I think it’s better that I put out an entry about me as opposed to writing it all out and seeing it in a tiny-ass spot in the column off to the side.
If you couldn’t tell from my blog’s web address, I’m female. And that’s Miss Dee Lauren to you. (And, no it’s not my real name, but a variation of it.) I am nine months from turning the big 3-0, so it’s nice to walk into casinos or clubs and still get asked my for my ID.
I live in the northeast side of the Bay Area, in a town with more people than Napa, but less picturesque and tourist-happy than Napa. My town has its charms, but given that I’ve lived here for pretty much all my life, and have been to other nearby cities with much more to offer, there’s also not much to brag about. Not hometown-bashing here, but our mall is just bleh. Last time I walked around in it, there was a tattoo-and-barber shop in there, a bunch of teen clothing stores, and some empty lots. Don’t cry for me, mallrat.
I work as a state-certified Massage Therapist, and have been so for over two years. Much better job than working retail at Macy’s.
Though I will say my dream job is still writing for a living. Writing stories and poems, influencing others, and perhaps ruffling the feathers of some. I’ve been published before. My first published piece was a poem I wrote when I was in the 8th grade, in the “1998 Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans.” I also wrote for my college newspaper, and now I am aiming to get my first novel published, hopefully sometime by the end of this year or beginning of next year. (So if you’re wondering about the lack of updates here, the novel stuff is the reason why.) What I write about? Stuff from the heart, basically. Love, heartache, societal issues, why commercials suck, etc.
For the record, I am NOT a girl who wears glasses, drinks Starbucks/Peet’s/some fair-trade organic caffeinated beverage when I blog, wears American Apparel, has weird-colored streaks in my hair, and possesses an iPad and iPhone. But I am a perfume whore.
I prefer to create than bitch. That doesn’t mean I won’t do the latter–it has and will happen. You may even see bouts of it here!
A hockey game is playing as I type. Hockey rules. I also follow baseball, the NBA, and tennis, but hockey has won my heart. The fast pace of the game, the crazy goals…the fights! And not just those pussy shove matches you see in the NBA today that some people say is “badass.” Yawn. Now if you happen to be a fan of the Pittsburgh Penguins (or the SF Giants or LA Lakers), we can be besties. Just as long as you don’t wear fake eyeglasses. Those things suck ass. My take on that shit: if you wanna look smart, act smart, not look fake.
I stand up for originality, eccentricity, free expression (to an extent), strong-minded people who stick to their guns no matter what others tell them, the old souls, the truly ballsy (not those ones that provoke and then retract their act after), and the weirdos without shame. I’m pro-choice, pro-marriage equality & LGBT rights, and pro-sex. Actually, I’m more about smart and safe sex–there’s nothing wrong with, say, pornography (except those stupid porn parodies that just suck) and expressing yourself sexually. But I’m also about respecting your partner and their boundaries–definitely not that shit you’ve seen or heard in those stupid “50 Shades” of whatever books.
I adore being a single girl. But whenever I see a truly handsome man, I reconsider my marital status.
Brunettes do it best. Oh yes, we do.
I like standing up for “girl power” and being a feminist, but there are those of my gender that just bring us females as a whole down. Like those no-talent famous-for-nothings/famous-by-association hanger-ons. Then I don’t mind calling them fucking cunt bitches that need to get an actual damn job.
Miniskirts. Sexier than leggings and skinny pants any day. Just as sexy? Figure-flattering, confident fashion.
The 1990s ruled. The music, the movies, the fashion…But do I think the 90s are back now? Fuck no. Fuck what you’ve heard–the 90s are not back. And it probably won’t be back at all. Why? Then, you saw people walking around. Now, you see people walking around with cell phones glued to their damn faces. (Kinda makes me yearn for those days when cell phones were $2,000 bricks. That was back in the 90s, IIRC.) And original grunge fashion never involved skinny pants. And Beavis & Butthead was a whole lot better then that whatever it is now (and they never should have brought them back in the first place–some things weren’t meant to be resurrected).
Don’t ask me to hashtag, dammit. It’s my red flag to this bull. And I don’t tweet, and will never do so. Just like Charles Barkley…
I believe making $100,000 in a year is a million times more impressive than gaining 100,000 Twitter followers in a year. I also believe that the hype on measly “accomplishments” (like gaining Twitter followers) is plain pathetic. Those who accomplish something meaningful and beneficial to society or one’s well-being (it doesn’t have to be lofty) never fail to impress me. Hey, I helped a guest relieve their frozen shoulder today through massage and they no longer need to get surgery! What did you do? Hashtagged and retweeted some shit? Ahahahahaha!!!
Why “satiety”? Defined as “the feeling or state of being sated/satisfied” by Webster’s, I’ll always have a hunger for inner fulfillment. And I’ve had this drive long before I knew that word. Even if I accomplish one thing, if I know there’s something better above it, I want to get to that next level. Hence, I seek satiety out, practically every waking day of my life. If I can’t achieve a bit of it one day, I’ll do it the next day, and so forth. It’s just me not wanting to be mediocre and foolishly complacent in my life.
Three of my favorite words of the moment: sagacious, explicit, and pulchritude.
Cool quote of the moment:
(Check me out on my Pinterest, by the way.)
One interesting thing I’ll be doing this week: attending Giants Fanfest this weekend. All fun and no work–the way a weekend was meant to be.
If you haven’t known by now, I like to ramble. And there’s a lot more about me, but I don’t spill it all in one sitting. In due time, folks (oh, who am I kidding, folk…), in due time.