The Blonde Exception

Strangly enough, as blondes, Courtney and I do not in any manner find blonde males to be attractive. This is strictly a matter of preference, and equivalent to the generalization that males are predominantly attracted to brunettes ( according to our recent observations). WHY they are attracted to brunettes remains unknown, for I find them rudimentary in all aspects of their being ( this excludes my sister- you are a babe and a half Bruiser). Bear in mind that this is indeed a strict matter of PERSONAL PREFERENCE- those who devaite from this train of thought will not be judged. On to the theory. Maybe it was the generic surfer boy that turned us off. Or Perhaps it was Nick Carter in his later years. Hulk Hogan? The source of our dislike still remains obscure, but one thing is for certain. Males with dark hair are eminently more appealing to the female eye (subjectively, of course.This also does not pertain to red-heads, for they are generally seen as very attractive in my own case). However, this theory is not about brunette males nor is it about our dislike of blonde males. This theory, hence the title, is about an exception to our blonde aversion. Nineteen years of life has finally granted us a man who is without a doubt the most aesthetically pleasing golden-tuffed man of all time. I give you...........

KING PETER THE GREAT/MAGNIFICENT!




















The Exception.
We generally do not contradict our own postulations, but this face is undoubtedly worthy of a bit of rule-breaking.

Emphatically yours,
Jackie.

The John Smith Arm Maneuver

AH. The first date. The awkward and entirely fraudulent giggles. The baby-boomer humor begins. It's obvious. It's the "cat in the tu-tu" type of funny. You know that deep down inside, you're not really finding the conversation enlightening or jocular in any manner. How do you avoid it? You go to the one place where conversation (along with cellular usage) is taboo - the movies. Or as Courtney and I like to call them, cinematic features. You like the guy, he likes you. Why you like each other is an entirely different matter, for at this point the only thing connecting the two of you to one another is the unadulterated sexual attraction (this holds true to every human being...it's biology, people). The arm rest. The arm rest......what to do about that blasted arm rest? Either you raise the arm rest permitting a full breech of desperation on both ends (Generally this ends VERY badly unless you are in a committed relationship with the other person), or you hold hands without acknowledging the fact that you are indeed holding hands. The palms condensate with nerves and angst alike. All the more reason to AVOID the holding of hands on the first movie date. The solution is simple.
Ladies and Gentlemen.....I give you the John Smith Arm Maneuver.
The maneuver is easy to engage in without crossing any relationship lines. It lets each other know that you enjoy the other's presence as well as allots for a minimal amount of physical contact. "John Smith" can be substituted with any individual of your choosing. Unfortunately, for Courtney and I, every man until this point in our lives remains a John Smith in our minds. Vague and inadequate memories. Back to the maneuver. Both arms on the arm rest. The distal side of both arms are touching. Perhaps even just elbows. No mushy mushy. Plain and simple, and not crossing any flirtatious lines. As I believe, flirting is reserved for conversation, not movies. Therefore, this maneuver provides you with the optimal amount of connection for the event. SO much can be said in SO little of a touch. It signifies mere attraction, which is all that is needed to be signified at this point in the first date process. Try it out; success is guaranteed.

To every John Smith. Whether he be mine or yours. (or she for any males that may be reading this).

Conversantly yours,
Jackie.

Disneyland Dimentia

It was once brilliantly stated by Lauren Hutton that without travel "I would have wound up a little ignorant white Southern female, which was not my idea of a good life." That is the basic rhetoric behind my desire to travel. Not only do I complain endlessly about this miserable city (Las Vegas) but any chance I get to escape this deep fried glitter pit I embrace it sprightingly. Jackie and I ventured in April 2008 to the mediocre city of Anaheim, CA. I have to say that the most fun I had on the whole trip was the early morning ride in Phoebe (yes, we have personified Jackie’s car). We started out the trip with the beautiful sound of Irish bagpipes while we discussed our futures. It’s hard for us to contain ourselves when we start talking about our future move to the UK (or republic of Ireland depending on where we both get accepted). I know that whatever happens, is will be blessed by God and thus a successful relocation. Anyways, whenever Jackie and I both agree that something is fun we always point out that we don’t remember it afterwards (as if our brains can’t handle the excitement). When we arrived in Anaheim we agreed that we didn’t remember the ride there (hence, the conversation was intense and enjoyable). The hotel we stayed up was quite a few notches up from the seedy “Hollywood City Inn” (aka, a death trap for two innocent blondes). Jackie and I were VERY disappointed with the humidity and heat of CA. When we checked in I was of course the one who complained about the poor customer service we received but Jackie (the more optimistic and less outspoken one) glossed that fact over with the complimentary breakfast we were eligible for (as if we would even eat it, hah love you Jack). We decided to start walking over to the park ASAP because we knew that we were too exited to even bring our bags up to our rooms yet. I should have known that my grey vans were not the appropriate shoe choice for the day when the discomfort began instantly. But me, stubborn and strong-willed defeated my instincts and continued trekking into the entrance of the park. Jackie could see me limping and of course starting laughing because she knows when I am in pain and my discomfort amuses her. Whatever, I ignored it and decided I would deal with the blisters and bleeding wounds the day after. After a couple rides, jack and I decided to wait in line for Finding Nemo. After an hour and a half of talking about how much we hate typical America, we boarded the ship (might I add it was very steep and angular and I highly doubt anyone over 200 lbs. could maneuver it safely, which secludes over half of America). We sat next to a really cute mom and daughter and anticipated what we thought would be an underwater adventure full of extravagance. What Jack and I failed to consider was the fact that we are NOT children anymore and of course cool lights and futuristic sound effects wouldn’t excite us. So, the ride went on and we just kept waiting for some sort of aquatic phenomenon to occur. I’d have to say the coolest thing about the ride were the tour guides who had cute Aussie accents. After the ride, Jackie and I of course looked at each other and the tedious critiques began. Next on the list, we decided to go and get fast passes for a few rides to try and beat any congestion. WHY THE HECK WAS IT SO CROWDED?!?!? We kept asking ourselves. We made our 12:30 reservation as the world famous Blue Bayou restaurant in New Orleans Square. We got seated rather quickly and rehydrated ourselves likes two animals. Jack and I both ordered their famous Monte Cristo sandwich except mine was infused with a curly blonde hair. DELICIOUS!!!! Yum Yum. I let the waitress know and she immediately took my plate away. When she brought me the bill, she said “I assure you that nobody in our kitchen has blonde curly hair.” What does this statement suggest? That I am a liar? Or that there is some sort of hair fairy that inserts follicles into random dishes. I’m going with the first one. I decided that she wasn’t worth being condescending to and Jack and I left the restaurant still hungry and extremely peeved. We rode everything we wanted to ride in Disneyland and made the hop into California Adventure. The best part of my day was the delightful conversation we had with the cashier who rung us up at the tower of terror. She was elderly, but one of the rare ones who admire young beautiful girls likes us (humbly emphasized) rather than angry about her life with the never ending “what ifs” and “I wishes.” I wish I could remember her name, for the name of somebody can reveal SO many truths. (Jackie, do you remember?)

All in all, this trip was worth the fungibles we spent on it and truly something I will never forget with my best friend. Next on the agenda, HOPEFULLY Ethopia!

Roadtrip: Hollywood Havok

In the summer of 2007, Courtney and I ventured on a roadtrip to Hollywood. Much to our surprise, this trip served as the most bizarre and unforgettable experience that our 15 year friendship had thus far allotted to us. Two young blonde females on the streets of Hollywood. Deadbolt on our hotel door. (Possible parasitic infestation living in the shower?) A tour guide in desperate need of an emergency heart defibrillator, a cowboy named Rowland and his dog Bucky Dan, and a seedy theater "show" where social stratification had reached an all-time high are all we can clearly remember from our day/night/early morning in Hollywood. I could go into great detail of all of our "adventures" so-to-speak, but I'll leave you with the distant (yet bizarrly close to the Hollywood City Inn) sound of a gunshot. Only us, Courtney, only us. May our April 12th '08 round two be just as life-threatening, just as incoherent, and just as ironically hilarious as the last. Project Disneyland Dementia 2008- get ready for us. May all of our celtic fantasies come to life in the misty skies of the Peter Pan ride.
Unnervingly yours,
Jackie.

Musicianship

As Courtney and I have on several occassions discussed, there is no such thing as a degenerate musician, for they always have something "going" for them. Beyond this fact, I plan on delving into what makes them appear this way to the women who pursue this type of man. Music does several things for people; namely, it makes people feel different then they felt prior to tuning in, as is its' intention ( would record companies fiscally dominate otherwise?) Whether it be love , aggravation, fear, spite, or any other commonality that the listener connects with the music/musician, it affects them internally. As egotistical beings, it's always about US, reflecting why music does for us what it does. This being said, I have to conclude that the reason women love musicians is not for their lyrical abilities nor for their musical talents. It is also not for their looks or for their love for humanity and deep connections that they "make" with people. It is not for their mathematical skills that innately come with their tuned ear, and it is certainly not for their skanktitude status as sought-after males. The reason that women love musicians is because women are selfish beings who seek personal satisfaction- and will use whatever means they can in order to gain such satisfaction. As a woman, I can attest to this only because I, too, love music for what it does for me. as a person. as an egotistical being. as everyone else unfortunately.
Harmoniously yours,
Jackie

A brilliant man

Through writing “The Grand Inquisitor” and “The Brothers Karamazov”, Dostoevsky uncovered profound psychological insights that seem unfathomable to most. Dostoevsky introduced developments in thought such as existentialism and psychoanalysis, in which soon overcame the twentieth century. This writer’s somewhat troubled childhood allowed him to portray deep sympathy with those who are emotionally and spiritually oppressed and embody the traditional Christian conflict between the body and spirit. You can see many of Dostoevsky’s personality traits shine through his infamous characters which helps you appreciate his philosophy better. The man was clearly a genius.

'Til next time,
C

college

college: A magical place where it is rumored that learning takes place, although to those who enter it is often described differently afterward, as a beatiful land in which beer flows in amber currents next to a golden pasture, where virgins lie naked with gentle smiles upon their calm, inviting faces; but more precisely, a Shangri-La rite of passage into adulthood which involves rampant consumption of alcoholic beverages, flagrant and promiscuous sexual behavior, and a general and fundamental disregard for any form of responsibility by its habitants.
sleeplessly yours,
courtney

Dating

dating: most like an extensive concept map- several connotations linked and networked to a single term. It all begins in the infestated halls of high school, with young lovers breeding new STDs with every Smearnoff-induced conventional hook-up. The PDA begins shortly thereafter- "public displays of affection?" I'd vow rather for "inappropriate breech of ettiquette." Kids, keep your wraunchy, rank, reproductively-inspired desires for your black and white speckled composition notebooks that condensate with your forbidden ecstasy. Dating is child's play, and those individuals who dedicate themselves to bigger concerns than waking up at 9 a.m. to work a six hour shift at Subway do not/ will not conform to winning at a losing game.
Sincerely NOT masochistically yours,
Jackie