

    (no, I'm not making fun of the Democrats; I myself would get naked and make daisy chains in such a country, but we'd work on strong economic policy too. And we'd also scrap Reagan's space toys and send everybody to college. Yeah.)

    (And Ken Lay's severed head will go towards feeding Third World children.)
    I remember one episode of Drew Carey where Drew was trapped in his own coma fantasy, in which beer flowed down a beer-fall and pizza grew on trees. I was thinking, "Leticia, what would you like to flow down rivers?" And I thought, "Water is pretty good." (I was thinking that beer makes one drunk and thus I am shit-scared of it, whereas cola makes me twitchy and anything else makes me thirsty again.) Then I thought about trees, and what should go on them, and I thought, "y'know, pears and apples and stuff are quite good." That's pretty cool.

    (Although, a tree that grew apple pies would be pretty swell, y'know...)

    (...are you listening, God?)

    Tuesday, February 03, 2004

    I look at the popular girls and think oh, they have a future, I’m just lying here and whittling away my present while I wonder what the future holds. But no, the future holds jack-shit, I’m just going to be crunching numbers in classes I don’t care about with teachers who are incompetent and I’ll be wondering if I’m some kind of slut whore for putting my sexual fantasies on the internet, yeah, you know, like the ones where I’m put through meat grinders and porn machines and all sorts of denizens of my imagination. And you know that I’ve had unbearably low self-esteem all my life, and that I practically ask the universe permission whenever I want to speak to anybody or make myself obvious. I should just put a veil over my face and designate myself meaningless. No more Leticia, just empty space.

    It takes every bit of strength to be proud of who I am now. Now I know, at the back of my mind, lurks a secret that anybody I know could find this blog, recognize me, and suddenly have a window into all of my private fantasies. It’s none of their business, and yet I keep doing it, keep doing it because I need to find some way to say I am sexual, I am not a dud, I can think and fuck for myself and oh yeah, I get E-mails from guys wanting to have sex with me, because I’m just that great.

    But all I’ve been doing is pedaling backwards. I’ve met some wonderful people here, but for the most part, I’m more befuddled about my own sexuality than when I started. I can’t even open my pants to have a good fantasy without wondering how this affects the larger scheme of things, and if so, will it make good material for my blog?

    I don’t even know what I want to write here. It all seemed so simple when this was just a little blog that nobody could find unless they clicked on the “recently updated” links at random moments. Now I actually have readers, and woah... I better share with them some deep thoughts. Not that I have any. Sadly, most of what I think about is masturbation. And sometimes Sonic.

    So I’d like to continue writing extensive stories about bizarre sexual fantasies, but my stomach ain’t up to it. I just don’t have the bravery or the constitution to keep this blog up. It means everything to me that I have a place to share my thoughts, but at the same time, I’d like to return to being everyday old Leticia and work out my feelings from there.

    So, I need a break. Thank you very much for reading my blog, and hopefully I’ll be back soon. Maybe I’ll even finish that silly story I was writing about the private eye. Bye-bye.

    Monday, February 02, 2004

    Another shitty, shitty day at school. No really, it blew up in my face when my teacher decided to show us a video containing a pile of corpses left in the wake of the Nazis. It's unfathomable, it's deplorable, and makes me sick to my stomach. I can't imagine why I needed to see that when I know full well the Nazi campaign was the evillest in human history. But anyway, she was very apologetic about it and made sure I wouldn't have to see such things with my eyes.

    (To those telling me I _need_ to see those things: I wouldn't want to be desensitized to human suffering, thanks. Enough of our elected officials are already.)

    So I try to get over it with a smile on my face when I get to my college class, in which the teacher decided the gosh-darn perfect day to show us pictures of malformed babies thanks to US "goodwill" campaigns in the Middle East. Thanks.

    But you know what? The worst part is, none of this has stuck in my brain like the insipid love song I heard while eating my tofu and veggies at the Japanese joint. Which is why, when I finally manage to overcome the collective evils of humankind's most vile minds, I am faced with one verse, repeating over and over again...

    "There ain't no WAAaaaaaAAAAAAAAeeeeeeehhhhhheeyyyyAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY"

    Somebody shoot me. I'm having a bad freaking day.

    Sunday, February 01, 2004

    I would write about the Hutton Report, but Kitten Blue has summed it up perfectly:

    "I don't know an awful lot about politics, but the Hutton Report sounds a bit dodgy to me."

    Yesterday, I was donig algebra homework when it started to turn me on. Really. I may have an algebra fetish. In which case, my grades are sure to improve dramatically.

    (Oh, I did run to the bathroom and come to the thought of this woman, except she was covered in mud, had tattoos on her arm, had a British accent, and was presumably being stalked by an unseen alligator. But, my fantasy did not get to the reptillian phase, just the mud phase.)

    (Expect more sloppy pencil sketches in the future; I've actually drawn the meat grinder thing.)
    (comments on Sonic Heroes with some spoilers. No, not really, but if you want the basic game mechanics to be a surprise, don't select the whited-out text...)

    Sonic Heroes. Oh why, oh why do you make me go through an entire stage with key in hand, to play through a one-minute special stage and have a snowball's chance of getting one single Emerald and if I hit one mine at high speed with peculiarly biased controls, I'm hopeless, will lose the stage, and must go back and play the whole freaking 5-10 minute stage all over again, just to get ONE MORE chance of getting the Emerald?

    UUUAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!! I cannot even stretch my brain to the point where that might be considered fun. Except Dante, who lets it be known repeatedly that he enjoys pain and frustration when it comes to videogames. Which is why, whenever I complain about not being able to beat the Giant Egg Pants at the end of Level Bruce, he laughs and says, "Oh, that! Why, I beat it when you were still in the womb--"

    I finish the conversation with a flourish of the frying pan. End.

    (By the way, the Special Stage controlled way better on the Genesis. No joke.)

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