One could never accuse me of not having any interests. Rather, I have too many, and this is precisely why I am 24 and have yet to choose a major or career path. This is also precisely why I have not updated lately, on top of the move. I am mostly settled, but I have been focusing my creative energies more toward stand up comedy. I will likely eventually post video here, if only to prove I am not a total and complete slacker. I hope to finish some old blogs I started as well as create some fresh updates, but I am deep in the swing of things on the performance end right now. So we shall see.

In the meantime, there are a few new television series I’ve gotten into that I would like to share:

1. Whatever, Martha! on Fine Living Network: The second I heard of this show’s existence, I ran for my DVR. The premise is something like Martha Stewart meets MST3K, and good lord am I hooked. Martha’s own daughter, Alexis Stewart, teams up with her friend Jennifer Koppelman Hutt, to view old episodes of Martha’s programming and attempt to follow the instructions laid out, often with hilarious results. I have only seen a few episodes to date, but so far these girls are gold. Their snappy running commentary is everything you’ve ever wanted to say to Martha but never had the guts, and their banter is absolutely priceless. In the end, I would probably prefer some higher production values, a bit more polishing, but in general this show is a solid, solid piece of entertainment. I would highly recommend it if you have deep, deep fucking cable. Otherwise, these clips are some nice little samples. (Sorry I didn’t have time to dress them up with parsley or gingham ribbons for you.)
Final Werd: 4 out of 5 Herb Gardens

2. Tosh.0 on Comedy Central: I love Chris Hardwick, and Web Soup is all well and good… But good lord, what are you doing, watch Tosh.0! Daniel Tosh brings his amazing wit and perfect timing to this hilarious series about all things that lurk on the internet (which is a lot!) Of course, the show doesn’t just stop at showing you clips and making fun of them; Tosh often invites the stars of these videos into the studio for an attempt at a bit of redemption (and you can only imagine how well those go). I will never be fully happy until he has Emma Clark as a guest, but I will be content with whatever else the show offers me in the meantime.
Final Werd: 5 out of 5 vomit clips

3. Glee: OH MY GOD ARE YOU NOT WATCHING GLEE GO NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF (Translation: I felt the first episode was overrated, but the series only gets better and better with every passing week. The music, the actors, the writing, everything is absolutely top notch and addicting. And Kristin Chenoweth as a drunken cougar? Oh godddd where do I sign up?)
Final Werd: 5 out of 5 Jane Lynches

I am almost settled and working on setting up my office.

Updates to come soon!

In the meantime, you can check out my tumblr, FUCKIN’ A FUNNY SHIT, which is full of funny things people send me or I stumble upon when I am having writer’s block or slacking.

All two of my readers may notice updates have been even more scant than usual, and this is for several reasons. Hope to have some things resolved soon, although I may disappear again in about a month and a half’s time.

Then things should be smooth as Belvedere.

In theory.

Normally, I am loathe to say the name “Perez Hilton”. Part of it is due to my abhorrence for celebrity obsessed culture, and part of it is because I am convinced that he and Spencer Pratt are like the Candyman, that they are summoned by and gain power from the utterance of their designations. However, I find I have to break that silence right now and be damned with the consequences at a later date. Still worse to admit, I find myself actually… siding with Perez Hilton – at least a smidge. I won’t be joining in on the #unfollowperez trend, but it’s not only because I would never follow him in the first place.

I’ve already mentioned on here that I find our grieving process in this society to be pretty ridiculous, but I really only touched the tip of the iceberg with that. I find it amusing that we seem to ignore everyone’s flaws posthumously. In a way you could say that everyone becomes an angel in death because we all become clean; our sins never existed in the minds of our mourners. I suppose that makes sense in that we are grieving the loss of the good in that person, not the bad, but I still don’t think that it makes the practice healthy or okay. I hate to break it to you, but we all have flaws, even Sister Mary Jehosaphat with all her kind words and charity work for peg-legged orphans.

Michael Jackson is no exception to this bizarre process of post-mortem absolution. Before his death, everyone seemed convinced of his sin, forgetting that we are, in this country, “innocent until proven guilty”. Jokes told at his expense were easy and frequent. Nobody thought twice; nobody felt guilty.

Yet now the internet is engaged in a massive baww-ing session over this newspost on Asshole McGee’s website. I am not even going to go into the fact that everyone seems happy to ignore the fact that this was made before Jackson’s death was confirmed because that’s not the point of this. What I will say, however, is that this is totally and completely something that most people would have gone along with and agreed upon if Michael had lived.

Everybody loved swapping stories on how eccentric Michael’s behavior was, how he was a product of growing up in the limelight without a real childhood, how he would have to be insane to do what he did to his face. Nobody believed him when he said hadn’t had plastic surgery or that he had vitiligo. Most people were convinced he hurt those boys. A dermatologist confirmed his diagnosis, and a psychologist testified that Jackson showed signs that he had regressed to the mindset of a ten-year-old boy, not that he was a pedophile. And yet we loved nothing more than not believing him.

To be honest, I am still not convinced he didn’t have plastic surgery, but I can’t say he didn’t have vitiligo because I just don’t know enough about it. Maybe he bleached his skin because he was nuts, or maybe he bleached it because of his disease. Maybe he didn’t bleach it at all. Maybe he wasn’t as crazy as we thought. And maybe, just maybe he didn’t hurt those boys. We don’t know. We may never know.

But don’t attack Perez for doing something you did before. That’s just bullshit, and the false attacks spilling over Twitter, Facebook, etc. are just ridiculous. You can be genuinely remorseful for your judgement of Michael when he was alive, but don’t out and out pretend it never happened when it did. Stick to tweeting about how much you loved his music, his influence on pop culture, or the complications this will create for the planned Thriller Casino. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.

Besides, there are plenty of other reasons to attack Perez. Just ask will.i.am.

I’m pretty much a fucking pottymouth. I don’t know why. Maybe at one point in my life I thought it made me look hardcore, and it just kind of got stuck that way like my mom always said it would. Or maybe I am a freedom fighter, and excessive cursing is my brilliant manifesto to the world, my way to stand up to The Man. I am a rebel without a (fucking) cause, and my tongue is sharp enough to pierce through my goddamned skull if I am not careful.

Or maybe I just don’t get it.

I hate people who use the phrase “bad words”. I hate swear jars. I just plain hate the concept that words themselves have some fucking voodoo curse placed upon them that can somehow destroy society and turn polite young children into hardened hooligans. We call Harry Potter fantasy because words like “avada kedavra” can kill a motherfucker, and yet we do not blink at the stupid fucking concept that words themselves seem to hold power in our own world.

At this point in a debate about language that takes place in my corner of the globe, someone will inevitably always bring up the dreaded “n word” as an example. However, the letters N, I, G, E, and R are not fucking bio-mechanical robotic vehicles from Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. They do not combine to make the fucking Megazord. All of the power contained within those six letters are given to them solely based on our own history and attitudes. “Nigger” is not a magical incantation. It is not the Fear spell from World of Warcraft. It is frightening because it is associated with slavery, lynchings, overwhelming hatred, and cold-blooded murder. People have lost their self-respect, their families, and their lives over the widely accepted definition of this word and its social implications, not the letters themselves.

People seem to think it’s rude to use “profanity” at a party, too. As if the letters F, U, C, and K get really cheeky when they are together and inappropriately grope other guests. Curse words are not a part of polite conversation!

But these words are, in the end, simply arbitrary. If I made up the word, “rezton” and gave it the definition “to brutally murder the boring, vacant person you are conversing with,” I think it would be a lot ruder to discuss this as my favorite hobby rather than loudly yelling, “shit!” when I inevitably spill spiked punch upon my new favorite blouse.  Nobody but me knows what the word means, however, so they just sort of nod their heads and smile blankly, their minds and eyes wandering to the party VIPs, wishing they weren’t stuck talking to the crazy woman wearing a brimmed beanie in the middle of the summer… And I get away with murder. Everybody wins.

Of course, you could ask me to say something romantic, and I could respond with, “Vai toma no cú”, which, if I am not mistaken, roughly translates as a request for you to please go and get sodomized. But you don’t know that, I don’t know that, and my father is a very funny man whose first language happens to be Portuguese. Everybody wins.

So please don’t bitch at me about my language. Don’t gasp and shake a change jar in my face with a condescending expression. Don’t kid yourself in thinking that the random arrangements of letters you employ somehow make you superior to me and mine. Because in the end it’s our intentions that matter, and you can fucking kiss my vulgar ass.

It never ceases to amaze me that the articles I am least happy with seem to be the ones that are getting the most hits and comments, haha. I never should have posted the last entry, it’s not really ready, but there you go.

Things are a little bit crazy over here, so I haven’t been devoting as much time as I could or should. Still, I have a few articles started, and I have decided just to post some snippets of the rough drafts here, just to show you I am not being a total bum (as if anyone reads this, lol). They might not be turned into full articles and likely will be changed quite a bit. But still. First drafts is first drafts.

—

Some people hear me talk and think I am anti-American. I certainly come from a cynical, disillusioned generation, born long after the Kennedys, after America’s legacy of politicians you felt you could trust at least as far as you could throw them. Welcome now to the age of acrimony, where misanthropy and disparagement reign supreme. This is where I grew up, where I formed my outlook on the world. This has got to affect a girl at least to some degree.

—

Of course, if we think we’re fooling anybody, we spend our hard earned allowance at non-conformist establishments such as Hot Topic and blare My Chemical Romance loud enough for anyone close enough to Deal With It. I cannot stress it enough that these individuals are not trendsetters. Anything cool is automatically shunned, and anything unhip or off-kilter is automatically obsession-worthy. It’s the easiest path to becoming an “individual”, just going with the opposite of what’s popular. These kids fail to realize that you don’t have to get up at the crack of noon to figure this out, and that they are simply riding an undercurrent of social conformity. Hating what’s in vogue is not a trademarked idea; it’s very popular.

Years ago, I had a speech teacher who said she used to assign eulogies to her students. But these weren’t eulogies for your uncle or your grandma or even your third cousin Doug with his lazy eye. The assignment was to compose and recite your own eulogy. Ultimately, she stopped assigning it because people felt it was too morbid. Personally, I was fascinated. Maybe it was vanity, maybe it was that I saw the comedic potential, I don’t know, but I requested to do this assignment even when she didn’t ask it of us.

I guess I don’t get the way that we treat death in this society. People seem to be so particular. You have to wear black. You have to be quiet and solemn. You have to be stuffed into a room with people you don’t know or like and hear “how are you holding up?” about a million times while contemplating whether or not it’s possible for ones head to fall off from constant slow nodding. God forbid you don’t shed a tear. Then you’re just a monster.

Everybody has their own way of mourning. Do we need to be so judgmental about it? Someone is dead. Shut the fuck up and focus on the loss of life.

Personally, I’d rather see laughter at my funeral. Anybody can cry at a wake, even if they didn’t know the deceased and are only contemplating the reality of their own mortality. Or just looking for attention. It takes a special kind of person to leave an impression so strong that we’re able to laugh through our grief. I’d like to leave that kind of beauty behind.

So crack a smile at my memorial if you don’t want your ass to get haunted.

Now, without further ado, I will post the obituarty, edited:

We gather here today to honor the passing of a great hero,  a true legend, Sara M.

Sara was born and lived as many of us do… Only with about 300% more concentrated awesome. She attended college for a time before writing her famous paper “World Peace in Two Easy Steps.” In her paper she discussed how obvious it was that all that was needed to achieve world peace was… I’m sorry, you all know how that happened. This is a eulogy, not a history lesson.

Anyway, after the success of Operation World Peace (also known as Operation Obvious Code Name), no less than twenty-six countries renamed themselves in her honor. She was truly the Earth’s greatest hero, and we are proud to have called her a citizen of the United States of Saraca.

After this, she was highly sought after by every educational institution known to man… Harvard, Oxford, DeVry… But she turned them all down to study directly under her greatest hero – the man, the myth, the legend – Chuck Norris. She attempted to thank him for the knowledge he gave her by manufacturing Chuck Norris toilet paper, but it was a failure. Her only failure, really, and later she realized her mistake – Chuck Norris simply does not take shit from anybody.

She was a very busy woman, of course. When she wasn’t involved in her careers of action archaeology and Nazi hunting, she enjoyed long walks on the beach, fire side chats, and sky diving with orphans into pools of ice cream… She could also crochet a mean pair of booties.

At ninety-seven-years-old, Sara would still be with us if she hadn’t driven her custom Harley through that ring of fire. She is survived by her wife, Angelina Jolie, and their eighty-seven adopted children.

Having some issues that are preventing updates at this time. Loooots of issues.

So enjoy while I hackily repost some old prose from a short story I am always working on, haha.

—-

When did this happen?

Nona felt the familiar headiness that came with infatuation. She felt her heart race just as every cheesy romance novel gushed about and felt even her intake of breath change itself. But it hadn’t quickened, she thought. At least, not that she could tell. No, this was more a deepening of her breath, and her mouth opened slightly in – what? – Anticipation? Perhaps it was lust.

Whatever the emotion, she was overtaken by it, and that frightened her.

She was not supposed to feel this way. The object of her affections was all wrong. Not the right gender, she thought. Not the right gender at all.

For years since puberty she’d known exactly what she wanted, and it was always the same sex that drove her mad. It was always the same experience, too: her heart always raced, her breath deepened, and her lips parted just slightly. She was sure her eyes darkened as well, on occasion. But because she was inside herself, it could have just been a romantic notion.

“Are you okay?” Pete looked at her with concern as he handed her the movie ticket. His eyes stayed on her, even as he opened the theater door and ushered her in, his hand on the small of her back. Nona shuddered – not unpleasantly – and forced a smile to shine through the fog of her confusion.

“I’m fine,” she told him, shaking off her thoughts. Things are how they are. You can’t choose love.

And maybe she did love the man – man – she was with. But one thing was certain: there was a definite infatuation there.

——–

Some nights after the movie let out and the dinner was eaten, she would go home and feel more complete than she ever had. And she was grateful for the change. She would curl up in bed in silence and reflect on the night before falling into a state of dreams.

Other nights, when she shared her bed with the man who fascinated her, she would wake up from a dreamless sleep and stare at him until he stirred himself. She would study everything from his eyes to his jaw before looking under the covers and verifying that he was, in fact, male.

The remaining nights were not as peaceful. She would open the door, clutching her abdomen and grasping for a chair to hold her up until she made it to the bathroom. Over dramatics, she knew, but some how necessary. And after a few dry heaves she would watch a queer movie and fall asleep dreaming of semi-butches and quasi-femmes. She would wake up the next day and have to physically remind herself that she had been out with a male the night before, not swooning over Clea Duvall.

And on occasion she found she hated herself. She thought, perhaps I am a traitor? Perhaps I shall be burned at the stake?

She never hated him, of course, for that itself was impossible. But it was often that she asked herself, so where do I fit in now?

Welcome to the new domain! Mind the dust as I will be designing a permanent layout soon.

Thank god Twitter is around for LatinPrincess21 to tweet the ever important and thrilling message, “Eating a Baloney Sandwich.” The alternative, of course, would be me pacing around my room, tearing my hair out, worried to death that she is not getting her daily recommended dosage of spare animal parts. And when she posted that she was watching TMZ? I breathed a sigh of relief. I have to know that she is watching quality, groundbreaking television; otherwise, my world might implode.

Here’s the thing: I don’t hate microblogging. I tweet. I have Tweetie and Twitterfon on my iPhone and Tweetdeck on my MacBook. So it’s not that I don’t get the concept or that I am completely cynical about it. Rather, I just don’t get how some people utilize it. I really, really don’t care if you’re drinking a half caf soy latte while talking to Mary Jane Whatsherface. On average, I don’t care if you’re going to sleep, going for a jog, or brushing your cat’s fur. I don’t understand why you think you’re so fascinating that people want to read about Captain Whiskers’ hairballs, anyway. Really. The mundane details of your every daily activity are absolutely of no concern to me whatsoever.

Still, there are many good uses for microblogging. These include (but are not limited to):

• keeping in touch with one’s fanbase or supporters, e.g. Felicia Day, David Davis, and Gavin Newsom
• generating discussions and passing fast notes to large audiences
• sharing quotes or bits of wisdom

If you’re into astrology, I guess it’d be cool to tweet people’s horoscopes. Plus, if news entities like CNN would get on the ball and actually utilize their Twitter accounts, it is the perfect medium for posting headlines. (Assuming it’s not too much to ask that I find out what exactly happened that involved Madonna’s left foot when I missed half your crawl. RT, please.)

Of course, the device updates function also allows for groups of friends to essentially use Twitter as a group text messaging hub, in which case you can post about your sandwiches and slumber parties all you want. But there is a difference between utilizing the site as a tool and treating it like the world’s largest public receptacle of shit nobody cares about.

Mainly, I like to use it as a way to keep up with artists, actors, and friends. My personal tweets range from (attempted) humorous daily observations to project status notifications (and occasional hypocrisy). In a nutshell, Twitter is so much more than an announcement board for your bio updates.

At this point, I must admit that I am not a saint in this regard. I have been known to post incredibly boring tweets, I know. I never said I didn’t have an ego the size of Mars and find myself absolutely fascinating. But at least I have remorse, damnit.

Of course, Tycho Brahe (obviously not the astronomer) says this all the best:

Who the fuck do you think you are? Who are you that you can force your Goddamned minutia on other people, your stupid bullshit, your stone-ground artisanal condiments? How dare you. You should be ashamed.

Indeed.

Edit: Apparently, Twitter is good for freedom fighting as well. Now that’s something.