My happiness can be bought for the low price of 500,000 euros (or I´m only posting so I can abuse the hyphen key).

Sometimes when I’m looking for material to post on, I try to look deep within myself and find some really dark hidden reality inside of me to enlighten you all with so we can make some kind of human connection however fragile across these windows of integrated circuits and pixels n shit.

But, let’s face it, I’m not that substantive, and to be honest, sometimes I’m as shallow as that stagnant, piss-temperature puddle I just fucked my boots up in on my way to work. Trust me, I live with myself, I know this about me.

Shopping makes me happy. Not ephemerally, evasively happy, but real, Capitalism-Has-Hooked-It´s-Fangs-Into-Me-And-I´m-Ready-To-Speak-In-Tongues-For-This-Shit happy.

I know that deep down I’m a materialist. If someone gave me 500,000 euros it would buy my happiness. Or at least I feel like it would. I would buy a house in Arizona and a flat in Spain and I would quit my Being-Penetrated-In-My-Ear-Canal-Would-Be-Funner-Than-This job.

I know, I know, you will say that if I had the money, I would just find new things to be unhappy about and it wouldn’t bring REAL happiness. Well, save it, cause luckily I don’t believe in real happiness. How could I? I’m kidless. Everyone knows you can’t even fathom real happiness until you spawn. Duh.

So in the meantime, I’m gonna drool over some new boots I might treat myself to if I start feeling really desperate for some happiness relief and dream of the day I can tell The Man to get his dick out of my ear canal.

Anyone have a Q-tip?

-Bluestreak

The Olympics bores me to tears. Come on, world, let´s do something I care about.

Alright, I get it. These people are crazy machines and they deserve semi-deity status. But why is this so important? How did the entire world get together and decide unanimously that people running and jumping over hurdles and doing crazy shit with sticks would be the main thing that would unite humanity? I thought sex, alcohol, and food united humanity. Oh, and religion, but that´s no fun.

Is the Olympics supposed to give me hope? In what? In the fact that there are super-humans among us and I´m not one of them? In human potential? In dream achievement? Does it remind us of that great idea we had that there are winners and losers and the winners are there cause they deserve it? Aaaaaaaa, fuck this.

Rassles got me thinking about some missing activities from the Olympics, so here are some of my ideas of what we could do every four years as a world with various representatives from different countries (I´ll volunteer if necessary):

1). Play drinking games and then vote on which country handled themselves the best, acted the dumbest, were the funniest, made the biggest asses out of themselves, lost all their money, etc. Losers get to be drunk and stupid.

2). Make a bunch of food and then vote on which meal was the yummiest, which was the sickest, etc. The losers have to eat their sick ass food.

3). Watch representatives from different countries have sex (OK, I´m not volunteering anymore) and then vote on who was the sexiest, kinkiest, sickest, etc. I don´t think there are any real losers in this case.

4). Every country gets to play music and then we vote on who ruled the most (this is NOT EUROVISION) Kill me, Eurovision.



If the Olympics had these activities, I would watch them happily and it would give me way more faith in humanity than watching a superhuman do weird-ass flips on a balance beam, cause then I would begin to identify with the human race again.



-Bluestreak



"Yay for the Olympics" by kk+ courtesy of Flickr.

Age blows

Age. It is happening and it is not what I expected. It is much more annoying.



I remember being 21 years old and thinking that I had absolutely no problem with ageing. I knew that the physical was not going to be there forever and the things that really mattered got better with age (sex, intellect, finances, emotional well-being, and ummm, there must be a few more examples). In other words, I had the optimism of a village idiot eye-balling the haystack he just tossed his fucking needle in.

For some reason, my 31 year old self has forgotten all about my 21 year old wisdom. I see my crows feet, my bastard arms that aren't supposed to look like that, those funky gray WTF hairs, my changing nose, the weird spots that appear out of nowhere, my fading and blurring tattoo (that just turned 13!)



My boobs are holding up alright against gravity-the-infidel, but let´s be honest, that´s only because they don´t weigh much. Plus I haven´t had kids yet, so we´ll see how it goes, I´ll keep you posted.

But what about sex, intellect, finances, emotional well-being? Yeah, yeah. Shut the hell up. I want to look hot, okay? And I don´t want to have to give up food and alcohol to get it.

A friend of mine once said, "my goal in life is to look good and have fun parties" and I envied her honesty about her lack of depth. Because I´m discovering I may have been being a bit dishonest this whole time, pretending to care about other shit more than my fleeting youth. And now I admit that I might spend more time in the mirror doing WTF double-takes than feeding my intellect. Truth be told.

So does anyone care to remind me that there are things more worthy than the fountain of youth? Or is ageing just the mortal coil that´s gonna just be with me from here on out?




-Bluestreak, shallower and shallower every day.


p.s. Don´t you dare tell me i look good unless you saw me naked when I was 21 and have seen me naked recently, and then your flattery MIGHT be taken seriously.

Alice in Wonderland illustrations by Sir John Tenniel from Fundraw.com.

Back to the Present

Quick update on me for anyone who gives a damn before I proceed to post on some sick shit: Head has been pulled out of ass and am finally thinking in present tense instead of past. Pat on back. Nothing like a good massage and having your hairs ripped out by the roots by a fucking sadist to put you in the present.

I am in awe right now.

In-law Land never ceases to amaze me. Although this is the place of weird flamenquín fans I discussed earlier, it is also the place where Bob Dylan just played, so it has something going for it in my book that it never had before. There are two other things In-Law Land has that are high on my list right now of things that make my eyes roll back into my head with pleasure:

1) A kick-ass massage
2) A thorough wax job (I told you I get embarrassingly personal).

Let´s start with the latter because I have bitched many a blue streak (in real life, not yet on my blog) about waxing, hair removal, and the endless-hell-that-is-my-ape-like-albeit-blonde-body. If it were not toxic, I would superglue every single hair follicle on my body shut after first having each hair ripped out to its death. I don´t care if it isn´t natural or if I have bought into sexist consumer culture and the barrage against women convincing them that they should go through these painful procedures in order to remain youthful and sexy. Blah blah blah. Bullshit. Hair is sick. Get. Off. Of. Me.

I´m actually one of these weird people that gets pleasure from getting waxed (that is once I get over the initial fear that the aesthetician’s jaw will drop to the ground and then she will proceed to tell me that I am the hairiest individual she has ever laid eyes on). I actually like the feeling of having my hairs ripped out. I know that is weird, especially since and I have zero tolerance for pain normally and if you come near me with a syringe I will pass out before you get within 3 feet of me.

DISCLAIMER: Proceed only if you can bear TMI (too much information):

Spain is full of waxers, and this is where I was turned onto the whole joy of it all. But for some damn reason the ole U.S. of A. has surpassed Spain in the waxing of the nether regions (i.e. Brazilians, thanks Sex and the City). When it comes to that area of the body (the area that really matters) wax jobs SUCK here, and by here I mean the whole fucking city of Seville because my hairiness has been around town, believe me. Brazilian, Caribbean, what the hell does all this mean?? They still do not get all the effing hair off. I am sorry but there are certain areas of my body that I should not have to ask to be serviced (that sounds gross, I am talking about getting waxed here…Ok, admittedly still gross), it should be understood. No words should be exchanged. They should just think to themselves “Aaaw, honey, trust me, you don´t want that there….let me just…RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” and then life would be golden.

Lucky for me, this happens in In law Land. They are ahead of the hair-game. They are ahead of their time for being such a small Andalusian city. Maybe they watch more late-night free Spanish T.V. porn and know what the nether regions are “supposed” to look like in 2008.

As for the massage, I was delightfully surprised the other day when I spent the day at the spa and got a GREAT massage. Normally it is like someone tickling you with a feather over here, they do not seem to get that they need to actually work at it and bust some muscle into it.

So here I am today in the NOW, happy, relaxed, muscles that feel like butter, hairless and loving it. The present is good right now. My past was much too hairy….but those were the 90´s. It´s forgivable.

-Bluestreak