He was older than me, that I knew. And my superior which heightened my predatory need to conquest. The setting for this seduction? Hollister, a retail chain which marketed the Southern California surfer lifestyle to teenagers in the form of tee-shirts with sexually suggestive slogans such as “Winner of Wet Tee-Shirt contest”. It was a proper first job for me at age 18, offering little responsibility other than greeting guests and folding jeans. My Hollister store, consistent with their image, hired a bevy of tanned nubile teenage boys and girls with whom I would bond over bitchy customers and share store gossip.

For those who haven’t ever held a position in the service industry, retail stores and restaurants provide the ideal setting for a hotbed of drama: young men and women forced to interact with one another in pursuit of a paycheck for hours at a time with little distraction. They form insular communities, mini high school societies with its own cliques and more partner-swapping than swingers saw in the 1970’s.

Enough of the briefing, let’s get back to my mission. Fresh from a school year that had two senior boys who were best friends fighting for my affections, I was drunk on the power of my own sexuality and was ready to take it for a true test drive. When Adam, the new manager, was introduced I was immediately entranced by his flirtatious looks and his own arrogance at being the ringleader of a throng of blonde jailbait. It started innocently enough, us loping back playful insults over camisoles. Years of being the “friend” of the pretty girl had coerced me into developing an acerbic, and sarcastic sense of humor which to my delight, guys responded to and flirtations often consisted of this back-and-forth banter that occasionally culminated in a make-out session in a garage. As previously stated, Adam was older, 26 to be precise, and when he responded in kind to my subtle jabs I was thrilled but shocked when he asked me to meet him for ice cream the next day. Time and the alcohol abuse of my college years has erased much of what was said and exchanged during the date but I do remember hours later hooking up (no sex) in my white Jetta outside Target. I was all id, all desire, all want with him. I didn’t care about propriety, being lady, playing hard-to-get, I just wanted. I dropped him off at his car around 10:00 PM, jamming Led Zeppelin, screaming the lyrics at the top of my lungs because the want wanted to stretch me and take me alive. The next day at work, we were boiling over with the secrecy of our tryst, locking eyes knowingly, burning with the knowledge of each other.

Although I knew him, I didn’t really know him. Although our banter at work was witty and sharp, I slowly gathered from brief conversations that other than this strong need that yanked at my skin, Adam lacked the capacity to fascinate enough to foster true love and affection. At the time I was still entertaining the admirations of a number of other suitors so when our embraces faded off, I rarely thought of them until the grapevine informed me he had pursued another of my co-workers. Slightly bitter, I mocked him openly for his choice, who was known among retail circles for being promiscuous. I soon left for college and thought of him occasionally on a particular lonely night, longing for someone to inspire that same strength of desire. The want that consumed me.

Spring Break of my freshman year found me in my old stomping grounds. Fresh from a breakup that made me feel achingly vulnerable, I reunited with some Hollister colleagues and we decided to venture down to Santa Cruz, where Adam was now living, to surprise him. My guy friends began taking bets on how long it would take Adam to try and hit on me. As we walked into the Chili’s where he now worked, I saw him immediately, quaint and colloquial in his uniform but still pulsating with the same energy that stirred my long-starved want. Adam was pleasantly shocked, and we ended up back at his place taking shots to ease the tension of time passed. He lead me up to a little alcove in his expansive apartment and confessed his feelings for me which he suppressed because of my pending leave to college. I ate up his sweet, false words and we continued right where we had left off, the want expanding and growing inside of us. He took me to his bedroom, intent on finally having me. Our want became even more passionate as I fake-pleaded to go and return to my friends upstairs as his threw me against the wall and peeling my clothes off as easily as an orange. I never relented, never allowed him to obtain what I held. I eventually left him, drained and plagued with want for me, as I returned to my friends victorious and filled with the power that comes with a conquest. I haven’t seen him since.

I’ve tried for years to find someone that reawakens that feeling, that zing. Was it a product of my surging hormones? Or was it the result of the manifestation, the inundation of feelings of power and control? All I know is, sweet Adam, we’ll always have Hollister.

Nothing would astonish me after all these years, except to be understood.

I have nothing witty or poignant to write at the moment.
It's strange...sometimes the words will hit me at a sudden moment. While I'm eating a sandwich. Or spacing out at work. Or in the middle of a banal conversation with someone. I excuse myself politely, grab a pen, crayon, or even eyeliner and a piece of paper, a napkin, the other side of a bill, whatever I can get my hands on to write down the ongoing flow of sentences.

All I know is that right now I'm itching to do something...creative...expressive.
I'm currently entertaining:

-Buying a used or old camera and taking pictures. Photography, once something I dismissed, is beginning to grow on me.
-Writing a screenplay for a pilot or feature. Gotta do something with the ideas bouncing around in my head
-Improving my personal space. Whenever I see a gorgeously decorated room in a movie, TV show, or while visiting a friend, I always wish that my room could look like that. I need to stop wishing and start being proactive. And pick up my damn clothes for once.
-Learn a language. I am entranced by those who speak a romance language.

Well it's a start. I guess I am searching for some other mode of expression because I've been feeling so lost and adrift lately. I need some form of self-actualization since lately I am mired in doubt over who or what I actually am.
But then again maybe what I am is nothing except an accumulation of the perceptions, thoughts, and information garnered from others. A tabula rosa (rusa?) with no agency.
But let's not get into a nature vs. nurture argument here...

I will end with a quote that has been sticking with me:

"There are moments when times stands still. Moments when you're beyond life and yet still see. And then time begins flowing again, your heart beats, you stretch out your arms, you take a step forward. You still know, but you no longer see."

Guest Blogger- Michelle Weilert

Dearest internet friends,

Hello! How are you on this lovely day? Good, I hope. So guess what? I saw the movie Bruno. I thought perhaps I'd share some of my thoughts about it with you. All of you, out there in the world wide web.

Seeing Bruno was an experience. One point I will give to Sacha- he can get an audience to react. Even if he does so just by swinging his dick around (which by the way sounds way funnier in re-telling than it is in seeing.) So before it came out there was an article in the Dallas Morning News (hometown, what what!) about how Bruno came to DFW to tape a show about 'family values' then of course just offended everyone. He paraded a baby around saying he'd disown the child if he turned out to not be gay, blah blah, his general bullshit act that he does. The paper quoted something that didn't appear in the movie. And when I read it, something occured to me. How often in Sacha Baron Cohen's comedies are you laughing at him? And how often are you laughing at other people? I'm not sure he's really a comedian at all. I'd grant him that he's a sociologist, sure, but comedian....ehhhh. So this is the conversation:

Bruno (to Texas man): "There are some friends of mine you should meet."
Texas man: "The only friends of mine you're going to meet are Smith and Wesson."

That guy is a normal dude, who was misled into thinking he was seeing a taping of a show about family morals, and still he makes me laugh harder than SBC! His friends Smith & Wesson? Sure, I prefer a Colt 45 (family preference) but the man's comment is still brilliant, effing brilliant.

Then in a weird twist of events, I was reading a play called "The Shape of Things" by Neil LaBute (who is wonderful) and he explores this to the extreme. Is manipulating and misleading people art of any kind? Is it comedy? Or is it just effing mean? And now, I quote Neil:

"If I totally miss the point here and somehow puking up your own little shitty neuroses all over people's laps is actually art, then you oughta at least realize there's a price to it all...you know? somebody pays for your two minutes on cnn. someone always pays for people like you. and if you don't get that, if you can't see at least that much...then you're about two inches away from using babies to make lamp shades and calling it 'furniture.' look, i know they call it the 'art scene,' but that's not all it should make. a scene. it should be more than that. anybody can be provocative and shocking. stand up in class, or at the mall, wherever, and take a piss, paint yourself blue and run naked through a church screaming out the names of people you've slept with. is that art or did you just forget to take your ritalin? there's gotta be a line. for art to exist, there has to be a line out there somewhere. a line between really saying something and just....needing attention."

SBC, I will give you that in Borat you did expose some bias we as Americans feel towards foreigners. But what did you expose in Bruno? What did I see there that surprised me? And how much of it was you fucking up people's lives and enjoying it, profiting off it and not thinking twice? I don't know if you will make another movie, but if you do, I hope you'll think twice this time. Are you saying something or are you seeking attention?

Well, this time on Laura's blog has been great, friends. Hope you enjoyed. Hope it made you think.

With love,
Michelle Weilert

Fearless?

I used to think that when the time came, I would accept death.
Instead I found out I'm a hypochondriac among other things.

I'm embarrassed to be even writing this down. Occasionally between typing these words I am burying my face in my hands and squealing with dismay. Here it goes.
A couple of nights ago, events transpired and the side of my head got accidentally kneed. Needless (kneedless?) to say it hurt but nothing life-threatening. Or so I thought. Later, back at my apartment, as I began to settle down for bed, I felt a wave of dizziness, nausea, and the side of my head started throbbing. Immediately my mind recalled the case of Natasha Richardson. She hit her head while skiing and hours later she was dead. I saw my life flash before my eyes and instead of recognizing this as a rare occurance, I consulted Google and Web MD, which are the patron saints of hypochondriac.

I typed in "Natasha Richardson death" and found "epidural hematoma".
According to Wikipedia, which everyone agrees is the authority on everything, an epidural hematoma "is a type of traumatic brain injury (TBI) in which a buildup of blood occurs between the dura mater (the tough outer membrane of the central nervous system) and the skull...Epidural hematoma commonly results from a blow to the side of the head". Ding ding ding. Symptoms of an epidural hematoma: dizziness, headache, and nausea. We've got a winner.

Seized with fear, I headed to the emergency room with my roommate. Faced with my impending death, I reflected on my regrets and the brevity of my life. "I don't want to die", I moaned to my ever so patient roommate. Long story short, the medical staff of Marina Del Ray found no head trauma. In fact, I was healthy as a horse, albeit a foolish, silly horse. Turns out, I'm no more courageous or stalwart as the next person. In fact, had I lived during the Spanish Inquisition, I probably would have sang like a canary in hopes of clinging to life.

I guess the deaths of Michael Jackson, Billy Mays, and Farrah Fawcett affected me more than I'd like to admit. Moral of the story? Life is short, folks, so enjoy it. You never know when your number will be called.

Happy moment of 7/4: The night's festivities provided too much excitement to sleep so I saw my first sunrise.