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| Every highschool has a slut. Every highschool has a stinking, powder-faced, devil-lipped, PVC-skirted slut. She's foul-mouthed. She'll swear at you if she catches you staring: "What you fucking pussy? You want a piece of me? Well you can't afford the goods I've gotta offer." The boys jeer at her: "How much for a blow?" They know exactly how much it is for a blow. "What you doin' tonight, slut?" Probably your mother under the back porchlight. "I've got a job for you right here." You've just got your allowance, of course you do. Did you make fun of her? Did you whisper behind her back after she got her abortion? Did you talk about her excitedly after she got into a fight with some guy's girlfriend? Were you friends with her? I wasn't. Did you understand her? I didn't. But then, what's a date but a dinner and a movie, with the guy paying? And what's he paying for? A dinner and a movie? Or a ticket to your pants? And didn't you laugh along and bat your eyelashes at him? Pulled up your skirt just a little? Touched his knee just a bit--to let him know you're there? And wasn't it just sweet and fun the way he took care of you--holding open the doors, kissing you on the cheek, holding your hand, wrapping his arms around you? Didn't it make you feel loved? Or is it powerful? And don't you just cravecravecravecrave that power? So. Really. Who's the slut? |
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| It's hard to write about life when life's been hard. I had a fight with my good friend Alcohol a few days back. He said that I just wasn't the same person that I used to be anymore and walked out on me. Walked out on me and had me dealing with his luggage. He wrote me a few hours later asking to have his things UPSed to him. I gave him the finger and told him to go fuck himself in a corner. Actually, deep down, I really love Alcohol. I'm sure that in a few weeks he'll come around and we'll be having unbelievable make-up sex in no time. He needs me. He's nothing without a mind to muddle and befuddle. We've got an understanding, something special. We're like Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Bonnie and Cylde. Actually it's more like Hedwig (transsexual East German widely-ignored rockstar) and Toney Gnosis (Geeky and religiously-confused guy who ran off with all of Hedwig's songs and became famous off of them). But what the hell? We're published! Immortalized! So what am I doing for Spring Break? I've got a ticket for a cruise to nowhere. I heard that all the kids are doing it these days. I've got a date with a lady named Mary Jane; she's quite the coquette, I hear, really knows how to have a good time. I wonder if she'll bring around her cousin (X)Stacy if I beg hard enough. Those girls really know how to have a good time. I'm also first in line for the unveiling of my little brother's new vodka concoction. He said to me, "Danielle, you know what you need?" And I said, "What, Bobby? What the fuck do I need?" And he said, "You need a taste of my new mixed drink." And I said, "Jesus, Bobby. I said that I needed to get drunk, not poisoned." And he said, "Oh come on, by then you'll be so drunk that you won't even notice that you're dying." And I said, "Oh, okay." Oh, okay. |
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| Dear Mom and Dad: I have come to the decision, after much thought, that I will no longer be studying biochemistry or applying for medical school. Why? Well aside from the fact that Physics 152 is kicking my ass, I just think that this shit is plain boring. I hate waking up in the morning knowing that I have a chemistry class in three hours or that I will be spending two and a half hours of my life each week firing highly corrosive chemicals over a bunsen burner. I also hate wondering what the shortest elliptical path from Earth to Jupiter is and if the slingshot effect will be able to send a small ball out of the Solar System. However, not only do I hate all things pertaining to medicine, I also seem to love all things that apply only to lines, meters, alliterations, allusions, onomatopoeias, and so forth. Not only that, but I am also interested in reading The Golden Bough cover to cover and setting sail for secluded areas of the rainforest where I will live in longhouses for extended periods of time, learning languages that only apply to populations of 5,000 or less. That is right. I want to be an English-anthropology double major. Please don't disown me. And, before you say it, no, I do not believe that this is a waste of my intelligence. I believe that I can grow up to be a successful person who makes a successful living as a successful English-anthropologist-lawyer. And no, I don't care if I am among the top 10% of American calculus students. And no, I don't care if I can name you every phylum of the animal kingdom. And no, I don't care if you care. Because from today onward, this is going to be my show. |
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| I often wonder how I've gotten to where I am in life (or even geographically) on Sunday mornings. I wake up, hopefully in my bed, and think things like: Since when did I get into bed? Since when did I have a guy named Chris C's number on my phone? Since when did I walk into my hallmate's room talking about a friend with benefits? Do I have a friend with benefits? Is his name Chris C? What exactly happened between 2am and now anyway? And then I crawl out of bed, which, is hopefully empty, and greet my hallmates. This, is usually where more question-exclaimations appear: I did what last night?! With who?! I drank how much hard lemonade?! You guys found me in whose room?! And the list goes on. Oh. And I do have a friends with benefits now. And his name is Chris C. |
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| It's funny because we're always hearing about how men don't treat women well enough. Well. I need to treat men better. I need to treat them as if there's more to them than just their dicks and videogame-desensitized nature. I have to treat them as if I could one day come to like them and have them around me like a dog around my ankles. I need to treat them as if I give a shit about their lives or personality or problems. In other words, I need to grow a vagina. At the current moment, I have a rather low opinion of men, but it's definitely not because I am a supporter of the feminist movement. In fact, I'm always the bitch in the back who slaps down the Barbie dolls and says: "Shut it, blondie, Eve was fucking dumb and she fucking ruined mankind. Okay? Yes, she did. And you know why? It was because she had a uterus." So why do I have a poor opinion of men? Well, I just keep finding them to be significantly less intelligent than what they ought to be at eighteen. The only person I've even come close to enjoying the company of is Will who is a fourth year here and is the driver of the food drives that we do for community service. But then, he's twenty-one. Apathetic. Humourous. Nice. And looks like a plumper version of Orlando Bloom. And his last name is Cocks, which, amuses me endlessly. Anyway, the point is that all the boys my age somehow turn out to be dimwitted morons who couldn't tell the difference between a Spencerian sonnet and a Shakespearean sonnet. Actually, I couldn't care less if they could tell the difference or not, but I do care if they're going to run off into their little cell-rooms crying about how the big-bad-vagina girl was mean to them. Jesus. I have more of a dick than half of them. Except I don't actually have a dick. Which means I have to borrow theirs. Which. Is the only thing they're good for I guess. Lending me their dicks should I be in need of them. Do you see why I have a low opinion of men? |
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| bienvenue |
| Hello and welcome to La cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point, a place where I store all of my thoughts and experiences. Feel free to look around, but please keep in mind that everything that I write here is about myself and my experiences. Thanks and enjoy. |
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| fille |
| I am an eighteen-year-old college student who is currently attending the University of Virginia. I enjoy reading, writing, intelligence, and sarcasm. My goals in life include being a successful swindler, a professional liar, and maybe someone you could bring home to meet mom with. More? |
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| écrivez |
| If you have any questions, you can contact me via e-mail. Please remove the '(at)' before sending, though. |
