Needless to say I definitely had self-esteem issues from Elem. to H.S. Notice my overly-processed hair and awkward face.

The shame and disgust of my natural hair was so great I would never leave my apartment unless my curls were beaten down into neat and straight strands. This would go on for over 15 years. I would try different perms, flat-irons, blow driers, Dominican salons, and Japanese straightening. Ultimately leading to the irreversible damage of my hair.

All I wanted was to have pin-straight hair that was immune to frizzing and I have spent disgustingly large amounts of money trying to achieve just that.

With a stroke of unfortunate luck, I decided to get my ends trimmed at some nearby salon and ended up with nearly a foot of my hair gone. I was mortified. I had been growing out my hair for a long time. But then I realized all of the damaged ends from year after year of hair-torture were magically gone. It was as if my hair was starting a new lease on life. Bitter about my new short hairdo, I still continued to flat-iron it for a few months after the cut to try and make my hair seem longer (when it's curly it looks shorter).

I've come a long way with accepting and eventually liking my own self-image.

Maybe I just needed to get older to accept myself, or needed someone to show me that my natural unruly mop is beautiful. It took me a very long time, but I can finally say I feel beautiful just being me and I am happy with my hair! No more straightening for me!

My new year's resolution is to embrace my new appreciation of my curls and to only straighten it if I really have to. I also want to grow it back to the original length of my lower back before most of my hair got cut off, but that is going to take a lot more than one new year's resolution.

My message to you all for the holidays is to love thyself!! I know it's hard, because you always find things to nitpick at, but if you can find one or two things that you love about yourself that already is a good start. Then things just fall into place from there!

Be happy, be loved and have a wonderful and self-fulfilling holiday season!

After you passed I thought I would never be able to own another dog again. The pain of heartbreak was much more than I could have ever imagined and don't think I couldn't bear to go through such heartbreak again. But I missed you so much and I craved the joy and affection of a dog that you used to give to me.

So many good dogs are being put in shelters for whatever reasons and need good homes, just like you did when we first adopted you. So I gave it another shot. Despite the initial reluctance and disapproval of the family, I opened my heart and my home to two new dogs and gave them all the love and affection I could. I do not regret it. They keep me sane and happy. They can never replace or erase my memories of you, but then they are not meant to.

I know you are happy for me where you are (in puppy-heaven with Kiwi) and are glad to see that I am giving other dogs a chance on a new and better life just like we did with you.

So thank you Yummy for being mine. You will always be my one true love and the sweetest, most loving dog I could ever to have hoped for. I will always love you and miss you dearly.

Memories of Yummy:

I'm kidding about the Iraq part, but their stupidity and hypocritical racism does annoy me to no end.

Here is what happened to make me say this:

Every few months or so I cross paths with this really stupid ghetto guy that lives in a building around the corner from my house. It's always when I'm walking my dogs. Always. Even when I had Yummy this guy would harass me.

This is how long it has been going on.

I can only assume he dislikes dogs and girls with dogs because I have never done anything to this man to warrant his disgusting behavior towards me. He sees a small defenseless girl with her small dogs and feels the need to be an asshole to someone, probably because he is broke, jobless, (on drugs?) and has a shitty life in general. I suppose if my daily activities consisted of hanging out on the corner all day and smoking weed I would be a bit pissed about how crappy my life is as well. Although who's fault is that?

If I were a man I guarantee not a word would have escaped his lips, but I am a female and a small one to boot. I have to deal with moronic ghetto assholes who watch BET all day and think a woman's worth is whatever some half-brained rapper of that moment deems it to be.

I am not the kind of person to retaliate if someone is being stupid, but he has made me so angry that I have cursed back at him many times and I will continue to do so if provoked, despite his empty threats to shoot and stab me. For every threat ever made I have openly laughed in his face, followed by a "fuck you". I would feel threatened if he were actually a man, but as of right now I really can't take him seriously. He picks on women literally half his size to make himself feel better. What a “tough guy”, right?

Today he called me a "snooty white bitch" who is taking over "his" neighborhood. A bit racist, no? But god forbid someone call him a stupid black bastard. Holy crap, call Al Sharpton!! Mind you, I am no where near being white (can Trinidadian even be considered somewhat white?) and I have lived in this neighborhood literally for my entire life. There is no possibility of me "taking it over" since I've always been here!

What annoys me the most is the fact that I grew up in the same environment, in the same public school system, with minorities for parents and I somehow managed to make myself successful, educated and well-spoken. Just because I do not sound ghetto and I am of a slightly fairer complexion he assumes I do not belong. Thus I am labeled as one of "them" (them being white people).

This would not be the first time some retarded thug-wannabe has called me "white." Due to the fact that I try to speak using proper English and I do not dumb myself down to fit the neighborhood stereotype of sounding like a raging dumb-ass, this gives ghetto people the impression that I am what they consider to be "white". It doesn't insult me that he called me white, rather it insults me that he tried to put a negative spin on my own intelligence by saying that smartness is limited to one race of people (I am obvious living proof that it is not).

I never could understand how being educated and well spoken is immediately a "white" thing. I know many people of all different races, colors, nationalities who speak just as well, if not better, than I do. Should we consider them “white” as well? I also know just as many different races, colors and nationalities who come off as ghetto, uneducated fools.

I am tired of the mentality that comes with such a backwards culture (if you even want to call it a culture) where being educated is bad, sounding educated is worse, and anything having to do with bettering yourself is completely looked down upon. What kind of way of life is that? It only proves to perpetuate ignorance and intolerance, as well as aiding in the creation of bitter washed out losers who have nothing better to do than harass hard-working young girls who are just trying to walk their dogs in peace.

The ex-jock turned computer nerd. (Or maybe the computer nerd turned ex-jock.) A midwestern boy lucky enough to get entangled in the worldly affairs of New York City. Then luckier still to get entangled with an average morally-devoid New York girl. (That would be me.)

An average male, of average height and average build. Complete with an average first name and a peculiar not-so-average last name. You really could not get any more middle-American. However, in New York average is different. Most newcomers we get quickly assimilate themselves into the fast-paced lifestyle of New York and try to blend in; try to be ‘unique.’ But he was fresh meat. I could still smell it on him, like a new car smell. He had yet to take in the tainted atmosphere of our City and become “one of us.”

This what initially attracted me to him.

I can't say I had the best intentions when we first met, but after having dinner, chatting and being rained upon together I began to develop a completely different feeling for him.

I swear it was probably the damn rain.

Breakfast At Tiffany's (1961)
Paul and Holly share a kiss in the rain.

I often feel beautifully naked when caught in the rain.

~~~~~~~~~

So here marks our one year anniversary together. A year of laughter, happiness, dog-children and hope.

I would like to blame it all on the rain, except I know that it's not true. I know it takes more than good weather to stay with someone for a full year and to look forward to what the future has in store for the both of you. It started with the rain, but it grew into something quite unexpected; something I thought I was finally immune to. Something so irresistible I couldn't stay away.

There's nothing more to say except that he has rekindled my faith in love (and in the existence of smart men), and I hope to have many more happy years together.

The lesson to be learned:
Beware of boys who think they are men and be true enough to yourself to not compromise on anything less than someone who honestly and truly loves you.

I don't often speak of my sexual exploits here, if ever. But I couldn't help but be touched when I got a message about my thoughts on BDSM from a random girl I do not know. At the time of my entry it was something new I was experiencing whole-heartedly with a new lover. She was a masochist searching for a solid voice to describe her taboo lifestyle. I was an an artist enjoying the experiences of dabbling in a brand new medium.

She said:

…I stumbled across your profile (via a group) and something you wrote spoke to me. I needed to thank you for the insight and more graceful way of saying what I have always stumbled to say. I too am a masochist, but explaining why I love to see my body riddled with welts, bruises and red marks always escaped me until I read your explanation…“There's something so wonderful in allowing someone to break down that hard outer-shell we all have worked so hard to build up, leaving the soul exposed and ready to be explored.”  Poetic. Thank you for the inspiration.

No one has ever thanked me for speaking my own mind and coming to terms with myself. Whenever I write it usually is an anonymously public, yet private thing. I was trying to confront the anomaly within myself only to find the voice for another.

I often wondered if anyone at all reads my net-garbage, but then I humble myself with a solid “no”. It's a good feeling to know that my words have touched at least one kindred spirit. I thank her, whoever she is, for letting me know.

Whoever is able to finish this puzzle and get the magic word at the end should message or e-mail me at catpetersATbadcrabDOTcom. Send your name, your e-mail, your address and the magic word. If you are the first person to solve it you will get a special prize! So have fun!

Macromedia's Shockwave plugin is needed to play.

My Birthday Wishlist

1. Bras and Undies

   A girl can never have too many hot under-roos to wear. Rwar~!

   I am an XS in undies and a 32C in bras.
   My style is very simple — sexy and sultry or practical. That's it. All frills and bows should be kept to a bare minimum. I'm not fond of granny panties either.
   Solid colors are best, but I occassionally enjoy cute patterns as well. My staple bras are usually demicups, t-shirt bras, and balconettes. Plunge and push-ups are okay too if you want my boobs to come out and say “hello”.

   When in doubt ask my wife, as she always knows best.

   P.S. If you can, please bring me Adriana Lima too.

2. Vitasoy Enriched Sweetened Soymilk (blue 山水 brand)

   
   For those who don't know, I have an obsession with soymilk. But not just any soymilk, a very specific brand with a very specific flavor. I find that most soymilk, especially American brands, is either too bland, too sweet, or too artificially flavored for me.

   I was introduced to this brand a long time ago, when I used to hang out with a strange boy named John Chau. Thanks to him I am spoiled. This is the only brand of soymilk I'll drink, and it must be the blue mountains one! No other!
   When I have the time to travel to get it, I buy at least 11 cartons at a time.

   “That's ridiculous; it's not even funny,” you say.

   I know.

   You can get a 32 fl oz box for $1.75 in the minimart in Chinatown. If you know how much those filthy hippies in the organic food stores mark up soymilk, you will appreciate the cheapness.

3. Cheese!
   

   If you want to get me something cheap and NOM just get me something cheesy and snacky. Like cheddar biscuits or Ritz cheesey cracker or Cheesits or string cheese, etc. It always makes me feel better, raises my already high cholesterol and it makes me love you that much more.
   
   Om nom nom nom nom!!

4. Lastly — hugs, kisses, pokes, squishes, snuggles, spankings and loves are always acceptable forms of CatBirthday currency. So snuggle up and give me some affection! =D

I don't really plan on doing anything for my birthday, so if you'd like to teleport anything to me send me a message so I can give you the coordinates to my dimension.

Uncanny resemblance!

And if Obama were yellow...

I'm not trying to persuade or dissuade anyone from voting for Obama, or am I saying that he is a child molester like the Yellow Bastard. I am very simply stating a very random visual observation I have made.
Obama looks like Yellow Bastard and it's creepy.

The Nightmare, Henry Fuseli, 1781

Normally if I dream, I dream of the incoherent, strange and fantastical; things that are often forgot moments upon waking. Rarely are the dreams of other people. However, last night was not the case. I dreamt of my ex-lover, someone I had long put out of my mind and deemed myself immune to.

Perhaps not.

I ran into him walking along the FDR. I was not pleased, but I remained civil and decided to chat for a bit, then something was said and we began arguing. I don't remember why we were arguing, but we somehow magically got transported to my apartment. The tensions rose and he began throwing things and breaking things. I screamed at him to stop, and when I got in his face about it he grabbed my arm and harshly threw me onto the floor. I tried getting up, but he kept forcing me back down saying that's where I deserve to be. My sister then appeared and after some threats she managed to get him out.
Then I awoke.

Dreams have a peculiar way of showing our consciousness where our weaknesses lie, because as we sleep we are completely vulnerable. Even after a year he still has the ability to agitate me—in my dreams no less! It seems I am less immune than I once thought.

I awoke feeling angry, distressed and slightly confused. However, upon realizing it was only a dream, relief soothed over me like a cool shower in the brazen heat of summer and I was back to being my normal level-headed self almost instantaneously. 'Twas only a dream after all.