i am currently seeking the following: a "cuddler."

must be 1) single or "recently" divorced, (stay with me)...(no baggage, only one carry-on. thank you. please take a seat.) 2) witty, in case during the midst of 'spooning' i'd like to hear a joke. thank you. 

3) able to go through metamorphosis, aka cocoon to a butterfly, tadpole to a frog, baby roach to papa cockroach. if you don't understand my gist, your application has most likely already been terminated. 4) versatile: when my feet are cold, yours must be hot. come on-ying and yang. get with it. 5) cannot snore like an asthmatic camel. i don't care if you suffer from sleep apnea; i suffer from good genetics, and therefore need beauty sleep. 6) cannot be found in various locations around my apartment: aka, watering my dead cactus, using my pink toothbrush, bubbling it up in my bathtub.a 'cuddler' remains in the bed, until told otherwise. (easy come, easy GO.) 7) non-dramatic. save the drama fo yo mama. my only circle of life contains simba, mufasa, and my girl nala. 8) polyamorous: aka responsible non-monogamy. aka bouquet of cuddlers; there may be times when i will be sick of you and will seek other 'cuddlers' either more cuddly, more attractive, more inquisitive. accept this. acknowledge this with a rejection of jealousy.9) a member of the department of transportation: when i say go home, you jump in car. 

the deleting game: a funny new way to tell your buddies, "hey fcku off, and the horse you rode in on." in today's day, confrontations are unnecessary; civilization is unnecessary; relationships are nothing but cold, broken pizza. 

when my mother was in her mid 20s, any quarrels she encountered were either dismantled by the traditional hair-pulling method, the nasty note leaving method, or the IM GONNA FCKU YOU UP because my father's in the MAFIA method. hell, today? we delete. that's right. one simple push of the button, and you're gone. poof, bye bye. whether this mechanism is used on facebook, myspace, twitter, or any sort of instant messenger, including BBM--deleting has become the new solution to violence, if i must say so myself. 

hello, YOU are no longer good enough to be a part of my social network, so to hell with you and checking my status updates, my current location, or my new pics, because GOD knows you wished you never deleted me because you're dying to see if i'm now fat, ugly, or simply over YOU. and when everything dwindles down and becomes peaceful again, BAM you now have a new friend request, a new 'so and so would like to add you to his or her blackberry messenger list,' etc.. it's another way of telling you, 'hey every little thing is gonna be alright. welcome back.' 

sick game, stupid lamb.

WHAT'S YOUR PIN?

ah, the wonders of the blackberry messenger.aka, 'bbm.' i remember the days when the curve was the newest, hippest thing around, when "blackberrys" were too complicating, too unnecessary, too adult.hell, that curve flip phone was the best thing that ever happened to me.text messaging was cool.the curve was cool. i was COOL. fast forward to 2009, and like the infamous baby boom generation in the late 1940's, the blackberry has done just that: boomed. fergie sang it, and god knows we've all shaken our asses once or twice to that bootylicious chonga.

think about it:lets set up a scenario. it's 9:45, you're out to dinner with a few girlfriends and BAM you meet this amazing, very good-looking gentleman.hell, whatever happened to exchanging emails, via text, via mouth, via napkin, via FCKUin sign language? these days if a blackberry is in your hand, the question comes out without warning, without preparation, yet with undeniable confidence, "what's your pin?" right then and there your eyes roll back so far that this newfound creature now stares, as you stand there colorless. I mean FCKU. this stupid creature who you'll probably never speak to because just because he's good-looking doesn't mean he's great in bed, doesn't have 4 kids, isn't married, isn't gay, isn't for you. AND NOW you have to stare at his stupid BBM status everyday to remind you of how annoyed you were the day he added you. now you have to stare at your phone every three and a half seconds in order to check whether or not THE DAMN BB MESSAGE YOU SENT HIM WAS INDEED DELIVERED ANDDDDDDD READ. 

because GOD forbid he's on the phone, or busy, or working, or feeding his kids that he swore to you his separated wife didn't give birth to, or HELL breathing. then you find yourself setting this stupid man on ALERT, so during lunch with one of your other psychotic friends, you don't have to get caught checking this stupid blue circular symbol that stands now front row on your screen. with an ALERT your stalking is complete. AH, she sighs, he's NOW read my message. 

FCKU blackberrys. FCKU you. i'm going metro- metro piece of shit that is, and to hell with you and your blackberry. to hell with you and your constant PINGS because i indeed have a life and CANNNNNOT, i repeat, CANNOT get to the phone fast enough,because you're number 9 of 99 BBM "buddies" that I have to get back to today. to hell with BBM. stand in line or take a number.

Baba’s Playground.

I assemble my legs, enfolding toes Indian style, at the same table I sat once before, dipping russet chocolate chip cookies into lukewarm coffee. I listen, to your voice of deprivation, the Serbian flag tattooed on your tongue-its stripes tickling your esophagus, rummaging Sto?  Sto? Y’s throwing me to the same ground- the same pathway to our Orthodox Church where a woman was abandoned, afraid, violated, 16. Your voice echoes into plastered walls Of ancient coral covered in memories-the same walls that gave me heritage, sending you down hallways, bickering my name, index and thumb grabbing my ear throwing me back inside to the same walls that peeled me into your identity, 19.

You spoke about momma becoming a nurse as I watched your tears form soft, supple footsteps leaving imprints on your cheek and squeals in your  voice, like the bleeding needle that pricked momma’s arm and once left her with disease, 32. And your daughter, my Tetka with her picture hanging above the same bed grandpa slept in-Benji lying cornered and restrained, surrounding the same stool with limbs braided, and the smell of Palacinke still burns on the stove. 

You continued to speak apprehensively, as I stared into your bedroom glaring into a sladak bleached beauty with breasts of a madman, skin tightened and sucked, nip-tucked nose, 48. My fists now clench into the same wrinkles around your eyes, forming a life of desolation-as I dip my last chocolate chip cookie into a wave of memories, like a six year-old child growing castles in a sandbox at 1101 Leisure Lane, 60. (RIP Baba, I will always love you.)

 

HEY IT'S OK...

HEY IT'S OK...

.to stimulate the economy one Louboutin at a time.

.to sing 'whatever lola wants,' as you bat your eyelashes, holding a glass of wine, soaking in a tub of bubbles.

.to write a stupid love letter after a breakup because you need 'closure.'

.to tell the starbuck's barista, "that's NOT my name," when she writes KAREN on your sugar free iced skinny vanilla latte cup when you're name is clearly KIM.

.to roll your eyes so far behind your head, that others thank you for your patience.

.to demand being taken off speakerphone, NOW.

.to pretend you're a stupid lamb.

.to pretend you're a stupid lamb in love with a masochistic lion.twilight style.

.hell, to pretend you're in twilight. YOU'RE A VAMPIRE! (another reason to be anorexic.)

.to be blair from gossip girl.because you can.and who the hell cares if you can't. you're blair. shutup.

.to talk shit about lindsay lohan,and then save her skinny ass as your screen saver.

.to start your to-do list with something you've already done.and check it off with a smile.

.to take everything off before you step on the scale.your rings,your underwear.wait,your hair-tie.and then move the real number lower because you're a little bloated than you were yesterday.

.to not share your dessert,because you DON'T share.

.to have six favorite colors, and 10 favorite movies.

.and 12 favorite songs, and then continue to say "OMG that's my favorite song."

.to secretly wish someone else would clean up your mess.ba haha.

.to continuously say,"that's the last cigarette.i mean it."

.not to know exactly why you're crying, what errands you're "running," or where the hell you're going.

.to throw your hair up in a ponytail even if it's covered in sweat and head out in public.

.to own ONE Chanel bag with 20 dollars inside, and four over-due credit cards.

.to tell every guy you're 'different.'

.to look at your self in the mirror, and find not one DAMN flaw.

FUERZA BRUTA

send away the tigers.

there are moments when i’d look into your eyes watching the little speckle of green collide with the hazel taking naps beneath your eyelashes.i sat silently watching the peaking mountains of destruction beat within my heartbeat.and when I'd look into the mirror, i'd find you.alone.afraid.   ambitiously seeking souls of refinement.your dignity rested between the cracks of my fingers, like rippling waves pounding against your soul. your body…made of sand and white seashells.perfect seashells wrapped around my neck, collected for vanity, resurrection, heartbreak.

street love.the kind that sneaks behind you, breathing its poverty around your neck, spelling your name with it’s tongue, while closing your eyes in orgasm.the kind that makes you believe in love so blinded by insanity.the kind that makes you fight the war that won’t stop in the love of God;the kind that grabs my mind and places it gently on your stomach, listening to your organs sleep and your heartbeat eating.the kind that gives you power and leaves you seeking, draining your mind, stealing your heart and leaving it deep, shoveled in placid rain.my love is my love.and it’s the best thing that will ever happen to you.

alexander wang: my official muse: dirty glam.

don't love me.love a butterfly.

the butterfly only knows how it feels to have wings.how it feels to kiss the petals that leave its nose glistening in pollen.the butterfly only knows how to whisper secrets made of spring,how to be beautiful without being loved...so don't love me...love a butterfly.

love.letter.

it's what we're all waiting for.a summation of what a woman is worth in a thousand words or less--a bunch of scribbled pages, bull-shitted, and left unsigned. and when it throws you to the same curb as another waiting for the same scrambled grammar, do you just lie there or jump into another car.do you fight for the middle of the oreo or do you just bite down its core, imagining each and every lick of its frosting seeping on the edge of your tongue, like a chiseled ice cube scraped from your heart, now melting your redbull and vodka.so here it is.one knee crossed over the other,and the ability to exhale because who the hell believes in love letters anyway.who the hell is sitting right next to you,open palmed,and naked.who the hell even cares,even more.

by:valentina

disturbia.

I used to love, love. its smell, the way it intoxicated my nostrils with every inhale, the way it left a precise footprint on my wrist. (I always said it was my favorite perfume.)

   I used to love, love. its linger, its touch. the way it held me intertwining eight limbs, crinkling necks, forming a sort of  awkward, lovely safe cocoon. (I always said it gave me butterflies.)

I used to love, love. its taste, the way it devoured my body leaving a hint of breath behind my neck, leaving with the most perfect signature on my lips. 

(I always said it was my favorite tattoo.)

I used to love, love. I used to. to. to.

by:valentina