Here's something you might be interested in.
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed
Big Screen — Movie commentary
Blurt — Music's inside track
Booze News — San Diego spirits
Classical Music — Immortal beauty
Classifieds — Free and easy
Cover Stories — Front-page features
Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes
Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts
Feast! — Food & drink reviews
Feature Stories — Local news & stories
Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore
From the Archives — Spotlight on the past
Golden Dreams — Talk of the town
The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it
Letters — Our inbox
Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites
Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans
Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists
Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news
News Ticker — News & politics
Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated
Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna
Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated
Poetry — The old and the new
Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers
Reading — The hunt for intellectuals
Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails
San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds
SD on the QT — Almost factual news
Sheep and Goats — Places of worship
Special Issues — The best of
Street Style — San Diego streets have style
Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves
Theater — On stage in San Diego this week
Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative
Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work
Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego
Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads
Your Week — Daily event picks
Sponge for knowledge of all things weird
“My pained expression has a lot to do with my exceedingly snug trousers.”
Title: Creative Flow | Address: http://chelscreativ…">chelscreativeflow.t…
Author: Chelsea Louise | From: Imperial Beach | Blogging since: December 2012
Post Title: TMI = Trading Masturbatorial Inquiries
Post Date: December 18, 2012
I am a pretty open book. I’m spread-eagle when I write, because secretly I want people to know all my weird inklings. I write about a lot of superfluous mumbo-jumbo. It’s liberating, putting yourself out there and risking embarrassment. We only live so long and we all have a voice. I wish more people opened up, because I love taking a stroll down everyone’s crazy block. Sometimes we need to creep into some red-light district avenue of life, peering off peripherally at the scandalous silhouettes sticking their tongues out between their fingers.
It’s a rush being open to new experiences, good or bad. A cosmic bond — Taoist, Christian, atheist — an allegory of experiences is what I envision. I have been writing in my journals since Hooked on Phonics brain-washed my little feeble brain. I envisioned myself as a gentile Anne Frank. I’m not kidding. My first journal, the heading reads, “I hope to be like Anne Frank, and have people read of my ordeals.” Admittedly, I had a flair for drama, so these conceived ordeals are pretty exaggerated.
My biggest ordeal was wearing an overall-style dress, bending over in the cafeteria, and having everyone gawk at my Hanes Not-Her-Way wedgie. I don’t think my journals will be in the human archives, and my life was nothing close to escaping the Nazi regime. I was just a pro at embarrassing myself. I was like a drunken sailor walking down the hallway; I must’ve eaten shit on a daily basis. My equilibrium is pretty shitty, and I trip and fall a lot. This was the determining factor in my 86ing skirts in middle school. I don’t know how many people saw my ass, but that is the cross I must bare….
I have been laughed at a lot in my early years, so I wear humiliation like a Girl Scout badge. It’s a part of life — get over it! I don’t padlock my journals. They are a free-for-all for future historians. I know I will be in the annals of time as a freak, and that is all peachy keen with me.
There’s no such thing as NORMAL. We all pretend to be normal, but pretending to be something we are not is a recipe for self-doubt and feels pretty shitty at the end of the day. For me, it’s easier to judge “normal” people than Freak-formers. More than meets the eye ! I spent a lot of years holding in my inner freak. When JTT was a prepubescent sex-god (that’s wrong), I was drooling over the bulge-tastic David Bowie from Labyrinth. When girls were collecting Barbies, I was obsessed with Trolls. I wasn’t even allowed to own a Barbie because I was known for tearing their heads off and poking my eyes with their dagger-like hands. Plus, there were the incessant questions I asked my debutante Grandma. “Why don’t they have a bagina or a noodle?”
I can also remember going to see The Lion King in theaters and yelling at the screen, “Where’s their penises?!” I was in time-out, I think, for all of 1994. I was just curious! I wanted to know! I really didn’t plan out the outcomes; I was all action and no theory.
I was a sponge for knowledge of all things weird. I wasn’t interested in anything practical. That’s probably why I’m inept at all things logical. Whenever I play Trivial Pursuit, I win all the pink pie pieces. I rock at Rock ’n’ Roll Jeopardy. I probably could tell you every crazy, non-useful fact you could imagine. Like, why cats show their butts to humans. [Ed. note: it’s a form of greeting that indicates trust.]
Mind-blowing! Look out, Alex Trebek! I don’t mind being a loser as long as I’m free and no maniac villagers decide to come drag me out of my room, clad in my man-shirt and lady boxers, and burn me at the stake. If someone reads this and has a “me-too” reaction, then that makes all the difference. Freak nation unite!
Here's something you might be interested in.
Sponge for knowledge of all things weird
Sponge for knowledge of all things weird
“My pained expression has a lot to do with my exceedingly snug trousers.”
Title: Creative Flow | Address: http://chelscreativ…">chelscreativeflow.t…
Author: Chelsea Louise | From: Imperial Beach | Blogging since: December 2012
Post Title: TMI = Trading Masturbatorial Inquiries
Post Date: December 18, 2012
I am a pretty open book. I’m spread-eagle when I write, because secretly I want people to know all my weird inklings. I write about a lot of superfluous mumbo-jumbo. It’s liberating, putting yourself out there and risking embarrassment. We only live so long and we all have a voice. I wish more people opened up, because I love taking a stroll down everyone’s crazy block. Sometimes we need to creep into some red-light district avenue of life, peering off peripherally at the scandalous silhouettes sticking their tongues out between their fingers.
It’s a rush being open to new experiences, good or bad. A cosmic bond — Taoist, Christian, atheist — an allegory of experiences is what I envision. I have been writing in my journals since Hooked on Phonics brain-washed my little feeble brain. I envisioned myself as a gentile Anne Frank. I’m not kidding. My first journal, the heading reads, “I hope to be like Anne Frank, and have people read of my ordeals.” Admittedly, I had a flair for drama, so these conceived ordeals are pretty exaggerated.
My biggest ordeal was wearing an overall-style dress, bending over in the cafeteria, and having everyone gawk at my Hanes Not-Her-Way wedgie. I don’t think my journals will be in the human archives, and my life was nothing close to escaping the Nazi regime. I was just a pro at embarrassing myself. I was like a drunken sailor walking down the hallway; I must’ve eaten shit on a daily basis. My equilibrium is pretty shitty, and I trip and fall a lot. This was the determining factor in my 86ing skirts in middle school. I don’t know how many people saw my ass, but that is the cross I must bare….
I have been laughed at a lot in my early years, so I wear humiliation like a Girl Scout badge. It’s a part of life — get over it! I don’t padlock my journals. They are a free-for-all for future historians. I know I will be in the annals of time as a freak, and that is all peachy keen with me.
There’s no such thing as NORMAL. We all pretend to be normal, but pretending to be something we are not is a recipe for self-doubt and feels pretty shitty at the end of the day. For me, it’s easier to judge “normal” people than Freak-formers. More than meets the eye ! I spent a lot of years holding in my inner freak. When JTT was a prepubescent sex-god (that’s wrong), I was drooling over the bulge-tastic David Bowie from Labyrinth. When girls were collecting Barbies, I was obsessed with Trolls. I wasn’t even allowed to own a Barbie because I was known for tearing their heads off and poking my eyes with their dagger-like hands. Plus, there were the incessant questions I asked my debutante Grandma. “Why don’t they have a bagina or a noodle?”
I can also remember going to see The Lion King in theaters and yelling at the screen, “Where’s their penises?!” I was in time-out, I think, for all of 1994. I was just curious! I wanted to know! I really didn’t plan out the outcomes; I was all action and no theory.
I was a sponge for knowledge of all things weird. I wasn’t interested in anything practical. That’s probably why I’m inept at all things logical. Whenever I play Trivial Pursuit, I win all the pink pie pieces. I rock at Rock ’n’ Roll Jeopardy. I probably could tell you every crazy, non-useful fact you could imagine. Like, why cats show their butts to humans. [Ed. note: it’s a form of greeting that indicates trust.]
Mind-blowing! Look out, Alex Trebek! I don’t mind being a loser as long as I’m free and no maniac villagers decide to come drag me out of my room, clad in my man-shirt and lady boxers, and burn me at the stake. If someone reads this and has a “me-too” reaction, then that makes all the difference. Freak nation unite!
Comments