I have known many women who hate the word moist. Sometimes they specify that they also hate the phrase moist panties. At least three ladies I’ve known have independently reported this distaste over the years. I think this is something a lot of American women share. I don’t hate this phrase. I don’t love it, either. I wonder why women hate it. Other phrases I don’t hate: fetid boxer shorts. Duck butter. Spermy Loofah. Shriner. (Actually, I do hate shriner)
I just heard a woman say ex-boyfriend. I think this is a phrase women don’t hate.
Yesterday I tried to talk about race in a jocular fashion. The other things I was saying were getting big laughs, I’m a funny guy, but the record needle, so to speak, came to a skidding halt when I tried to joke around about “race.”
I have made generalizations about American women in this blog post, and I think some people may feel irritated reading them. Another irritating thing about this blog post might be the monotone/deadpan/cute/simple/twee tone I’ve inexplicably adopted. This is a tone men adopt in their writing sometimes. Women too. Is it different when women write tweely? Who is the number one twee woman writer? Funny female writers tend to have a ‘ballsier’ aspect. Funny male writers can stray into neutered Demetri Martin territory more easily. [link] [attribution needed]
My book club read Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star. Everyone else hated it. I liked it until book club met, then I hated it. That book, written by a woman, has a derangedly self-conscious male narrator. This conceit creates some “interesting” “narrative tension” when you remember—as you are occasionally (at least once) urged to do—that the “real” author is a woman.
Please delete this email.
Please water the plants while I’m in Argentina.
I “own” a canister of marijuana right now. It’s been a while since I’ve “owned” marijuana. It was “gifted” to me. (“Fake scare quotes” are a hallmark of the twee/precious/pat male writer. What female writer uses “fake scare quotes” the most? If Tao Lin were a woman, I wouldn’t be writing this sentence.) Owning pot puts me in a real “Enfield Tennis Academy” frame of mind. The pot calls to me from the desk drawer. It it a little Pandora’s box. I know the hip demons and funky rhythm-goblins it contains. They want to be free. They vamp a little, quietly, in the drawer, waiting for me to perform the “spell” (lit lighter brought down to bear) that will “awaken” them. The bass guitar and synth bass play in unison. It’s a cool effect.
This is my personal web page. I use it as a place to waste a bunch of time when in fact the situation at work today is exigent as fuck, what I am doing, holy shit, goodbye