tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71286542691386462402024-03-04T23:24:08.974-08:00when the bars are closed...ramblings from when I can't get a tequila shotKilla Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-61918313087161807602018-07-30T18:57:00.003-07:002018-07-30T18:58:37.520-07:00Weddings I am 30. I am 30 years old; a sentence I didn't think I would ever have the chance to write. 30 seemed like such a far, distant land that from whose bourne no traveler returns. For someone who wishes to imagine stories for a living , I was paralyzed by existential writer's block when it came to my own life. I never was able to picture life in my thirties. Sure, I could picture myself being a fabulous, elderly woman, with silver X-Men Storm hair and wearing fancy kitten heels and a linen daysuit, but everything in between seemed like a tall tale.<br />
But here I am. I am 30. And now that I've arrived, I'm constantly plagued by the idea that I don't want to squander it. The last couple of years have been difficult on me, both mentally and physically. I've had my share of health crises and I'm still learning to cope with the survivor's remorse. I think constantly about the choices I'm making and whether my motivation and morals are steering me away from my desires and needs.<br />
I am 30 years old and I have nothing to show for it. Yes I have a job that I'm currently quite successful at. I use the word "currently" because I have every intention of quitting and becoming a librarian and reading to children with a sultry voice (this is totally going to be a thing). Yet this year alone I am going to 5+ weddings of close friends. Weddings that I'm thrilled that I get to participate in. While most of the sophisticated elite look down upon the institution of government unions, nothing makes me happier. I don't enjoy romantic comedies or most "boy meets girl" histories, I LOVE weddings. I think it's mostly the unlimited booze and the dry salmon, but something about weddings make me giddy. Sure I have to fork over two hundred dollars that was previously my month's food allowance, but I get to wear a fancy dress and dance to my favorite Donna Summers track. There's literally nothing better.<br />
While weddings should make me feel like a failure, they do exactly the opposite. Much like most people crave proximity to greatness to validate their own shortcomings, I look at weddings as single hood absolution. The more married people I know, the more likely I am not a spinster but rather a princess waiting to be pricked by Eros' bow.<br />
Earlier this year, I was able to attend the wedding of two of my best friends, Marc and Phillip. They were married in a lovely, picturesque hilltop in Upstate New York surrounded by their best one hundred family and friends. I wore a lime green sequined dress which was my own version of a mullet. While it was venue appropriate in the front, the dress had absolutely no back and exposed both of my side boobs (I should not that in the hierarchy of cleavage, my preference will always be 1. Underboob 2. Sideboob 3. Nipple 4. Topbobb. Always). I struggled most of the evening to make sure to never raise my arms above waist length for fear of being dubbed the slutty, ethnic friend (we can unpack POC's obligation to represent their entire race on a different essay). That struggle started at cocktail hour, where I was at the bar, getting two drinks (both for me). A lovely middle aged woman, whom we will call Patty, approached me.<br />
"I love your dress"<br />
"Aww thank you so much"<br />
"How do you know the grooms?"<br />
We continued our meet-cute and I discovered that she was a friend of the family of one of the grooms and she has known him since he was a little boy. We talked for about a minute and half and I complimented her on her navy sequin gown. Her face lit up. It was clear she was excited to be acknowledged by a thirty year old with a nipple sliding out of her dress. At the end of our mini-convo I told her I would see her on the dance floor.<br />
I rejoined the rest of my table as we made our way into the main dining room. I had several tequila cocktails (open bar) and took copious photos in the booth. After several lengthy speeches and a first dance, it was finally an opportunity for all of us to dance. I electric slide my way to the dance floor and joined the rest of my peers. About twelve Celine Dion songs in, I noticed Patty at table one. I beckoned her to join me. She was shy at first but I reminded her that she promised me a dance. Reluctantly, Patricia took my hand and we began to jive to the stylings of Robyn and Beyonce. Please hear me when I tell you with the most sincere honesty that Aunt Patty and I were FUCKING UP THE DANCE FLOOR. We were twirling, spinning, dipping and other moves I had only seen on Kenny Ortega choreographed sets. I'm not sure what style of dance we were subscribing to, but it encompassed a tango and rumba and it was FIRE.<br />
On one of the spins, I pulled Auntie P back to me and she held me close and whispered in my ear, "We have to stop". Abruptly and worried I looked down at Patricia, worried that I misjudged a woman of her age and one of my spins possibly fractured a hip. After a furtive glance, it appeared all her bones were in working order. "Why do we have to stop?" I asked her with legitimate concern. Hesitantly she answered "My husband". I am the first to admit that I am lacking of general understanding of most human interactions and on most day I feel more like an android rather than a homo sapient, but what her husband had to do with our bachata was perplexing. "What?" was all I could muster from my fog of Patron and confusion.<br />
" My husband is upset".<br />
I look up at the rest of table one, and there lies the man that I can only assume is Mr. Patricia. He had his arms crossed, legs shaking and actual steam coming out of his nostrils. He was shaking his head in familiar admonishment and it took me several minutes to realize that his anger was directed his Patty's dancing with me. Usually my immediate response is RACISM; a blanket answer that usually answer every injustice, whether veiled or not. However, this time racism felt incongruous, as if something larger was at play. Sensing my confusion, Aunt Patty kissed my cheek and leaned close into my ear and whispered "Thank you for a wonderful night" and then disappeared into the darkness of the night with her husband.<br />
I returned to my table (eleven) with tired feet and a lack of understanding. Why would a man be upset about his wife dancing with another woman? And then clarity slapped me in the face: Aunt Patty was on the down-low. Now for those that are uninitiated in the terminology that once appeared on the Oprah Winfrey show, "down-low" refers to someone who is hiding their true sexual desires from their partners, whether that be a certain fetish or certain need. Usually it refers to someone hiding that they are actually homosexual for their very heterosexual-partner. The look on Patty's husband's face wasn't disgust but rather shame that Patricia would disrespect him to his face--- again. This wasn't the first time that she's pulled this stunt. My imagination began to run wild. Did P leave the family when the boys were in middle school to be with her lesbian partner and follow Lilith Fair across the country? Did she embark on a Cherry Jones book tour and send her sons postcards from her travels while her husband was forced to tell the boys a lie about mommy going to self help conference? Did she come back to the family when he threatened to file for full custody and keep her progeny away from her? All of these seemed like real possibilities.<br />
I got back on my gold stilettos and marched over to table one. I was prepared to tell Patty that she didn't have to live a lie anymore. Yes I may not be a lesbian, contrary to my clothes, my looks, and my actions, but I knew one thing: life is short. Patricia deserved happiness and if being on a nudist colony with a woman that preferred to be called Jon was the key to her joy, I was going to encourage her to get it. We only get one life and we are never rewarded for wasting it. But when I got to table one, there was no sight of Patty nor her husband. I searched everywhere for her on the limited property but I never saw her. She wasn't on the shuttle bus that night. She wasn't at the hotel when we arrived. I was beginning to think I imagined her.<br />
What I do find myself imagining is that Patty's husband gripped her arm and ushered her out of the wedding out of embarrassment. He pulls Patty to the car and gives her an earful and Patty pulls a full Nicole Kidman a la BIG LITTLE LIES and tells him off. She vows to live her life for herself and calls an uber home. Yes it's an expensive uber but she will charge it to his card. She's going to start her life, finally at fifty seven years old. It might be a late start but it's still a start. And I had something to do with it. Me and my sideboob changed a life. That's all the motivation I need to live my thirties to fullest and that begins with burning my bras.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-49760583772931713012012-02-29T13:01:00.001-08:002012-04-10T14:56:23.961-07:00Why I Like Boys with Glasses<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like to consider myself an equal opportunity
employer when it comes to interviewing romantic others. I don’t have a
particular preference for a certain race or tribe. I think that variety is the
spice of life. Gosh, that’s a horrible saying. It implies that life is some
sort of bland soup filled with celery. Gross. Vanity also doesn’t play a huge
factor in someone’s attractiveness for me. I typically like raven haired boys,
but give me a redhead or a swagged out blonde and I’m likely to jump ship. The
only thing that I tend to be a stickler for is height, because my dominating
matriarch instilled in my head that I should never date a short boy. She
equated short men to be kin to killers of babies. Now while it’s strange to
believe, her indoctrination has settled somewhere deep in my psyche that even
if I find someone to be attractive sitting down, that appeal is soon dissipates
when they stand up and can’t pass my pelvis (Although Peter Dinklage, see this
post, does have a certain something that makes him impervious to the
aforementioned rule). Regardless if the man is the hottest man on earth or the
dorkiest doofus in Brooklyn, the one thing that makes me weak in the knees is a
stud with spectacles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Queer? Absolutely. I completely
acknowledge this. Where did this attraction arise from? Where else, but my
mother. As a little girl, my mother prepared me for the world of dating by
schooling me on what to look for in a man. Now while my mother may not be an
expert in courting, because she’s only dated one man in her entire life, she is
still with that one man (My parents have been together for over 30 years). Her
requirements were both a man of admirable height (My Dad’s a respectable 6’2)
and a man with a superior IQ (My Dad is one of the smartest people I know.
Fluent in several languages and can understand any obscure concept. Okay, it
sounds like a bragging. I am). As long as my romantic partner fulfills those
two requisites, I should be happy, according to mi madre.<br />
I know some of you reading this will
find it hard to believe. Why should intellect and height have anything to do
with the success of a union. Astrology probably should be more likely to provide
ideal outcomes. I would agree with you, but after spending my entire life
living in New York City, where the divorce rates are higher than the heels, I
tend to seek out Mama Killa instead of outside sources. <br />
So my entire youth
was spent looking longingly at lanky boys reading during recess, hoping that
they would soon outgrow me. I have never been attracted to the high school
jock, captain of the football team. Give me a Mathlete any day and I’ll purr
like a brand new beemer. Since I was a science geek (and still am) and I began
to see a distinct correlation between boys with glasses and their intelligence.
They seem to go hand in hand. Is it true that boys with glasses tend to be
smarter than boys without? No, I can’t prove this. But boys who choose to wear
glasses and opposed to boys who prefer contacts, want to appear smarter, more
cerebral. So if it’s important to a man to appear smart, then he will start to
act on that need and seek out ways to make himself smarter. It’s a beautiful lie.
<br />
Am I attracted to
every boy with glasses? No. There are still other factors at play. But it is a
known fact that if I see a man without glasses and I think he’s “okay looking”,
the same man can pass me ten minutes later, wearing glasses, and I’ll shout
“Who is that hot tamale?” It’s a game changer. Isn’t that sad?<br />
I don’t care if you’re judging
me. I think there are worse things to be in love with, such as bad boys, men
with anger issues, and guys with motorcycles. Leave me be with my illogical
ways and a hottie with some horn-rimmed specs. </div>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-44984782820796360002012-02-03T14:50:00.000-08:002012-02-03T14:50:01.177-08:00The Problem with Saying Never I like to think that I know myself pretty well. I'm consider myself introspective and I don't lie to myself about my wants, needs and desires. I know what my strengths are and I'm acknowledge my weaknesses. I'm not incredibly sensitive that I can't take criticism, but I have a stubbornness that is sometimes without merit. With that being said, after 23 (almost 24) years of life and introspection, I've developed certain rules that I find necessary for my survival.<br />
There are preferences for every avenue of my life, including possible romantic entanglements. Now, I've said before that I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to racial and ethnic preferences, but I do have some absolute "NOs" in my little black book. In order of importance, they are:<br />
Height. I don't date short dudes. I'm 5'8 and I've been indoctrinated by society, pop culture, and chiefly, my mother to believe that it is not okay to date a man shorter than me. My preference is for gentlemen who are 6 foot and upwards (6'2 being the gold standard). I wear heels. I like heels. I like being tall. In a perfect world, I'd have two more inches added to my legs, so I don't need a man that's going to be insecure about our height difference. Or my mother scolding me for the rest of eternity.<br />
Age. It's not that I hate younger guys, it's just that I have a preference for older ones. I'm an old soul and I'm not looking for a youthful spirit to uplift me. I'd rather have an older man who can show me and teach me things. I want to be intellectually stimulated by my partner and although I do believe that a younger gent could accomplish that, he couldn't do that without me possessing resentment towards him for being smarter than me at a younger age. Tough Shit Young'in.<br />
Occupation. I don't particularly care what career path my boo takes, as long as he's passionate about his work. Sure, there are some positions that I consider ideal, architect and professor, but I'm not a stickler about it. What I want to make sure is that I never get involved with a fighter. I don't want to date the next Mike Tyson or Pretty Boy Floyd. I have no interest in watching my significant other get the shit pounded out of him, or have him send someone to the hospital because of his brutishness. I don't find it sexy when guys fight in a ring. Now, if he's defending my honor, then it's a different story, an erotic story. But mindless fighting is a turn off. I don't have the emotional makeup to watch on the sidelines and cheer my BF. The only options are that I start crying helplessly, or I feel an intense need to get in the ring and help my boo out. I'm ride or die bitches.<br />
Hair. I hate it, absolutely HATE it, when boys have that Bieber haircut. Now I know that the style existed pre-Justin, but I can't tolerate it. It's so stupid. I don't want my boyfriend to have bangs and constantly shake his head to get his hair out of his eyes. I want my man to look like a man and not a pre-pubescent girl, no matter how attractive that girl may be. This is last on the list, even though it's the thing I hate the most, because it can be easily remedied.<br />
Now, may I ask you, why am I crushing on a guy who possess all of theses NOs? Fuck My Life.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-88586199005718353462011-11-23T13:19:00.001-08:002011-11-23T13:36:21.359-08:00Where has my day gone? I went to dinner on Monday with some besties and it was your typical "What's going on in your life?" conversation. But it seems that the only thing that's going on in our lives is our current/current lack of a relationship. That's all we talked about. One of us just made it official with her latest beau, the other is starting again with an ex, and one of them just found out that her boo has a girlfriend. Scandalous, I know. Am I upset at the conversational climate of the hour? No. However, I do feel that we're setting ourselves up for failure. If all we can think of is the opposite sex, how do we get over a past lover? When you break up with someone, the last thing you want to do is constantly think about them. Yet that always seems to be what happens. You end up actively thinking about not actively thinking about them. It might be true that the only cure for an old love is a new one; but couldn't we change that.<br />
I have a new crush and I'm all giddy about it. It's funny because I don't necessarily have a type. My main goals are someone smart and tall (if he's got four eyes that's a bonus. A sexy bonus), but my new crush is totally not my typical. I'm sure he's smart and all that good shit, but really he's just really hot and he's got an accent. Swoon (also I should note that I don't find any accent particularly attractive, but I find that people who are good-looking with an accent, happen to be more attractive than those without. It's very similar to my glasses obsession). I've now spent the first half of my day, counting the minutes until I get to see him. And when he does arrive, I'm focusing on my posture and making sure I have nothing in my teeth. How did I get so boy crazy? What did I do with my day before he entered my thoughts? <br />
A couple of weeks ago, Melissa posted on her status "there's got to be more than drinking". Is there? All my recreational activities center around an alcoholic beverage. Meeting up with long lost friends? Unlimited mimosa brunch. Need to unwind after a horrible work week? Happy hour in midtown. Epic birthday party? Nightclub with bottle service. And why the need for drinks? I think it's because we are perusing the single (and not so single) scene. We're the generation of multi-taskers and in this day and age, you need to be committed to finding a partner. It's not something you can take lightly . There aren't men flocking at your feet that fulfill all nine of your marriage requirements. We also aren't the generation that settles (i.e. Occupy Wall Street), so that guy that comes along and is gorgeous, funny, smart, loves his mom, but happens to be 5'6, he's not cutting it. I just want to know when did we become so boy-obsessed?<br />
After you've found "the one", what happens to all that energy? Do you lose it all or do you just concentrate on your new found love? Is that even possible? I've heard that you the passion dies with older couples (and by older, I mean after the first two years of marriage, or the arrival of children). Maybe that's where your energy turns; ensuring that the lust and love is still present. I would much rather spend my time dancing and drinking all night in the pursuit of the mythical perfect man, that try every day for the rest of my life to make my marriage work. It sounds hard. It sounds like work.<br />
I'm sure there are good things that come with marriage, like sense of security, finding your soul mate and all that shit. I'm down for that. I just want to know that regardless of my relationship status, I'll be able to enjoy my life. I also don't want to be the "single" friend, while all my friends are married and having babies. That means I'll have to get new friends and they're hard to break in.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-28991442469239613712011-10-19T11:09:00.001-07:002011-10-19T11:09:17.825-07:00Drunkand now I'm hungover. That is all.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-9920478139973367732011-10-17T13:31:00.000-07:002011-10-17T13:31:05.479-07:00When I Grow UpYou ever have an image of what life is going to be like when you're a grown up? I always thought that I would be a grown up when I graduated college; what a lie that was. Even though I'm a hot mess now, here's a list of things I think adulthood is like.<br />
1. I'm going to pay bills on time and actually have a savings.<br />
2. I'll have folders and desk drawers dedicated to things like, bills, mortgages, budget, supplies. Shit like that.<br />
3. My house will always be clean, with fresh flowers that are delivered weekly. Somehow I can't seem to keep my bedroom clean now, but when I grow up, the bed will always be made.<br />
4. Dinner parties will be hosted and it will only take me 2 hours to prepare, and my guests will all arrive on time.<br />
5. I will have ample time in my schedule for leisurely activities such as walking my dog, crocheting, making ice cream from scratch, gardening, volunteering at the old folks home.<br />
6. All my clothes will be tailored and dry cleaned. I won't have to search through my hamper for the proper bra for a certain outfit.<br />
7. I will have a planner.<br />
8. I would never eat take out.<br />
9. I will only wear heels. <br />
10. I'd be happy.<br />
<br />Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-16735181855537033592011-10-13T10:28:00.000-07:002011-10-13T10:28:55.006-07:00The Giant Philosopher A couple months ago, I sent my friends an article entitled "<a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/">You Should Date an Illiterate Girl</a>". It's a sarcastic approach on the pitfalls of dating a woman without an iota of intellect or a personality. Similarly, John Waters has a famous quote about bedding the opposite sex: “If you go home with somebody, and they don't have books, don't fuck 'em!” Those are my sentiments exactly. When people list their criterion for their future partner, they fail to include anything about what makes that person tick. Typically we hear things about circumstantial choices, such as height, coloring, career, and finances. I definitely believe that these are things that should be included on "the list", but their placement on my said list may shock you.<br />
I care very little for a man's ethnic, racial, or tribe affiliation. I'm an equal opportunity employer when it comes to that issue. Growing up in NYC, I was always very intrigued to learn about one's culture, and I discovered that instead of being very different, we're all more the same. Now, I'm not about to break out into a "We Are The World" rendition, but it should be noted that ethnic variety is the spice of life.<br />
Nor does someone's finances concern me much. I actually shy away from men that are rich. I believe there are only two types of rich men: the ones that were born rich and the new-money rich. People that were born rich and inherited their careers have no concept of how life is outside of the pillars of wealth. That kind of ignorance is hard for me to overlook. You can't teach compassion. On the flip side, those who have achieved success by their own merits, have a hunger and ambition that I find sexy, but in the long run, I know that it won't work. I'm super ambitious and hungry and I know the personality type that comes with it. Fights with no end and a lack of an ability to apologize does not bode well for a long-term relationship.<br />
What is important to me is intelligence. If I was wart-nosed witch, stirring my ideal-mate brew, a giant portion would be "acumen of owl" or whatever happens to be the smartest jungle animal. I want someone to stimulate me cerebrally and have great conversations with them. I don't think I can do that with a scarecrow (please tell me that you get the Wizard of Oz reference). I also want to laugh for the majority of my life and while the pratfalls of Chris Farley may be slightly amusing, I prefer the political stylings of a Stephen Colbert. Plus Louis C.K. but I just love a good, dirty dick joke. <br />
When youth has been dried from your bones and the crow's feet have made a playground out of your face, you're not going to care whether you married a schoolteacher or golf pro. You'll be more concerned that he you can stand to be in the same room as him and that he makes you happy. And that he's tall. Sorry, I'm just a tad bit vain. I can't be walking around with a hobbit. I want a giant philosopher.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-64459889260454781672011-10-12T08:16:00.000-07:002011-10-17T08:09:14.021-07:00Death to the Sexy Bunny I'm not a huge fan of Halloween. I understand that its fun to put on a costume and pretend to be someone you're not; after all I am a theatre geek. But in New York, Halloween gives crazies and rapists an opportunity to do their dirty deeds in plain view of everyone, without someone raising an eyebrow. If someone got stabbed during the parade, onlookers would scream out in glee, while the victim was gasping for his last breath. When he finally died, everyone else would call him overdramatic. I know this because I saw this exact scenario on CSI:NY and we all know that show is straight truth. Duh.<br />
Besides the opportunity for murder, Halloween is really the holiday of the whore. Hoes get to prance around in their native garb and not feel the backlash of years worth of feminism spitting in their faces. Young women (and some not so young women) are frolicking around the nation in lingerie and cat ears without even a dose of guilt or self-reproach. And why should they? They aren't actually hoes, they're just pretending to be one. I'm a huge supporter for women being able to wear whatever they want without being objectified for it; but they can be judged for it. Like the great Dave Chappelle once said "You may not be a hoe, but you are dressed in a hoe's uniform. And that shit is confusing".<br />
Which brings me back to the point of this blurb, I don't wear hoe outfits on Halloween. I don't wear hoe outfits usually. For me, it screams of low self-esteem and a virulent need to attract a man's attention. I'm not above feeling desired and wanted by the lesser sex, but the kind of interest I want to pique isn't because I have a huge rack ( but if you're a male reader, you should know that I do have a huge rack. Wink wink). There are times when dressing like a mistress of the night is appropriate; mainly when you want to do things that a mistress does. You just broke up with your boyfriend? Slut it up. You failed your chemistry midterm and your professor is a bit of a perve? Hoe it down. Outside these general situations, cover your shit up. <br />
You may ask what outfits that I wear on the sacred All Hallow's Eve. Typically I've been either some form of a superhero or an empowered feminine icon. Basically either Jean Grey from X-men or Cleopatra (if you don't think that Cleo was a bad bitch, you didn't watch enough <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OqbUG7r-6e4">Histeria</a> when you were a kid). Sure the outfits involved skin tight spandex, but when I walk in the club (they hating on me cause I know I look good. I took the night....Sorry that song is the jam and I couldn't help myself), most guys are more astonished that a girl is into comics rather than my knockers knocking him in the face. He doesn't mind the latter obviously. <br />
Don't take my rambling too serious. After all you should be able to be whomever or whatever you want this holiday season. But don't say I didn't warn you, because you know who's never a murder victim on the ten o'clock news? The bitch that was dressed as a telepathic crime-fighter. Take that, Sexy Bunny.<br />
<br />
ETA: No offense to my friends who have been sexy bunnies every year. My personal preferences weren't meant to berate your stylistic choices. You have fun doing you and don't think that I'm judging you. I am, but I don't want you to think that. Bisous.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-28629694438037374852011-10-11T12:09:00.000-07:002011-10-11T12:18:12.277-07:00Dear Old Love, Most of my friends dream of their perfect guy; the man they'll marry. (Ahem Josephine). They spend hours (days) outlining every character trait, physical specification, religious dogma and ethnic lineage that he'll possess (A musically-inclined, funny but not too funny, above 5'10 but shorter than 6', catholic Korean male. Ahem Jo ahem). While most women have already planned out their dream wedding, they neglect to plan to the events that tend to precede the nuptials. No, not that sweet, stressful engagment period. I'm talking about even before that. Yes, I'm referring to all your past boyfriends. I think too often we focus on the walk down the aisle, instead of the lovers that got us there. You're with your future husband for the rest of your natural born lives (or 5 years, depending how you roll); That's a really long time. You wake up every day with that person, plan most of your meals with that person, raise kids with that person and then at the end of the day you still only get to fuck that person. Now don't say I'm not romantic. I've got that bone somewhere. But I relish excitement more. That's why instead of choosing my bridal colors, I'm planning for my future ex-boyfriends. Here's a list of all the guys I want to date (and bone) before I jump the broom:<br />
<br />
1. The Older Man<br />
Yes, I have a sick obsession with older men and my spouse may actually be from a generation before mine. But if the fates don't align to bring me a silver fox in my matrimonial bed, I want to at least have shagged one. No, I don't just want to fuck him, I want to be in a serious relationship with him. I think there is something sexy about a man who knows who he is and exactly what he wants. You know what, there's something sexy about a man, in general. Now, I love the boys, but I definitely need to upgrade at least once.<br />
<br />
2. The Bad Boy <br />
I don't mean the generic, fake bad boy, who pretends to be bad but really when shit gets real, he's nowhere to be found. Fuck that loser. I want the boy that my mother and all the Lifetime television mothers warned me about. He's been arrested a couple of time. He's covered in tattoos and he has some fake ass job. He can't be a drug dealer because I'm not being indicted on that shit with him, but he could be a music producer or make miniature sculptures. He'll smoke and drink a ton. He'll get into fights at bars over some guy spilling my drink. Why do I find this attractive? I don't know. Maybe it's because all those things seem very testosterone driven and I find it difficult to find a man tougher than me. I'd just like to see how it feels to be a damsel for once.<br />
<br />
3. The Banker<br />
Now this type I don't typically find attractive, but I need to date the prototype of a douchebag in order to know what makes them tick and how to play nice with them. All of my friends will marry bankers and I can't be excommunicated out of the group; and I need couches to sleep on while I get mys hit together. Plus I deserved to be taken out to fancy meals and bought expensive gifts. Heck if Mr. Right doesn't come through for me, I wouldn't mind Mr. Moneybags.<br />
<br />
4. The Child <br />
This is one is more of a wish if I'm not married by 30. When all my friends are engaged and spending their nights drinking wine and having dinner parties, I want to be in the clubs where it isn't embarrassing to be single. Why should I be reserving my hotness for those stupid "grown up" events. The Child will take me to the newest, hippest locales and keep me relevant in popular culture. So what, if I have to pay for everything? I'm going to be a baller.<br />
<br />
ETA: Changes to height were made so that Jo doesn't recieve application from Korean Catholics who are shorter than 5'10. My apologies. Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-42707124868065042382011-10-06T08:34:00.000-07:002011-10-06T08:34:06.391-07:00From The Lips of One Who Knew<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle."</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />- Steve Jobs. Rest in Peace.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-66198444683902533802011-09-27T13:41:00.001-07:002011-09-27T13:41:32.018-07:00To my future friends It's no a secret that I have a serious love for reality television programming. No, I don't like American Idol or any other show where people might better themselves. I'm more interested in docu-dramas like Secret Lives of Women and the Real Housewives franchise; I also might start watching the A-List Dallas because I heard it's going to be insane. But I definitely have a soft spot for The Jersey Shore. Say what you will about their defamation of Italian culture and how they misrepresent a generation. I grew up in Brooklyn, NY and I met many a guido that would have done worse than these six tan-aholics. I'm speaking about you Richie. Nevertheless, I watch the show with fervent enthusiasm and I deconstruct every episode, every line, and every hand gesture for deeper meaning. However this curiousity of mine led me down a dangerous path after last week's episode. <br />
For the unfamiliar, this week Snooki's boyfriend, Jionni (physically a male version of Nicole), came to Italy to visit her. She acts skanky, they get into a fight, mayhem ensues, yadadada. What caught my interest the most, was Snooki's reference that she hopes that she has a C-section when she gives birth to a guido/guidette because she doesn't want to mess up her cuca (I know this sounds like Dothraki to some of you, but read on). Now I had always believed that most women would prefer a vaginal birth as opposed to a Cesarean (If I have any male readers, I apologize. I didn't know you existed). Sure your vadge gets fucked up in the process, but who wants to have an ugly scar around their midsection?<br />
So this morning, during my 30 minute train ride to work, I decided to look up the pros and cons of a natural cuca birth versus a c-section. I will tell you now, that I got off that train a different person. First of all, having a baby is no joke. People always draw photos of doves and storks and shit around babies. This is not accurate. Babies might look cherubim when they're nestled in their blankeys and have ruby red cheeks, but when that shit is gestating inside of you, it looks more like a tadpole, or a seamonkey, but bigger. Could you imagine a giant seamonkey? Does that sound cute to you? Fuck outta here.<br />
So not only is it not cute, it takes 40 weeks to get cute. 40 EFFIN WEEKS!! Now I'm not a patient person, but I can't imagine having something inside of me for almost ten months. It's walking around inside of you, poking at your insides and kicking you when it's doing yoga. It's really a form of domestic violence. The child is literally distorting your internal organs to make more room for itself. Now you're covered in stretch marks. And yes that is completely vain and the miracle of life is worth a few stretch marks, but to fuck up my kidneys and bladder is a bit much. <br />
Also babies eat all of your food. Not cool. Do you know how much money a baby costs before it's even born? There are doctor visits and prenatal vitamins. You have to eat all the right foods meaning no sushi or alcohol. I've been sober for three weeks and I've been suffering from the shakes the entire time. I'm almost at the point of delirium where I think water tastes like vodka. Yum. Basically a baby is a parasite. A tape worm if you will. But with a tapeworm you get the added benefit of having an unlimited diet and you lose weight. So I can eat shit, but not look like it? Sign me up. If a baby did that, I might have an entire flock by now. And a tapeworm doesn't kick you; but I'm sure it does other horrible things. Whatever. The point is: Babies don't seem like fun.<br />
So after I've gotten over my general distaste for infants, both newborns and gestational, and my maternal hormones are kicking in, coupled with society's pressure (my mom) to procreate, I have to decide on a birthing plan. Now there seem to be unlimited options from whether I'll be having a water birth to being high on Ecstasy (I'm leaning towards the latter), but the most basic decision is if this child is being released into the wild from my lower abs or from my vadge. Let me tell you, neither one seems fun. <br />
You can either break your cuca (and your rectum in some cases) or never be able to sit properly again. So I guess it boils down to whether I want to have sex again or whether I want to wear a bathing suit again. The sad part is that I'll probably want to do neither once I start having kids. I hear they take up a lot of time and your sex drive. So I'm basically asking my future friends, when I start having baby fever and ask you whether Malachi or Monroe seems like a good baby name, please slap me, show me a picture of an angry seamonkey and remind me of this article. Because regardless of what I decide, at least you can say you tried to help me.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-576067182076931782011-06-30T11:17:00.000-07:002011-06-30T11:17:09.920-07:00A transatlantic love story<iframe frameborder="0" height="525" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/25451551?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" width="800"></iframe>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-59628117685412976352011-06-07T12:35:00.000-07:002011-06-07T12:35:02.222-07:00art for art's sake... About a week ago, I went to go see my dollface Jess V. perform. She's been mia for the past few months because of dance rehearsal and we've been giving her a ton of shit for it. Finally the moment came, when we would be able to see whether her decision to stop drinking with us and practice was a wise one. First of all, let me tell you homegirl is talented. Not like, I'm your mother and so I have to pretend to be supportive instead of telling you what you will soon learn from an obnoxious middle school teacher. No, Jess is TALENTED. Her performance was thrilling and captivating. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I'm not usually impressed by dance and even with the renewed interest in the art form thanks to Black Swan, I haven't been that gung ho to book tickets for Swan Lake. I'm definitely more intrigued by film and classical music. But seeing Jess perform stirred something in me. Yes her leg extensions were beautiful, as were her leaps and bends. Yet that wasn't what moved me. <br />
Seeing Jess do something she's so passionate about made it hard for me to breathe. It was like watching two people fall in love. It was so intimate and overwhelming. I felt like I should cover my eyes but I couldn't look away. It's so inspiring to see someone expressing themselves with stark vulnerability. I couldn't help it but to cry. And I'm the bitch that doesn't even cry at The Notebook. <br />
Not only did her performance move me emotionally, but it also moved me mentally. It gave me the push to conquer my passions. Jess works as some sort of advertising/social media wizard, spending more than 50 hours a week at her office, tweeting or twitting things at me. After an exhausting day behind a computer, she will rush off to dance practice for four hours and then somehow manages to come out for drinks with belligerent friends at 2am. Straight up wizard!<br />
If Jess can manage to do that, then I can make moves to start my career. I know I've exhausted my allowance for being a bum. Its been a year since graduation and I don't really feel like I've accomplished anything. I was trying to avoid growing up but Jess gave me the kick in the ass and in the span of the week, I've quit my cushy gig at DailyCandy and by summer's end I'll be done with my NYU gig. I'm removing the safety cushion from under my feet (or ass?) and I'm flying head first into the unknown. I told my bestie Joy my plan and she called it brave. I'm not brave, I'm just too young to be unhappy and not do anything about it. Maybe I'll be poor, but I have already reserved several couches as contingency plans. All I know is that I want to make people cry. And not by cyberbullying.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-58367415389825865702011-06-07T11:15:00.000-07:002011-06-07T11:15:43.450-07:00what's in a name? My parents are interesting. If you've ever met me, you would know that I had to be raised by lunatics. They aren't conventionally crazy, but more like black sitcom crazy. When I was born my mother wanted to name me Stephanie (among other things, don't even get me started on my middle name) but my father refused. He didn't want people calling me Fanny or some other hideous nickname. So they settled on Stephane. It's of French origin and is the equivalent of Steven in the states. Apparently the name comes from the Bible. Stephane was a believer that got stoned to death for proclaiming his beliefs. Again, my parents are crazy.<br />
Growing up, no one in my family ever called me Stephane; they all called me by my nickname (which I won't disclose here). But when school started and my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Weitz, pronounced my name Stephanie, I had no idea how to correct her. By that point, I had barely heard my government name said aloud and because my parents were immigrants, I assumed that that's how you say Stephane in English. So from kindergarten to high school, I was always known as Stephanie. It never really bothered me and most people called me Steph anyways. <br />
But the summer before college, I decided I wasn't going to let other people dictate my identity. A name is an important characteristic of one's self. A Veronica will never act like an Annie. A Cynthia is treated differently than a Melissa. People act like their names. Think about it. If someone behaves differently than their name, they always develop a nickname that suits them better. I always knew that I was living a lie as a Stephanie because deep down I was definitely a Stephane. <br />
Unfortunately New York University didn't feel the same way and changed my name on the school roster to Stephanie. Now maybe they assumed I made a spelling mistake on my application, but then why would you accept a student that couldn't even spell their own name? One word: Diversity. Even the SATs give you 200 bonus points just for getting your alias correct.<br />
So throughout college, I had to correct every professor who pronounced my name Stephanie, further simplifying the stereotype of the "black girl with an attitude". You should have seen it. I would go "Actually it's pronounced Stephane". The professor would reply "Oh it's spelled Stephanie on the roster" and I would have to say "Yeah well NYU spelled my name wrong. I know how my name is pronounced". Usually I would add a head roll and finger snaps just for emphasis sake. Classy.<br />
Usually I never had a problem with my name, but having a boy's name can be tricky at times. I get a lot of call backs for interviews because people assume I'm a guy. Plus it's a good icebreaker when meeting someone new for the first time. Yet there have also been times when it's done more harm than good. Like when I studied abroad in Paris. When I met with my homestay family for the first time and she asked my name. After I said "Stephane" in my faux-Parisian accent, she turned to her daughter in horror and I realized I committed a faux-pas. She begged me to tell her that my name was actually Stephanie, but after I spelled it out for her, she resigned to accept her fate. Turns out her ex-boyfriend's name was also Stephane and he was a complete and utter douchebag. So having me in the house everyday became a constant reminder of her heart being ripped out. Don't worry, me and my surrogate mother are besties now, but that first week was a little rough.<br />
Another strange example of how my name has affected people happened just last week. I was in the laundromat with my mother at the buttcrack of dawn and this man came up to me to tell me how beautiful I am. I don't want you to think I'm being cocky. People that roam the laundromat and have no laundry are clinically insane. Especially the ones that do it before 9am. He kept pestering me for my name and I wouldn't tell him. After five minutes of this and realizing he was one of those persistent types (my least favorite of the male hookup species. After that is the guys who compliment you and then after recognizing your dismissal proceed to let you know they weren't interested in you. "You wuz mad ugly anywayz" Really? Then why are you hitting on me? But I digress) I let him know my moniker. You should have seen his reaction. His body got tense and one of his eyes started to bulge. It was like he was turning into the Incredible Hulk, but the hood version. I asked him if he was okay and he started to stammer out nonsensical garbage. "Are you....I can't believe this...I can't...there's no real nice way...Oh my gosh...Really though?..." I couldn't make out what he was trying to ask me and I asked him if he needed help. <br />
Finally he blurts out in a quiet whisper "Are you a woman?" <br />
"What do you mean?"<br />
Clearly frustrated he responds "Were you born a woman?"<br />
"Huh?"<br />
"ARE YOU A TRANNY?" He yelled.<br />
Seeing that I was trying his patience, I finally let him know that I was indeed born a woman and that there was no sausage in my pants. He seemed relieved and let me know that he "had been caught before" and that the "prettiest ones be the trannies". The most incredible part of this story is that after my admission, he proceeded to still get my number. After I laughed him off and told him I'm not interested, he informed me that I shouldn't be offended by his comments because I'm not a tranny. Good to know. Ladies if a man suggests that you're a transgender and you actually aren't, then you shouldn't be appalled. He's just investigating before he ends up on a Maury episode. I should inform you that during this whole ordeal, my mother was standing right next to me, laughing hysterically and looking like a crazy person. Only I know that she named me Stephane so she could enjoy moments like that.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-78512048121521119452011-06-01T11:11:00.001-07:002011-06-01T11:11:58.822-07:00my favorite song in the worldand it makes me cry every time I hear it. <br />
<br />
<iframe width="840" height="590" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jBfVpG2PqPo?hd=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-6055449506930846252011-05-23T14:13:00.001-07:002011-05-23T14:13:47.900-07:00you didn't think I actually worked...but you were kinda right.<br />
<br />
<object width="640" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Fx-pwqXe8a4&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Fx-pwqXe8a4&hl=en_US&feature=player_embedded&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="840" height="490"></embed></object>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-26352714345423950802011-05-09T14:58:00.000-07:002011-05-09T14:58:32.834-07:00fly as a muthafucker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1x7W43wbgV6nh4db6ZVwBtO7sSGKnDIOxMJM81ZDFeRlU8Opj-JHUbZoPFLJshFqfon7B8mqwTu_tNNrGUI5UPE1u1IzMk-kXnZp4kKg5ewaZW9l4SZtV_In4mscjq1is5zccdsxjnw/s1600/coretta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1x7W43wbgV6nh4db6ZVwBtO7sSGKnDIOxMJM81ZDFeRlU8Opj-JHUbZoPFLJshFqfon7B8mqwTu_tNNrGUI5UPE1u1IzMk-kXnZp4kKg5ewaZW9l4SZtV_In4mscjq1is5zccdsxjnw/s640/coretta.jpg" width="412" /></a></div><br />
Coretta Scott King...my tribute to Mother's Day.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-64738985766168546672011-04-15T08:16:00.000-07:002011-04-16T11:56:44.088-07:00Un giraffe! Un crocodile! Un Hippopotaume!What could be better than a french baby?<br />
<br />
A french baby that tells morbid stories.<br />
<br />
Shoutout to Joy for showing this to me almost a year ago. I still enjoy it every time I watch it. <br />
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<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe frameborder="0" height="450" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/2113477" width="800"></iframe><br />
</div>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-85484138276927035542011-04-10T13:09:00.000-07:002011-04-10T13:09:07.538-07:00cause Lord Byron sounds sexy....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ9JB3ZXMnGXTpdRZfSanjPKYHLPYlU_VvqVTTLWM1PEOzKarX06pmvDhXCRF6vFfYUn2OEWDkC6kWIOlXxMXQosCKGmqctNtTkQSzhI79UKBB9ISvbBg4STJWqRMlXaw6be_oT2lzaE/s1600/lord+bryon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLZ9JB3ZXMnGXTpdRZfSanjPKYHLPYlU_VvqVTTLWM1PEOzKarX06pmvDhXCRF6vFfYUn2OEWDkC6kWIOlXxMXQosCKGmqctNtTkQSzhI79UKBB9ISvbBg4STJWqRMlXaw6be_oT2lzaE/s640/lord+bryon.jpg" width="633" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-23980090757097557702011-03-25T13:13:00.001-07:002011-04-16T12:06:15.885-07:00because Carla sent this to me......and I like to share the love.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="450" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zIYUtLbXmes?hd=1" title="YouTube video player" width="800"></iframe>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-79996471382255267122011-03-23T13:51:00.000-07:002011-04-16T12:08:10.183-07:00Paris vs. New York<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://parisvsnyc.blogspot.com/">http://parisvsnyc.blogspot.com/</a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3X-Qr0doYB1imoCKvzB4ktydXbQmB2wfT8L2n4lva44gKRZGI_rHs6CmZVJrITL5ggxtKkI12rC-tajwo2eTlZHbO8ztEFSO64K3vQUbtS7ImVOWZ8K2Jwq3wtYxz0wh2BrMHxfuX1g0/s1600/33parishiltondog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3X-Qr0doYB1imoCKvzB4ktydXbQmB2wfT8L2n4lva44gKRZGI_rHs6CmZVJrITL5ggxtKkI12rC-tajwo2eTlZHbO8ztEFSO64K3vQUbtS7ImVOWZ8K2Jwq3wtYxz0wh2BrMHxfuX1g0/s400/33parishiltondog.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRJT6tK6vSj8SpdVCzAkjObsrG3y_waSAfm4_m63esf6eDcIPJfvVB20unVRgkETlDJikM_209HK0T-gJNaqw12OhVOZrRW-E56pjSjcOB2Vh_OeCGyoIGwptKnKXiozyZ08sK07dODs/s1600/34merde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRJT6tK6vSj8SpdVCzAkjObsrG3y_waSAfm4_m63esf6eDcIPJfvVB20unVRgkETlDJikM_209HK0T-gJNaqw12OhVOZrRW-E56pjSjcOB2Vh_OeCGyoIGwptKnKXiozyZ08sK07dODs/s400/34merde.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Dog shit lines the streets of Paris. No one ever tells you that until you step into a "crotte de chien".<br />
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Alas.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-47806693419080063632011-03-22T13:18:00.000-07:002011-03-22T13:18:34.818-07:00cause my alma mater hates me...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWueKiHzowiqXRRGJQvWp4B9xetEE7yYRto4xrLZfHsk_iXSRlX1GtfxMG376iz7iRZERxHyri-R6DE7mKrXIEz2hUkLPTktGfu6ZqSUhVJC56a08HNhlv9V9mYMdRxwuFvZ65kGyYoQ/s1600/way+to+make+me+feel+bad.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWueKiHzowiqXRRGJQvWp4B9xetEE7yYRto4xrLZfHsk_iXSRlX1GtfxMG376iz7iRZERxHyri-R6DE7mKrXIEz2hUkLPTktGfu6ZqSUhVJC56a08HNhlv9V9mYMdRxwuFvZ65kGyYoQ/s640/way+to+make+me+feel+bad.bmp" width="640" /></a></div>this is what i saw when I turned on my computer. Basically NYU wants to reinforce that I'm part of the 10% that isn't going anywhere. To quote Collin "Sampling error!". Let's hope so. This ten year class reunion is vastly approaching.Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-65690063489966303762011-03-22T12:50:00.000-07:002011-03-22T12:50:14.859-07:00for cupcake...so my homie Dee has an awesome new site that you should check out because 1. she's fresh to death and 2. i'm fresh to death and will be making guest appearances. <br />
<br />
stay fly homie!!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://waitsrsly.tumblr.com/">http://waitsrsly.tumblr.com/</a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkN8ahCnIXnzV8XDVAYgVNIhN_rUVZBS39ffX8Ev9GLDfOwB_gGhA6ZQQ9DhTNYdQILut9vBRsqYyob0SGXM7K8Akiu3V7WKThdAywIfh9dLvLORXIsx4_IjLg0VQpshPOUoARSmLs084/s1600/tumblr_lifme5lmmx1qhtc15o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkN8ahCnIXnzV8XDVAYgVNIhN_rUVZBS39ffX8Ev9GLDfOwB_gGhA6ZQQ9DhTNYdQILut9vBRsqYyob0SGXM7K8Akiu3V7WKThdAywIfh9dLvLORXIsx4_IjLg0VQpshPOUoARSmLs084/s640/tumblr_lifme5lmmx1qhtc15o1_500.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">photo courtesy of<a href="http://waitsrsly.tumblr.com/"> wait, srsly</a></div>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-83863190135983327512011-03-21T09:50:00.000-07:002011-04-16T12:09:33.702-07:00le mepristhis video is boss because 1. 60s French influence 2. the song is dope 3. Dave Franco is the new Franco.<br />
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<embed allowfullscreen="false" allowscriptaccess="never" base="." flashvars="configParams=vid=624456&uri=mgid:uma:video:mtv.com:624456" height="415" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:uma:video:mtv.com:624456" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="800" wmode="transparent"></embed>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7128654269138646240.post-58265157249668888352011-03-10T10:25:00.001-08:002011-04-16T12:10:38.344-07:00spent the day in a dusty library.......waiting for some words to jump at me.<br />
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I really like this song and the video is so cute.<br />
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<3 <iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="410" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/O3CkfvYMCWM" title="YouTube video player" width="800"></iframe>Killa Stephhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13459067773999664122noreply@blogger.com0