My friends Wordier Than Thou have organized the *inaugural* Florida Bookstore Day, starting this November 15th! Support your local, independent bookstores, take advantage of the events and specials in your area, and hug a Florida author! Okay, that last one was just me soliciting PDA. 😉
More info please visit: https://www.facebook.com/FloridaBookstoreDay
[NOTE: I am a retired information technology specialist. This rant is long overdue.]
This week’s biggest culture shock was The Fappening, and I’m not going to bother to route you to the specifics of the story. Just, once again, nudies have been made public via the zeroes and ones. It’s really nice to know that all the progress we’ve made in information and communication technologies have led us to a social state of constantly taking pictures of our junk and feeling the world needs to know about it.
I’ve done it. Shot a few pics of my fun box. Not in the, ‘ooh this is sexy’ sense, but more in the paranoid, ‘does this mean I have herpes??’ sense (and no, friends, I don’t.) I’ve also done it to confirm, albeit in pure disbelief, that not one, but TWO white hairs have occupied fun box region, which is why I go smooth now.
I present this to say, I’ve utilized the technology to resolve an issue in a real-time moment, but I’ve never thought, ‘hey, I need to send So-N-So this.’ So why is it so commonplace for people to share these kinds of pics, and then be completely disgusted that they’ve made their way to websites. Really?? The issue is the violation? No, fucktard, the issue is you’re so self-absorbed you felt the need to hit SEND to a very unreliable person. That, or you’re just fuckin’ lazy. You want someone to be impressed with your naked body? Get up, go over to their place and show it to ’em, Bible-style.
And don’t forget, ya’ll…there’s the good ol’ NSA. The Metadatabaters can bypass any wails of violation you may throw at them. No one’s on your side, baby, so stop bitching.
Don’t want it out there? Don’t hit SEND.
That rant being over, lemme go ahead and reiterate the title: what makes a girl fap-able? In studying my site traffic and analytics, I have found that, during the early morning hours in America, a certain pic of me tends to show up in search engine results. The specifics are defined as “encrypted search results.” Well, doing some further digging, the popular search engine term for that particular pic is “hot wifey”. How the hell does that lead you fappers to ME?!?
Now here’s the debacle…a talented artist like myself, an amateur photographer, who happens to be a woman, likes to post pictures of herself in action quite regularly (and deftly I feel) right here on vonsimeon.com. The intent of the site is to celebrate my -ness; my creativeness, my wildness, my antipatheticness. However, during the early morning hours in Brazil, a certain pic of me tends to get hits. Same in Belgium. Same in South Africa. Not the same picture, mind you, which I guess would be a compliment if I was trying to solicit compliments from night fappers! But still…this site wasn’t designed for you to jack off to. I’m contemplating adding a warning message to my main header: There Be No Fapping Here.
It is the zeroes and ones, and if I upload then hit Publish, the probability of being fapped to increases as I continue to provide photos in my blog posts. I want the attention to my artistry, not my genitals, but, I suppose I have no choice but to sigh and quote The Stiffler:
I watched with mixed alarm/rage as he took my lap tray, my footstool, and assembled a crude end table beside my bed. Delivering my calmest, what the fuck are you doing?, he replied matter-of-fact-ly, “I go to bed with a glass of water.” I watch as he places a glass full of water and his smoking accutrement on the tray. Great, I think to myself as I scoot from dead center of my bed to the right…Baby wants a nightstand.
The next day, we head to a going out of business sale where anything you can fit into a lidded bin, she’ll sell you for the size of it. She also had furniture for sale, so I muddle about until I spy a wobbly end table, double tiered, with a jacked drawer. Examining closer, the person who had owned this not only did a shit job of assembling the particle board pieces, but set the drawer guides the wrong way! Instead of reversing it and evening out the screws, they dumped it here.
“I’ll give you ten.”
Look what the fucktard did..pushed the dowels in with a hammer instead of a wood mallet. Asshole.
I took the panels apart, added glue into the holes and switched out uneven screws. Set to dry in the sun.
See this? Visual metaphor for the American attitude…why fix it when I can just buy another one? SIGH.
Other than painting over the scuffs, I believe the stand is perfect!
Even though I *should* be writing, even though I *should* be preparing the next few features of this blog, I am instead deconstructing and reconstructing this nightstand. I actualize that I’m doing what most solitary people do when the Missus is being annoying – surrendering myself to the peace and simplicity of matching dowels and wood screws into pre-pressed and holed boards. Like my hideaway-in-the-craft-room brethren (and hopefully sisthren; I can’t be the only chick who enjoys woodwork!) I’m mumbling under my breath about all the uncertainties which have surfaced since I agreed to this arrangement. It’s not an arrangement, I chide myself; after all, we sparked at the exact same time. I’m perturbed because he’s constantly on my mind, he’s constantly pissing me off, everything smells of him. I can’t avoid him.
I reset the drawer and it slides with ease.
“Lean in!” my dear 94-year old neighbor exclaimed when I told her about him, she more interested in my dealings than her recent trip to the ER for a heart attack. So I did, I leaned in. As a result, Baby has his nightstand, and when he comes back to visit, he’ll have a place for his drink and his smoke and I’ll quietly burn knowing the condensation is going to collect and leave rings on the surface and he’s bringing ash into the bed but WHATEVER. He’s got a primo hottie as a girlfriend, who not only has her own lake but a Xbox attached to a 50″ high definition flat screen TV and a Netflix subscription.
He’s still going to break up with me, because ultimately, no man would DARE stay with a woman who has the capacity to turn junk into functioning furniture. Hell, he’ll probably not even notice it’s there.
from “Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening,” by Robert Frost
Fatigued yet excited, I pushed my truck up a slithery thin road coated with sticky, humid fog. No lights along or on the road to guide, I lowered my high beams and windows, using sound and smell to help me through the most uncertain of situations: finding my campsite at a state park I’ve never been to, completely shrouded in tall pine darkness, in a state famously known for horrific acts upon humans who didn’t look like they belonged. I not only tested Fate but I mocked her, and after some back and forth on the windy roads, I found the site, my lot, and praise Allah, a full restroom with functioning showers!
Bobby Tiberius took the role of guard dog as I rinsed off the agony of Arkansas. Friggin’ Arkansas with its major construction, which the locals will appreciate and I will refuse to traverse anytime soon. My bunk, the back of the truck, with my faithful senechaux to one side, and the local radio station broadcasting from the dashboard, lulling us to quick slumber.
The following morning, I used the dictation feature of Inkpad to capture my thoughts en Existenz. Here’s my best transcription based on the choppy voice file:
8 AUGUST: I woke up this morning to the sound of chimmy chimmy chimmy chimmy, a bird I am not familiar with … [and all I can think is] it’s a great way to wake up in the morning. … it’s been a while since I’ve woken up before sunrise; got cleaned up, walked the dog, got breakfast [out of the truck,] a nice bento box of peanut butter sandwiches and fruit for breakfast. The way the sun hits the pine tree behind the picnic table, just so warm and inviting I don’t feel any anxiety here, which kind of [strengthens] the fact that I’m much more comfortable in nature then I am in society. Waldo Emerson, David Thoreau were absolutely right; the man in nature is truly complete.
Think about for a sec…you got a running shower, you’ve got gorgeous atmosphere, scenery, isolation…man! People are too afraid to go outside! That is based on fear.
If you’re one who understands that fear is a motivator, or you’ve broke past fear … use it rather as an engagement of intention, you can pull into a state park at any evening in the dark of night and feel completely at ease.
I hate that I need a cigar to wake up, but frankly I don’t have any heating element to which I can quickly make hot water to make a cup of hot tea.
So I already have it planned for next time; book lot #2 and lot #3 of the campground, which is right across from a playground with a Frisbee golf course, a beautiful walk along the side [of it.] Waking up listening [huh?? to birds, maybe?] is the life for me. For 14 dollars you can’t get that shit in a hotel! You can’t have a conversation with the gods in a hotel! (NOTE: I recall looking up into the pines taking pictures while saying this) To which makes me think that hotels are for the lonely and fearful … I think this is the best way for me to travel, feeling most at home. I can totally see me coming out here, plugging into a outlet with my laptop, writing from sunrise to sunset. The potential to imagine would be limitless, words undisturbed and I feel, [would be] of the best quality.
I noticed that my lot neighbor has a camper and a city truck and I can only assume he might be living here. (NOTE: Waved at him when he pulled off to work, so think I was talking towards him) I don’t blame you; this is perfect.
I imagine the reason why young people don’t like to camp is because they have watched too many horror movies, like they learn from what they see on the screen, and think that’s reality… equal to reality; the reality is that you can, with nature, transcend into something greater than one is used to, become truly connected. I don’t feel I can ever longer advocate for society, I certainly can [advocate for a] transcendental experience.