HYSTERICAL LITERATURE: THE ORGASM AS ART -
“In his latest project, Hysterical Literature, photographer Clayton Cubitt takes a beautiful woman, places her at a table in front of a black backdrop and gets her to read from her favorite book while an unseen accomplice below the table attempts to bring the woman to orgasm with a vibrator. The results are an intimate, sexy experience that captures a beauty rarely found in most modern pornography.”
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I’m about this life.
Hey guys, check out that dudes neck. Am I right?! Anyways, I took this photo last night of this random couple and I was like “Wait a minute! That purse totally clashes with her outfit!” And then I was like “Hold up, did that Armenian-ish dude in the background perm his chest hair?…because that shit is extra puffy.” And then I noticed that avant-garde pillar with a sticker on it and I couldn’t help but think about racism and how awful teen pregnancy is. You know?
(I’ve been hacked by rich kids.)
I support Gay Marriage, red headed step children, big girls who wear leggings because fuck you i’m sexy, weirdos who had a hard time in junior high, whispering “do you want to see it?” to strangers, public nudity, whiskey, the working class, creepy-ass left handed people, Gay Marriage, old dudes who flirt with cashiers, liberal white folks who are obviously uncomfortable around people of color because that shit is hilarious, awful singing at karaoke because fuck you I love this song, a well timed anal joke, hating books that contain rich middle-aged people who “find” themselves in third world countries, whiskey, big asses, making fun of Arizona, Gay Marriage, hating the fuck out of quaint poems, high school movies starring Alyssa Milano, anything starring Alyssa Milano, high school movies that stars someone who kind of looks like Alyssa Milano, Jodeci, fat guys who rub their bellies after eating and the women who love them, the Philippines when their pissed off at the government, Mac Dre, teachers, people who rep their unions like they are a part of the crips or bloods or some shit, holding on to the dream that one day you will win a wrestling match with a bear, getting drunk at a zoo and running full sprint at the bear exhibit, working out for the sole purpose of fucking up a bear in a fist fight, consensual butt sex, ice cream, that moment right before you touch someone’s “no-no’s” for the first time and they’re all like “damn homie, i’m so into it.”, casual drug dealing, bus stops in the summer and the people who ride them, people who like whiskey, people who get serious about Battlestar Galactica and argue that Adama is a way better leader than President Bartlett in West Wing, butter, people who wish more than riches and week-long orgasms for a TARDIS, watching Mike Tyson’s first 20 fights, putting salt on everything, Gay Marriage, making out and maybe a lil’ finger banging action in the back seat of a ‘72 Chevelle, Kirk Rambis’ hustle and Micheal Cooper’s socks, the Showtime motherfucking Lakers, folks who won’t let go of the time when that one place forgot to put extra cheese on their sandwich so they will never go back because fuck you I love cheese and I thought I was going to enjoy this extra cheesy sandwich while I watched 4 straight hours of Archer on Netflix, and Gay Marriage.
Everybody and everything else can go chew on poison and hang out with poets who write quaint poems about nature and wagons and specific bark and about that one time they couldn’t talk to that one person because they were so afraid of shit getting nuts and they really wanted to LONG about it more.
Also, the only argument against Gay Marriage is “I’m a goldfish and I’m not allowed to be left alone with solid foods.”
Going to Hell to the Sounds of Sucking or How The Gimp got 86'd from Mac's. -
“They were hunched over two bottles of something cheap. The Gimp was just about to get to the weird part of the story but stopped mid-weird. He looked around the place like a slow wipe; as if what was about to be said was the name of god … “
The fine folks at Flash Fiction Offensive decided to publish my filthy, blasphemous, no-good, boot stompin’, dirty joke of a short story. If you want to read the rest, click the link. Thanks and I apologize in advance.
Jaylee.
Swigging whiskey like a bad day and Fucking. -
I bet you a million goddamn dollars that you woke up today and said to yourself, “Fuck, I’m sexy.” And I bet a million more goddamn dollars that you also said, “Damn, I wish I could read poem about Janis Joplin AND then follow that up by reading a poem about dirty sex.”
Your wish is granted, you pretty motherfucker. I have two poems that match those exact qualifications published over at www.specsjournal.org.
Take a look and read a book. It’s a reading rainbow.
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I took this video of myself back in ‘04. I call it “Floppin’ my Nuts and Dick in 2004.”
african-fairy asked: i came upon your post when i was searching for info on the davis coit apts. I need to move out of my place asap and so far those apts seem to be my only option. So i want to know all dramatics and jokes aside, how bad was it living there? is the roach problem really huge? like are they crawling on you in your sleep or is it like i see some scatter across the floor every now and again
When I was out of options, tired of crashing on couches and floors around Oakland- Davis Coit Apts saved the day. They gave someone with awful credit and a shitty job the keys to a apartment. I will always be grateful for that.
As for the apartment itself and the building, it is how I described it. The roaches are a problem. You will see them every day, and if food and trash are left out, you will see them more frequently. I’m lazy as fuck so I had to discipline myself to toss out the trash everyday and only eat things I purchased at a liquor store.
I lived there for a little over 3 years and I never had a problem with the neighbors or noise and unfortunately got use to the sight of roaches. If you think you can roll with that, then roll with it. BART is super close. Awesome bars are stumbling distance. Characters are plentiful. Good luck to you.
This picture is my anthem for 2013. Let it be yours too.
A fucking Monkey Warrior, riding his fucking Battle Dog, who’s only mission in life is to mow down that fucking Ram.
I found this letter I wrote to my former Landlords when I was cheated out of $435 of my security deposit. They never responded. In all, I sent it three times. This letter is clearly on the side of “fuck it” (the caps lock got heavy use towards the end) since I wrote it after getting the run around on who I should call, which in turn led to the confusion on WHO I WAS ACTUALLY RENTING FROM…
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To Whom It May Concern (Seriously, I don’t know),
I was a resident at 1445 Harrison St. #461, Oakland CA in the Davis Coit Apartments. I recently moved out on August 1st, 2010.
This letter is concerning my Security Deposit. I was owed $1,230. Approximately two weeks ago I received a check for $795 and a photocopy of the reasons why $435 was taken out of my deposit. I have serious issues with the reasoning behind most of the charges deducted. Honestly, portions of it were flat out false and painted me as a filthy hobo, or, in a less hyperbolic and slightly more flattering light- but still insulting, you could say I was described as a person afraid of soap.
Before I dive into my grievances I would like to convey that I understand the charge for $105 for the carpet shampooing. I smoked cigarettes inside the apartment and once, during a fun night gallivanting with wild women, I threw up near the front door. I have no issues with this cleaning charge.
These are my issues:
The apartment I lived in was a small studio apartment that overlooked a stunning parking lot in which I was witness to various street brawls and the shenanigans of prostitutes. It, the apartment, didn’t require a massive amount of time for maintenance and upkeep. Nonetheless, I was vigilant with my cleanliness the entire time of my stay, mainly due to the crazy-ass roach problem in the building. (You know what I’m talking about. Don’t act like you don’t. Once, while being nosy at the front desk, and with Jedi-like mind trickery, I read a hand-written 30-Day Notice given by a tenant that, in short and not really verbatim, read: “I can’t take it anymore. The roaches are just too much and I fear for my health. I’m out this motherfucker.”) Because of said roach problem, not once in my over 3 years of occupancy, did I actually cook in that oven (a.k.a. Mordor, a.k.a. Where Roaches Learn To Gang Bang, a.k.a. I Don’t Even Know If It Opens).
As for the fridge being dirty…? No way. At that time in my life I rarely ate anything that was perishable. If it required “heat” or had an expiration date less than 4 years then I didn’t buy it. I now live with my girlfriend and her dietary needs require more things that are “fresh” and less things that are “Slim Jims”. The fridge, as well as the oven, during my single occupancy was kept clean simply by never using it.
Also, the days preceding my move-out, my girlfriend and I spent it detail-cleaning the studio. We scrubbed the (clean) fridge, walls, stove, counters, toilet, sinks, base-boards and everything else. We mopped the floor twice in the last week and once more before I gave up the keys. We vacuumed. I truly don’t understand the charge for $180 for it being “dirty” when two people spent hours cleaning a tiny apartment right before the move-out date. Once more for clarity; we scrubbed all the items some unnamed assessor deemed “dirty” but, hand to mean god, everything was spotless when we left.
So, if you still want to believe these accusations that my former home was left a filthy mess, then dear landlords, you have bigger problems on your hands.
The roaches have evolved and they like to party.
I also don’t understand the “touch-up painting because of nail holes…” and the accompanying $150 charge for it. In the three plus years I lived there I put exactly ZERO nails in the wall. Zero. I hung up my shitty paintings with a wall-safe, sticky, mount tape. Shit, for about a month during the early years I just laid a few of them on my table whilst trying to convince myself that they looked “artsy” until I realized what they really looked like were huge, awful, coasters. So in short, I DIDN’T NAIL SHIT.
And just too clear up any confusion, the weird stickers of cartoon children that were randomly placed throughout the apartment WERE ALWAYS THERE AND I WAS JUST TOO LAZY TO SCRAPE THEM OFF. I am not a weirdo.
The only thing that I can think of that might seem like I left it dirty was the bathtub. It had stains along the basin that can only be described as “foreign”. These stains were caused because A LARGE PIECE OF THE CEILING FELL ON ME WHILE I WAS IN THE SHOWER. NAKED. The hole that it left was the size of a really fat baby. It leaked a substance the entire month it took to fix it- a substance that can only be described as “alien sweat.” There is a record of my complaint/request for an immediate remedy if you find it hard to believe that somebody had a piece of ceiling fall on them while shaving their balls inside an apartment you own.
After much cleaning of the tub I could never get the stains out. I feel I should not be financially responsible for this fee.
I should note, before ending this plea to give me my motherfucking money back, that a couple of times during the “Hole Above My Shower” event of 2010, while taking a hot shower, I would feel a single, cold, drop of water splash on my forehead that obviously came from ceiling. I really need you to know how that feeling of a solitary, lonely, freezing drip of ALIEN SWEAT during a hot shower, still haunts me. I need you to know that.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Jaylee Alde
My short story was accepted in the beautiful magazine, Thrice. It is wedged between amazing stories written by bold writers and I am honored for it. Seriously. Download the free PDF or buy the pretty journal for $7…or don’t and spend the 7 bucks on Chipotle and hate yourself for it.
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My story tells a tale of an odd conversation I had with a cockroach that just wouldn’t leave me alone. It takes place during the thick of night, in a small apartment, when the winds blew so hard everything rattled for days.
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A lil’ thing I wrote for PUSH Magazine on a Theo Ehret exhibit I attended (With Pictures!). It’s about everything (and may hint at my exuberant bias for men in spandex).
What I didn’t mention in the article (that I’ve been obsessing over because it feels so DANGEROUS) was a solitary, small bowl of pretzels, on a relatively empty long table, in a crowded space, that I couldn’t stop eating.
P.S. EROTIC APARTMENT WRESTLING.