J. Beaman - The Magazine

L. was also wearing tie-dye. She is so not like me.

I think I might start telling people that my parents were killed by hippies. That being the source of my hatred of them. Maybe I was in the room when it happened and they were wearing patchouli and every time I smell patchouli now, I get flashbacks. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When I smell patchouli. That’s good.

Maybe it would have been a ritual killing. The hippies tied my parents and my sister and myself to our dining room chairs (the ones given to us by my great-grandma) and put some Grateful Dead on the turntable. The record was scratchy because hippies don’t take good care of things; look at their dogs. Jesus.

P.T.S.D. from patchouli and from the Dead. And they did a whirling dervish dance around us, the leader saying, “Man, you just don’t know about how you people are putting us down, man. Cause we’re on our trip, man, and you just keep fillin’ our lives with your death, man.” See, my mom worked for Dow Chemicals and this was some sort of retribution. “We’ll let your kids live, man, but, you know, you have to go. Poisoning the air with your oppression.”

I hate hippies.

Here’s the problem with the blog.

1. I’ll write here and sometimes it’ll be good.
2. I’ll meet pretty girls and I’ll want to tell them about the blog so they can see how smart and clever and witty I am.
3. I’ll then be dating one of said pretty girls but I won’t be able to write about her (or the other pretty girls, if there are any).

It’s a tough situation. Hold your tears. I’ll be fine.

One solution is to have two blogs. A secret “all about girls” blog and a public regular blog. But I don’t think I have the energy for that. So, true to my form, I am going to write about whatever the I want on here–to hell with what the pretty girls think.

A Prelude to Hot Sex (a blog post about girls):

M. is a smart, hot, hipster I met on the internet (I think you’re supposed to capitalize internet. I’m not sure how I feel about that.) Nerve.com. She’s a good writer and fun to talk to and has tattoos and isn’t traditionally pretty and reads all the time and, basically, a dream girl. She is like me. Which, incidentally, is exactly what I’ve been looking for my whole life. A girl like me. But (here we go) when we hung out it was about as flaccid as a Nebraska frat boy in the Castro on a Friday night. Bummer.

L. is a smart, hot, girl I met on the internet. Nerve.com. She’s not a hipster. She’s not a writer and she’s full of crazy energy and she’s excessively gorgeous (you know, one of those pretty girls - the one’s who pitied you in high school). She goes to the gym and she runs. She is, exactly, not like me. But (here we fucking go) she rocks my goddamned world. The sexual energy between the two of us is almost like nothing I’ve experienced. The goddamned, fall off the fucking bed, star-seeing like an anvil landed on your head, crazy-assed “I don’t give a fuck, just get yourself into the fucking bed right now before I lose my already dodgy mind” kind of hot. And the clothes haven’t even come off yet. And, jesus, I don’t know about long lasting relationships and I barely know this girl (read: our relationship is likely doomed to fail, like all the others and I’m ok with that–hopeful yet realistic) but I feel like I’ve been missing the fucking boat on women my whole life.

Some of this comes from watching Alice and Magaly who are magically different from one another but are in some sweet fucking love. It is enviable.

More later, I promise.

I still don’t have a job and I’m running out of money.
I’m reading more than usual, which is good.
Alice and Magaly and Adrian are happy to have me here.
San Francisco is fucking gorgeous and I’m thrilled to be here.
There are quite a few “people in disguise” here. They look cool and interesting but aren’t.
Girls are going to be fun here.
Girls are fun and have always been fun.
More fun? The same fun? Fun.
I stole some high speed internet (wireless) from some of Alice’s neighbors.
I am grateful for them (the neighbors).
I am happy.
Anxious.
I miss Josh Duty.
Among other things.
And other people.
Picture messaging is nice for homesickness.
I never thought I would be homesick for Austin.
I miss Little City on Congress.
Heather (who works there) is hot.
I have yet to find a coffee shop in SF with a girl as hot as Heather.
That is sad thing #4.
Sad thing #1 is that I don’t have a job.
“Write one thing every fucking day, J. Beaman,” said the junkies and whores. “One thing.”