Paper Boat Dreams

I just got off the phone with my Aunt and started thinking. She doesn’t get communicating online at all. She gets the technology, but she doesn’t get why people spend so much time and money to talk to strangers or have more email than they can handle. This stumped me for a minute, but then I got a theory.

It used to be you could talk to people on the street. You could chat about the weather or the news and it would be nice and then you’d go your separate ways. But now you have to worry that they are psycho or they’re gonna ask you for something, or worse, that they’ll think you are weird.

So from this condition we have shut ourselves down. We size somebody up in a second and we cross the street, either literally or figuratively. We judge people by how they look, of course, but it’s a complex assessment– in a flash– based on so many little things that it takes up too large of your brain.

The thing is, people still want to connect. Behind all that cynicism is this desperate need to connect. You know when people do good deeds accidentally, like keeping a whale alive when it’s washed onshore or helping somebody out during a fire or something? They all feel so good, and they can’t quite explain it.

So in cyberspace, they are talking to people again! But in this virtual world, they don’t have to worry that somebody’s gonna pull a gun if they say the wrong thing. Or even if someone is psycho, they can go ahead and talk to them, they never have to see them again, that if they want to. They can even enjoy talking to a psycho. They’re safe enough to connect. And for women?! Whoa! Suddenly they can tell assholes to fuck off without getting killed, or be really sexy in a way that they would never be normally, and just enjoy it. Even though the majority of onliners are men, I think it’s gonna change, if for that reason alone.

This leads me to why so many men pose as women online. It’s like cyber-crossdressing. They give up the male role for awhile or pretend they’re lesbians. What cracks me up is that they’re probably doing it with other guys as well who are acting like women that moment too.

    Awesum: You a guy or a girl?
    Scratch: Does it matter?
    Awesum: I’m pretty loose about most things, but I don’t f*ck no dudes.
    Scratch: Ah, that’s a shame, baby. You’d probably enjoy it if you loosened up. That’s OK. I’m not anything tonight.
    Awesum: I take it you enjoy watching two guys together. No, I don’t think I would enjoy it, and yes, I am pretty loose.
    Scratch: I enjoy lots of things, like guys who can be receptive, as it were. :)
    Awesum: I can be receptive to certain things. But I enjoy it more when I do the giving.
    Scratch: Aint’ that sweet. And rare.
    Awesum: So do you just naturally have a fucked-up attitude. Or is this your way of weeding out certain people?
    Scratch: WTF do you know about my attitude dude. I’m gonna fire up a weedwhacker if you continue.
    Awesum: Somehow I get the impression you’re a guy. If that’s the case, bring the weedwhacker over here and I will demonstrate on you how it is used properly… ha ha. Your attitude is all fucked up. But I think that is just great. LOL
    Sratch: “signs off

Oh, I got off the track. But only when you’ve tried mIRC and other cleints with scripting language, you can know what I mean.

I was sad today, so I spent the afternoon in the streets with a new buddy spitting on ugly passersby.

Before you call me out on how mean that sounds, I must explain that the people we spit on were really ugly, almost non-human. Whenever I feel sad, I like to do really disgusting things to jolly myself along. Sometimes I’ll point a finger at taxi drivers or lure passengers away from them. Yeah, I sure do love to see people needlessly bog off and children cry. Good times! After the long walk, I burst upon the sidewalk as my friend escorted the kindest elderly woman across the street, waiting until the “crossing” began to blink. Once they got to the middle of the intersection, my friend scurried away and left the old woman looking for some safe direction. HAHA I actually farted on this scene, and too ran away. Old people sure are stupid.

Then we sneaked into a men’s room and peed on all the covered seats, because I can’t understand what reason any utility man would have to close the bowl and leave the cubicle open.

After I get done writing this, I’m going to steal a book or two at Booksale. Gotta be Michael Cunningham’s At Home In The End of The World. Been dying for this since the time I saw it three weeks ago. LOL God forbid!

My friend Michael, now Michelle, sent me questions she wanted to ask all her friends. Never thought of them myself, but now I hope someone could show an answer. This issue just popped up yesterday. Pretty excellent.

Don’t you think it’s kinda weird that if you want to have a surgeon break your nose, suck out fat from your hips, stretch your face tight over your skull, or add dangerous globs of saline to your breast, you just have to sign up, pay the bills and do it..

But if you want to change your genitalia, you must first live as the opposite sex *before* the change, go to therapy, and play the nice girl before you ever get the permission?

I found this whole surgery thing amusing. Michelle had been living as a girl before she started taking anti-androgen pills and she doesn’t looked kind of in between since. It seems this is like going out in drag against her will. A subaltern drag. For how many more months or years she has to do this, only the process knows. But does she really have to make up an entire childhood as a little girl, so when talked with people, they wouldn’t suspect she was once a guy? I have no idea what other stuff she must practice everyday.

She further said that being in a therapy for being a transsexual is the only therapy where they encourage you to lie. Isn’t ironic?

It’s different today. I don’t know what to think. Probably this is what I experience with this horrific consistency. I cannot turn on the lights, as the electricity has been shut off, and why this has happened– why something like electricity may be shut off– is incomprehensible to me, so I am forced to light candles and place them in tin cans or empty soda bottles, and I sit in my dimly lit room far from whatever I knew downtown, without secure thoughts to comfort me. Disoriented. Beat. Without thoughts at all perhaps. And I am blank, as empty as the proverbial unpainted canvas.