heh heh, gotchya. admittedly, this enticing (ricing, icing, cake cake cake) title, and post idea, came from this chick’s blog which i found whilst reading how her liquid eyeliner defines her on refinery29.com. reading this makes me cringe but i like it still, ugh.
I am disturbed however by the single American cheek-kiss that has gained popularity in recent years. Americans seem to fumble the meaning of the gesture (as we so often do) and it sometimes ends up as a lingering saliva mark on one’s cheek. The French kiss is not a real kiss; just a brush of the cheek on lips on the corresponding cheeks of your partner. It should never be wet, and, if done correctly, it should never be awkward. The American cheek kiss is awkward, because it is not customary, it’s forced or even, trendy, as we all strive to caricature some idea of wealth that is probably just European. So while imitated, it is not well duplicated.
oh. one second while i too deconstruct the cultural contexts hindering american pda. socio-political-cultural. i’ll just have to hop in a fanny pack and go to japan and take better notes next time. gap yah.
clearly my base-level anxiety – worthy of a surge protector – has something to do with my lack of back-pocket- butt-squeeze gusto. but i’ll never believe that pda is truly a good thing, and it has to do with the laws of thermodynamics. high public affection inputs yield low private affection outputs. that is an unbalanced equation. this is a theory supported by college roommates et al., lily pulitzer, and jesus. nah juss playin’. but really, repression:sexy is encoded in my dna, and whether i attribute that to the cultural context of a prudish irish-catholic pedigree or predominating social pressures i do not know. anyways, i’d just rather watch skins.
my milk is expired and there have been more trashcan evicted sandwich crusts in the upper east side than ever this week. my hamburger turned green under the saran in three days and and there is a plastic sushi grass sprig magically growing within my wooden floor! gilligan’s island really is my favorite tv show and i wish i could watch it in my bed while eating coconut almond “soy delicious” ice (not)cream every night! and every day! i am comforted by the fact that, the past 3 times i’ve run the big loop in central park, i’ve approached a man with signature cylindrical (read: fat, but in perfect tubes) legs walking it out with his bichon-colored toupee. what an icky thing to say.
to end.. been having a lot of thoughts for the old blog lately but i am a bad lover to it and not following through. also, the more i read, the less i want to blog. people are good at writing. it’s intimidating, i am crestfallen, and i can offer no monetary compensation for those who want to defer briefly to this page before alt-tabbing back to netflix. i feel most tested these days anyway by twitter. i love it, i’m trying to be good. but then i follow lena dunham and delete 67% of the tweets i twit in shame. and my worry of the week is that my brain is getting minced into bite-sized chiclets in this year of new york freneticism, so i’m going to start carrying middlesex in the crook of my arm at all times, to be haughty and allude falsely to the fact that i’m reading it.