Artificial Angels

I visited Old Town Albuquerque today. It was as interesting as any other old town, but what was most interesting was that almost every building was a shop. There were a few restaurants and one museums, but everything else was a shop hoping to sell the same souvenirs as the merchants along the side of a wall. It was essentially a mall of souvenirs and turquoise exactly like what you’ll find at any flea market, so I just bought a necklace with a tiny vial of fairy dust.

Everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by merchants and spammers. Even my friends now send text messages trying to entice me to buy overpriced Cutco (which apparently is not a subsidiary of Edgecom) knives from Vector Marketing. It reeks of desperation when they feign enthusiasm over cutlery when they don’t even cook.

Everybody needs to make money, but why do they always have to make money on crap nobody wants or needs? I don’t need jewelry or t- shirts I’ll never wear, and why would I pay hundreds of dollars for knives that aren’t even the best? I’d pay money to see a performance though. I’d lay down a Hamilton for a chapbook. I’d open my wallet to see a symphony. I just want a memorable experience.

I accept that life is a freemium game that nickel-and-dimes you, but I wish it sold more art and less crap.

Be hot and cold as Katy Perry prophesied. If something is meaningful, love it with a passion and defend it to the death. Otherwise, as Emilie Autumn said, “Let it die.”

Stop being a nerd. Indulging in controversial topics on the Internet is pointless. As Dharma Montgomery once said, “If you wrestle a pig, you only get dirty, and the pig has all the fun.”

Become a real yogimon master. I’d also like better abs.

Eat like a fey. Not Tina Fey, but a fairy. In other words, be a Super Vegan. When it comes to soda, drink only Sprite like Laurel Sewell did on Wings. Not the old USA sitcom, but the paranormal romance by Aprilynne Pike. Sierra Mist is, to quote Hayley Williams of Paramore, “the only exception.”

Work life like a burlesque show. For an introvert, society is best approached as a piece of performance art; I also don’t stutter in performances. Like any play, it should not exceed three or four hours.

Live life like a video game. Treat every circumstance and event as if it has purpose. If I see a tornado carrying a car, assume God’s in that tornado and he’s aiming that car right at me.

Raise the tide of the Sea and flood the shores unceasingly. Self-explanatory.

Go! As Gwen Stefani once asked, “What you waiting for?” To quote GaGa, “I am a fucking lion and I cannot be destroyed.” As Sonic says, “If you have time to worry, then run.”

Oops… Almost forgot. Accept every challenge. Hyah!

Sometimes, I prefer to type on an iPad. My MacBook is only inches away, but I don’t want to use it today.

The greatest benefit of an iPad over a regular computer is the focus it facilitates. A distraction is only a Command-Tab away on my Mac, but to switch to Safari on here requires a double-click of the Home button and a scroll through the Recent Apps list to find that blue compass. It’s hardly a hassle, but it’s a more jarring transition, so if I must break my eyes from the words for a moment, I’ll just look and stare at Lady GaGa posters, aisles of books, or a parking lot, depending on where I am.

The software keyboard is not as comfortable as a regular keyboard, but I can type almost as quickly as I can on a regular keyboard. I’m sure I could type over 100 words if I tried. I’ll make more mistakes, but I’m only writing first drafts on here anyway. I save revisions for the Mac; moving words around on an iPad is not worth the effort.

It’s as silent as outer space. Even at its quietest, the MacBook emits white noise I can hear even through the music. I can’t hear the faintest buzz on here though. Maybe it’s neurosis, but that minute hum is distracting.

The iPad hasn’t replaced my MacBook, but it’s replaced my notebook. Why bother with paper when this is as light and thin and doesn’t require me to decipher sloppy handwriting?

When one realizes one’s escapes from calamity, victories over hardships, and successes in life were not the result of miracles or answered prayers but of one’s own strength, resilience, and determination, one, even one predisposed to terminal timidity, naturally starts to feel a little more confident.

In an entry of The Daily Writer, the author writes of how the great orators of old discouraged writing down speeches lest their ability to actually memorize them suffered. Though the fear was valid, the author writes that our memories have deteriorated so greatly that writing actually benefits them nowadays.

Dissect me and you will see self-esteem is a rarity while paranoia flows abundantly. If I apply the strategy above, I can achieve equilibrium. If I embrace narcissism, I won’t become a douchebag, and if I embrace recklessness, I won’t become self-destructive. If I were already headed straight, then a swerve to the left would steer me right into oncoming traffic, but I drag against the shoulder. Therefore, I need a sharp turn in the opposite direction to return to the road I was made to travel. Even if I were to fall to the opposite extreme–though I doubt my tendency toward caution and fear would ever allow me–it would be better to die explosively in a head-on collision than to be dragged across thousands of mile of dirt. I can believe I’m invincible, because right now I believe I’m completely vulnerable.

My mother told me last night that I act like the welfare clients with whom she dealt when she worked at the county: they allowed the slightest troubles to snowball and crush them, which was why many of them remained dependent upon the government for survival. Ironic how fear, worry, self-consciousness, and every emotion dressed as self-preservation destroy me. If I do not change, I will suffer the same fate; now that is a more productive fear.

What drives you to wake up early in the morning and not merely live life but also kick ass in it? For me, it used to be Katie and the shadows who followed. I’ve since outgrown the infatuations, which has spared my life from those frequent bouts of depression that were one of the main symptoms, but now I have no reason to wake up early in the morning.

What do I really want? What do I dream of? It’s not wealth, it’s not a family, and it’s not even friends; it’s an audience. I want the attention, the affection, and the admiration of people in awe of me. Even the most intimate fantasy involving Katie had her play audience to the real focus of the fantasy: me. It’s not a sin to live to earn the fleeting affection of others. It might be a bit narcissistic, but the most successful people I envy tend to be most jealous douchebags around, so why shouldn’t I indulge in a drop or two? At the very least, I’ll still have the empathy wanting from their lives. Self-denial is overrated as proven by last year when I tried to live the miserable life of a saint.

When I share a poem, a picture, a video, or something creative that somebody enjoys, I no longer feel like a ghost but like a tangible person with an actual identity. That’s why I adore Emilie Autumn and Lady GaGa: They transcended normalcy and allowed who they really are to surface. The casual observer might believe them to be nothing more than women in costumes, but they are at their realest in the makeup, the masks, and the costumes. They have encouraged me to wear my fairy wings without shame. I suffer noticeable speech impediments, and I’m not beautiful, but I have talents with which I can earn your admiration. As I invest the 10,000, success, admiration, and self-fulfillment will become more inevitable. There is no if; there is only when.

“Knowledge is not skill. Knowledge plus 10,000 times is skill.” –Shinichi Suzuki

“I’m a determined motherfucker and if I try something it will not be put down until I master it! That’s just the way it goes. So, I can confidently, arrogantly say I will never not succeed at something because I just won’t stop until I do. I refuse to fail or not be good at something. That’s not gonna happen.” –Emilie Autumn

“If I Were a Boy” is a song by Beyonce in which she confesses her hidden desire to be a man so she could satisfy her forbidden lust for college co-eds. Due to its promotion of homosexuality, the song has never received airplay on any Christian radio station. In fact, conservative Christian groups consider the song itself such a threat to civilization that James Dobson, Miss Cali, and Victoria Jackson left a party at the Playboy mansion early to stage a protest against her record company. As a good Christian, I attended the protests and joined the demands to have Beyonce deported to Kenya. Nevertheless, I must confess that even I, a real man, have fantasized what life would be like if I were the opposite sex.

If I were a girl, my first act would be to play with my boobs in front of the bathroom mirror as I waited for the bathwater to warm. This is already part of my daily routine, but with bigger boobs–I’m sure would be at least a C cup–it’d be much more entertaining. After a very therapeutic and sensual bath courtesy of the Body Shop, I’d pretty up myself with a palette of very expensive makeups. As a woman–a beautiful woman–I’d experiment with makeups much more. Sure, I’d be so beautiful that I wouldn’t need them, but I’m vain and would not be satisfied with mere hotness when I could achieve super hotness level four. Men would lust after me constantly, but they could never have me because I would be a total lesbian, so I would act like a frigid bitch to them. They’d eventually give up their efforts and avoid me, which would be perfectly fine by me. They smell bad anyway. However, I would embrace women like a needy neglected kitten.

I’d go out much more if only for the excuse to dress up in rainbow glitter and fairy wings. I already fear that I’m going to be mugged whenever I’m out past eight, but as a girl, I’d also suffer a constant fear that I was going to be raped. Therefore, I’d have to take many self-defense and martial arts classes. I’d be a black belt in a few different traditions and definitely be able to kick some ass! Ironically, I’d be more of a man than I am right now. I’d definitely speak with my fists much more. Nevertheless, I’d still be submissive and masochistic to the right people.

When I returned home from a fabulous night out with the girls–who would all be as beautiful as I–I would spend much less time on the Internet than I do now. What would be the point? I wouldn’t waste time on MySpace or Facebook because I wouldn’t want creepy, socially-inept, Linux-using nerd virgins stalking me thinking they could get with this by kissing my ass. If I wanted to interact with friends, I would do so through texting. However, I would probably spend the evening taking impromptu pictures and videos of myself.

I’d occasionally go to a gynecologist. It would definitely be a female gynecologist since I would not want some creepy dude fiddling with my hooha. I guess I’d also need to buy tampons. I would purchase the most comfortable and effective ones on the market even if they were the most expensive. I know nothing about tampons though so I would read Amazon reviews on all the different brands. I wouldn’t ask my friends in real life since I would prefer to keep all my female bodily functions a mystery. This is something I already do as a male.

I would obsess over my weight. I already do, but I know I would do so much more if I were a girl. I’m ugly as a boy, so I don’t mind gaining a pound or two, but if I were a girl, I would be such a beautiful blonde that I would have to treat my body like a temple–a shiny sterilized temple. Such obsessive-compulsive behavior would exhaust me; I’d need plenty of relaxation. I would get frequent full-body massages. I had one last year, but it was awkward. As a woman, I’m sure I’d be able to enjoy it much more.

Apparently, not much would change if I were a girl; I’d simply do more of the feminine things I already do; I could embrace them without reprisal. Why should I be reluctant with my femininity though? Wild at Heart men would scoff at my fruitiness, but they’re all closeted homosexuals who define a real man as one who has severe daddy issues, who gets naked and slaps ass with other men in locker rooms, and who oils up his body and rubs it against another man in a caged octagon. If that’s what’s considered to be a man’s man, then go ahead and call me a queer, Mr. Braveheart!

The main difference then is that, as a girl, I would have much more confidence to be the person I wanted to be. I don’t need a vagina to do that though, do I?

This is what I would look like as a girl except I would be blonde.