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More Scab Than Skin.
We're just badly drawn versions of ourselves.
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Because, like, whatever. Or at least I'm fed up with feeding personal stories to corporate blogdom, and would rather do it on my own space.

If I can figure out how to make it feed to LJ, like I know is possible to do, I will, but for now it's here: [babykillbot.com]
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On the off chance that you are in New York this Friday, and looking for something to do, you should stop by Happy Ending Lounge and hear me speak about (what else?) porn.

Details here.
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Because I am moving into a room that's big enough to not need a loft bed, I now need to buy a bedframe. And because I am officially an adultTM, this will clearly be the bed that I die in, so it's a rather important decision. As a result, I'm having a minor anxiety attack.

At first I thought I wanted a really basic blond wood platform bed, like, perhaps, this one:



But then I thought more, and (of course) browsed the Ikea website, and I came across this:



Which is nice and all, but maybe not worth $350? I'd have to see it in person, of course, but I have a slight fear that it might be cheap looking.

To make matters worse, I'm now doubting the whole concept of a blond wood bed, period, because I might end up with a higher ratio of dark furniture than previously expected, and really, which kind of wood would go best with parakeet green walls? Add to this the fact that I just slept in a dark wood bed at The Chelsea that I adored, and, well--this whole adultTM thing is rather hard.

Mostly I just want a bed that's as inconspicuous as possible, with no headboard, that gives me ample storage space in the nether regions. Of course, because of the timing of it all, I'll probably be sleeping on a mattress on the floor for a week, so I suppose that'll give me plenty of time to mull things over.
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Titles for stories I will hopefully write one day

If You Lived Here, You'd Be Fat Now
Internal Pops Only, Please
Same Page, or A Tale Of Social Climbing
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So, FYI?

Due to bla bla bla and thusly, I am now editor of Fleshbot.com.
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irenekaoru was all "OMG I thought you stopped keeping a personal journal but I guess you're just on Tumblr now," which is basically true but not really: Tumblr gets more of my attention, yes, but barely even that.

That said, here is a rant I wrote on ye Tumblr:

Against irony

Or maybe I mean against fameballs, or something else entirely. I’m not sure.

I’ve spent the past few days feeling exhausted. And maybe I’m tired of New York, or tired of the internet, or tired of fameballs; but what I know is this:

There are two things I just can’t stomach anymore.

1) People who seek to become famous simply for the sake of fame, with no plan or capability to offer anything substantive to society;

and

2) Perhaps worse, people who seem to be only capable of communicating in snarky soundbites, who can’t ever seem to take anything seriously and tear down everything — even good things — all for the sake of some sad little joke. (Come on, people: even Gawker has a “things we actually like” tag.)

I feel, in a lot of ways, as though I have a very different perspective from a lot of people in my social circle. Yes, kids, I am a privileged white girl, and a Jew at that, but I went to high school in the poverty-stricken city of Buffalo, where many of my classmates were not so privileged as I. More to the point, I spent the past three years working in social services, dealing with a whole mess of problems that many of my friends can’t even conceive of as anything other than stories on the news or in the paper.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that when you’ve hugged a fourteen year old girl who’s crying because you’ve just told her that she’s been diagnosed with chlamydia, or walked more than a few high school girls through their first or second or third pregnancy scare, or even pregnancy and abortion, well, the trials and tribulations of Julia Allison seem very petty, to say the least.

What makes me so sad is this gutwrenching feeling that my generation has no desire to give back, no desire to create anything of worth, anything of value: that all we really care about is ourselves, and our profiles, and the ability to get our faces on the teevee.

I would like to believe that there is something worth more than that. I would like to believe that we might, at some point, stand for something more than ourselves.

Here’s hoping, kids.
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(Or, a rare reason to post.)

I think what I really learned from years of being slutty is that kissing is the best part.

Unless you’re getting into a relationship, there’s this inevitable sadness to all sexual encounters — even good sexual encounters, even the best sex — because it means the end of it all. The end of the flirtation, the moment of promise, the anticipation, and — in some cases, at least — the end of your acquaintance with that person. Suddenly this person, so full of promise, is just another name on your list of people you’ve fucked; another entry to the database of places you’ve been.

Kissing, on the other hand, extends the moment of anticipation, heightens the desire, keeps you wondering and guessing what, exactly, that moment of climax would be like. Kissing is the question, and fucking is the answer — and the answer is never as good as you hoped.

What I’m really trying to say, I guess, is that I long ago lost the desire to fuck every hot stranger who passes by, but I still really want to make out with people.
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Starting June 21, I will be finished with my life as an adolescent pregnancy prevention specialist. This means I will be able to devote more time to my life as a boinkologist and/or weblebrity and/or sex 2.0 specialist. Anyone interested in giving me money in exchange for sheer awesome power should contact me ASAP.
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I'm now an Associate Editor at Fleshbot. Not just a contributor!
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It seems increasingly clear that Tumblr is the new Livejournal.

But, you know, not.
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Baby Killbot
Name: Baby Killbot
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