Sex with me will make you live longer.

It's true. Sex with me will make you live longer. And here's why. Apparently, having sex thrice weekly is the equivalent to running 75 miles per year. While that may seem like a lot, it really isn't. It's only about .2 miles per day, which will hardly keep you in shape. Thus, being hardly kept in shape will not make you live longer.

However, having sex once with me is really like having sex five times with a normal person. That's because I'm five times better at it than regular people. Thus, having sex with me thrice weekly is the equivalent to running 375 miles. Which would be like running a whole mile every day. That ain't bad.

Some (and I'm not saying who) have even alleged that I am ten times better at having sex than your average woman. That would be two miles a day if we had sex three times a week. Two miles a day! That'll definitely keep you living longer.

Submission.

Warning: Mom, you probably don't want to read this one. Seriously. Stop here.

People who know me in life know that I am a force to be reckoned with. While I'm shy at first, once I get comfortable, I just don't shut up. Furthermore, I'm argumentative by nature and I hate to lose. I win so many of my arguments not because I know what I'm talking about (in fact, in many cases, I don't have a clue what I'm talking about), but because I have my bag o' lawyer tricks. It's easy to paint someone into a corner if you know how. It's not difficult to destroy a perfectly plausible theory, simply by pointing out ridiculous, irrelevant inconsistences. If you get people lost in the minutia, they lose track of the big picture and you win. If you reframe the issue, arguing something that wasn't even brought up, you're right, they're wrong, and you win.

I have been aptly described as having a dominant personality. The only place this may not hold true is at work. An office full of lawyers is, by definition, a pack of attention whores. But in social settings, I can see what people mean. I don't have time for bullshit, and don't have the patience to put up with it. I've been told by some that I'm "refreshingly honest," by which they mean I'm a bitch who'll be brutally frank.

So what's the problem?

The men I meet in my life presume that because I'm dominant in life, that's how I am whe it comes to sex. Truth be known, I hate being the initiator or the aggressor. Being the seductress is fine, but when the mindplay becomes physical foreplay, I want to be dominated. I want someone to take control and do horrible things that I can't write because I know my mother is still reading this. (Seriously, Mom, I told you to stop.)

Yes, I admit it: I am a submissive. But I am what I enjoy referring to as a "reluctant sub." I'm fiery. I like to fight back. Sadly, however, no one's ever had the patience or sexual aptitude to realize that I enjoy the struggle, and in the end, the submission.

The KKK song.

In my junior year at Emerson College, I took a class entitled "Copy Editing and Design." It was a requirement for me as a journalism major. My favorite assignment was the AP Style Book assignment. For those of who don't know, the AP Style Book contains all the stylistic rules used by the Associated Press. It is the most commonly used newspaper style (others include Chicago style and the arcane NYT style, used only by the monster that created it: the New York Times).

We were all assigned a letter from the alphabet. We were then tasked with finding a single entry from the book in our assigned letter, and then giving a short presentation on that entry at the beginning of class. I was given the letter K. With the help of some friends and some mind-altering substances, I came to class prepared to sing a song about the stylistic rules associated with writing about the Ku Klux Klan. My classmate, Brian, accompanied me on guitar. It is an awful, awful, AWFUL song that scans horribly and has no redeeming characteristics:

The KKK Song

Now in these great United States
There are plenty of people who love to hate
But to truly understand them you’ve got to know the rules.
So here’s a little lesson on those KKK fools.

Some of them don’t use the full name
The Ku Klux Klan
But on the second reference you surely can
Just ask that Grand Dragon man.

Now the biggest groups, there are only two.
You can find them in Georgia and Alabama too.
Stone Mountain and Tuscaloosa – what are you?
The home of the KKK – it’s true.

So who makes up this crazy bunch
Who might meet occasionally and go for lunch?
It’s an Imperial Board composed of many guys.
But when you wrote “Imperial Wizard” capitalize the “I”

You can call the members Klansmen, that’s all right.
Obviously they’re all white.
Grand Dragon Dale Rousch is what you ought to say
When writing something on the stupid KKK.

Nonduality.

I got a strange email from a friend of mine today. We'd been corresponding as we generally do, which is to say we were talking about nothing. How was your weekend? Oh, it was good. Any wild plans coming up? The mundane Internet version of small talk. And then he wrote me this:

"Nonduality? WTF!!!"

I was in the middle of a rather stressful day. You see, a hearing was scheduled for Wednesday, and my boss more or less threw it at me. Which means I have to go to jail tomorrow afternoon rather than work preparing for the hearing I have on Friday. Which means that instead of writing this, I should be drafting a hard-hitting cross examination. Suffice it to say, the nonduality question more or less sprang up out of nowhere. So I responded to his email in kind:

"Nonduality? What the fuck are YOU talking about?"

His answer was oh-so-enlightening. It said, simply: "Nonduality." Well, yeah, we got that far already. I wasn't really thinking much about it. What I was really thinking about was how to get one guy out of jail and how to keep another guy from going in. So I emailed him back some bullshit linguistic answer about how "duality" means something comprised of two parts, so "nonduality" would thus be something not comprised of two parts. A bit of a wiseass answer, to be sure, but I was operating on high stress and low caffeine.

I went out for a cigarette break, thought more about it, and decided to write a more detailed message when I got home. Now, I don't purport to be an expert on such things as nonduality. I live inside my head most of the time, so some of the stuff that rattles around is buried pretty far near the bottom. My recall isn't what it used to be, so I dug around and came up with the following, not-so-great answer. I throw this out there in the hopes that there are people who know more than I.

* * *

The funny part about explaining nonduality, is that it can only be explained in terms of what it is NOT. It's a total mindfuck. And a horrible connundrum, in that the concept of duality itself is needed to explain nonduality. But I'm totally getting ahead of myself here.

It may be easier to think about if you consider what duality is first. For me, the easiest way to think about duality is in very simplistic terms. I generally look to Greek and Roman polytheism as a guide here. I dig thinking about the Greek gods and goddesses because they seem so very human in nature: they all have good attributes and bad attributes. One of the ongoing themes in Greek mythology is the struggle between good and evil. Indeed, this is the ongoing theme in most literature, classic or contemporary. In that structure, good and evil must coexist; one cannot exist without the other. There are so many examples of these sort of "opposites." How would we know peace if we did not have war? Without black, there would be no white. Yet the concept of nonduality takes all of this and throws it out the window. "Black and white?" is asks. "But what about shades of gray? Black is not black and white is not white -- they are ALL just variants of gray. All this gray simply exists, without the interaction of black or white."

Nonduality posits that there ARE no opposites, and that duality itself is merely an illusion. There is no male/female, active/passive, and so forth. There are no good words to explain nonduality, because it's a realization. How can one assign words to something that must be realized? Thus, ego (sense of self, sense of living, sense of time, planning, etc, etc.), the way it is commonly viewed, is bullshit. We do not think; we merely are present.

When I was a little girl, my mother presented me with the idea that people are not people, and brains are not brains... we merely float around, and this higher being (which some people call God), is really the force that controls life and thought and sense of self. As a 10-year-old, I pictured a huge cauldron over a fire with brains floating around in it like some odd soup, and some bigger-than-life "thing" (for lack of a better word) prodding the brain soup with a huge broomhandle. Strangely, I still sometimes get that picture in my head. Which may explain why I'm as odd as I am today.

Acorns don't grow into maple trees.

But cow seeds must grow into cow trees, right?

So to all you naysayers out there:



(Given my training in journalism, attribution is apt: This photo was forwarded to me by a faithful reader. Thanks Jennie!)

Breaking up.

I broke up with my boyfriend last week. However, the only thing that has changed is the social label we assign to our relationship. I am now free to see whomever I please, so long as I am honest and up front about everything. One of two things is bound to happen given this arrangement: (1) We will fall right back into the relationship we had; or (2) everything will go smoothly until I actually start seeing someone else. This, of course, means that my partner either (1) is really okay with the set-up; or (2) is taking what he can get for now.

I'm not upset about this development. The truth is that this particular person is the best boyfriend I've had insomuch as he treats me extremely well. He is always on time. He is thoughtful. He cuts out cute cartoons he thinks I'll like. He comes to my place bearing cigarettes and a pint of ice cream without my ever having to ask. The so-called breakup has more to do with my general restlessness and desire to deviate from the status quo than with any of his faults or shortcomings.

But at the end of the day, I don't really think I have the energy to get back out there into the dating world. It's such a bleak place to venture into, full of assholes, idiots, and people with very poor syntax and punctuation.

Cow trees.

The first argument my partner and I got into involved the possible existence of cow trees. By “cow trees” I mean trees that grow cows instead of fruit. Picture it: A gargantuan, lush, verdant tree sprouting cows from its branches. Instead of food, the growing cows would receive their sustenance from the tree itself, much the way a fetus receives its nutrients via the umbilical cord.

My partner refused to exist that such trees could ever exist. It’s not natural, he said. It’s not possible, he lamented. It just can’t be.

Open your mind, I urged. Accept that possibility, however unlikely. Just realize that it’s possible for such a thing to exist. I asked a series of questions and skillfully persuaded him that cow trees may be possible if aliens were to bring them to us. But he was still adamant in his belief that neither a quirk of nature nor a scientific innovation would bring along cow trees.

This discourse only illustrates the difficulty people have in contemplating possibilities that may exist beyond their limited understanding of how the world works. It has been said that no two snowflakes are alike. But that’s only because no one has ever found two that are alike. There are countless snowflakes out there. It seems crazy to assert that no two can be alike simply because of some long held societal belief. It’s common knowledge that men cannot reproduce. But with all the technological and scientific advances, is it really a jump to think that male reproduction may somehow, someday be possible?

The reluctance or refusal or inability to dream and consider all potential circumstances makes me sad. Even the seemingly implausible shouldn’t be rejected out of hand.

The other day I presented my cow tree argument to a woman at work. “Cows can’t grow on trees,” she said. I asked why. “Because they don’t have seeds,” she replied. “The only things that grow in trees are things with seeds. And cows don’t have seeds.”

“Not yet,” was my only response.

Sexy is a state of mind.

If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: Any woman can get laid. It takes neither effort, nor imagination. When I was living in Boston, I conducted a test to prove this point. Bear in mind that I am not some gorgeous specimen of a woman. But I walked up to ten men in a bar and asked if they'd come home with me for sex. Eight said yes. One was gay.

As easy as it is for women to get sex, being sexy is an entirely different matter. The sorrority girls of today will become the wrinkled, haggard ladies of tomorrow; the women who, at 40 years old, still wear midriff-bearing halter tops. The 21-year-old princesses who think they can demand the world of any man because they're young and nubile will get married and stop putting out by age thirty-five. The 20-somethings who drink too much and give too much head are not sexy. The vapid women at clubs are not sexy; they're merely scantily clad.

Sexy is a state of mind. Sexy is about confidence. Sexy is about discovering a man's fantasy woman and becoming it. It doesn't matter what you look like. Seriously. It just takes creativity, spontenaity, and the willingness to try anything. As I said above, I am not a beautiful woman; I am marginally attractive. I don't have a great body, but I know how to accentuate the good and eliminate the bad. Yet even being of average looks and body type, I've had beautiful men eating out of the palm of my hand.

Why? Because, once again (say it with me): Sexy is a state of mind.

The beautiful, olive-complected Italian Catholic boy who'd gone to a Catholic high school? I merely pranced into class wearing a plaid skirt, white thigh highs, black Mary Janes, and a tight, low cut sweater. He ended up dropping by later that night because he was "in the area."

The somewhat older BMW-driving yuppie financial advisor? I gave him a call after work telling him I'd help him with some secretarial/administrative matters. I dropped by, purportedly coming straight from work, wearing a suit, hair in a bun, three inch heels, black framed glasses on. I wore nothing else but stockings and garters. The dictation didn't last long.

And the traditionalist? For those folks, nothing works better than throwing on a corset, stockings (fishnet or otherwise), and ridiculously high heels (I own both four and six inch) or boots. Add a trench coat, drive over, and you're good to go.

My point? From what I've discovered (both from personal experience and from talking to my male friend), class is superior to cheap clothing and drunkeness. Stockings and heels are staples. Lowered inhibitions help. And the ability to use language to flirt and persuade and present innuendo -- WITHOUT being cheesy, sleazy, or cheap -- is essential.

So ladies, stop killing yourself trying to get the killer body. Don't beat yourself up because you're not one of the Beautiful People. Just internalize your own sexiness. Believe it and own it, and you'll never fail in getting whomever it is you desire.

I sold my soul on eBay.

Years ago, I sold my soul on eBay. "One virginal soul," I advertised. "Complete with certificate of authenticity." I charged $20 for shipping and handling. It was my soul, after all. I ended up getting more for the shipping than for the soul itself. I used to be very flip about having sold my soul on eBay. I thought it was an entertaining anecdote. I would tell people I had neither soul nor spirit, and would then launch into the story. It was some of my best material and got some decent laughs from the critics and cynics of the world. I'd even throw in a few quips about the problems with "truth in advertising," given that I'd touted my soul as being "virginal."

I was angry. I was bitter. I hated everone and everything. In retrospect, I abhore that I was so callous. Luckily, I came out of it all relatively unscathed. But it was only a little more than a year ago that I thought myself empty. With the help of some introspection and some good friends who were willing to talk to me when I called at 4 am, I've come a long way. But I realize that as far as my spiritual journey is concerned, I still have a long way to go.

The only part that makes me sad is that I've yet to find someone who really gets all this. My social circle is full of lawyers and atheists who don't have the humility to understand that there's more to the world than the spheres of their own experiences.

Creepy stuff.

So I called my mother today to ask for some advice. Her first question? "So who do you have a crush on?"

It's bad enough that my mother is technologically literate. But that she reads my blog? That's just creepy.