The Perfect Woman

Locked away in my dark chamber to escape the imperfect world, I sought to construct the perfect woman. I wanted total control over how she’d look, act, and think. I gathered a collection of materials to bring this creation to life. I had everything that I needed to create the perfect true love who’d accompany me to the grave.

Starting from the inside, I installed a brain capable of individual thought, but also a chamber for like-mindedness so that we’d share something in common. We needed to like the same things and we needed to have the same feelings for each other. Included was a personality that I’ve long searched for in a woman. It was something that would truly reflect what she looked like on the outside. I was sick of being deceived by beauty, only to learn that she was a monster on the inside. On the inside, we were totally compatible.  The heart I gave her thumped excitedly, practically mimicking my heart’s exact tone.

I sewed her up and began work on her physical features. She needed the necessary features to compliment her impeccable personality. I gave her brown hair that stretched a few inches past her shoulders. I also gave her hazel colored eyes to match mine so that we could see the world together as one. Her body was difficult to build according to what I saw and thought of as perfect. If she was too big, she’d probably succumb to the media’s idea of a perfect body and torture herself to frailty. If she was too thin, she’d also fall prey to the media as before, therefore dangerously trying to have a perfect body. I’m giving her something in between, hopefully something that she can be happy with. I want her to be totally satisfied with who she is on the inside and out.

I made her out of the assumption that we’d be together and share a love that is undefined for the rest of the world, but defined by our own standards. With my own hands and standards, I’ve created a woman I deemed to be perfect.

Needless to say, there were complications.

I’ve made the mistake of playing God, constructing a woman who I thought was perfect. She wasn’t something that she wanted to be; she had no choice whatsoever because of me. I made a woman that was forced to love me. I made a woman that doesn’t even exist in this world.

Perfect doesn’t exist.

I’m living in an imperfect world and I was under the impression that if I couldn’t find perfection, I could create it. I was wrong. I’ve even come to the conclusion that my creation is imperfect.

I am no longer going to play God, and I am no longer going to search for perfection. I’ve begun my search for love and beauty in the realm of imperfection.  Whoever she is, she’ll be perfect for me.

My 45 Minute Stint Doing Zumba

Two weeks ago I said that I was going to lose a bit of weight so that I would win a bet with my friend.  I got bored doing cardio and typical gym stuff, so I thought I’d try jiggling my fat to the tunes of Latina hip-hop music in the comfort of my own home.  My older sister just happened to have a large Zumba DVD set with 9 discs, each with the purpose of zapping fat from my frame all the while turning me into the next J-Lo.

The disc I put into my Xbox explained that this would be a 45 minute session, but not a workout because they don’t like the word “workout”.  It’s not a fun word, so they emphasize how much FUN this session is going to be, almost like you aren’t even working out!  Two women and at least six other backups stand front and center.  Their tan six packs judge my white fat pack and tell me that it’s time to dance and have some fun.  They began to tap their right foot on the ground repeatedly before they started going full throttle into some random dance routine with salsa music blaring in the background.

I was unable to keep up and instead of trying to mimic each move, I ended up making up my own dance routine just to burn some calories.  I looked like a seal with an extra chromosome for the entire 45 minute workout (sorry, fun session).  My style of Zumba equates to flopping around the floor like the Miami Heat.  Every member in the Zumba video had smiles on their faces as each muscle allowed them to move in seemingly impossible shapes.  The people who were watching and moving along with the video, like me, were looking like they ate a whole package of War Heads.

I conquered this 45 minute video with every seal clap and bark I had in me.  I told each person in the video to suck it and that I would see them next time.

Believe it or not, I actually had a lot of fun doing Zumba.  I may not have done anything right, but I know I probably lost some body fat just by laughing at myself.  However, I was distracted for a least half the video because I had to turn around every 5 seconds just to make sure no one was filming YouTube gold through my window.

I’m A Failure

However, this doesn’t mean that I’m not successful. Society pressures you into succeeding, yet for some people they don’t even provide the proper tools to do so. If I was successful in every single area I’d be the biggest asshole the planet ever knew (debatable). In which case, I’m proud to admit and acknowledge that I have repeatedly failed in many different areas of life. Many people don’t seem to accept failure; those are the kinds of people who are wasting their time striving for perfection, like an anorexic who starves herself in order to become a toothpick. They think they live in some kind of world where failures even in the most trivial of forms are frowned upon by society. I wouldn’t have learned shit if I never failed. No wonder that society is polluted with idiots; they don’t know what it’s like to fail nor have they learned anything.

Most would say I’m not ambitious. I will kindly disagree and say I’m pretty ambitious if I’m willing to fail first and succeed later. That just makes success that much more meaningful to me. I’ve built my confidence up over the years by embracing my failures because it only means that there is more to learn about the world and myself. If I’m destined to fail for the rest of my life, then I’m really going to learn a lot about myself. I want to see who I really am 5 years, 10 years, 20 years, 50 years from now.

I’m definitely looking forward to a new batch of failures so I can become the best human that I can possibly be.  Customers where I work seem to feel good about themselves when they yell at me for doing something wrong.  In actuality, their shithead comments are helping me become a better person.

Stop Looking At Me

Mona Lisa will not stop staring at me.  It’s either the woman in the painting itself or the ghost of Leonardo da Vinci that makes those eyes follow your every movement.  Collectively, perhaps, they’re studying my body in hopes of rearranging my internal organs so they can use my plentiful blood for paint.  You’re dead and the woman in the painting is forever dried and locked within the frame.  However, I’m already troubled that your image has made its way to the cover of magazines, DVD covers, and an assortment of parodies to add to this insufferable horror.

Yes, Leonardo, you were a genius and still are a genius.  Mona Lisa thrives off of your everlasting popularity, which still gives her that fresh, unnerving stare that never seems to fade over time.  I can feel my eyeballs attempting to sink into my head, breaking the sockets so that they have a little more wiggle room to drown themselves in a pool of nerves and brain fluid.  To hell with the occipital lobe, I don’t want to see you anymore and I want you to leave my house.

My mother insists that you stay because you’re so often celebrated and no house is complete without some variation.  My blood boils at the notion of your presence haunting homes and museums at an international level.  Most people would get arrested these days if they just glared at others all day like you do.

What’s with that stupid smirk?  Do you want to say something?  Are you feeling squirrely?  Are you about to let out a tortuous scream that shatters testicles worldwide?  Just get this horror over with.

Bring The Violence

Many readers and friends alike have gathered that some of the things I write are particularly violent, sometimes downright gruesome.  Naturally, this has created a scare where some believe I need to be institutionalized, although I’m actually pretty psyched to see that many have voiced positive reception of my work.

I thought that this would be a good time to address violence in the media, something that I’m quite passionate about.  No, I’m not passionate about violence, more so, I’m passionate about the cultural response to violence.  I suppose it intrigues me more because I frequently listen to music and watch movies that are labeled as violent.  Ever since Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold caused ruckus and moral panic worldwide, violence in the media has skyrocketed to the top of the list of things that must be repeatedly scolded.

Of course, I am a complete opponent to the claim that violent entertainment has anything to do with real-life violence.  It’s an excellent scapegoat that many people love to employ if fingers are pointed towards them for blame.  It’s something that people want to control, kind of like how some people who don’t support gay rights purposely try to make it so couples of the same sex cannot marry.

Quite often, music and television are the usual suspects if any sort of violent tragedy has occurred.  I think it’s interesting that literature, sports, and the country’s most populated religions are never questioned.  If you’re saying that murder in a movie or violent lyrics in a song can inspire somebody to commit violence, what about seeing an image of Jesus Christ on the cross?  Is this not a violent image?  What about sports where children are repeatedly encouraged by their parents to “Kill them” or “Hit them” during friendly competition?

The violence in some of my writings are not there to shock anybody.  The fact is, like some PG-13 movies fail to acknowledge, that when you’re shot with a bullet, you’re gonna bleed.  I’m not expecting 8 gallons of gore to spit out of their wounds, but I enjoy and respect realism.  I hate it when artists have to censor their work just so others will not be offended.  This is what I try to do out of respect for other artists and spectators of art.  I’m not going to censor the violence or any other “offensive” detail for the few people who either cannot stomach it or feel like it is unnecessary.

The best advice I can offer is this: If you’re offended, do not proceed to read and do not cause a scene just because it is not to your liking.  Move on out of respect for the writer if the content does not suit your beliefs or tastes.  Using the gay rights example again, it’s just like how you shouldn’t go out of your way to ensure people who do not share similar beliefs to follow your code.  You may not support gay rights, but then why are you bothering those who share love for one another?  Why are you trying so hard to make sure they adhere to your traditional Christian views on marriage?  The best strategy is to ignore it and move on and read something else.

As a writer, I demand the ability to write how I see things fit, and I would expect nothing but the same from anybody else.  Don’t censor yourself out of fear that a few people out in the world will be upset.  Let them worry about their own art.

4 Reasons Why I’m Awkward In Public Places

1. My awkward dance moves.

Science will tell you that your awkward moves on the dance floor signal to onlooking ladies that you aren’t a compelling sex partner. Once I guzzle down a few beers to accumulate appropriate confidence, I’ll hobble my way to the center of the dance floor and bust a move. My signature (and only) move is pelvic thrusting, which pollutes the air with an awkwardness that cannot be ignored by the party’s other guests. Naturally, the music dies down and the eyes of all party-goers synchronize together to create one big spotlight that stares me down.  My inferior genes are duly noted by the other guests so they won’t manufacture some loser fetus inside of her uterus, forever shaming the existing and forthcoming members of the family tree.

2. I drink the wrong beer.

My doomed generation favors alcohol that can be paid for with a collection of loose change from your couch. Busch Light, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and an assortment of other cheap hippie beers have attacked my fully functional organs time and time again in exchange for saving my bank account. Instead, I’ve adopted a beer snob persona and spend the extra couple of bucks for a six pack of Guinness or available seasonal brews.  I’ve let other girls have a taste of my Guinness, and we’ll just say the luck of the Irish was not on my side.  Apparently, their cheap drink selection must be a representation of how easy it is to drop her panties.  I’ve learned that my selection will not have panties collecting dust on the floor any time soon.

3. I’m boring to talk to.

Verbal communication is extremely important since not all words can be expressed with our sexual organs. Parties are a breeding ground for random conversations where anybody with a halfway functional brain will succeed. Excited to work my sharp tongue, I pelvic thrust my way to a couple of ladies ready to engage in a mastery of the English language. “So, uh, hi.” The ladies seemingly evaporate as they are nowhere to be found once I opened my chatter box. After hours of searching, the girls are presumably dead because nobody is willing to answer my desperate “Missing” posters for these unmistakable beauties.

4. My confidence level is sub par.

Socially awkward characters, such as myself, do not have the same level of confidence as the greasy frat brothers that frequent the bar.  Our boners must create some alternate reality or fantasy world to flourish in.  My confidence has strengthened over the years, but not to the point where I’ll stick my tool in anything that moves.  I’m not yearning for an STD landmine down south; I can get a burning feeling from the shower if need be.

Women Who “Wear the Pants” In A Relationship

With the few girls I have dated over the years, one common theme generally pops up within two months of a relationship. The “Wear the pants” phenomenon has plagued boyfriends worldwide ever since its conception when a bored girlfriend couldn’t think of something legitimate to argue about. When a girl openly declares to her boyfriend, “I feel like I’m wearing the pants in this relationship,” it signals that the relationship is half-way to its expiration date. Normally when a girl has crossed everything off of her “Unreasonable things to bitch about to my boyfriend list,” the WTP phenomenon is something of a last resort to indicate that she has overcome women’s oppression and has suddenly grown a penis (metaphorically speaking).

For decades women have had an ongoing war with the opposite sex to claim their equal rights. Their assertion of “I wear the pants” confirms hypocritical and stereotypical labels that steers them clear from the equality they desire. When a woman wishes that her man would wear the pants in the relationship, she is really claiming that she’d rather be totally helpless in the clutches of an authoritative male figure who will dictate every aspect of the relationship. For some reason, women are under the impression that extra baggage around the crotch of a pair of blue jeans determines the level of male superiority.

Declaring “I wear the pants in the relationship” is nothing but an evil ploy to cause further argument over frivolous matters. Yeah, you’re cute, but sitting on a bed curled up in a ball crying and saying, “I feel like I’m wearing the pants in this relationship,” doesn’t really prove anything. Doing nothing but crying and shouting overused insults to prove your worth doesn’t help the cause in your quest for equality. If you want equality, you’re not going to get it by employing your expertise in silent treatment and laughable clichés such as the WTP phenomenon.

I think women need to understand the importance of equal contribution to a relationship. Absolute perfection isn’t going to come your way if you just sit back and wait for your boyfriend to do something in tradition of your standards and expectations. Men can’t do this either. The relationship is pretty lame if one or both members aren’t willing to work towards satisfaction. Striving for equality by living up to a gender specific stereotype doesn’t make any sense at all. Stop being a woman and stop being a man. Be human beings.

New Year, Same Me

New Years Resolutions: A declaration of change for the new year that ultimately is not followed by anyone after a few weeks.

Change is welcome, albeit many people only seek it when a new year is approaching.  After claiming the previous year that they were going to lose a bunch of weight, they gave up two weeks in and decided, “Awh, screw it.  I’ll start again next year.”  Generally, I applaud people who are willing to change something about themselves or how they go about life, yet over the years I’ve grown skeptical of the whole New Years tradition.

Why is it that people are only electing to bring change into their lives around New Years?  The comparison I’m about to make may seem a little out of line, however I feel it matches best to what I’m trying to convey.  After the despicable shooting in Newtown, Connecticut where nearly 30 people lost their lives and many others injured,  a lovely woman named Ann Curry inspired a mass movement called 26 Acts of Kindness, which asks everybody to do one act of kindness in memory of each victim who lost their lives at the hands of Adam Lanza.  On human nature’s part, this is excellent and incredibly unselfish.  My issue lies with the fact that many people seem to only be inspired by tragedies and upcoming holidays to do good for others.  People have effortlessly applied this concept into those dreaded New Years resolutions.  I think it’s fair to argue that if our calendar didn’t start anew every January, a lot of people wouldn’t be electing to change whatsoever.  Would there be an Acts of Kindness movement if there weren’t any tragedies or holidays to consider?  Maybe so, but only very few people would be inspired as many are infatuated with their own well-being.

I have decided that I have no true New Years resolution.  I have come to the conclusion that I need to be myself and do good for others at any opportunity I get.  Change is welcome, but I don’t feel the need to change because then I just wouldn’t be myself, I’d be just as guilty as those who are only inspired by outright disaster to not only think about themselves.

While I would love for all of you to achieve your goals, I implore everyone to not reserve your weight loss goals, personality changes, and what not for New Years resolutions.  Instead, make these your daily goals because New Years resolutions are bound to be broken.  There’s no motivation whatsoever to reach your New Years’ goals because you can always “start again next year.”  Having daily goals will give you the proper motivation you need to succeed.

Happy New Year, everybody!