effortlessly fashionable

Being into fashion never seemed to me like a great way to spend one's time. It's not directly correlated with looking good, it demands a lot of time and money to be into, and it's often totally arbitrary, and by that I mean not directly correlated with looking good, and sometimes even correlated with looking bad, yet fashionable.
Also, I think it's important to do things you excel at, and I've never excelled at reading fashion magazines or spending a lot of money.

But it seems like I'm still sort of expected to keep up appearances and stay moderately fashionable, because even before middle school mean fashionable girls learn to talk trash about girls that aren't fashionable, and even some of the nice, fashionable girls notice when you aren't, and might even talk to the mean ones in the bathroom about your unfashionability at an event. And what's so funny is how something that's supposed come down to subjective taste can turn into some universal discussion of how obviously wrong something is by being last season or a trend you shouldn't follow that says something about you. And the fear is the talk is never just about what you're wearing. It's like a license to trash talk you up and down as if looking good and appropriate and staying current are your only face values.

Even though I love dressing up, It's hard to get into when you actually have hips and waist and thighs, and fashion looks like this:





I'm sorry. I don't look good in maternity wear. You can argue that everyone looks good in these dresses, and I've seen girls successfully rock them, but the ones that are long enough to cover my legs just make me look like I tied a potato sack around my ribs (or am hiding baby weight), and the short ones make those of us who aren't leggy just look as stocky as a dodgeball.

I don't know about you, but I'm sitting this one out.

if you could see me now

you'd see me in the absurdly nice Hotel 1000 in downtown Seattle, where instead of one very large bed, I have two queen-sized beds. What a waste. And a shame I'm only here one night, by myself, and due to a delayed flight can't enjoy the very large bathtub alongside a glass wall (designed so you can watch television in the bathtub!). I love the decadence that could only be conceived of by the hospitality industry.

coit tower is red

I have no idea why. I just saw it on the way down to the laundry room.
I love my apartment. Even when it's too foggy to see the whole view.
I am exhausted beyond comprehension for no discernable reason. Almost everyone else I've talked to is too, which leads me to believe it's the entre-saison, even though it's only the beginning of August, and feels like November.
My life makes no sense to the point that everything feels like an absurdist joke. Not bad, just hilarious.
Last night Elaine invited me out to North Beach Lobster Shack, but when Natalie and I got there the benches were stacked on the tables and the woman said they were closing because no one had come in in the last hour. Which was surprising, because the place actually got very good reviews, and other restaurants in the area weren't empty either. I called Elaine asking her if she wanted to go somewhere else, but she said she and Mark had been looking forward to it all week! We asked them if they could stay open and they said yes, but they were no longer selling alcohol. But we could bring our own. So Elaine sends Mark to the liquor store, and he comes back with Tecate, so we're drinking our own Tecate on the side of our lobster rolls at an empty restaurant, which is funny for so many reasons I can't even begin. Elaine is like me, and finds everything even slightly unusual to be inanely hilarious, which is one of the best reasons why we get along.
On the way out Mark straggles in the doorway of the bar next door watching the Giants game and we caught Bond's record home run, which seems like it must be important.
Not that now is the time, because I'm too tired to be coherent right now, but I really want to start blogging frequently and in quality again, and not just blogging poorly when I've been out drinking and needing to take down the posts because they're that terrible.

layover land

I am in Frankfurt at a sort-of-French-themed cafe. It is maybe the cutest cafe ever. There are tiny boxes of tea and chocolates, tiny Victorian furniture, a harp, a painting of cakes and tarts, and embroidered blue fabric wallpaper. I would take pictures but my camera is in my checked luggage and I doubt my Razr would really capture it. Also, I still haven't overcome my guilty American tourist awkwardness that I never shook off in a year in Europe. I ordered a slice of quiche and forgot that small pieces of ham go without saying, and ordered a water and forgot that glass bottled goes without saying (ahhh...Europe), so now I am drinking Perrier from a wine glass next to a plate of uneaten pieces of ham. It is Monday, so all of the museums are closed. I still have five hours to kill before my flight, so now I'm debating where and when to drink beer and eat dinner.
Though I have the itinerary from hell with 3 stopovers, it's still been mostly pleasant, besides being hit on by a TSA employee at SFO (it's hard to say no to a lunch date when the guy inviting you is holding you up at baggage inspection). Air Canada runs a tight ship, and on my flight from Toronto to London I was placed in seat 3A, which is a window seat in what would usually be first or business class - they were assigning coach passengers to extra seats in the front, which was kind of like winning a lottery I didn't know I entered. Heathrow was a zoo because of the thwarted bombings two days ago, extra fun with my Benadryl and jetlag hangover.
This middle-aged German man just asked me in German if (I presume) this was an iBook or a Powerbook, and I said Macbook. I think he told me he has a Powerbook at home, but I'm not certain.
It's so strange to be in Europe again, seeing yet another 14th century cathedral, wandering with a heavy backpack trying to decide which cafe to sit at, and tiptoeing around languages I don't understand. I never quite acclimated to being a tourist.

the summer of Lee

I proclaim this to be the summer of Lee.
That is, this last year has been lovely but felt so unstable and in flux and on the way there but not there, and I thought I'd be somewhere that I'm still on the way to, and I never make time for the projects I say I want to work on and I never blog anymore and haven't revolutionized my industry, and how am I 24 in 3 weeks and I still haven't written a novel?
It must be delusions of grandeur, because I was sure by now I would be this accomplished superhero rather than this normal almost 24-year-old still getting it together. How long can you really get it together for?
My friend Elaine says my heart is always in the right place, but 10 steps ahead of my head, and that is how I end up overextending myself, getting stressed out and being hard on myself. Not untrue. Okay. Very true.
Last spring I turned my life around from broken elbow and unsatisfying social life to awesome in the matter of a month. Maybe it's something about summer.
Life is really good, even in addition to the whole living every 13-year-old girl's dream of riding public transportation to my job at an advertising agency in the City, attending numerous social events and dating someone great.
My new apartment makes me happy on a regular basis. I love walking up the hills to it, I love walking up the three flights of stairs with my legs burning and seeing the bridge and downtown and the bay at the top, and I love having space to stretch out. My roommate is super cool. She is five years older. I am lucky she picked me. I feel like I won the lottery.
I feel like I can't waste my situation in decadent relaxation, casual work, excessive drinking and idle chitchat. I need to earn and deserve it by working really hard, being inspiringly creative and intensely productive and generally become an amazing person. After my vacation, I guess. If nothing else, this is a great place to gorge myself with scenery and luxury and indulgent enjoyment. I could be really good at that.

Yes!

Would you expect anything less than this on my blog?

Blog revamp coming soon.

you didn't really think

somehow it's midnight and I have a 9 am client call I'm not ready for and I went out way too late with coworkers thinking it was a good idea because it's 2007 and I think it's going to be the blogging generation I could sleep through unless I stay up drinking it all up now, anyway somehow I can't turn down a free drinks party hosted by a publisher at 7:30 pm when I've worked till 7:30 pm, a publisher who coincidentally acquired us and may or may not pass through FTC approval, and I stayed at work late doing media analytics pretending like I can write a novel and still succeed at business without really trying and do it all, I always hate people who can do it all but then I wonder if I can be one of those people despite being someone who makes it despite all odds because if I'm nothing else I am hard working.
so I didn't turn down a drink in the Mission with two friends from work, and one asked another if he liked boys which is something I could never do but she was right, and here I was thinking he was just east coast, and anyway, it's not even about knowing the right people in this industry, it's just about the right place. The right people can only help you get to the right place. How is it the internet boom of 2006 and no one told us - we've all been bracing for recession but maybe systems work differently now and you just have to bend your mind the right way or be left behind.
I am moving soon.
To a place with a view.
Where hopefully my boyfriend will actually visit me.
I keep thinking these big thoughts like I could finish that half-written novel or I could live in New York or Seattle or some other great American success City.
I want to start blogging regularly again, and finishing that half-written novel.
It's just so easy to let life eat you. Or think work is enough. Or anything else is.
And God knows my friends from work drink enough to keep themselves busy outside of work.
But I have to start living life like it has a time limit. Otherwise, that's just how people end up 40 without accomplishments that don't fit on their family tree or resume.
Because everyone knows love isn't enough, or that big love, or that perfect resume.

microserf?

How is it that I went to bed and woke up a Microsoft employee?

And how long before my department gets sold again?

why I am canceling my united mileage plus visa card after I redeem my miles

I am on hold trying to redeem my United miles for a trip to visit my relatives. This is the 7th time I've called. My average hold times have ranged from 30 to 50 minutes. I've reached new levels of stunned annoyance I had never thought possible. And it just keeps getting worse.

1. The Hold Music
It is a one-minute long muzak/classical piece that repeats over and over again. A portion of this piece is frequently used in television commercials. It's not so much the repetition of this song 50 to 70 times in a call that is the problem - it's the abrasive, deafening static that accompanies it. There is nothing quite like a horrible, screeching, static-filled, repetition of the same song that you can't turn on too low of a volume because the intermittent informational recording could be mistaken for the reservations agent to make you feel like an appreciated, loyal customer.

2. The Reservations Agents
I believe I am speaking to a woman in India. In fact, I believe every time I call I am speaking to the same woman in India, or maybe one of two women, because they have the exact same voice, but two different temperaments. One sounds mostly unsympathetic without being bitter, and actually tries hard to help me find a reservation that works, and says you're welcome when I say thank you. The other is totally apathetic, annoyed and embittered at my unreasonable requests to know of any return flight at all in the month of July. There may be other women, and I believe this only because each follows a slightly different process of asking me for the details of my account and reservation options - some asking for my mileage plus number first, some selecting a departing flight before searching for a return flight. They are all trained well to tell me they will be silent while searching for flight options, and to apologize for not being able to meet all of my travel needs.

3. The System
Maybe the problem is not the fact that the reservations agents are in India, or that they neglected to tell me it was possible to place a courtesy hold on a partial reservation until my 5th call, or that she (/they?) sounds annoyed at the horrible misfortune of having to assist a moronic American nimrod like myself in redeeming 75,000 miles.
Maybe it's the fact that researching travel options is impossible on the site (it shows an error message indicating that travel to that airport s not available at all for redemption of miles) and that upon finally reaching a reservation agent, they have no way of checking for any available dates, and instead have to check day by day through multiple airlines for any availability of any kind, and you could be on the phone for 20 minutes looking for return trips when there are none available for two months. Sometimes when I call their system is updating certain airlines, and so they cannot tell me what the availability is, and cannot tell me when it will complete updating. One agent says at midnight the system is updated, another tells me it constantly gets updated. Each time I call, even an hour later, completely different flight options are available. And so it's not hard to imagine why hold times can be over an hour.

I realize trying to book a transatlantic flight 2 months in advance during peak season means maybe I should anticipate some inconvenience. But it's taken me a long time to accumulate 75,000 miles - that was a lot of United flights and dollars spent on the United card. And when flights are $1600+ and I have the miles, it would be stupid of me not to try to use them if I can find anything that works. I've never heard of anyone having an experience like this with Continental. And it's not the Bangalorean ladies I blame either. Somewhere on this side of the Atlantic there are people whose job it is to make a tedious process less painful for the customers it is tasked with serving in order to keep them loyal - which is the whole point of frequent flyer programs. And somewhere, somebody's not doing their job.

so over the laundromat

I loathe doing laundry so much that I put it off until the situation is abominable and it is the night before I go away for the weekend.
So I'm there by myself at Brainwash and there's a few dozen people there for spoken word night, which is not as great there as you might think, but getting a great turnout for Brainwash. I go about my business in the room where the machines are, and I notice this guy is getting awfully close to me at the change machines, but I figure it's just a coincidence. He smiles at me and I half-smile back and look busy. He looks like a decent guy, he's black and probably in his 20s, and when he whisper-mumbles something to me which turns out to be could I watch his laptop I said no problem. As I take my clothes out of the machine he asks me in the same half-coherent whisper-mumble how many times a week I go to the gym, and I look at him perplexed as if I can't tell he's hitting on me and say, usually three, and walk away as he says something presumably about my figure that I can't hear and ignore. He keeps trying to talk to me and asks where I'm from, and I say San Jose and look busy, and wonder when it would be appropriate to tell him I have a boyfriend, and he says "I'm glad you're here now with us in the West Bay," and he's hard to hear and very confusing (West bay?), so I figure I will avoid him, but he keeps somehow showing up near where I am.
I go over to the other table and sit and read my book Jon let me borrow about a microlending bank in Bangladesh while waiting for the dryer, and this other guy asks me what I'm reading, which reminds me of a bad come-on at this same laundromat that resulted in one very bad date, but he says, "Oh, that's by the guy who won the nobel prize, right?" and he seems like a nice enough person who actually was interested in the book and he is keeping that other guy from talking to me, he's probably in his late 30s with semi-gray hair and doesn't seem too creepy, but I don't really want to start a full-on conversation with him, especially not when he replies, "So are you going to Bangladesh to do the same thing?" and I try to cut it short, and it is at about this point that I notice he is folding an awful lot of washcloths, and at first I think he must be really into using washcloths in the shower until I see that he is folding like, 400 of these. At this point I figure it can't hurt to ask, "So what's with the towels?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Um, I'm curious."
"Well, you could guess."
"Do you run a giant car wash?"
"Ha ha, no."
"A homeless shelter?"
"No, but that's a good guess."
"Um, a massage parlor?"
"That's kind of in the same realm. You're close."
I'm really over this guessing game but by now I am pretty curious, and what could it possibly be? So I finally just ask him to tell me.
He says, "Did you read the article in SF Weekly last week?"
"No, I think I missed it."
"I'm part of a group just down a few blocks from here that does orgasmic meditation and massage, usually involving a male stroking the female on her genitals, and we use these towels because we practice safe sex. So we wash them after each use. Each one of these towels is going to touch a person."
Whoa.
Although it's going through my head that that's not meditation, it's foreplay, and a towel does not the safe sex make, and these women expose their genitals to towels he's just laying out on the semi-clean table at the laundromat, and it's creepy that he's going into so much detail about this, all I can do is nod, and say "interesting" and try to go back to reading.
"So this is my job," he says.
"You guys take turns?" (I'm not sure why in the hell I asked that)
"This is the job I wanted. I want to touch every person who comes to the center, so I get to touch all of these towels, which are going to be used."
Holy shit.
"I'm Chris. You don't have to tell me what your name is. It's nice to meet you."
Yikes.
"Do you like massage?"
I need out of this conversation.
"Sure...uh-huh."
He tells me they are running a course to teach back massages at the center, and that for only $25 I can have a free massage from one of the students.
"Cool."
He puts all of the little towels into a giant, not particularly hygienic-looking straw bag and tells me to enjoy the book, and to come by the center if I'd like a massage. I wish him luck (what else can you say?) and he leaves.
The mumbling guy comes up to me again.
On the other side of my cart I hear "You whwooo shmooo."
"I'm sorry?"
"You look smooth."
"I have a boyfriend," I say.
"I said, you looked spooked, what did he say to you?"
I feel like a jackass.
"He told me he did some crazy erotic massage with the towels."
"I heard that," he said, and took his clothes and left.
My next apartment is going to have laundry in the building, I swear.

they call this geekery.

All of the sudden I wish I were nerdier.


HTML HEAD Sterling Silver Earrings
"While we cannot ensure that Google will properly index the contents of your brain, these earrings could help."

Also:

Circuit Board Drop Dangle Earrings
"All the style of a circuit board with none of the pesky lead poisoning!"

time-capsule

Since I am still oddly "jetlagged" from going staying out dancing until 5 AM all weekend, I couldn't sleep and so I screwed around on the internet and googled myself (oh come on, you know you do it too, and should - regularly) and found all new stuff. Wonder if Google just tweaked their organic search algorithm. Anyway, among other lost items in the negligible time-capsule were my first letter to the editor to my community college newspaper when I was 17 (which had never been digitized as far as I knew) and this, which I can only assume is Melinda from the Daily Bruin's blog from when I was a senior in college. I had totally forgotten about that weirdo Iowan kid who somehow ended up on the hotel bed we were all sharing at the conference and went for it while I was trying to sleep by so-seductively rubbing my arm until I actually asked him to leave. Sometimes I don't miss college at all. I just wonder if she thought I was reading it then - I mean she did use my full name. And it was funny. I imagine she didn't expect I'd be reading it 2 years later.

After returning from Las Vegas

My Coworker:

link

- Have you seen that?
OH MY GOD
the last thing i need is being scanned in the nude by a bunch of highschool drop outs
god i HATE TSA

poisson.

Coming along at the last minute to lunch with a publisher, it occurred to me that Roy’s was really only exceptional for the fish. Jon had been trying to get me to eat fish for a while, and hand-fed me salmon and tuna nigiri over the weekend. Since I haven’t eaten meat in 10 years, I thought it might be interesting to try fish again, to maybe make me more versatile when I eat out or travel. The last week or so has dragged at work and made me crave oddly safe ways to make my life more exciting. So when I walked in I decided maybe this would be the right meal to order a real fish entrée.

A lobster potsticker, some ahi sashimi with caviar and a butterfish later (butterfish is so cool, it’s like it serves you as you eat it, like - would you like another bite? and another light layer gently peels down before you) I was experiencing fish-protein overload.

I was worried I might have a stomachache, but I really just feel kind of fuzzy, like there’s water in my ears or somehow otherwise part of my brain is submerged in water. I’ve heard about these protein highs, that people get when they eat meat after being vegetarian for a while.

So now it’s 3:00, I’m behind after a 2-hour lunch, sitting in my office chair feeling like I’m floating-

how charmed lives are finite

I've been thinking about looking for a new place to live for a while, not too seriously - I love my roommates and it's such a pain in the ass to move. But I realized while walking home on Sunday afternoon and seeing a plastic bag of excrement on my way home (the second such plastic bag this month!) that it would be nice to live in a neighborhood where the smell of urine isn't so common, because I do enjoy doing errands on foot, and I actually can afford it, and I work in the City now so I could live in a beautiful, enchanting neighborhood instead of the leather & urine district. I guess until now I've been secretly hoping someone would just ask me to move in and make it effortless, but it might be time I actually start looking.

Our friend came over last night. His live-in girlfriend (or rather, he's the live-in boyfriend, since she was there first) told him she couldn't do it anymore, and he stayed the night on our spare mattress on the floor. I told friends over a year ago that I saw this coming, so I'm almost surprised it lasted so long, but I'm not sure what either of them is going to do - because not only do they occupy the same stiflingly tiny San Francisco art scene, but neither of them works more than 3 days a week - when you share a room in a 4-bedroom and your rent is so low you can afford to rent a studio to paint in and still work only 3 days a week, any breakup is a full lifestyle change. So in a way, doing that I'm young and I don't have to have a full-time job or have a lot of money thing puts you a lot closer to a dependency like a 1950s marriage, even if you're not the one with the live-in boyfriend or girlfriend, because the breakup of anyone in the apartment could put the entire household in flux (which could be up to 8 people!) - and then it stops being about relationships and starts being about the money.

the tragedy!

My roommate just called to tell me my bike's missing.
It was just last night we were riding back from the Mission and I said I wonder if it's finally time for a better bicycle. But my 1950s, $15 garage sale bicycle, fixed with 3 Saturdays of love at the bike kitchen, ridden many a Saturday afternoon to the park and many a Thursday night out drinking, which I ride to the gym because I don't want to walk down 9th street in the dark by myself, with its gears I can't quite figure out how to change, my stylin' faded rustcolored bicycle that I never had to worry about getting stolen - I wasn't ready to give up on it yet. Now it looks like it's been stolen. I swear I locked the patio when I left this morning. And our neighborhood really isn't that bad. I mean - I didn't think it was.
Sigh.

subtext

On my second visit to Ruby Skye, which I called one of the clubbiest clubs in San Francisco and in which I only lasted 45 minutes the first time I went (to be fair, just after the Love Parade on the most techno-heavy weekend in the City), I was reminded of two things:
1. Regardless of how many drinks I have, I can't turn off my meticulously self-conscious analytical subtext about the music and dancing boys and dresswearing girls, and inevitably feel like what I'm doing is a form of domestic tourism and I am something like an imposter.
2. Even though I totally have a great time going out and dancing, one of my favorite activities at a very clubby dance club is to drink too much and vocalize some of my critical subtext in the form of raving lectures regarding such subjects as Gwen Stefani's image reflecting the decadent consumerism of a nation at war, and these raving lectures are not always appreciated per se by the other members of my party, who at best find them funny in that this-girl-is-crazy kind of way. (The girl in our party turns to her fiance and laughs, in good fun of course, "She's acting crazy!" which more than anything was redundantly stating the obvious, because that was the point, what else are you supposed to do to have a good time at a club when your own private narrative about the club that you can't turn off is so funny?)
She's a very sweet girl, and I'm past expecting most people to relate to me for being a nerd.
What's great is the girl adjacent to me at work likes me precisely because I'm such a nerd, and she thinks I'm just like her except for the fact that I'm a total doormat and she's not, so she's made it a point to teach me the ways of not being a pushover and gently trying to get what I want, which I tell her is probably impossible because of my pathological running self-conscious commentary, but I suppose is worth a shot.

I'm worried that I'm burning out in some way, from working too much too tediously at work during a crazy transitional period of undefined duration.
I crashed out halfway through National Novel Writing Month with about half a novel and the utter inability to write a single word without feeling that it is tedious, redundant, self-indulgent crap. And on Sunday, feeling like getting outdoors but not being able to get ahold of my usual hang-out buddies (on ski trips, moving, with misplaced cell phones out of town), I took a solo trip to some parks I usually have a great time at alone, but somehow it just felt like work to be out there in 40-degree weather by myself. Being as busy as I have been, I can't get over feeling guilty for spending my free time doing something not either productive or highly pleasurable, and I obviously need to get over it the old-fashioned way, by becoming absorbed with some pageturner trash novel in hardcover and blogging a lot until I can write again, at which point I can regularly scold myself for not spending my free time writing brilliant fiction while I'm not at work.

the russian hookup

-Hello, E-?
-Hi!
-Hey, how've you been?
-Good, I've been good. How about you?
-Really good. Listen, I'm calling because - naturally I thought of you - my roommate had this minor eye surgery at SF General, and they didn't prescribe her any painkillers, and she's just dying. So I was wondering -
-Oh, you should get her some Vicoden.
-Yeah, do you know where I can get some drugs for her?
-I could make some calls - is it like a stinging pain, or a throbbing pain, or does it just hurt?

-Is it a stinging pain, a throbbing pain or -
-It just feels like they cut my eye open. Like when you have your wisdom teeth out and it hurts because they've cut you open.

-It just feels like they cut her open.
-Oh. Yeah, you should get some Vicoden or something they give you after oral surgery.
-Do you have any?
-I could make some calls.
-Could you? That'd be great.
-Sure, I'll call you right back.

The phone rings five minutes later.
-Hey.
-Hi.
-I made some calls to my Russian friend - and my friend, being Russian, has Russian drugs. So if your roommate is okay with taking Russian drugs...
-Are they...shady?
-No, they sell them over the counter in Russia. It's like Ketamine, but for humans, not animals.
I put E- on speaker as he explained the history of Ketamine.

An hour later, E- came over with an unmarked pharmacy bottle containing 8 small green pills. I offered him a glass of water, which he gladly accepted, sitting on our floor to roll a splif.
He looks at my roommate, lying back in her bed grimacing with ice over her eye.
-I'm going to put some cannabis in your tea.
-Okay.
Now she's losing interest in finishing complete sentences, but hopefully she feels a little bit better.

Acronot #2: bl-iatus

This blog *should* be on hiatus for the month of November for nanowrimo. I can't make any promises though.

Virtually awesome

Overheard in the kitchen:

"I can't believe I totally made out with a guy on second life."
"...what? hahahahaha."
"It totally sounds funny once you process it."
"I think it's funny pretty much the whole way through."
"You can make out on second life?"
"You can have sex in second life!"
"He wanted to go all the way!"
"You don't even know each other!" "We don't even know each other!"
"Yeah, he asked me to go to the bathhouse!"

"He just said 'click the orb' and I was like, ooh, what's that?"

"Can you get out of it?"
"Yeah, you can just hit escape."
"You can totally do so many funny things. If I played it I'd be like, 'come here, hug me.' escape. 'just kidding. okay, for real. hug me.' escape. 'now for real, hug me.'"
"You'd be an asshole!"
"ha hahahahaha."

"I was totally innocent, he was like, 'let me show you around' and I was like 'I don't even know what to expect!'"

"Afterwards he...held me and we watched the sunset...I can't go back online tonight, he's sent me two messages, he's totally going to jump me."

"Apparently, you can totally like purchase genitals for your second life character."
"Oh my god."
"Yeah. I bet there's a whole culture about it."
"I have two penises."
"ha ha!"
"I have one on my head."
"I'm a unicorn."

"I wanna be a floozy on second life."

"Yeah, they totally have prostitutes on second life."
"I should be a prostitute on second life."
"Oh my god, you totally should."
"That would be so easy!"
"All you have to do is click the orb"
"I could quit my day job"
"I think you'd probably have to learn to...talk, too."
(in monotone) "oh wow, give it to me, big boy."

"Whoa, what if you catch an std?"
"Like a virus?"

"if I were to actually like, be a prostitute on second life, I'd have to have sex, like, a LOT."
"heee heee hee hee hee hee"
"Otherwise it wouldn't be enough money. I'd have to be like a pimp, with a lot of people below me."