Fun With Apocalypstick! from Almie Rose on Vimeo.
Fun With Apocalypstick!
Aug
12
2010
Stop Hitting On Me.
Aug
10
2010
I’ve been unsure of how to approach this topic. But I think it must be said.
Just because I am a young woman and I am alone does not give you permission to start hitting on me. I don’t want your attention. I just want a cup of coffee. I just want to pick up frozen yogurt for my mom. I just want you to be polite, take my money, and give me whatever it is I came there to buy. I don’t want you to start asking me about my life. You don’t know me. I don’t know you. When I try to shoot you down nicely and tell you, “I’m just getting frozen yogurt for my mom,” I don’t need you to then quiz me about why I don’t like frozen yogurt.
Someone somewhere came up with this phrase that goes something like, “When a man says no, that’s the end of the discussion. When a woman says no, it’ the beginning of a negotiation.” No, I do not want you to sit next to me. No, do not try to come up with a compromise. No, you cannot come in, we are closed. No, do not try to reason that you’ll only be a few minutes. Funny that when my male coworker tells you we’re closed, you leave immediately.
As women, we’re subliminally taught to be polite under duress. Because if we say no, or reject any sort of advance even if we do it kindly, we’re labeled a bitch. We don’t want you to join us when we’re eating alone? Bitch. We don’t want you to buy us a drink? Bitch. We don’t feel flattered when you catcall us on the street? Bitch. And the thing is, we have no way of knowing which one of you is going to snap and attack us. I’M NOT SAYING THAT ALL MEN ARE PREDATORS AND THAT AS WOMEN WE SHOULD ALL BE AFRAID. I’m just saying that a young woman walking down the street, simply by being female, is more likely to be harassed than a man. It’s not fair but it’s something we’ve come to accept.
But it’s not enough for some men. Sometimes we just want to go out with our girlfriends have a girls’ night out. We do not want you to come up to us, drunk out of your mind, and try to get us to invite you into our group. When I had a boyfriend, it didn’t matter, men still did what they wanted anyway, but now that I’m single it’s like men (not ALL MEN) feel they have the right to blatantly hit on me. Did I ask you to buy me a drink? Did I come up to you and interact with you? No. Did I try to be polite and say “no” without hurting your feelings? Yes. So now what am I supposed to do? Curse you out? Then what? Do I need to be worried that you’re going to be a total asshole?
When it comes to bars or parties I can understand a little more why you would come up to me. After all, you’re at a bar or a party to mingle. To meet people and have fun and so forth. But when I’m running errands? You really need to make your moves on me when I’m in sweatpants, with unwashed hair, and in a hurry to just get on with my day? Do you really think that I’m going to drop everything and ask you to go out? No. I don’t want your attention. I want my sandwich.
Now. Sometimes I love attention from men. But when it’s respectful and when I clearly indicate that I want it. Guys, here is how you tell if a girl is interested: if she makes direct eye contact with you, smiles, and asks you questions, then she probably wouldn’t mind getting to know you. (If you’re British and you’re in America, you’re pretty much given an automatic green light. This is a half-joke.) If she’s mumbling, looking down, closing off her space to you, and gives short answers, she wants you to leave. She’s just been conditioned to think that she can’t say, “Get the fuck away from me.” There are LOTS OF WOMEN, I KNOW, WHO CAN SAY THAT. And who have every right. But I’m just not one of them. I can’t. I have to to think of myself first. I can’t worry that you, strange man in a bar, is going to flip out when I reject you harshly.
I had a stalker once. It wasn’t pleasant.
Basically, here’s what I’m saying. I do not hate men. I just hate being hit on when I clearly do not want to be hit on. And I think men probably feel that way too. It’s just harder when you’re a woman sometimes. Maybe that’s something I’m not supposed to say.
My “no” is not a negotiation.
FUCK YOU, NEW ZEALAND MAN.
Aug
05
2010
“Excuse me,” I overhear you ask, in your lovely New Zealand accent,
Yes? I wonder,
“But if my wife doesn’t like this hat, can I return it?”
FUCK YOU NEW ZEALAND MAN. FUCK YOU WITH YOUR HAIR AND YOUR FACE AND YOUR SHIRT AND YOUR JEANS AND YOUR VOICE. GUESS WHAT BUDDY? ALL SALES ARE FINAL! NO! YOUR WIFE CAN’T RETURN YOUR GODDAMN PRECIOUS GIFT!
I’m sorry. I want you to know, New Zealand Man, that when I say “precious” I don’t mean it in a sarcastic manner. I think that you wanting to buy your wife a vintage straw hat really is precious. It is a precious gift. It is kind of you. Kind like your eyes.
NON -REFUNDABLE, PAL. I HOPE SHE FUCKING HATES IT!!!! I HOPE SHE OPENS THE BAG, HER EYES WIDE WITH HOPE AND PROMISE, AND THEN UPON SEEING THE HAT, I HOPE THE SHARP DISAPPOINTMENT IS OBVIOUS ON HER (LIKELY) PRETTY, PRETTY FACE. I HOPE SHE COMES CLOSE TO TEARS. I HOPE THE HAT REMINDS HER OF EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG IN YOUR RELATIONSHIP. BUT OF COURSE, YOUR RELATIONSHIP IS PROBABLY AS PERFECT AS YOUR FACE, NEW ZEALAND MAN.
You walk in, with your long hair, your boyish face, in your outfit that your perfect wife probably picked out for you, except you probably chose those shoes, and you make everyone want to know more about you and then with one simple request your ruin it all. What kind of husband are you, anyway? Aren’t you a little young to be married? Aren’t you a little young to be buying your wife a hat? Don’t you have to be in your 50s to do something like that? Who the hell are you, New Zealand Man? Where did you come from, aside from New Zealand?
AND WHERE IS YOUR WIFE, ANYWAY? SHE’S PROBABLY OFF DOING MISSIONARY WORK. SHE’S PROBABLY MODELING. SHE’S PROBABLY BUSY BEING FAMOUS. WHERE IS YOUR HOME, NEW ZEALAND MAN? VENICE? SANTA MONICA? ECHO PARK? WHERE DID YOU COME FROM? WHO ARE YOU?
I’m sorry, New Zealand Man. It’s just that you’re too perfect to be here. You’re too perfectly wrong. WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN A STORE ON A THURSDAY AFTERNOON? SHOULDN’T YOU BE WORKING? I KNOW WHY I’M HERE, BUT WHY ARE YOU? DON’T QUESTION ME, NEW ZEALAND MAN. I’LL ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE. I DON’T KNOW HOW THEY DO THINGS IN NEW ZEALAND BUT HERE IN AMERICA WE HAVE RULES, BUDDY. OUR RULES ARE THAT IF YOU LOOK LIKE YOU AND HAVE THE ACCENT THAT YOU HAVE, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE A WIFE. LOOK IT UP IN THE CONSTITUTION. SEARCH FOR IT IN THE FLAG. IT’S PRINTED ON OUR MONEY.
I hope that you and your wife have a long and happy life together and I hope that she hates the hat. Really, really, really hates the hat.
“Sorry,” I hear her say. “All sales are final.”
You chuckle. CHUCKLE! A kind chuckle. A, “Aw shucks, I’m just happy to be here!” chuckle. You tell her that you’ll just have your wife come over and look at it then.
YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME, SPORT. YOU GO SHOPPING FOR YOUR WIFE WITH YOUR WIFE? NOW YOU’RE JUST SHOWING OFF. GET OUT OF HERE. GET BACK TO YOUR ART STUDIO. YOU’RE PROBABLY A PAINTER. OR A PHOTOGRAPHER. OR MAYBE YOU’RE A MUSICIAN. YOU PROBABLY HAVE LIKE SIX GUITARS AND YOU PROBABLY SING ABOUT WHY THINGS IN LIFE AREN’T SO BAD. I didn’t look at your wife before I left. But I can imagine her. I can imagine her crinkling her nose at the hat and waving it away. I can imagine hating her even more for it. But you probably take no offense.
Fuck you, gentle soul.
Get It On My Mind (Marvin Gaye vs. The Pixies) — Dj Zebra
Warning! This mash-up may change your life.
How Am I Not Myself?
Aug
03
2010
I think the worst thing someone can do is dictate how you should feel. If someone tells you to calm down, you’re going to get angrier. If someone tells you to cheer up, you’re going to sulk. If someone tells you to move on, you’re going to punch them in the face.
Speaking of faces, I thought I’ve been putting on a good one. I go out and I think I’m OK. I think I’m myself. Then someone proves to me that I’m not. Someone will ask me if I’m upset about something. Or if I’m sedated. Then I realize that I wasn’t fooling anyone. My emotions, or lack thereof, were as obvious on my face as red lipstick. I hate admitting that I’m having a hard day, week, month (year I’llbethereforyouuuu) and I especially hate putting it here on my blog because I want people to think that I am indestructible, like Iron Man, at all times. I’ve never seen Iron Man but from what I’ve gathered from the posters, he appears to be indestructible. I think he wears a metal robot suit. The commercials let me know that he’s also really cool because he wears sunglasses and carries briefcases and smokes.
So, yes, I am not having the best time right now. I was for a little while and then it came crashing down on my foot. I also hate declaring that I’m not doing well, because from what I know and have seen and personally experienced, it could be a lot lot lot worse. I do have my health. I have my family. Those two things are the essentials in life, and two out of two is fantastic. It’s just my feelings that aren’t OK and what are feelings but things that annoy us anyway? It’s not real. It’s not like I can just check out because I have feelings. If I had malaria no one would fault me for avoiding life. But feelings?
It’s just a culmination of things right now. I’ll be fine soon. I’m supposed to be fine now. I’m not. Suck my balls. I’m sorry. I hope that one day I will be able to write something without cursing or being crude. I also hope that one day I’ll be able to write something and not make a pop culture reference. This is maybe my biggest goal after appearing on “Mad Men.”
In the mean time Ob la di. Ob la da. Sometimes I wish that this blog was a secret website where I could say what I really wanted to say. Then I remember that’s what diaries are for. I remember how I used to write in journals. Now the idea pains me. I don’t want to hand write everything. I’m not Abe Lincoln. I have a fucking computer. But I think my reliance on computers has weakened my handwriting. Do you remember when you were a kid and you would forge your parents’ signature on something? You would do it slowly and carefully thinking, “This is how she signs it.” This is how adults write. That’s what my handwriting looks like. Like a kid trying to write like how they think an adult would write. It’s ghastly.
To quote someone I never, ever thought I would quote earnestly: “[I] want to change my clothes, my hair, my face.”
This song is a lost gem from the 1960s. It is depressing but in the best kind of way.
Oh No. The Internet Is Here.
Jul
28
2010
A few nights ago, I went to a house party with a dear redheaded friend. I love house parties. It’s the unexpected factor. Will there be good drinks? Will there be cute guys? Will this be the house party that you saw in the movies, the one where everyone had a good time and there’s fun indie music playing in the background and you all wound up jumping into a pool and then dancing in front of a huge fireplace? Who knows?!
This house party had none of those things. However, they did have food, which I will give them major, major props for. Then again, they also had minimal seating and a very loud band. Look, I’m an old person, I guess. I want to go to a party where I don’t have to drink cheap vodka out of a red plastic cup and where I don’t have to pretend to care about your stupid band that Pitchfork just loves. I want to have adult conversations and adult drinks. At least people are starting to dress better. Yikes, here I go. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I am an old gay man trapped in a young woman’s body.
But that’s not important right now.
Most of the party was spent with the two of us talking solely to each other. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize with others. I was just in the mood to look good and pose. Which is basically what I did. I admit, I could have been nicer. But when a drunk girl practically collapses into your lap exclaiming, “WHOA, I did NOT see those steps there!” and cackles like Bette Midler without the charm, am I supposed to smile and agree? Or am I just a huge bitch?
Here’s where it went from awkward to straight up uncomfortable. My friend and I wandered into the living room and I saw in front of me a very attractive man. He was tall, had the profile of Adrien Brody, and the glasses of Don Draper, if Don Draper wore glasses. Basically I’m saying he was a handsome, well-dressed man. He looked oddly familiar. I was pretty sure that he wasn’t actually Adrien Brody, so why did he look so familiar? And then, like a sharp hiccup, it came to me.
This was my Facebook crush.
A long time ago, I went “boy shopping” on Facebook. I scanned friends and friends of friends for cute boys. I found one and I messaged him saying, “I don’t know you, but I think you’re cute.” He added me back. I looked at his photos, came to the conclusion that he had a girlfriend, and that was that. Eventually I landed a relationship of my own (which recently exploded, like the rockets’ red glare) and never thought of him again.
Until I saw him, in person, at this party.
“Oh no,” I thought. “The internet is here.”
I didn’t introduce myself. I don’t think he noticed me. Probably because I tried my hardest to become one with the wall. But it was a shame. There he was, cuter in person, with a (most likely) girlfriend in tow, and I was doing my best to pretend like we didn’t have access to each others’ newsfeeds. Not like I’m assuming he even checked my Facebook profile. Which brings me to another “I am secretly an old person” eye roll: when did the Internet go from being a convenient way to meet people to a new way to make people feel awkward?
I whispered to my friend the whole messy scenario. We then escaped outside. Where I ran into ANOTHER guy I was friends with on Facebook but not in “real life.” We ignored each other. Or rather, I ignored him, while he probably took no notice of me and if he did, had no idea who I was. The Internet is here, and it’s a real thing, and it’s freaking me out. I do not like what this beast has unleashed upon my generation. Like we don’t have enough problems (hello, fucked up economy, nice to see you again).
As usual, I blame the internet for everything. Always.
Thank you.
Jul
26
2010
THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU EVERYONE! Thank you for sending me your questions! I loved them! (Except for that one question and YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I think I may know who you are too. And I don’t understand. Also you’re misinformed and rumors aren’t very nice.) Whatever! Yay! Now I just have to edit it together. Look for it by the end of the week! To thank you for your questions and your patience I present you with a weird — yet astounding in its ability to work — mash-up
Throw Your Hands Up At Me.
Jul
18
2010
HEY FRIENDS. We are friends aren’t we? Clap once for yes, twice for no. So here’s my plan. I’m going to do another Q&A video where you send me questions via my formspring and I’ll answer them, but this time with a twist: I’m not going to read the questions beforehand. I’ll turn on the camera, open up formspring, and just start answering. Does that sound fun to you?? Then ask me a question here. In five days I’ll be back and you’ll have answers.
(Just please don’t be mean. Don’t ask me anything gross. Don’t make me cry. I’m fragile right now.)
