Why I Love Skirts and Godzilla

As a child, I was a tomboy. My sister gets pink, I get blue. She wears the dresses, I wore the pants. She got the Barbie, I got Godzilla. Years later, I have a make-up kit I find more important than my phone, an obsession for shades, a closet full of skirts, and a Godzilla toy.

Let me count the ways I love skirts and Godzilla:

1. With skirts, you never need to worry about leaving your fly open whenever you go to the ladies room.
2. Godzilla is way cooler than any other dinosaurs on TV, I mean, who are the kids  watching nowadays Barney? Bah!
3. Skirts get you freebies. Yes, we have an idea how the male brain works sometimes
4. Godzilla can scare off other city invading creatures and eat all the people he likes, for free!
5. Skirts make you look taller.
6. Godzilla makes King Kong look like a drummer chimpanzee.
7. There are repetitive mention of skirts in cool songs, digs?
8. Godzilla is educational. He was originally an allegory for the nuclear devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. See, toys and television can teach you a lot too.

One of the Dirtiest Songs I Have Ever Heard

“Kiss Me Where It Smells Funny”

By The Blood Hound Gang

You came twice last year like a Sears catalog,
Cause your last boyfriend makes love like Boss Hogg,
Well now you’re seeing me but soon I’ll have you seeing God,
Cause girl I’ll get you panting like you’re Pavlov’s dog,
Like a DC-10: guaranteed to go down,
But baby your black box is the one that I found,
I’ll give you the gift that keeps on givin’ it won’t cost you any money,
Then she grabbed me by the ears and said kiss me where it smells funny.

So down I go like I’m 2000 Flushes,
I can tell I’m doing something right by the way that she blushes,
She’s one that’s speechless, I’m the one that’s tongue tied,
She’s thinking holy mackerel I’m thinking tuna on the side,
There must be something wrong with Al Pacino’s nose,
Cause the scent of a woman is like rotten tomatoes,
Yeah I’m snorkeling for clams and it doesn’t matter if I wanna be,
Don’t come up for air until you kiss me where it smells funny.

Drop my face below her waist and stay on third base,
I can tell that the cherry’s ripe by the way it tastes,
Yeah I could make a lot of wine with the yeast I find inside her panties,
And then drink it while eating out down at the Seafood Shanty,
Drop my face below her waist and stay on third base,
I can tell that the cherry’s ripe by the way it tastes,
Yeah I could make a lot of wine with the yeast I find inside her panties,
And then drink it while eating out down at the Seafood Shanty.

Girl Crushes

I pay my tribute to girl crushes and girl talks, girl talks meaning talking about girl stuff, and talking about hot girls per se. Plus, some long long ago stuff.

“Bullets”

Come fly down, like a singing bird
Sings your name, I am still the same,
Black and white, no you’re not to blame,
Holly sweet…put me down to shame…

Lights in the car in the park,
I’m falling on my face I know who we are…
And I ain’t looking down for the rest of the night
A bullet in my head ended late last night…

Jack and coke, please take off your coat,
Come and smile, please stay here a while,
Come and dance, shuffle with a glance,
When you’re gone, bring in for the dawn…

She’s shaking in the car with the gun in her hands,
Falling over love and a sweet romance,
And I ain’t never thought it could come down to this,
A bullet in my head, with the sweetest kiss…it’s in my head

It’s in my head
My head
I know

She’s shaking in the car with the gun in her hands,
Falling over love and a sweet romance,
And I ain’t never thought it could come down to this,
A bullet in my head
My head
My head

It’s in my head
It’s in my head
Now it’s in my head
It’s in my head
Now it’s in my head

“My Favorite Accident”

I got the message long before you said you knew
There was no chance of us at all
With no velocity and empty-headed hard and far-too-long
I spent two years alone with you
Just when I thought I had forgotten
You came back soft without a sound

You said we were an accident
With accidents you’ll never know what could have been
So we were an accident
You’ll always be my favorite one

You hit the road and left me an ocean
I can’t swim in the silence of your skin-skin please let me in
Side the times we never had right
Inside two years alone with you

You said we were an accident
With accidents you’ll never know what could have been
So we were an accident
You’ll always be my favorite one

We could have been (We could have been again)
Instead of accidental running always running (why can’t you believe)
We could have been (We could have been again)

Long winded promises of future company
Up close the sound remains the same
Without the reign of terror over every momentary change
We are exactly as before

You hit the road and left me an ocean
I can’t swim in the silence of your skin-skin please let me in
Side the time I had to forget you
Inside no chance of us at all

“Suspension”

Lately I’m alright
and lately I’m not scared
I’ve figured out,
that what you do to me feels like
I’m floating on air.
I don’t need to know right now
all I know is I believe
in the very thing that got us here
and now I can’t leave.

Say anything, but say what you mean,
cause I’m caught in suspension.

Now,
I’m wanting this for sure
and I’ll beg for nothing more.
I’ll plan all day and drive all night
you’ll love what’s in store.
I can’t seem to stop this now
even if it’s not so clear,
and I’ll take what I can get.
If you want me here (If you want me here)

Say anything, but say what you mean.
When you whisper you want this
your eyes tell the same.
We are gaining speed
I can barely breathe.
Cause I’m caught in suspension.

It’s enough for me to get excited,
It’s enough for me to feel…Oh!

Say anything, but say what you mean.
When you whisper you want this.
Your eyes tell the same.
We are gaining speed (suspension)
I can barely breathe (Oh, please say what you mean)
I’m caught in suspension (suspension)
I’m caught in suspension.

Say (say) anything (suspension)
but say what you mean (Oh, please say what you mean)
I’m caught in suspension (suspension)
I’m caught in suspension.
We are gaining speed (suspension)
I can barely breathe (Oh, I can barely breathe)
I’m caught in suspension (suspension)
I’m caught in suspension.

Say (say) anything (suspension)
but say what you mean (Oh, I can barely breathe)
I’m caught in suspension.

Kidnap by Alcohol, My Version of Romeo and Juliet

A bar named after a local fruit, two bottles of beer, an ambush from a friend, and some emo cries to match an emo haircut is the newest version of Romeo and Juliet.

The friend ambushes for me to take pictures of emo sepia tone to match the emo bangs, with blue guitar on the side, and a few bottles more, I take the pics. To be viewed by her friends later, which turned out to be good, either from the excellent bar lighting, or from the shaking of my hand, holding her cam phone. And it plays,

Behold this night, still and clear
You look here just like an angel sleeping
I wish I could ease your fears
I would catch the diamond tears you’re weeping
In your eyes I would hide
By your side I could defy
The forces tearing us apart
But reality, as it seems
Looking back, is that our dream
Was fated from the start

Forever true
I’ll see you through

The boyfriend, holding your hand, asking you if you remember, that night, that night with that song. The warm air gives your neurons a slower passage to the brain, and you just don’t remember. He sulks back, and won’t accept the excuses, which makes sense.

Another dream-like evening, and I remember different angles of Red Horse, and a new found love for D-Bar.

Jimmy Hendrix and The Beatles

You ask for it again. Keep on telling me how easy it is for me to do it.

Just send me the mail when you finish it, you say.

I try to think of another you might like, in the car, on the bed, on the sink, the school or my house, anything to get you jealous, whatever gets you off. Flashes of men from the past go into my head, faint details of tastes and feels, but not as clearly as that one. That time when I woke up with The Beatles and Led Zepplin under my head, the bed reeking of beer. That time when I woke up, initially lost, until I caught site of him, and the hit on my head.

You tell me you like listening to me talk about them, what I did, how I did it, the ex’s whose faces you somehow created. It makes you jealous, makes you want me more, thinking of what they did to me, in detail. You make me to tell you every aspect of it, every touch that landed on my skin… the sounds I made. I wonder if you would still want to hear about that single time, that single cheat. Would you want to know how it started, while you push your weight on me? Or would you rather read about it, in chapters, as we sometimes do through mail, to add to the thrill?

I found your fetish sick, I still do, but I give you what you want anyway. Even send you fake stories I took off the net. Just change a few nouns and pronouns here and there, and I’m done, to reap the benefits when we meet again. Lie and lie again, just to hear what words of jealousy you would breathe into my ear.

Which truth would you rather hear Ren? That I lied about how I did it in front of the computer, or that I cheated on you? Which would you find hotter?

You say you would die if you actually see someone touch me. Promise me the pleads would never go beyond stories you recreate in your head, but what about that? I close my eyes and see it all again. Rearrange the scenes to make it better.

I press control, a finger lightly planted on “n”, but I stop, and search the explorer instead. No, not that one, not ever. Story worthy. It has to be story worthy.

Kick Ass

Kick-ass red lipstick and perfume stained shirts
Locked in a battered luggage under the catholic square
Where the pink haired girl smiles and says
Get me another, another of ‘emtoys.

Lip Cuts and Coffee Burns

She had realized her lip tasted salty. She ran her tongue over the cut again, and found her mind floating around the tastes yet again, the different taste on her lower lip, which was not at all an accident. It was always soothing during her smoke, a taste to focus on while staring at the empty school in front, or faking a conversation with another. The unfinished smoking area was perfect for these times, empty, and flooding with different smells, the faint scent of old, long deserted buildings, paint from cans lying around, but mostly wood and smoke. It always got her thinking, what if she accidentally burned the entire building down. She did not look like much of an arsonist anyway, in fact, she did not look like much of anything, only sleepy all the time. And it was partially correct. She required very few hours of sleep, and thus, more hours in front of the TV, or at work, or with friends, or thinking about cuts and bruises in her body, or hopefully, actually in the act of making them.

Someone across the hall, going down the stairs, intently looked at her for a while, before waving and calling out her name. She waved back, or more accurately, waved them away. Now was not an ideal time for chit-chat, and besides, she was sure they wouldn’t go near her, for fear of seeing ghosts. There were stories about the office being haunted, and the lights in the area wasn’t installed yet. All the better, she thought. She never listened to accounts of their experiences, not did she care, she was too busy with the stories in her head to be bothered by shadows moving around. And it was quite amusing, fully-grown people going out of the office in packs, all because of that concern, a mere bang of the door given extra meaning. Fear of the dark was for people who had nothing to think of. Nothing troubling, nothing fun in their minds, with enough space for the darkness clad imagination to creep into. They never appeared in front of her, and she doubts she would notice them if they ever did. Here, as long as she had her cup of coffee, her cigarettes, and the frail sound of the music from the office inside, she was fine. God knows it was much better than hearing people talk to themselves in front of the computer, the worst part of that was the talk was not even worth listening to. One is allowed to talk to one’s self if it entertains eavesdroppers she thought. What use is talking to yourself if you can’t even hold your own attention? Would it be for the sake of the ultimate uninteresting conversationalist?

The band from the nearby bar-compound was beginning to play, and her cup was nearly empty. It was time to go in, and hopefully, come back outside for another cup and a few sticks.

Slow Hands

I was trained as a child, to sleep with my hands open. Mother always said women’s hands should always be delicate and smooth, with minimal lines and breaks as possible. Our family had a lot of oddities, and I guess it was this factor that created the bond. There were often fixations on things others would consider as vanity, or not even consider at all. It was that which I remembered when he went down the dark steps and sat down beside me. He handed me my coffee for the night. A routine used to enjoy, but not for tonight. Tonight had a tint looming on his face, especially when his attention moved to my hands.

I had the same flashes of pictures and sounds in my head, my hands on his face, fingers in his mouth, weight against my pressure, kisses hushing the sounds, silencing guilt, or composing one. Guilt after all, is a feeling we are compelled to suffer, requiring us to feel through varying textures in varying sins. Slow hands putting more weight on me, with a slower high, but not enough pressure to make me forget.

We sat apart. It had always been like this, always setting a certain distance between the two of us, even when drunk, and alone. We had always been aware of a paint-like thickness crawling in us. There had always been a daunting picture painted around these evenings, crafted and painted by too many eyes, and we had always been careful. That night was the only exception, and it would be very difficult to forget. The norm we had always followed were far too opposite from behind that door, and the slightest whisper in the ear was enough to set raise the pulse, and look elsewhere or crash closer. It had been unforgivably the latter.

His stare continued, mind outside the presence of the evening, and he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, touched his head near my hands, as if he sought to impress whatever virtue he saw in his mind. There was never a loss of virtue around, what with the constant reminders and unnecessary attention, and the only expected outcomes were raveled lies and buried intentions.

At the start of these nights, there was never any uneasiness, even with a clear awareness what the vice was leading to. The absence of the deed was enough to burn out the conscience for future probabilities, and the expectation of the insincerity of the deception, not colored by prejudices, was purely of an intellectual shade, and want.

“How often does she check on you? You might miss another call.” I looked down, checking the time.

“She already called my few minutes ago, before I went out. No worries.”

That was all that was said for the entire night; he just went on, drinking his coffee, twisting the ring around his finger, and just staring. This time, the thoughts inside was a total blank to me. The wife, the eyes, the office, that night or maybe remorse, any of those could be swimming in his head, and I had no intentions of asking. After all, that night was clearer than we would have wished. There was no alcohol, no convenient excuse. It was not one of those drunken nights where one did things not honestly intended. It was a night in a wine glass, the first shot taken in faster and absorbed more lucidly than others. He knew that I saw, every single thing that he thought of that night. That the thought was going through his head since, that every push had been sought for, that the hands he was looking at right now, were hands he have been wanting to lock down against white, clenched but helpless.

He looked at me when I stood to go back to the office. I couldn’t read him. He just remained there, motionless, sitting outside as I looked through the glass door. As was thought, that one night was all it would be.

And then there came boredom… with floral scented anti-bacterial spray

The birth of this blog is to be credited to Miss Lourdes Tesoro, who decided to fumigate our room with antibacterial spray. And thus, with every letter I type, I will bear in mind her charming frown and the hissing sound of her weapon, to make the world a cleaner place, and the excuse to get some fresh air, and light a cigarette for a yosi-break.

The background and picture in this blog has no relation to the message which I would like to convey, and given that I tend to change my mind every so often, I would most likely end up refuting my other comments. Since there is no direct message to be conveyed, entries may be either fictional, or based around the truth, or most likely, another feat of bunburrying to excuse myself from tasks I have successfully avoided, and still avoid, like Physical Education Classes, or petting our dog.

Everybody lies, we might as well be amused while at it.