This of course leads to the question of who lives next door to me.
My lovely boyfriend NKeats and I are a hyphenated unit, albeit an open one, and we're both game to hang out with interesting humans/cyborgs/sea sponges. That said, though, we do have ground rules. Try to reconfigure our relationship at your own risk.
In the Italian renaissance, the term "sprezzatura" was used for a kind of studied courtly nonchalance, giving the appearance of exerting no effort when really, doing just the opposite. I've never been good at that.
I fucking hate small talk, banality, and sexists. I'm an ugly, gawky kid at heart who's still astounded that she can use her boobs for evil, much less good. I may look like Zooey Deschanel, but beneath this vintage dress beat the hearts of Missy Elliott and ODB.
Just because I listed "interested in casual sex" on my profile does NOT mean that I want it with you. I'm picky as hell. If you hit me with a neg, or a boring line, or even garden-variety sexism, you can bet your saggy ass that reddit will see it and have some laughs. Stupid people need not apply. You have been warned.
As a special ed teacher, I work all the time, so I might not respond to you immediately. Taking my response time personally says more about you than you think.
My safeword is in Elvish.
I speak five other languages, three-and-a-half of which are dead. I am a medievalist, and chances are, I've heard all your bad jokes about medieval everythings before and am really, really unimpressed by them.
I have a very vocal inner child. Or a Peter Pan Complex. Take your pick. I teach disabled elementary school kids for a living, and love it, although sometimes I come home from math tiles and finger paint and wonder where the glamor is.
I make art, when I can be bothered. When I can't be bothered, I dye my hair and paint on myself.
I'm my own Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and I pack a punch. I will not make your life more interesting. I will not taste better on a Ritz. I will not save you ten dollars by switching to Geico. The revolution will not be televised.
I'm prodigiously good at never acting my age.
I love first dates, first kisses, and (giving and receiving) presents. I'm brilliant at back massages and seeing through bullshit.
I also excel at escapism, fantasy, languages, being verbose, cooking improvisationally, gluing things to other things in what I've been told is an aesthetically pleasing way, researching, giving my all, making mixtapes, talking to strangers, and creating theater. I speak fluent enough Kid to know that most adults underestimate children's imagination/craziness/intellect. Somehow speaking Kid translates to speaking fluent Drunk and semi-fluent Crazy, which are both really useful subway skills. I can stop a conversation in its tracks, and will not feel the least bit bad about exiting a lame interaction.
Being the bastard love child of Delirium and Desire is hard, but I do it well enough.
I don't notice how a man looks as often as I notice how he sounds. Sonorous voices are notable weak point. I blame Neil Gaiman and Benedict Cumberbatch. And Sidney Poitier.
Everyone calls me "cute" when they come onto me. I find that really troubling. I fell for the lovely NKeats -among the myriad reasons- because he never calls me "cute." If you want "cute," fuck off back to the ephebo links on /b/ you creepers. Or if you're smart, fuck off to some Nabokov. Either way, I think someone with my measurements has earned the right to not be called "cute." People of varying genders have rhapsodized about my butt, for what it's worth.
Geek Love- Dunn
Wind-Up Bird Chronicle- Murakami
Ada or Ardor-Nabokov
Love in the Time of Cholera- Marquez
Kavalier and Clay- Chabon
The City And The City- Mieville
Crying of Lot 49- Pynchon
Magician's Land- Grossman
Fear of Flying- Jong
The Secret History- Tartt
Complete Poetry- Philip Larkin
High Fidelity- Hornby
The Fall- Tarsem
The Babadook- Kent
Annie Hall- Allen
Howl's Moving Castle- Miyazaki
The Red Shoes- Shearer
Stoker- Park Chan Wook
Berberian Sound Studio/Duke Of Burgundy- Strickland
Repulsion/Rosemary's Baby- Polanski
The horrific 70s animated Lord of the Rings-Bakshi
The Adventures of Robin Hood- The Errol Flynn Version, please
The Decemberists- Crane Wife/entire discography
The White Stripes- De Stijl
Belle and Sebastian- Tigermilk
Liz Phair- Exile in Guyville
The Rolling Stones- Exile on Main Street
Django Reinhardt- Djangology
The Magnetic Fields- 69 Love Songs
The xx- XX
The Sunset Tree-The Mountain Goats
Steak Tartare at Zinc
Hendricks Gin and subsequent cocktails
Bucheron Cheese (or really just interesting cheese)
Sel de rose
Interesting Fruits and Fruit Juices
Wine (usually a dry Riesling -God, I'm Pretentious- but I'll try anything)
Curry, specifically green curry
Things To Do:
Watch bad movies campily
Paint with found materials
Spectate and commentate
Be more than a bit morbid
Collect old vinyl and then dance to it
DIY Clothes doctoring
Perform to a crowd/Be Watched
Make an Ass of Myself
Be a twee-core Cindy Sherman
*music, podcasts, noise, or anything to soothe the quiet.
*an open window
*juice (or fruit in general)
*odd things (exorcisms, dada, language structures) to be fascinated by
Top ten lists of pop songs for specific moments and emotions.
The fact that I am the more attractive, non-asshole version of Rob from "High Fidelity." Then promptly wondering the implied narcissism/smug-yuppie-ness of the aforementioned.
Agatha Christie and Sylvia Plath starring in a hi-jinks-filled roommates-sitcom in which Aggie is constantly walking in on Syl and Ted trying to kill each other. Working Title: Died in the Wool
The ambiguous and many-mawed beast known as the future, where I can get backrubs, The brilliant textures of an unwritten-in notebook, medieval exorcisms, Why-oh-why was I not born David Bowie, other people's compulsions, pica, the word "verity," how much I hate people who write with ellipses and read Dan Brown. Iconography, lithopedions, Old Myths, how little I really know, unconventional staging methods.
Where in the goddamn world Carmen Sandiego is.
During the night: Nursing a bourbon, sketching people on the subway, or dreaming on the dance floor.
Perhaps coming home to/for/with you.
Or maybe it's just me.
You, however, should want neither. Or both. Or something better. Be my partner in crime.
Be ready to keep up with an overstuffed brain. Always be up for adventures of both the g-rated and much much more interesting variety. Brace yourself to love and be loved. I'll try not to make it too hard.
Please, for the love of all things good in this world, don't be an asshole.