Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Takin' a Break.

I've gotten a lot of E-mail about the suicide post (and none about the Dante post; do you have any idea how emotionally draining that was? I had a headache the next day...), and I've generally felt like I've (again) neglected my real life for my net life. So... don't think I'm going away forever, but I need to give things some thought. Like, if I resonate emotionally with that many people... that's a responsibility, and it's a responsibility I am currently running away screeching from.

So I'll be back with a little more juice pretty soon. I hope. I just.... my head hurts, I'm starting college, and I just don't feel like answering E-mails after a long day at school.

I had a dream.
I was in some training complex and the beautiful eighth-grade dancers came out, half of them naked, half of them wearing tight black pants. I watched them lie down in formation, and as I knelt, it was like I could only see their breasts; no heads or bodies, just breasts, lined up like mountains. My mentor was there to heal them and I was there... I don't know. I felt pretty awkward, like I had walked into the wrong room.
My mentor came and I watched her hold them and caress them and heal them with her warmth; and I watched in sadness, for I wished she would heal me the way she healed them, the bright young nymphs of the dance troupe. But alas, I had no purpose, no reason for being here, no reason to be naked or to be a part of something like they were. And so, no reason for my mentor to grab my naked body and hold me in her warmth and heal me. So, I just watched and idly sat down on my mentor's leg while she caressed a dancer, and she put her arm around me to heal me as well, and I pushed her away, as if to say, "heal her instead." I wasn't worth it. She's the priority.
(My other arm was around... my dog. No, I have no idea why.)
She complied, reluctantly, and I headed for an empty room so as not to get in her way. I didn't know how to present myself to her, as naked and ready for healing, even though I knew she would heal me; I just knew that I wasn't worth it like these girls were.

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

After I said this:

"These days, the hip thing to do when you're contemplating suicide is to run a blade into the undersides of your arms, calling on the courage to press down on your wrists. This leads to permanent scarring and a permanent seat in the House of Cool."

Someone E-mailed me and said this:

Sweetie, dont make light of it. We do it because we have issues, not because it makes us cool.

Sorry, sorry, sorry! I said that only because I was really really angry and not because I actually thought it was true. Okay, I did actually think it was true, because I was really really angry at this person for slashing his arms. I was quick to blame it on something. Mea culpa.

(If I were mature, I wouldn't have a blog...)

So I'm sorry if I made it sound like people cut their arms only to be cool... I was only frustrated with the people who DO make it cool.
Agghhh! Beginning of school. No, not good. No time to write anymore. No more time to lie around and play videogames.

I would like to be made into a chocolate sundae. I would like the chocolate syrup to be administered by a sultry French maid. I would like her to stand so close to my limp body that I can see up her poofy skirt as she places sugar sprinkles on me. Thassall.

I've gotten a lot of E-mail from my last entry. Thanks. I... I think he'll be okay, he's a spunky kid. At the same time, though, I went through all that, and I just want to pick those kids up and grab them by their temples and look straight into their eyes and shout, "LOOK! YOU HAVE A FUTURE! MIDDLE SCHOOL IS BULLSHIT! IT WAS CREATED BY ALIENS TO TEST THE PERSEVERANCE OF THEIR HUMAN SUBJECTS! SOME DAY YOU WILL HAVE A FRENCH NURSEMAID POURING CHOCOLATE SYRUP LOVINGLY ON YOUR NAKED BODY!" and shake them around and pour their insecurity out their ears, but I know, it takes time. In the meantime, take a middle schooler to lunch, willya? They like to be treated like adults. Hell, I did. That meant the world to me.

I really did give Dante the "you've got the whole world ahead of you" speech once. That was, bar none, the best night of my life. We had a real, true, deep conversation, and I could feel myself peeling his layers away until I got to his chewy chocolate center and I licked it up. I watched him unload all the pain he's undergone, all the rotating fathers, dead pets, strange teachers, and general frustrations of childhood, and hear him say those awful words of "I'm shrouded in darkness... it follows me everywhere. I cannot escape it. It is part of me."

(quick note: He told me that the darkness could be personified in this horrible being that invaded his nightmares. I told him that this monster is a wuss and a pansy and you could see his zipper. Look him straight and the eyes he'll run away screeching. That was some of the best advice I've ever given.)

I got to tell him--and have him believe me--that the basis for his pessimism is hooey, that he has his whole life ahead of him, he can go to college and get a job and forget about the motherfuckers who told him he'd never make it in life. He could do what he loves. He could make swords in his office on top of a skyscraper and people come from miles around to hear how he comes up with the beautiful runes he inscribes on them. And he would say, "It all comes from the inspiration brought from long, luscious nights with my lovable fuck puppy, Leticia McKenzie." And he'd slap my naked back and I'd say "Arf!" and I would be naked except for my leash (tied to his chair) and my fluffy puppy ears and I could wag my tail and sit on his desk and lick my fingers and--(BAM! Suzy hits Leticia on the head with a mallet...)

Ahem. He told me he wanted to be a healer. I said that, right? He could be a doctor. He could heal people. But I also told him... with these wonderful stories he makes up, he could be a writer. He's got a beautiful and complicated personality that I don't doubt people would pay money to get inside. I can't hear his elaborate rants about how he thinks about life (he switches uncontrollably between various personas; very amusing), or how he feels about love, or sex, or death, without knowing what a wonderful and unusual child this is. Dantes are one in a million. His eccentricity is his gift and not his burden.

But no. He decides to go with Ms. Drunk Stupid Girl and all is lost. The end. I don't care about him any more. If he wants to fuck up his life and drink and smoke pot, that's his choice. Me, I'm going to find some other man, somebody else who's one in a million, and forget I ever loved him; and, more painfully, that he ever loved me.


She wasn't a bad girl. Really. She's just let her own difficult past become her identity, the same way that Dante has. But, I got to see Dante for one brief moment when he wasn't holding himself back, [snippped-- sorry]

So I told him... oh my god... I'm seeing you. I'm seeing THROUGH you. I can see your inner light glowing like one of those stupid laser pointers. I could reach out and grab you and eat you. I could lick you up. I could BE you. I could...

Oh my god...

I love you.

No I mean, I love you love you. I mean, I want to bed you right now. Let's... seriously, do it. Our bodies will fuse. We'll be one person. Let's go.


No, what I was going to say was "I want to have sex with you, so I am going to go to my room instead, for fear that I will lose my virginity on short notice while my parents are in the same house. Sorry." But instead, I said, "I am going to sleep in my own room, okay? Goodnight, honey," emphasis on the honey. I loved him. I wanted him to know that.

But no, love lost, he's gone with the other girl. Can't say I blame him. Darkness can be hard to overcome, and it would sting your pride to go with the squeaky clean girl who emphasizes peace and serenity instead of the dark slutty girl who emphasizes brooding and sex.

Or maybe he feels a true connection with who his girlfriend is beneath the darkness.



(Yeah, a relationship based around past bad experiences is pretty unsustainable. But look, I'm just an observer, a very biased observer, and I am liable to find Every Single Reason why this relationship should never happen; even though most of why it IS happening is because she would have sex with him and I would not when we were sorta-dating. Also, we were sorta-dating for two years, so I guess my claim has run out. Also... I didn't feel like I was mature enough to handle a relationship with him, and I knew I wanted to date him once I could handle it, and I can't handle it yet, so there. Once their relationship implodes in a spectacular display of sexual drama, I'll be there, circling, for the kill.)

(Kidding! Kidding! I'd wait a good year or so for him to recover, and THEN I'd rip his shirt off.)

Sunday, March 28, 2004

My friend slashed his arms.

These days, the hip thing to do when you're contemplating suicide is to run a blade into the undersides of your arms, calling on the courage to press down on your wrists. This leads to permanent scarring and a permanent seat in the House of Cool.

My friend is into emo--the songs written for teenage boys to rhapsodize on how the girl never took him to prom and therefore civilization is ending. You know, the teenage feeling that everything you do could make or break the rest of your life, that your worth in society for the next seventy years is determined by your actions in middle school.

This is a load of hooey, but I felt it too, when I was in middle school. I contemplated suicide because I felt that society should no longer have to deal with Leticia the outcast, Leticia the dysfunctional cog in the otherwise perfect machine of Hicksburg, Leticia the orange splotch on the otherwise neat street. It took the strength of my two best friends--and the knowledge of how sad they would be if I were to kill myself--to keep myself from doing the deed.

So I can't help but feel anything but disdain for Linkin Park when I hear them articulate that feeling--"Crawling in my skin, these wounds they will not heal"--as if somehow, the insignificant mistakes and mishaps of high school will scar you for the rest of your life. The skinny girl didn't ask you to prom? Your girlfriend got drunk and fucked the football captain? Or, for us girls, your first foray into non-virginhood wasn't all it was cracked up to be? "These wounds they will not heal!"

(to be fair, many people do have right scarring experiences in teenagehood--having abusive parents or being marked the neighboorhood slut ranking among them--but people can and do recover, and you need to empower yourself to move beyond them rather than wallow in your own misery. Don't let your shortcomings become your identity.)

So I went to the bookstore and found a book on emo culture and tried to discern why my friend wanted to slash his wrists. It was trendy, I figured; my friend was obviously contemplating suicide (and this is a popular friend of mine; I continuously heard him talked about by my peers as the most thoughtful and mature preteen they know of. That is, until he started smoking pot. I hate pot. Drugs are not cool. That stupid animated mascot from fifth grade was right. But I'm getting ahead of myself), but could he also have been motivated to make these scars because all his friends were doing it?

But, you know, I was looking in the wrong place. I realized, about a chapter in, that I was only reading the book so that I could find a way to justify the "I Hate Linkin Park Because It Made My Friend Slash His Wrists" rant that was making its way to my fingers. Of course Linkin Park didn't make him slash his wrists. Teenage angst, and contemplation of suicide, are both perfectly normal (if bizarre and shocking) aspects of growing up. I just wish he didn't have to damage his beautiful body for life in order to express his emotions. So I grieve, and I try to shove the blame as quickly as possible at the most convenient target, which is Bands Who Make Wallowing In Your Own Emotional Despair Cool Again.

My dad listens to the blues. Throughout my childhood, I always wondered what he got out of it. If you can listen to any commercially available music in the world, why would you want to listen to a guy bitch and moan about how he shot somebody in Memphis and his girlfriend left him but she weight 300 pounds anyway and MWAH WAH WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH (boom boom boom boom boom boom) ...and there's no money left in his bank account and John Q. Mobster is coming to bust his kneecaps. Why the hell does my good Christian father wash dishes to this?

But one day he watched a documentary on blues ("Bluesland," for those who are following me), and the well-dressed, somber, heavyset black man (with his deep sexy voice... oooh) told us, "I want to eat applesauce-covered Leticia in one mighty slurp." No! No! How did that get in there?! (rewind....) He said, "we all get the blues sometimes--and nothing gets rid of the blues like blues music." He went on to describe the "two blues devils, fightin'" and how listening to the blues can sometimes provide an articulation and a release for the blues inside of all of us, even if we never shot nobody in Memphis. I found that charming; I play videogames, and I can often find humorous release of my inner passions on the flashing box.

So, it's not all Linkin Park's fault, just like it's not all Doom's fault, or Mortal Kombat's fault, or jazz music's fault, or swing music's fault, or Shakespeare's fault. We have our own ways of articulating our inner passions. I just don't know what to do about my friend's arms.


(I did what I supposed I should do: I hugged him and said "We love you!" I hope it helped, you know... I didn't get that in Hicksburg...)

(wah wah... crawling in my skin...)

Saturday, March 27, 2004

From the San Francisco Gate:

The ensuing debate is -- to women's rights advocates -- a clarifying look at the contradictory nature of a culture that shudders in horror at the sight of a breast with a suckling baby while celebrating the for-adults-only version of the breast in every possible forum.


It is a situation that has been repeated frequently over the years despite the law, according to Nancy Solomon, the senior staff attorney for the California Women's Law Center in Los Angeles.

In fact, she and others say, most breast-feeding women still hustle to a private area at feeding time or, if they can't find one, hold off feeding their babies. And yet, Solomon said, a person can scarcely walk past a billboard or turn on a television set without being confronted by depictions of cleavage.


Somebody woke up.
(From ParentingTeens.About.com, thanks to Atrios for the referral)

Everybody knows that the fifties were perfect and that in the sixties and seventies teenagers were fucking like bunnies, right?

Er, maybe not.

Go teenagers, and go hippies. Thanks to them, we have stronger family values.

(I have no problem with sex; it's just that teenagers need to be taught sexual responsibility, as they will need to know this as an adult, and the teen years are when one becomes an adult and your hormones are raging and you would easily have sex with a fencepost if you fount it attractive. We can cover our ears and say "la la la" and pretend that teenagers can be protected from sex; but face it, it's what they think about constantly, we need to give them upstanding and moral sexual rites of passage [such as helping them understand just what they are feeling] or they are going to find some not so nice ones. When you're a teenager with no hope of going to college, being a mother can be your only hope of feeling grown up.)

(Wait a second, I am a teenager! I need to stop being so condescending...)
Well, hello! It's 3 am, and I can't get to sleep, because of jet lag. So, you're stuck with me!

I got a whole bunch of responses from the "hippie" post. Thanks, I had no idea so many people felt the same way... (sob) Adolescence sucks! It's just an experiment in thinking you're the _only one_ in the _world._ Moving on....

(THANK YOU to the kid who E-mailed me saying she did the Demi Moore thing too. We are going to make plans to hang out sometime, only to do Demi Moore impressions in the mirror and eat cookies while our obedient male servants [who are kind enough only to wear loincloths and battle scars] lavish our naked bodies in cherry sauce and whipped cream. Really.)

(...And some artsy French photographer will have a field day with us.)

(...And a giant piston will mash me into a cake but I'm not sure how that fits in.)

No, there wasn't a kid playing a Nintendo Ultra Nitro 37px D20 on the plane, but the woman in front of me did seem to enjoy mashing my head in with the back of her chair when I was trying to nap. I believe my head is now lightly tenderized. On the headset, I saw Looney Tunes: Back in Action, which was... eh. I wouldn't pay money for it. (The premise was enticing, but the gag humor was poorly paced. See Airplane and Airplane II instead, for that kind of gag humor.) And finally I'm really hungry for some of that vegetable curry, which is almost the best thing in the universe. Speaking of my mentor...

I've commented here before that my relationship with my mentor has been feeling a bit... un-mentor-like (which _would_ be fine with me, except dating a staff person is against the rules... fuck!). Anyway, we're not allowed to meet at the facility anymore because kids... are... getting... jealous... of... our.... relationship. I had to keep a straight face while the head staff person told me this. We've got to stop being lovely and mentorly or other kids will wonder why THEY'RE not her mentees. She's MY mentor! Hah! MINE!

...So I can't be with her until her criminal background check clears and we can meet elsewhere. Yes, I want to hike through the woods and yes, I want it to be in front of a giant sparkling waterfall when we confess our love for each other. It will go _exactly_ like this:

LETICIA: Dearest mentor, there's something I've been meaning to tell you.
MENTOR: Don't worry, my darling... I know.
LETICIA: You do?
MENTOR: Every time I look into your eyes... I see the sparkle, the flame, the passion deep within you. I want nothing more than to hold that passion inside me.
LETICIA: An'! An'! I want you to hold me and then melt into a big gooey mentor-puddle, and I will be covered in warm mentor-goo and cradling myself in it until I sink into it and we dissappear into the earth!!
MENTOR: Um, okay..
LETICIA: Trust me! It'll work!
(It works.)
MENTOR: Okay, now what do I do?
LETICIA: Wait for a random stranger with a canteen to bottle us up and drink us very, very slowly.
MENTOR: And then...?
LETICIA: He pees us out behind a bush. Sound cool?
MENTOR: Leticia, where do you get these stupid ideas?
LETICIA: Wouldn't you like to know...
(All that other stuff works too. Leticia and Mentor go on to water a fine patch of petunias. They cradle each other for eternity as they bleed into the surrounding ecosystem. All the kids at the facility get jealous and try to do it too, but they all mess up and become halfway marshmallow kids and get eaten by wolves.)
(Which makes _me_ jealous, and I tell Mentor I want to become a joint marshmellow being with her and get eaten by a wolf, but she vetoes the idea, especially because we're too busy being sucked up the roots of the petunias, and the flowers are coming up Leticia/Mentor colored, and soon we will pop out the bulbs, reborn as fairies and we frolic in the woods for eternity, especially below that one tree where all the punk fairies hang out and we make one great big fairy mosh.)
(And then some camper gets a blender to make Punk Fairy Sauce but I'm ahead of myself.)

So! With those entertaining visions in your mind, you can now go to bed, the satisfying Leticia Taste settling into your stomach. Mmm-mm. Take a ltitle off my thighs, willya? That's my best meat right there. Juicy and tender, the way Leticias are.

Good night.

Friday, March 26, 2004

By the time you read this canned entry, I'm going to be on a plane, imagining all the things I'm going to do to the kid in front of me (who will be invariably leaning back in his chair--right into my lap--playing his Nintendo DS XG20 Turbo Plus) once I am queen of the world, so I'll keep it brief. Housecleaning:

--The comic book "Uncle Sam" is fantastic. It's a trippy little tour through everything that is right-- and wrong-- about the United States. You will laugh. You will cry. Well, not really, but you'll enjoy showing it to your hippie history teacher (everybody has one, I hope. Howard Zinn!). I, personally, read the whole thing in a record store, and like it enough to pay the sale price of two pounds so I could watch my hippie history teacher get a real kick out of it. Okay,

--Boobs. This really tees me off. A (female!) journalist, writing about a women's topless bike-riding protest in Daytona Beach, said this:

Even if the protest were only about being allowed to flash bare breasts in Daytona Beach during Bike Week, that was protected speech under the law . . . [but] exposing naked breasts to the hoots and whistles of eager-eyed men doesn't advance equal rights for women.

This is going to titillate men for me to say this (and therefore diffuse my point entirely, according to this woman's logic), but I cannot stand the idea that anything that turns men on is debasing to women. It takes two genders to run a society, people. If it turns men on, that's a bonus; that's how we make babies, after all.

I really miss the days in which sex was sacred and holy; but of course, "those days" are but a liberal fantasy, unless you count the fact that sex has ALWAYS been sacred and holy, which is always the argument for why sex should not be gay/frequent/fun. So I miss the days when sex was dirty and nasty and fun; days that can occur, outside of my liberal paradise in my head, one fuck at a time.

--Boobs again, because I love the subject so much. (Admit it, you love them too. You sucked on your mothers', or at least I hope you did. We can change that too.) From TERA comes news of a March called--get this--Boobies against Ashcroft. (I love it!)

That said.... I don't like the march's tone. Breasts are supposed to be wonderful and life-giving, right? Why would we want to use them to tear somebody down? Ashcroft isn't the problem, he's merely symptomatic of America's general fear of the milk machines. Come on! Let's show our boobs in _support_ of something, like how they're really damned cool. (bounce bounce)

--In which Leticia discusses the differences between Jet Grind Radio and Jet Set Radio Future:

IGN Xbox (can't be bothered to find the link... it's smothered in disturbing ads anyway) ran a feature on sequels they'd like to see, one of which was a Jet Set Radio 3, which they gave an 85% chance of happening since the name has recognition after being a pack-in title. Now... I doubt we'll ever see a third outing of jet-setting madness (considering the dismal sales of the first two), but a Jet Set Radio: Paris would still really kick ass. Can you imagine the game stylized after the Paris underground? Ooooh. And you could grind that big ugly pyramid in front of the Louvre.

Anyway, my point was, the feature said someting like "some took issue with Jet Set Radio Future's use of simple tags in place of the more complicated ones..." No, the problem was more like this. Jet Grind Radio (Jet Set Radio, everywhere but America) had a simple, fun gameplay mode involving tricking, running from cops, and tagging. Now, the first thing that Jet Set Radio Future took out was tagging (by making the tagging easy in the sense that all you had to do was push a button, but hard in that you fumbled the controls while trying to get the entire graffiti), which was a mistake since it was integral to the gameplay of the first; but it would all be better if they had a new gameplay mode, right? Then they took out being chased by the cops, which is kind of like making Pac-Man with no ghosts. Then they made your character ridiculously powerful and put rails damned everywhere so that tricking would be a breeze and replaced the ellegant, yet difficult combo system with one more resembling a game of Track and Field from hell and what you have left is the worst 3D platformer in recent memory. Jet Grind Radio had small levels, but the possibilities for tricking and experimentation were endless; Jet Set Radio Future had enormous levels and beautiful graphics that merely disguised the mind-numbingly simple processes of grind-wallride-grind, grind-jump-wallride, grind-jump-grind. Bottom line: Jet Grind Radio is Tony Hawk meets Pac-Man with a stylized twist, and Jet Set Radio Future is a platformer with no enemies where the only extra challenges are endless games of Track and Field on rails. Putrid.

So, I'd love a Jet Set Radio 3, but it wouldn't be worth more than $15 (what I paid for Future and Sega GT 2002 together, used) if it were based upon Future; and that's only because I am a fan of the youth-underground style and music of the series. Man, when I first saw Jet Grind Radio... I was so happy because I thought a game where you were a Tokyo skatepunk who had to paint graffiti and cause havok while running from cops, with heavily stylized graffiti-like visuals, was just the damned coolest thing ever. The sequel went so overboard on the style that it completely forgot about the underlying framework of gameplay. There were no new concepts in the sequel that I don't wanna see chucked for a third time around.

(And all the emphasis on "edgy"... I don't like edgy. You don't need to have the Noise Tanks be robots or Poison Jam be mutants with poison in their paint, or to have Professor K go from being charming and paternal to sassy and downright evil. I miss innocence. What ever happened to it?)

--Somebody E-mailed me to inform me that Bill Murray actually improvised many of his lines in Lost in Translation, hence why people think he should've gotten the SAG award. That's nothing, I coulda improvised the whole damn movie. In fact, I will, right now:

Where am I? Oh, what a weird videogame. This showerhead's too low... Golly Japanese people are short! I want to have sex with you, but I am a creepy old man. I think I'll have sex with this redhead instead. Oh, what a strange talk show...

Okay, that's enough! Tune in next time as Leticia presents her fantastic recipe for naked woman peach cobbler w/whipped cream. Sure to be a winner on the social circuit for months! (Be sure to choose a woman with freckles; they're really made of cinnamon. Mmm-mm.)

Wednesday, March 24, 2004

I'm sad.

In downtown Undisclosed Location I found a photo book called "Hippie." Yes, I knew the only reason I wanted to look at it for the naked women I would invariably find between its covers-- not for titillation (entirely; you all know my lesbian tendencies) but because... I wanna _be_ a naked woman. It's not fair. I want to be that one girl who was clutching her boyfriend as they strolled naked through their beautiful garden, perfectly inkeeping with the hippie philosophy of celebrating life and contemplation. I... I...

Where's Poseidontown's hippie-land? We're such a liberal city and I have yet to find such a place where I fit in. Someday, dammit, someday...

(On the positive side, we have the nicest punk kids you'll ever see; the kids downtown smoking pot and begging for change are at least 10 times nicer than the well-dressed businessmen who would sooner spit in their hats than give them pity as forgotten children.)

(Or, more importantly, help. Why do we have this contempt for teenagers in America? I hate our idea that poverty is the fault of the poor, but it's even more ludicrous when you consider how many children are born into poverty. These kids aren't even given a chance, much less a decent education. How much does college cost these days in America?)

(Yeah, I'm off to dismantle Star Wars. Who's with me? I've got a wrench, it's all we need to take care of Reagan's silly space toys...)


Back to the previous topic: "I wanna be naked" appears many many times in my diary, from about three years ago to one year ago, ending entirely when I read Promiscuities and realized that I, in fact, am not alone. In fact, every teenage girl wants to be looked at. Well, I mean, duh. But it doesn't really sink in when the adults in your life effectively tell you you're a whore.

But more importantly, I... wanna be loose of my material trappings. You know? When I was a kid... (embarrassing story ahead) I saw the cover of the Demi Moore movie, Striptease, on one of those junk mailings. On it was Demi Moore, naked, ellegantly covering up her naughty bits. I... I... it was intense. I had never seen a naked body before, being from small-town Hicksburg (name changed to protect the innocent), and... okay, here goes. Before I took a bath, I would take off all my clothes and look in the mirror and... pose myself as Demi Moore. I wanted to have that command of my body. And... I loved to have that time, that excuse, while the tub was filling up with water, to spend time with myself au naturel, and to pretend I was some glamorous striptease star. There. I was, I mean, I intend to say, that is, I...

I wanna be naked.

There you go.


(So the epilogue is this: FedEx yourself to Poseidontown for a naked stroll with Leticia. Come on. You know you want to.)

(It won't hurt THAT much when I rip the duct tape from your naked body... [giggle])
To clarify that whole post about outing: No, I was just goofing off. Really, I don't need to have trashy tabloid "detectives" trying to identify the smell of my panties 24/7 just to make me feel secure (although I wouldn't put it past myself). Also, I am honored to have a link from Belle, and just so you know, I don't really have low self-esteem--I have a fairly high opinion of myself, being queen of the universe and all--I'm just, you know, a teenager.

So! Next on the agenda is to tell you about Leticia's Stupid London Adventure. Oh man, don't even remind me. The most fun I had was playing Mario Kart at a store display. Basically, if you saw an American girl wandering about London cluelessly with her dad and his Russian friend (...really hot Russian friend) you have feasted your eyes upon the greatness that is Leticia McKenzie. Ohhh yeah. But anyway, in a nutshell:

- We went and saw everything boring about London, like Big Ben and the theater museum (okay, Big Ben was kind of neat, for all the seconds of enjoyment its grandiosity brought me), stopped briefly at the former shell of SegaWorld, which is now an expansively boring arcade, with no big plaster Sonic to pose with (awwww man!). I spent £4 on Virtua Cop 3 and Time Crisis 3, started to feel sorry for the little polygon people, and left. (I wanted to play Virtua Striker, but some soccer fan was hogging it. Dammit! All the way to London and I don't even get to play a soccer football game. Curses.)

Mostly, London's malls are exactly the same as in America: lovely, expensive, and pointless. I saw an Astro Boy designer shirt (something told me the little spud would have a line of designer clothes by now) on sale for twenty-eight freakin' pounds, which, for my American readers, is about an arm and a leg, give or take. (No, it's around fifty-six plummeting dollars. Hey, inflation is down!) Not even I would pay that much to have the lovable boy robot cradling my mom spots.

So! Ohh, but the best useless diversion was a giant trampoline with bungee cords, and my dad's (really hot... did I mention he's really hot?) Russian friend taking in excessive amounts of glee at watching hapless schoolgirls screech while being launched to the second floor in orgasmic fits of embarrassment. Since I had £6 (no, I just like using the pound key on my keyboard--nifty!) with me at the time, I considered having the cute guy at the bottom launch me (and my dignity) into the stratosphere, but since I had no friends with me to embarrass myself in front of (c'mon; when you're with friends, how much fun something is is directly proportional to how dumb it is), I decided against it; besides, it just seemed like a really dumb canned experience that only an American like me could enjoy. Oh well.

So! Finally we started going places that I really wanted to go: first to the Gallery (closed), then to a vegetarian restaurant (full; and hideously expensive) that took so long for us to find that we had no time to see Camden Town, which I really, really wanted to see but was too shy to bring it up. Oh well. I'm a ditz. Let's get on with it.

So we rode the train back and I was bitter and hungry, having to go without dinner not because I had something fun to do instead, but because we spent our last two hours in London wandering around for food to no avail. I didn't even want to talk about it; I bitterly told my dad that I planned to go to sleep without even eating the bag of nuts he offered me (my dignity--what was left of it--prevented that) and "pretend this whole thing never happened." He was dissappointed; he thought I meant the trip to London. Oh no, I meant this whole trip to England, in which I dreamt I would get to meet people my age but instead I waste away in my dad's apartment being greeted by old British ladies with impenetrable shields of politeness.

But no, I've enjoyed this trip to England, especially getting to wander around unfamiliar cities with no purpose or goal in mind, which is a pasttime of mine. My ideal world would be a place that is always unfamiliar, where everything is constantly new to me and I always have the broad and improvisational thinking of a child.

Things I enjoyed most:

- Imagining all the ways I was going to brutally (and creatively) murder the child in front of me on the plane, who had a Game Boy Advance SP (with a backlight) while I had a shitty old Game Boy Advance and all the plane's lights were broken
- Agonizing over that scratch on the front of my GBA, which I will not be able to fix until I get back home and order a new screen
- Eating good dinners at the dining hall, rather than spaghetti day after day (my mom has a habit of telling me, "I've already eaten today!" in her usual cheery manner whenever I ask what's for dinner; this is code for, "Noodles again, bub!")
- Incredibly polite strangers; if you accidentally close a door in somebody's face in America, they'll be gunning for ya
- My neatly made bed, ohhh yes (masturbates...)
- Playing Mario & Luigi... didn't I already say that?
- Having the license to consider myself not a loser
- Meeting the one young woman for miles around in Quaker City; granted, she was talking about her wonderful boyfriend and how they were gonna get married and have lots of babies and (whacks her head in with a shovel), but she was still nice and the only girl my age I've met in this whole godforsaken trip
- Watching the one girl's orgasmic fits of embarrassment; it was nice to see a British person forgo their dignity for once

But most of all, I will enjoy flying back to Poseidontown, with working lights and sexy flight attendants and meals I can actually eat, and return to a life of moping, going to three different schools where nobody cares about me, and eating my mother's bread, pasta, and cereal 24/7. You can tell she loves me, can't you? (No, I'm just kidding... I really do respect my mother, and I'm almost an adult anyway so I better start making my own food. She just doesn't think I'm feminine enough to find a boyfriend; but I wonder how she ever found a husband...)

No, but really, this trip has made me swear off moping for good. I am going to seek out my friends and we are going to do something fun and bonding-like. And whenever I am blue, I can at least remember; I am NOT stuck in a boring complex in the middle of nowhere with only old British ladies for company. Doesn't that make you feel warm and fuzzy inside?

(By the way, London's graffiti is fantastic, and much much better than the graffiti in Poseidontown. I wonder if some of the graffiti really is commissioned by the city. In that case, I need to drag all the gangs back on my plane to show the kids in Poseidontown how it's done.)

(Oh and Puyo Pop Fever is out in England. Whaaaaaaa?! Oh, to have a PAL-compatible TV...)

Tuesday, March 23, 2004

A sexy girl ninja, with spunk in her eyes to compliment her mucky black hair, took her sword and confidently sliced me into a hundred tasty Leticia slices, and then broke out the soy sauce for a tasty dinner of Leticia kabobs.

In case you were wondering.
Riding the bus to the Quaker Complex gave me time to ponder today. But more importantly, as I sat down on a chair and held on to a pole to balance myself, a blonde girl put her fit, denimed bottom right... on... my... hand. "Sohray!" I said, in my pathetic fake accent, withdrawing my hand. She smiled, assured me it was okay, and proceeded to put her buttcrack right... on... the... pole.

I love that girl. Give me her number. We should hang out sometime. She is my inspiration.

Monday, March 22, 2004

The shirt is now a dollar less. In one week I am going to replace it with a T-shirt, so get this novelty babydoll while you can. They'll be worth thousands on eBay, I'm sure.
By the way, if you've never read Bellow, do so now. Really. Stop reading my blog. Now. What?! You're still reading?! Cut that out! Okay here's an E-mail she sent me a long time ago:

Ms. McK--

Thank you for calling my blog "really freaking good" in bold letters. I was originally going to write that it made me want to kiss you, but then I remembered that that's not really up your alley. So instead: It made me want to stand you in the middle of a room naked and have hundreds of people write on you with feather quill pens. Each person would only get to write one word on exactly one square inch of your skin. Then they'd lay Leticia The Living Novel down on a paper cutter and dice you into one-inch cubes and Fed-ex you in boxes filled with packing peanuts to Book of the Month Clubs around the country, where people would open you and devour their square-inch Leticia Leaflets with their eyes. After that, they'd shelve you in their homes next to Tolstoy and Sade, and you'd have to wait there, forever, shattered by the ecstasy of always hoping that another person was just...about...to read you.

Please don't tell your mom I wrote that.


My reply:

That... is the best... thing... ever.


(Ten thousand Leticia points plus stock options. At

Now go.
Looked at the news today, oh boy, oh boy...

Belle has been outed. I wish she had been outed as me, but no, she got outed as some silly journalist from the Guardian (with a less-than-flattering picture) that she obviously is not, and the non-story fizzled out after a news cycle after the evidence was revealed to be flimsier than Donald Rumsfeld on an extra dose of Ambien. ("We know where Belle is. She's in the area around London in England and east, west, south and north somewhat.") C'est la vie. Belle's secret identity is safe for another day.

(disclaimer: not an actual quote. Come on.)

But why isn't everybody looking for MY secret identity?! I scanned the article with my heart pounding, hoping to find something along the lines of "A cursory look at Ms. du Jour's blogroll reveals such stunning sights as the sultrily succinct sylliloquies of the silly slut, Leticia McKenzie. Who is this mysterious masturbating matriarch, and what is it with her and being ground into raw meat? Find out as the Times investigates: The Cunt Caressing Caper!-- or, Curious Cunnilingus Confounds!" (excitedly draws a storyboard on a napkin) What?

But no, no love for meeee, or any of the (far more worthy and experienced) authors on Belle's blogroll. But hey! More publicity for Belle means more publicity for me, which means I can go to sleep at night visualizing "Tainted Love: The Best-Selling Trashy Sex Novel By Leticia McKenzie -- Now With 20% More Come Stains!" from the alternate universe in which I am a superstar and people will pay me thousands of dollars to watch me masturbate.

And you know what? All the sacrifice and hardship it took to make me Queen Whore of the Universe would be ALL WORTH IT because I could go down to Dante's house and, despite him having long, hot sex with his darling fiancee (they never got married, they're always about to, just to spite me) as well as Belle, Brielle, Killbunnie, and every single girl I've ever admired (as a friend! sheesh), sprawled out on the couch and enacting Dante's wildest fantasies (he has a thing for swords-- actually, the Dante Sword Vibrator would be pretty damned cool, just ONE MORE REASON I would make a better life partner than that bitch), I would be COMPLETELY UNAFFECTED by all the sex because I would be in my warm, impenetrable bubble of conviction, with the ability to come in, show him my best-selling trashy romance novel "Naked My Whole Pie Plus -- More than 30 WEEKS beneath your nightstand!" my impending movie deal, as well as my best-selling porn magazine (tantalizingly hidden in a brown paper bag) and launch a satisfying glob of saliva right in his face. (Or... wait. Is a spit just a long distance kiss? Ye gads, I never thought about that.) (shivers)

(And "that bitch" really isn't that bad a person. Okay, so she's a pretty bad person. Okay, so he's only a moderately good person either. I didn't say this grudge was rational. You know how women work.)

(Accept, if you're a man, you don't, and it's best we keep it that way, lest you figure out the pressure points that make us pop open like crash dummies, at which point our remaining limbs are at your disposal the fry up with tartar sauce. Hey! That's pretty sexy. [writes it down...])

So anyway, the purpose of all this nonsense is--what is it--ah yes, Times, I'll pay you 300 squid to out me as Angelina Jolie. Come on. You know you want to.

(Suzy [whisper]: It's "quid!" "QUID!")

But most importantly, I scanned the Guardian weblog (which is all over the Belle story of non-stories) and found no mention of my website (sad; oh, but I'll get over it. Most people like me--that is to say, with a constant, insatiable need for attention--would be satisfied with a LINK from Belle), but I did find mention of her kind cohorts Beau de Jour and Belle de Jew. What?! Why didn't I think of that?! I should've called myself Belleticia de McJenzie! I could have my book deal by now! Curse your brilliance, bloggers! Curse it!

So, in any case, do prepare yourselves to be taken by storm by trashy porn novels with names like "Cherry Pie: A Subconscious Introversion into the Necessary Stakes of Time, But With Lots of Girl-on-Girl Scenes, by Leticia McKenzie, But With Inspiration Given By Her Wonderful Imaginary Boyfriend Steven, Who Had Better Hurry Up With The Goddamned Whipped Cream Already." Ha, ha! There you go! I'll make the New York Times, easy. People will be outing me as Emily Dickinson.

...Or at least, Emily Raisenhauff.

...Which sounds kind of like Dickenson, if you squint and tilt your head.

...Good night.


THIS JUST IN: Leticia McKenzie is actually a pathetic teenager with nothing better to do than pretend she knows anything about sex! More as it develops.
There's a sign in the lunchroom that says, "Crockery and cutlery on this trolley please."

So wonderfully British.
Well, Lost in Translation (spoilers ahead) got the Oscar for best screenplay, even though I'm not quite sure what stood out about it. I could write a better screenplay. In fact, I will, right now:

The one girl: I want to have sex with you, but you are an old man.
Bill Murray: Golly, these Japanese people are silly.

See? There you go, I just saved you eight bucks. Ain't I a great girl?

(By the way, I imagine Johnny Depp deserved the Screen Actors' Guild award. Comedy is hard; keeping the same glazed-over expression the entire movie is not.)

Sunday, March 21, 2004

Well it all started one fine morning when I decided to go to church. (Have I told this story?) Well, y'know, Quaker service is all about being completely silent while sitting in your creaky folding chair and waiting for the Holy Spirit to arrive. Usually, the Holy Spirit is stuck in traffic and I have to think about Sonic and stall, but this time, oh boy, I got the Spirit power in full force.

Y'see, she entered my body through a certain cavity in my midsection and appeared to me as a sacred prostitute. She was beautiful: shy and giggly, with red hair and pompous demeanor, and extravagant jewels and tassles hanging off of her body. She held me and asked me what was wrong and I told her, well...

"Nobody wants to watch me strip!"

(You all remember my girlhood dream, right? Good.)

I just about died. She told me... she told me she would watch me. And she did, eagerly and unapologetically, with her eyes sparkling as I made my moves. Finally, with my cunt against her face, she licked me, and that was that. She had no judgments, no presumptions, just pure warmth and caring. It... it was spiritual.

She told me... she told me everybody sees God in their own way, and that I shouldn't feel bad for any of my perceptions. She told me to go out there and be brave. She knew what I needed to be happy, and it wasn't in sex; I had that covered by myself. She made me feel whole. She made me feel wanted.

So she left, and I was left with my first spiritual experience since, well, watching Serial Experiments Lain, and I didn't know how to communicate it to anybody. How do I show the way that I've seen God?

But today, going to church in fairest England, I realized that it doesn't matter if you see God as a skinny white guy or as a nature spirit or as a prostitute. It felt like everybody was speaking from the same Spirit, the same Spirit with whom I consorted and had sex. She, or he, or whoever, gave us all energy in our own individual ways, and that reflects our purpose in the great global machine.

And that, my friends, makes me feel right spiffy. Who's up for some hippie spirituality?


Today, by the way, I saw the Holy Spirit again, and she was naked, skinny, and with short, spiky pink hair. She was pale and spoke in multiple octaves, like Alex Mack when she was liquified (did anybody else watch that show when they were kids?). She was in her dingy city digs and got out some sodas from her tiny fridge for us to drink while we sat at her little card table to chat. She told me... she told me first of all to discard my pride, as it has been dictating my actions too much lately, but also to reconcile with my guardian angel, as it's more important to be with my personal savior (er, in a different sense) than to try and be with the whole world's Spirit right now. My guardian angel was like my spiritual switchboard, the entry point into being one with the universe that I needed to get along with, lest I fail as a cog in the global machine.

So Suzy and I got together and I told her... I don't need to have sex. I need to PLAY. I need to play like a mofo. So, after a few rounds of Puyo Puyo, we went outside to a giant jungle gym and played... hide and seek! I was scraggly and looking kind of like my mentor, but younger, with a backwards cap and big navy blue suspenders. She was buck naked, much more buff than usual, with her big blonde hair swaying in the wind, and her giant angelic fairy wings stretching seemingly to the clouds. She counted and chased me around the playground, as I giggled and climbed and ran and launched web-lines (don't ask) just to get away from her. Eventually she caught me, got her big arms around me, and swallowed me whole. She just took me in my mouth as I laughed and cringed and waved by big sandaled feet in the air as I exited this world and entered Suzy's stomach. She cradled me there, now that I was a globe in her stomach, and held me as if I were her unborn child. Then she shit me out behind a bush, and as I protested using whatever means I could given my current state, she said, "Sorry, darling, but you're just too tasty for me not to eat you up," licking her fingers with delight. Mmm-mm.

So... I'm really glad I got to spend some time with my guardian angel, and with the Holy Spirit. May we all live in peace and harmony and sexual balance someday. Shalom!

(sorry to cop the Hebrew word; I just think it sounds so cool)
Agghh! I saw another ad for personal ads. I'm angry at all the marketing towards lonely people. In fact, I am going to organize the Lonely People's Anti-Defamation League, and we're going to have our first meeting at 12:00 tomorrow, where we will sit around twiddling our thumbs and listening to the same CD for the billionth time. Cheers!

(or, in the words of Linkin Park: "Nyyyaaaaahh waaahhwaaaahhwaaahhwaaaaaaahhh lolo waaaaaahhwaaaaahhh ohhhhoohhhhhhhwah")

Saturday, March 20, 2004

Y'know, right now, in particular, I really really really wanna be run through the Magazine Machine.

Something about London...
Appearantly the DNC has put up a Flash movie showing Bush's deficit as a giant balloon; the analogy I would go for is a kid in a sweetshop, who eats so much candy that there's no more left, so he just eats everybody's candy and the sweetshop has negative candy left and soon he's attacking other candy shops with candy bombs and stealing all their candy and if the sweetshop doesn't go out of business, it'll get its ass kicked by the police, the mafia, and the banks, in that order, chronologically and by harshness.

See? Bush isn't an idiot. He's just a really, really, really, really, really, really bad businessman. And a worse commander-in-chief. We're not saying he should be sent to the fiery depths of hell and forced to watch fifties sitcoms for eternity, we're just saying he's not qualified to hold, y'know, the most powerful office in the country.

Just sayin'.
My package from Japan, containing the soundtracks for Jet Grind Radio and Jet Set Radio Future, has yet to arrive. Grrr. I paid extra for fast shipping. CDJapan will soon face my wrath.

(continued from yesterday; of course, yesterday was today for me)

Things I have noticed about London:

1) Pretty. Everything is arranged in nice, polygonal corridors, albeit with advertisements spewed in every conceivable corner (Mike Meyers scares me enough without being 6 feet high). The airport, however, despite its clearly marked paths was incredibly labyrinthine, and together with all the stone pillars I had a feeling a gun was about to materialize in front of my viewpoint and hideous aliens were going to jump out at me. But in any case, everywhere where Americans design someplace to be confoundingly hard to navigate, the British just seem to put everything in a circle. This is HEAVEN for somebody like me with no sense of direction.

The London Underground turns me on. Without all those advertisements (seriously; they stretch down long hallways, and adspace is bought in bulk), it might be the coolest thing in the universe. However, given that they are constantly trying to beam thoughts of insecurity into your brain with every wall, it is not quite as cool as Jet Grind Radio and a muffin. (Beef... stew. I think my imagination's broke)

Naked women. Good GOD the naked women. I had a feeling that, when I first saw a newsstand and its legions of barely clothed nymphs, that they were all going to jump out at me and assimilate me into one of their kind, which wouldn't be so bad if we got to have pajama parties and cake-baking contests. But no, these girls were there to show you that YOU aren't good enough, you need to be sexier like me and so you should buy ten thousand billion things that nobody needs; but more importantly (and more honestly; this makes me more partial to men's magazines than women's), they more often said "Oooh, stare at me all you want, but you'll never have me. Ha!" I honestly saw--this is going to shock Americans and bore Britons--a naked woman orgy on the cover of a men's magazine with the caption "Blonde Sex Party." (Hell yeah! I'm there, but my hair may or may not require bleaching--my secret identity requires you not to know.) All these girls were assisting each other in covering up their naughty bits; how touching. I wanna join!

...But anyway, all in all, just from that one newsstand there were more naked women than a busload of, er, naked women. Dammit! I cannot think of a good simile for this. More naked women than a baseball team of... naked women. Hey! That's cool! I'm going to direct a drama anime about a baseball team of naked women. It'll be called "Dirty Nymph Diaries" and it is coming your way next season on the All Leticia's Female Nudity Empowerment Channel. (Call for rates. Just call the number on your screen and say "Naked, my whole pie plus!")

Oh, but my point was, anybody who says that America is awash in sex should get their head clubbed by a British newsstand. Britons are awash in sex, and I reckon they're happier for it; we're just awash in sexual anxiety and dishonesty. This is how we can play all sorts of radio songs about sexual coercion, but oh no, if it's performance involves showing part of a nipple, we can't take it! This is America, you know, not Britoninishitstan!

That said, every guy who signs my "Yes, All I Really Want is Sex With Hot Blondes" online petition (lesbians too) (I'll think of an alternative for gay guys and straight women) will get a kiss from me and a "I Tell It Like It Is!" button. We will be on our way to sexual honesty.

Where the hell was I? Oh yes! Double-decker buses are quite thrilling, especially because, from the viewpoint on the front of the bus, it looks like you are flying a great big hoverbike, narrowly threading your way through tunnels and coming very close to beheading random pedestrians and stop signs. Fun fun. I considered drawing crosshairs on the windshield just to authenticate my experience, but I'm sure I would be arrested and forced to give the twenty grovels. (Is that the misdemeanor punishment in Britain? It should be.)

Aaaaanyway, something about sex and blondes. No! Wait! Jet Set Radio: England would kick the llama's ass. Especially because I saw lots of graffiti on the train tunnels, and it was actually quite good. I think the best way to wipe out graffiti would be to commission wayward youths to do murals for the train tunnels, and the city could find a way to distribute territory evenly between the gangs. They could get professional branding companies to give each gang a sexy logo. See? Diplomacy at work! We would be getting kids off the streets with style.

Wasn't this supposed to be a numbered list? Oops. In any case, the next thing I noticed was that

2) British accents are sexier than I thought. And everybody has them. You know, I kind of thought they were a novelty. Gosh, Americans are so silly. We must have the silliest accent of them all. I cringe at the thought of what my accent sounds like to a foreigner. "Hi! I like to slouch and eat Cheese Doodles while watching Fox News! How about you?" But in any case, I think every accent is sexy (just British in particular; and everybody knows everything Japanese is hot), so my question is, are American accents particularly sexy? Or are they just weird? Answers on a postcard, please.

So, after taking my plane, three trains, a bus, a hamster, and a rocking horse back to Quaker Central Command, I collapsed into bed. Ohhh that felt good. I could've melted right there. In fact, I think I did, as I woke up (here it comes...) with all my clothes off, imagining myself traversing through the giant blank land of the Internet and falling into one of the many small, rectangular pits, reaching away for dear life as I was ground into pure information applesauce. Oh yes baby. Ohh... Ohh... I trudged all the way to the shower and came into it. This is the best room ever.

You may have noticed I have a habit of being self-conscious and of second-guessing myself, but during this little episode, not once. I was in a beautiful dream, but it was real, where I was butt-naked in a small, personal land where nobody would notice if I trudged off to the bathroom to please myself. I was high, I was dreaming, I was... pure. I was 100% pure Leticia energy. I was a nymph. I was glorious. I was who I was. For one moment, I was floating on pure eroticism.

...Then I had to clean everything up, find my clothes, and hope my dad never, ever finds out. Then I went back to bed and had I dream where I accepted myself as a lesbian. Beautiful.

(Actual self acceptance was delayed until May 2005. Eventual acceptance may face additional delays depending on outside forces, such as really hot guys. We'll see.)

(And the alternative petition is "All I Really Want Is to Have Sex With Leticia's Imaginary Asian Boyfriend Who Delicately Spreads Whipped Cream and Honey on Her Naked Body while She Relaxes and Plays Sonic Advance 2." Ha!)

Friday, March 19, 2004

Hey, ho, lovely Leticiaites! We're kicking it liiiive from somewhere in England (my undisclosed location), which I have now declared the People's Republic of Brielleistan, which shall be the sister nation of Leticiastan. From here, we shall conquer the world! A dildo in every home, I say!

So anyway, it took a plane, my mom's car, three trains, and a bus to get home, and I was up for a good twenty-six hours before finally crashing at my dad's Quaker National Headquarters. Seriously; this place (my undisclosed location) is Quaker City, a mansion complex in which I keep looking around to find George Fox's preserved brain, or perhaps the Quaker Central Hivemind. In any case, this place is lovely; everything is white and clean and boring, just the way I like it. Ah, Quakerness, religion of peeling paint and folding chairs.

Okay! So about the flight. I, Leticia Jeanette McKenzie, have seen my personal hell. My personal hell is as follows: I am on a plane. There are people on each side of me, attractive women that I will have to spend nine hours within breathing distance of and yet never getting to know their names. I will not be able to get out without making one of them pack up her nine-hour livelihood and stand in the aisle while I re-inflate myself and discover the joys of standing. The lights are broken, and despite the fact that I bought two Game Boy Advance games for the flight I will never get a chance to play them. And, I cannot go to sleep, because there is not enough space for me to put my head down because the kid in front is leaning back in his chair, playing HIS Game Boy Advance SP, WHICH HAS A LIGHT. It took all of my pacifist leanings not to beat his head in with a shovel. Oh, but it would have been fun. Then I would've just switched our Game Boys and hoped he wouldn't know the difference, accept his boyhood probably wouldn't have allowed him to play a pink Game Boy with sparkly star stickers all over it. I think his existence would've been negated. Poof.

(that is, a puff of smoke, not, you know, a poof)

Aaaaanyway, so the kind flight attendant with a goatee (and I deserve credit for not using my feminine charms to drag him into the bathroom to have sex with me, which would have been kind of sexy in a not-sexy kind of way. Airplane bathrooms are thrilling, in that you are peeing at 7000m in the air and could be jettisoned at any moment) let me play my Game Boy for a few hours while sitting in the coffee-making area, which is right next to the emergency exit, which gave me the thrill of playing Mario & Luigi when I could be sucked into deep space at any moment. (It also gave me the thrilling WHIRRRRRR of the world rushing past me, which drowned out any catchy music Sonic Advance 2 might have had. Sonic Advance 2, by the way, really kicks the llama's ass.) This was absolute bliss; I was given so much space that it was comparable to a bench on a bus (which might as well have been the Construct from the Matrix in comparison to the gerbil cages we were normally kept in), meaning I could actually extend my muscles and stretch for approximately half a meter without tripping the sexy flight attendants who were constantly passing me (oh yes). But it had to come to an end; one non-sexy flight attendant made me sit back in my gerbil cage and so I watched the Matrix Revolutions in Headrest-O-Vision for the rest of the flight.

To be continued with my impressions of London, based entirely on the train station, the heaping wads of advertisements taking over civilization, and the naked women. Dear Lordy the naked women. My masturbation fantasies are so tame by comparison. If you ran each and every one of my friends through the Magazine Machine you would NEVER have as many naked women as... okay, this is a dumb simile. But you get the point! Good night!

(Or, good morning, for me...)

Thursday, March 18, 2004

Well, I leave for England today (yahoo!), so I won't be writing much today, probably. Most of my day will be spent playing Mario & Luigi on the plane. I'll miss you all, my darlings.

(but stay tuned for updates from Leticia's Fantastic England Adventure)

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

Better worded argument regarding Spain, terrorism, and democracy, now that I'm not so angry:

As Big Media Matt put it (thanks to Atrios for the referral), liberals are in a double-bind. "The right would like to set up the following argument: If there are no attacks between now and the election, then Bush has defended us from terror and deserves re-election; if there is an attack between now and the election, then voting for Kerry would be appeasement. Spain is just the dry-run."

But most importantly, this whole concept that "YOU MUST VOTE REPUBLICAN BECAUSE OF TERROR" revolves around a basic assumption that terrorists are on the liberals' side, that liberals like terrorists and terrorists like liberals. Now remember; these terrorists are supporting deadly Middle Eastern dictatorial regimes. According to the right, however, they are on the side of democracy--and that the people of Spain voted for a liberal government simply because they are trying to appease the terrorists. Doo-wha?!

Just think about that. Let it sit in your head. Fewer and fewer things about politics in America make sense every second when you discard that basic assumption. You are going to wake up in the middle of the night seething with anger at the silly right-wingers. But don't hate them. Love them. They're only scared and mournful, something we can all relate to in this (excuse me) post-9.11 world. Give them aid and comfort and show them that the true path to peace is not, in fact, blowing up every Middle Eastern country with empty chemical warheads (and dangerous mobile hydrogen labs!) Give them love. Show them peace. We're the compassionate people.

Talk to your doctor about Liberalism(TM).



(Oh, and I could come up with plenty of arguments for why the Terrorists are on the Conservatives' Side--they do, after all, generally oppose secular school education and displays of sex in public, to name two positions in common--but I'm just sick of this American political game of "The terrorists are on YOUR side!" "No, the terrorists are on YOUR side!" Remember, terrorists more than anything want (a) power and (b) dead people, and if you are not giving them either, or the means to do so, you are unlikely to be appeasing them. However, the Bush administration has provided the terrorists with these fabulous breeding grounds down in Iraq and Afghanistan; why do they hate America?)

(And I ask that only halfway in jest. Really.)

(Oh, and Iran-Contra. Just think about that for a bit, too.)

(And the coup in Haiti.)

(And Iran. And the Congo. And on and on and on...)

(Why do they love terrorists?)

After being burned by Dante, I went and rented Gunvalkyrie, by Smilebit/Sega, for Xbox. Think about that name for a second: Gunvalkyrie. What better game to let out some feminine rage? It's, er, pretty good so far, although it suffers from Jet Set Radio Future's problem of unfocused, generalized gameplay and expansive, yet linear levels. I've been pretty bitter about games lately, haven't I? Maybe nothing will quite match the experience of playing Sonic The Hedgehog at five years old...

To add to that fantasy below, I want to be able to wake up in the morning buck naked and whisper into his ear, sultrily, "All your base are belong to us..."

...And during sex, my "safe words" to indicate that I was having fun (as those cute lesbian workshop people told us to arrange) would be "Chain reactions pump up the juice!" (Columns), "Avoid missing ball for high score!" (Pong), and the mother lode, "FUNKY ACTION!!" (Sonic Spinball)

Ohhh yeah. That, and he'd spank me with a Dreamcast. And press me under the CD tray and make me into a game. And then play me long into the night. And then refuse to let me out despite my please for mercy. And then I'd get eaten by an in-game monster, but I'd rather enjoy it, especially as my feet waved back and forth, struggling to break free but loving the feeling of sliding down his slimy jaws and being taken in by his big power stomach, dissolved into food. And then he'd shit me out and I'd be part of the earth or something. Oh! And then my boyfriend would finally get around to turning me into a human again, and then I'd kick his ass for trapping me in my Dreamcast, but he'd secretly enjoy it (enough to wear a silly wrestler harness), and melt into a little puddle of human goo, one that I found so puzzling and tantalizing that I would step in him with my bare foot, only for him to take hold and I'd sink helplessly into his body, frantically reaching for things to hold on to, until we are both drained through a little hole in the Earth.

Ohhh yeah. I love this blog. Never leave me.

(by the way, Kitten Blue came. Send her some love.)

Tuesday, March 16, 2004

Well hi hi! Today I'm supposed to talk about sex or something. It's my calling, somehow, and I hate callings. It's so confining and rigid. I want to be able to do whatever I want, but that tends to be about sex, so...

So! I have NOT MASTURBATED lately. At all. For a good day and a half I have kept my legs together. This is good, not because masturbation is bad, but because I am happy, even without needing to masturbate. This is very good. My mood needs to be not dependent on sex.

That said, I also just don't feel like giving y'all any more material. Sorry, but I just feel like a stupid sad slut when I do. Maybe later I'll be more confident and more emotionally mature and I'll feel like sending y'all into multiple orgasms, but for now, you can check Belle's blogroll for plenty of wanking material.

Me, I'm going to go have sex with my tall, skinny, sensitive Asian boyfriend. (apologies for the stereotype) He's going to ask for consent every five seconds and be very resourceful with a selection of honey and whipped cream to apply to my naked body. He's also going to speak in a very soft voice and it turns him on to play Jet Grind Radio while I hold the second (vibrating) controller in my vagina and we have sex to that obscure Russian soundtrack (lemme think... Brothers 2) that my dad has and I was sitting in the car one day thinking "Wow, I'd really like to have sex to that song."

No, I'm not really going to have sex with this imaginary boyfriend, but it improves my mood to think I'm going to. Yay for sensitive men! I'm going to make a porn magazine full of naked men (with short hair and glasses) making "let's talk" poses. And delicately applying whipped cream to my body, asking for consent every five seconds. Ohh yes.

(That said, some guy E-mailed me once, saying he had bought Promiscuities because I had recommended it. All boys take notice: you need to read this book, as it is practically a manual on How to Be the Bestest Boyfriend in the Whole Wide World. And I want the boyfriend that comes out when I run the book through the Boyfriend Machine.)

What a wonderful world...

Today I partook in my favorite activity of all time, sleeping on the bus. If you haven't tried it, do it sometimes. You feel new and refreshed. You also feel like you have lots of creepy people staring at you for sleeping on the bus. But that's beside the point! If I had dignity, I wouldn't have a blog.

Before that, I met with my best friend (in real life that is; sorry Brielle), who gave me support for what happened with Dante (I really don't want to go into details), despite me thinking that I had run past his support quotient with all my melodramatic sob stories. He shared with me his own experiences, and told me, our mutual friend, and his stepmom, "I love you all!" and we colllided in a great big group hug.

When I went to buy Mario & Luigi, I saw a girl help her boyfriend pick out Super Nintendo games.

(cue Louis Armstrong on saxophone)

I saw a pudgy red-haired girl in a black hoodie drawing romantic things in her sketchbook. I look down at her drawings, and she smiled back up warmly. She helped an old woman who dropped her wallet, and she left the bus with a smile on her face, bouncing down the street with satisfaction.

I saw a serious-looking woman in a tiny red skirt and a bandanna ask me to close a window.

A bus driver stopped the bus just for li'l ol' me when he saw me bounding down the sidewalk in my usual fashion.

I have the song from Sonic Heroes stuck in my head, the one that goes, "We will make it if we all stick together, we won't give up not ever, it's easier with your friends by your side!"

But most importantly, my brother got back from college, and I can show him all my new videogames once he wakes up.

What a wonderful world...
So, Dante is out of my hair. For life. I promise. I am not going back to looking for his erotic appeal. I'm going to find a nice boy who values my sexuality. You got that? No more feeling like a cheap slut. I am reclaiming myself. I am no longer lonely.

Let's, er, see how it goes. I've been using that phrase too much now, haven't I? Well, well see how kicking that phrase addiction go-- (pours bucket of water on head) Sorry. As I was saying... I want a nice boy. If you happen to be a nice boy, feel free to send yourself UPS to...

Leticia McKenzie
141 Rosemary Way

Poke air holes and take snacks for the ride. I'll give you a complimentary bath. Really. (And for THIS WEEK ONLY, I'll give you a FREE LETICIA T-SHIRT! Operators are standing by.)

Hmhmhmhm. Oh, and you should have a Nintendo beanie like that one cute guy on the bus, have your hair in short dreads, wear headphones around your neck, be relatively dumpy and prettyful and always have a kind word to say. And do excuse your new girlfriend if she has the tendency to drain your emotional life-force out of you for her own needs. I do that sometime.

Okay! With that out of my system, I'm'a play Mario & Luigi...

Bombings. Madrid. Ewwww.

Death bad. Elections good. Democracy good. No democracy in favor of killings bad.

Political cartoon that Leticia saw on the bus on the way home, with an al-Qaeda skeleton death-man saying "Don't forget to vote!" to the exploding train, very very bad. Killings should not, under any circumstances, be used for political gain. Okay, maybe sometimes they should be used in political gain in such a matter that such gain might PREVENT SUCH KILLINGS. Democratically outsting a conservative government, as what just happened in Spain, does NOT ENDORSE TERRORISM.

Ooooggagagagagagaaagaaahhh. This is wrong on so many levels. The depths that conservatives are willing to sink to...

(okay, and to be fair, the depths I'm willing to sink to to make pokes at them. But still, I'm accusing them of saying that the terrorists are on the side of the liberals; they're accusing the liberals of supporting terrorism by not supporting wars that are causing more terrorism.)

(Which brings me to my point: attacking Third World countries en masse does not do much to end terrorism. It is CREATING NEW TERRORISTS. It is making the world a MORE DANGEROUS PLACE. And so, Spaniards infuriated by the Iraq War hitting home are voting in an administration that does not practice such nonsense.)

(Democracy. It's nice. You should try it sometime.)

(Beyond that, I'm sickened by the argument that we need a more centralized, dictatorial government to fight the Middle East and their centralized, dictatorial governments, but I'm almost out of Ranting Power and I'll have to go find my spaceship to recharge. Ciao!)

Sunday, March 14, 2004

Leticia cannot do this today. So you're stuck with me, Suzy, again. We'll see how it goes....

There are times when I wanna be licked off the floor, like chocolate syrup, and there are times when I wanna be left alone. This is one of those times. Leticia and I have been fighting quite a bit--her interest in sex has driven someting of a wedge in our relationship--but she doesn't seem to need me that much anymore. Which is kinda said, because I love being her guardian angel. At the same, time, though, I need to be happy for her, because she's growing up. But, I just want to hold her and put my great big wings around her and pretend everything's all right and everything bad in the world doesn't exist. All that matters is me and her.

That was all well and good when Leticia was two years old... but she's seventeen now, and needs to make her own choices in life. Problem is, she doesn't know what the right answers are, and hell if I know, being from another plane of existence from all. But, I think my constant checking in on her, bothering her when she's trying to have fun, is hurting her more than it helps. I'm afraid I'm keeping her shy.

So, whatever. We need to work on our relationship. I seem to be a typical mother, not being able to let go. But I gotta let go, and I gotta trust Leticia's instinct on this. She can do this. She can show the world how great he is. I have to believe in her.

Oh, man, what to do?

(Leticia wants to be a mother really badly when she grows up, and fantasizes about breastfeeding and such often. She's got a lot coming when she's actually a mother, what with changing diapers and waking up at 2am to screaming and all, but I think she'll be a fine mother... if she has the right husband.)

(Goddammit! I worry too much. Leticia's mom always tells her she worries too much, but it's me, not her. I need to work on that too. One day at a time...)
In the words of somebody or another, that's one supposedly fun thing I'll never do again.

Yes, I knowingly flirted with Dante, yes I stroked his chest hair, yes I got into a catfight with his girlfriend (fun!), and yes, we forced him to choose between the two of us.

I lost.


(That said, Dante does really creep the hell out of me beyond turning me on. I think it's the "bad boy" thing that every girl goes through. I need to find a boy I can trust my sexuality with...)

(and that said, I have one in mind...)

(as soon as I ask him out...)

(and grow by about 125 courage points...)

(we'll see how it goes.)

Saturday, March 13, 2004

I fantasized that I was with my broad-shouldered husband, relaxing in a big black boiling pot, to be eaten by cannibals. I, being an airhead, was completely oblivious to this predicament, and I looked up at my husband, lovingly telling him "Isn't this great? We're getting a warm bath." Being the wonderful imaginary husband that he is, he just lied there, holding me tendelrly, appreciating the time we had together. We kept that same sappy expression as we were laid, naked, on a platter surrounded decoratively by fruits and vegetables, and as we watched our limbs being carved off ("oooh, I have some nice fat over here, cut this off) and swallowed, toes and all. Our only nervous moment was when our heads, the final course, were seperated to be eaten like apples, but we didn't seem to mind. We enjoyed the time we spent together. We were a happy marriage.

"Dearest? They seem to be eating us up."
"Don't worry, honey, everything's going to be all right. ... Hey, that's my leg!"
"Oooh, my thigh's gone too..."
"Honey, I don't think these are nice people..."
"Don't worry. They say true giving is the giving of yourself."
"But wait! Honey! (chomp! his head gets eaten.)"
"Oooh, I like you best like this... (licks his nipple and then takes a great big bite out of his chest.) Oooh... (camera pans out as the cannibals continue their feast. Who knew perverted humans were so tasty?)"

THE END! Boy, that was fun. Again?
So he took his package of Leticia Applesauce and revealed to his delight that it included a free naked Leticia inside, for flavor. He quickly stirred a her around and slurped her up, as she was happy to be in the service of such a large and bold man. Ohh yeah.

All the girls in Leticia's home ec class were happy to learn they were making human muffins that day, so they ganged up on Leticia, ripped off her clothes, and threw her in the bread machine, which kneaded and prodded and baked her into a fine, warm Leticiaberry Muffin. The teacher was delighted; she always wanted to know what that awkward girl tasted like. The class ate her up and licked her from their fingers; indeed, she got more attention as a muffin than she ever would have as a human.

But what Leticia likes best is being stuffed in a white room with all her whore friends, naked, clutching each other with fear and excitement. This is the day they would become women; this was the day they would begin their service to men. The kindly old white man with a cigar turned the crank, and soon they were crushed by the giant piston which then pulled away to reveal that the laughing, shrieking girls were now nothing but a porn magazine.

The lowly intern boy picks up the magazine in awe. "Is this for real?" he asks. "Yes, my boy," the man says. "Do with them what you wish." The boy looks down on the smiling, almost animated women on the printed page, and begins to masturbate furiously. "Plenty more where that came from," the old man says, leaving the boy in peace with his favorite women.
Dante invited me to a party today.

We'll see how it goes.

Friday, March 12, 2004

Fuckity fucking fuck!!!

Just to reiterate, civil unions are BOGUS. They are a LOAD OF TRIPE. They are, as we all know, "seperate but equal," which is equal but not really. It is telling the happy gay couples who are leaving the courthouses thrilled to be in a legally sanctioned, commited relationship that they do not DESERVE to be married, that the irrational whims of _some_ straight people is more important than the legal rights of a gay couple.

Now, let me make it nice and clear: MARRIAGE IS A LEGAL INSTITUTION. The religious component of marriage is NONE OF THE GOVERNMENT'S BUSINESS. No church will ever have to recognize a gay marriage, EVER. However, accepting churches can and do perform gay marriage ceremonies, and--what'd'ya know?!--PEOPLE AREN'T BUSY FUCKING RABBITS. Civilization has not ended. However, these people who have been married and accepted are now much happier people, and--what'd'ya know?--they are in HAPPY, COMMITED RELATIONSHIPS, the very TENANT of the conservative movement. I'm not going to budge on this one: marriage is good. I am pro-marriage. And as far as legal recognition of marriage goes, a government has the same civic duty to recognize a gay marriage as a straight one.

And if anyone tries to lecture you on the "sanctity" (meaning holiness, by the way) of marriage, or argues against gay marriage on religious grounds, you would do well to remind them of this:


Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof...

And this:

The United States' divorce-per-marriage rate was at 49% in 1996 according to Divorce Magazine; we also lead the world in divorces per person according to NationMaster (see the chart; yikes).

Sancticity of marriage, my ass. I'm so glad Britney Spears's 55-hour marriage had "sancticity." (More on conservative arguments against gay marriage here [Gator GSA]; these people are obviously having emotional reactions to an ethical decision. Give 'em some love, they obviously need it.) Rant over.

(edit: by "these people" I meant the conservative movement, who OBVIOUSLY could all use a whore or two. That said, the guys at Gator GSA need love too; so feel free to contribute one session with a whore to them, especially if the whore travels around in a giant ice cream cone and bathes in its whipped cream and strawberries, with a tendancy to spread the chocolate syrup on her nipples. Ohh yes..)

Thursday, March 11, 2004

Remember the good old days? You know, there was no porn, and wives submitted themselves dutifully to their husbands? Well, sorry.

(I say this in positively gleeful sarcasm; that article made me giddy as a schoolgirl. Wait a second; I am a schoolgirl! Well then; golly gee, I never quite realized that. I am the predominant fantasy of the male world.)

(Whoa. I could put my hair in ponytails and suck on a lollipop and pretty soon I'd have big-britched dotty feminists talking about what a disgrace I am to womankind and how I'm being controlled by the Galactic Penis and flombangita wiggly wongus nanip and zorple wumple flump...)

(note: yes, the minority of feminists are like that. Most kick ass. More later.)
So here's how it goes. You might have noticed that lately, I've been "Otherwise Not-Depressed." (Or, SAD stands for "Sultrily Aghast at Deliberation!") So my mom just came back from her one-week trip to Spain ("Hello Marzipan, it's the King of Spain..." sorry, only I find that funny) and I realized, well, how much I don't miss her. (What a poorly constructed paragraph!)

(yes, my over-parenthesizingleizllesomething is due to my self-consciousness today. Deal.)

While I was gone (I decided to innanely blog about my cats!), I realized that I... didn't miss her. Which is to say, I didn't miss having somebody remind me of my homework every five minutes, and that I didn't miss having somebody note every dust speck on the floor. (Both untrue, but you know what I mean; I'm seventeen. Who knows what I'll blog about when I'm eighteen.) So my cats! You see.. (new paragraph)

My cats are really from outer space. And my dog, but I think he's just from a distant moon. You see, my cats have turf wars. I know, all cats have raging marking-the-furniture scaling-up-my-kitchen-for-possible-strongholds territorial conflicts (at least nobody's building a wall, Jesus), but these conflicts... they're emotional.

The first cat, whom we shall call.... erm.... Lucas, really likes my mom. Not because she's my mom, but because she's human, she stands on two legs and animates. Most importantly, his previous owner was a very strange and brilliant woman who... dissappeared and was presumed dead. (Ouch...) (new paragraph! Goddamn it, Leticia, can you stay on one subject?! You're blowing all your good material on one post. Shame on you.)

She has all these paintings... there in my garage now. She was so traumatized that she kept doing saccharin-sweet paintings of babies, cats, babies and cats, kittens, flowers, and the only honest one is a creepy abstract jumble of faces that my mom's art therapist thinks indicate multiple personality disorder. But anyway!

(Those paintings scare the shit out of you-- seriously. They're so sweet, their sinister, and I'm not lying here; there's an unmistakable aura that says that a giant robot is about to drop from the sky and hammer you into oblivion. They're like something from a Zelda boss; except it would have to be American McGee's Zelda and everything is stained with blood. Eeeuugghhh...)

So this cat, Lucas, went through several owners after the dissappearance of his first because he is a traumatized cat, for reasons we have been unable to ascertain, and he yowls like a mofo. After waking me up at 6am, he went sailing down the laundry chute (no, not really--but don't think I didn't entertain the thought) many, many mornings. He ran away once, only to return, skinnier, wanting food.

Okay, the whole point of this fucking story is that Lucas curls up into my mom's lap... like a baby. I'm dead fucking serious. He wraps his paws around her expecting her to breathe the universe. And... and...

I know I've written about my whole mother-figure complex, and about how fake my relationship with my mom is, but-- if I were more honest with my mom, I wouldn't be jealous of a fucking cat and his emotional intimacy.

And so the real point of this whole story (anecdotes of my cats' ongoing deathmatches will have to come later, I've bit off more than I can chew) is that my mom finally came back and told me the straight truth about this trimester's college schedules.

I will be going to three different campuses to take four different classes. Every day, a new campus.

I blew up at her. I went fucking nuts. I ranted about what a dust speck I'm going to be, shuffled through all my various classes every single day, without a care for who Leticia the person is in any one situation, much less three at once. I'm going to be worth nothing to the universe at large, I'm going to come home with tears in my eyes every day because after class, I have nobody to hang out with but Sonic The Hedgehog and cohorts as I attempt to save the universe for the umpteen billionth time.

I have never, not once, been this emotionally naked in the presence of my mother. Ever. I kind of thought I would just collapse, everything my being was founded on would reverse itself into dark matter and I'd be sucked into another dimension. But instead... sympathy. What, you know, I need.

Who invented this fucking relationship, anyway?! I'm going to find the person who invented the teenage mother-daughter relationship and wring his fucking neck. Moving on...

So I do have the knowledge that my mother is a good person, and that she'd give me anything I'd need from her if I'd just open that trap of mine and discard my pride. But instead, I keep this linguistic barrier around myself; I make lots of witty (according to her) jokes and tell silly stories and describe Great Moments in American Politics, but I never tell her what's going on inside my cranium, and she doesn't expect me to, being seventeen and all. So when she's at home, I'm always on my guard, keeping her at a safe emotional distance so that the foundation upon which our relationship is built will not falter.

Problem is, the foundation is made of Play-Doh and I have a tendancy to keep putting more on in an attempt to fix the problem. Problem is, (er, second problem is) I'm... running out of material. Seriously. When your relationship with your mom is based on entertaining her (I'm... serious), you need new jokes to keep it alive. Today, I was spaced out, I had no jokes that were even remotely funny. I felt more vulnerable than I have in my life. She coulda knocked me over with a feather. I was hopeless. I had just revealed my giant glowing weak point that every giant robot seems to have. (What obsession does Leticia have with giant robots? Find out next time...)

So anyway! The whole point of this story is... um... brush your veggies and eat your teeth. Yeah. That's it.

No no no! Wait, I remember. The whole point of this story is that, on the bus this morning, I made up a whole episode for a Sonic animated series (my wet dream as a writer), and got bored and even storyboarded the first scene (featuring emotional drama between Sonic and Tails; I'm more intimate with those characters than anybody in the world, believe you me), and I was about to show her when she changed the subject. Waaaah?! Mommy, I drew you a picture! MOMMY, I DREW YOU A FUCKING PICTURE! LOOK AT MY FUCKING PICTURE, DAMMIT! IT HAS HEDGEHOGS AND FOXES AND CUTE SQUIRRELS AND THEY SAVE THE WORLD AND EAT CANDY AND


(Suzy: Sorry to inform you that Leticia McKenzie has exploded. However, I'm having a naked luau soon and we can all eat Leticia Stew once I've gathered up her fragmented carcass. Yum, yum. Oooh, I better season it with nutmeg... tasty... Leticia tastes like turkey...)

Wednesday, March 10, 2004


I just saw a newsletter saying, "L.D. stands for 'Lots of Determination!'" I'm going to be sick.

You see, I'm a world-class space case and I have only just begin to recognize it. I suspect I have ADD or ADHD, as I have never been tested (but fear the rampant diagnosis that has become a fad in the US; lots of healthy children have been pathologized here for things like hyperactivity, golly gee). However, if I _did_ have ADHD, I were sure of it and had a nice Honored Citizen card to prove it, I would puke myself silly at all the cutesy nicknames people come up for learning disabilities. "L.D. stands for Learning Differences!" It's a fucking disability; I don't _like_ being a space cadet any more than I would talk about a missing arm in terms of "I consider myself otherwise left-armed!" (Then again, people have different ways of healing from loss...)

So, if I were to take my spaceyness seriously and begin working to live with it, I would absolutely despise anybody who tried to work around my disability with cutesy "Lots of Determination!" language. It's a disability, it affects me adversely, it sets me apart from the rest of society. Then again, my spaced-out nature has provided lots of gifts for me; namely my active imagination and my skill with language. Just don't try to dress up my warts in pretty makeup and call them "Otherwise Not-Warts" and I won't feel patronized.

(Leticia Jeanette McKenzie, by the way, stands for Luscious Jaywalking, My Kangaroo!)
Here I am, back at my high school. I decided, out of another feat of adolescent arrogance, to go to my community college. I've done this twice before, and each time, I freaked out and decided I couldn't take it. I got lonely, I needed the companionship of my high school friends. Then, I returned to my high school and once again realized I was learning jack squat. So here I am now, returning to my high school bravely attempting to tell my teacher, "I'm going back. I'm not learning anything here. Sayonara."

And, of course, I didn't, and I'm back here in the library typing away at my blog and wondering what to do. Most creepily, though, is my recent sense of disconnection with the world, like I'm high.

Blogging is addictive. I can't believe I finally have a space to share my spaced-out attention-deficit musings to the entire Internet. At the same time, now that I feel like a part of something on the Internet, I don't feel like a part of reality anymore-- I walked into my school and realized that I felt like I was playing a videogame. Besides that, I wasn't doing very well, trudging to my teachers' office through my mental sea of pudding (more later), repeating to myself, "Okay. Just tell him you're not learning anything. He'll understand. You'll find friends at the community college. Promise."

(The irritating thing about my community college is that everybody goes there because they have a job somewhere or a girlfriend or some hectic daily schedule and here I am, going just because I want to have a life of my own. I'm pathetic. But anyway, it's scary when you walk into a place like that and people just come and go, learning things just for the credit and never stopping to say hi to anybody. It's like the construct in The Matrix, only mass-market.)

So I told myself that if I kicked myself in the ass and found a place where I was actually learning something, I would find friends... somewhere. Gosh-darn it, I live in Poseidontown, I'll blaze my own trail! So I went to a stitch-and-bitch and that was fun. But... I have no idea where I fit in, and even if people like me and I'm relatively popular at my high school I still have the constant feeling that I have no best friend, nobody to cry on or call at 3am when I'm in emotional crisis.

Um, so anyway, back to the third-person thing. People shout my real name at me and I don't recognize it; I drift through my school hallway as though I'm on autopilot. I'm always thinking, thinking, chirring away in that little brain of mine, which isn't unusual for me--I've always felt, as a certain British TV character put it (trivia question!), "like I was looking at life through a window"--but now, it goes directly into cyberspace, and I feel a wonderful connection with the whole blogged world. The problem is, I'm losing that connection with the real world (as I didn't have much of one to begin with), and there's this huge emotional chasm that's opened up between my two identities. How can my closest friends not know things about me that the whole world knows?

I've entertained the thought of blowing my secret identity; but the pseudonym has helped me get down things I otherwise would never admit to. But at the same time, I have this constant presence in the back of my head, like the Hulk; fearing that one day the strain will be too much to bear. I've also entertained the thought of stopping this blog many, many times; but that won't help, I'll still be divided on who I am.

I just don't know. I have trouble sleeping now, and so last night I just tried to focus my brain and just orbit around my problems rather than dwelling on them. It worked, for a spell; but the image that kept popping into my head was me, as a little girl, playing with all my little girly-friends that I never had... when I was a little girl...

I'm a sad, sad, sad, sad fuck. The end.

(Yes, this all adds up to: I don't know if I should buy True Fantasy Live Online, for the simple reason that it might realize my little Don Quixote world a little too much. Then I really _would_ have a life; a life of slaying monsters and having intimate discussions while sitting on the edges of canyons overlooking ancient starship ruins. This is something that needs to be secondary to my real life, which is strangely missing from the equation. I have no idea what to do. Help me.)

(That said, I get completely addicted to my E-mail sometimes... it feels good to be noticed, for once. People develop Everquest addictions, so I hear, because they like to be in a world where they are finally noticed and respected. This is some scary shit.)

(Oh, and I've had the "mental sea of pudding" moment many times now. Suddenly my body turns to lead and I'm pushing myself through an endless blockade. I have to fight to move anywhere. My guardian angel practically drags me by my shoulders sometimes. It's sad.)

Tuesday, March 09, 2004


Golly gee wilickers.

As a young girl, commercials scared the living crap out of me. Case in point: Cap'n Crunch. Who would want to buy cereal from somebody as creepy as that man? (And the fact that he wore the Quaker Oats hat made me want to behead him on religious grounds, but then I remembered all that non-violence stuff. Phooey.) Not to mention all the various commercials exploiting the psychadelic effect of marshmallow breakfast cereal. (Don't laugh at me-- I really was under the impression that Golden Crisp got you high. I was severly dissappointed, to say the least.)

In any case, given this childhood scarring (my TV was old and had no mute button; such a button would have spared me much torment), commercials, well, really turn me on. The ones that have really stuck in my head are the Fruit Roll-Ups one where Ren or Stimpy (I don't know! The bigger one) decides it would be a good idea to run himself and his Nicktoons mascot cohorts (including Doug, aaaahhhh!!!) through the Fruit Roll-Ups machine (does this fantasy sound familiar? It should). They slide down the hatch and tumble haplessly through the bulging cartoon tubes (reading, "Fruit Roll-Ups Only") to be made into commercialized, edible fruit snacks that will cause children around the world to constipate like nobody's business. (Ewww!! How could I just write that? Anyway, let's keep going...) And then there's the mother lode, the Etch-a-Sketch commercial in which a girl magician and a boy magician extoll the virtues of the all-new awesome Etch-a-Sketch (there was a color one for a while; who would want that?), and the girl proceeds to turn her Etch-a-Sketch upside down and shake it, causing the boy to dissappear into nothingness with an embittered "Hey!" Ohhh... that _always_ turned me on. And finally, there's that one Slip and Slide commercial that I saw a long, long time ago (I believe I was four years old--seriously) that creeped me out and intrigued me by showing children going down the Slip and Slide and getting--I am not making this up--eaten by the cartoon mascot alligator at the bottom. That should explain a LOT.

(If anybody remembers these commercials, or can provide more information or a video, you know what to do.)

In any case, a lot of my fantasies take this commercial form, such as the last one (from last night), in which I was a beautiful mermaid being brought into a factory, sitting pretty on my stool and talking about how great this brand of canned seafood is. I say something self-indulgent to the gruff, middle-aged woodcutter guy next to me (like "Ready for my close-up!" or something expecting me to be lavished in fame and glamour) as he proceeds to say, "Sorry, princess," while brandishing a carving knife.

All you hear are my screams and cries of agony in the blurred-out background while the camera focuses on a can of seafood, featuring me on the label. God bless. Good night.

(And all those dumb fantasies I have in which Sonic gets turned into all those various merchandising products. I feel really stupid about those. Sonic, if you're out there, I'm sorry...)

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