Mugshot Paradise

I think most unattractive people are guilty of crimes. Thankfully there is now a game where we can pick which crimes they committed. A mugshot pops up with three options of the crime, you have to pick the crime correctly- and quickly- to win. It's never what you think it is.

 

Enjoy!

http://www.guessthecrime.com/

I approve wire-tapping

I'm reading "All The President's Men" for my journalism class. We have to talk about how excellent the journalism is. But I must ask this:

Is it? Is it really so great? 

Sure, Woodward and Bernstein were dogged, intrepid reporters. They did their job well- asking anyone and everyone anything they wanted to know. They were ballsy and could sniff through bullshit. They followed their instincts. Basically they did everything a great journalist does, I get that.

But for what? Ok, I've gathered that the it's about the Watergate scandal. To my best understanding, this means that the Republicans' "Committee for Re-election" was sneakily wiretapping the Democrats' meetings and spying on them. Great espionage, until they got caught. 

I don't know if the mysterious tapes of Nixon are in this book- they weren't in the movie- and I've still got about half of the book to go. But what's so big about the tapes? They admitted that Nixon knew about the bugging, right? Then he got impeached (or maybe just wasn't re-elected, not sure).

Admittedly, I hate politics. They bore me to tears. I go more with my own feels than what the law says. So I don't get what the big deal is.

So the Republicans spied? Ok. So they had "secret" funds to support it. It's not like they robbed banks for that money. People gave it to them. Is it dirty to spy? Sure. Is it morally wrong? Maybe, probably.

But he was the president. I've never seen Frost/Nixon (though I want to), but I have seen the commercial where Nixon says "It's not illegal when the President does it," or something to that effect.

I agree. If the President does it, fine. As long as he's not running around with a gun shooting kids in a daycare, or something equally vile, then he can do what he wants. He'll do what's best for the country.

Unless it's Obama, of course, he shouldn't do whatever he wants.

Anyway, I just don't see what the big deal is. The Washington Post just seems like a bully, wrangling up trouble for no reason, sticking its nose where it doesn't belong and interfering with something that doesn't concern it.

This is what I understand: The whole Watergate scandal was the Republicans spying on the Dems. Nixon got impeached because he denied he authorized the taps, but it was found he had. Was it the denial that got him in trouble? I don't know.

All I know is:

A) It seems like a lot of wasted time on a mildly trivial subject.

B) Maybe I should've gone to see the duo speak when they were on campus last year.

C) It's one boring book, but Dustin Hoffman was attractively badass in the film.

Step aside Cain- this sister is taking your place

This is the first draft of a personal profile I have to write for Intermediate Magazine Writing. We have to turn in two ledes (yes, it's spelled that way, Idk why), then the editor picks her favorite. So in the final copy, there will only be one.

Lede 1:  Everyone who watches horror movies cringes when the naive person goes towards the scary noise instead of running in the opposite direction. Everyone scoffs and says they would never act that way; they’d be the hero of the movie instead of being the victim, obviously. I was one of those people. Of course I’d be a hero- who doesn’t want the fame and glory that comes with saving someone? I, however, learned that being the hero when faced with death is not so easy. It turns out I have too much to live for, too many things to do with my life. I can’t risk losing out on my great future by putting myself in harm’s way, even if that means saving myself instead of someone else- even if that someone else is my sister.

           

 

Lede 2:  I’d say that I’m a good big sister. I’ve offered Tracy, my younger sister, my sage wisdom on growing older. Usually its unsolicited advice and her response is to groan and roll her eyes, but the point is that I try to be there for her. I lend her my ear if she needs to vent about a boy who’s being annoying, or I’ll give her a ride if she needs one. I’ll even occasionally buy her lunch when we’re out.

            But, looking back, I realize that none of those actions subtract anything from my life. I’ll only give her a ride if she begs; I only buy her food if Mom gave me the money first; I only listen if I’m bored or the tale seems particularly juicy. The things I do for her aren’t really selfless at all, but then again, I’ve only been in a position where I’d have to be truly selfless once, and I failed that test, failed it miserably, I’d say.

           

 Actual story:

 

            When I was twelve and Tracy was nine, we were in our backyard playing Around The World, a game that involves shooting a basketball from various positions on the court. It was a fun way to wait out the few hours it would take my mom to get home from work. Tracy and I always chilled together after school when we were that age- whether it was having an adventure in a nearby creek bed or riding our bikes around the neighborhood- we were always together.

            So we were throwing the ball, I was winning I’m sure, when all of a sudden through a window I see a red shoulder walk by the backdoor. I freeze. The hair on my neck stands and I can’t move.

            “Tracy, someone’s in the house.”

            “Shut up, no there isn’t,” she says, fear on her face, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or am just a big sister messing with her.

            “No, I swear, I saw somebody walk by.”

            We both stand still, not knowing what to do. She looks at me for guidance, I look back at her, wanting her to choose our next move. Then, together, we stare at the window in the door, waiting for someone to run through it with a knife. No one does.           

            “Well, maybe I was wrong,” I say, still unsure, but hopeful. “Must’ve been my imagination.”

            Tracy reluctantly agrees that it was and we go back to playing. We’re tense and nervous at first, but soon that disappears and we’re back to bantering and having a good time. I’m about to make an amazing shot, when all of a sudden Tracy lets out this piercing scream that would put the Wicked Witch of the West to shame.

            My head whips to the window, where Tracy’s looking, just in time to see a flash of red shoulder pass by. I drop the ball. Each bounce echoes on the concrete. Thud. Thud. Thud. The ball is the only thing that can move.

            Suddenly, something inside us snaps. Time unfreezes itself. We take off running. We round the corner, leading us straight down the long driveway that ends in a wrought iron gate that has the “beware of dog” sign dangling crookedly on it. Oh, why didn’t we get a dog to go with the sign? I ask myself, but it’s too late to wonder about that. Once we open the gate, we can escape to our neighbor, who is a cop, and everything will be copasetic.

            But, after breezing past the corner, I realize that something is off, something isn’t right. That’s when I notice Tracy is in front of me, meaning I’m closest to the killer. This is no good. I’m too young to die. Without thinking, I reach forward, grab my little sister’s shirt, and pull her back. I didn’t want her to get hurt, but I didn’t even see her as my sister anymore, I just saw her as something that was in my way of survival.

            Now that my view’s better- meaning no immediate obstacles- I relax a bit. I can make it to the gate. I can make it to freedom. Then I hear Tracy’s familiar scream, breaking through the blind determination in my mind. I stop, turn around and see that I had pulled her too hard, making her trip. She’s on the ground with skinned knees, hand outstretched to me. “Help, Jess! Help me!”

            Naturally, I run to her. Like I said, I didn’t want her to get hurt, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the first one killed. I grab her sweaty, chubby hand; I’m about to help her up, when I hear the backdoor open.

            That primal fear grips me again. I don’t know why or how, but I drop her hand like it’s a tissue soaked in the H1N1 virus. I ignore her screams and tears, turn my back on the girl I have shared a room with; hugged when the fights between our divorcing parents got scary; read to when she couldn’t sleep; and run to the gate. Maybe I thought I’d get it open and come back for her, but I don’t think that’s true.

            I make it to the gate. My fingers work furiously, trying to get it open. “Oh please, please, let me live, I just wanna live!”  I pray while I shake the one thing keeping me from fulfilling my destiny, trying to convince the tricky lock to unhook.

            “Hey!” I hear. I release my grip. I turn and see the person in red is standing a few feet behind my sister.

            “Oh, hey,” I exhale in a wavering, relieved sigh/laugh combo. As it turns out, my mom had just left work early.

            I’ve had about nine years to reflect on this incident. Every now and then when I’m at a party and people want to be entertained, I’ll share it. I’m usually received with delightful laughs and an occasional reproachful face. The crowd that grows as I animatedly reenact the story always asks two questions: A) why did you have something to live for, but she didn’t? and B) Would you do the same thing again?

            The short answer for the first question is this: I’m destined for greatness. I’ve known this forever. It’s just in my gut. I’m going to be a best-selling novelist someday; it’s almost a guarantee. I’m sure Tracy has lots of goals, too, but they’re second to mine. People laugh scornfully when I say this “what a bravado you put on,” they say, but I assure them that while it may seem like I’m faking my confidence, I really, really do believe that I’m destined for great things, and if Tracy were too, fate wouldn’t have let her trip. But maybe I’m just young and naive and can’t fathom the idea that something someday won’t go my way.           

            The second question is a little trickier. Sure, I like to say that if I had a do-over, I’d pick Tracy up and toss her over the fence, leaving me to battle the evildoer. Honestly, though, I imagine things would play out in much the same way. Since her elementary school days, however, she’s joined the track team and has become quite the fitness guru. She’d beat me in a footrace, so I’d have to think of a more creative way to sabotage my sister’s survival in order to preserve mine.

            Hopefully I’m not put in this situation again, but if I am, I’ll make a New York Times Best-Seller novel about it. I’ll make her the hero, of course, who died while valiantly saving the big sister she idolized.

If you have any tips/comments I'd appreciate them!

Rape's funny

I went to a comedy show Tuesday night. It was free and very entertaining. I laughed throughout most of it, but I also couldn't feel my face during much of that time, so my comedic sense may have been off.

But, one thing a guy said that made me both laugh and think is this: you can never say "I'm not gonna rape you" and have it be an ok, uncreepy thing to say. No matter where you put the emphasis, it's always going to scare the person you're talking to.

-I'm not gonna rape you. (that guy is)
-I'm not gonna rape you. (I'm just going to kill you)
-I'm not gonna rape you. (I already did)
-I'm not gonna rape you. (You want this)
-I'm not gonna rape you. (I'm raping your dad)

I pondered this and laughed. I wonder what I'd do if someone said that to me. I'd probably giggle uncomfortably and shrug my shoulders.

On another note, that same night, I ran into a friend of mine. When it came time to introduce her to Anthony, I said "Caroline, this is my..(lengthy pause)... Anthony." I still couldn't use that dreaded b-word.

We talked about it on the way home. It sounded like he was something I'd just picked up at the store. So now I've figured out what I feel comfortable calling him:

"Hell0, this is Anthony, my collector's item."

That'll make a person feel nice, right?

boyfriend- what a weird word

This last weekend was very a fun one. Friday night, Anthony and I met up with Nathan and some of his co-workers at this bar/pub called "The Deuce Pub and Pit". I was afraid to go for two reasons:

A) I feared it would be really fratty, which is not my ideal.
B) I wanted Anthony and Nathan to get along, and I was afraid they wouldn't.

But everything went smoothly. I started the night there by doing a tequilla shot, it was disgusting, though the people who took them agreed it was a very good kind. If what I had was very good I can't imagine what the cheap stuff tastes like. Yuck. After that, I sipped on vodka Sprites throughout the evening.

I got to do something I've always wanted to- play washers! It was so fun, like a weird version of horseshoes. Anthony and I were a team. I was great and carried us through-out the game. I kept nailing them. Anthony was not as good as me, but he did manage to get it in the hole, winning us three points, which was impressive.

After that bar, we went to the Penguin Bar, which is a piano bar. It was fun. We ran into Kirsten and doug, during which Kirsten asked me if Anthony was my boyfriend, a friend, or what. I didn't know what to say, so I just said he was a guy I knew and shrugged.

But that got me thinking: what were we? Where did we stand? So later that night, I asked him. We decided that we were indeed exclusive, but to make it really official, I told him, we had to make it known on Facebook. He agreed (of course, as if he could say 'no').

So now we're boyfriend/girlfriend. It has a weird ring to it. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. What a weird sounding word- boooyfrrrriend. It sounds too mature for me. I'd rather call him dude. or lover. or my manfriend, or maybe even my boo.

I guess I'll get used to boyfriend.

Give me my praise!

I'd been looking forward to Tuesday for some time. It was going to be my day. Praise was going to rain upon me and I was going to shine. I was ready.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Tuesday was the day I got to hear feedback from my fellow Advanced Fiction Writing classmates. I'd turned in a story last week and had patiently waited for Tuesday, my day.

The story I wrote wasn't the one I intended to write. I'd gotten sick and just didn't feel up to writing. The day before the story was due, I was like "damn, I have to turn in something tomorrow." So I wrote. It was a 13 page (short for me, my average tale is 20 pages) magical realsim story. It was wonderfully written. The writing itself was great, the backstory needed work, but the writing was great.

I knew this. Maybe I'm cocky/confident, but that's because I have the right to be. I just know that I am talented.

Anyway, I literally thought the room would errupt into cheers when I walked in.

"I'm so jealous of you!"
"Where do you come up with these things?"
"Can I be you?"
"You're great!"
"God's smiling on you!"
"Can I be you for a day?"
"Hooray Jess! Hooray Jess!"

That's just a sampeling of a few things I expected to hear. In one scenario I actually believed they'd throw me on their shoulders and exalt me.

What happened was this:

I get to class. No one says 'hello' to me. I was a bit disconcerted. The teacher comes in, we go over business, and then she decides we're going to critique Scott's story, he turned one in on the same day I did.

The class is 2.5 hours long. We spend 45 mins talking about his story. I wasn't a huge fan of it. We told him things he could change and how he could make it better- for the whole 45 mins. I was nice and told him some things I liked about it, though.

So after we're done with his, Marly, the teacher, says it's time to talk about my story. Yay! The time I've been dreaming about. It is finally here.

We spend a whopping 10 mins talking about it. They talked about how it needs more backstory. No one said good things about it. It was 10 mins of negative talk. I wasn't offended- I knew it needed more. But I wanted someone to say something positive about it. Tell me how great my style is.

When those measly 10 mins were up, I almost yelled and shrieked and told them it was my turn to shine! They needed to bestow me with praise! Instead I said nothing.

Later that day I went to the park and read their written critiques.

Everyone loved it. They said my style was great, it was funny and tragic, it flowed, blah blah blah. It was nice reading that, obviously, but it would've been better to hear it.

In case I haven't made it obvious enough, I know I'm a great fiction writer. I don't need people to tell me so to know it, but sometimes you just want to hear it. I wanted 45 minutes of praise and adulation and there's nothing wrong with that.

I guess, realistically, great writing speaks for itself, so you don't need to spend a lot of time dwelling on it.

My mom says I need to rewatch "A Christmas Story". She says there's a scene in a classroom I'd really relate to.

"Kudos, Jess, you're awesome!"

The most unfortunate condition

Undressing a man for the first time is a very special, fun moment. It's full of excitement and promise. You try not to think about what he keeps in his pants, but you just know it's going to be something huge. You, after all, wouldn't pick up a shrimp at a bar. You have an eye for this sort of thing.

Finally, after hurrying through dinner, giving off random facts about yourself to make it seem like you actually care, you and your man are back at his apartment (you'd rather be there so you can get away as soon as you're through).  You're kissing him and everything is great. You're now on the bed and things are progressing as they should. Finally, it's time. You get to unwrap the present and see the 9 inch wonder God has put into your life. This is it. He pulls off his boxer briefs...

And you squint? Where is it? This is a joke, right? You peer closer, thinking maybe the darkness is messing with you. Then you see it. It's the saddest thing you've ever seen. The lack of its presence makes you want to cry, or at least get up and leave.

Think of how he feels, knowing he's got nothing. Hopefully he's adept with his other appendages, if not, it's just sad. 

This scenario breaks my heart more than anything in the world. Forget AIDS and cancer, this is a medical condition that needs attention. Every lady can imagine the sadness this situation can bring. 

It's like that Christmas where you were expecting to get a Game Cube but your mom misunderstood you and got you a Rubic's Cube. It just isn't the same.

So until we find an easy cure for this unfortunate condition, maybe guys should have to wear their length on their forehead.

*The link I am about to post is graphic. It's the clinical description of this disease with photos. It needs to be seen.*

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Micropenis

P.S- nothing in my current life inspired this. It's just a cause I'm fascinated by.