Why I Risk Death by Lethal Injection

I can't help but think "poor little guy/girl" whenever I see a spider peering up at me with those several compound eyes and crawling about on those spindly legs. This counters my roommates' instinctual response of "gaaagh! kill it!" instilled by horrific documentaries and internet photos of what supposedly happens to you after being bitten by certain spiders. Usually these photos are more fitting for flesh-eating virus after-pictures than a brush with an arachnid. Since we are hardly entomologists - even though my roommate is a biology major who took an internship studying the Japanese Beetle - we have no idea which are the harmless, "cuddly" spiders like Charlotte from "Charlotte's Web" or which ones are like the brown recluse which caused the rather distinctive scarring on my friend Mike's body. Naturally, this is a completely different story, but I'd like to think he wouldn't have been the same interesting person without his brush with death at a young age.

I jump in front of hurtling shoes. I allow potentially venomous creatures to crawl on my skin unscathed. I slowly slide open balcony and backyard doors as if handling an unmarked package left in front of a federal building. Why? It could be due to a superstition I read about how it is unlucky to kill spiders. Part of me thinks this is based on scientific fact since spiders catch other insects, the ones which are more likely to give you diseases due to their unhygienic ways. I figure that a small risk of stinging or being injected with toxic venom is worth not having to worry about botulism all over my kitchen countertop.

Also, I just relate to them. Wouldn't anybody? Spiders perform a useful, if little-known or underappreciated, service. I'm just the dumb kid in the mail room to most people. But somebody's got to send the books out to customers. Books don't just materialize out of thin air as soon as you place that online order, although I've received emails and phone calls from people who seem to carry that attitude.

So please, for all the dumb kids in the mail room, all the waiters and busboys, all the street sweepers and garbage collectors, please don't kill the spiders. Just do the kind thing and brush it into a glass, a small piece of paper, or even your hand if nothing else is available, and set the little guy/girl outside. They just might repay you by helping keep out the mosquitos, moths and houseflies.

If you don't, I'll bite you. After all, it won't be too hard to track down where you live since we keep your address and order on file.

On Needle Freaking

I invented the term "needle freaking" to explain my seemingly bizarre fascination with puncture injuries and the strange high I got while donating blood. A chill runs up my spine just thinking about the surgical steel needle running parallel to my arm until it forms an acute angle, penetrating my skin and tapping vein. A thrill would come over me as soon as I saw the words "Blood Drive" chalked on the quad or on fliers posted around campus. I looked forward to going in for blood work.

During the actual act of blood donation, I would lie there in pure bliss, feeling a cold - not hot - wave wash over me. I felt like my life was draining out of me, yet at the same time, it made me feel more aware of how alive I was. I would watch the blood course from my arm, down the clear plastic tubing into the pouch which always reminded me of a clear Capri Sun container. One time, I got up afterward to get some orange juice at the refreshment table and watched myself fall as nearby volunteers caught me and wheeled me over to a cot. I don't know which experience was more exciting, watching myself fall, or finding myself carried off almost instantaneously.

I used to watch documentaries about body suspension and how the experience was so intense that people would feel like they left their bodies, as I did the one time I donated blood a bit too fast. Scientists explained this by the fact that if pain is at a certain level of intensity, the brain releases endorphins, causing a pleasant high. A lot of these documentaries also covered ritual tattooing around the world, using simple implements like a hollow needle and wet ashes.

Some time during last summer, I decided that I wanted to take the next step in my fascination with needles and get a tattoo. After numerous schedule postponements due to my work schedule and the fact that Tilt (the owner of New Life who did my tattoo) forgot that he had something else going on that weekend, I finally got it done today.

It wasn't quite what I expected. Everyone I knew kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to do this. Even the people at New Life asked me if I was sure I wanted to get a tattoo. Yet I know I have no regrets and will not have any concerning this experience. I think life is just one opportunity after another to find new experiences and either learn from them or gain as much pleasure from them as possible. For awhile, I sort of saw this as my own rite of passage, as other cultures have used tattoos, but I remember that Adam at New Life says that usually people here tend to get tattoos due to aesthetic than any symbolic meaning.

This was definitely not like donating blood, since people weren't exactly nurturing. For one thing, when I said that my roommate had come to hold my hand, Tilt (jokingly, of course) said "No holding hands! If you pass out, you'll take her with you." I guess they act that way to add to the ambience of the tattoo place, or maybe some of them really are just jerks. Things were pretty cool for the most part, except for the random jabs at my roommate. I probably should have stood up for her and asked "hey, why are you being such an ass to my roommate?" but I didn't.

Also, the pain wasn't like donating blood either. Instead of a low, dull throb for a few minutes, it was a sort of whinging repeated sting. I knew it would be different, especially considering I was being stabbed with a needle countless times at a rapid speed. I honestly don't know how my tribal "counterparts" in the Philippines or elsewhere could deal with non-machine tattooing, with someone just stabbing your skin with a hollow needle slowly, sometimes on the face. I didn't really expect to feel any more "grown up" than before, but I figured I wanted something to commemorate my graduation.

I'm not sure which hurt worse, the actual tattooing or the antiseptic ointment they used to keep things clean, which felt a lot like how I imagine pouring gasoline on my skin and tossing a cigarette on it would feel. I definitely appreciated the attention to hygiene though. I expected pain, but seemed to be making a much bigger deal of it than anyone really wanted. However, I think the real reason for my alarm was that for some reason, my chest felt tight and I had difficulty breathing. With the occasional gasp of air and clutch at the chest, I would be all right in between needlings. The sensation reminded me of how I imagined the pavement feels when being jackhammered. I felt the rumbling on my shoulderblades, spine, and the back of my ribcage. It reverberated, shooting needles of pain that seemed to shoot through my organs and bounce back on the other side.

Occasionally people came in to talk to and just hang out with the artists. One girl was a bit drunk after a tailgate. There were some visuals of T&A with the unveiling of various tattoos. I sort of felt a bit concerned for Jenna since as she told me later, this definitely wasn't "her people." In all truth, I don't think they're really mine either. After all, above all other things, I am a tourist. I hung around UC Hip Hop and Illini Film and Video but never really got "involved." The woman next to me was getting a cardinal tattooed on her shoulder. She said nothing, and I think laughed once or twice at my frequent wincing. Tilt asked Jenna if she was named Jenna like the porn star Jenna Jameson, which people have asked her in the past. This naturally resulted in a conversation about porn and "getting off." Everyone knows how freely I talk about sex, but for some reason, I wasn't as comfortable about it, what with the occasional nervous laughter. Of course, if I wasn't comfortable with it, I figured Jenna probably wasn't either.

Three hours and $275 bucks (plus tip) later, it was finished. Joel, the apprentice (aka cute Asian guy, but you didn't read that here), bandaged me up with what looked like scotch tape and a paper towel with a layer of stinging antistptic and cocoa butter beneath it. As he was patching me up, he gave me the rundown of what I would have to do. The bandage would have to stay on overnight. Sunday, I would have to keep it as clean as possible using dye and fragrance-free antibacterial soap and dry it off with paper towels since bath towels harbor bacteria which would cause infection. I would have to keep it clean and dry for a couple of days and then start using cocoa butter around Tuesday or Wednesday.

Needless to say, after three hours in the chair slouching and getting repeatedly stabbed with a needle, I wanted to get out of there. Granted, I could have asked Tilt to do more, but I honestly wouldn't have known what to ask for since I thought it looked great the way it was. Not to mention the fact that I don't think I could have taken anymore needling or blatently abrasive/offensive dialogue hurled at either me or my roommate.

Still, a lot of it was fun. It was a bonding experience for me and Jenna since she went to get me water and drove me there and back. She also reinforced the scotch tape with medical tape. Liz wished she could have been there since she had to go to work but got to hear about it as soon as I got back. For now, we're ordering a pizza and watching movies.

In the end, I sort of wish I had taken pictures of the process of my tattoo. It was interesting to see how the colors were coming together. I can't wait until it heals and I can show it off or keep it hidden as I please. I always figured it could be a secret sign of some sort since only a few people would be able to see it (unless I start wearing halter tops again). Maybe I'm just being overly romantic. Hell, everyone at New Life saw it, so it's hardly a secret to them. I remember Paul joking to me "is it 'Paul' on your inner thigh?" when I told him I was getting a tattoo. Of course it's not. I was amused at the fact that the conversation Jenna used to try to distract me from the wincing and get me to laugh again was asking what I was "going to do about him." I figured I wouldn't really "do" anything about it. Nothing puts you into more perspective than having ink injected repeatedly into your skin.

Ok, I'm starting to ramble more than usual. Here endeth the lesson. That is, if there was anything to learn from this.

Ah, Sweet Complacency

I may be young, but I'm damn obnoxious, so that has to count for something.

My general policy of complacence and anti-social disorder hasn't made me any friends or helped me keep whatever few ones I thought I have, but I figured I'd take this evening to muse on a few things as opposed to getting shit-faced with my friends like I did last year (I think I may have finally outgrown that).

By no means do I claim that any of the following list is an accurate portrait of the world population. I'm just saying that out of the few people I've encountered, I've noticed rather similar patterns. I've noticed that there are generally three types of people (at least on this campus in my various "circles" of acquaintances). Also, by no means do I mean that all people who fit in these categories are entirely the same, nor am I claiming that everyone I'm grouping acts this way all the time...just enough of the time to warrant categorization. All I'm pointing out is a broad sweeping generalization while slightly inebriated.

1) "I try too hard and want everyone to like me." This describes my ex-boyfriend Chris and my older brother Moses. These are the people who feel like they have to be everything to everybody. They don't like hurting people's feelings, or more accurately, making themselves look bad, often at the expense of the truth in Chris's case. Chris's two favorite catch phrases are "just one more take, I promise" and "I don't want to hurt you so I'll leave out rather important bits of information concerning other women I'm seeing." Ok, I've never actually heard Chris saying it, but it does make for a rather accurate paraphrase.

Moses is a bit different since he's actually successful in his many endeavors, at least career/education/art-wise. He's the sort of person who will go out and try everything and do quite well in the process (what with the full-ride grad school, potential record deal, crowds of fangirls, etc.). He doesn't waste time moping about what he's going to do, but at the same time, he still falls under the category of "trying too hard" at least where women are concerned, being a gentleman/borderline doormat in relationships and failing to make a move out of the worry of "ruining a friendship" or "being taken the wrong way." See also: AJ, the guy who wants to be everyone's best friend.

2) "I don't really give a shit what other people think." These people seem to get it. For some reason, I lumped my roommate Jenna and Paul in this group despite how radically different their personalities are. These people don't have what Jenna refers to as "angst." They simply don't bother wasting time on it. My roommate Jenna doesn't drink and doesn't feel particularly pressured to, but at the same time, doesn't lecture people about how "bad" it is unlike other people I've met who claim that they don't care what other people think, but seem to do things to provoke them anyway. She also doesn't bother dating or showing interest in the opposite/same/whatever sex. In contrast, Paul drinks, smokes, engages in unprotected sex, etc. For awhile, I was tempted to categorize Paul as one of those guys who puts up this sort of front (you know, "asshole for the sake of being an asshole," but unlike myself, he's moved on. He got how temporary this whole college thing was. Even after an existential crisis or two, he seems relatively unscathed.

...and then there's me: #3) Anyone who knows me is probably rolling their eyes at me thinking "Jeez, you always have to make yourself the odd one out. Why can't you just accept that you're like everyone else?" I'm the sort of person who does care what others think, but doesn't really do much to change when it's stuff that matters. Paul, et al. gave me the rather obvious advice of "if you don't like how things are, why don't you change them?"

I think I'm the sort of person who "doesn't get it." Whenever anyone tells me about all the supposedly amazing things I'm capable of doing, I start to wonder if we're thinking about the same person. My parents, my professors, and my friends seem to think that I'm something...just something. Either that, or they tell me these things in the hopes I'll feel better and pull myself out of my rut on my own.

It all comes back to the question Mike/Honk raised once about how if we're all supposedly "the best and brightest" what do we do once we figure out that we're not? Resign ourselves to entry level jobs and hopefully working up to middle management? I know people can make a good living and be happy where they are. I feel like the female protagonist in either a D.H. Lawrence, Kate Chopin, or some other "bored housewife" trope with this rather unfulfilling malaise. I know this isn't new territory for me, but I figured writing about it was better than talking.

And speaking of Mike/Honk, I think that may be the only thing we have in common. We're just floaters, maybe like Bartleby the Scrivener wanting something "different" but never really quite getting there since we're too lazy/complacent to look for it. At least Honk seems to be getting past that now. As for me...feh.

Maybe I don't want something "better" per se, just something different. Some people fall in love. Other people live in their work like my mom does. Others devote themselves to seemingly hopeless causes, just to feel like their existence has meaning.

The funny thing was, for the most part, I used to be ok with knowing that my existence was meaningless. Heh. Maybe I'm growing up after all.

yay for pr0n

"The Sound of Her Voice"

Someone, I’m not sure who, said that love makes people do strange things. Fuck that. It’s complete bullshit. It certainly wasn’t love that caused me to sit in the bathroom stall at work with my cock in one hand and my cell phone in the other. If anything, blind, uncontrollable lust makes people do strange, if not completely stupid, things.

“I want to fuck you so hard right now…brace you against the door and fuck you from behind.” I grunted, convinced that any minute now, my boss would kick the door down and fire me on the spot.

It all started with a phone call, from some girl I only vaguely knew from college. In all truth, I wouldn’t have remembered her if not for the sound of her voice. It was low, throaty and mature, as if someone transplanted the voice of an old-movie starlet into the body of a voluptuous 21-year-old. By all rights it was a one-night-stand, and should have stayed that way, but in my drunken stupor, I somehow gave her my phone number. A couple of years later, that would come back and bite me in the ass.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Sorry, I just found this number in my phone and wanted to see who it was before I deleted it.” Bitch probably had it planned all along.

I don’t recall anything about that first conversation other than how hard I had gotten, remembering her as the girl who could get her legs over her head while I plowed her into the bed. For all I knew, she was not only unable to do that anymore, but fat and unattractive. That thought should have stopped me dead in my tracks. Yet for some reason, the conversation had steered in the direction of sex, resulting in the beginnings of our current “arrangement.”

“Where are you right now?” Her words always came out so slow and deliberate.

“My bedroom.”

“Take your pants off. I want you to make yourself cum.” Hearing her say that nearly made me cum before I could even touch my pants.

This continued until our “conversations” became almost nightly. It always seemed like I was doing most of the talking, or at least making most of the noise. She never told me she was fingering herself, but I always got off on the idea that we were engaging in mutual gratification. It started in my bedroom when she would call late at night. Then she called me in random places, like when I’d be out eating. I actually dropped my fork and ran to the bathroom to take her orders, which varied between touching myself or telling her the filthy things I wanted to do to her. When it followed me to my workplace, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should try to draw the line and end it there, but all 7 and ¾ inches of me told me to push that boundary. After all, how could I refuse someone who wanted my cock so badly that she’d call me at any time to get it?

“How hard is your cock right now?” She had a thing for interrogation and detail.

“It’s…so…hard.” At a time like this, one can hardly be expected to be eloquent.

“I want you to run your fingertip along the head of your cock and taste your precum.” The colder and more distant her voice sounded, the more I thought I was going to lose it.

It tasted a salty and bitter. Apparently the vegetables she had told me to start eating weren’t working. I imagined her tongue running along the head of my cock and told her that.

“When I want to know what you’re thinking, I’ll ask.”

As usual, I wasn’t sure what to say, but kept stroking myself.

Some may wonder why I would subject myself to this, or if I was so desperate for sex I’d take anything I could get. I’m no Brad Pitt, but I’m not repulsive either. I’m about 6’2,” a bit on the lanky side. If I wanted to, I could chat up someone at the bar and take her home, but the last time I did it, I couldn’t get it up. The girl tried stroking me, sucking me off, but it was only when I heard her voice in my head that my cock shot up like the Fourth of July. I fucked the girl I was with until she got off a couple of times, but I couldn’t cum. All I could hear in my head was her voice telling me “not yet,” which is what she usually said to me when I said I needed to cum. Even back when she and I had actually had sex, her moans and sighs were low and soft. As for my present partner, she started spewing ridiculous talk about how she wanted me to cum in her cunt and how good my cock felt in her. It was the sort of dirty talk that got me off before, but all it did was nearly make me go limp.

Fortunately, my cell phone rang. The girl I was with told me to turn the phone off with her slightly grating, whiny voice, but like hell I’d miss this chance to finally get off. She stormed out of my apartment calling me a freak, but damned if I needed her anyway. I passed out that night on my bed with cum and lotion all over me.

“I’m so close…” Any minute now, somebody would walk into the men’s room and hear me.

“Not yet.”

“Please.” My cock was starting to turn pink and raw. I spat on my hand for more lube.

“Not yet.”

“Unnghh…” I was beyond words at this point. The bones in my wrist may as well have ground into powder.

“Not yet.”

“Aaagh…” It felt like the muscles in my arms were about to snap like rubber bands from cramping so hard.

“Not yet.”