Friday, April 30, 2004

I got an E-mail saying that everything I wrote about Conway's Life was wrong. Here we gooo...

... What's more, there's no finite algorithm to determine if an arbitrary Life pattern will die out or keep the thing running forever. Conway sketched out a proof of the latter assertion by showing that you could build a Turing machine out of Life components, and then showing that the undecidability of Life patterns was a corollary of Goedel's Theorem. ...

Okay, I'm going to assume that you are a very smart man, you graduated from Cambridge with honors and that you know absolutely what you are talking about.

That said, I just played the damn Linux applet. Every time I ran the game, the pixel-lings dwindled to a standstill (or an odd equilibrium in which they flipped back and forth with no progress to speak of). It kind of reminded me how a perfect balance between creation and destruction was actually complete silence; creation must always be winning, but never win. I am positive that you are right, that no algorithm could possibly determine the outcome of a game of Life. I did not hear Conway speak at my university, I have no university, I have not graduated from high school and have a much, much shorter penis.

Mea culpa. I'll try to be more careful next time.


(No! I don't have a penis. But I had you there, didn't I?)
Flowers. Flowers are blooming in Iraq. There are schools and hospitals and rose petals.

People are dying, but it's for a good cause. As deaths keep mounting and cities continue to be blown to smithereens, we can look forward to the day that a stable and democratic Iraq can be reached. Already, 4% more Iraqis have potable water. As you can see, things are running fabulously.

And you know that deputy undersecretary of defense Lt. Gen. Boykin has already stated that "our God is bigger than their God," that this is a religious war, and that if there is another attack on America, we might be forced to reconsider the Constitution and become a more militarized nation.

But that's okay! Iraq is the central front on the war on terror. The President is a uniter, not a divider. We know they had nuclear weapons (edit: programs). We have the right to kick their asses to prove we can.

If nobody is going to deal with Iraq, who will? Are we going to wait for the day when Saddam launches a missle at the US and creates the feared "mushroom cloud" to have an excuse to blow the country to smithereens? We cannot wait for a permission slip from the UN in order to protect our interests. Saddam's sarin nerve agents (edit: programs), VX nerve agents (edit: programs), and mustard gas (edit: programs) are being armed (edit: developed) (edit: concieved) (edit: we've heard rumblings that leave no doubt) AS WE SPEAK and if we know we are going to attack Iraq someday, why not now, in the midst of a recession and immediately following one of the most dubious elections in American history? Pick the lowest-hanging fruit first. Iraq will be a cinch. We'll get rid of Saddam, help the Iraqis set up their own government, and be on our way.

Whoops!! What do you know. Our plan REALLY was to occupy Iraq for some time and sell all of its assets. Whoopsy daisy. Oh and now; boy, these TERRORISTS have the gall to defend the NATION THEY HISTORICALLY OCCUPY! How dare them! If they are fighting a foreign occupation, they obviously must not be ready for security. Sorry folks, but the date for liberation will have to be pushed back. Yeah, I know we said it would be a cinch, but when we said that we thought we were just going to take Saddam out; now we've got it in our heads that we need to cleanse the country of his influence, get rid of every soldier, every Ba'ath party member, anyone who knows anybody who knew thae old government's secretary's dog. Oh look! Hah, you guys have found a new leader. Al-Sadr. He does not take too kindly to this occupation with is rapidly heading south. Don't worry, we're going to blow his head off too, and all the heads of his followers, and everyone who dare STAND UP TO DEFEND THEIR COUNTRY FROM FOREIGN INVADERS WHO WANT TO TAKE AWAY THEIR FREEDOMS.

Bad wars do not get better, they only get worse.


Leticia again. Remember, the Iraqis are fighting for mom, apple pie, and the Iraqi flag (the placement of which was so wonderfully improvised in mid-statue-toppling). It may not be right for them to be killing American soldiers, but they're only doing it because they love freedom, they love their family, and they love their country enough to die for it.

Believe it.


(As for a plan for what to do with Iraq, now that we've plunged it into chaos: bring the UN in, and give them the money to rebuild Iraq. The idea that the US should stay in because they have a moral obligation to rebuild the country they destroyed is based on the assumption that there's anything the US can do so long as it as seen as an occupying force. The UN was created to do nation-building, and they know their stuff. Most importantly, the Iraqis need to set up their own government in order to be liberated; Saddam's regime did keep a running tally of the population to do rationing, so we could take that list and use it to hold free and fair elections which the UN could oversee to make sure nobody, with brown or white skin, tries to rig it. These elections would be to choose a governing council, which would write a Constitution.

(If the US is afraid Iraq is going to be taken over by religious fanatics, they shouldn't be; the US is run by religious fanatics, and has no business deciding another country's policy if it does not affect them. Prime directive applies here; we cannot force them to become our ideal nation until they are ready. Sad but true. A stable, democratic Iraq will not happen overnight; it will take time, just as it took time for the US to abandon slavery and public ballots and lynching and other such atrocities. The problem is, the current US strategy shows no end in sight. We need some fertile soil on which an Iraq of the people can grow.)

(And believe you me, that's why we went into Iraq; and I want that to be why we get the hell out.)

Thursday, April 29, 2004


Hi, this is Leticia reporting live from Leticialand. I have always wondered what makes a man great, except that this man could be a woman, about half the time. Um, is it that they cherish their friends or that they vanquish their enemies? I imagine that they'd have to keep a cherishing-to-vanquishing ratio with more cherishing than vanquishing to achieve progress, but then we could never achieve the equilibrium demonstrated by Conway's Life.

I read a book once that said that, in order to strike a balance between good and evil, good must always be winning; but never win. Good can not be good without bad to make it good. ("Because good is dumb!") So.... whenever I think of our constant political battle in America, bwtween the liberals (push forward!) and the conservatives (hold back!) I think about how we must have the conservatives in our lives, as they play a very necessary role of caution and critique to our society; but the liberals must always win, only by a smidgen.

So, I've decided to volunteer for the Democratic Party. Hopefully I can do something great for Poseidontown. Join the smidgen. There are friends waiting for you.


(And free drinks.)

Okay, this should start making sense right about now: Conway's Life is a classic computer toy in which you start with a set petri dish of pixels, and then push the button and watch 'em go. Pixels can mate and live and die and fluorish so as long as they are not overcrowded or too sparse; but after a while, their numbers always dwindle to the point where they reach equilibrium, no longer moving or multiplying. I suppose this means, as a race, we should try to push forward just a little bit at a time, so that we can be assured that we will neither stagnate nor rush ourselves.

...Er, I'm'a go to bed and have weird dreams. Nighty night.

My writing teacher just showed up in my masurbation fantasy. Right. When. I. Came.

No no no no NO no no. Wrong. Wrong. Wash vagina out. Cover ears. Noooooooo!!


(test signal)


I was just having some fun with the oncept of a bunch of bearded, middle aged mechanics peering over my naked body with jackknives (this time, I actually imagined their positions relative to my own; this gives a very intense 3-D glasses kinda feeling to your masturbation fantasy. Now with bump-mapping, Z-buffering, and blast processing. Order now at 1-800-LETICIAS-COME), when SUDDENLY, one of these bearded middle aged men became OUGOTHOUGSORGUooohgobs. No good. I'm'a get out of here before I drive myself insane.

I was just having some fun with my brand-new 3-D masturbation fantasy technique when ALL OF A SUDDEN, my writing teacher pops out of nowhere. What?! But first, you must understand the beauty of my masturbation technique. Usually, I dream and think in the third-person, so when I'm trapped in a suction chamber while being made into ice cream, I can see myself banging on the glass cylider and pleading for mercy. This time, though, I imagined their positions relative to my own; which gives you a VERY intense 3-D glasses kinda feeling, plus with mip-mapping and Z-buffering up the wazoo. Call now. Orders only 1-800-MEAT-GRIND

But I was imagining middle aged mechanics peering over my naked body with jackknives and saying with a grin, "Let's open 'er up." Yeah, I was nothing but raw meat to them, and I was proud of it. At least I'm... something...

Any middle-aged women with curly hair intent on becoming my personal savior after reading that somewhat disturbing remark need not apply. I figure I'm going to freak out and convert to Mormonism and live a life of sexual discontent any time now. Just keep reading my blog, and I'll keep writing it.

Oh, I have one last thing to establish; no E-mails telling me what I can and can't write. I've had (okay, very few) people saying I shouldn't write about politics or videogames or this or that and I want to say this on the record: KISS MY ASS. I am not your whore. As I stated at the beginning of this blog, the purpose of this for me is to practice my writing, and that means anything goes. If you were paying to read this, things might be different, but as it stands I'm a freebie and so I get to draw the lines. Fair enough?

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Clearinghouse of nonsense. Everything must go!

- Strong Bad hasn't been very funny lately. I think the Brothers Chaps oughta take a break. We'll still be there, fellas.

- Appearantly the Bush camp has been attacking Kerry by saying he didn't really deserve his THIRD PURPLE HEART. Um, how many Purple Hearts have you recieved, Bush? (So much for "elevating the tone"...)

- Whenever I see a woman with dreadlocks, I want to be her bestest friend in the whole wide world. Seriously.

- Wait! There was something I actually wanted to talk about. There's a woman in my class who sits behind me. She's a little Asian woman with a demure personality and a soft voice. I sit in front of her just so I can hear that soft voice from behind me, as if she is really everywhere at once.

Given her personality (and those adorable suspenders) I was pretty surprised when I saw her wearing a shirt reading "69." This quickly spun off into a fantasy of her as this all-knowing gentle goddess of sexuality, who keeps us all in her warm glow of love and acceptance.

And I wanted to be in that glow, and feel the presence of a woman inside me. For just one second, I admitted it to myself, I AM A LESBIAN.

Then I forgot about it and went on to Chemistry.

CONCLUSION: I am a dork. I have a large emotional stake in being straight and growing up to have a soft, gentle husband and a picket fence and 2.5 kids, but whenever I'm really turned on by somebody on the bus or whatever, it is always a woman. I thought pretty unequivocally in eighth grade or so that I really was a lesbian, I like girls and that's it. But still... I want to date a boy. I want a boy to ground me in reality. I want a boy to tell me I'm special enough for him to want to fuck the bejeesus out of me. That, and I come to the thought of men crowding around me and grinding me into applesauce for their high-class celebrity dinner.

So... I'm turned on by women, but I want to be with a man. All teenage boys reading this, you can begin fantasizing... now. (Gentlemen, start your, um, engines...)

(And just so you know, my perspective on this Asian woman is entirely based on stereotypes of Asian women as being passive and yet the meaning of all life. That isn't such a bad stereotype, but it's inappropriate of me to assume things about this woman just by how she looks. Most likely, she does not even know what that number means. Most likely, she does not give much thought to being an all-knowing goddess of love and sexuality. But it was a nice thought while it lasted.)

(KIDDING! Kidding. Nobody should have to bear the burden of being an all-knowing goddess of love and sexuality but me.)
Any psychiatrists in the audience can have a go with this:

I just had the most adorable fantasy. Well, I thought it was adorable. I was a little kid, playing with my bestest friend in the whole wide world, in the bathtub. Unbeknownst to us, there was a shark sneaking right up behind us, and it proceeded to swallow me whole (my legs flailing, per usual). After devouring the two of us, he turned out to be Stanford, the cartoon shark mascot that demurely picks his teeth and grins after finishing his daily meal of children.


Okay, it doesn't sound cute, it sounds vile and disgusting. BUT, the fact that it was ME who was the little kid who got eaten while playing with her bestest friend in the whole wide world in the bathtub made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside when I came. Like, that shark ate me, but he was really just playing. He's a friend. Can we keep him, Mom?

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Somebody at college glanced at my chemistry homework and asked to see some of it. I didn't think it was terribly special, besides showing that carbon-12 is the standard for 12 amu, but she told me, "I know you look at me strangely, but I have four children and none of them are doing well in school, and when I see somebody who's really interested and is performing, I'm in awe."

I'm not your daughter. Crazy woman.
I read the first volume of Exiles, the comic book featuring alternate-universe X-Men hopping around various version of the Marvel Universe to right wrongs and restore the time-stream's temporal malfusions of cortical respiratory defibulations to their proper states. It's, um, okay. I really can't stand how Marvel tends to over-render their characters to the point of being completely unrecognizable as human beings. The whole point of super-hero fantasy is that you get to identify with characters who may or may not jump around the city fighting crime in their jammies, and that takes giving them real human conflicts and not, "Oh, no, why, this universe is TOTALLY different from the one I know!"

But also, I'm sick of alternate universes. There's absolutely nothing in human experience that can relate to it, besides maybe culture shock. I have a hard time (Sonic comic issues 50-75 spoilers ahead... not that the comic is worth reading) understanding why Archie Comics, publisher of the Sonic The Hedgehog comics, decided that Dr. Eggma--Robotnik should die in issue #50, only to bring him back (this was PLANNED) in issue #75... by a Robotnik from an alternate universe (an alternate universe from #22 or so; these people get around) who defeated the Sonic in that universe, at the cost of turning himself into a robot.

In English, that means that the villian that the heroes had been fighting since their childhood--the focal point of the series' drama--died and then came back but it's not really him, it's him from an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. So Sonic is kinda sorta fighting the hero who took his childhood away. Kinda sorta. (I also find it disturbing that he defeated the Sonic from his universe, but that's just another example of how infinite alternate universes can quickly do away with the recognizability of your characters. Sonic seems aware that there are thousands of different versions of him, and that doesn't seem to bother him. How would it change us if we realized we were only dust specks in a sea of people who shared our identity?)

So, that brought me back to the puzzle of what to do with this robot Robotnik who kinda sorta has dramatic resonance but not really. Of course, I would have him become possessed by the original Robotnik, but that's just a fangirl fantasy; I suppose any new writer would have to chuck all the mystical mumbo-jumbo that the continuity has accumulated and focus on the drama between the characters. What a novel idea! But in a comic which established the fastest recorded turnaround time for a character death (they killed a major character in earnest, and then brought her back within four issues), I doubt that'll happen anytime soon.

But personally, I find Sonic to be an absolutely fascinating character. I would love to get inside Sonic's head someday, and the comic really has established that as its purpose; make sure that these anthropomorphic animals, who might seem silly to a self-respecting adults, are actually living, breathing creatures with real human dramas and conflicts (more importantly, ones that are interesting and fun to read about). The problem is, of course, that the Archie comic has about three writers and three artists on board at any given time, all trying to pull Sonic in their own personal direction (for instance; one writer was determined to have the "rings" be like the rings from the Sonic videogames; another writer used the "power rings" from the Saturday morning show). So what would I do at Archie? Declare myself most high priestess of Sonic The Hedgehog, fire everybody but a good artist or two, and get to work. All it would take is one talented, dedicated writer to put the Sonic universe on track, rather than a twisted hodgepodge of alternate universes and resurrections and whatnot. Did you know that one issue established that Soinc's sidekick Tails isn't really Tails? The plot point, which may have been the biggest--and worst--bombshell in the history of the comic, akin to finding out that the Spider-Man you grew up with is actually a clone, was never mentioned again. Funny.

Now that I've posted something which only 3% of my readers will make any sense of, begone! I have work to do. And by work I mean masturbation. Quiet.

Monday, April 26, 2004

Hello! I made those smart remarks about that "positive" newspaper to my mom, which made her not so pleased.

I do believe she's at her wits' end. I, however, am at my wit's end, because I'm through thinking of stupid jokes to keep my mom emotionally at bay. In fact, I'm going to tell my mom how I feel right now. (gives mom a big hug, and then packs up her stuff to go to Florida)

(or someplace that is not here)

(unless I live in Florida; you never know)

(or maybe saying I'm in Florida is a clever ruse to make you think I'm not in Florida because I really am when I'm not, because I am. Or something.)

So! Next order of business, I... need to go do homework. But first! I need a good fantasy for tonight. You know, my hot sex with myself. I think being chopped into salami will do. By big brawny dockworkers. Ooooh...

(I am SUCH a dork. Next time I will imagine being turned into Cocoa Puffs or something slightly more creative. But you know, the creative fantasies aren't as fun as the dirty ones.)

(But my favorite one is the one where I got boiled in a pot by cannibals while my loving husband held on to me and told me that these nice folks may not be, in fact, giving us a warm bath. I, the loving airheaded creature, refused to believe that these people were anything but kind, even when they started cutting our flesh apart and seasoning us. Oooh.)
Sitting across from me is a new independent newspaper billing itself as a "positive paper," giving some "positive news for a change."

Everything's going great! President is optimistic! Schools and hospitals and rose petals!

I could hurl. Putting your head under a rock and saying everything is just damn fine is not virtuous. I...

A few years ago I saw my dad, the preacher man, shaking his head and sighing at the headline, "40 Dead in Gaza Strip" or something like that. I asked him why he keeps reading these stories when he knows that the war between Israel and Palestine has been killing people for centuries and shows no sign of ending. He told me that, even though it's sad, by reading about it in the papers he feels a deeper connection to the world, even if just for a moment.

And that's why I took up reading the news (from the Guardian, specifically), even though it only says "New Study Shows Americans Are Dying Of Obesity Just Like They Were Last Year" and "President Involved In Some Huge Scandal That Completely Unfazes The American Public Who Are Too Interested in Sex and American Idol" and "Study Shows Schoolchildren Popping Out Babies Like Mofos" because, if I know how horrible, horrible, horrible things are in the world, I can know that in my community, there's hope for change. One day at a time.

(That said, schoolchildren aren't popping out babies so much anymore, but this "I'm Worth Waiting For" bullshit certainly isn't helping. I wonder when they will realize how many teenagers are picking up STD's thanks to that fucking ring.)

Bertrand Russell said that the secret to happiness is knowing that the world is horrible. Yeah, that's my philosophy. And... live for the moment. As Sonic The Hedgehog said a very long time ago, "Don't just sit there and waste your precious time. If you want something done, do it right away. Do it while you can. It's the only way to live a life without regrets."

(While we're on the subject, Dante says that we can never know the meaning of life, because the meaning of life is to find the meaning of life, and that if we actually knew it the universe would unravel. I like that.)

(I used to tell my dad not to leave newspapers lying around because the headlines were so depressing. Now, this extravagantly optimistic newspaper depresses me, because every time I look at it, I think of people denying all the hardship in the world. Let's have some positive news for a change! I'm going to be sick.)

(This has to do with the general American philosophy that, if you didn't see it happen, it didn't happen. For instance, the more negative stories the papers run on Iraq, they say, the more America's efforts there are hampered. The more you criticize the President, the less effective the President can be. Doo-wha?)

Sunday, April 25, 2004

I also wrote this on Thursday and then took it down. If you are reading this in reverse chronological order, as they are listed, then you should read the previous post first. Then it will all make sense.


I was about to erase that last post when I realized, part of my agreement (not really, but this is the only thing keeping this blog entertaining) with y'all is never to censor myself. It didn't seem like I should have been able to dream that, being a woman, and, you know, women NEVER think impure thoughts. I guess I'll just have to deal with it the same way EVERY seventeen-year-old girl deals with it when she finds out she's the first woman in the history of humanity to evolve a libido.

In the meantime; from IGN Xbox:

What will Playboy: The Mansion offer? Why, a full simulation of the parties and power-grabbing, the girls and the glory of the Hefner empire. You'll step into the shoes of the magazine magnate to design and run the Mansion -- your center of operations (and debauchery) as you build your business. The game will even feature a Photo Shoot mode where you can select the best angle for your cover models. But we know you'll only be grabbig this one for the articles. Ahem.

You got that right. Playboy is releasing a Hugh Hefner sim for Xbox.

Fake sexuality ho! But, at the very least, they ought to release a Calm, Sensitive Boyfriend Land sim for us. Call it Girls Garden Advance. The virtual men will laugh when we need them to and cry when we need them to and apply their manly talents through the Rumble Pak ONLY WHEN WE NEED THEM TO. And the game should have a stalker beat-up mini game. Ooooh.

Come to think of it... (scribbles on a napkin) anybody know of any openings in the game industry? This could be a real hit... so as long as my video game men mix their drinks right... and don't fart or nothing...
I posted this on Thursday, took it down, and now I am putting it back up again. It honestly scared me that much. In the interest of less censorship, though, I am going to show you all what lurks in my subconscious. Read.


Posting from the library-- it's mental sea of pudding mania day.

I get up at noon, spend three hours getting up, one hour clipping my nails and stumbling around, and then I finally go to the meeting I'm supposed to be at today, only to find it's next Thursday, not this one.

But, the upside is that I'm out of the house. Hooray! Now I can do all those things I can't do at home, like... wander around, really bored.

But anyway, I did not go to my writing class today, because I decided to spare myself today. Why? This past week I've been positively crazy-going, and if I hear one more word about speaker tags I'm going to have a rhetorical climax in which I resubstantiate the central plot devices upside my writing teacher's head. With a flourish.

What I meant to write about today was this person, the Person Leticia Wants to Be The Friend Of Except She's Too Shy But She Does Say Hi Every Day To In A Really Awkward Fashion That Becomes More Awkward Each Instance #3047. (That is, I said hi to her every day when I went to my hippie school; now I'm at the community college and I see mostly strangers who think I'm a stranger and have no idea how awesome I am.) Her name is... we'll call her Lila (that is, "lie-la," not "leela.") Lila is, like me, ellegant, loves videogames, and is shy. (At least, I hope I'm ellegant. Don't answer that.) I went with her to nearby Yadrinsburg once on an overnight trip. She is somebody that I would love to bond with more often. But anyway...

Given that I am too shy to keep up a meaningful relationship, I hadn't talked to her for a year. So... I decided that, since we had drifted apart, I would ask her one last time if she wanted to get together sometime. That way... if she said, "golly gee, I'm awfully busy," I would know that she doesn't like me, and I'll just walk away and sniffle and find somebody who isn't such a meanie to be my friend. (choke) WAAAAAHHH!!

So, you can guess what happened after that. In case you didn't, I asked her, in my usual fashion:

LETICIA: Golly gee shucks, Ms. Lila, It'd be awfully swell if we could, you know, come to my place...

And she replied, in her usual shy fashion:

LILA: Aww, man, Leticia, I just don't know. Maybe if I weren't defending the free world while patenting my latest invention and interviewing seven potential boyfriends all in the same weekend, I would have time for seven seconds of coffee with you. But, as it turns out, I'm just too busy. Sorry.

LETICIA: Well... if you're having an emotional crisis at 3am, see if I help you out! (BAM)

All except that last part, in which I said how I felt; instead, I followed my plan, smiled, and walked away politely. It's okay. I'm not too heartbroken. I'll find somebody else. Really.

But, now I'm far away from that school and nobody's seen me for a good month or so. I've dissappeared off the face of the earth. Dante's been giving me worried calls asking if I'm still alive (as far as he knows, I'm kaput; I'm not going to call him back this time. My problem, not his). So, the other week, I had a dream...


(That was supposed to be the harp that plays when the screen goes all blurry. What is that called? Nevermind...)

I got lost on the way home and found myself in an extravagant French district where everybody was in some elaborate costume. What stood out, though, was Lila, in a silvery videogame heroine sorta dress, leaning on her lovely new boyfriend. I see her and I decide to get her attention, cringing and saying "Hi!" in my usual fashion and waiting for her to say "oh, hi, Leticia" in her usual fashion so that I can mope away in my usual fashion.

Oh, but this time... I know I'm in a dream by now, so... if I use up all of my remaining dream energy (thus ending the dream spectacularly), I can tell her how I really feel. Okay? Here we go:

LETICIA: Hey! Lila! I'm cuter, smarter, and nicer than you are and we like all the same things and there's no reason I shouldn't be your friend!

So, Lila grabs the back of my head, dunks me into a drinking fountain and says,

LILA: Hey, girly girl! There's nothing you have that my new boyfriend doesn't. So why don't you just poof off to your fairy land and dream about sugar and rainbows and giant robots like you usually do? It'll be a lot more fun that getting your ass pounded in by your former friend.

(Not verbatim. But close.)

So, I decide I'm just going to apologize, hack all the water out of my lungs and be on my way. But no... this is a dream... I have STRENGTH!

So I swing my limbs around and throw her off the edge of the structure we were on (yeah, we were on a structure... forgot to mention that). Then, I notice something. Her shirt (she is now wearing a shirt and jeans... yeah) is



And her skin is muddy and beautiful.

And.... this hurts me to my very core...

I jump down, kick her ass, rip her clothes off, and stop just short of raping her when I realize what I am doing and wake up.

Terrified of myself, I crawl to the door to go and write all this down on my computer. Then I wake up again and find myself back in my bed, so I crawl to my door AGAIN to go write all this down.

I spent the rest of the day shivering and I had to call my best friend and tell him what had happen and go over to his house and hold me and tell him that everything's okay, that it was just a dream and I am still Leticia McKenzie, the nice girl who never does anything mean. He told me he has dreams like that too; and they help, because he just happens to be Prime Sensitive Nice Man #1 that all of the girls in their right minds (including me, to an extent) drool over. So, it's good to take out his frustrations on dream people.

Still... I have some concern over what happened in Dream Land. I... my mom says that some people try so hard to find the community they need that they destroy it in the process. I... we... I'm not bad... I...

I'm not going to write this any more. Anything I write is going to lead up to an acceptance of what I did, and I can't allow for that. It was mean and nasty and cruel and uncalled for and I can't afford to think about it in a positive light. So... when I see her again, I will say "Hi!" and she will say "oh, hi, Leticia," and I will continue on my merry way and I'm sure she will find some wonderful boyfriend and I will be happy for her, as she is a good person and the two of us just weren't meant to be.

As friends, I mean.

My head hurts.
There was a bully in eighth grade who made a point of picking on me every day. I've never felt that much hatred toward my crop of bullies; really, I found it kind of cute that they were so dependent on their daily dose of Leticia. So... it didn't surprise me ALL that much when my eighth-grade bully was at a fancy dinner in which snot-nosed men in fancy suits dropped tiny, naked women in their martinis, so that they would fizz up like Alka Seltzer. And this bully wanted to know what was served, and was shocked to find that the main course was, underneath one of those metal bell-things that they serve meat in, that girl from eighth grade he was always picking on, covered in naked woman broth. I looked at him kind of shyly and nervously, but the look in his eyes pleaded for forgiveness as he cut me up. Oh, yes.

So.... back on the subject of bullies (I'm determined to give this post _some_ redeeming social value), being the odd girl out everywhere I went, I was picked on a lot as a child (the kids who made me cry by yelling "Sonic sucks!" into my face will share a very special circle of Hell)... and every adult I talked to said things like, "Oh, just ignore it." So it took me about until fifth grade to realize that these bullies have echo chambers for craniums and if I stuck a straw in one of their ears, it would come out the other end. This was therapeutic for me; if I only let what the bullies said slide, then they were completely powerless over me. However, if I followed my instincts and socked 'em in the jaw, I would be in the emergency room quite soon, although I hear they have free cable.

(No, no, what I mean is that I had to learn is that guys who hit girls as their form of entertainment are not worth my time. I need to look out for myself, you know? Still, it makes me sad that they would feel so hopeless with the world that they would turn to bullying to make themselves feel more powerful. It makes me want to give 'em all a great big hug.)

In fifth grade there was a bully who consistently told me that I needed to be tougher and smarter. I made it clear that I did not want to deal with him, and so he hauled off and punched me in the stomach. I lost my wind and keeled over, and he left, saying that this is what happens when you underestimate snot-nosed bullies with nothing better to do than hit girls. (That isn't quite what he said, but you know, in retrospect, everything seems a whole lot sillier. Remember cooties?) I told the teacher that this kid had hit me so hard that I couldn't breathe for several seconds, and the kid came back later, spectacularly apologetic. "Are you okay? Did it hurt?" He seemed genuinely concerned that he had stopped my breathing. I told him I was fine now, my stomach was okay. When the teacher came back to ask me if they needed to punish him, I told them not to. He's learned.

I hoped that, if the very person whom he socked in the chest wouldn't fight back, he wouldn't do it again. He would think twice before dehumanizing people he thinks as lower. That said... pushing people down is how you get up in grade school.

I went to a gifted school for two grades. I hated every moment of it, but I soon learned that other schools were worse. Here, the bullies had at least some pragmatism to their methods. For instance: there was a table that I sat nearby, of five kids who idolized Dilbert's Phil, the Prince of Insufficient Light. They took pride in the busted fluorescent light that hovered above their chosen table. And so, all five members of their elite circle of insufficient light were given coolness quotients, kept track of on an official piece of paper (made from insufficient trees, I imagine). This ranked every member and potential member of the Table by their coolness. The catch? There were only five spots on the Table, and coolness could neither be created nor destroyed. So, the only way to get coolness was to take it; by doing something cool at a member's expense. The coolness of the members was ranked by the Table chairman and deputy, who were, by default, the two coolest people at the table. They made it clear who was permanently cool and whose coolness was on probation; my childhood friend, the shy, freckled kid, was desperately fighting for table scraps of coolness in attempt to get into this circle of losers.

Ah, but this is what happens when gifted kids from Hicksburg get into fights over masculinity. (These kids were all boys. Did I mention that? Yeah, I didn't think I needed to.) Being a boyish girl, I was declared persona non grata by the Table of Insufficiency, and I was often the target of their tormenting. I had a teacher who did the unthinkable and tried to put a stop to the bullying at this small, elite gifted school (unthinkable because most middle school teachers look the other way and say that boys will be boys), but it couldn't be helped; it was so ingrained in these kids, they had fancy charts and graphs to back it up. They knew bullying like professionals.

(That said, it could be helped; I recall that the chairman and especially the deputy chairman were very intelligent kids and went on to get past their fucked-up-ness.)

So... where was I going with this? Ahhh, yes. I just saw a brand-new video on bullying, to be shown at middle schools across the country, to show what happens when you get a bunch of kids together whose hormones are raging and who are determined to show that they are the top of the heap, either through "boy ways" (torment and posturing), or "girl ways" (gossip and backstabbing). A lot of adults, according to our presenter, could not watch this film because they could not stand to watch what they had been through in middle school and their students are going through right now. I watched this film with a group of kids my age, and as the kids onscreen moaned about the latest bully calling everything he doesn't like "gay," or as the camera panned to the insults scrawled onto an unpopular girl's locker, or as a fifth grader let loose and told his interviewer very frankly that he feels like shooting up the school every day, all my friends nodded and said, yep, that's just like Brand X Middle School that I went to. I never realized how lucky I was; the Table of Insufficiency, for all its Machiavellian reality TV overtones, was the tip of the iceberg. I was in the Mafia and they were stuck with the street gangs.

Now I go to a community college, alone, with nobody to tell me that my skirt is too short or my thighs are too big or my hair is too poofy or too knotted. I also have nobody to sit at the candy store with me and eat rocky road while braiding each others hair before returning home and having a pillow fight in our fluffy pink unmentionables, but the worst is over. There is no longer an elite table determined to bring me off my stand of human dignity. I will live.

Usually I take this last paragraph to offer some inspiring Leticia Truism that you can bring into your life to solve all the world's problems. What I like to say is that you oughta treat young people, who are growing up and have hormones gushing out their ears, more like adults; it meant the world to me when an adult was big enough to have an intellectual discussion with a twelve-year-old. But also... stand up for kids. We are all part of the same human race. If one of us is knocked down, it hurts us all. When some kids shoot up a school down in merry Pleasantville and all the adults say "golly gee, not my fault, if only they weren't playing Massacre Mania on their PlayStation 37 and a half these things wouldn't happen!" I just want to hurl my insides. When somebody goes postal, it's all our fault, it's America's fault, and we should have the good sense to stop these things before they happen. Be a good citizen. Stand up for kids. It's only being nice.

(Aaaand a good role model! If they had an adult who respected them maybe they wouldn't turn to Grand Theft Auto for their images of adulthood, n'est pas?)

Friday, April 23, 2004

Well, hello, Leticia fans! I am still operating off of half a brain. Which means thta Suzy will be updating tonight. Enjoy!

SUZY: Well well well then! This morning, Leticia missed the bus to school--and missed the exam to her chemistry class--because, she was... well, I will give you three guessees, and the first two don't count, unless they end in "asterbation." In which case, you are correct. It wasn't all that hot, either. Well, it was, until she looked at the clock and realized, not only was she late for her bus, but she came out my astral essance on to her tissue, and she had to scoop me back into her vagina and make sure I was secure before leaving. What a hassle!

LETICIA: So I finished Sophie's World. Here's what I have to say about it:

You know, I like my books to have endings. That isn't to say that Sophie's World didn't have a fantastic beginning, or a fantastic middle, but when you have those two it often helps to have a third part to support them. I never bought into the idea that stories should have "open endings" so you can make up an ending for yourself; if I were doing that, I would be the author, not them. I buy a book so that I can read somebody else's writing, and if they decide at the very end that I'm going to have to write the last few pages that should have been there except they don't want to step on anybody's imaginative toes, I'm going to be freakin' pissed and take the book back to the store as defective. "Why?" the clerk will say, and "It had no ending. I demand a refund," I will reply.

That said, in my ending to the book, Sophie would manage to get inside Hilde's head and explore the landscape of her imagination, and could communicate with Hilde in this world. Sophie remained Hilde's best friend and dirty ittle secret for the rest of eternity.

There! But that's not _my_ job to write the ending. Remember that. Nobody writes books with open beginnings or open middles, just like nobody builts a car without an engine or an exhaust pipe so that the purchaser can just "make up their own." It's more satisfying that way, or something.

SUZY: Per Brielle's other suggestion, Leticia is now reading I Capture the Castle, proving that she is a mere sheep to the wishes of people she thinks are cool. She loves the book and wants to have ten thousand of its babies.

Well, good night, everybody! And remember... if giant, glittery dominatrix fairies invade your dreams, make sure they whip you with care so as not to leave a mark. You need to save that beautiful body for when they whip out the chainsaws.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

(This story used the names Gabriel and Peter only because they were convenient, not because I actually know anything about them. Apologies if they don't match their Biblical counterparts.)

(And despite what my story says--which rather surprised me--I still think every mother in the world should breastfeed. I don't care if you don't want a baby on your boob; having one pop out of your vagina should have been desensitization enough.)

Once upon a time there was a little girl who sat in her room and said, "God, why was I born a girl? Being a girl is so boring! I'm supposed to sit around and be a prissy little princess all day. Boys get to have water fights and football games and whatnot. I'm supposed to paint my nails and gossip."
"Hmmm," God said. "That is a problem. I'll see what I can do."

So God convened his Angel High Council and said to them, "Gentleman... and lady, we have a problem. A young girl by the name of Rosemary Russell says that, on Earth, girls are supposed to be prissy little princesses all day. How did this happen?"
"Well," Gabriel said, straightening his tie, "I think that's kind of where women belong. We all have a place in life. Maybe this is just her place in the machine."
"I disagree," Peter said, with his hand on the table. "If this woman feels that life is holding her back, she can't possibly function at full capacity. She'll be a drain on society."
"Ah, but you must show restraint in this world," Gabriel said, drinking his coffee. "When she gets to Heaven, she can do whatever she wants."
"Enough!" Anise said. She was the one woman appointed to the council, thanks to affirmative action. "I'm sick of hearing men talk about what women can and can't do. Why can't you just give us a chance to talk?"
"Well?" Gabriel said, and they all turned to Anise to hear what she had to say.
Anise gulped. "Well, you see... Maybe she could draw a picture, and we could use that to see what she wants to be, and make sure that life stays out of her way..."
"Preposterous!" Gabriel shouted, with a laugh. "She must show self-restraint! Society can't function on idealistic projections alone."
"I disagree with both of you," Peter said, straightening his tie. "I think... we could reach a compromise..."
"Well," God said. "This is interesting. Please keep brainstorming."
"Brainstorming!" Gabriel shouted. "I'm only trying to maintain the order of society!"
Peter spoke up. "I... agree. We've imposed order on this society for a reason. Humans don't know how to govern themselves. They're just too dumb."
"Well!" Anise shouted. "I just don't know what to say. If everybody thinks of themselves as mere cogs, how can we ever have leaders?"
"How can you have leaders," Peter posed, "without any followers?"
It was a stalemate. God decided to speak up. "Now, what do you think makes a man a man and a woman a woman?"
"Women are beautiful," Gabriel said. "And stupid. Men are strong... and stupid. ... We're stupid, just in different ways."
"Women are enigmatic," Peter said, "and men are straightforward. Women are the X factor, the glue that keeps things running smoothly. If men ran the world, one kink in the delicate machine would destroy us all. Women know how to cope with adversity."
"Men _do_ run the world," Anise argued, "but that's not the point. I think... I think... men are good, women are good, and let's leave it at that."
"Pffft!" Gabriel guffawed. "Boy, this delicate machine's coming a tumblin' down. I'm getting myself a donut." Gabriel reached for the donut box.
God scooted the donut box away. "That's enough."
Anise asked everyone, "What makes me a woman, huh? What do you think is in me that says I'm a girl?"
Everybody had to think about that for a moment, which made her a little miffed. Finally, Gabriel spoke up.
"You make me see things from a different perspective," Gabriel said. "I don't think I'd think about the things you make me think about, otherwise. I... I act obnoxious around you because I care about you, and I hope you understand that."
"Apology accecpted," Anise said, and Gabriel was taken aback. He didn't know he had made an apology, but he decided to accept it anyway. Better let the woman do what she wants.
"I think," Peter said, "it's your masculinity that only accentuates your womanhood. I admire your desire to climb to the top in Heaven's hierarchy. It's like a potent spice in your feminine flavor."
Anise blushed and said "Thanks." She cringed a bit, in a happy way, and wrote that down on her memo pad.
"Well," God said, "are we adjourned? Can I tell Rosemary the results of our collaboration?"
"Not yet," Peter said. "I wanted to say... I think a woman has gifts, and if she wants to use them or not, that's fine. I just hope that we don't force them to use their gifts in ways that they don't want to. They're humans, just like us. Why should anyone tell us men that we ought to breastfeed, or stay at home, or watch certain TV shows or only wear certain clothes? We would laugh, but we say these things to women all the time. Maybe we should start thinking of ourselves as humans first and as genders second. Things will sort themselves out from there."
"Thank you," God said. "Meeting adjourned!"

Peter caught up with Anise in the hallway. "I.." Peter stammered, "I hope I didn't offend you with the spice thing."
"Not at all," Anise said, "it's nice to be recognized for my gifts." She smiled and winked.
"So... do you want to meet tonight? My place?"
"Sure, sure," Anise told her. "But... I wanna be friends. You'd make a very good girl."
"You mean it?" Peter said.
"Sure," Anise assured him. "Let's get together to paint our nails and gossip."
"Really?" Peter said. "Because I've got this great--"
"My place," Anise said, walking away. "Three o'clock. Be there."

Later, Anise spoke with Gabriel. "I guess I'm a jerk, huh?" Gabriel told her, his arms far down at his sides.
"Not at all," Anise said, with a smile. "I'd just wish you'd show a little... restraint."
"Restraint..." Gabriel said, turning away to go home, "right."
"Wait!" Anise said, grabbing him by the arm. "Um, listen. You want to have vegetable curry at my place tonight? Six or so?"
"Ah, yes," Gabriel said. "I'd love to, doll. I mean--"
Anise laughed. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I do still have a vagina underneath this suit, you know."
"Good, good, good. I mean--"
"I said, don't worry about it! We'll negotiate it on my terms."
"Right. Good," Gabriel said, and the two walked away.

"Well, God?" Rosemary asked. "What did they say?
"Well," God said, "I'm not sure. They said a lot of confusing things. But I'm sure you'll figure it all out, someday."
"Look!" Rosemary said. "I drew a picture!"
She had drawn a pretty nurse, with the word "HEALER."
"What do you think?" Rosemary asked God.
God laughed. "It's wonderful! You'll be a great healer someday. You've already healed me."
"Good night, God," she said, smiling. God began to phase back to the astral plane when Rosemary interrupted him. "Wait! Are there schools for healers? Anywhere?"
"Yes," God said, "there are many." God phased out and the room was silent.
Schools for healers, Rosemary thought, closing her eyes and cuddling her teddy bear. I bet I'd meet other girls like me there...


A Leticia McKenzie production!
Sorry I didn't post yesterday. Stuff.

I've been more or less miserable for the past week, as going away to the community college has taken its toll. If I'm not constantly surrounded by people to contrast me, who am I? So, I've been lulling in my room and wanting to cry and playing Mario & Luigi instead. Wonderful.

(Not to mention I should be doing homework. That'll cheer me up. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium...)

I hate my writing class. Hate it hate it hate it hate it. Our teacher, who has a bald spot capable of harnessing the sun to power several city blocks, will sit at the front of the class and talk about his favorite obscure authors. A typical class session might go like this, no exaggeration:

You know, you might put speaker tags at the end, like most people, but a speaker tag might go in the beginning. Like, "Bob said, 'give me the fucking keys.'" But sometimes, you can just have him make an action, and then say what he's saying, because then we don't need a speaker tag, because we already know it's Bob. So, like, "Bob sighed. 'Where are my fucking keys?'" But, it's good to put in those action words to break up the monotony of the paragraph, you know? Like, if I had to read this paragraph-long monologue, I would just get bored unless there was something like, "Bob threw the glass at Joe. 'Where are my fucking keys?'" But, you know, you don't have to. Remember, some of the best authors do not use speaker tags at all, such as the noted E. Dwight Haisenhoffelobscureaton, who says in his story, "Cheese is the master of all life, except between the hours of 3am and 5pm on Sundays..."

And on and on and on. Dreadful. So, needless to say, my drawing skills have greatly improved. Sadly, it's too late to get a refund, so I'm stuck with Mr. Solar Panel and his hour-long monologues (unbroken by any action on the part of the students; professor, you'd make a crappy story) for de rest of de term. So...

Today, in which I convinced him to have some story sharing (in which we share our stories and get feedback so that we can, you know, improve our writing, what I imagine we signed up to do), so the day was marginally less dreadful. Except... and this is really sad... they are all in their forties, and they really wish they all had been writing since my age.

Jesus. I always thought _I_ had been short-changed educationally... but everybody still needs to ask ME, the seventeen-year-old who writes dumb stories in her spare time, how to get past writer's block and whatnot. (How to get past writer's block: pretend it isn't there. Really. Alternatively, bash your head into the wall until you forget you have it, or put on really obnoxious music that prevents you from thinking about what you're writing. If all else fails, remember that nothing you write could hope to win a Pulitzer in the first draft; just write a bunch of nonsense and sort it out from there. Some of my favorite stories never got past that nonsense stage.) Anyway, somebody asked the teacher "Do you have any tips on getting past writer's block?" and he said, "Try not to edit what you're writing."




He should have said that, not just in the first day, but in the first five seconds of his class. More importantly, it was the first piece of useful information he had given the whole damn time. He loves to talk about speaker tags and dialect words and settings and people and throwing glasses and talking about fucking keys, but if you tried to hold all that in your head while simultaneously writing about Joe and Jane's Fantastic California Adventure or whatever nonsense you happen to be spewing at the time, you would go positively bonkers. Insane," Leticia said, taking a swig from her cherry soda. "Then again, that's just me."

Monday, April 19, 2004

A friend sent me a message saying that "if Americans are so afraid of boobs [that is, Janet Jackson's] than why did we elect one as President?"

First of all, George W. Bush is not a boob. Boobs are soft and cuddly and life-giving. Boobs are, first and foremost, for the sustenance of human life. They are the antithesis to Bush. No boobs have ever needed to start wars to prove they can, or to bomb the worlds' poorest nations with securing their place as an international policeman as an excuse.

Second of all, America did NOT ELECT BUSH, and the majority of Floridians voted for Gore. But who knows if your vote got through? The Republicans took pains to make sure that black Floridians could not vote on election day; they are overwhelmingly Democratic. Coincidence? Either way, its racism, and no democratic society would consider Bush a legitimate president, much less fall behind him in his little foreign adventures to swipe back at the countries who tried to kill his daddy. Bring 'em on!

(Atrios said that John Stewart said something like: Bush isn't stupid, we are, for believing him when he took every opportunity to ensure to us that he was incompetent.)

(Oh and the process of Jim Crow vote-scrubbing went something like this: the State of Florida hired an outside firm to scrub its voter rolls of any convicted felons, instructing the company to cast as wide a net as possible. Come voting day, many voters, mostly black, found they could not vote; many were felons who had served their time and had their voting rights restored, or had similar names to felons, or had been charged with crimes that took place in the future according to the company's documentation. Wha? Overall, the whole process took away hundreds of thousands of Gore votes, eclipsing the narrow margin that Bush had in the state. Gore won, Bush lost, get over it, Republicans. Buncha crybabys, afraid of a couple of recounts... what are you hiding?)

(And what will we tell the children?)
Hello there! Have you ever been diced to pieces by an elegant swordswoman? No? Just curious. It would be neat if she walked off all sultrly-like after completing her handiwork as your severed head checks out her ass.

Okay! First order of business: Firefly. It kicks ass. The boxed set is about $40 and worth every penny. Second order of business: The mechanic, Kaylee, on that show (which takes place on a Firefly smuggling spaceship in the distant reaches of the galaxy) is exactly like me. How? Let's see..

Besides a fondness for suspenders, she is very maternal and is prone to hugging people and kissing them and calling them affectionate; but, when it gets down to it, she'll get her hands dirty and fix the underbelly of their cobbled-together jalopy of a spacecraft with the best of 'em. Also, she's so sensitive that everybody thinks she's a lesbian (and her best friend is the prostitute, Enara), but she really isn't, she just likes other women a hell of a lot. See?

So, now, it gets creepier. She's talking about the formerly rich kid, Simon, one day when Enara (in her beautiful whore dress) asks her why she seems so infatuated with him. After denying it initially, Kaylee admits that he so sweet and shy, you could just "...take a big bite out of him."

Oh. My. God.

I am trapped in a science fiction show, with no way out. Somebody rescue me from Joss Whedon's cold clutches.... he stuffed me into a typewriter and is turning me into mere typewritten pages! Help! (dodges the little typewriter hammers) Enara, save me! I didn't mean it when I said your dress was ugly! It was just, I was having a bad day and (BAM)

SUZY: We're sorry, Leticia just got hammered into an episode of Firefly. If you want, though, you can still make lime sherbet out of me. Just put me in the machine... (whirrr)

(Suzy stares into space as she scoops sugar on herself with nobody around to eat her...)

Sunday, April 18, 2004

I started thinking last night,, and that's bad. If I think, that means I'm going to be thinking for the next few hours, while generally staring at the cieling, or at the wall. But, you know, this was important.

If I am me, and nobody else, and me is just a collection of atoms, and my brain is just gray matter with electricity running through it, and my soul is just an abstraction of the pulses in my brain... why am I just me, and why am I nobody else? I mean, if I sat down here and created a sentient computer program, one that was aware of itself, would it be staring back at me? Would it have an ego? Would it wonder why it is nobody else?

And then... if I split from my mother, why is my mother not me? If I think I'm so unique, how come my genetic data is so predetermined? But also... when I severed my ties with my mom biologically, what is it that makes my ego stop at the edge of my brain?

The obvious answer to this is that, as a collection of atoms, my cognition stops at what I can see and smell and taste and imagine; but isn't it sad that, when I am a human being cursed to die within a fairly short sojourn, that I can't be anybody else but me? How come my ego can't stretch to see into other people's brains, or into the workings of the earth? (And of course... when I die, do I just fizzle out? I can't stand it and it makes me really sad but I might as well accept it, being the simplest answer and all...)

According to Serial Experiments Lain (I know this is a silly time to talk about an anime; but this show was like a religious experience for me), the human race is becoming so adept at communication that we are becoming a singular consciousness, that each one of us is merely a neuron helping the human race think for itself. I don't know... but I wish it were true right now. I wish I could lose my sense of self in my service to others. I wish I could just be a neuron.

So, I'm in one of those sick-of-myself-and-my-own-overthinking moods, where I wish I had no identity and I could just rip myself apart and eject my ego down the disposal, never to have to think of myself as Leticia McKenzie or anybody in particular, just functioning without thinking about it. But... I suppose I have a gift, most people don't think this much. (sigh)

Who wants to come over to my house and drink tea and talk about deep stuff and then watch silly cartoons? I'm up...


(I had a vision once where I asked God what it would take to make me happy, and she playfully reached into my chest and pulled out my ego, which looked like a small ruby, and placed it in her jewerly box and flew away. I felt like I was melting into the Earth. That felt good...)

Friday, April 16, 2004

Hello! Today I made the mistake of eating a sandwich with dijon mustard, which proceeded to go straight up my nose, causing me to tear up and sneeze a lot. Ooogh. Fear dijon. I think I chose it just because it sounded elegant, like a fancy dress (Suzy: Or a dual toilet). Hey! A dual toilet! That's a neat idea! Than you could sit and talk to a friend while you're peeing. I'm'a patent that... (scribbles)

So! The real reason I'm posting, rather than to enlighten you all with visions of mustard nose-shooting and team latrines is that there's a veritable shitload of Leticia products up at the store to your right. This is great fun; now that I'm consumable, I can be on the other end of the American dichotomy. You all are consumers, but I'm the CONSUMED! Mua ha ha! Eat me up and I will invade your imaginations for years to come! You will NEVER be able to masturbate without thinking of me being buried in a flowerpot and coming back up as a sassy flower. Ever.

So! While you imagine the process of me being pressed into a book and saved for posterity, do go and do your American duty and buy loads of stuff with my name on 'em. Just imagine! Soon you'll never be able to drink your coffee, or walk your dog, or have sex with your significant other without thinking of the greatness that is Leticia McKenzie. And the best thing is, my spirit will watch over all who buy my merchandise. You have nothing to fear, my all-loving, all-knowing aura is enveloping your and your deluxe-edition Leticia tank top that I made using a pencil, Sharpie, and Photoshop. Enjoy!

(That is, I made the design using a pencil, Sharpie, and Photoshop; the shirts are made by God knows who. Don't remind me that I've sold out my beautiful visage to some faceless megaconglomerate. Soon, they'll send their goons to slash me up and run my mutilated carcass through a printing press and make me into collectible coasters. Aaaaah!!)
Well, gather round the table, children, we have a brand new story for you!

Thomas, a handsome high school boy, walked into the fast-food restaurant and eyed me, the young, fluffy clerk. He asked me, "I'd like a bowl of yakisoba noodles..." he looked into my eyes coldly, "with you in them."
"What kind of sauce?" I asked, good-naturedly.
"Oh, soy," he sputtered.
"Good, I'll gather the girls together. Girls!" I shouted to all my coworkers, and we gathered in front of the metal chute at the center of the kitchen. One by one we took off our uniforms and socks and underwear and slid down inside the hungry chute, as it churned and whined and tore us to pieces and spit us out, our bodies now centimeters tall, on top of a steaming bowl of yakisoba and soy sauce, ready to go.
"Woah," the boy said, taking a step back.
"What are you waiting for?! Eat us!" I shouted at him, looking up at him with warm eyes.
He shivered and picked up a pair of chopsticks. He turned me over and looked at my back and its small, fragile features. He licked me to see if I was real. He picked me up and sat me down on his tongue, and that was the last the world saw of me.
He stirred the noodles, looking for my friends. Out popped my kind friend Dorothy, an Asian woman with black braids and solid frame. She giggled as his eyes widened with intimidation at the prospect of eating this woman. "Don't be so shy," Dorothy said, grinning, placing her hands at her feet and scrunching up. "We were meant to be eaten. You know that. What are you waiting for?"
He lost control. He slurped Dorothy right up with the noodles she was lying on. One by one, he popped the girls into his mouth, stopping brielfy to hear their ecstatic giggles and horrified moans. He was eating pure life as his dinner. He was eating the souls of these young girls. And he loved it.
"Hey," his friend Jason, with the gruff voice, said, ribbing him. "I don't know about this. You sure these girls are edible? No hepatatis or nothin'?"
Thomas looked down at his food and saw a shy girl with white hair staring down at the noodles and playing with them. "What's your name, girl?"
"Anise," she said, poking away at her ground. "...I didn't want to be in this bowl. Please, set me free."
The boy didn't know what to do. He picked her up, tenderly, and petted her in his hand. She got down on her belly as he stroked her back with his finger. He could see every detail of her body even though she was so small. She was like a universe in a matchbox. He placed her head in Jason's mouth, and she cried "Hey!" and flailed her legs as he slurped him up. Thomas giggled. It was so satisfying to do that.
"Please," the manager said. She was blonde and shashayed with arrogance as she walked. "You're so immature."
"Hey, you wouldn't mind making me a bowl of noodles, would you?" Jason said to her.
"Absolutely," she said, picking him up and taking him to the chute.
"What are you doing?! Hey! HEY!" he shouted struggling to break free of the woman's vicelike grip. It was too late. It was kind of comforting, though, being in that soft bed of noodles. He could cry with dissappointment or with joy, he wasn't sure.
"So, now you know how those girls feel, huh?" the boy said, sheepishly.
"Very funny," the friend said. "Now you know that, even if I'm tiny and naked I can still kick your--"
With a slurp, he was gone. The boy never realized how good that might feel, to have another boy in his mouth. Maybe...

Oh-kay! Wasn't that just exhilirating? Join us next time as Leticia tells you: Just Say No To Eating Your Best Friends, Unless They Have Been Properly Lathered In Copious Amounts of Cherry Sauce and Chocolate Chips! Take care!

Thursday, April 15, 2004

Yes, I know the Democrats all support the IMF and NAFTA and Let's Suck The Third World Dry of its Dough before it Croaks Initiative, but that's just another example of them being just slightly left of the right, for appearances. "Oh, and civil unions are a better idea than gay marriage, because civil unions are so much different and less meaningful." That's the Democrat way.

(Dean at least admitted, to the Advocate, that he only stops short of gay marriage for appearance's sake. Oh please, when Bush is trying to divide the election along gay marriage lines... everyone's going to assume we're the party of queers, so there's no point in not, you know, flaunting it.)

(I understand you're Democrats and you support welfare and universal healthcare and educational reform but... why do you have to be so open about it? Can't you just save it for the bedroom?)


Okay, I changed my mind. Maybe we shouldn't fight about gay marriage now, because perhaps Bush wants us to take the bait and argue about whether or not we should let gay people have happy, committed relationships rather than argue about why the economy is circling the drain while the President is off having adventures in unrelated countries and turning them into chaotic guerrilla war zones when this is supposed to be a state of emergency. Eh?

Let's get Kerry in office first...
I just saw a post on Slashdot entitled, "Men Incapable Of Portraying Videogame Women Fairly?"

I, Leticia Jeanette McKenzie, a woman, with womb and vagina and alla that, am really fucking sick of hearing that men are all crazed perverts. No. We need men. Men have big muscles and cuddle us long into the night. They do cute things like forget all about the laundry but recite the secret super-hero origins of each founding member of the Avengers (to be fair, I do that too. Both). They periodically think that making us happy is the best thing they can possibly do, and the mere sight of our naked bodies will make them melt and quiver like jelly with obedience. They truly believe that we make and breathe the whole universe, that if they please us they are pleasing God.

I'm generalizing, of course, but in a good way. About fucking time men got their props. I think they've been a bit left out from our gender binary as of late. Give 'em some love.

(This is entirely anecdotal evidence, but I find a lot of women--and men--uncomfortable with calling themselves feminists because it implies a hatred of men, and I think that's hooey but it's the popular perception of feminism so what can you do? Besides give a man a kiss today, anyway. They're big and strong and will kill for us. They'll hold up the fort while we do all the real work of birthing a civilization.)

(That's awfully neat. There wouldn't BE a human race if there were no women incubating all the ickle people that populate this earth! Wow... we're the fabric of reality. Men are just our lovable huggable bodyguards.)

(Oooh, if I had a man right now, I'd munch on his shoulder and call him my big naked bodyguard. Then he'd laugh and spray whipped cream on me, right down the curve of my back as so to accentuate my beauty, and I'd be so enthralled that he'd suck me in whole and my spirit will go right up his nose, leaving nothing but a pile of bones in a mini-skirt on the floor that he proceeds to lick on. Mmmm.)

(Where was I? This always happens...)

(And then he feeds my bones to the dog and the dog buries me, never to be seen again, with the faint hope that maybe, maybe somebody will dig me up and eat me before I decompose. Even if it'll be somebody hairy and slobbery. Ewww.)

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Argh argh argh argh argh!!! (stomps around in a circle)

Somebody (I don't remember who; don't bug me) accused the Democrats of trying to pin the 9/11 disaster on Bush. Whaaaaaaa?!?! I've seen this happen so many times, the Democrats are so careful not to step on anybody's toes or to appear too partisan so they don't push the 9/11 commission, they go along with the war on Iraq, they give up on universal healthcare, and STILL everybody thinks that this barely functioning opposition party is somehow rooting for the downfall of Western civilization and therefore must be stamped out at every opportunity when this party has barely the cajones to defend its own existence. Ooooh-ooooh-ooooh!!!

(If there's anything that would make me go Green...)

So! Back to my point, which was that even though the Democrats are constantly being accused of trying to lay the blame on Bush for a tragedy that nobody possibly could've foresaw (although we could've taken steps to prevent it), this is always going to happen. When your an opposition party and your opponent owns a disturbingly large percentage of the news media, you need to throw off any pretense of being wishy-washy and start tellin' it like it is. And that's why we need to say, "A terrible tragedy occured on September 11, and that's why we need to find out what went wrong so that it will never happen again." The Republicans (well, the Bushmen in particular) have shown that they are determined to cover their ears and sing the National Anthem and pretend that everything went durn smoothly that fateful day, and the only reason a band of terrorists armed with nothing more than boxcutters, fake visas, and disturbingly precise piloting skills were able to kill three thousand American people was because America is great and loves freedom, and the terrorists hate freedom. Simple is that. There's just no way we can defend ourselves from people who hate freedom.

So, along those lines, Bush recently made a joke where he, in a PR fund-raising film, looked underneath White House furniture and said, "Boy, these weapons of mass destruction have gotta be somewhere!" Oh, ho ho, such dashing wit, Mr. President! You sure made short work of the people who died for this war! But anyway, the Democrats proceeded to bombard him with the usual "We are appalled and offended that the President would be so flippant about such a serious subject" blah blah blah. Really, in the average person's eyes, this secures the Democrats' place as being no fun at all (as well as being tremendously irritable). Atrios said, "I bet the families of [fallen soldiers] will think that's a real goddamn knee-slapper" and that ABSOLUTELY needs to be the oficial party line (but begin it with something like "Oh, ho, ho, such wit, Mr. President!" because I think it's funny). People are out of touch with politics because they feel that the Democrats (which is supposed to be the party of the people) do not represent them at all, but at least Bush will defend us from evildoers, eh?

(By the way, Clinton did much more to fight terrorism than Commander "Take Your PDB and Shove It" Bush but I'm sure you knew that already.)

So that's why it takes somebody like Richard Clarke to make breathtakingly sorrowful--and sincere--statements like "your government failed you, and I failed you..." to make people suddenly feel like, wow, the government's working for US again. Families of 9/11 victims (of which there are many; 3,000 deaths, and every one had a mother) finally had a voice in government. We can get back to finding out just what went wrong and how to fix it. And so, now that the usual cycle of slime-and-defend has begun, this is EXACTLY how the Democrats need to respond to criticism of Clarke (and if the Dems don't defend him, nobody will; and if there's anybody who can expose the systematic corruption in the US government that everybody knows about but nobody wants to mention, its him):

Right-Wing Flunkie: Well, you see this man has a book out, and he obviously wants it to sell...
You: Is what he's saying true?
Right-Wing Flunkie: ...and his position was down-graded from Cabinet level, and so he's obviously disgruntled....
You: Is what he's saying true?
Right-Wing Flunkie: ...and you can't really trust what he says, especially when he defended Bush in court two years ago, so can you really believe what he says?
You: Is what he's saying true?!

So, in conclusion, everybody knows the Democrats hate America and burn flags while reading terrorist tracts at midnight, but the truth is that the majority of Americans did NOT vote for Bush, an even larger majority of Americans do NOT want to see him re-elected, the average American WANTS to know what went wrong on 9/11, the average American WANTS stronger environmental protections, WANTS more rights for gays and lesbians, WANTS more affirmative action, WANTS to reconsider the off-to-the-gallows system of American justice and it just goes on and on. The Democrats have a real chance here to take America back; now that we have the populist ball lobbed in our direction, we need to run with it, fast.

Now! The moral of the story is, YOU are a Democrat! (Or so I assume. Or at least you're a Republican with a head on his shoulders, and I respect that. Republicans are good, I just miss your whole fiscal responsibility thing. Economic liberalism is generally a bad idea, especially in the case of the IMF, but--what? your party supports the IMF?--well, together we can fix that too! Whatever party you belong to, go out and kick some ass! Show the Man's hand-picked puppets that you mean business!

(The IMF, by the way, has gone from an organization devoted to preventing economic disasters to causing them. Once you loan money from the IMF, because you are a poor country whose economy is circling the drain, they will impose trade liberalization policies that will leave your country totally exposed and naked to the global market as giant megaconglomerates proceed to kick your country in the economic crotch.

No, really, a burgeoning economy needs to be afforded a certain amount of protectionism because any poor country needs to become self-sufficient before it is ready to compete in the big leagues. You wouldn't send your 8-year-old baseball star to play in the World Series, would you?)

Sunday, April 11, 2004


I'm gonna be frank here. I think a woman should be able to do whatever the hell she wants to with her body. If it's still in her body, and it's not conscious, she can get rid of it if she so feels like it. It's cruel to expect a woman to carry a baby--an enormous emotional and physical investment--against her will, and it's also cruel to force women to pay for their mistakes this way. So what if you had sex and concieved? You'll learn it's a bad idea. Next question.

(Abortion is also both costly and painful; it's undesirable. Clinton said that "abortions should be safe, legal, and rare," and I agree wholeheartedly. Family planning is the way to go.)

So! With that in mind, somebody decided to stand up in the middle of open worship today and speak on the child he never had. A long time ago, he asked his ex-wife please, please to carry his baby for nine months and then he would leave her life and take full responsibility for the baby. Just nine months. He followed her to the abortion clinic and cried. He recounted (with great satisfaction) that he convinced many women in the clinic not to have abortions or to "think about it." (It's a tough decision, yo.) He described with great pain the European colonists forcing Native American women to have abortions as a form of sterilization. (Note the word, "forced," mhm, yes...) He related to this harrowing experience of waiting for his baby to be "executed," and argued that a man should have the right to keep an abortion from taking place, as there are "DNA strands that you can't get around" (given that this baby has half his chromosomes, it's sorta half his).

Now, from a humanitarian standpoint, I can sympathize. If you knock your wife up, you're going to expect your baby to pop out (I hope). So, when your wife declines to carry your child, the one who is going to continue your legacy, it's heartbreaking, especially if she plans to divorce you.

But, y'know, deal. I think a woman's uterus is a good place to draw a legal line, and once you've gotten your come inside her, it's her business what she does with it. It's a question of bodily integrity, and a woman having sex with you does not imply a contract for her to carry your baby. If we're going to talk in legalistic, rational terms rather than emotional, we have to side with the woman, with whom the actual burden of childbirth is laid upon.

That said, abortion sucks, and we should try to reduce its occurence as much as possible. However, the alternative is worse: wire-hanger abortions done by back-alley crooks have no place in civil society, and women should not be forced to carry children that they cannot care for (most notably, and horrifyingly, in the case of rape).

So the moral of the story is WEAR A CONDOM. But also... I hate it when people bring up topics for debate during open worship. If you haven't been moved by the Spirit, hold it until you can have a discussion about it. This guy went through a very painful experience and needed healing, but it wasn't appropriate to dictate preferred talking points to Quaker associations. That's an excellent thing to bring up in a discussion on what the associations policy should be, but open worship is a time to, y'know, openly worship.

(That said, he was being much more sincere than most in the room; he felt an honest calling to say what he said, even if it was from himself and not the Spirit.)

But I won't make a fuss about it (like I am here). I sent him some motherly healing waves while he talked, he really needed it. It felt right, giving motherly healing waves to those who needed them most. I'm gonna be one hell of a mother when I grow up, right?

(By the way, the best thing to do when your friend is angry and sad and ranting is to listen and help them find their voice and make them comfortable. When I'm sad and angry and ranting, I usually don't need advice, or feedback on what I'm saying, I just needed it out of my system so that I could think rationally. That's why I didn't respond by, say, standing up and saying "The Spirit moves me to say that a woman's uterus belongs to her alone, dammit" [I'm exaggerating, but such debates have raged on during open worship before, while nobody can hear the Holy Spirit over all the damn talking]. I hope this guy heals and moves on and has a child of his own in a stable relationship with the mother some day.)

(But this is my blog, and here I can say whatever I feel like. See? Not during open worship. I feel no need to have everybody listening to me during church.)

(I just feel a need to have everybody listen to me the rest of the day, but that's an unrelated hang-up.)

(And Grand Theft Auto III grosses the hell out of me. I should have rented Pokémon Colosseum instead. Really.)

Saturday, April 10, 2004

Hello there! I'm.. sad to say that things have been going... pretty well. Which means... NO NEW MATERIAL! (sad) But, I am here to report that I am a very bad bad person; I rented Grand Theft Auto III for Xbox. Grand Theft Auto. I am the worst feminist in the whole history of feminists.

That said, here are three games that abosolutely need to exist:

1. Grand Theft Auto: Prostitutes Take Over The World
2. Princess Peach's Ass-Kicking Adventure
3. Dead or Alive Xtreme Beach Volleyball

(err, wait a second...)

So! I will report back with impressions of the murder and mayhem about to be committed in my personal fantasy land (which, if you are a conservative, is far, far more egregrious than murder and mayhem in the real world. C'est la vie), but I will be SORELY dissappointed if there is no Create-a-Prostitute mission where you create a prostitute, play as her, and then take on the criminal underworld one seduction and ass-kicking at a time. (No, really, that would be a good way to respond to all the criticism of GTA; it's not a game where you beat up whores, it's a game where you play as a whore and then beat people up! Nice how that works out, huh?) But no, at least there's a game where you get to play as a skatepunk and express yourself across the streets of Tokyo while the cops go nuts. Hours of entertainment.

Speaking of which... I want some damn Legos! Wah!

(Oh, and I'm just kidding about being the worst feminist ever. Some of us know the difference between pixel people and real people.)

(And imagining myself as a mermaid, sitting on my mentor mermaid's lap while she lovingly brushes my hair is a great way to get myself to go to sleep on the bus.)

(And I have recently been found being dolled up by a horde of temp workers while I place my hands on my shoulders in a "aren't I gorgeous" fashion while the British newscaster in my head talks about how wonderful and fascinating I am. The boys proceeded to throw me in a machine that reduced me to pure eroticism. C'est la vie.)

(Hey, here's a question for everybody: If you got run through the Ice Cream Machine, what flavor would you be?)

Thursday, April 08, 2004

Just so you know, me and a friend were hanging out at the mall when a giant disembodied mouth floated toward us. I smiled and leaned with my hand against its lip, and accidently fell in, as my friend grinned and shrugged in reaction to me being swallowed by a giant disembodied mouth. Of course, it started to nibble on her hand, and she tried to rectract it forcefully, only to shout "Hey!" as it slurped her up whole.

Just so you know.
My chemistry teacher described a female runner "breasting" the tape, rather than breaking.

Best... Freudian slip... ever.
I can imagine that fighting a guerilla war against foreign invaders would give you a strong sense of identity and camraderie, that even if you die tomorrow you will go to Heaven because you were fighting for the freedom of your country. You don't even need to win a war, you just need to believe you're on the right side. It's disturbing.

So, the more the US attacks Iraq, thte more their national pride is inflamed, and the deeper we dig ourselves into this quagmire. This is not a war we can win. This is Vietnam II. Al the better to get out and let the UN take over; so as long as we're the occupying force, there's nothing we can do to help the Iraqis.

So, if I did go down to Somewhere Where People Are Suffering (and I neglected to say a sizeable chunk of the world is suffering, even without US intervention, because all the world's wealth is being sucked straight to the top), I'm not sure how much good I could really do when I'm just miserably trying to offset the plague of imperialism. I would be the good neuron I have always hoped to be (to use my beloved global brain analogy), but I really would be a rogue trying to push back the tide. It would be better, really, to find where the tide is beginning, and figure out a way to stop it before it starts (why I've always wanted to be in politics).

But whatever, I think that pushing back the tide, sometimes, is where I really belong. My dad did this kind of work, and I wanna be a good Christian daughter just like him! (Well, he wasn't a daughter, but we'll let that slide.) Come on! It's that stupid question of identity again, that as long as I'm doing something good, I can be convinced I'll be fulfilled, even if what I'm doing isn't very effective.

I don't wanna die, but I don't wanna live forever. You know? I really want to do something before I kick it.

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

(written yesterday)

Tally-ho, chaps! Yesterday I was thinking about what a loser I was and stumbled upon a site called Secrets of Sonic Team, compiling every possible known revision in every Sonic game (this screenshot shows Sonic running through the Emerald Hill Zone, but the sprite is OBVIOUSLY that of Sonic 1! Conspiracy?), and the combination of loneliness, boredom, and not doing my homework resulted in me staying up until 3 am reading all these revisions. (Did you know that, until very late in development, Sonic 1 used the word "Ring" in the HUD instead of "Rings?" Now you know!) Yes, I was bored to tears and could have stopped, but stopping would have meant thinking about how stupid I was for staying up until 3am voraciously reading this silly website, because I didn't want to think about how sad I was.

But! For some reason, when I finally fought myself to sleep (Suzy said, "go to your room! Masturbate! I don't care, you need sleep!"), and then I woke up, I felt GREAT. So, I wrote down my really weird anxiety dream (my school was performing a musical about sexuality, and I was invited on at the last minute to perform as leader of a group of dancers, and I pretended to know what I was doing but couldn't hack it, so I ran off and cried), and took a bath.

Ohh man. This felt GREAT. I sat in the bath and dreamed that I was Rhyth, the character from Jet Grind Radio and Jet Set Radio Future that I am very attached to, and the boys ganged up on me and Beat held up a spraycan and Combo playfully shoved me into it, launching me by my buns and throwing my into its vortex as Beat pushed the button to suck me in. Jazz stared at it and cradled it, wondering what happened to me (Jazz and Rhyth, in my opinion, should be very best friends). Beat took the Rhyth Spraycan and painted the wall with me; I was now a graffiti, and Beat posed in front of the Camera and grinned, showing off his work of art. In the background, I animated as best I could, grinning and lifting my leg playfully. The logo for the National Heart Lung and Blood Institute appeared at the bottom, and the fantasy was over and my regularly scheduled programming continued. (You see, the fantasy was actually a public relations spot. No, for some reason, I thought the combination of Beat painting me on the wall, and then the image of him grinning, me trying to animate happily, and some charity logo appearing across the bottom made me come like nobody's business. Call me crazy.)

(Now a charity fetish might be really fun. I've tried to imagine me giving myself up to be eaten by a poor family, but it just hasn't turn me on. Maybe if I added strawberries. Moving on...)

So I drained the water, confident in my well-being (and I also just love taking baths; besides being an excuse to get naked, I love the fact that nobody's watching me and I can just forget the world exists), my clothes on, and looked at the clock. Oh my god. I had allotted an hour and a half for this bath, but I had been lulling so pleasurably that it took me THREE HOURS. I was late for class. So, I put on my coat, got my keys, and ran for the bus. I made it there, luckily, in only about half an hour.

So, I went to the room where the writing class was. There was a different teacher in there. Was this the right room? Yes. Maybe it's just a substitute teacher. Then I looked at the class. I didn't recognize the class either. Was this the right room? Yes. Was this the right building? ... Yes. Maybe it's just a substitute class. So I walk in, take my seat, and realize... I'm not only late for my class, my class starts two hours before I thought it did. This is the wrong class! So, I sulked home, secretly happy that I wouldn't have to go to my silly writing class, because...

Then I got to write my silly inspirational story for lonely teenagers, and even though I'm liable to say that anything I've just written is the best thing ever, I'm very pleased with how it's coming along, and I want to submit it to some compilation of inspirational stories for lonely teenagers. So, if one of my fine readers could put in a good word for me down at Chicken Soup & Co. (or someplace else), that'd be swell. Thanks.

Finally, thoroughly inspired and satisfied with my well-being, I sat down to write for my silly blog.

Good night.
The end is near.

The US bombed a mosque and killed 40. All worshippers.

And somehow, I try to conjure up my usual rage against apologists to massacres, and I just come up short. We.... we ought to come together. The world is ending I--

This is not my true path. I am going to join the Peace Corps. I am going to go to Iraq or Palestine or somewhere, I don't care, where people are suffering and I can do something, anything, to help. I need to be a force against this, a force for good. It can happen in me.

After I saw the article on a newspaper dispenser downtown, I cried. No, I actually did. I sat down and I cried, right in the middle of the sidewalk. This is not the brink of chaos. This is chaos, and when we bomb a house of worship with no military significance we have abandoned any pretense of human dignity. We head right back to the Dark Ages. We are barbarians, destined to return to the slime from which we came.

I wanted to throw up. I could hear their bones crunching against the hot metal. I could hear their cries when a Black Hawk stared them down when all they wanted to do was worship. I could hear them cursing themselves for not having stayed in bed that morning. I could hear them saying their final wishes to their families as they drew their last breath and prepared themselves for this is it. And then, silence.

I ran. You best believe I ran. "Gotta go faster, faster, faster-faster-faster!" was all I heard. I wanted to be like Sonic. All my problems would be solved if I ran fast enough. I wasn't running towards anything, I was just running, hoping that at some point the weight would mean I would break the threshold into another reality and leave this barbaric existence behind. It would just be me, naked, in my own, endlessly white room, with no living or dying at all. Just silence.

Then I got to a stoplight and it was over.

I'd like to think I can stay out of this, that civilian control over the military ensures that I can sit back in my easy chair and play Xbox and sing "la la la" and pretend that around the world, there aren't atrocities committed for entirely political ends. I can forget that mankind is afflicted by a plague of hatred and military arrogance. I can forget that there is something I can do.

But I can't forget, because we are all part of one world, one race, one brain, one Light that says killing is wrong. I cannot because I do possess an inner strength, that one that people have always told me about, and it would be an injustice not to use it to try and cure the world of its plague.

So, sayonara, I'll call back when Leticia the Superhero is doing something--anything--to set things right.


(edit: the Peace Corps does not accept those without a high school diploma. Ideas? I've always wanted to build homes in Palestine, you know...)

(even if the IDF will tear them down the next day...)

(at least I'm doing something...)

(more tomorrow.)

Monday, April 05, 2004

Wha? Appearently CafePress _does_ allow more than one product. Strange. Oh well, that babydoll shirt I kept saying was limited-edition is not really. You can still buy it. But if you don't have the phyisque of a lamppost you may be interested in the brand-new T-shirt, with the same old flowers. (I'll show you the crocodile and meat grinder designs soon; and you never know, I may just do something with them...)

(But buy the Terms-of-Service-safe flowers ones anyway. It will make you feel better about yourself.)
You'll notice I cleaned up the blogroll a tad. No more links to the Guardian, Atrios, or This Modern World, not because I don't think they're excellent resources, but because I want to limit my blogroll to those I have contacted personally, to do my share as a hub in the blogosphere. Those three above have enough links already. (I've also alphebatized the blogroll, to avoid hurting anybody's feelings. Belle is still up top. Odd.)

Secondly, on the way back from England, I picked up a dead-tree edition of the Guardian to read on the plane. I got so bored in-between head-mashings that I began to write some haiku on current events. For instance, we have a brand new ally here in the UN: former rogue state Libya. Now, I'm all for making peace with former terrorist states--something the US could have done with Iraq given a few years' patience and a solution to our itchy trigger finger--but I think we oughta take, you know, baby steps. So I thought it was neat when I read that British firms were lining up for "arms-for-oil" deals. That's great! Since everybody's so hot for oil, I thought it would be a great idea to sell him some to encourage him to give us his conventional weapons. Until I realized... that's arms for oil, THE OTHER WAY.

Rogue state comes around
Let's sell him some guns and bombs
Oil tankers ho!

Libyan Colonel Gadafy has this to say about women, by the way: "A woman is tender. A woman is pretty. A woman weeps easily. A woman is easily frightened."

Our new ally says
Women are weak and weepy
Makes me wanna cry

Meanwhile, the Guardian brought well-known (apparently) prostitute Cynthia Payne to discuss whether or not Belle de Jour is the real deal. She said that Belle is obviously fake because her clients are impolite and want weird things. But the real gem of her article is when she accuses Belle of sounding too much like an author--as in, a good writer, one who knows (in her words) "sod-all" about it. Pardon me, Ms. Payne, but what does "sod-all" mean? Do you know anyone who talks like that? An AUTHOR, that's who! Give it up, Cynthia! We know where you live! You're mashed inbetween pages of the Guardian, east, west, south and north somewhat!

Belle's sexy stories
Have better writing than mine
Right-o! A fraud!

Her johns talk dirty
My clients were daft and dull
Poor me. Tear her down!

My argument:

Belle's bizarre clients
If she could have made them up
She'd work in TV

(By the way, Belle does not speak for all prostitutes, so... don't try to say that no prostitute talks like her. They come in all shapes and sizes, missy.)

And finally, Richard Clarke blew the fact that everyone knew, Bush is a liar and a cheat and a moron.

Disgruntled chief blows
Dear Leader's incompetence
Lo, open secrets!

That's all for now! Stay tuned next time for another thrilling recipe as Suzy shows you how to make fried Leticia apple crisp with whipped cream and cinnamon. Mmm-mm!
I'm sad. You'll see why in a moment.

Because of something Brielle said (isn't it always? I'm a sheep), I got the brilliant idea of buying a big set of Legos to play with. This idea, by the way, came from a dream, which came from something Brielle said about a book. This would not be the first thing I've purchased because of a dream; quite recently, I was wearing a very cute outfit while on a farm, in a dream. I also had blonde hair and bare feet and I looked very beautiful, but little did my way-out-there parents know (this was 1900 or so; fun fun fun), I, Samus Aran, was actually a bounty hunter in deep space by night. I snuck out of my house to put on my Power Suit and await command from the alien federation. (I had, incidentally, NOT been playing too much Metroid Prime.)

(I think the name Samus Aran sounds really cool if you say it like "Samus Aaron," but that's just me.)

So! Where the hell was I? Oh, but I, teenage Samus Aran, in my civilian clothes, wore these cute suspenders and a cream-colored shirt; so when I woke up, I went out to Goodwill and bought something similar. I look good in cream. I look good when I'm creaming. I mean!!--let's move on.

(note: does "creaming" refer to all ejaculation, or just male? [Freakin' patriarchy!] I want to make sure I haven't just embarrassed myself. Again. Moving on...)

So! I decided it would be lots of fun to get some Legos to play with. You see, Brielle had recommended the book, Sophie's World ("A Novel about the History of Philosophy," which is kind of like "A Can of Beer About a Dog"), which proclaims boldly that the most ingenious toy in the world is Lego: it is basic, unbreakable, comes in many varieties, and can build just about anything, just like the Greek concept of the atom (which, the author reminds us, is "un-cuttable" in Greek).

So, in-keeping with my teenage midlife crisis (and over-use of the word "so;" I think it's so so-so), I decide it would be the damned coolest thing to get the big buckets of Legos that they make for little kids only (when you grow up, you get pre-arranged Spider-Man and Star Wars Legos; no fun), and make a giant interstellar hub on my nightstand, which would be the center of intergalactic politics throughout my room. Let's say the Green Helmet Aliens are having a trade dispute, saying that the Space Police charge too much to ship studded red blocks back and forth. Why, the Space Police can simply grab their mighty weapon of Leticia's Shoe and show those fanatics the what-for! Hours of entertainment.

No, really (notice: "no" and not "so." Come on, give me some love), I wanted Earth to be on my nightstand, while the alien mermaid colony (the all-female land of love and delight, where all they do is swim around and learn about icky silly men, who they will have to encounter once they leave their planet for their interstellar journey upon their eighteenth year; hey, I live for this stuff) would be on my bureau, and I think I would put a skatepark on top of my desk, decorating my Lego people all Jet Grind Radio like. (This would make up for Jet Grind Radio not having a level editor. I must say, it's a good thing the game didn't, because then it would become so cool it would become uncool, sucking in all the coolness around it. The whole game market would crash from the overabundance and then scarcity of coolness. Nobody would be able to come up with a new game idea because everything cool is covered by Jet Grind Radio with a level editor. Besides, I'd never get my homework done.)

But nooo, I go to the toy stores, and NONE of them have those big buckets of Legos I remember. It finally took going to an icky department store (I don't like department stores; they remind me of Nazi Germany for reasons I will explain later) to find one, but unfortunately, size was both relative and against me at the time I was young. Big buckets of Legos are pretty damned small when you're fourteen years past the target market.

So, it started to happen. I got lonely. I mean, I got really really lonely. Not lonely as in, "Oh I wish somebody would just show me the secrets of womanhood and how men work" (a condition I am very, VERY familiar with) but the marketable kind of lonely, as in, "Oh, I wish I had a friend that would make this $30 dollhouse worth it'' or "This beautiful blue plush mermaid is dear to my heart, but I won't buy it unless I have a trusty sidekick to buy the pink one." You know how marketers would like you to believe that, if only you bought one more movie, suddenly you're social life wouldn't seem all so bad, because you would've just bought a set of eight prepackaged friends burned to an optical disk? I could feel it burning holes in my soul. I could invite somebody over to play with these Legos-- NO! LETICIA! IN THE GRIP OF CAPITALISM!-- MUST-- ESCAPE-- MUST-- CHANNEL-- LENIN...

So, it took Suzy dragging me by my legs and insisting that NOBODY makes any twenty-dollar Lego buckets that say "Make Your Own Lego Space Station, Skatepark, And Alien Mermaid Colony Where Young Girls Learn The Secrets of Sexuality, With No Instructions Included" in order to get me to leave the department store. As I got onto the cold bus I just wished I had that pink mermaid, so I could name her Betsy and set her beside me while we watch movies and I'll ask her questions like, "Wow, is that prostitute hot or what?" and pretend she's actually concurring with that perpetual smile that's been sewn onto her face by impoverished Third World children.

So, I'm officially going to rectify this by running myself through the scanner, at which point I will be converted into raw binary data, to be posted on my blog for all of you to consume. I may not have any friends, but at least I'll have a purpose. Eat me up, yo.


Boys-videogames-boys-hair-books-writing-girls-sexuality-mentor-worry-cherry pie-books-videogames-that one cute girl-that one cute guy-which is cuter-who am I-is it mature to worry about who I am-is it mature to worry about worrying-I wonder if they'll make another Jet Grind Radio-The second one was awful-I like apple pie-Mmmffmfmff-did I really write that one thing-oh I'm a pervert and a dork-no I shouldn't judge myself-would I really enjoy being made into cherry cola....

Suzy: This keeps going, but I'm storing Leticia in this here fishtank until she gets better. Not sure why she wanted to share her binary code with y'all. That's a bad sign. (pours fish food all over Leticia) Yeah...

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