Maths Can Be Sexy

V is Vagina, and V is for Venn Diagram. That math looks so sexy on you. Like Einstein's soul threw up just a little bit on Anna Nicole Smith; sexy in a horrible, disgusting and yet funny way that implies either genius or retardation. I ride the fence on this one back and forth endlessly. Are certainly celebrities brilliant or functionally retarded? I should preface all this with the caveat that I was only ok at the maths at school. Algebra I am aces at; I'm ok with the geometry until we get into the 20-step proofs, and then I am out. As Bret Michaels would say, "Me no likey." I can get by in the calculus but we get anywhere NEAR irrational numbers, and I AM OUT. Goodbye. My smarts are not of that kind. I got the words, but not the spatial maths. Eh. I am sure I can date up brainwise if need be. Unfortunately, that's not how my vagina works. No, not at all. I like guys with abs; it is a sad, sick shame. I confess it. You can be fit and pretty and stupid, and much like any man, I will put up with you as long as you keep your mouth shut. Terrible isn't it? Stop talking baby; you're spoiling the moment. Ssssh. Though I have had that trick pulled on me by the Schulze and his very special brand of cynical bastardism, "How about we have less noticing things with our mouths and more noticing things with our minds." Fuck you; deuce up. This from the first man to give me an orgasm, and you WONDER what is wrong with me. It would take from now until the end of time to unravel the wtf that has happened to me. Mostly because I am insane and can obsess and manufacture meaning out of any little thing, so we'd be here forever as I am always thinking about your motivations and even more so when you don't have any conscious ones, but who's kidding who here? There's always a reason, always something to define, and always a sentence to diagram or perhaps a VENN (or Euler diagram) to lay out to clarify any given situation.

Today, I found a site that is all diagrams and graphs jotted down on notecards or napkins or what have you. I am now totally addicted to indexed. It's smart and very tongue-in-cheek, and it does help one make sense of relationships in a concrete manner without actually having to resort to higher maths that I am not good at. Praise be! I have been on a Venn Diagram kick lately ever since I found the best diagram ever which accurately represents my struggle against the endless tyranny of pants:




Unfortunately, that diagram is not actually a Venn diagram because the data sets do not intersect. It is in all reality a Euler diagram which is more useful for showing real world data, because not all sets partially overlap with all other sets. That's the last time I will make that distinction because from here on out, anything with circles I am going to define as a Venn digram because everyone has at least heard of a Venn diagram and has at least a vague concept of what I'm talking about.

Also, in honor of that terrible new commercial wherein Meatloaf sings about his kid wanting a fucking Go Phone every night and day as he throws smoke bombs around his garage and his wife waltzes around nonchalantly manhandling a large, raw leg of meat, here is a Venn Diagram just for you Meatloaf:


Perhaps, that should actually be labeled "Things Meatloaf would do for money".

The beautiful thing about the Venn is that you can truly use them to define any relationship. This one, off of Indexed, is a new favorite that accurately defines Hope for Entrepreneurs and the tacky shit they make.



This one is also a favorite. Perhaps it should be titled: "Spring Cleaning."


I bring all this up because a few weeks a go I met a beautiful girl and kissed her at a bar. I immediately fell ill with a horrific flu mere hours afterwards. She's a 4th grade teacher, so I think I was struck down by filthy, opportunistic 4th grader germs. I really liked this girl, and we were all holding hands and getting kissy, in public. She even threw some noise at a friend of mine who happens to be a girl because she thought my friend was making moves on me, but sadly, as all such encounters with women usually end for me, she was only into kissing girls when drunk. Since that night, I have had no answer to my texts. Oh ladies, it's amazing what 2 shots of Jagermeister will do to your sexual orientations. As for me, your Princess, I am bisexual and far pickier about my women than I am about my men. Double standard, I know. The awesome thing about meeting pretty teachers in bars though is that they volunteer to diagram your gayness for you. In fact, I think it was her idea to diagram my gayness which made me fall even a little bit more in love with her in my alcohol-induced haze. Let me present the diagram of my gayness or lack thereof:

There is some shady math going on here because we were plastered, but we made allowances for errors which we subtracted to come up with a more possibly realistic number. Please remember the state of our brains because we were hammered, but this diagram clearly shows that I am only 10% gay, and she was 50% gay, but still...who is not answering whose texts here? It does me no good to find girls I like at bars and kiss them because such girls are only into kissing girls for as long as the drinks are free. I did really like her though. I would like to kiss her some more, maybe fuck her in the Blue Lion, maybe setup a threesome with Starbuck. I love you KARA THRACE. Oh well, such things are not to be.

Even XKCD has gotten into the VENN game of love with this amazingly touching and yet simultaneously disturbing diagram:


Vanilla Ice should not in any way be near any of those datasets, but hey, to each their own. Take Mr. Van Winkle, who was just arrested for a domestic dispute, off the market, and I will consider you a hero. You are taking one for the team by ensuring no one else has to fuck him. Thank you. I thank you for all women everywhere from the bottom of my heart.

My wonderful cyber friend Puck made a hilarious Venn diagram that works both Sauron and ogling my sweet ass into one beautiful graphical representation that I simply must share:


Since it's a little blurry, let me state that this graph represents: The Things Sauron Would Do for Love. Those being a) create a nice precious ring b) dominate an elf and c) ogle D_S (meaning me aka the dirty_snowflake) at every opportunity.

Finally, I leave you with a Venn Diagram from me to thee that utterly, completely, and accurately represents my sex life or lack thereof as of this very moment:

Rollie will return soon; he did fall in the trash compactor. We're fishing him out as I type this. Silly Rollie always with the nipple cannons and the wacky antics.


*Princess Out*

Flawless Failure

My super power has returned. Two light bulbs down. Snap. Crackle. Pop. The hallway in front of the bathroom and one of the lamps in the living room's many tentacles shorted out rather spectacularly when I grabbed its bendy neck to direct the light. My body is filled right now with a potent chemical cocktail of unhappy sauces: prolactin, cortisol, and adrenaline. It is not responding well to this, and I guess my electromagnetic field is shorting out on certain frequencies. All of us here at Princess Central (me and the voices in my mind) have been strung out on love hormones like a fucking junkie. I am jonesin' for the body's natural opiates, the enkephalins; I don't want to kick the endorphins and the dopamines. I want to be high on love all the time, but kids, sadly that high can so rarely stay. It passes, and you feel a little sick, a little shaky, a lot raw. The upside to crying your eyes out? Sssh, it's nature's chemical peel, as well as, a way to purge that overdose of negative hormones out of your body. I am secreting my despair and thus purging myself of it, and once my face has healed from the slight prolactin, sodium chloride, and potassium chloride burn, my skin is going to look be-yoo-ti-ful. This time around, I took note of the emotions coursing through my body when the light bulb sparks and burns out, and it is straight up despair, a river of angst pouring through my chest. I just wanted to turn my brain off yesterday, so I wouldn't feel. Too late. Apparently, I broadcast across a wide spectrum. All artificial lights will feel my wrath and tremble.

Why the long face little bear? Well, I met a man or a robot (it's entirely possible) on the internets. We laughed, we loved, we conducted a relationship entirely made of pixels and electrical bursts. We entered into a year-long family plan cell phone contract. Do you take this 404 area code to have and to hold as your own even though you live in Sayton, Ohio? He did, and there was much chatting and texting and rejoicing on the full keyboard of the Sidekick. We named our future children. In fact, if it was possible to be impregnated via sms protocol, I would be 6 months pregnant right now. Alas, it was not to be, and I come now to you, the blogosphere, to bury this cyber-relationship. For truly, it is over.

There are ways to end a relationship that require tact and delicacy. Some go for more of a burn the bridge and salt the earth approach. I have experienced many finishing moves that were awesome in the scope of their douchebaggery. There was the boyfriend who left me while my mother and BOTH my cats were dying of cancer. There was the boyfriend who went to the beach with his buddies for New Year's Eve rather than spend that magickal moment with me; though, I begged and pleaded with him to go on a trip with me anywhere, my treat. He later met a new horse-faced makeup beast and flew to London the next year to celebrate New Year's Eve with her. Ah yes. Still, it burns. Today. Today, I have experienced a new finishing move, a move worthy of Mortal Kombat: the Douche-ality.

Let me set the stage for you. It was Xmas, and I was working 3 jobs to ensure that when my dearest cyber-love winged his way to me that I would have enough money to be able to not work during his visit thus ensuring that I could stay home all week and have violent monkeysex and bathe in the aura of our love. We could not be together at Xmas, or New Year's Eve for that matter (foiled again), because he has a child and shared custody and needed to save his money to make a little girl's Xmas special. All perfectly understandable, I gave him props for tending to his child and having his priorities in order. Did I expect a present from him at Xmas? No. Would a $2 card and a $.25 plastic ring have sufficed? Yes. Yes, it would have been enough for me as I am a cheap and sentimental date, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I bought him a small gift and waited to give it to him in the flesh. I kept the light of our love alive in my stupid, stupid heart.

Sadly, it truly was the beginning of the end. Things were amiss. He became wishy-washy. I mean we had only kept this thing alive for 6 MONTHS without ever meeting one another for real. Everytime he was supposed to come visit me (and there were 3 separate incidents all to be paid for on my dime), he would get cold feet and come up with outlandish excuses...like teeth. Yes, TEETH. Not mine but his. Apparently, he was afeared to meet me because his teeth weren't perfect, but kids, I had seen pictures of his teeth, and they were fine for my purposes. Plus, I was IN LOVE, and frankly, he could have been purple and had tentacles for all I cared. I just wanted to touch him and love him and perform unspeakable sex acts upon his naked flesh. BUT NO. It was not to be. Teeth. My birthday rolled around Feb. 2nd, Groundhog's Day. We had been squabbling a little and expectations were low. A phone call would have been nice; a 2 word text saying "Happy Birthday" would have even been acceptable. Nothing. Friends I had not spoken with in 2 years took the time out to text me Happy Birthday. People I have never met made an effort to leave me glittery birthday comments on my mspazz page. There were phone calls and life-sized Wonder Woman pinatas --(Dear Spanish language, I apologize, but I cannot find the enyas and tildes on this damn non-standard keyboard)-- and cake and plastic rings and many Lonestars, but there was nada from the cyberboy. Nary a peep nor a pixel was to be found. I got a phone call a few days later. His excuse? I had said my bday was not a "big deal", and he didn't want to be an asshole. Seriously? But, you are being an asshole by not calling so how are you not being an asshole again? Oh that's right, you are being an asshole and you KNOW it; you just don't want to have to deal with why you are being an asshole. You can't hide from the truth because the truth is all there is. Classic move straight out of the Douchnozzle Twatwaffle Handbook. Let me explain the ultimate triple ice burn subtlety of this move. Acting like the ultimate asshole forces me to preemptively break up with him right before Valentine's Day thus pulling the perfect no-gifting trifecta of Xmas, my bday, and Valentine's Day. Your plan sir is fiendishly simple yet cowardly implemented. It would have been easier and more humane to rip the band-aid off this thing months ago pre-holiday season, but, and here is the kicker, he didn't even realize he had pulled the Classic Ultimate Douche-ality until I pointed it out to him, and he had the grace to kind of act SORRY. Listen, DUDE, I GET it. You didn't think about it. You didn't even bother to think about me. In fact, you had already stopped thinking about me altogether. God, at least if he had done it on purpose, I would have known that he had spared at least 2 FUCKING seconds of concern and thought for me. I TOTALLY get the message; we has received it loud and clear. Thus, sir, I crown you the winner in this round of the Mortal Kombat that is love and romance in this digital age.

Ultimate Douche-ality: Flawless Failure.



(I tried to make a snappy Photoshop pic of Sub-Zero ripping the spine out of a bleeding unicorn to go right here. It just wasn't in me today though. I have even lost the will to form Voltron. Tragic. Ask and ye shall receive. This lovely graphic is courtesy of Moo. Much Love.)

I name thee wonderkiller, unicorn maimer, butterfly crumpler, doubt sower.

What's the moral of the story kids? Don't put yourself out there? Don't try? Make better choices with your heart? Expect the best but prepare for the worst? Don't meet people over the internet? All plausible, but I don't think so. I'd still walk this heart over the lava pit, no net, for the right person. What do I know though? I'm just the dumbfuck who fell for it all. To borrow the much finer words of Mr. William Faulkner, "'Tis a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying...nothing."

(via XKCD click pic to make bigger)