Sunday.Bannana.Split

So I bought a new pair of shoes and was strapped for cash... sue me. I did what every knowledgeable New Yorker does and headed to the mecca, the motherland, the mac daddy: CraigsList (cue harp strings and golden horns).

I listed my old mac for sale to make some quick cash. Within 24 hours I had dozens of responses... some asking for computer specs, others asking for a picture of my apple bottom (wrong section people). I finally found these two graphic designers who were in desperate need of a mac. I mean, have you ever heard of a graphic designer who has never used a mac? Really?

Since I have a soft spot for converting measly PC users to Apple products I decided to help these guys out and slash 100 bucks from my starting price. After light chatting on the phone and giving them directions to my apartment, around 11pm two flustered men found themselves at my front door. Being a lady and all I chose to only let one of them in; this was to prevent my name from being part of an MSNBC special titled "Dumb Bitches who get Gang Banged by CraigsList Crazies."

So I'm not gonna lie, there was some innocent flirting between me and the guy I let in. Keyword: Innocent. But after my mover incident I was in no hurry to make sluttyness a habit. After the money exchange (which basically made my shoes seem like a free gift) I politely showed him the door. 10 seconds later he knocked and said, "Wait, I have something for you." This grown man handed me the strangest object I have ever been handed in my entire life. He handed me-

A Banana.

A fucking ripe yellow banana. What the fucking fuck?

I said thank you with an obvious confused/awkward smile and closed the door. I put the banana on my coffee table and starred at it.

Was this code for something? Is this him hitting on me? Is this code for I need to eat healthier? Is he an alien? Holy shit, is this fucking banana laced? Are they waiting downstairs for me to ingest the poison and come have their way with me? Is this the new "thing"-- lacing yummy fruit instead of appletinis?

Needless to say I threw the banana out and put it in the incinerator. There is no moral to this story, nor is there an answer as to why this man gave me a banana. This does, however, explain why I'm on benzos. I'm anxious because weird shit happens to me.

A banana. Really?

-Bella

Turn it up

Forget iTunes, forget Napster, even forget LimeWire.  Go to www.Skreemr.com, you don't need to download a large application or pay a fee, just search for a song like google and left click (macs like me ctrl + click) the name of the song file and download to desktop. Email me at SmudgedMascaraBlog@gmail.com if you can't figure out the technological boogie. 

Seriously though, this site has changed my music life. Check it for real real, not for play play. 

I recommend: Manu Chao Welocome to Tijuana

-Bella

Extra Tip

I made it.

I somehow got through moving day. Moving in July in Manhattan is nothing less than a circus: movers, parking (or lack there of), slow elevators, angry neighbors, and tons of bags and shoes that need to be delicately handled.

So we found these movers in the east village... and by movers I mean two men with a large enough vehicle to fit my things. After a few hours of awkward chit chat I found myself oddly attracted to the fully tattooed east village hipster who was throwing my nice things around. Long story short, we made out and I dry-humped him. It was strange, but it was fun. I feel like a badass.

Now its time to sit on my overstuffed boxes with a glass of wine and my crazy roommate. This here begins a new chapter in my life, and many new tales for my faithful ducklings.

-Bella

Darwin fucked up

"And the Oscar goes to...."

(Silence and fake smiles)

"Bella!"

(Applause and even faker smiles.)

This was part of the dream I had last night. Before I went to bed I smoked a cigarette, before that I took a shot of whiskey, before that I took a vallium, and before that I kicked out the man who had just given me inspiration for my oscar worthy performance.

I just faked the best orgasm ever. I could teach a class.

After being jabbed and prodded and slobbed all over I simply couldn't take it any more. I stared at my cieling while this sad excuse of a man fucked me like a blow-up doll. I am a human, I have a pulse, and you're officially hurting my va-jay-jay.

After what seemed like an eternity it was as though an imaginary director screamed "Action!" I arched my back, began to pant, threw my legs around his hips and lightly dug my nails into his back. I moaned and groaned and clenched and looked him dead in the eye pretending he was Keanu Reeves. He finally came, and my imaginary director FINALLY yelled "Cut!"

Someone please explain to me why this beautiful man, with a beautiful dick, who is a talented musician was one of my top 3 worst lays ever? False advertising from head to toe.

This made me quesiton Darwinism. In Manhattan, survival of the fittest has morphed into survival of the most attractive. A good set of genes allows you to strut, cut lines, smile and get your way. He had it all going, what a fucking dissapointment. I now have to do double my kegel exercises to repair the damage he inflicted on my delicate lady-bits.

Guys please, I am begging you, if you are attractive learn how to please a woman. I am not a hole in a mattress nor am I a porn star. It takes effort to give a blow job, and even more effort to endure horrible sex.

Learn to fuck or fuck off. The choice is yours.

-Bella

Be my muse

The ancient Greeks invented Gods and Goddesses to explain the things we now know to be natural occurances. An earthquake? Oh shit Poseidons pissed...we better slit a goats throat.

For the few playwrites and artists it was unfathomable that they were simply creative individuals. No, instead a muse was the cause for their inspiration. So now ducklings I ask you to be my imaginary muse: What would you like me to mention, laugh about, bitch about, or even lie about?

Inspire me with your funny stories. I won't steal them from you but if you're interesting you might get a shout out. Leave a comment under any post, I'd love your feed back.

Be my muse!

Lace and Leather*

I am currently at my friends apartment on Christopher St. enjoying the sites and sounds of the west village. Who needs to go see a movie when the fire escape is just as entertaining...plus you can smoke.

I hear cars passing by blasting Michael Jackson (R.I.P), the bass coming from the club beneath us, the jazz drums from the bar across the street from us, and the elongated "s" sounds from the gays all around us. Tonight, however, there is a noticeable difference: The gays have taken over. There are feathers and whistles and snaps at every corner. The gays are out...and they are proud.

As they should be, the gay pride parade is tomorrow.

Bedtime Story #1

Since I grew a pair of tits the gays have been in love with me and who am I to deny them a quick feel. I actually remember accompanying my fagalicious friend to Mr.Black (back when it was still on Broadway and still cool), after a few shots of tequila I really took over the dance floor and I'm sure there was a nip slip here and there. This gay couple came up to me and just looked me up and down and said "Mmm, tasty!" I perked up and strutted over there feeling confident and fabulous.

They then informed me that they were plastic surgeons and that they simply couldn't believe that my breasts were real. I, shocked and intoxicated, insisted that they were 100% silicone free. After a brief back and forth I actually took their hands and put them up my shirt. Trust me, that's all the proof they needed. They gave me some more compliments and bought me a few drinks. They later admitted that they weren't plastic surgeons and that they just really liked my boobies (who doesn't?). Then things get blurry.... Something about a threesome maybe?.... Minor detail.

The moral of this story is 3-Fold:

• Straight Women: If you're in a funk and need a pick me up go to a gay club dance your ass off and enjoy the incoming compliments.
• Straight Men: Learn a thing or two from the gays, it only took them 2.5 seconds to get to my goods. Beat that.
• Gays, Lezzies, and Fag Hags: I love your enthusiasm but the gay pride parade isn't until tomorrow. I will dance with you in the street demain, I promise. But unfortunately tonight Flow came to town; I need more tea and vallium and less high pitched screams and elongated "s" sounds. As a reward, tomorrow I shall let you all touch my boobies.

-Bella

*The title of this post is dedicated to Britney Spears... she's my bitch

The King is Dead

Smudged Mascara Reason #8

Three generations of amazing. A million years of legacy.

>>LEGEND<<

Sushi

Tomoe Sushi

172 Thompson St.

New York, NY 10012

The best tekka maki you will ever put in your mouth. I've been going there since I was 10, its the pimp daddy of nyc sushi. Check it. I have actually cried when the line is too long to get in. Smudged Mascara reason #7.

-Bella

The Illest

Growing up in the 90s in SoHo is the best gift anyone ever gave me. Lets reminisce shall we? Imagine a video montage of all things awesome:

• old school nickelodeon- Doug, Ahh real monsters, Snick
• beepers weren't just for drug dealers
• ren and stimpy
• (646) did not exist as an area code
• tama-fucking-gotchi (my pet didn't know how to stop pooping)
• oregon trail
• super nintendo
• taking the razor scooter to school
• cassette tapes
• 90210
• you never really did find carmen sandiego
• capri sun pouches
• the "help i've fallen and i can't get up" old bitch.
• Monica L. blowing Bill C. and the cum stain on that dress (really taught us young girls how to get ahead in life)
• who loves orange soda?

and of course.......... -->

"Now, this is a story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down. And I'd like to take a minute and just sit right there, I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air."

suck on that.

-Bella

Smudged

There has been one, and only one, consistent occurrence for the past 6 years of my life:

At the end of everyday, my mascara is smudged.

I look like a fucking raccoon from 4pm to around 8pm when I get home to shower and start my night. It really is amazing how this is the one thing that has never failed me. Men have failed me; diets have failed me; my parents have failed me, but my trusty mascara will always be smudged for those last 4 hours of sun everyday. Just so that there's enough light in the sky to to point towards my hot mess of a situation. 

Now, like every person with a hint of brain activity, you might be asking yourself, "Bella, what makes your mascara smudge every day?" (though you should be asking yourself why you are still listening to me rant about make up).  The answer, my darlings, is that since the tender age of sixteen, one of the following factors has always led to me looking like a poorly adjusted tranny:

(1) Massive intakes of marijuana = munchies, paranoia, laughter, awkward silences, and a general "I don't give a fuck" attitude towards my eye make up. Smudged mascara

(2) Therapy= tears, tissue, tears, tissue, tears, tissue, silence, copay, times up. Smudged mascara.

(3) General presence of family: *see (2) Therapy and subtract copay*

(4)Psychiatrist= fake tears, give me more fun pills, fake tears, but no I really need them, real tears, prescription, tears of joy. Smudged mascara

(5) Daily Prozac intake= blurred vision, spaced out, hand-to-eye movements for no apparent reason. Smudged mascara.

(6) Waking up at 4pm post one night stand that I can't remember= 'nuff said

Those are my top 6 for the moment, I'm sure I'll find more and I will fill you in as I realize what the reasons are. As for now, you can look forward to my rants about just about everything, and practically nothing all at the same time. 

It is now 3:50am on a monday night in new york city... I just ordered chicken wings and a vanilla milk shake from the diner. I will type until the door bell rings, but once my food arrives you can all go fuck yourselves (in the most polite way). 

My food is here. Farewell ducklings.

PS. I also got a chocolate fudge cake, but i didn't want to admit it. I'm allowed to though, a guy I liked didn't know who I was when I texted him today, meaning he deleted my number within 24 hours of being inside of me. Ouch. Sizzle. Burn. 

-Bella