Buzzed

The other evening at Anjou, I realized that I am the only one who doesn’t have one.

Whilst sipping melon martinis we chatted about work, school, shoes, and of course- masturbation. To me, I thought masturbation was more or less spending all afternoon with your holes crammed full. Straining your neck from watching yourself in the mirror. Hearing the slosh of your fingers during penetration and the pulsing twitching of my beautiful pink ring surely was enough. Was I wrong? Was there something more? I never thought anyone actually used them. I’m talking about vibrators. They all sat and giggled at me convinced me it would change my life. I was curious.

I pulled up to a full parking lot along side the highway. I sat there while the car was still running. Oh, grow up. Checked the mirror - my curls were swept up in a J Crew tortoise shell claw –no make-up. I was satisfied so I went in. The girl behind the window acknowledged me when I walked in. I was mortified. There were pornos from floor to ceiling. It was sweltering hot. I felt like I was lost in a Hedonistic jungle. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw it. A big sign hung over the cornered off section. “Novelties”.

I stood aghast at a giant wall full of multi-colored penis replicas, jittering animals, blow-up dolls, and ‘pocket rockets’. I felt hopeless. Over my shoulder I turned to find a sea of lonely men staring at me. Two young doctors offered to help me. I wanted to shrivel into the ground like the Wicked Witch. At this point I was dying to grab one and go.

There were dildos the size of small trucks and there were ones smaller than my finger. I was goldicocks and I needed to find one just right. I couldn’t believe how many there were. There was even a vibrating tube of lipstick. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was sweating and the perverted asian staring at me from the corner kept grumbling at me. I reached for one in the center and ran to the register.

“Do ya need batteries sweetie?”

“NO!” I just want to get out of here. Batteries? Wait.

“I mean yes!” I nearly deafened the girl.

The girl at the window slid me my bag through a tiny opening. I shoved my purchase into my Chloe bag and I dashed towards my car as whistles and hollers from the men inside poured out after me.

At home, I opened my package. It was teal with silver sparkles under the jelly surface. I put the batteries in and it let out a soft hum.

She found one juussst right.

June Life Update

Sorry for the lack in new posts. I've been too busy hanging out with rockstars and fellow models to have time to sit and write. It's time for me to get ready for a photo shoot for a Philadelphia rock station (I'm their new spokesmodel/cover girl) I'll be back in this blog soon.
X DiXie X

Monster

When my sister and I were plucked from our happiness in Naperville, IL we were forced to settle into the Wide Open West. We were horrified that we were forced to move once again to a dreadful state called Colorado. Dreadful. All I could imagine was high school kids shooting eachother and buffalo roaming everywhere and snow- oh how I hate the cold (it’s the Texas girl in me). Our Daddy had promised us that if we were ever to move again we would go back to Texas and flourish as southern belles in our big beautiful brick plantation home. Being the incredible lawyer he is, as usual, he lied.

When we arrived in Colorado, it was June and it was hotter than my dreams of Chase Utley with his hair done. Of course my parents decided to torture us by forcing us to move before the school year so we had NO friends. None. Zero. Luckily, my sister and I are just so fascinating we don’t need friends because no one can ever love eachother or be as wonderful as we are together. Our rooms connected by a long private hallway and bathroom. We spent our time locked in our private area of the house watching daytime soaps and eating and drinking lots of refined sugar and saturated fats.

I was 14. At 5’7” and weighing a whopping 98 lbs., I never gained weight and I always ate and drank crap. After 3 weeks of our daily food routine of a 24 pack of soda, 3 boxes of cookies, 1 gallon of ice cream, and 2 cheese burgers- it started to show. I weighed 125 lbs. My mother fainted when she saw the scale. Instead of 2 daughters she now had 2 pet manatees.

When my mother came to, she sat us down and gave us a very serious talk. She said we needed to stop eating like we were farm animals. She said we would never be taken seriously or truly loved if we looked like little orcas. We would never be accepted in the real world because fat people are never taken seriously. Fatties don’t have lots of beautiful friends, glamorous jobs, sexy boyfriends, or a spot on the cheerleading squad. We were smacked in the face with the truth and we knew we did not want that life. All those delectable delights we fantasized over- Popsicles, cotton candy, ice cream cones, french fries, soda pop – were never to be consumed again. We were living like the children of the carnies, not of southern bourgeoisie.

My sister and I quit the saturated fats in sugar rehab that summer aka we lived in bikinis. We decided being anorexic by the pool was much nicer than plump ‘Days Of Our Lives’ sausages. Soon enough our spirits were lifted because we were making friends and boys wouldn’t stop flirting with our fresh slim figures. Every now and then we would walk down to the grocers and sneak home bags of cookies and candy bars to gorge upon without our mother knowing, but we knew we could never act like we did that summer again.

I still find myself falling down into that dark hole. When I become depressed I morph into a monster. Cookie monster. I eat everything I can get my hands on and I can’t stop. Today, I consumed an entire box of Klondike chipwiches. The ten minutes it took me to eat them, eased my pain and dulled my heartache. The tiny chocolate chips along the edges looked like something Monet would paint when he was feeling like I was – dark, blurred, and muddled – little pieces of heartbreak. Bruiser curled up at my feet. Sometimes I think he's the only one that can feel my pain. I swear I can almost feel the cottage cheese beginning to form under the skin of my thighs, but it doesn't matter. I am alone.

Reminder

This isn't meant to be a sensational work of art. This is not intended to be a fabulous bit of lit. It bothers me when people tell me to "try harder" or "try writing like this". I think people forget that I have a life outside of this blog. I don't try to be anything on this site. This blog is a mere place to excercise my talents. People must forget that I write outside of this blog, go to school, and have a job. Don't forget that I do this for fun. I enjoy dumping my thoughts about my life here. I enjoy experimenting and trying to write from different points of view. Try to understand that this is me having fun, not trying to be Jane Austen.

Drunk at 11:34 PM

This morning I awoke at dawn with beautiful sunbeams dancing around my gorgeous naked curves and soft perfect skin. I realized that I have been away from this blog for far too long. I've missed writing about my trials and tribulations of being a trust fund baby/student/writer. I've missed my sanctuary, escape, garbage chute for words and thoughts of Philadelphia life.

I'm selfish, I was used to the hoards of comments and e-mails in my in-box. ego boosts from on-lookers about how skinny and gorgeous I am. E-mails from jealous haters talking shit about how gorgeous and thin I am. I miss the attention. The knowing that you people can't live without posts of self-absorbtion. I like putting myself out here. coming clean, being vulnerable, allowing my inner secrets to be splattered all across this page. I love that I don't hide anything.

I can't help, but be full of stories brought to you from the armpits of North America. My realizations that people actually have to live in New Jersey, shop in malls, and spend free time in K-Marts and Wal-Marts. I never realized that girls never owned Charles David's or a pair of Blisterniks (or two).

The other afternoon I was having lunch with my fave chiclet Katie Rose. Discussing how wonderful it would be to buy an Hermes Birkin bag. Then we moped how we were meant to be heiresses because we then could have 5 Birkin bags and a reality show much better than "The Simple Life". Then, I thought of the precious Roxy and realized she is forever linked to Quiksilver/Roxy. Her parents were evil to have named her after their trashy female surf company. Having to have my own first name attatched to dreadful hippie/loser companies would kill me. I could never be an heiress to a bad name. Thankfully, my name is written in oil so I have nothing to worry about.

In other news, things have been stressful. I have been moving with Billy all week. I am dying for a Christian Dior red satin dress to wear to Danielle's wedding, but I think spending $4,000 on a party dress may be a bit much. I found a D&G rag I may have to settle for that. Not like anyone will be looking at me because Danielle is going to be ravishing and so will the reception. I am splurging on a pair of silver Jimmy Choos because I have to treat myself.


Work is looking good. I have a few modeling gigs in NYC/Las Vegas in the upcoming weeks. I get extensions next week so my new blonde $1,500 locks better make me some money.

It's sweltering hot in this room. I think it's time for bed.