jookitcz: (bang)
One day I hope to have a grand epiphany, and write about it.  It will doubtlessly change my life, impart great drama, and be of the stuff of poems and literature.  I have, however, small and unglamorous epiphanies with some regularity.  In many cases, it's embarassing to have these epiphanies at all, regardless of how enriching they are, solely because I should have realized them sooner.  I say 'realized' instead of 'thought about' because is cases like today's, it isn't a thinking effect.  It's a getting punched in the stomach effect.

Well, not punched.  I've had punched in the stomach epiphanies.  Today it was a jab in the stomach.  I realized that I find pornography absolutely disgusting and abhorrent! 

And some of you will be going, "Well, duh," and others will be more along the lines of, "Really, Jessa.  That's a little bit extreme for an economist, isn't it?" or, "Your opinion is not based in reason and is a result of the latent Puritan values that pervade society and have unfairly corrupted your thinking, crippling your ability to be open-minded."

It really isn't based in reason.  It's based on the ability of my stomach to knot itself up in a fabulously Celtic mode.  My pre-epiphanous mindset skimmingly was of the opinion that what people spend their money and minds on was none of its business, particularly in such a private sphere. 

Today I realized that my former opinion would be the correct one, if it were truly a simple matter of people wanting to watch other people have sex.  That would be astonishingly inoffensive, and I might even feel a silly affection for the idea and its entirely human peculiarity.  What disgusts me is the pornographic market's perversion of sexuality.  As any shrewd business might, it isolates attributes found attractive by its customers, and then plays up those attributes.  Bigger lips, better hair, more overwhelming breasts, the strict elimination of body hair--and the elimination of any unattractive feature that would detract from the frozen concentrated sexualness of your sample porn star.

What is left, as far as I can judge, is not human.  And after being abdominally assailed by this notion, should I really blame my conscious from making the next logical leap?--that pornographic patronage is, actually, on a par with beastiality?

Mythical beastiality--in the sense that the animal is mythical, not that the fetish is imaginary.  I don't even know if that has its own word.

And that's all I have to say about it, really.
jookitcz: (Default)
Apparently the diaries of the late Anna Nicole Smith sold in an auction for $512,000. 

I'm considering upping the privacy settings on this journal, and hiding the password in my will.  Think about it.  All I have to do is become disproportionately famous, preferably for some idealized aspect of my physical body, while I maintain a certain inexplicablity of action, and bam!--it's a pretty decent life insurance payout. 

I have pretty nice legs.  It's possible.

But I have to quote part of the CNN article in which I read this.  They write:

Smith's 1992 diary consists of 26 entries from January to August, and the 1994 one contains about 30 pages from January to July, Riccio said. The entries show a moody and complicated woman, Riccio said.

...

"It was a okay day," she wrote of June 11, 1992. "I had lunch with Howard. Someone ran over my cat yesterday. I was real sad."

I'm not sure how confused I ought to be.  On the bright side, if that's all it takes to qualify for being a moody and complicated woman, I think I might possibly be overqualified.  I have moody complication in spades!  They will be writing novels about me, once my journals are released to the public.  Movie rights will change hands.  Promising young actresses with moderately Slavic features will fight for my role. 

Awesome.

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jookitcz

July 2010

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