A Case for Looks

Looks matter.

The biggest lie we tell ourselves and others is they don’t. That lie is right up there with the devil doesn’t exist and the one about a fat, bearded white man who lives in the North Pole and jumps down chimneys every year on Christmas to give gifts while we sleep. As a matter of fact, that lie is more believable than the one about looks not mattering.

I, on the other hand, will never tell such a lie to myself or anyone else.

Growing up, I had the good fortune of having a mother and sister whose looks stopped traffic and I always noticed how people would respond to me whenever I was around mom and sis. Women in the mall would take a second glance at me, female classmates of mine disguised their interest in me by complimenting my “beautiful” mother and sister. From a very young age I saw firsthand how people responded to a man who had a beautiful woman around him, even if those women were family.

The attention I received from being around my mother and sister when I was younger has influenced my attitude about beautiful women today. In short, I always want to be around them, no matter the circumstances. If I’m on in a taxi and there’s open seating, I might leave my backpack on the open seat next to me until I see a woman I find attractive looking for an available seat. Whenever I’m waiting for the next available teller at a bank, I’m always hoping the cutest one will help me (even if I won’t say anything). And it all sounds so superficial, but it comes from an honest place.

Maybe it’s different for men and women. In my experience, women are a little more willing than men to make concessions for a man who may not be their physical prototype. Such was the case for an ex of mine: When asked what type of man she usually went for  for she replied, “Blair Underwood.” The number of underlines it would take for me to emphasize how much I do NOT look like Blair Underwood is infinite. But, what my ex did not say, nor did she believe is I wasn’t attractive at all. I don’t even look like Blair Underwood’s cousin, but to her, I looked good and at least she understood that much.

We all have our own idea what kind of people we find beautiful. As I always like to say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It just so happens I want to be holding the most beautiful woman in the room, but then again, who doesn’t? Even if it’s not true to others, let it be true to ourselves because here’s what happens:

Stay with a person long enough and eventually the things we found most beautiful about them when we met — whether it be their eyes, their smile, their body  — fade. I  want to get as far out in front of this inevitable happening as I possibly can by dating a woman I find most attractive. It’s like my favorite joke: I never laughed harder than I did when I heard it the first time, but that’s not why it’s my favorite. It’s my favorite because even after I say it or hear it a thousand times, at the very least, it makes me grin.

The other thing about a beautiful woman is the feeling I have the first time I see her; it sticks to me no matter how brief or long the encounter. If it so happens the beautiful woman I see becomes a woman I get involved with, the feeling is like a life jacket for the times I’m drowning in her bullshit.

Ideally, I will end up in a relationship with a woman I can call my best friend — a woman who’s my intellectual equal, spiritual, and compassionate — but she has to make me weak in the knees too. As Chris Rock once said, when we get married, we got to love the ugly in our spouse. All I want is to be with a woman whose ugly is most fine.

A Letter To The Ex Girlfriend Who Cheated On Me

Dear Ex Girlfriend Who Cheated On Me,

I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing right now, but I just want to let you know when you cheated on me, you were wrong. I don’t know exactly when you did what you did or who you did it with or where you did it or even how you did it, but I know you cheated on me. I know this because if I have said it once, I have said it a thousand times, Mama ain’t raise no fool.

You think I’m so clueless as to believe you didn’t go behind my back and do a little something with some guy? Let me answer that question with another question.

Do I look stupid to you?

Even if I can’t prove how or when you cheated on me, my gut tells me to believe you did. Back in the day, I used to think, No way, not her. She would never cheat on me. I’m too good of a man to do such a thing. I used to beat my chest and tell all my friends, “I ain’t ever had a girl cheat on me!”

Now it all sounds like some naive young man talk.

I’ve grown up. I’ve seen some things, and when I say things, I mean scandalous, hush-your-mouth type of things from the most wholesome of women. In some cases, I was even a participant in these scandalous things. A hard pill to swallow, for sure, but I’m a man, I can take it. I realize I have made mistakes of epic proportions, if not with you with another woman. Therefore I probably deserved whatever you did, much as it makes me cringe to say that.

But as Jay-Z said, “You don’t get a n**** back like that!”

Why did you have to do what you did with the guy that you did it with? What was it that made you cheat on me in the first place? Was it because I did it to you and you wanted revenge? Maybe I never cheated on you in the first place, but you just couldn’t help y0urself. Was that it? Did you feel entitled to do it because someone else once did it to you? Did you feel better about yourself after it was done?

All these questions are rhetorical.

I don’t really care what you’re reasoning is, because no matter which way you cut it, cheating on me was foul. Foul. Foul. Foul. Foul. FOUL.

And like I said before, I still don’t know who you are, still have never found out exactly what happened, but do me one favor: Keep it that way.

Sincerely Yours,

Jozen

O.N.

Don’t do it again. Thanks.

O.N.M.

This letter applies to you too, future ex-girlfriends!

“boobie trap”...Irresistible

Week before last I went to my home girl Tina’s birthday party at this spot. Me and my man Timo were posted up at the bar when our friend Cynthia  popped up (and out). As soon as I turned around to greet her, all I could see were her breasts, which were right at eye level and on full display thanks to her buttoned down button-up blouse. Since Cynthia is like a sexy stepsister to me—fly as hell but too cool to go there with—I immediately raised my hand to shield the view of her fun bags and demanded she cover them up.

“What are you talking about, Ans,” she chuckled. “They’re just titties.”

“Yes, I know, but we don’t need to be looking at your breasts right now,” I replied. “So put them away.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m not gonna fall into your boobie trap.”

“What the hell is a boobie trap?”

“Those,” I said, pointing at her chest.

A “boobie trap” is what I call a woman’s cleavage when she leaves it exposed. See, men are visual creatures and by nature we’re drawn to shapely women—especially to their, uh, frontal chest region. Maybe it’s something in our genetic makeup or that we’re just horn balls, but men like breasts and we look at them every chance we get. Half the time we don’t even know we’re doing it—it’s just an uncontrollable reflex.

I’ll be the first to confess that I’ve caught myself absentmindedly looking at a woman’s chest. I’ll never leer in a psycho, perverted kinda way, but my eyes tend to get drawn to just about 12 inches below a women’s eye level on a regular bases. I’m not trying to objectify you, degrade you or disrespect you, so when I find myself falling into a boobie trap I try my best to get out of it as soon as possible, like I did with Cynthia.

As much as Cynthia  wants to play innocent, she knew exactly what she was doing when she put that shirt on and decided not to do those last few buttons. Because any woman rockin’ a low-cut blouse with a shiny necklace nestled oh so gently between her soft and supple bosoms (drool) knows that men’s eyes are gonna make a beeline straight to her cleavage. It’s even worse for top-heavy women wearing something revealing, because both men and women are probably gonna sneak a peek. There’s nothing wrong with looking, it’s just a matter of not being too disrespectful. Look but don’t touch. Stare but don’t leer. We mean no harm (well, most of us). One quick glance and we’ll be gone. But it’s like a Lays potato chip, sometimes you can’t have just one…peak. But that’s when you get…

Caught!!!
By the boss’ wife (uh-oh)
Caught!!!
By your best friend’s sister (sorry)
Caught!!!
By the girl across from you on the train/bus/plane, et al. (My bad)
Caught!!!
By the practically every damn woman (oops)

Fellas, I know we like to think we’re slick when we try to grab a quick glance, but we will always get caught. Women have some sort of built in radar that lets them know when we’re looking at their girls. Some will make their disgust quite obvious, while others just ignore it because they’ve become immune to it. But that doesn’t mean that she didn’t catch you, homie. We’re just not as slick as we think we are.

Sometimes guys try to fight the natural instinct to look, which winds up being the most awkward thing in the world. That’s when a guy stares directly into a woman’s eyes as he’s talking to her to let her know his eyes are not wandering. Or, we do the complete opposite and look everywhere but below eye level. We’ll be looking at the top of your head or straight up at the ceiling. By time the conversation is over, we’ll know how many light bulbs are in every room. The goal is to do anything to stop from looking down, but if it’s a long conversation, you’re doomed to fail. The urge to look at a woman’s chest is just too strong. (Yes, it really is). Breasts aren’t going anywhere any time soon (Thank God), and as long as women keep setting their boobie traps, men are gonna get caught looking. Happy hunting, ladies.

Ladies, how often do you catch men looking at your chest? Are you flattered by it or disgusted? Does it depend on who’s falling into your boobie trap? Any women willing to admit to wearing low-cut tops just to get attention? Do some women use their boobie traps to get things out of men? How funny is it when you catch a guy trying not to stare but you know he wants to? Fellas, what joy do you get out of looking at a nice pair of boobies? How awkward is it for you when you try not to stare?

Why I Can’t Stand Married Men Who Cheat

Before I jump into this subject, I want to make it perfectly clear that none of what I am about to write is for the ladies.

This is not for the females who have been hurt by a cheating boyfriend or husband. This is not about how I used to cheat, later realized it was wrong, and went on a journey in search of self discipline and the ability to make good decisions. Today’s post is about none of that and kind of, sort of, not for women, though I would never say they should not read. I just want it to be clear, today I’m not talking to them, and I’m not really talking about me, but since we are talking about cheating, let me get this much out of the way:This is about the married men who cheat and why I have absolutely no respect for them.

The reason I can’t stand married men who cheat is really quite simple: These jerks are getting in my way. This is not to say they’re outmacking me, or they’re directly throwing salt in my game. I don’t look at any man as direct competition, because when it’s time to play,  it’s always me versus her.

But what married men do is they infiltrate an area I already have under control, and what makes it worse is they chose to retire from this line of duty years ago.

Life should come with certain membership cards we can actually hold and from time to time need to show because too many people try and live lives they no longer have the membership to live in. When a man gets married, he should be forced to give away his card into the players club and never be allowed to return. But since life doesn’t come with membership cards, we have guys out here showing their ID to get into the same parties I, a SINGLE man, am getting into.

I am not married. I am fine with that. I have no issue with that. It allows me to have a lot of fun, fun that any man who decided to get married decided to leave behind, except some men don’t learn. They keep on wanting to play in my playground when they have their own swing set at home.

It’s the kind of behavior that pisses me off. It makes me wish I could find the wives of every married man who cheats and be apart of her plans for revenge in the most intimate and inappropriate of ways. That’s cold game, I know, but it’s also truth. The players code doesn’t apply to husbands.  If she felt better afterward, fine, but what I really hope happens is the man finally understands, if he has a pool in his own backyard, he can no longer come over to the public pool and start pissing in it. That’s a right reserved strictly for single men and single women.

I used to think it was nearly impossible for a man to stay faithful, so if he stepped out on his wife, I thought he was only do what came natural to him. Then, I began to think, if it’s so hard to stay faithful in a marriage, then maybe it would be better to either wait to get married or don’t get married at all. Something I call, George Clooning the game. See, men like me and George Clooney know what we want. More women. So we don’t put ourselves in a situation where the supply is cut off. Do we find cheating fundamentally f*cked up? Absolutely. No matter the circum-stance, cheating is wrong, but I think we can all agree that cheating on a spouse is a little worse than cheating on a girlfriend.

Any man who decides to take those vows has four obligations: The first is to his wife, obviously. The second is to himself, because the most important thing for all of us to be is honest with ourselves about ourselves. The third and probably most important is to whatever higher power under which he got married, whether that be the state court, Jesus Christ, or any other spiritual figure. And the fourth is to me.

That’s right me, and all the other single men and women who are out here trying to one day land a life partner of their own. These married men need to realize if getting married is a violation of the player’s code, talking up other women while married, is defecating on it.

Women get approached on a daily basis, and it wears them down to the point where if I see a woman I want to talk at 5:00 p.m. I know I have about 2 minutes less than the man who approached her earlier in the day. when she was fresh. And that’s assuming all the men who did step to her were single too. If one of them was married, it’s even worse because here’s what happens: Sometime around lunch, some guy actually came correct. He said all the right things, tread lightly, was sharp and funny. Then, maybe by accident or maybe if he was brazen enough, on purpose, she found out he was married. Now she sees all the good game he was spitting was cultivated. He already had the championship ring, but he was acting like he had never played the game before. Now she’s pissed off and skeptical of all men who approach her the same way, who come correct with no rings on their finger and no ring marks. She’s skeptical of guys like me and it’s all because of jerks like the married men who cheat.

She Just Passes Out

I’m not cheap, I’m broke. There’s a big difference. But this past Friday night, two women were about to paint me with the cheap brush all because my boy and I were taking up bar space, but not buying drinks for them. My boy was not interested in either of them so he just walked away. I wasn’t interested either, but I refused to let them call me cheap, so I told them I have been on a sabbatical from buying women drinks. When they asked me to explain, this is what I told them.

About six months ago, I was at a bar much like this one and I met this girl. We struck up a conversation and from the moment we met, the chemistry was evident. I was already finishing up on my first drink and noticed she didn’t have one. When I was ready to order my second I asked her if she wanted one too. She said, “Sure, I’ll take a Long Island iced tea.” As I was about to place my order, the girl’s friends were waving her over to them and she says to me, “Let me see what my friends want real quick, I’ll be right back.” I said to her, “Wait until you get your drink.”

The bartender made her drink, handed it to her and then I told her, “Okay, now you can go over to your friends, I’ll wait for you.” I glanced over in her direction while  she’s laughing with her friends and sipping her drink. At one point, all her friends look over to my direction and wave at me with smiles on their faces. I’m thinking, this is going to be a good night for me.

The girl leaves her friends and is walking back over to me, when all of a sudden, she just passes out.

I put down my drink and rush over to the girl. I kneel down and I’m trying to revive her, when out of nowhere her group of friends rush over and one of them screams, “WHAT DID YOU GIVE MY GIRL?!” I looked up and I immediately went into defense mode. The girls are being irrational and accusing me of slipping something in her drink, screaming at me. The guy in their group wants to lay his hands on me, but luckily my boys are there holding him back. Security comes over, grabs me and takes me outside, but they don’t let me go. They’re calling the cops.

Right as the cops pull up, the girl is thankfully revived. They bring her outside, and the cops ask the girl what happened. She says, “Oh, nothing happened. It’s just hot in there and I have a tendency to black out.” One of the cops says to her, “Mam, what about this guy who bought you the drink you were holding when you passed out?” and he points to me. She says, “Oh him? No, no, he made sure I saw the bartender make my drink and hand it to me. This wasn’t his fault. I’m telling you, I just black out when it gets hot.”

The cops apologized to me and left, and security also apologized to me. They also offered to buy my friends and I a round of drinks on the house. I declined and just left. But after that, I told myself I’m taking a sabbatical from buying women drinks until I get over what happened.

When I finished my story, both girls had blank stares. Then, one of them said to me, “Well damn, I wouldn’t buy anybody drinks either if that happened to me.”

“Exactly,” I told her. Then I finished my drink, told the girls it was a pleasure and walked over to where my boy was standing.

“I think I just made up the best story ever,” I said, laughing.

“Word?” he said.

“Yeah, I don’t think I ever have to buy a woman a drink again.” I said.

“What’d you tell them?” he asked.

“Well, about six months ago…”

Your Friends Aren't Fine, You Liar

Just once, I would like a girl to tell me the truth about her friends. Seems like every time I ask a woman I’m dating what her friends look like, her default answer is “Oh, my friends are all beautiful.” Then we go to Facebook so I can judge for myself and my woman’s talking about, “Oh these just aren’t good pictures. You have to meet them in person.”

Girl, no I don’t. I’ve seen enough.

Why do women lie about their friends? Never have I had a girl look me in the eye and tell me, “My girls aren’t that cute. One of them is okay, but the others? Nah.” My guess is girls are just trying to be nice and don’t want to say anything bad about them, but for the sake of being nice, they’re lying to me, which is unacceptable and immediately sets back all the progress we’ve made in our trust exercises.

Guys, on the other hand, don’t speak about their friends in the form of opinions. Instead we tell women the facts about our boys. For instance: I use a height scale because the thing women look at on a man before anything else is his height. So usually all I have to say is, “tall”, “short”, or “about my height” (6′ in the morning, 5’11 by 8 p.m.), then from there my woman will decide whether or not he’s worth introducing him to one of her friends.

Women should start doing the same thing, but since we don’t care about height as much, they should modify it to their own experiences with their girl.  The next time a man asks a woman about her friend, the woman should tell a man what really happens whenever she goes out with her friend. If I ask my woman about her best friend and she says, “Whenever we go out, my best friend gets all the attention at the bar. She hasn’t bought her own drink since ’04,” I gather her best friend comes as advertised. If my woman says something like, “I think she’s pretty, but whenever we go out, guys don’t really talk to her. She’s mostly into online dating,” I know the weather is, at best, partly cloudy.

Hopefully, ladies start utilizing this technique instead of the traditional bowl of hyperbole they’ve served about their girls since the days when SWV – an early 90′s R&B trio of three average looking women – made it acceptable to roll in a group of acquired tastes. Until then, everything a woman says about her friends will be verified on Facebook. Thank God for Facebook.

When the music changes, so does the dance: DEBATES MEN HAVE: Her Place or Mine

When the music changes, so does the dance: DEBATES MEN HAVE: Her Place or Mine: "It happens to the best of us. Whether we’re on a date or we just met for the first time that night, most men will, if they haven’t already,..."

DEBATES MEN HAVE: Her Place or Mine

It happens to the best of us. Whether we’re on a date or we just met for the first time that night, most men will, if they haven’t already, come face to face with one of life’s biggest decisions:

Should I go to her place or let her come to mine?

Now, before I get into the debate and weigh the pros and cons of both, let’s establish some criteria so we don’t get caught up in semantics.

• The woman and I live equal distance away from their current location.
• We live alone or our places are empty for the weekend; no parents*, no** roommates, no children***.
• Both of us have our own form of transportation so we’ll be following one another. If we don’t have cars (in kampala City this is common) we can cab it together.
• Neither of us are busy the next day.

With those things established, we can now get down to the nitty gritty of the topic, which basically comes down to this: Where do I prefer the action to take place?

HER PLACE

PROS: There is a strange but fulfilling feeling I get when I leave a woman’s place that I don’t get when she leaves my place.  If I don’t feel like staying around after we’ve blessed the sheets, I can just get dressed and make moves no matter how late it is. And having that ability makes me feel like I had control of the situation all along, even if that wasn’t necessarily the case.

CONS: Some men don’t care, but for me, there are few bigger turn-offs than a woman with a messy place. Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem doing the grown-up on a pile of a laundry, but once the show’s over, I pray the clothes are clean, and if they’re not, I’m gone. I’ll just wash up at my place. Thanks.

MY PLACE

PROS: Three words: Home. Field. Advantage. For some reason, I’m always better in my bed than her bed, at least in the beginning. I also know where everything is, and more importantly, everything I need is within arms reach. Few things are as liberating as not only knowing where the condoms are but also not being at the mercy of the woman’s stash of condoms she picked up from the local Planned Parenthood.

CONS: I’ve let women leave in the middle of the night and I’ll be honest, it’s not something I’m proud of, even if they’ve volunteered to leave themselves. Every man has at least one particular code of chivalry they abide by no matter the circumstances, and for me, I always let a woman ride it out until the night turns to day. Unfortunately, if they want to stay and they’re annoying me, I’m all types of pissed off until sunrise and I will never call them again.

I’m also uncomfortable with the idea of a woman knowing where I live. If they’re intoxicated they might not remember, but if they do remember, and they actually committed the location of my residence to memory, she probably has stalker tendencies.

FINAL CHOICE

HER PLACE

I may perform better in my own bed, but my road record is good enough where I’ll take my chances. Where I live and how I live where I live is not a top secret government location, but it is personal.

The other thing is, control. At my place, I’m in control of my environment but not necessarily in control of the person who’s in my environment. At her place, she’s in control of the environment, but I’m in control of me, which means I can leave when I want. I just hope she didn’t get her condoms from the Planned Parenthood.

What do you all think?

————————————————————

*No, I don’t live with my parents

**No, I don’t have roommates

***No, I don’t have children.

Will I Ever Make Time For Love?

A couple summers ago I had dinner with two of my homegirls, Sandy and Courtney. There was descent food, a good bottle of wine, and even greater conversation. As with any time men and women sit around for too long, things eventually delve into a discussion about relationships.
After Sandy and Courtney listened to my numerous stories about the women I’ve dealt with over the years—the ones I’ve tried to save, the ones who drove me batty and the ones I never fully acknowledged—they came to the conclusion that I’m emotionally unavailable.
If true, then on top of my admitted savior’s complex and possible abandonment issues (thanx, pops) now I’m being told that I may be emotionally unavailable?
Great! 
They also felt I use work and my admitted workaholism as a crutch to further my emotional unavailability.
Super
No one wants to hear such things about themselves, no matter how true or far-fetched. I pleaded my case to the opposite, but it was all in vain.
My argument of me working towards my future to make something of myself and providing stability to a future family was voided.
My argument of working two demanding jobs where I have dozens of responsibilities that make my schedule hectic was voided.
My argument of just having too much going on to fit a relationship into my world right now was voided.
Each and every one of my feeble attempts of justifying my alleged emotional unavailability was systematically voided.
I was told that if I really wanted a relationship or truly liked someone I would miraculously find the time.
Well… Sandy and Courtney might be right.
In the past I’ve seen myself find time at the last minute for a sister I was really checking for. But, if I was only mildly interested, or not really interested at all, my attitude was more like, “I’ll see you when my schedule permits.”
Now, this isn’t a black and white pattern that I follow 100-percent of the time, but it’s been enough times to spark a trend. There have been plenty of women that I do want to spend time with and get to know, but things often come up both work-wise and personally that keep me from doing so as much as I would like.
So it’s not like every time I can’t set a specific date to hang out it’s me being dismissive, it’s just that I really do have a hectic schedule and some times duty calls—often. But there’s always time for things your heart truly desires. Unfortunately, a solid future is what I desire most and sometimes the women in my life wind up playing second fiddle.
Sandy and Courtney also told me that I oftentimes don’t give women clear-cut signals. I’m indifferent. I’m neutral. I’m not pressed and that tends to come off as hard to read. So a woman that might be interested in me never knows if I’m mutually interested and are left guessing.
They usually think I’m not that into them when in fact I am (or not) and wind up backing off to pursue more viable options. It’s a tricky game of cat and mouse that neither wants to play, but we end up playing by default.
Not sure when or if I’ll get over my interpersonal shyness, but I’m working on it. But for the meantime, as messed up as it may sound, I find myself just going with the flow at times.
I can concede to some parts of Sandy and Courtney’s analysis. I admit that I’m not an aggressive dude when it comes to females. I see guys hawking at girls on the street all the time and I don’t want to be one of “those dudes.” I certainly don’t want to be perceived as one of them by constantly hollerin’ at chicks on the street, train, club or wherever else it is dudes holla.
Instead I sit quiet and don’t say a word; but a closed mouth doesn’t get fed, right? So maybe the shambles that is my haphazard love life is my own damn fault. Maybe it’s time to add a little aggressiveness to the equation.
But back to the primary question at hand: Am I emotionally unavailable?
Honestly, I’ll say yes… and no.
I’m sure most people who read my blogs regularly would say I appear to be in tune with my emotions quite well, and would check off the yay box. However, I know enough about myself to admit that I’ve not usually as emotionally open in my romantic relationships (mostly the wrong relationships). So more than a few exs would proudly check the nay box.
I think it all comes down to the chemistry between me and a particular woman. If there’s that spark that that attracts me, my emotional outpour is likely to be higher. But if that vital piece of the equation is missing, my emotions are more likely to be unavailable because I don’t want to lead anyone on or give off the wrong idea.
I end up becoming indifferent. Neutral. Not pressed and that tends to come off as hard to read.
That’s not to say that I’m not interested at all and don’t enjoy the person’s company, it’s just that sometimes people want and need two different things. Not sure if that makes me sound like an asshole or a dick, but the older I get, I’ve decided that I’d much rather be honest with someone than to lie or hurt them. At the end of the day you gotta respect or, at least, appreciate that.
This revelation/confession maybe putting too many of my cards on the table and mess up my romance quota in the foreseeable future, but this is part of my self-analysis. This is part of who I am and the person I am discovering.
The truth of the matter is; I’m a complex individual. I’m a driven individual. For better or worse, I don’t have a problem scarifying small things for the sake of the bigger picture. In my world, the ends justify the means. That line of thinking may make me “successful” in some regards, but eventually I have to find a balance.
I have to do more than just KNOW that I can’t save everyone, fix every problem or carry the world on my shoulders, only to fall right back into the same trap. I need to except, absorb and commit to the fact that those things are out of my control and just move the hell on…
I hope that one day I can find the perfect woman that understands/respects my goal-oriented nature and at the same time, has that special spark that makes me want to forget about work. Well, at least for a little while anyway…
Do you think it’s possible to love someone that’s emotionally unavailable? Are you, or have you dated, someone that uses work (or some other time-consuming thing) as a crutch to avoid serious relationships? How frustrating is it to deal with someone that’s hard to read? Do you think that people play too many games when it comes to dating? Do you believe that busy people make time for things they really want to do? What do you think of my second self-analysis?

Speak your piece...

Designer Vaginas

OK, so perhaps my first blog post in ages shouldn't be about something so, well, unimportant, but it's tough for me to come across a story about the so-called "last frontier" in cosmetic surgery and not make comment.

Yes, friends, it's vaginal rejuvenation.

The Washington Post reports that the starkly named Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation Institute of Washington (gosh, ladies, how about leaving a little mystery?) is pushing the ... um .. envelope in the cutting-edge field of vaginal aesthetics (on second thought, maybecutting-edge isn't the right description):

"Critics and supporters of vaginal cosmetic surgery say the mainstreaming of graphic images, including pornography, is fueling demand.

"[Obstetrician-gynecologist Christopher] Warner and [gynecologist David] Matlock say that patients frequently request 'a nice sleek look' similar to images seen in Playboy magazine and on some cable TV channels."

Now, I'm no expert on bioethics, but I have grave concerns about the slippery slope of vaginal rejuvenation.

Into The Void

I'm not new to the blog world. In fact, I feel like I've been doing this forever. I started my own website back in 2000 - a crappy little thing where I would ramble about anything I wanted to. Mostly, it was stuff I wanted to bitch about, a constructive way to release the anger within. I look back at that site, which I maintained until 2005, as a blog of sorts.

But the truth, the scary truth, is that I've never done this before. On the Internet, I've always used another identity, never my real name, never my face, never any real details. At first I did this because of my paranoid nature, because I had visions of stalker exes finding me and spying on me and knowing things about me and my life that I didn't want them to know. Then I realized that none of my exes give a shit about me, and I continued to use my Internet persona to protect my job(s) - as in, I didn't want my boss to see what I was writing and fire me over it.

But I'm over all that crap and feel the need to embark on something new. My life has changed so drastically in the last year, and I'm in this place where I feel the need to use my writing to explore all I'm going through and all that is to come. And in order to do this, I have to do it this way.