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the mean girl, or someone's in-between girl
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| Reasons Why I Have Not Responded to Your Friendster Message: A True Account (Part 1) |
[Aug. 2nd, 2004|12:38 am] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | drinking cheap liquor | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | everybody's gotta learn sometime//beck | ] |
Reasons Why I Have Not Responded to Your Friendster Message:
1. You spell "Queens" with a Z instead of an S, and are wearing a backward baseball cap in your photo.
2. You list "partying" as an interest.
3. You list "sex" as an interest.
4. Under "Occupation", you list "sex-blogger". And you have no photo in your profile.
5. You list "wicca" as an interest. not to mention "goth" music. you want to meet "women with casual pictures. realistic, themselves, artsy, educated- not half naked or 3/4 on their profiles", yet have two photos of you shirtless and flexing.
6. Your profile informs me that you are married.
7. Two of your user pics are almost cute, but one looks like you're jerking off out of frame.
8. You are a man interested in both men and women. I can't compete with dick.
9. You're 29, in a relationship, an engineer, and live in Maryland. What the hell good ARE you to me? Oh, god, and you have listed "The Ring" as one of your favorite movies. No.
10. You're goth AND live in Jersey City AND you're in a relationship. Wow, that's heavy competition with number 9.
11. You're stalking my friend AND you sent the same message to me 4 times, PSYCHO.
12. You're wearing a round of ammo in your user picture.
13. You spell "thanks" like "TNX!!!"
14. You list "Futurama" as a favorite show. You're a liar. Nobody's favorite show is "Futurama".
15. You look (no offense) like a pug, and spell "please" like: "pls".
16. Your user name is JaY-Z.
17. You have a professional wrestler as a user pic, and it's not in a tongue-in-cheek way.
18. Your user name is "Casanova" and you look like eurotrash.
19. You live in Sweden.
20. You live in the Philippines.
21. You live in Pakistan.
22. "I'm a fuckin' RockStar!!" is a phrase that appears in your profile, and your message subject line read: "helli".
23. You look (no offense) like a serial rapist.
24. Under "Favorite Books", you write "Do magazines count"? Answer: No.
25. Under "Interests", you write: "lots of them, just ask me". I suspect you are a deeply boring individual.
26. You're an actor. And your headshot is your user pic.
27. Um. You're 35, you live in Connecticut, and without prior conversation, you sent me a poem that only the most maudlin 8th grade girl would write.
28. Under "Favorite Books", you write: "Reading?! TV's faster!"
29. "Dianetics" is a favorite book, and I am willing to wager you're not joking.
30. You live in New Jersey, misspelled "organization", and you look (no offense) like you were in the Trench Coat Mafia in high school.
31. Your user pic is you with your sports car. No.
32. Holy God. You're the guy from #27. I just realized you sent me more than one horrific poem. This one ends with the line: "How our love will taste".
33. You live in Connecticut, you misspelled "tao", you like KID ROCK. Jesus, forget the other two. YOU LIKE KID ROCK.
34. You've got a foot fetish.
35. You live in Japan.
36. You claim you're "amazing". Fuck you- if you were amazing, you wouldn't have to tell people that.
37. Your user profile is less a profile, and more some kind of psychotic rap manifesto.
38. A "favorite movie" is "The Devil's Own". Why?
39. Your interests are: "women, NYC nightlife, money". No. No. No.
40. Your user name is "Seduction".
41. You're a tattoo artist who likes S&M. We're a little different. And could you flog me from Rhode Island? I don't think so.
42. Your Favorite Books: "the ones with pictures like Playboy". Oh, also a fan of "The Fast and the Furious", are we? I never would have guessed.
43: Interests: "chicks wit alot of booty...i don't mean fat girls either".
44. Don't call me "cutestuff" if we've never talked before. And by the way, it's not endearing, it makes you sound like one of my mom's post-menopausal friends.
45. You offer up that you "haven't read a novel since the 9th grade". Which is perhaps why you list "Gummo" as a favorite movie.
46. Favorite Music: : "Latin (Thalia, Shakira, Ricky Martin), Italian (Laura Pausini), French (Lara Fabien, Celine Dion), Portuguese (Dulce Pontes), Israeli Popular, Top 40 (Evanescence, No Doubt, Christina Aguilera, Michele Branch, Fefe Dobson, Vanessa Carlton)".
No offense, but are you SURE you're not gay? Gay with really really bad taste?
47. Leather jumpsuits don't even look hot on most women.
48. For the last time, if you live in the Philippines, how are we supposed to make this work!?
49. Favorite Movies: "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days". No offense, but maybe you should try to get with #46 instead of me.
50. Substituting the word "cum" for "come" is not cute. |
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| i am my own favorite topic of conversation. deal with it. |
[Jun. 14th, 2003|08:47 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  sick | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | there there//radiohead | ] |
(interview questions courtesy of ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) davidjmcgee )
1.) You just returned from a semester in Dublin. Which is the better city, Dublin or New York? USA or Ireland? Budweiser or Guinness? Compare and contrast.
what you must understand about dublin is that it is a "city" by european standards. almost all of the things you mentioned about nyc's majesty in your interview are virtually non-existent in dublin. particularly the food delivery service and the subway system, two things that have a direct impact on the level of energy i must exert, and if you know me, you know i like to keep that at a bare minimum.
however, dublin isn't all bad. firstly, the level of intoxication of cute irish guys is generally such that i don't need to lower my standards to get some action, and cute guys will actually do the pursuing as long as those proverbial beer goggles are on. speaking of intoxication, you can spit in any direction and hit a pub, which is a little slice of heaven for a lush like myself. the beer is legendary, and something to be taken seriously. my liver already misses carlsberg, kilkenny, smithwick's, and guinness. on the continuing subject of vice, smoking is allowed just about everywhere, and while that's not so great for the scent of my clothes, it's quite refreshing when compared to the 1984-like stance nyc has adopted on smoking since i've been gone. people are friendlier (at least to your face), and even though i was there during the war, the derogatory comments about americans and the states as a whole were fairly minimal, considering.
to conclude: would i live in dublin permanently? "probably not". would i go back for another visit? "where are the plane tickets"?
2.) On May 28th you wrote "i am taking an extended hiatus from livejournal." Since that time you have posted only once. In the past, you posted quite frequently. Why have you chosen to take a break from livejournal?
a comment was made to me recently about the state of my writing. the comment to me, sounded bitingly critical (though the person who made the comment insists that it was not meant as such, or at least it wasn't meant the way i was taking it). i was quite hurt, to say the least. for the most part, i can handle criticism if i feel it's constructive, or if i feel like i can improve. what's frustrating about my writing is that i don't really have an objective view of it yet, and the comment then sounded like not only an attack on my writing, but also me as a person. if i thought it was completely untrue or unwarranted, i would have brushed it off. however, the comment touched upon some of my emotional issues, and beliefs i hold about my own inadequacy and failures, both as a person and an "artist".
the thing i've come to realize though, is that running away is my first defense mechanism, and denial is hereditary. but, i'm looking to break myself of this habit, so, i don't quite think that my hiatus will be as long as i anticipated.
3.) M. Night Shyamalan let us know that Bucks County is (or has been) infested with aliens. As a Bucks County native, have you ever come in contact with an alien? (bonus subquestion: in the film Signs, Bucks County is home to a tiny hick bookstore that keeps a book about aliens around "for the city folk." Yet you claim to have worked at Barnes & Noble. Explain yourself.)
while i am personally not convinced one way or the other as to the existence of extraterrestrials, if aliens really did exist and are roaming around the bucks county area, it would retrospectively explain a great deal about some of my high school classmates and teachers.
as for barnes & noble, or related trappings of civilization in bucks county, i'd refer you to my post about a little establishment i'm sure you're familiar with,
starbucks .
4.) This is such a great question that I'm taking it from my interview and passing it to you. You are given a gun and 100 untraceable rounds of ammunition. Anything you do, you will get away with. Choose your own adventure:
honestly, i'd probably destroy the gun and the ammo. while there are many people that i'm sure at one point or another have received uniquely sadistic deaths in my over-active and particularly vengeful imagination, i can't think of a single person i'd leap at the chance to pump full of lead in reality. the "anything you do, you will get away with" isn't particularly enticing, simply because it's not law enforcement that prevents me from being a homicidal little gal, it's those pesky things called "morality" and "conscience". and besides, why shoot someone when "picture caking" is a more viable and tasty option?
"picture caking" is a fun and edible form of personal score-settling that i invented with a little inspiration from my partner in crime, miss fanya cohen. the popular ice cream establishment baskin robbins has the technology to scan any picture you so desire on to the top layer of an ice cream cake. one fine summer day, about two or so years ago, fanya happened to be pissing me off as we passed the store front of baskin robbins and i exclaimed that if fanya did not stop vexing me, i'd be left with no choice but to "picture cake [her], and stab [her], and EAT [her]!". needless to say, fanya found this particular outburst of hostility in dessert form to be quite amusing. for the next year and a half, we kept up the picture cake inside joke. finally, not content to simply mutter idle picture cake threats anymore, fanya and i decided it was time for less talk and a bit more action on that front. not finding anyone we hated suitably enough to maim in effigy in real life, we settled on a big glossy picture of mary kate and ashley olsen. no outrageous garden tool was overlooked for use in the destruction of our frozen confection. in the end, i think a crowbar, hedge clippers, and a sledgehammer were part of our arsenal. and we've got a whole roll of pictures to prove it.
so, let that be a lesson to all those out there who dare to incur the wrath of briana. yeah, you don't want to fuck with this bitch, i be *craaaazy*.
5.) Five-year plans are ridiculous, but we all dream. In your dreams, where are you and what are you doing ten years down the road. (note: don't be snide, answer this seriously -ed).
honestly, i have no idea what i'd like to be doing in ten years, other than maybe jude law or luke wilson or ewan mcgregor or [insert name of dreamy screen idol here]. but, i know you said to be serious, so i'll try to answer again.
right now i'm at an icky transitional phase of some sort, and i don't feel that a) i'm particularly well-suited to do anything i am interested in, and b) anything i might wind up doing will provide for me the way i am accustomed to. it's not a very sunny picture.
if i could act or be involved in entertainment in some way, i'd like that, but janeane garafalo already exists, and she's doing a better job of being me than i am. i toy around with the idea of being a writer, but that's about as unstable as anne heche's sexuality as well. i'm hoping someone out there will see me doing something creative and just hire me to do something so i won't have to make the unsavory life-decision myself.
as for a family and babies, well, i can't say that i'm completely opposed to the idea, but seeing as my longest actual "relationship" to date has been three months and occurred during high school, i'm woefully inexperienced in that department. any talk on my part of romance or couplehood, at the moment, is pure conjecture. right now i'm just looking forward to the one day when i'll truly fall in love and have that love returned. anything else i'll consider a bonus.
jesus, is that serious enough for you, dave?! i have to go take my mood-elevating drugs now... |
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| To Sylvia Plath, Poet, In the Mo(u)rning |
[Jun. 4th, 2003|09:21 am] |
I don't want to wake Sylvia this morning
She needs to rest
How many lifetimes are we going to play this out?
Bathroom mirror, she spits back at me
Red hair a Medusa's tangle
serpentine flames hissing at the placid glass
And me-
all alabaster.
She's in her Sabbath best
Sticky Pearl maggots dangle
from the tender throat flesh
Did a knife once trespass there?
I'm sure they smell it on me
thick as bayou air
Could any flowery words mask
the stink of your own failure?
the stink of your corpse
untimely ripened?
I'm sure I smell you on me
rotting on my breath
And is it true you lived in a darkness
blacker than the ink
that penned your own elegy?
You whisper words
that make the ghost gashes
on my own wrist
twinge
"You do not do
you do not do
anymore"
I replace your cursed face
with my own
and banish you back
to the sepulcher
in my heart
safely caged again,
beneath my ribs. |
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| a postcard from the edge: i'm already wet and i'm gonna go swimming |
[May. 28th, 2003|10:08 pm] |
dear reader,
i don't mean to be didactic. but i thought i should give you all the facts about my current affliction.
ba·nal: adj.
Drearily commonplace and often predictable; trite: “Blunt language cannot hide a banal conception” (James Wolcott).
i'm taking an extended hiatus from livejournal.
i was wearing my confidence like a chainmail dress. his words slipped in between. perhaps he could not see my heart i safety pinned to my sleeve.
now, i am stripped. better to expose all the flaws than to wear those gaudy rags, yes?
i shall skinny dip in the cesspool of mediocrity until my fingers get pruny. until i am tired of swimming. until i drown, and small children poke at my bloated corpse with those leaf skimmer things.
i'm sorry.
kisses,
briana |
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| speaking of kahlua...yes, we were! look two entries ago! |
[May. 26th, 2003|09:33 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  weird | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | here's where the story ends//the sundays | ] |
i saw the matrix reloaded, *ugh*, again.
two things:(these aren't really spoilers, it's okay, i promise)
1)is it just me, or is that rave in zion pretty much a kahlua mudslide commercial? like a pavlovian dog, i was just craving some fine coffee liquor refreshment.
2)i'm glad to see that milli vanilli have transcended the fact that one of them is dead, gone albino, and gotten back together. good old rob and fab. wicked with automatics and one liners. |
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| and she's got the river down which i sold her... |
[May. 25th, 2003|09:57 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  cynical | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | 4th of july//aimee mann | ] |
sitting in class, paying attention, but barely breaking a brain sweat. i've got room enough in here to think of you, and columbus at the same time. we're reading the letters he sent back to spain, detailing his travails in the new world. and because i am bored, and because i am thinking of you, my tongue becomes an explorer, intrepidly spelunking the cavern it inhabits, the white porcelain stalactites it takes for granted.
cortes, pisarro, magellan. flick, swish, slide.
i tongue my mouth and wonder if this is what it feels like to your tongue. i think of the names of the teeth. canines like fangs. i tongue the sharp teeth and i feel powerful, like a predator. female lions are the huntresses. i imagine sinking my teeth into your neck so hard i hear the crunch of life resisting being compacted. i imagine us laying under a tree in africa, your blood dripping from my parched mouth, not nearly quenching me, as the sun burns my eyes. why, then, do i always end up as the prey? if i've learned anything from the discovery channel its that the strong feed on the weak ones. the sick ones. the slow ones. the young. the defenseless. the ones not old enough to have formed a powerful attachment to life. the ones with a secret death wish, unknown to even themselves.
i must want it.
i must want you on top of me, pressing so i can't breathe, killing me, dying a hundred little deaths, one with each wave of motion. want you to desecrate my little masoleum, defile the dead with your life, escaping from you, belonging then to me.
if i opened my mouth now, if i moved my tongue to tap the teeth to speak to you, i'm not sure if i would say "i love you" or "i hate you".
and so i keep it shut, and bite my tongue with my canines until i can taste my blood, coppery like a new penny. i listen about columbus but all i can think now is
this is what desire tastes like. |
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| freaky friday (it's a disney movie, not just an alliteration!) |
[May. 23rd, 2003|11:11 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | quick! help! | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | lose yourself//eminem | ] |
my dad said he was going to bed. he then proceeded to his bedroom, shut the door, and put on music that sounds suspiciously like eminem.
yes, it's definitely eminem.
i should be scared, right? i mean, i've heard of mid-life crisis stuff, but he already has the toupee and the sports car. isn't that enough!?
i draw the line at baggy pants. someone has to be the responsible adult and stop my dad from being 14. |
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| the juice of beans never tasted so good... |
[May. 22nd, 2003|04:24 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  drained | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | everyone//van morrison | ] |
quick question:
do you think the fact that i put kahlua in my vitamin enriched vanilla soy milk negates its inherent beneficial health properties?
good nutrition and alcohol, man. the way i see it, i'm just killing two birds with one creamy delicious stone. |
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| waxing and waning |
[May. 15th, 2003|02:18 am] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  melancholy | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | i wish i was the moon tonight//neko case | ] |
i watched the lunar eclipse tonight, by myself.
naked in my bed, i took a moonbath, and held my breath as the moon bled a lovely garnet red. i felt full, pregnant with the ghostly orb, though my stomach lately has been flat as the praries. when i wasn't looking, i seem to have lost twenty pounds. strange concept, losing some of yourself.
who will find me?
not him. the urge to capitalize the h in the word "him" must be curbed. lately when i talk to him, i have conversational premonition- knowing precisely what he'll say before he says it. the sensation of listening to a cd you know well, and when one song ends, your mind cues up the opening bars of the next song automatically. unfortunately, they're never the words i want him to say.
i have words on reserve for him, in case decides to pluck me from the sad anonimity of single girls who can't even give their love away. he could be the one person to have complete access to the tangled synapses and neurons firing, he could have any thought of mine he desired. but, if he was so lucky, perhaps i'd let other things do the talking. the dangerous symmetry of the sloping curves of my collarbone is worth a thousand words. or it should be, to him.
but tonight, tonight the only man for me, is the one in the moon. and i decide i love him, craters and all. |
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| requiem for a semester |
[May. 12th, 2003|12:44 am] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | tranquilizers are fun! | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | take me to the backseat//the donnas | ] |
her lighter has disappeared. perhaps it has already been packed, she thinks. or perhaps it got sucked into the vortex of left socks, and the phone numbers of random irish men written on beer mats. out of necessity, she lights her cigarette on the stove. how domestic.
and then, a small biological revenge!
despite all her efforts to clean the apartment
she sees a small snake-like black hair
clinging to the carpet
s-shaped and gleaming
and now she knows:
parts of her will always be in dublin.
she thinks of dna and smiles, exhaling, while the smoke curls around her head like an affectionate cat.
good-bye. |
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| the sad scale and the dial tone |
[May. 11th, 2003|06:54 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | medicated | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | fake plastic trees//radiohead | ] |
on a sad scale from 1, (one = dropping the popsicle you just bought from the ice cream man on the pavement) to 10, (ten being your puppy getting run over right in front of your house, with you possibly still holding on to its leash)
i'd say the portion of packing where you take all your pictures and decorations off the walls qualifies as a solid 4, maybe a 4.5.(five is the end of the movie "my girl" where macaulay culkin is all dead and puffy cause he went back to get vada's mood ring)
it's as though i've removed my very essence from the rooms, sanitized them, the white overpowering any lingering briana vibes. that white is just so...final. i bet if i checked the label on that paint can it would say "semi-gloss final white". goddamn dutch boy.
i hate to type it, but part of me really dreads going back to new york. even back to pennsylvania. all of my relationships with people at the moment are somewhere on hold, that annoying classical music droning away in the background. i just get the feeling when i try to pick them back up, with some people, all i'll get is a dial tone. i hate that sound.
on the plus side, all i'll always have lame analogies and metaphors to keep me company.
"oh metaphor, who invented you?!"- eve |
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| good-bye to me lucky charms |
[May. 10th, 2003|04:16 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  contemplative | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | rock the casbah//the clash | ] |
most of the others in the program have left already,
and so, like bad sex
the end of my time here in ireland is very
anti-climactic.
soon i'll be trading the liffey for the delaware, then the hudson.
it feels like it has been a dream. a guinness-induced flight of fancy.
someone pinch me.
ow, that's my nipple. |
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| two night stand |
[Apr. 29th, 2003|07:32 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| |  horny | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | why can't i be you//the cure | ] |
"sing to me".
he makes this request, though he has no reason to believe i have any singing ability whatsoever. he doesn't know me.
i put my arms around his shoulders, and let my hands play in the small hairs on the back of his neck. his gum smells like berries...blackcurrants. he's chewing gum, but he doesn't take it out when he sips his pint of beer. i remember this quirk from our last encounter.
i don't seriously consider singing to him, partially because the pub is too loud to be heard anyway, but mostly because "jenny from the block" comes on. it doesn't matter. i take my cardigan off because i'm sweltering. the heat of too many drunk, sexually frustrated people dancing. he eyes me appreciatively. i'm not used to standing up under the scrutiny. i turn my eyes away from his, because though i'm wearing a black camisole, i feel naked already. "i like your shirt," he suggests to the air. he knows he's scared off a skittish animal and is testing out bait to lure it back. i let the statement hang for a moment. i turn to face the dancers, scan the room, let the strobe light hypnotize me for a split second. and then i kiss him again.
we leave together, his arm around me, and as i walk past my friends who have a table near the door, i feel like i know something they don't.
*
lying naked on the couch. we fucked in the living room, in front of all my windows. while making out in the street my front door opens on to, he called me an exhibitionist. i suppose i don't really know enough about myself to agree or disagree with that assessment. his hand idly wanders up my thigh, and lingers, stroking the hairless skin. i hate my thighs. i can't even look at his hand there. "your parents are from philly, right? you told me that last time...", he says, squinting, as though remembering that fact is something like trying to look into the sun. i nod. he waits, maybe hoping i'll offer up more information, anything to help him pin me down. "so, what's your story," he finally asks.
i know it's just a saying, but it stops me. i don't know if i have a story. i'm 21, and i feel like i should know the answer to this by now.
and if i decided to reply with words instead of more sex, i guess i'd have said: i'm still working on character development, but the plot is definitely getting more and more interesting. |
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| *brring* it's the clue phone, for me.... |
[Apr. 28th, 2003|10:38 am] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | procrastinate-y | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | oh yoko//john lennon | ] |
yesterday i came to an important realization.
wearing my U2 shirt
around dublin
is about as lame as
tourists wearing an
"i heart NY" shirt
in manhattan.
it's also in the same lame ballpark
as wearing a band shirt you already own
to their concert.
too bad i've been doing it all semester. |
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| i want all that stupid old shit, like letters and sodas... |
[Apr. 24th, 2003|04:14 pm] |
| [ | lost generation |
| | stressed | ] |
| [ | one for the floorflushers |
| | we haven't turned around//gomez | ] |
sometimes she laments that she has not had a proper boyfriend since high school.
but mostly she laments about the state of love, in general.
cupid is stupid, venus hasn't seen us, eros just isn't thereos.
whatever happened to woo-ing? do men woo anymore? "woo" is a verb that should be reinstated, she thinks. and no, wooing does not include making out on the couch in your parent's basement.
she has a craving for love letters, is a romance junkie, needs a flowery fix. who's going to be the dealer? who will give her words that will move her to tears? when she was younger, and perhaps a bit more adolescently melodramatic, she would guide her hands up to the drops and rescue them before they fell. she'd gingerly suck them off her fingers, trying to see if emotions that powerful came with a taste. saltwater. taffy tears. she cries for all the wrong reasons these days. who is going to feel for her so passionately that penning her name would be like a prayer? since when was passion passe?
she wants a romance worthy of a black and white movie. she wants a love like an old billie holliday song. she wants kisses caught in a downpour.
but for now, she'll just have to settle for text messages, drunken one-night stands, and trying to love herself. |
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