But then I came to visit my relations in the land of the human race.
I encountered a dilemma while on a visit to the home of my human parents. Why is it that when a previously single female gets a boyfriend her male "friends" are looking for the lifeboats; that, or throwing rolls of slander up in her trees? I will admit that my future seemed to point to a life of cats and moth balls. Tears were wept over the possibility that I was a closet lesbian. That fateful day when I received my feminine charms my place in the hierarchy of sexuality was secured. The decision to embark into the dark forest of bestiality (often misspelled as beastiality) frightened my two-legged parents, but I left for the jungle a heterosexual female with their blessing.
I am in the process of losing a good handful of my male sidekicks. The men in my life seem shocked to learn that I, Marissa Mills, could actually maintain an intimate male-female relationship. My track record does not point to longevity as a strong point, but I find myself offended at their disbelief. What have I become -- the Virgin Mary? It is well known that I am not a virgin – Immaculate Conception is not possible in my womb. It was once said by a now deceased great-uncle that I possess the face of a child, and that my life would be filled with men who either want to fuck me or take on a paternal role. It is more often the latter.
I will assert my title as a woman capable of independence with these three facts:
1. I had my period when I was 13.
2. I frequently wear a bra.
3. "All the women who independent throw your hands up at me" (Thanks Beyonce)
Tired from my all too human dilemma – wishing we could all just mate -- I ventured outside with a borrowed camera. Photography is trendy. Only those who are vegetarian, who recycle, listen to Indie music, and ride a Vespa can practice the art of photography. I don't do any of those things, but I thought I would be more popular if I could add photographer to my growing list of useless titles. I brought a bag full of props with me -- a Washington apple, blanket, and glass of lemonade. Nature is beautiful (or so they say). I asked her to be my subject and she sent the fiery heat in reply. I determined after much clicking that nature is not photogenic through my lens. I spread out on the Jose mowed grass to close my eyes and dream of being Maxim hot. Much to my disappointment, my photos didn't resemble those on Myspace. I took a bite of my apple, placed it on the grass, and attempted to capture a message/feeling/stand through a half eaten Washington apple. The bite mark would be my version of an artist's signature. Post-death my work could be identified by my dental records. Yes, this was my logic.
Fifteen minutes had passed -- I found myself bored and uninspired. I took three more bites out of my subject and watched a rolly polly walk across the rocks. I peeked over the fence in search of my girl-crush, she was not to be found; I wondered which animal she was shacking up with. The hours passed with photos of my toes; of the rolly polly walking across my calf. The heat began to crawl up my legs, I glared down at her, cursed the sky for sending its summer heat, and gathered my props. Bidding farewell to my insect friend I retreated to the air-conditioned cool of my house.
The lesson to be learned:
If you desire to be an accomplished photographer – recycle, purchase a Vespa, join ranks with Peta, and listen to Indie music.
It is better than another morning drive past the strip club.
I apologize for my animal references. I watched The Pan's Labyrinth late last night.
I encountered a dilemma while on a visit to the home of my human parents. Why is it that when a previously single female gets a boyfriend her male "friends" are looking for the lifeboats; that, or throwing rolls of slander up in her trees? I will admit that my future seemed to point to a life of cats and moth balls. Tears were wept over the possibility that I was a closet lesbian. That fateful day when I received my feminine charms my place in the hierarchy of sexuality was secured. The decision to embark into the dark forest of bestiality (often misspelled as beastiality) frightened my two-legged parents, but I left for the jungle a heterosexual female with their blessing.
I am in the process of losing a good handful of my male sidekicks. The men in my life seem shocked to learn that I, Marissa Mills, could actually maintain an intimate male-female relationship. My track record does not point to longevity as a strong point, but I find myself offended at their disbelief. What have I become -- the Virgin Mary? It is well known that I am not a virgin – Immaculate Conception is not possible in my womb. It was once said by a now deceased great-uncle that I possess the face of a child, and that my life would be filled with men who either want to fuck me or take on a paternal role. It is more often the latter.
I will assert my title as a woman capable of independence with these three facts:
1. I had my period when I was 13.
2. I frequently wear a bra.
3. "All the women who independent throw your hands up at me" (Thanks Beyonce)
Tired from my all too human dilemma – wishing we could all just mate -- I ventured outside with a borrowed camera. Photography is trendy. Only those who are vegetarian, who recycle, listen to Indie music, and ride a Vespa can practice the art of photography. I don't do any of those things, but I thought I would be more popular if I could add photographer to my growing list of useless titles. I brought a bag full of props with me -- a Washington apple, blanket, and glass of lemonade. Nature is beautiful (or so they say). I asked her to be my subject and she sent the fiery heat in reply. I determined after much clicking that nature is not photogenic through my lens. I spread out on the Jose mowed grass to close my eyes and dream of being Maxim hot. Much to my disappointment, my photos didn't resemble those on Myspace. I took a bite of my apple, placed it on the grass, and attempted to capture a message/feeling/stand through a half eaten Washington apple. The bite mark would be my version of an artist's signature. Post-death my work could be identified by my dental records. Yes, this was my logic.
Fifteen minutes had passed -- I found myself bored and uninspired. I took three more bites out of my subject and watched a rolly polly walk across the rocks. I peeked over the fence in search of my girl-crush, she was not to be found; I wondered which animal she was shacking up with. The hours passed with photos of my toes; of the rolly polly walking across my calf. The heat began to crawl up my legs, I glared down at her, cursed the sky for sending its summer heat, and gathered my props. Bidding farewell to my insect friend I retreated to the air-conditioned cool of my house.
The lesson to be learned:
If you desire to be an accomplished photographer – recycle, purchase a Vespa, join ranks with Peta, and listen to Indie music.
It is better than another morning drive past the strip club.
I apologize for my animal references. I watched The Pan's Labyrinth late last night.
"I wanna taste you one more time again."
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