Get your ow
n diary at DiaryLand.com! contact me older entries newest entry

08-10-04 - 11:00 p.m.

Yeah, this entry's a bit image, heavy. Sorry, bubs.

G-G-G-G-G Getchyo' Freak On.
Ah, yes. All you lame-o's out there who didn't inherit the rhythm gene and have to watch their siblings get there groove on while they sit back bending their knees to what they think is the beat like some drooling toddler - you can add a new member to your cool club.

My sister... she's thebomb.com. Who knew? I was listening to a hip hop song (I have my moments.) and she goes, "Hey, Rachele, I know a dance to this, wanna see?" And then she dropped my jaw with her eye-popping dance. Go, girl.

But why couldn't I have been blessed with that, too? I mean, sure, I can hold my own in the club. I love a good booty dance, but I can't do that choreographed stuff, although I have been wanting to learn. (I'll keep you posted on that one, if I decide I can get writing again. I'm not feeling it as of late.)

I Know I'm Not Alone, Here.
I know I'm not the only person sitting in traffic screaming obscenities at the weasel in the tiny car who just weaved in front of me.

Nonetheless, I feel like the only sane driver with my little-forehead-vein-that-only-bulges-out-when-I-get-mad bulging the hell out as I white-knuckledly suck in deep breaths in an attempt to harness my chi so that I don't jump out of my car straight through that tiny car's window and strangle it's driver until his air supply is cut off and he expires. Whew.

But, seriously. That can't just be me. Then again, it can't be normal to see someone doing that little thing - that certain thing that irks me, and want to grab handfuls of his or her hair and just yank that shit right out.

So, in order to calm these everyday bouts of anger and general violence, I have made what might just be the smartest purchase ever. Ever.

I bought a punching bag. The kind that stands on a base which you fill with sand or water. We (my mom and I) put it together a couple of days ago, and I tried it out tonight for the first time.

I made everyone leave the room, because it felt weird to let my anger loose on a bag with my sweet mother smiling in my general direction.

Then I wrapped my hands, and put on the gloves (Safety is definitely recommended. I'm violent, not stupid.) and gave it a go. As was suspected, I was a tad shy at first, since it was my first time being able to really lay into something with all of my strength. But then a button pushed, I think, and I freaking went off.

I beat the hell out of that thing, and it felt wonderful. I recommend the punching bag to everyone who is generally a nice person.

See, mean people, they get their frustration out all day long. I mean someone does something stupid, they say, "Dude, you're a damned idiot, and I think I'm gonna kick your ass." And then they kick the guy's ass, and bam, they let go of some anger. But nice people...

We just grit our teeth and hold all of our mean words inside, until one day we freaking snap and eviscerate someone with a box cutter.

Enter the punching bag. It cost me $120 for the whole thing. Bag, gloves, wraps, sand, stress relief. And nobody gets hurt.

Totally worth it.

Cream, Get On Top.
I went to the Prince concert on Friday. I have been before, I think it was 1997, and I must say that I was more pleased with his performance before he became all Jehovah's Witness-ey. No offence, of course, but I mean, come on, Prince is the official dirty-minded, nasty boy of music, and I think he should remain as such.

But then again, a man who looks like this:

can do what he wants.

Prince is the only man who can wear a feminine suit with flared pants and a plunging neck-line - which is made out of a lacey material, of course - and some stiletto heels and still be so sexy to so many women.

Exhibit B:

Fo' Sho'.

And now for the money shots:

Sheesh.

Back in 1997 when the song "1999" meant something, and my 14 year-old self was singing along with Prince to Darling Nikki as he humped his purple piano, Prince was the baddest boy on the block. He was like the Elvis of the 80's. And now he won't even so much as grind on the floor for more than a moment.

My mom told me that he once came one single skimpy layer of lace clothing away from having sex with a girl right on stage. And now he's reduced to playing acoustic renderings of his old time favorites from a rotating chair a la MTV Unplugged.

Oh, well. At least I saw him back when he was somewhat wild.

And at least I saw a concert in his farewell tour.

Good times. Go, Prince. Until next time - I just can't believe all the things people say...controversy.

previous - next

about me - read my profile! read other Diar
yLand diaries! recommend my diary to a friend! Get
 your own fun + free diary at DiaryLand.com!