Vis-a-vis with a caveat on disheartened prospects

Through the years of exhausted research: Countless rail drinks at happy hour, handful of horrible dates, random encounters, annoying cat calls, and flimsy come on lines; I have come to a grandiose conclusion.

Men are horrible at picking up and meeting women.

As if I wasn't capable of making an ass out of myself in public, you so-called "pick up artists" need to step up your game when you're in hot date pursuit while out at the bars. Doubling as both a bar patron and data collector, I find this piteously amusing, and insightful.

As a smart and confident woman, it's not in my best interest to accept these "digits" from you strangers and take what you have to say to heart. I'm out playing my own game, and part of that fun is throwing you off yours.

Needless to say that I'm not some sort of man-hater. I'm actually on your side. Of course it's hard for you "men-about-town" to meet those of the opposite sex. Simply because the women sought have these endearing tendencies of being insecure, cold-hearted, stupid, and utterly annoying. I would know, some of these hussies are girlfriends/wives/friends/lovers of my own male friends. What about the other women, you ask? Just like myself, these women know better than to succumb to some random Jedi-mind fuck, and a lousy lay. It's a personal choice we all have to make, eventually.

Why the post? Well, I find myself collecting ripped up pieces of paper ( receipts, matchbook covers, biz cards, a CD cover...) all filled with phone numbers from the men of this DC Metro area. It's as if I had a sign on my forehead flashing: "In need of your phone number, I seem to have lost mine."

For the men lolloping through the pubs and dives, I will offer up a few tips to save you time, money, and wasted effort:

-If a woman is reading: The Washington Post, a book, the backside of your inane t-shirt, a magazine, etc. Do NOT bother her. She clearly isn't there to converse; well, with you that is.
-If a woman is walking down the street, please make it a point to leave your catcalls and dog whistles at the local park. Is her tail wagging? No. Is that a bone in your pants? Yes. You don't see her egging you on...
-If a woman is looking at you, do not STARE back. She was either doing two things: Simply that, just "looking." Or checking out the person BEHIND you. You can never be too sure. (It could also be the beer list directly above you, too.)
-Don't offer your information to a woman unless you know she wants it. Otherwise, she won't use it. The only ones who would be interested are the folks who use that sort of data for identification fraud and things of that nature.
-If you're going to purchase the woman a drink, ask her if she fancies "rail" liquor. First impressions are VERY important. You don't want her to think you're cheap. Not until the third date, at the very least.
-NEVER approach a woman conveying these words: Heeeeey Guurl. You got a man? All while you lick your lips and glossing a look at her from head to toe, and then peeking around to drool at her backside.
-Work on eye movement. There's a big difference between "sexy" eyes, and creepy as all hell wide-eyed gazes. You're not a deer in headlights. You are capable of blinking. This is an involuntary action so there's no need to write this part down on the back of your hand.
-Don't screw up the woman's name. You don't want her calling you Mr. JackAss, so don't call her sweetie pie to mask the fact that you can't "listen."

Not that I have had any experience with any of these magical encounters. (Right.)

It's frustrating to see that men still test the waters, though no signs were given that their was an interest to begin with, and assume that you do want to be approached by a complete and utter stranger. (*Sigh* I await the day when my "Knight in Grand Marnier armor" knocks my socks off) Hell, he's lucky if he can get past me saying, "Fuck off."

I had two men in ear shot trying to outwit one another during a Happy Hour; but they both knew I was paying a great amount of attention to their conversation. The winner being? None. Alpha males, my ass. Guys, you might as well unzip and whip it out. *Flop* Whose penis is the largest? *Zip* Whose girth outshines the rest? *Flop. Flop* :) I foresee the dating future involving tons of dick flopping, and "best in shows." I'd hate to be the judge when that happens... "I'll go with the guy with the least amount of sores. Thank you all for playing "Trying to get my fuck on with the Asian girl." Men are terribly insatiable, however the majority seem to know how to acquire what they often desire. Some of you are in a whole other category, but I rather not "generalize."

Albeit I'm poking fun at the attempts of men picking me up, there is also a small amount of flattery that goes along with it. Yes, I'm quite cute. And yes, I'm delightful to be around. Furthermore, it's an affirmation that men want what's really important... "A great set of thoughts with a matching pair of word usage." It's a strange experience to be ogled over. But is it better to be the oglee than the ogler?

What do I do with the numbers you ask? Normally I rewrite the same information, changing only the male's name and inserting the fake bar name I've given myself that particular evening. "Sure, give me a call some time, Bob. Here's my number" I'll say. *Slides over another man's cell phone number and e-mail address* "I hope to hear from you soon", while I snicker and walk away. Never to see this person again, unless in a police line up or on an alert sheet at the local post office.

Honestly, you don't want to waste paper. The trees really do cry when you waste paper, so I "recycle" the numbers given to me, and give them to those who need them the most. I give you, the "pick-up artists" to each other. A present within itself.

If you will, imagine this:
What if there were Mystery Shops for the guys getting these numbers? Only here will the best of the best shine forth. Mystery Shoppers will be making sure you're doing all the right moves, asking the right questions, and always "closing the deal." This results in a score card and percentage on the performance a week later. Scrutinizing every mannerism, fake laugh, and cologne choice used. Come to think about it, aren't we all Mystery Shop Daters? I think the appropriate name for this agency should be "Date This."

Oh the perils of having a family...

... and recognizing and overcoming their effects.

Every family is DYSFUNCTIONAL. Sadly, there's no way around that side effect. Eventually, if you ignore them, they'll forget what they wanted to discuss with you in the first place and/or forgive you for what you've done in the past/present. It's a vicious cycle of love and hate, but that's exactly what family is all about.

To my mother:
In your foray into the marvelous world of dementia, or what our family likes to call "another outburst", I'd like to tell you this: You are loved. You'll be alright.


This poem goes along with family, or at least I think it does:

(Shoutout to my homie on Woodley. I know he'd appreciate this. Larkin is quite the aphorist isn't he? Good stuff.)


This Be The Verse
-Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


--It's always strange to come face to face with a truth. Now and then, it can also embody a bit of humor, too. :)

Liezel's Obituary

*REMOVED BY ADMINISTRATOR*

Due to displeasing comments upon my obit, I decided to unpost this section of my blog.

I am sorry.

Incoherently interpreting my own musings

Is it possible to keep the inner ramblings of your own thoughts from your self? There is quite a bit of difficulty scribbling down every thought, phrase, and word onto paper. As a mild introvert, I know this firsthand. I try to fish out those random notions whenever the capability of remembering to do so renders itself useful. Why try to save a passing idea in the streams of my own subconscious? Well, these are thoughts that are worth saving; for it reasons around the idea that these are the purest truths to my own visions of perspective. Amusing how these shooting "thoughts" are never around long enough for me to jot down. Or to share.

Vocalizing an internal dialogue on paper has proven difficult. The many failed attempts to organize these concepts often end up in the recycle bin of my neurological center. I'll often fantasize that I'll come across those uncaptured notions once more, only to find myself lost in other ramblings.

As a creative mind, I've always been a deep seated thinker. Not always pertaining to current events, differentiating dogmas, or Hollywood gossip, but on personal matters such as people with difficulties communicating in relationships. (A personal fave and constant contradiction) I possess stories that could last generations, and yet I've only been around for three Presidential campaigns. My experiences dictate numerous personal moments in writing; relaying the misfeeds not just for myself, but for others. Who the hell knows how to express themselves whole heartedly and truthfully? I surely am fighting my way towards that very answer.

What if we were able to express these "radical, illogical, and often misguided ideas" to others? Would it be better to filter out the red markings, and articulate the second draft thoughts? We all know how to vocalize ourselves; however, precisely conveying what to say, has yet to surface. The truth is often miscontrued, easily abandoned, and as of late, been exhausted. Is it not easier to tell a lie, than to pass along a truth? Copious conversations about bullshit topics are all over town, and all finger towards white lies and exaggerated tales. No wonder the ever popular growth in today's technological world; some rather instant message a complete stranger to discuss cd covers than tell their our own mother, "I love you" in person. Are we getting "connected" via internet only to disconnect with people in real life? How easily do we hide behind our own words? Do others gain power in hiding? Perhaps.

People who are guarded are afraid that you can see right through them, and that's why they hide behind layers of secrecy or humor. I would know a great deal about this; I follow this very fold.

Could this explain my insatiable appetite to communicate? More than likely. However, it could also equate my envy of talented writers of great novels. Easily fluid in speech and thought, I can only hope to hold a candle to their marvelous skills. I find that reading and writing are a fitting pair. Agree? I always enjoy a good read: Short stories, history books, old classics, and everything in between. Reading has proven time and time again as an escape to a world that I could shape and mold with my own imagination. Somehow, there's always been a mental vendetta towards reading. My aversion to the concept of not being able to pen a complete thought, rather articulate scribbles as well as my beloved authors has held true the past couple of years. It's been a love-hate relationship, but when a good book finds itself in my possession, it always wins; hands down. No matter where the battle of Liezel's musings stand.

Pondering such things have always interested me. Silly, yes. Random, of course. Boring, never. Perhaps musings are just that: Loosely connected thoughts, sporadic spurts of words and images, and vague daydreams. Maybe it's not so much about interpreting our musings, but living them. Breathing them. Writing them. Holding some sort of truth to them. Then again, what would I know, I'm incoherently explaining my own.



To whomever stole my notebook in DC this past weekend:
My thoughts, though no longer with me, will always be my thoughts... And for that, I pray that you never get the true meaning of my writings. You are not worthy of that privilege. No one has seen a word of my stories, and I'm sure I wouldn't let a complete stranger be the first. You only have one of many filled notebooks. And yes, if you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a clever and funny woman. You'll probably *get* that if you can get passed the first chapter of the notebook. If ever. Who am I kidding, you probably threw away my work thinking it was filled with unused pages. I'll continue to vent, but I'll get more pleasure writing about you. In that case, your character will have a case of the clap and a series of unidentified knee tumors. I wish you luck, for you might become a recurring character in my stories. Jerk.

Advice seekers: Friend or Foe?

I don't seem to have enough issues of my own, so I purposely run into individuals who have wholesale subscriptions of "Drama Daily." These so-called friends never really seek advice, but the things they want you to say to justify what they deem is fitting for themselves. Would it not be easier for them to look in the mirror and say the things they think they need to hear? It would save all the parties involved time and wasted effort.

The thing about advice, whether you're giving it or receiving, is that it's not necessarily about giving the best words of wisdom. Rather, it's about adhering to the "signs" and "cues" of your friends. They want you to side with them. Make no exceptions. You're going to keep that mouth shut and nod accordingly. There would be no rebuttals, no point of views, no last minute "and another thing". The mind plays quite a few tricks on one's emotions, so if someone is going through some heavy emotional traffic, he or she is NOT about to heed advice from someone who isn't on their team.

The best way to play ball, and not strike out with said individuals?
Here are a few key notes:

-Never, under any circumstances say, "What's the matter with you?" Or better yet, "What were you thinking?"
-Stay clear of sentences beginning with "If you were in their shoes..."
-Don't look them directly in the eye. Most advice seekers are heavily low in self-esteem fuel. Looking into their eyes only adds on more minutes of them blabbing on about what they think they should do.
-As much as you'd rather play Texas Hold'em on your cell phone or jab a spork in your hamstrings, never lose focus of what they are blabbing about. You might be asked to review what they mumbled about for the past hour.

It's not that I don't care about my friends. I really do. It's just I don't care for the bullshit that goes along with their issues. "I don't know what to do about her. She doesn't call me. I really like her, but I feel I'm not giving her what she wants. Should I call her? I already left 5 messages. You think she's ignoring me. Fuck her, I don't want to talk to her. You think she's cheating on me? Hell, I'd cheat on me. Liezel, what do I do?"

Personally, I'd down a few purple pills before listening to another round of indecisive ramblings. People know what they have to do, but seek that emotional push for back up. Go for Liezel. What's your 20?

Most people want the truth. Or so you think. Do people really want to hear what you have to say? Think about it. Would you take your own advice? It's like the blind leading the blind. You wouldn't get that far.

I know what I want to hear. I know what I want to say. The trick to giving and receiving advice is knowing yourself. I know what I'm willing to put up with as far as my dealings with people. Do you?

Hidden within the darkness of my own perverted mind...

are the irrational and often times erratic moments of nostalgia. It is rare to find myself lurking in the recesses of my troubled head. I heartily admit my disconnections with people; However, I will not volunteer to give an explanation.

I don't fancy myself much of a writer, yet the drafts of "would be" novellas have been changed time and time again from when I started to pen my scribbles at 15.

And what would a 15 year old write about?

The following passage is taken from one of my own written stories. This is still untitled, and under much re-work. It's no where near completion, so I beg pardon. Much of my work, if not all, is done on paper. I have attempted the conversion of my words onto a file on the computer, but felt as if I was betraying the genuine nature of my stories. It goes; Thought to pen, pen to paper. No more, no less. I'll often jot down a thought, a paragraph, a phrase, only to dissect and use it a much later time. I try to avoid very little change in my writings, if at all possible. I had to search through some old personal papers, and recover this short story. Though there is much more to this piece, I'll save you the trouble by only offering the part that reminds me of my younger brother, Kevin.

This is a Leezuhhl Blog first, and a personal one at that.
To my brother, Kevin: I'm glad you're ok. You little shit.

He stood no more than three feet tall, yet his overbearing demeanor made him appear much larger than life. He screeched like a baby taradactyl, and in a way resembled one. His face was always decorated, scarred really, from some freakish fall or bump. He was a tough kid, with beady brown eyes, and a hair style that is better known as the rice bowl cut. Heck, I donned that look until the tender age of twelve.
Curious as he was, he never asked for assistance. Grabbing his own toys with his chubby fat fingers, as if he wasn't a toddler, but a grown boy. But I controlled him. I told him where to sit, where to go, and when to nap. Afterall, isn't that what older sisters do to their miscreant younger siblings?
It was a lazy afternoon, and we were told twice to put the Power Wheels car away in the shed. Derek loved that four wheeled kiddie vehicle. Batteries were not included of course, but was definitely a cool toy at the time. Father bought us the K.I.T. car, child version, from that hit show at the time. The car didn't have the voice of actor William Daniels, but it did have the signature red light that would strobe horizontally across the front bumper. It was the first one seen in our neighborhood; it made us the most popular kids on our block. Knight Rider was a popular show when we were growing up. That was simply because David Hasselhoff's career wasn't tainted then. He was cool, in a late 80's James Dean kind of way.
Dad decided it was a good idea to take us to Toys R Us every weekend. Given, our grades were kept, and our chores done. My brother and I never missed our assignments, or any kiddie do lists. Mother disliked this Pavlovian mind game. In her eyes, good grades equaled new bike and missed chores equaled less play time. She thought it would be best if we learned to do what we were told because it was good to do so; and not so much on the fact that we'd get a new toy at the end of the week. Father had other ideas.
Derek was a stubborn boy. "Derek... DEREK. DEREK!" mom had often said, "Don't do that!" I remember a time he stole dad's favorite tweezers, which he often used to pluck his whiskers, and hid it from him. Knowing dad treasured this cosmetic tool, Derek couldn't help but to play with it. Derek had stuck these tweezers in the electrical outlet. Not once, but a couple of times. Once after being told not to, and again after he got electrocuted. I can still remember the smell of his burnt hair.
"Why didn't you watch him carefully?"
"I don't know mom," shrugging, "it's not my fault he always gets into trouble."