Self-doubt for Dummies

Please read this blog to the tune of "Denvemolorado" by Atmosphere.

This will be a short blog. You are wondering how I find the time to write two blogs? I am unemployed. I am a lazy bum riding on the tail of her parent's financial success. Soon I will be employed and back in summer school. I urge you all to take full advantage of my frequent blogging while it lasts. On second thought, no, please do not do that.

Tonight is a night for self-doubt. It was 100 degrees today, and the heat, as it always does, has scorched the creativity out of me. I decided to take a bath in preparation for my photo session with the self-timer on my camera. I managed to wash my greasy mop of hair, but the hot water was flowing like molasses, and in the quiet of my bathroom I could hear the call of Myspace. Potato chips, men, and Myspace make me weak in the knees. Needless to say I gave in. Myspace lurking has lost its appeal, unless it is to overanalyze the state of my face and hair in my photos, and so I decided on blog surfing instead. I stumbled upon this. Please click on the link for fantastic shit talking.

The twins awoke from their evening nap. Feeling irritated at a premature awakening they conjured insecurity to send it along the synapses of my nervous system. I can feel the prick of my doubt in my toes and fingers. I am going to need drugs to block the receptors. After reading the fantastical world of shit talking by the foot fetish fantasy Lisa Lewd, I left her blog world to read through mine.

Would you like to know my thoughts? I thought so. It went like this.

Marissa: For fucks sake why do I insist on writing?

Twins: That's right Marissa. You should just give up.

Marissa: My blogs are shit.

Twins: Yes, they are.

Marissa: Damnit. What the hell am I going to do for a career?

Twins: Strip.

Marissa: No, I'll get kicked out of the house. I don't want to be homeless.

Twins: Well you won't be a journalist.

Marissa: Screw you.

Twins: You are not Diablo Cody. Go work for the Northglenn Sentinel.

Marissa: Never. Let's just get drunk.

Twins: Alright

I went through a few of my recent blogs. I did my best to adjust the obviously terrible, but I am in need of a writing re-vamp. I will pay in popsicles and dirty photos.

Once again contact my secretary for details.

"Bend me up, slip me the tongue, shoot me down. Cut me loose, bury me, and piss on the ground."

For the trophy wives and beauty queens

Attention: This blog has a choking hazard for adults over the age of 30.

I had a dream last night that I went to a gig with my girlfriends. It did not look much like a venue, but resembled more of an open case display, lined with the actors of my sexual fantasies. I stood in my most hideous form, as ugly as my insecure dream weaver could summon. I am talking the worst look I could possibly achieve. The look that could only be found if I was to be forced at gunpoint to leave the house immediately after my shower (she shudders). All of the girls in my dream looked stunning with a perfect bouffant and flawless eyeliner. The group of us stood in a large venue filled with every rapper who has ever warmed me between the legs. Grieves was there, Slug, and Josh Martinez, to name but a few. I was the only one of my already beautiful friends not adequately prepared for such an encounter.

I awoke from my dream feeling anxious. I made an effort to re-enter the dream with my hair and face painted on, but was denied access. Frustrated from my denial I rolled out of bed, shuffled the three feet to my bathroom mirror and stared at my surprisingly pale reflection. I touched my artificially straight hair, twirled my fingers around the purple and blue streak, thinking of the hour long process that awaited me later in the day. I pulled at the skin under my eyes and inspected the premature wrinkles forming around the corners, at the discolored skin of my eyelids. I scrunched my brow and stared at the freckles dotting my nose and cheeks. I attempted to mold my nose into various shapes contemplating which would work best post-op. I pinched the freckle on my bottom lip, and pouted. I began to think that collagen could sort out my face. I glanced back at the bag of makeup waiting patiently on the shelf.

If you are expecting me to say that I embraced my natural appearance and dismissed the need for makeup, well my dear friends, you are far from the truth. I picked up the flowered bag kissing its sides and cursing the days when I would be unable to hold my precious bag. I think this might be the cause behind my adverse feelings towards camping.

There is a chance that the excessive amount of thought I give to my external appearance will only produce a monster.

Post-Op Photo

But then I will always have my makeup.

Dear makeup,

I love how you hide my uneven skin tone.
I love how your bronzer and blush make me look like less of a pale freak, and all around better.
I love how you can color my eyes into the ones that can make men melt.
I love how your highlighter gives me the radiant glow only pregnant women and children can possess.
But I especially love how every man in my life says they prefer my natural, but fell in love with me when I had you on.

Love,
Your faithful consumer

To the society and the men who make it- you have always given me conflicting opinions on my use of makeup. I say screw you. I love my makeup. I will put as much, or as little as I like, and your opinion will mean nothing to me.

Women and drag queens, if you love your makeup stand up and salute your little flowered bag. I christen this day Makeup Day. Let us all celebrate what makeup has done for the drag queen, the trophy wife, beauty queen, and the all around average.

A very special thank you to makeup.

The world does need you.
<

Ladies, drag queens, and gentlemen, let me see your little makeup bag.

"Now you don't need money with a face like that do ya?"

Marry Me?

Disclaimer: Not to be read by my boyfriend, nor any man who would like to be.

Marriage: 1 a: the state of being married b: the mutual relation of husband and wife c: the institution whereby men and women are joined in a special kind of social and legal dependence for the purpose of founding and maintaining a family

Frequent definitions due to purchase of a new dictionary to compliment my pocket-size thesaurus.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about marriage, in unhealthy amounts if you were to ask my therapist. I am only 22 as all of the time weathered individuals in my life have told me. I would like to respond with a "No shit? You're kidding me?" But I am far too polite and non-confrontational for such a response. On Friday night while out with my friends celebrating my return, I gave half the night to drinking, and the second half persuading men to propose to me. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps I am far crazier than I first expected, or if I abandon all traditional modes of explanation, perhaps I truly want to get "tied down." If you know me then I am preaching to the choir, but if you are one of the lucky few, then let me give you a synopsis. I am crazy, and especially with and towards the opposite sex. Since I believe that to be the only relevant aspect of my personality, that is all I shall provide. Absolutely, 100% certified crazy. All you must do to verify my claim is to ring the past or current men in my life.

Now that we are on the same wave length, a seminar of marriage can begin. I must clarify that at this time I do not want kids, nor do I want a mortgage. I desire to live in selfish splendor with my better half in a small city flat. We will have a healthy sex life, money, and sleep. We will chase our dreams without restraint.

My obsession turned from desperately seeking a man to bend down on one knee, into scolding my mother for not practicing arranged marriages.

Arranged marriage (also called prearranged marriage) is a marriage arranged by someone other than the persons getting married, curtailing or avoiding the process of courtship.

(A special thank you to Wikipedia.org)

Without delving into the cloudy waters of arranged marriage, I will highlight what I believe to be the upside of arranged marriage. What can be the beautiful upside of arranged marriage you ask? "Curtailing or avoiding the process of courtship." I believe that by doing this, one, such as myself, can also curtail or avoid the inevitable heartbreak of failed courtships. I know that in my previous blog I said "may all know the pain of heartache," or something to that effect, but I say no more. If my mother had chosen to arrange a marriage for me then I would gratefully not have had to write a blog about the damage an ex can do. An ex of mine we will call Bob texted (21st century communication) me to say that I must stop blaming my ex-boyfriends for all of my so called problems. I say rubbish! I will continue to do so until it is no longer amusing to dodge the blame for my senseless and insecure nature. I still hold that I was born normal, and at least moderately sane, but corrupted by the men in my life.

Since I am beyond the age to have secured an arranged marriage, and a matchmaker's worst nightmare, I must explore the alternatives. I have only found one option for a woman like myself. I plan to propose to every man I meet until the day when I receive a yes. I will not be purchasing a ring until I have a legal document signed assuring that he will in fact marry me once the alcohol has worn off. I understand that the amount of rejection I will receive may wound my pride, but I am willing to forfeit this trait to secure a husband. I have already received a no thank you, a maybe in five years, and a fuck no. My pride is still intact. No, I did not ask my boyfriend. It is because he is such a lovely man, and not deserving of a crazy wife.

The question begs to be asked as to why I wish to get married. It is a question with a simple answer. I am a wild one, and I need to be domesticated. If you are a man and unaware of this fact, I assure you that you are of the lucky few. Women like myself say they cannot commit to one man, that they do no believe in the concept of forever, but it is women like myself who need to be tied down with a polyester rope and triple knot. Download an Atmosphere song and you'll find an army of women possessing the gene. Who knows where we will run if we have no saddle.

To all the men in my life- will you marry me?

Please contact my secretary. She will direct you to the right department if your answer should be yes.

If we should fail, and find ourselves in misery rather than bliss, then a divorce can be arranged. My best friend has assured me that there is no man who could live a forever with me. Have I mentioned that I do not believe in the institution of marriage? I should have said that pre-rant. Marriage, Divorce, and the Earth will continue to orbit the sun.

Starter marriage anyone?

"With a smile that's stitched to the fabric of bedtime tales to keep the kids out the attic"

P.S. I love my boyfriend

Heat Induced Cleaning

A Incomplete Description of an Ex
The story of a 1963 Mustang

Disclaimer: I will offend the past men in my life with this blog. I pray they do not waste their time reading the words.

Ex: one that formerly held a specified position or place

Boyfriend: 2: a frequent lover or regular male companion of a girl or woman.

Marissa's ex-boyfriend: a male lover that once held the seat next to her on the throne.

Break up: 1 a : to cease to exist as a unified whole; b: to end a romance

But I prefer - 4 a : to break into pieces in scrapping and salvaging- it is the best way to describe what happens to me post-break up. I fall into small parts for distribution to the next men in my life. I am stripped of my parts, and sold at auction. I cannot give be original 1963 Mustang for him.

I have had three "proper" ex-boyfriends. The rest were practice and re-bound. And because I believe each of them deserves whatever the truth might bring, I will not be changing names.

Chris: My first "love."

I was 14 and he was 17. All he wanted was to protect me from his ways, and I all I wanted was to prove myself to him. He left for the Navy at 18, and I first learned what it was to fall apart. We never fully resumed our relationship again. I spent the rest of my years in his life taking shots at his pride. He spent the time arguing with his feelings, and trying to save me from whatever was hurting. Our nights as ex-relationship friends were made of debates at to which one of us was the most fucked up. He is now in a relationship with a girl less complicated than I. They are pregnant.

AJ: My high school "sweetheart."

I fell into lust while he ridiculed my middle name in freshman Spanish class. I returned the next year with straight teeth, great breasts, and long hair. He wanted me to be his girlfriend. Our relationship was the classic jock meets nerd. He made me popular and earned me the title of prom queen. He was the track star, and I was the identity crisis ridden teen attempting to discover her identity through black nail polish and converse. My high school days were filled with my attempts at being what he wanted. I learned low self-esteem and jealousy from him. He cheated on me with a girl with thighs the size of my waist. I cheated on him with my future boyfriend.

AJ- All those days I left newspaper early..remember that? I was on I70 hip hop blaring through the speakers of my blue Isuzu Rodeo. My destination you asked? Brian's house. I will not apologize for being a scorned 17 year old female. We gave each other what the other deserved.

I gave too much, and he took what he could. I learned that I could never be enough for a boy. I told him I loved him, and we dreamed of a future of marriage and kids. We never meant any of those hopes. All I have left of him is a drunken photo capturing one of the few loving moments we shared. Our friendship lasted the first few years after high school. Once my naivety matured into wisdom I discovered he did not really want to be my friend, but was only waiting for the night when I had too much to drink and suddenly remembered that I did want him. The last I heard of him was that he is gay. I suppose I didn't have those great breasts after all.

Brian: The "out of my league"

The boy that will always be too good for me. He was what I thought I could never have. I was 15 when I first met him, but 17 before he found me worthy of his time. He was the superstar, and I was the average girl who got lucky. I was the stepping ladder girlfriend, the one before the articles, the prize money, and the European tours. I pitched him against his good friend, and I played the game only a female with a thread of self-esteem could. When I had done my worse to him he discovered something in me that he had not seen before. He taught me that men do want the bitch, and that contrary to popular belief nice girls can finish last. In a repeat of the previous I spent my time perfecting what I thought he wanted. I learned anxiety and stress. I learned how to lose the upper hand. I learned that I could never be enough for a man. He cheated on me with a resident of Detroit, and I cheated on him with an unknown.

Brian- If you are reading this I am sorry. I am not what you thought I was. I looked the fool, but I never played the part.

All that was left of the pre-adolescense rope of self-esteem knotted beyond repair when he unexpectedly terminated our union. I spent the first years of our post-relationship friendship with the impression that if I could only look more beautiful he would realize that I was not average. England and my current boyfriend showed me this was not the way. This is the only ex with whom I still have what only loosely resembles a friendship. He is bigger and better than he was with me. He cannot keep a girlfriend, but he lives the charmed life that will always keep me jealous of him.

Some of you may know that after three years of flings and loneliness I have found not only a boyfriend, but a companion. He may one day be my ex-companion, but I believe that it is a far cry from being the ex-boyfriend.

My current boyfriend (name withheld to preserve excellence):
We are still in our learning process. However I can say that I have learned to be genuine with my feelings. He is teaching me the chords for love.

Companion- If you are reading this, thank you.

In conclusion, I say may all know the pain of heartache.

This is my apology to all those bridges I burned. I have come far from my days as the village bridge burner. I am on the mend.

I am a salvaged 1963 Mustang with a welder for a boyfriend.

"The first time I met the devil was at a Motel 6 she left hell to spend the weekend on Earth just for kicks"

Demons

Confessions of a Scalawag

"A few years ago an ex-girl of mine asked me to keep her name out of my rhymes"

Names have and will be changed in this blog to protect the excellence of those mentioned, or lack thereof.

I have just read a blog titled Myspace Won't Make You Famous. Click on this here for those curious types. I mean not to insult by the following sentence, I only want to spread the seed of my opinion. I'm not sure how she managed to collect a fan base of such a great multitude, but in the same breathe I admit that I too read her blogs. I want, in a response to this blog, to say that I don't believe Myspace will make me famous. I wish it would, but I am dumb, not a rock. I write my blog because it keeps me sane, and I have no desire to see the inside of four padded walls. I can admit that it would be easier to keep a pink journal under my mattress, but I derive a sort of pleasure from knowing others are reading my words. I am after all only a product of the egoistical nature of humankind. If I could have my way I would be a genetically engineered cross between Tila Tequila and Perez Hilton. I would be the union of all that is internet whoredom. Now let the first ever Confessions of a Scalawag begin.

Side note: Could someone please explain when I use italics, and when I use quotations for literary titles? Wait....are blogs literary titles?

The Demons Within

This is my first confession to you. I have a set of demon twins that live inside the cupboard that is my mind. They are a sadistic pair, balanced in their ability to inflict what I avoid. They are the protectors of all that is evil, doubt, paranoia, self- doubt, and envy. Like masters to a slave they drive me to write. If I ever become the journalist/novelist/screenwriter I so desire to be, I will only have the twins to thank. They made me write this blog, on pain of a night of over-analyzing and anxiety if I should refuse.

I watched the film "Definitely Maybe." Shit. Do I use quotations or italics, or neither? I need to begin a twisted affair with an English professor. It is a shame I love my boyfriend far too much for such a relationship to exist.

I also watched Penelope. Only those who have seen this film will understand to what it is I will now refer. For those who have not, well, my apologies. As I sat watching the 48 inch flat screen television on the back of the leather backed plane seat, I thought maybe I have a nose like Penelope. Sven (my boyfriend) plays my love interest that does not seem to care that I have a nose resembling that of a pig. In the film, the main character named Penelope (shock) is blown back by a gust of wind from an unknown origin, and pronto, a new nose appears! If only winds with unknown origins would appear in Denver. Instead I will have to spend upwards of $4,000 to replace the winds with the knife.

“Definitely Maybe” was a terrible idea on my part, even more so than the comparison of my nose with the one of Penelope. I knew this as I scrolled through the films. I skipped over it numerous times, intentionally trying to conceal its existence from the twins, but then the twins awoke from their drunken slumber. They were hungver and angry. Against my will I selected Definitely Maybe. As soon as it began my doubt stepped up to the plate. I had seen the previews for this film, and I sat watching with the frown of foreshadow. I began to doubt the possibility of committed relationships as the first scene ended. I lost faith in my belief that the ambitious can be in love. I wondered if there could ever exist a successful, genuinely happy, and in love couple. I dismissed the concept of mutual love, and affirmed my belief that I would always love Sven more than he will me.

At the conclusion of the film….Wait, let us begin again. After I exited the film after only the first thirty minutes, I sat in a stupor while the twins rolled on the floor with laughter. I called a meeting with the two. "I want to find the right person," I pleaded. I tried to tell them I had, but they shook their heads and reminded me that they would never allow this. I sat in the chair before the royal pair sat upon their throne. My eyes remained downcast as they dished out their royal decree.

Twins: There is too much temptation in the world for monogamy.

Marissa: But-

Twins: You will forever be torn between wanting the permanence of marriage, and abhorring the very thought of it.

Marissa: That's not fair-

Twins: You will fear that your happiness will fail, your husband will leave you, and you will forever debate you preference to live a life of loneliness.

Marissa: Wait-

Twins: We curse you with the fear of the inevitable end, and worse, that you and your partner will only be "comfortable."

Marissa: (sigh) alright

P.S. Gas is $3.82. I'm taking the bus.

"Welcome to the Jungle"

Heartbreak Airlines

Pre-script: This is the last Cheeky Wanderer blog.

It took every inch in the heels of my red cowboy boots not to turn back and jump on the next train out of the station. I wanted to flee from the dimming lights of the emergency exit. I wanted to run down the airstrip in my red cowboy boots screaming, my arms flailing widly. I closed my eyes and wished to be the sexy 20-something star in the film watching as my hunky co-star pushes through the wall of flight attendants crying for me not to leave.

I dived into the pool of short-term memory as I willed my feet through the airport, swimming through my last goodbye. My mind told me that we cannot have a repeat of the train station; the scene of my tearful goodbye. I gave the middle aged women on the train something to believe. I gave them first row seats to a tissue filled with snot and running mascara. I left the evidence of this scene in the train bin, although, I did for a moment consider reaching in to take it back for my soon to be made Brighton box. He watched as I walked to my train, he even watched as the service minded train station employee helped me with my two ton luggage. I craned my neck out of the train doors under the threat of decapitation, but I could not see the blonde dreads of my darling Englishman. I swallowed the rising lump in my throat as my mind drifted back to the train station. I began to dissect the final goodbye; wishing I had said one more word or hugged him in a better way. I recalled as we said our goodbyes how I wanted it to end and allow the hovering pain to envelop me. I wanted to begin my descent into misery, I cried for the uphill creep to the drop on the rollercoaster to just get on with it. But then as I crossed the metal bars at the threshold, I wanted one more look, and one more touch. I wanted to turn back.

Despite warnings from both the well wishers and the naysayers alike, I told my boyfriend I loved him...because I do. My reasoning was as such:

I looked around my Sussex campus and thought to myself, no, this is not it.

I walked around Brighton, and I thought to myself, no, this is not it.

I strolled down to the seafront and watched the British wind whip up the waves, and I thought to myself, no, this is just not it.

Then in the early morning of the day before my departure when the sky was just waking up, I turned to my sleeping boyfriend, his eyes decidedly closed in some grand dream, his arms curled around the pillow, and I thought to myself, yes, this is it. You are what I will miss.

This blog is without a doubt the offspring of my despair over having to leave my boyfriend who only the night before did I muster the courage to tell him I loved him. For once I will not apologize for the extra cheese. My fist-size heart is beating slower, and the resident butterflies in my tummy have fallen silent. I am aware that this a "blog," and not a diary, but I ask that the word blog be defined for me.

Blog: an online diary; a personal chronological log of thoughts published on a Web page; also called Weblog, Web log

(Thank you dictionary.com)

Turns out a blog is by its very definition a diary, an "online diary" to be exact. The Cheeky Wanderer, and the now Confessions of a Scalawag, are 1/4 of my therapy, and I am asserting my ideas of socialist medicine, and demanding my right to free treatment.

Now that I have provided a sufficient excuse for the emotional state of this blog I shall continue.

I bought a granola yoghurt to munch in the possibility that my hunger might trump my heartbreak. It was the Gatwick twin of the kind at my old local Sainsburys (tears). I didn't open it for several hours for fear that I would begin to cry, that the flight attendant might take it away, or worse, make me share. I wondered how I could leave the place that gave my Ryan. I desperately wanted to tell the woman sitting to my right about him, and my recent declaration of love, but she had her husband with her. I only had envy to comfort me. The plane taxied slowly, and I am overwhelmed with regret. Forgive me friends and family, but as I sat slumped in my plane seat, head leaned against the window, he was all I could think about. I wanted to be alone to allow myself to have a good and proper cry, but I could not afford first class. I did not want a repeat of the train ride. The proximity to which I sat near the woman was too close for snot and mascara tissues.

The plane engines fired, the vibrations began to spread through the soles of my feet. The purr of the metal machine grew, and I debate abandoning my plans to return home. This was not merely an idea to dangle, but a serious urge of the Id my Ego struggled to contain. I silently screamed hurry before I give in to my desires of exit. Then she began to move, slowly at first, and I could feel the tears rising. I fought them back as I had just dried and re-applied makeup to my stained cheeks. I began to wish I had purchased a box of potent sleeping pills.

I whispered goodbye and I love you to the background on my phone, and prayed no one heard and thought me mental. And then the plane took off, and I knew I was gone.

I watched until I could no longer see the green patchwork quilt of England, and I was amongst the English clouds filled to the edges with their rain. My temperature begin to drop. It is possible it was the freezing air blowing in my face from above, but I think it was my body missing the warmth of my hairy boyfriend. I could only find a blanket covered in the fuzz of uncertainty to cover my rapidly cooling shoulders.

The plane was littered with signs of Ryan. The crossword puzzle we had done in Menorca, the Manchester dot on the map of England on my personal tv screen, Princess Bride as a film option. I hoped, and still hope, as I write the account of my heartbreak flight, that they are signs of the positive. I needed distraction, and so I turned to Penelope to see if there was any consolation to be found in Christina Ricci.

I sit here on the day after my departure, and I know that the lump has taken up permanent residence in my throat. The parasite of heartache has found its new home, but I ask of him not to leave, but to promise to take holidays every now and again.

*All events described actually happened*

"But there's one woman in the back left corner who looks like she could really use the support."

I like calories because they taste so good (photos included)

Yes, I do. I am sure that one day the calories (the tortoise) will catch up with me (the hare) in the race. In fact, if you can keep a secret I will tell you...that they already have. Although, I do ask that you keep quiet about this as I have an image to maintain.

As you can see from the photo on your left I am joined by an official Brighton pier donught. A donught that has, by putting in the extra calories, earned the title of the finest donught I have ever put between my pearly whites. This donught is a euphoric blend of deep fried pastry (part of the bad white startch category) and a sugar glaze. We had the option of six, but we opted for three. My end of the deal was to eat 1 and 1/2, and it gives me great pride to say that I successfully kept up my end. If you look closely you can see the sugar crystals of gluttony falling down my shirt.

I assure you that I will be sampling Krispy Kremes when I return in search of an equal to my Brighton taste bud friend.

I want to now introduce you all to my upcoming blog, to make its debut on the 25th of June, or when the jetlag ceases. I must put away the cheeky wanderer as I make my 11+ journey back to the US. The Brighton chapter in my novel is coming to its end (to return again later), and it is time for a page turn.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
Please turn your attention to:

The Confessions of A Scalawag
By the penname impaired Marissa Mills

This new and slightly improved blog will not, as its name may suggest, discuss strictly mischevious doings. However, it will on occasion dabble in the rogued. It is the struggle of a vagabond for permanance, and her thoughts along the way.

To prepare, rack your brain for witty comments, and comb your black book for those who can take me to the top. I will use this blog as a means to an end.

And because photography never made me famous...

Do you like what I have done with the garden? (said in my posh voice)

I'm funding reseach for wind resistant hair.

I converted my boyfriend to Skim milk and whole wheat pasta.

I say so long, farewell
Auf Wiedersehen, adieu.

Tomorrow: inbetween packing and moaning, and before farewell booze, there will be the last cheeky wanderer blog.

x

Goo

No blog today my friends. I'm taking the day off to spend time with Brighton before I must take my leave from her.

However, in honor of my fine friend I will leave you with my favorite English advert. Goo!

xxx

Cadbury Twisted

A Post-Gig Discussion

In my efforts to mirror Homer I sit on a sofa with the residue of last night's makeup and fake tan; my poor attempt at a bouffant crushed by the pillow. From this last sentence one (meaning you) can infer that I did not muster the energy to take off my makeup at the conclusion of last night. That is unusual for me if you were to ask Ryan. According to him, each night I engage in a twenty minute routine to take off "all of that shit" as he would say. I currently smell like a mixture of Garnier Ambre Solaire Original, although my oompa loompa appearance would suggest that I should have gone for light, and sweat. Ryan's room is now a hazard zone, and I am under strict orders to light incense in five minute intervals. I have on my autographed Atmosphere shirt, and yes you did read that right, but more on that later. I'm sipping a glass of orange/mango/passion fruit juice (minus the Rum) to try and combat the hangover I managed to get after only three drinks.

Please hold our next available representative will be with you shortly
(Tacky music playing in background)

I had to wash my hair and face. I will sort out my so called "bronzed" body later. My OCD could not manage the sight of my hair and face any longer. On a sidenote, I believe in the future I should live in a house with no mirrors. It might help me to resolve my vanity.

Attention: If this blog is confusing, it is because you did not remember that I went to the Atmosphere/Brother Ali show last night. Now that we have clarified how my current state could have come about, we can continue.

After much anticipation, and a drink to calm my jitters, Ryan and I set out for the venue. Once inside the dimly light pseudo-basement I stood in awe of how close I would be to the stage. I haven't seen Atmosphere in a small venue since The Fox six years ago, and this was a step even closer to the intimacy for which all fans hunger. We bought two beers and took a seat. I analyzed all of the so called "English hip hoppers" and looked for discrepancies. The crowd was two parts hippie, and one part amateur.

All was as it should be until.....

As I sat next to Ryan sipping my £3.45 Fosters, I spotted a dark haired figure perched near the exit. He wore close cut hair and a non-descript sweater. I was sure that this figure was only another fan, but when I glanced back the figure had moved to the merch table grasping a sharpie in his right hand. I knew it was him. After much debate and encouragement from Ryan I decided to buy a shirt and get his John Hancock. I had my doubt that this character was in fact Slug, but when I stood in front of the table all doubt fell away. Here sat Slug, one half of Atmosphere, selling his own merch. I could feel the heat rise up from my stomach to my neck coloring my cheeks. I stumbled over my words when trying to choose a t-shirt. He looked annoyed and tired. I stupidly chose black, and then realized that a black t-shirt and black sharpie do not make a visible combination. I could barely hear him over the opening act whose name I cannot recall. That should be an indicator of the impression they made. He signed my shirt Slug, with an exclamation for....effect? A feeling grabbed me as I walked from the table t-shirt in hand. It was hard to detect through the intense heat radiating from my face and neck. I suddenly thought that he didn't like me, that I had failed to meet his standards for a fan. I thought it might be the braid I had in my hair. I was trying for the noveau hippie look, the I smell like perfume not peyote look.

For once my relationship with the afterthought proved beneficial rather that its usual malevolence. On the walk home while venting to my patient boyfriend I drew five conclusions on my encounter with Slug.

They are as follows:

• It is never wise to meet your idol, for your imagination will always hold a better introduction than could ever become your reality.

• He is human, and subject to the same emotions as us average folk.

• What did I expect? There are ten faces identical to mine in each city he plays. Touring must come to resemble a film on replay where all the characters and all the scenes are stuck on repeat.

• Why did I want his autograph? Last I checked Slug looked like a boy I know a few states over.

• I refuse to ask for another autograph until my own is in demand.

A special thank you to Ryan for aiding me in the formulation of my five conclusions.

I'm wearing my autographed t-shirt despite warnings that the more often I do the more the signature will fade. I swear to hang it up for the rest of my days, that is after today. It will now forever smell of Garnier Ambre Solaire Original and dishwater.

In summary:

High points:
- seeing Brother Ali and Slug on stage together
- sharing hip hop with Ryan
- the amazing show the boys put on
- being in close proximity to my ex-idol (I don't have idols anymore)
- the opportunity to evaluate firsthand English hip hop heads
- hearing "woman with the tattooed hands"

Low points
- the drunk girl standing/falling next to me
- the drug dealer blocking my view to try and sell drugs to Brother Ali on stage (As if!)
- the sweat drenched boy who stood directly in front of me
- the sweat induced curls in my hair by the end of the night


For those ignorant individuals still remaining-

There is an unwritten and unspoken rule that dominates gigs. That is, do not step in front of another person and block the view they obviously worked hard to secure. If you should, then you shall receive both severe words, including insults of your dress and face, and a swift kick to the behind.

I have become alarmingly patriotic during my time in Brighton. I found myself ranting post-gig about how the English do not understand American hip hop, nor should they be allowed to experience "my" music. Before you speak against this please remember the American hip hop I am referring to is not the commercial rubbish you hear on MTV.

I would now like to apologize to the English for my hateful ranting. I'll have my boyfriend, America will have your troops, and you can have my music.

"When people hear good music, it makes them homesick for something they never had, and never will have"
Edward Watson Howe

Confessions of A Sinner

"It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution"
Geoffrey Chaucer

I am feeling guilty and unsure. These are not new states of mind for me, but today's dance is to a different tune. Today I have a tangible source for my guilt and uncertainty. I wrote an anti-Godblog blog, and the God blog people found me. They left comments (as you can all read), and while I was excited to finally have comments reassuring me that yes, some people do read my blog, I felt like I had committed a crime. A crime not only against these two women, but against Jesus Christ Himself. I, forever trying to appease and neutralize, left what I believe was a very polite response. I do not want to harbor these negative emotions any longer. I want to wash my hands of the guilt. I want to squeeze a dime size amount of anti-bacterial apology on my dirty hands, run them under the hot water of reason, sing Happy Birthday twice, and let that guilt run down the drain.

"On the right hand she had a tattoo of a nude girl
she claimed it was what God resembled
but on the left she had a mirrored image of the same female
and this one she explained look like the devil."

My religious teaching consisted of occasional Sunday school lessons, Catholic mass, and hip hop. I beg your forgiveness for my controversial questions of religion, but I still love my grandmother.

My Decision

Sailor Speak
I have no better words
so I use the bad ones instead
Like shit, fuck, bitch, and whore
and remove the censors in my head

As my attempt at a poem blatantly states (no inferring necessary), I have now removed the censorship on my blogs. I am sorry Nana, Randy, and all the others my new uncensored blog might offend. Please do unsubscribe if you are sensitive to such language. In addition to my use of coarse language when I, and I alone, see fit, the restraints will be lifted on the blog topics. In the past when writing, I would often refrain from posting blogs on certain subjects, or discussing certain matters. I did this for fear of upseting my grandmother or my boyfriend, amongst the many, but now I have taken a vow of free speech.

I just finished painting my toenails and reading Stephanie's blog titled "Fat Girls Can't Date."

I chose a french manicure because I am a classy girl.

*Please take note of the Jack Daniels card case in my nail salon.*

I realized that while I have the patience for a homemade french manicure, I do not have it for reading Myspace blogs. Apparently I'm not up on the blog trends of the time. My blog trend ignorance is like my fashion faux pau with the Minolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos. I just do not have the energy to know certain things, blog trends and shoe names included. Although, it would probably be beneficial for me to know blog trends as it might just tip me over into the quadruple digits. I have just refreshed my Myspace page (a sure sign of obsession) and my post count is at 999. Blogdom here I come. I officially have 4 readers. Thank you Steelsy.

I do have a plan for this blog other than my toenails and dreams of blog fame. I offer to you my argument for why insecure and envious women such as myself should delete their Myspace/Facebook accounts. Insecure and envious characteristics are often paired with another; crazy. For this reason I say women possessing these first characteristics in their extreme forms should be barred from accessing their accounts. All this I spoke of anti-censorship, and yet I suggest the censorship of Myspace and Facebook. To underscore my point Mr. Legislator I present the story of Marie.

Marie is insecure. She has always been envious of women more attractive than she. Marie, after much influence by her peers, acquired both Myspace and Facebook acounts. Everyday she surfed the wide world of Myspace and Facebook, admiring her friends, and even complete strangers who she found more beautiful than she, or so she thought. What Marie didn't realize is that there is a program called photoshop. Marie is not Marissa. It became an obsession to stare at the social network beautiful. Each evening when Marie's boyfriend came home she yelled at him for reasons she couldn't quite place, but soon after she tells him that he has too many female friends on his page. She demanded him to explain the meaning behind their comments. The arguments became more frequent. Marie became a Myspace fiend, even waking in the middle of the night to "lurk" her friends, friends of friends, and even friends of friends of friends. She awoke each morning with a frown and the bags of sleepless nights under her eyes. Marie's boyfriend tired of her accusations and mood swings. He eventually left her, but she remained long after he had gone. You see Senator, Marie still sits in the dark room illuminated by the computer screen where she continues to scroll through the pages of her social network. (This last sentence would be said with a pleading look that only my large bug eyes could produce)

I hope that my public service message has been heard, and that the correct political figures will begin the necessary process to place a censorship on these social network websites.
Thank you Mr. Legislator, and do call me if you are looking for an intern affair to make me famous.

I believe most will notice that there are some similarities between Marie and I.

I need to delete my accounts.

Until the sands of the hourglass empty,
Ciao

God blog

After writing yesterday's blog I emerged from what suddenly seemed to be a very dark room into the full force of English sunshine. The cheesiness I hadn't realized when writing yesterday's blog began to creep its way into the corners of my mind spreading like the bubonic plague. I have a twisted relationship with the afterthought. I never finish anything feeling it was done right, the voice in my head never says well done Marissa that was superb. Yesterday was no exception. I decided to redeem myself, and kill the afterthought. I am writing yet another blog, but (hopefully) without the cheese flavoring.

Disclaimer: For those who read the blogs I will mention and slightly ridicule, or for those who will inevitably take offense to this blog I apologize. It is not my intention to offend, least of all Jesus Christ, it is only to rant. I do fear for my soul by posting this, but do know that I have never considered myself an athiest, merely a skeptic incapable of commiting to blind faith.

(Clears throat)

My friends I am scared, but it resembles petrified far more. I had a frightful experience this morning when I checked, as has become my daily routine, the Myspace top ten blogs. For the sake of your safety and my legal fees, I pray that you are seated.

Behold these words of the top Myspace blogs:

#6 Posted by Pastor Howie Is Magnifying Jesus Christ
#8 Posted by Sharp Girl Is Magnifying Jesus Christ
#10 Posted by Mary Supports; Is Magnifying Jesus Christ
#12 Posted by Princess Paula Is Magnifying Jesus Christ
#13 Posted by I Am the Way Ministries Is Magnifying Jesus Christ

Yes, there is a pattern, and an alarming one indeed. I have put the pattern in bold in case there are those who are as thick and dense as I. For us dense folk, bold works wonders. This "pattern" continues for longer than I want to type, to admit. In total there are 24 members in the Magnifying Jesus Christ "group," and I use the word group as loosely as possible. I begin to think that I may have actually stumbled upon a Jesus Christ cult, and so I investigate. Turns out I have, that is, at least in some respects. I will quote Princess Paula in her blog "Why "Magnifying Jesus" is in my name this week."

"We're magnifying Jesus Christ! We hope to be a blessing to our readers with blogs that will encourage, entertain and inspire the reader to be all God has for them to be!"

At this point the blog is tame, even pulling at my cheese strings, but then, after the computer froze and I managed to regain control of the mouse, I scroll down and read:

"We hope to reach the Top Ranks within the MySpace "Religion and Philosophy" section, and with your help.....we believe we can!"

Why? Since when did believing in Jesus become a popularity contest? And then I recall, always. I believe they are called missionaries. The whole my Jesus Christ is the best act- now come and join my church. With the birth of myspace missionaries now have high-speed conversion. If the Is Magnifying Jesus Christ cult should reach the top, Christianity will have succeeded in exerting its religious superiority. I imagine the Is Magnifying Jesus Christ team isn't getting many Jewish readers.

Thus I christen this blogenomenon the "God blog." The God blog is now in competition with The Jonas Brothers and Lily Allen, and we all now the ending. Jesus Christ is very popular, and he will on every occasion supercede fame. I think I am becoming a believer.

Blasphemy? I hope not.

I do not understand why I fear discussions of God. I suppose I fear the wrath that will befall me f I should verbalize my uncertainty, or worse the possibility that there is no.... No I won't say it.

Father forgive me for I have sinned. If I go to hell for this blog at least I'll be joined by the Beatles. Apparently The Beatles are not bigger than Jesus.

Dear Jesus Christ/God/Our Heavenly Father,

I still believe.
Just not in God blogs.

Love,
Marissa from Denver

P.S. If you are ufamiliar with Myspace top blogs this blog will not contain its full affect.

Tsk tsk.. Get with the blog times!

!!