Thursday, April 30, 2009

Up? Date!

Hey, I haven't written in forever for 2-3 reasons.

ONE. School is a biotch for the next 6 weeks, then I am free! No more school until I decide to get another Master's and plunge myself further into scholastic debt. Don't worry, I have a plan though. I am going to go Anna Nicole style. Minus the drugs and the annoying voice. TRIM SPA BABY version 2.0, bank on that.

TWO. Lack of internet still exist at my house. The clowns down the street (no joke, SANDOU the CLOWN is two doors down) don't have their internet secured. So bless them and see their show, so that I may continue (for the time being) to steal their internet.

THREE. I have a bunch of material and about 3 or 4 blogs started. Some of which are very personal and I am not quite sure I want to share them with the whole world. So, we will wait and see.

Trust me! I am still writing. I miss it. Right now, my time is just consumed with work, school, the gym, and my friends. I am getting my life straight. One step at a time.

Hope all of you are doing well. Kisses and hugs!

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

My Circle.

I just realized, I never really write about what is going on in my head. My inner turmoil. My weirdness. My own personal craziness.

The reasons why, this is a public blog and anyone can access it. Also, I have my own insecurities and secrets that I chose to keep. Lastly, because I don't think that's what the purpose of my blogging is. I think my purpose is to share the nonsense of my life. The extraordinary things, not the inner workings of my madness. Twice as much, I like to make people laugh and feel good. I never want to make people sad or feel like shit; it's just not my style.

I also think that my inner thoughts and my feelings are personal, really personal. And not meant to be shared with the world. I really am reluctant to share a lot of me with a lot of people. As much as I am personable and as much as I love people and I appreciate them and their life experiences, I am not one that is too apt to share my life stories.

This stems from me opening up to people and getting burned by them pretty badly. When I share what is going on in my head and my heart, it makes me feel instantly closer to you. I've let down my wall and let you see a real piece of me. The Jessica that isn't all glittery-goodness and crass, but the deep thinker, the Jessica that really matters. I don't like feeling too close to people I don't fully trust. Most of you will know when this happens, you'll say something to the effect of, "this is a side of Jessica I have never seen before" or you will at least think that sentiment.

Yes, I am someone who knows a lot people, but I don't trust every person fully. There are people that I trust and even fewer people I don't have to tone-down myself down with. People are so judgmental. The worst thing in the world is to bear your soul to someone to have them put you down for it, run their mouths about it, or use it against you in the future. All of which, I have experienced firsthand, as have most people. I am a fairly open person, most things in life are taken way too seriously.

Please note that if you have seen the meltdowns, you know my fears, you have seen me cry (at something other than the news or movies), if I call you, if I text you for no apparent reason, if I ask for your advice, if I try to set time for us to get together, know that you are golden or at least on your way there.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Something about Jessica

Randomness. It's my life.

I don't know if this a gripe or if this is flattering, but, whenever I am out and about, random strangers will stop and stare at me or they will engage in a full blown conversation (or sometimes attempt to).

This happens everywhere. I will be out to breakfast with my girlfriends and some random family will start chatting me the effe up. Let's be honest, I like to shoot the shit and most times, I don't mind the distraction, usually.

Last night was one of the especially rare instances of this whole "something about Jessica" phenomenon. My girlfriend and I were waiting to get my car (note: LARGE and IN-CHARGE MARGE) from valet. My friend and I were talking and first these gay dudes came up to me, one grab my hand, told me I was pretty and I had big boobs. Nice, classy, they are my brethren (see also: Why I Am A Gay Man), it made me smile and laugh. Here is where it gets a little strange. Then this dude walks past me, then turns around, stops and stares. He proceeded to do this 3 times. What the hell? Being the little minx that I am (and my shitty, who gives a damn attitude), I politely ask him, "WHAT?!" He proceeds to tell me, you are so pretty. LAME. Tell me something I don't know. I kind of roll my eyes at him. (This is Vegas. Men and the like are a whole other ball game.)

Usually, when I am waiting in line or even just at a bookstore, people will initiate conversation. I will be at a bookstore or the library (typically quiet, noon-speaking places) and some stranger will try to get all chatty with me... and it is usually about the most random shit, too. (Where's good to eat around here, what conditioner do you use, OMG, your nails are hot, hot. LAME shit like that.)

One time, this lady started yakking to me about UNLV and my sweatshirt. She says something to the effect of, "green and pink, doesn't UNLV have different colors?" This is one of the people that approach me and I get instantly snooty and think, how dare you think you can talk to me. I gave her my BS response, but she kept going and going, then brought her husband over to shoot the breeze. REALLY? You just ate, don't you want to get the hell out of the crowded EGG and I on a Saturday morning?! I am with 6ish of my girlfriends, leave me alone or I will start talking about COLORING (sex) in front of your children!

Every time I have an instance like this, I ask my friends (whomever I happen to be with), what the hell? They respond, you just look like a nice girl. When I hear the term "nice girl," I immediately think of words like frumpy and homely. This first of which that I am occasionally guilty of (who isn't?), the latter of the two, not so much (I am fuckin' hot, duh).

I've chalked up this whole "Wow, I really feel the urge to talk to this girl and tell her my life story, hocus pocus, voodoo" nonsense to being just that. There is something about me that attracts the masses. A Jessica Magnetism of sorts that leaves me irresistible and apparently appreciative of people's random bullshit.

Moral of the story: It's hard out there for us pretty bitches.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Dear Stripper,

For someone who has such a profession, if you want to call it that - a profession - you sure are judgmental. I am sure you are different from the rest of the girls, right? You're educated, aren't addicted to drugs, don't have crappy spending habits, paid your way through school, bought a car, have a boyfriend who is "committed" to you, right? Hell, one of my best friends is a former stripper and thinks about going back to it (which I fully support CHOKES); there is nothing wrong with it. I don't judge people. To each their own, different folks... different strokes.

But for someone who has a "job" such as yours and deals with the stigma of being a stripper - wait, your friends probably think you are a cocktail waitress or something, right? God forbid they know the truth - you'd think you of all people would be a little more understanding of people and the situations they sometimes find themselves in, especially ones that are out of people's control. I understand a huge part of work for you is keeping up an appearance. I get that. I love to primp, too; I am a girly-girl. (I bet you are frumpy as hell at home, too.) However, taking jabs at people based on their weight and their mental condition(s), it's just plain low. But of course, you have to jab at these things because you are not fat (thanks to genetics) and because you are probably more psychotic than the bitches you talk trash on. Obviously, on some level you hate yourself. You're a fucking educated woman and you take your clothes off for a living. I am sure it pains you that being a stripper doesn't require any cognitive skill either, well, other than being able to shake it in heels, which I commend you on, I am too awkward to wear a heel more than about 2 inches. I mean, you have to be a good actress, too. I love theatre. Hell, I love strip clubs.

What I am just getting at here is: be a little fuckin' nicer. See what you have in front of you. Don't be so judgmental and so negative. You aren't that attractive to begin with and your shitty disposition in life and how you treat people and what spews out of that toxic trap of yours makes you that much more deplorable (and let's face it, you need all the help you can get).

Jessica Irene

PS: Speaking of getting petty: your hair sucks, your teeth are gross, and your nose, well, I don't like it, bitch.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Drama Queen Ho

"I am one of those/ melodramatic fools/ neurotic to the bone/ no doubt about it" - Basket Case, Green Day

Truth be told, I suffer from MELODRAMATICS. It's probably one of my best, most exciting qualities. At the same time, it's one of my biggest down falls as well. I love and hate it about myself. I know a lot of my melodramatics stem from me being overly sensitive.

Sometimes my dramatics are hilarious. For example, when I was telling some girlfriends about my first time, we were merrily driving along in my car. We turn into my friends apartment complex and my one girlfriend exclaims, "Omigod!" Which freaks me the fuck out so I slam on my breaks and scream, a long drown out, screech. They burst into hysterics so intense that they have tears streaming down their cheeks. They still try to freak me out to get that ridiculous squeal that I make. I was really scared. I have never been in a horrible car wreck, so my vivid imagination goes straight to worst case scenario. Needless to say, should I have screamed? No. But did it enhance the situation? Absolutely. Was anyone harmed? Negative.

I am a bit over dramatic. So what? Yes, sometimes my irrational mind makes me feel like I am crazy, but my hysterics, my mania, my neuroticism are essential to who I am. Imagine how I would be if I wasn't crass mouthed, uncensored Jessica. I mean, in my "posse" I am the Samantha (Sex and the City reference). What would Saturday morning breakfast be like if I wasn't talking about "coloring" or offering my nonsensical advice or spewing out witty remarks? I'd be boring and drab and dull and unglittery.

Sometimes I know I can be a bit much, but we all can be lumped in that category. I have gotten better. I am working on my volume control. If you have noticed, when I am out and about, I ain't so loud anymore. I am becoming more aware of my immediate surroundings. Like always, I am evolving. Slowly, but surely. I wasn't even aware of these changes, but my friend told me about them and they were dead on... creepy how that happens.

What's bad about my meltdowns is that I lose it. I lose my cool. I cry, I get hysterical. It comes in three strengths: Medium, Hot, and Spicy. I freak out. The last flip out I had was in the hospital. I generally freak out when things are not in my control. And if you know me well enough, you will know my meltdowns, but it very rare when Hot/Spicy come out. If you have seen Hot and Spicy. You know you are in my CIRCLE. I know if I saw anyone breakdown they way that I breakdown I would deemed them worthy enough to be carried off to the LOONY BIN. (Again, my theatrics are coming into play.) I hate when I get to that level. I feel out of control.

I have found that I am nowhere near as loca as I was in my teenage years. I am an older, different type of crazy. As I mature, I am becoming this person that is... I don't know. Everything and nothing I want to be. I remember standing in the mirror as a little girl wondering what I would look like as a teenager, as college student, as a twenty-something. I would think about how big my boobs would be and I would dream of a red convertible with a big, bulky car phone (because I was/am determined to be important). I always picture myself with a horrid 80s perm and big puffy sleeves.

I am still very much that little girl who dreams big and has a million hopes and dreams, that gets scared and is a little insecure from time-to-time. I thought I would be at a different place in my life. 10 year old Jessica would have taken over Broadway by 16, pursued Theatre at NYU, and would be married and probably have a child or two, preferably two sons. But you cannot plan life and those moments that catch us off guard and make our world stop spinning are the moments we are most alive, when we grow. At least that is how it works for me.

I have my moods and my wide range of emotions. As does any queen who expects to be in control all of the time. I am fabulous. I am funny. I am capable. I am every awesome color in the awesome rainbow. I am glittery. I am dramatic. And people love it. People love me for being over the top and off the wall. My friends can depend on me to cheer them up and show them a good time. I get in my funks, but I bounce back quickly. Twice as much, how could I be a drama queen ho if I am only sequins and Spandex? I have to shake things up, I have to show my versatility.

Here I am with a tiara, glitter, a heart that has band-aids and super glue holding it together. I am not perfect, but I only know how to be me and live my fabulous, ridiculous life. This is my life, this is my production. And I will always graciously take my bow and allow you to throw roses at my feet. I am a princess, after all.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009


Fact: I like to read strangers' blogs.

There are some interesting writings out there. Some that make me laugh and cry and feel every other emotion under the sun. I appreciate a different outlook on the world and reading people's semi-guarded thoughts.

BUT and I mean that as a BIG, BIG BUT: There are A LOT I have stumbled upon that are from the stay at home mom-type, gushing over their child(ren), excessively; and I find it disturbing. I guess these particular blogs are out there to let family and friends know the day-to-day happenings (especially those friends and families that are in far off, distant lands). It's like these women (I haven't found one run by a man, yet) have nothing better to do than post their offspring all over the god forsaken internet and broadcast their "bundle of joy's" first fart, first finger painting, first solid food. Good grief. Your children, when the grow up (especially during their teen years) they will resent you for posting photos of them sitting on their Play-Skool "big girl" toilet. Trust me, they will want to cut you.

There are some Moms, however, who have children that have special needs and I absolutely love reading about their loin fruits, not because they are special, but because these are kids that have to fight to feel happy, that deal with great amounts of pain daily, these kids are innocents. One of the Moms even talks about how people stare at her child as if he were a mutant. Sometimes, we all take advantage of how normal we look or appear to be. I get moved from reading about the little girl who has down syndrome and is making strides everyday, that uplifts me, when that 5 year old triumphs, I triumph and my cold, black heart gets a little less cold. Or the mother who's daughter has a rare and fatal condition. I thrive on these blogs, I celebrate the milestones these children are making. These anonymous stranger posts let me catch a glimpse of a side of life I will never know.

I keep waiting for my "maternal instinct" to kick in, but I don't want to reproduce, ever and I think my biological clock came with fine print: batteries not included. (And I am not searching for batteries either - unless they go into something that buzzes, ya know.) I have my Baby Deanzo and he means the world to me, but you don't see me plastering my page with his little mug. I am sure y'all would just love to see Deanzo popping a squat in his litter box with that concentrated face he makes. (Just thinking about him doing this makes my insides burst with glitterly laughs!)

I hate that I am sounding so negative right now, I am not meaning to. I want to read people's opinions. I want to see their thoughts on anything, not about "Baby Boy Jr." and his first steps and how the whole family happened to be there and they all clapped and were excited and made a cake in the shape of shoes to celebrate. Tell me about the cake, and how you made it look like a shoe, what kind of shoe was it? A Prada? A stark white Ked, with a trademark blue label!

First it was Mom Jeans, now it is Mom Blogs! Maybe I am just bitter these bitches (yes, I called YOUR MOM a bitch) get to stay at home all day and write. Maybe I should go get a sugar daddy and get knocked up so I can fill the world with even more of my ridiculous ramblings.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Holy Boobies!

Okay, so... I am a pervert. Anyone who knows me, stalks me online, or who has spent 5 minutes with me in a casual environment will know this. I am avid fan of boobs (Go Boobs!). I just like to look at them, they fascinate me, everyone's are so different... I know, I'm a weird-o, and it just adds to my gay man persona (gay men love boobs-it's a fact).

Anyway, I got caught off guard today in the ladies room at Target. (On a side note: what the hell is it with Target that after roaming the store for an hour, I have an overwhelming urge to pee and I have to venture to use a public restroom. I kind of love the intense gotta-go feeling because once you get to piddle, it feels great (almost orgasmic).) Falling victim to my reoccurring "Target curse," I had to hall ass to ladies (Clueless reference).

Whenever I use a public restroom (besides in a nice Casino), I try to make my time in the restroom as brief as possible. Target bathrooms freak me out with all the stainless steal, you see smudges and finger/hand/ foot prints... GAG ME, BLAH!

So, I get to the PIDDLE-UTORIM and I take an almost orgasmic tinkle, flush the toilet with my foot and exit the stall... Then wablam! Right in my face is a pair of middle-aged knockers! The lady must have seen the shock on my face (because I was completely shocked) and she immediately said, "Oh! I am so, so sorry." I told her, "Don't worry about it, there are a lot more offensive things in the world than a pair of boobs, which are a natural thing." She just laughed and continued talking to me while I washed my hands and in the process elongated my time in the restroom.

It was so flippin' bizarre. I have had to make costume changes when I am out and about, but always go into the handicapped stall. I kept thinking what would happen if a Mom walked in with her, 6 year old son...

To the lady at Target, was that necessary? Really? Was it? I mean as amused as I was at the situation (fuck, I am writing about it, aren't I?), what I really wish I would have said to her was... What the fuck are you thinking? Why did you feel the need to take of your bra, too? And even more peculiar, Why are you changing right in front of the bathroom door? It's like she wanted to give me (and whoever else happened upon that bathroom) a peep show!

Lesson learned today: I have to be in the mood for boobs. I cannot have them just randomly in my face. I need to brace myself.

Good grief bathroom streaker bandit; I hope we (she and I) meet again. And ladies, when you are in a public restroom, keep your mammary glands to yourself.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Author: Mullen, Jessica

I am going to write a book. It won't be a lame ass novel or an autobiography (that will come after I am REALLY famous, not just "VEGAS FAMOUS"); I want to write a collection of short stories, a compilation of some of the ridiculous events that have occurred in my life. You all know the "I cussed an old lady story," my storied will be along the same lines (experience-wise) as that.

After I graduate, I am going to spend a lot of quality with my laptop (and a lot less time looking at porn) rehashing some of my most random and hysterical shenanigans. We all know I deliver in that department.

For example, my latest NINJA mission was seeking revenge on my ghetto-unfabulous neighbors. Awhile ago, I wrote about these bastards and how gross and vile they are. These fuckwads BBQ in their front yard (they did it ALL winter long); well, let's just say that their BBQ is now M.I.A. This story, which I know has you all at the edge of your seat, will most likely end up in a leather bound, first edition.

Let's just say, I am really excited about this concept and I have the masses telling me that they love to read what I write. Who knows, if this whole "book" thing plays out as well as I hope it does, then maybe I can just be a freelance writer... and travel and go out and about and create even more ridiculousness. "Jessica Does Dallas," coming soon to a theatre near you... So, Dave Sedaris, eat your heart out, there's a new queen of the short story.