Before I go on extended breaks, I tend to get frustrated with the people around me. "I don't care because I'm not going to see you for two months and when I come back I am going to have the body of Jessie Pavelka and you will be kicking yourself for making me mad. Bye. Die."
This is Jessie Pavelka's "About Me" on ModelMayhem.
My name is Jessie Pavelka. I am a fortunate yet unfortunate person just like all the rest of us. (That's deep.) Strengths and weaknesses, good and bad, happy and sad, you know the rest. (This sentence is missing three predicates.) I have decided to devote my life to chasing my dreams and aspirations w/(Is it really that hard to write it out?) no regret(s) and no fear in my heart. If things work out great, if things go on the way(one word)side(,) I accept and move on. Days get long and life gets short, but I keep on going. I am loved and loveable(maybe in person) and TRY to send out love even when (i)t is not received.(That's very big of you.) I am a spiritual being who strongly believes in God and Quantum Physics.(hah...) Things happen for a reason and at the exact time they are supposed to.(You won't be saying that when Dietribe is cancelled.) My thoughts control me and I control my thoughts.(That makes sense.) This is me. KEEP IT REAL My Heroe is Most definitley my Mother the strongest woman/human being(an unusual hybrid indeed) I have ever met and anyone with the courage (to) turn a thought into and idea(,) then impliment that idea into something great, something that matters....(transition?) I DO NOT DO NUDITY OF ANY KIND!! Thank you! (You're Welcome.)
Note: the misspelled words lovable hero definitely implement with it
Note: the capitalized words TRY - meaning his attempts to send out love without recieving are mostly unsuccessful Heroe, Most, Mother - none of those words should be capitalized under any circumstance KEEP IT REAL - an impulsive statement that must have occurred to him suddenly while writing I DO NOT DO NUDITY OF ANY KIND - i don't wanna talk about this
Also: Why do they even call the show Dietribe? I get the whole "ha ha play on words" bit, but it doesn't even make sense. Diatribe means a bitter verbal attack (like I have just demonstrated). You can't just pluck words out of the dictionary that almost have the word diet in them and make a show out of it. It's completely irrelevant!
I'm going back to school tonight and I don't have the body of Jessie Pavelka.
I was watching Martha Stewart this morning, (don't judge me), and Sigourney Weaver was the special guest. She was there to promote her new Lifetime movie Prayers for Bobby but somehow Martha suckered her into butchering a chicken on live TV. Anyway, back to the point. They played a clip from the movie where Sigourney's character goes, "I will not have a gay son," and the crowd gasped.
This surprised me. I would think that a room full of middle-aged white women would relate to that kinda of reaction. But upon further thought, any woman who watches Martha Stewart and has interest in trimming pillowcases and home made stationery would appreciate a gay son who can help them bake scones and plan weddings. Maybe people are more tolerant than I think. Next time I'm amidst a group of middle-aged white women, I'm coming out. They will give me hugs and invite me to their book club meetings.
As for the movie, I must say that it could be better. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the the heartwrenching tear-jerkers that better "the cause", (as opposed to blatant insults like I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry and overrated pointlessness like Brokeback Mountain). But it's all kind of cliche and and the writing seems unnatural. Also, Bobby's constant face full of tears is overkill. Why not just do the lone tear down the cheek? But I love love love Sigourney Weaver. I love her. I will suffer through bad writing and bad acting to watch her. Saturday at 9pm. Who wants to make it a date with me?
I have several ideas for novels swimming around in my head. The first one involves a beautiful young Indian girl named Deepa Chopra. She is tired of having no control over her life but keeps these feelings mostly to herself and confesses only to her free-spirited best friend, Sameena. Deepa lives with her two controlling parents who manage to maintain a stranglehold on her life while also owning and operating an Indian restaurant, The House of Kamal.
Every morning, Deepa wakes up at 5am and goes with her mother to Costco where they proceed to buy every single rotisserie chicken that the warehouse is willing to give them. Doctored up with some garam masala and ground coriander, they will be sold for triple the price at her parents' restaurant. Deepa reads the labels, "Not For Resale," every single time and feels badly about this practice. But she has no power over her mother and relents, feeling that the universe will right itself in other ways.
Deepa constantly daydreams of meeting the perfect man and being whisked away to a new life. But she is fully aware of her parents' intentions to arrange her marriage. Furthermore, she has come to the realization that her parents will select her husband based on their own criteria and that she will have no say. To her parents, he will be a nice man with an even temper and a stable job in IT that will be able to adequately provide for the family. To Deepa, he will be a boring man with an uninteresting and mindless job and whose favorite movie is something thoughtless and cliche like The Dark Knight. The idea of spending the rest of her life with somebody so uninspiring suffocates Deepa.
These thoughts compound her feelings of lack of control. She deals with these feelings in unconvential ways.
Ugh. I just ripped my jeans right below the pocket. My favorite $9 GAP jeans. FUCK. FUCK THIS STORY.
Temperatures in the DC area are dipping into the single digits and that has put me in the cuddling mood. Unfortunately, there are no live bodies to cuddle with. I have resorted to rolling my blankets into the shape of Channing Tatum and going to sleep with him. It suffices.
Inauguration is this Tuesday and I am twitching at the prospect of seeing Hillary in person. I feel, as a DC resident, a certain obligation to go and witness this historic event that is taking place right in my figurative backyard. However, several million people, whose literal backyards DC is not, are coming in from God knows where. (Obama's step-grandmother is visiting from Kenya. I wonder how often they actually speak and if he calls her granny.)
Downtown streets have restricted access. Bridges from Virginia are closed inbound. No bicycles allowed on the parade route. Smithsonian, National Archives, Judiciary Square, 7th St. Convention Center metro stations are closed. I heard a rumour that Beyonce has to walk on foot. I heard a rumour Oprah's secret lover tells all (but that's unrelated). It will be mayhem. It can not be missed.
Speaking of things that can not be missed, Britney Spears is coming to the Verizon Center in March. I want a ring seat so bad even though they are $3,000. Most likely I'll end up in the upper concourse; the section so high that moisture condenses into clouds that support a vast rainforest teeming with 50% of the world's bird species. But even those seats are $100 plus. But if Britney isn't worth it, I really don't know what is.
Alas, there are three new ways to interact with me.
I've created a Facebook account (DC Cised, friend me!). Maybe I will take pictures of myself wearing a dark hoodie and a baseball cap and sunglasses in a dark room with no flash. Maybe I will take pictures of myself naked.
I've also created a Twitter, so you can go traipsing through my thoughts and read about my everyday life. Please follow me so I don't feel like a complete loser.
I've even created a fan page for you fans out there. Yes, all 3-4 of you. Now you can proudly proclaim your devotion to me on your profile. And your friends can stumble blindly into my blog and stop being your friends once they realize what it's actually about.
As always, you can chat with me on dccised (AIM) or email me at dccised@gmail.com. The funny thing about that is people often send me emails and message me, but after I respond, they just fall off the face of the Earth. Either they had a massive heartattack from all the excitment of talking to me or they figured out how stupid I actually am from my response. I'm hoping it's the first one.
Five of the ten pieces in my portfolio can be anything I choose. I feel like this is a mistake on the architecture department's part. People are going to submit weird and altogether ugly things like oil paintings of their dogs and watercolors of their penises. This is also a disadvantage on my part because I am one of those people that, if given no direction, will wander aimlessly forever. So that is what I'm doing.
I've decided that for one or two of these pieces, I'm going to do a Chinese watercolor. I haven't really done one in about five years but in my heyday, I was pretty famous for my shrimp paintings (lolz right?). Anyway, in order to remember how to do any of this, I have to pay my old art teacher a visit. And to do that, I have to return to Chinese school.
Figure 1: I did not draw this.
Upon hearing that I will be making a cameo appearance at the Chinese community's gossip mecca, mommy is sent into a frenzy.
"If somebody asks, lie and pretend you are happy." "K"
And when I get there, mommy furiously tries to set me up with every singe Chinese girl. But that is a story for another time.
2) An exterior two-point perspective view of a significant work of architecture. This drawing is required to be made from life or on site. Pencil, shade and shadow with line weight.
I decide to draw the DC Convention center because there are no curves and I fucking hate drawing curves.
Nonetheless, I feel as though this project will consume every last ounce of life in me. After I finish, I will collapse in a pathetic pile on the ground, leaving requirements 3 through 10 unfinished/unstarted. Hopefully though, the single 8x10in sketch will sell for millions at a Sotheby's or Christie's or Ebay auction. Mommy can spend my hard earned money on plastic surgery and daddy can spend my hard earned money on new floor to ceiling windows.
Next door at the National Portrait Gallery, there is an exhibit showing photographic portraits of a man named Morrissey. I look at that name and wonder why it sounds so familiar. Wait a minute, isn't that the middle-aged vegetarian British singer/kook that LP is obsessed with. Yes! Why yes it is!
I feel like phoning LP at that very moment.
Me "Omg guess what." LP "I've overdosed and died and this is an out-of-body experience." Me "...... No. They're showing Morrissey at the portrait gallery!" LP "I haven't been filled with so much excitement since the LP scrapbook sold for 5 million pounds and paid for my complicated and expensive but necessary ribcage removal procedure." Me "...... You should really come see it! I think I see the back of your head in one of the pictures!" LP "I can't. I'm an Aussie now. I can never return to that world or be who I used to be." Me "Oh. I forgot." [Insert long, painful silence] Me "I miss you." LP "I have to go now, Aussie time and all. Goodbye"
And for those of you that are now convinced that I am some sort of insane and obsessive LP stalker that spends hours dreaming up hypothetical situations, you're wrong. My insane and obsessive hypothetical situation only took like, 10 minutes to dream up.
For the past few days, mommy has been staring at me, giggling to herself, and saying, "I can't believe you're 20! I made such a wonderful boy!" as if she molded me out of gay-dough. Mommy thinks that every positive thing that has ever occurred in my life is because I passed through HER birth canal as opposed to somebody else's.
"You're 185cm tall? - You can thank me for that!" "You got an A in accounting? - You got that from me!" "You don't have sickle cell anemia? - You're welcome!"
In her mind, all my triumphs can be traced back to the single act of her giving birth to me. And she uses this as some sort of vindication.
But as much as she takes credit for my strengths, mommy feels she is equally accountable for my failures. So if I were to ever tell her that I am gay, there is no doubt in my mind that she would blame herself and find a way of guilting me into marrying some poor Chinese girl who doesn't understand what's going on and just wants a green card.
Which has me wondering. Can I blame her? Whose fault is it really?
I certainly don't blame myself because homosexuality is not a choice. I choose men over women because I think women are disgusting to look at. But I do not choose to think this way. Honestly, if I had the choice to choose differently, I would. Being gay is hard work and I just want to fit in. Also, I'm tired of being in love with unattainable people like Anderson Cooper.
But just because homosexuality isn't a choice doesn't mean I was born this way. I know many gays refute the idea that gays are "made" and would rather believe that gays are born singing showtunes. (Some sort of genetic predisposition that makes certain neuron groups bigger or whatnot.) But many gays just like to think that homosexuality is purely physiological because it means that they can elicit sympathy and compassion as "victims." Most of all, it counters the idea that homosexuality is a choice and that homosexuals are at fault. Even though it isn't and we aren't, I feel like there has to be something more than that.
I would like to dismiss the stereotype that says gay boys are the eventual products of households with overbearing mothers and emotionally unavailable fathers, but the fact is, that is exactly where I come from. So that could very well be it. Mommy took me shopping as soon as I could walk, so that might explain my affinity to overpriced clothes and the beautiful men that model them. Daddy has never told me he loves me, so that might explain my habit of trying to squeeze those words out of the throat of every man I have ever met.
My best guess is that homosexuality results from a mix of biological and environmental factors. So thank you mommy, daddy, uterus, Liza Minnelli, the 6th grade, for making me gay. I have all of you to blame. But I guess it's not so bad. As long as I have Anderson at 10pm to comfort me.
On January 4, 2009, I am officially, irreversibly, unfortunately, fortunately done with my teen years.
My twenties begin with the consumption of two Tylenol precisely as the clock strikes 12:00am. This is in commemoration of the last twenty years of pain and in anticipation for the next twenty years of pain. Also, I just saw the worst movie in the history of planet Earth (Rachel Getting Married) and I was nauseous.
I wake up at 10:00am (the hour that I was born) to the sounds of mommy, gently rapping on the door, telling me what to wear and planning out the minute details of the next twenty years of my life. I am still half asleep and the only things I catch are, "yellow oxford shirt," "medical school," "three grand-kids."
In keeping with birthday tradition, mommy and daddy take me to lunch. And in keeping with my life's tradition, they discuss my inadequacies: past, present, and future. They tell me that my new age requires new maturity. No longer can I hide behind my sarcasm. No longer can I use their credit card. No longer can I wear woot shirts - the final knife in the heart.
Dinner will occur at 8:00pm at White Flint. I wonder if any of my friends will show up. Go there if you want to stalk me and see what I look like. I may or may not be wearing a yellow oxford shirt. I will not acknowledge you without gift in hand though. These are your options:
Hi. I started this blog as an outlet for my emotions. After the overwhelmingly positive response from like, two people, the main purpose of this blog is now to get me noticed by HBO or Showtime and make me rich.
Tell a friend.
I'm in my early twenties and live and work in DC.
I have body image issues and an unhealthy relationship with food/God/everyone I've ever met.
