MinJungKim.com

Are you gay’ed out yet?
NO?!

Even if you live in SF and went to Dyke March, Pink Saturday, Pride Parade, and the Street Fair?

NO! STILL MORE GAY!

OK, I only did one of those things this year. Mostly because I’m a little *gay*’ed out with being a gay blogger destination/tourist point for folks who choose to come out to visit. *Cough Cough* Yeah, you – Jason, Noah, and even the roommate Jhames before he became the roommate.)

AND STILL NOT ENOUGH GAY!

I have already bought tickets for Margaret Cho’s show here in the bay area … it’s in…fricking OCTOBER.

But if I wasn’t GAYED out enough, there ’s THIS!

Queer Day

Ok. No more pink or rainbows for like… two weeks. OK? Thanks hon. Where’d all my hetero friends go? Oh yeah. I only have…like 4 of those. And half of them are in other states.

And why am I posting about MORE GAY!?

Cuz Nancy told me too. And heaven knows I loves me that Lesbian. Also, coming soon a glorious pic of me with Philo in his Red & Orange booty shaking glroy.

So last night I had this dream.

Mom was in it. Yeah, it’s been a while since she’s spoken to me. After all, she’s been gone a little over 11 years now.

She was silent, just looking at me. She reached out and grabbed my hand, slowly examining the fingers, stroking the nails and scratching something into the palm of my hand.

I wondered if it was a blessing or a curse. I asked her so, half jokingly. She said nothing.

And she looked at me, with her forehead crinkled. Just like mine tends to crinkle in pensiveness. Standing there together, a moment, it seemed as if I was under study. Observation. I was more than a little self conscious and began to think (all in my dream mind you) of retorts and excuses for what I anticipated to be a slew of judgements and criticisms that were waiting to be released on me.

Instead, mother just turned my hand over again and curled my hand in hers again. She then delicately twirled the ring (hers, the white gold one that she gave me just days before she died) around my middle finger again, sighed, and smiled at me before disapearing in a silver mist.

I’m not quite sure what it meant, but it’s made me overall self conscious in my waking hours.

I’ve felt quiet of late. Not writing muchly here, and extraordinarily reticent about sharting stuff of late. Unless you’re dearest to my heart and I’ve already shown you my pandora’s box of little troubles. It’s been weird.

I owe you nothing. I owe myself everything. Remember that.
Debts of conscience are already overdue to others before you.

KB: “And I tied him up with a Gordion Knot of My Brassieres”
Moi: “You *what?*”
KB: “You heard me”
Moi: “You’ve been watching too much Reign The Conquerer”
KB: “So?”
Moi: “Nothing. I said nothing.”

Things I want to say to a co-worker.

Shut up.
You are annoying.
No one cares to know about the painful details that you make the diner down the street go through for your fricking egg and bacon sandwich. And if I were at the diner down the street, I’d spit in yours.
If you actually did your work, you’d have a right to take long lunches, come in late, or leave early. As you *don’t* actually do most of your work, shut up.
That fake indian accent you put on? It’s offensive. Worse than that, it’s really poorly done.
Please stop answering the phone “Yodelay-hee-hoo.” Seriously.
I’m on a fricking conference call, could you please shut up about your broken finger nail?

No less than 4 times in the last week have I been nagged about reading Harry Potter’s Order of the Phoenix.

“Are you done yet? I need someone to talk about it with”
“Are you done yet? Can I borrow it?”
“Are you done yet? So let’s get on the wait list for the next book”
“Are you done yet? Huh, Huh, Huh, Huh,”

No. I’m not done. I’ve had a busy week. I started it. I want to enjoy it due time.
No go scoot and bother some other potter fanatic.

Muggles have no patience, I swear.

Simply not true. No. I don’t believe you.
I’m very well confident that decapitation is much less painful then lifting your fat sweaty thighs off of a toilet seat after creating a polygrip type of seal.
Martha Ray would be so proud. Or horrified. Or something.

Ever have one of those days where you think to yourself

“What the F*ck was I thinking?”
“Why the H*ll did I do that?”
“I am a royal fricking idiot of epic proportions”

And then proceed to mentally self-flagellate for the next 6 very emotionally painful hours?

Instant therapy:
Nap
Cookie
Melon Flavored IceCream Bar from the Korean Market “Melona”
Fuzzy Slippers
Gen Mai Chai
Really warm, big, big, squeezy, comforting, non-judgemental, comforting, hugs.

Funny!

Oh. An evening of…
Perception & action NOT unlike the subtext of Dostoyevski. While drunk.

*yeah*

I feel like this.

You better check yourself.

Photo credit – Rannie

Take a moment and

STOP.

What’s the first thing you think of, see, feel.

Why.

Why is it important to you.

And where is the goodness/sunshine in your day.

Share.

From M-W.com
Main Entry: ser�en�dip�i�ty
Function: noun
Etymology: from its possession by the heroes of the Persian fairy tale The Three Princes of Serendip
Date: 1754
Definition: the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for

I am renewed.

I have a little bit of the universe pouring a cup of *rightness* into my otherwise empty feeling spirit these days.

As I was discussing with the cowboy fiancee last night, it’s often a burden to us both to have a heart thats so large. With that much more volume, it tends to bump into things with greater frequency. So it seems of late, at least.

Still, even with 20% scars and scabs and bruises, it’s still about 40% more functional than many of the folks we’ve run across over the last few months. It’s a blessing. And a curse. Having this almost overwhelming emotional response to things. Sometimes small and precious, sometimes grand and engulfing. With all the intricacies of and moving parts of an ant farm, or my circulatory system, the pigmentation in individual cells as designed on a butterfly’s wing, or a metropolis as seen in the eyes of Carl Sandburg.

Yeah. Like that.

And sometimes these…things…they escape what I’d like to believe, is the realm of conscious control. What was I thinking?

I have nominal control. Were it not for my pride and vanity, I’d cry in public, throw rocks at strangers who cut me off in public, or dance on the sidewalk while humming a tune of rapturous whimsy.

Of course I’ve been known to do all of the above things at one point or other too. Just not of late. Thank goodness.

Song in my head. Found off my harddrive and playing *just* at the right time. Perfectly vibing my mood.

Sometimes you find a cover that’s a whole other glorious color than the original.
Like Cyndi Lauper’s cover of Roy Orbison’s “I Drove All Night”

And then there’s tonight’s perfect gem.
Everything but the Girl’s Cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time”

The right time.
The gears click.
The lights glow.
For just one perfect little moment.

Serendipity.

Beg pardon.

Temporarily overwhelmbed by creative rage.
Try it sometimes.
It’s a healthy exercise.

No. Really.

(Caveat. Fiction. No really. Memories evoked by reading journal entries 10 years ago. And those from 6 years past. About *that* experience 10 years ago. And that exboyfriend 6 years past. Yeah, *that one* experience that plagued me with nightmares for several years. And *that one*. That guy. The one that drove me in a rusty tractor over rude and rocky roads towards gin & prozac cocktails. And pushing my fist throgh a mirror so I had to get 3 stitches accross the knuckle. Remember that? Wasn’t that fun? Remember him? Yeah. That one. And yeah, to some degree, I *do* still motherfucking hate him. And him too. No regrets on that. )

Instead.

Instead of weakness.

Instead of needing.

Instead of wipping myself with my own regret till the ghosts suffocated me with dark waters at midnight again.

And you. Yeah you.
Instead of understanding that my heart two
sizes too large for my ribs
Chooses to be half scabbed over
Than shrink for missing you.

Instead of dreaming.

Instead of sobbing.

Instead of thrashing underneath the cum-stained sheets.
Alone. And wondering how.

I choose to remind myself of why I should hate you.
But can’t admit so. Not in polite company anyways.

Instead of throwing myself onto broken glass
And twisting an arrow inside my belly

I listen. And I wait.

Time punishes you far harsher than me.
You’re an adverb not a noun. Never a subject.
You are vile

And my pussy sours at the notion of having ever fucked you.
Yeah.

That’s how much I don’t miss you.

I just thought you ought to know.

It’s about time.

Do it because you need good karma.
Do it because you want to be in my good graces (wink)
Do it because you want to help people in need.

geeky chick dot net: angel adventure

Just do it.

And I vow that if $1000 gets raised from a referral via this post, that I’ll put up a nekkid pic & post into Jhames’s AutoErotic site.

Rowr. Now go.

I need good karma too.