Adventure

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November 6, 2007

A Letter to Standard Time

Posted by loliz under Adventure, Beauty, Bipolars!, Philosophy, Places, Sex, Superman, Time | Tags: , , , |
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stop time

Dear Standard Time,

I know you like to act all like you are the “real” or “foundational” time – as if there is anything “real” about “time” - but I just wanted you to know how much you make me want to die. Sure, there have been a lot of things that I actually like that make me want to die, but I liked them. You are in no way worth it. So now I have about 5 months of putting up with you and your world-hating self where I have to force myself to do groceries and swim and care about anything at all.

This letter is a few days late, but I was drunk for the first one and hung over for the second, so that now it is the third day since you’ve shown up this half of the year and I barely want to move. And perhaps the only good thing Bush has ever done in his entire life is to shorten your yearly existence.

Love, Lori

P.S. – Any idea as to why I woke up with a swollen ankle the first day after your activation? I was blaming it on other things, like the drunken sex I was having with a stranger, but he was only choking me, there was no ankle play involved at all - I am convinced that it was all because of you!

 

September 19, 2007

The Great Year of The Quit(s) – Inspired by “The Art of Quitting” and my life

Posted by loliz under Activities, Adventure, Beauty, Bipolars!, Comedy, Justice, Magic, Philosophy, Play
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“The option of quitting has long been undervalued and underused. Advice like ‘Put your nose to the grindstone’ and ‘Give it time’ has all but supplanted the wisdom of frustration and impetuosity. The more-responsible-than-thou, more-ambitious-than-thou, tougher-than-thou attitude of anti-quitters intimidates potential quitters into shying away from risk and proceeding with the status quo. The cozy, smug security of the antiquitter is to be avoided at all costs. Quitters must not be frightened by the potentially cataclysmic outcome of a particular quit. Disaster beats stasis – better to be a rolling stone than a moss-covered rock.” (The Art of Quitting, 9)

It is not exactly clear when I began all this quitting. I am not sure how far back “the year of the quit(s)” actually extends. It could have begun in Seattle when I dropped a crazy crazy man-boy and a job and headed out to NY to go to grad school. I prefer to start the year when I “quit” dating Bipolars, which was maybe a month after the other events.

So here’s the list of all my quits not completely in order, but sort of:

  • Bipolars - I will say it again and again!
  • 35 y.o. men
  • monogamous serious relationships
  • feeling “nice”
  • liking myself as a sweet white girl
  • some really bad paper topics (I somewhere in here quit “seeing” my stepmom)
  • a Colombian that always wanted me to talk dirty in bed and I half the time sucked at it
  • long hair
  • sugar and refined flour
  • believing some people who I really believed a lot A LOT
  • believing people who think politics are superior (prior, whateverhaveyou) to ethics
  • believing that I can date in any sort of competent way
  • GRAD SCHOOL
  • Quit, quit seeing Bipolars
  • Bipolars
  • thinking of ethics in any sort of rule oriented way, almost completely
  • feeling like I need to apologize in any way for my existence even when I don’t feel “nice”
  • 25 y.o. men
  • liking my existence as a non-sweet girl
  • dating
  • OKCupid
  • trusting myself with any sort of decision making
  • and among other things, casuality…

On the positive, I did start getting pissed off. And I currently am interested in the color pink.

 

September 18, 2007

Clowns with bloodshot eyes

Posted by loliz under Adventure, Improvised Writing
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fear

I feel no fear. None at all. I’ve spelunked underwater ice caves in the nude, wrestled a giraffe with an evil lepprechaun tied to its belly, played Russian roulette with a bi-polar support group, dug up a recently buried and still-decomposing body (an executed Texan “murderer” who was proven innocent postmortem via DNA testing) and cuddled with it for 72 hours, bungee jumped off the Sears Tower with the chord attached to my upper lip, ate dinner at KFC, and through all that, zero effect.

You know that inspirational story about that courageous guy who had a degenerative spinal disease who slowly lost use of all his body, but still loved life and continued to paint watercolors and volunteer his time at church? That guy is a fucking coward compared to me.

I’ve been told that I have a death wish by several people including my dominatrix, Castrato: Queen of the Night. I just laugh and drink a pint of Ganges river water.
They say what ever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

And as a failed abortion, I know that for a fact.

 

September 13, 2007

Donut wormholes and proof time is subjective

Posted by Ryan McGivern and J.J. under Adventure, History, Improvised Writing, Philosophy, Science, Time, Travel
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usa todayI work the early morning shift at the So Many Holes Donut Shop in Billings, Montana. I clock in at 4 A.M., brew a fresh pot of non-fair trade coffee (we ain’t got decaf), I wipe tables down, click on the neon “Open” sign”, fire up a stogie and wait for Mr. Milnes.

Better than clockwork, old Mr. Milnes arrives on crutches at precisely 4:45 A.M. He sits at a booth with yesterday’s USA Today newspaper — today’s hasn’t arrived yet. And, just like usual he begins announcing new stories and sports scores. Mr. Milnes, you see, is not quite on time — he’s always a day late.

This becomes philosophically difficult to relate to Mr. Milnes. I have considered flying around the world Eastwardly very speedily to meet him Yesterday, but I have been told by physicist friends that because I have mass, I’ll never reach light speed to do so.
It took me 14 years of horrible conversation with Mr. Milnes to figure out he was responding to yesterday’s questions and he thought me mad because I was talking in constant possibilities of non-existant hypothetical universes. It is hard when your best friend in the world thinks of you as Schrodinger’s ‘cat in a box’ paradox.

It will be really scary for Mr. Milnes to find out tomorrow that he got shot in an armed robbery today.

 

September 12, 2007

Sexual frustration, trucker love, drug traffic

Posted by Ryan McGivern and J.J. under Activities, Adventure, Drugs, Games, Improvised Writing, Merchandise, Pop Culture, Romance
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truck

I am a trucker and I live a useful life. I bring materialism to your community, from the tainted California vegetables you gleefully consume under pretenses of being “healthy” to the Chinese lead toy your child just licked into her bloodstream that will linger permanently like a stalker, waiting, watching, eventually causing mutated offspring with a third hand growing from her forehead. And this hand will give you, the grandparent, a ‘shocker‘.

My life’s work consists of driving and popping pills to keep driving. I have seven children and a wife at home, but my work is truly what is important to me, so I see the fam about three days a month. They annoy me to heck and back with their, “daddy, I love you so much, did you bring me any of that delish California spinach like you did last time?” and from my wife, “I’m so hot for you; I want you inside me now!” All so needy.

I think it’s destiny to meet you here at this sketchy bar on the far-side of the Sidewinder Motel. You sipping that PBR while I stare at your poignant tube-topped tits through the corner of my eye reminds me of the time I watched a cow drinking from the Yakima River. Moo moo, baby.

Let me tell you Sexy Lady, being a trucker means two things: I’m horny as hell and I have erectile dysfunction. But lest you think that I only like you for your 8 inch butt cleavage and your third trimester ‘lady lump’, I’ve got to tell you that you mean so much more.

You look like the kind of woman who’d buy me a drink after a long day’s drive. I drink Red Stripe and I drink it warm. Tell Mr. Barman to microwave my brew for two minutes, and better drop an olive in there or no tip.

USAFour hundred miles ago, I was passing through Topeka and my 18 wheeler hit an eldery man who was in the 9/11 Remembrance Parade. By the looks of the uniform that I later pulled out from my engine block he was a WWII veteran. May he rest in peace. Would you like to see his medal of honor? It is hanging you know where.

I can tell by the way that your water is breaking that you too remember 9/11. Yes, it is still upsetting. I remember where I was on 9/11. I was hopped up on meth and cranking out a 15,000 mile job hauling a trailer of Spam. Me and the loner hitchhiker that I later ended up disposing of in a ditch first heard the news on Fox Radio. We were so stunned, that we hardly noticed I had buried a switchblade in his eye.

So what would you and your newborn say to joining me on a trip to Anchorage? I’ve heard that the Northern Lights are beautiful up there.

 

September 10, 2007

Bloomington MN: Home of A Huge Ass Mall

Posted by Ryan McGivern and J.J. under Activities, Adventure, Beauty, Comedy, Diarrhea, Dreams, Drugs, Food, Games, Improvised Writing, Justice, Nostalgia, Play, Pop Culture, Romance, Sex
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DDR

Yesterday I went to the Mall of America and was duly inspired. The heavenly MoA featured

  • more elevators than I have teeth (27)
  • three Orange Julius’s and six Cinnabons to provide unadulterated gluten and sugar coated dreams
  • a Sears the size of eight giraffes taped side by side and four hyenas on top of them, just laughing at you
  • a JC Penny bigger than the world’s largest breadbox (hot mannequinns too)
  • 42 magazine stores that sell pornography with enough porn magazines to stack to the moon
  • A full-time year-round Santa Claus! (good kisser, slow hand)
  • and a plethora of arcades, including one filled to the flask’s brim with only Dance Dance Revolutions!

Before I wandered in the the DDR Arcade I swallowed a four leaf clover.

Lucky little me, it just so happened that the St. Agnes School for Gout Ridden Girls’ cheerleading squad inhabited all but one of the DDR spots — and I got the last spot! Oh my god, it was like winning sixth place at the National Spelling Bee! I have to admit that I am a pretty bad mother on DDR, especially when they play country western or showtunes. I was nervous as hell — I couldn’t let those diabetic diabolical bitch-snatches beat me this time and what if they played rap, or worse yet post 1993 Madonna?

But thank you Virgin Mary, the stars aligned in my favor with the opening twang of John Denver’s “Please, Daddy, Don’t Get Drunk on Christmas” blasting throughout the arcade! I had first danced to this song when I was 6 during the Christmas that my dad switched over to barbituates and weed. The DDR machine was pretty well oiled up from the sweat of the adolescent she-beast before me so I powdered it up with talc, wheat flour and Gold Bond. I danced until 8 inches of colo-rectal came unfolding out of me.

I didn’t win, but I felt like I had won 6th place in a RuPaul “tuck off”.

The Mall of America is surely the best thing to ever happen to Minnesota. Before it, the only thing they had going for themselves was that they weren’t South Dakota.

 

August 29, 2007

Ryan’s Trip To The Sperm Bank

Posted by Ryan McGivern under Activities, Adventure, Beauty, Employment
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bank

I’ve always liked masturbating into a cup and showing it to people, so you can imagine my excitement when I found out I could get paid to do so!

I had Google searched “cum thirsty karl rove”and on the 8th page of results was a page for the Encino Reproductive Services Inc. describing how to get involved with the burgeoning sperm market.

I am now on the ground-floor of the ejaculate industry and I hope that my fortune lies in wait like a ripe passive ovum.

I went over to Encino the next week for my first sample to be taken. The collection rooms are like a small doctor’s room with a sink and some Sani-Naps to clean your penis, a chair, a bin of condoms to take for the road (keeping your sperm healthy is key in the sperm business), and a bed.

A bed! I couldn’t believe it. Are they expecting men to lay down in the missionary position? Is it to take a nap afterwards? I dunno. This seemed incredible to me. What guy masturbates lying down? Masturbation should be done quickly and covertly standing up, and preferably in a corner! I think I’ll ask them about this phenomenon next time I go in.

sperm bank nightOf course, there was a rack of pornography made available on the wall. There is a stack of straight porn and a stack of gay porn. I think that the two stacks are too close together.
In my frenzy, I kept accidentally flipping through “Rough Rider” and “Latin Inches”.

The nurse/sperm wrangler also had given me a “spill sheet” which was a folded up napkin that was really a highly absorbent picnic blanket. “How much semen are you expecting from me if this is the SPILL sheet?” I thought. I looked at my cup which I assumed held 8 ounces and again felt overwhelmed.

When she left me alone to ‘collect’, I felt another pang of anxiety: “How long should this take me?” I thought. I imagined that if I came out of the room 1 minute later (a possibility), she’d silently judge me.

I decided to go into it with the same spirit that I approach sex. Here’s the standard inner dialogue that ran through my head as it usually does… “Try really hard to last longer than 2 minutes! But, don’t be too long about it, now. Don’t want to hold things up and have people getting bored and frustrated. Just don’t be too quick. Don’t think too hard about it though! Be smooth about it, man. Don’t enjoy it too much though, or it’ll be over embarrassingly quick. Just act natural! Pretend that this is a normal thing you do and don’t be so weird about it! God! What is your problem? Try to look at a clock before hand so that you can pace yourself. God only knows that what feels like a long time to you is really 45 seconds!

sperm bankYou freak! You’re doing it wrong! You sick weirdo! Slow down! You think that’s a good technique? Hmmpf. Whatever. Keanu Reeves’ acting is more inventive and exciting than this. You horrible wreck. Slow down! Think about baseball or something. Oh God, you’re about to orgasm! You pitiful moron! Don’t to do it! Stop, slow down, switch positions, something! This is it! You’re gonna blow it! You worthless, infantile piss-ant!”

So, two minutes later I was all finished up and sleepy.

I got to thinking about the pornography that they had chosen and left for me. It was strange to think about the process by which someone shopped for what mags to leave in the room: “Let’s see, Barely Legal. That’s a crowdpleaser. And Playboy for the
classicists….Oh yes, Hustler of course, that’s a nice starter.”

I felt like a dupe.

I felt horribly predictable and pandered to. It was like watching a dog food commercial that makes you feel sentimental, or whistling a catchy radio ad for soap.

So the next step is to donate once more to confirm that I have an”above average” amount of active viable sperm in my ejaculate.

Above average?

bankingOh no! I’ve never been above average in anything except the Body Mass Index. Damn. It will take a miracle of God himself to pass this test. I’ve been told that you can’t do anything to effect your sperm count which doesn’t make sense to me. It seems that by eating steak, watching more hetero-normative internet porn, or lifting weights would help me amp up my levels a bit, but no.

I am really excited about this new venture of sperm donation. I wonder what they do with the sperm.

Ryan McGivern

 

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