About the time I accidentally visited a cult

Living in the mid-Market section of San Francisco (roughly from Market and 5th to Market and Gough), I am accustomed to a parade of junkies, deadbeats, vagrants and mentally ill people on my walks around the hood. Consequently, the neighborhood has suffered a lack of retail options. San Francisco has taken steps to encourage more businesses to set roots in the neighborhood, and over the last 6 months I’ve begun noticing more and more businesses coming to town.

One of the newer establishments is the International Art Museum of America, in a regal looking building on Market between 6th and 7th. Their window display is a life-size diorama with a nature scene that includes a treehouse, a stream, a gazebo and lots of fake grass. It’s weird, but super intriguing. I had walked by this place a million times, assuming it was some sort of natural history museum, but it closes early, so the mystery remained.

Today, all that changed. On a lazy afternoon I saw that the museum was open, and opportunity struck.

Red Flag #1

Once inside you realize there is nothing terribly official about the museum. “Admissions” is a desk plunked down in the center of the room. They seemed surprised to see me. The guest services agent, who I later discovered also runs the gift shop AND is the curator, told me the exhibit focused on Asian art. That seemed discongruent with the nature scene diorama, which I now realized extends far into the entrance (and is completely off limits). But whatevs, I figured they were new and still finding their way.

I paid my $10 and waited patiently as the guest services agent called for more visitor stickers. I understand that’s a common practice when visiting museums, but I didn’t realize how strange that actually turned out to be since I WAS THE ONLY PERSON IN THE MUSEUM and never saw a security guard (or another living soul).

Mr. Buddha III
Mr. Buddha III

Red Flag #2

The tour began and I walked into the first room which had a bust of this man: H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, who, according to the placard is the most amazing and magnificent being to grace the Earth and his artwork which adorns the museum is so magnificent it could never possibly be recreated. Don’t even think about trying to! You may think I am exaggerating about what was written about this man, but I assure you, if anything I am downplaying the praise lavished upon him.

Of course, it all made sense when the placard informed me that H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III is the only true incarnation of Buddha, so of course he’s got to be the best at everything. Bastard.

Red Flag #3

Come to learn 90% of the art in the “international museum” is by H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. And let me tell you, this man is prolific! Room after room of a dizzying array of art in every medium imaginable. For example:

  • You know what you get if you take spray-on foam and shellac it? Art by H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.
  • How about if you take a giant wine bottle, cover it in clay and chemicals so it looks like spent wax dripping down a bottle? More art by H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.

His artwork spanned from Impressionist backgrounds, to Chinese calligraphy, a multitude of faux rock sculptures and the PIECE DE RESISTANCE, rock frames WITH HOLOGRAMS INSIDE THEM.

One of these holograms depicts a man on a horse (or is that a hippo?) frolicking around a swamp.

Oh and did I mention all of the art was pixelated? This shit isn’t even the original?!

All the art is adorned with these hilariously bombastic placards praising his work. The price of admission is worth that alone! Case in point, I covertly snapped this photo:

From the first paragraph:

This Yun Sculpture Art is called “Forever Brilliant”. This unmatched form of art was created for the first time in this human world by  H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III. In doing so, H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III pioneered for the first time in human history a form of art whose works cannot be duplicated by any person or through any scientific method. Such unprecedented art is truly mysterious… These works of art are like treasures from heaven.

My mind was BLOWN.

On my way out I decided to stop by the gift shop. I hope you’re sitting down for this:

Red Flag #4

I enter into a gift shop unlike any other. IT’S A CERAMIC FLOORTILE SHOWROOM. Guys, I cannot make this stuff up. I wish I had a picture of my face taken at that very moment, because never have I been so bewildered.

I walk through the tile showroom into what resembles a more traditional gift shop and find the salesperson:

Me: What’s with the floor tiles?

Him: They’re for sale.

Me: It’s rather untraditional to buy floor tiles at a museum, don’t you think?

Him: (Points to gift shop floor) This way you can take home our floor tiles with you.

Me: (Incredulously) I can take home the floor??

Him: Well not the actual floor.

Me: Right.

I cannot believe I walked through the entire museum and neglected to realize I had the once in a lifetime opportunity to own the same ceramic tiles that adorned the floor of H. H. Dorje Chang Buddha III’s art.

With my spidey sense tingling, I went online to investigate. According to SFist:

The project [International Art Museum of America] first caught Curbed’s attention about two years ago, and we went on to draw what we believed was an ownership connection to a Chinese Buddhist temple in the Mission called Hua Zang Si and their spiritual leader H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III.


No one actually tried to recruit me to the cult of  H.H. Dorje Chang Buddha III, and for that, I am mildly insulted. After all, I was the only person in this goddamn place!

I am adding the International Art Museum of America to my list of “must-see” attractions in San Francisco. If you are in the hood, this is the most entertaining way to spend an afternoon!

About the time I accidentally visited a cult

Regarding the foot fetishist

One of my favorite stories to tell about my adventures as a single lady is the time that I met the foot fetishist.

I didn’t know that at first, of course.

I met Mr. Foot on Match.com. Rather mundane “get to you know you” emails led to Mr. Foot mentioning that he had a thing for feet. Compared to a recent first date I went on, where over the course of dinner the guy asked me, totally out of the blue, if I could help him re-enact his rape fantasy, foot fetishes seemed relatively harmless.

Having never met a foot fetishist, I did the only thing I knew how to do — I made a joke about it. I wrote back and said:

You’ll be thrilled to know I have ten toes and two feet, both supported by an ankle.

Ha. ha. ha. Right? WRONG. For a foot fetishist I had just opened the floodgates. Mr. Foot’s next email dropped any pretense of caring about me as a person and honed in on my feet. He clearly stated that if we were going to meet, I would have to send him a picture of my feet first. If they weren’t up to snuff, I just wasn’t dating material.

And really, wouldn’t you like to know what a foot fetishist thinks of your feet? Are you foot-worthy? I wanted to know! So in response to Mr. Foot, I sent this picture:

Well. Not 20 minutes later did I receive this response (verbatim from email):

I don’t expect you to understand, but, that photo excites me profoundly. If we date and you want something from me, your feet with freshly painted black toenails and flip flops could get me to do anything! If you answered your door  wearing the stockings we mentioned without shoes and the black toenails, I would be in heaven!! Okay, I will stop. Is it clear that I love the photo?

I AM FOOT FETISH WORTHY! A question I never realized I needed the answer to, was now fulfilled. And of course, now I need to meet the guy. Why? Because there’s a story here that needs uncovering and as the single lady of record I am here to uncover it.

So I set up a date with Mr. Foot at my favorite bar on the planet, Martunis. This is a gay piano bar that is very dimly lit and serves fabulous cheap martinis. Worst case, I get to sing along to “Hello Dolly” and drink a few martinis. The guy is already nuts about my feet, what could go wrong…

Suffice it to say, this started off as a horrible first date. Mr. Foot didn’t want to talk about ANYTHING but my feet. How much can I really say about my feet? They’re feet for christ’s sake! Generally, I’m a pretty good conversationalist and I can draw out a conversation. But not this time. Two martinis down and 30 minutes in, I realize this is not the date that I wanted. So I switched gears.

Upon sipping my third martini and feeling the liquid courage warming me up, I said coyly to Mr. Foot

You know, I’m wearing boots because I don’t show toe on the first date.

Mr. Foot nodded solemnly, taking this not as a joke, but as a serious statement about the sacredness of my feet. To this guy, seeing my toes was tantamount to me shaking my boobs in his face. And of course no one in their right mind would do that in a bar on their first date…

Except that I was drunk and bored, so upon seeing his response I exclaimed:


And took of my boots and plopped my feet down in his lap.

To describe what happened next… well, upon receiving my pantyhosed feet Mr. Foot let out a giant (I mean GIANT) sigh.


Whatever pithy conversation had occurred prior, was now over. No talking. Mr. Foot moaning and a foot massage (plus showtunes) were the only things happening.

It was a fantastic foot massage. I turned down Mr. Foot’s offer to “go back to my place and kiss my toes through my pantyhose” but I thoroughly enjoyed my foot massage. And when my drink was done, and it became apparent that Mr. Foot only wanted me for my feet, I extricated them from his lap, put on my boots and wished him a lovely evening.

And that, my friends, was the foot fetishist.

Regarding the foot fetishist

Nice to meet you; and could you please stop touching my breasts?

With the arrival of Pride Weekend this year I was planning on writing a post looking back at my shenanigans during Pride 08.  Last year I was helping out Derek’s Two Spirit’s LGBT Native American Group during pride.  This year, with Derek out of town, I had no such duties and was planning a relatively low-key weekend.

That was until last night.

But before I get to that, let’s take a walk down memory lane…

Pride 2008

As I mentioned, last year I was helping out Derek’s LGBT group for the Pride Parade.  One of their members (the busty lady with the red hair– no not me, the other busty redhead) was crowned something like, “best Charo drag queen look-a-like” or something like that (honestly I don’t see the resemblance), and with such an honor they had a special position in the parade, next to the grand marshall’s car.  I was called on to be a safety monitor.
So the Friday before the Parade, I was required to attend a special safety monitor class.  They explained what to do if someone got drunk and fell down, how to handle crazy gays running through the parade with used syringes and that we should not touch anything “wet”.  Basically, assume everyone at Pride has AIDS and is trying to give it to you.

While at the training I was sitting next to an older gay gentleman, and began chatting with him about his life and at some point just asked completely innocuously if he’d ever been with a woman. (Honestly, don’t ask me why I went there.  I was on a roll I guess).  Well he seemed to misunderstand my statement and thought I was propositioning him for sex, at which point he responded,

Well she’d have to be positive.  I can’t be with something whose not positive.

To which I reply:

Well I only like to surround myself with positive people.  Why would you want to hang around any kind of negativity?

This man looks at me, like the idiot that I am and replies,

HIV positive

Oh.  So yeah.  My bad.

Anyhow, I end up leaving the training session and meet up with Derek’s husband, Lucius, who is on his way to a Native American talent show that Derek is running at the LGBT center.  I agree to go, but we both realize that every event Derek’s group puts on is an unmitigated disaster and we can’t show up  without have a drink.  And that’s where things go horribly wrong.

We stop in at Martunis, and in the course of… oh I dunno, in 20 minutes? have 2 martinis each.  With no food.  So I, in short, am a complete mess, and with that head across the street to the LGBT center.

When we arrive, they have  buffet set out of all kinds of middle eastern food, to which I grab a plate and begin slopping enormous amount of food onto my plate.  Like a crazy woman.  The MC of the event is the “Charo sortof look-a-like” who I am in awe of.  The event begins with some person getting on stage to sing, but the cassette tape they brought to play the accompanying music doesn’t work, or the sound system is broken or no one bothered to put batteries in it.  Who knows.  In any case, it’s not a good situation.

I get distracted and end up striking up a conversation with a very peculiarly dressed black man who has made his way into the event and has on fatigues and a giant (I mean GIANT) rimmed hat with mesh and grass coming off of it and dangling about his shoulders. (Sidenote:  about three months later I saw this guy dancing in circles in a very expensive looking superman costume waiting for the bus at Haight and Fillmore).  If I didn’t know better I would have thought he had just come back from fighting in Vietnam.  I quickly assess that he is completely insane, and in fact, homeless.

The first act finally ends, and the Charo look-a-like comes back to introduce the next act.  I however, am enthralled by her total fabulousness, and before she can continue, I scream out from the back of the room,

You have amazing styrofoam nipples!

It was only a couple minutes later that Derek found me, escorted me outside the room and asked me to go find him a diet coke at a store 10 blocks away.  Obviously that was my cue to leave (but not before I found a table filled with condoms and stuffed fistfulls into my pockets, Chrome bag, pants, hoodie, etc etc).

Sunday came, I walked in the parade, monitored for safety and all was good.

End of story, right?

Pride 2009

So this Friday before Pride was much different.  I spent the evening being treated to a 90 minute full body massage and made my way through Dolores Park and towards home where I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner and a movie.  No Pride preparation, no gays in town, no plans to even attend the Parade on Sunday.  Just a nice, relaxing weekend.

As the night winded down, I found myself at home around midnight and tucked myself into bed, looking forward to a very relaxing morning of sleeping in.

Off to sleep I go.

Several hours later (4:30am to be exact), I hear the creak of my bedroom door open.  Someone is in my bedroom.

“Arwen” I call out, assuming it’s my roommate who has something to tell me.  What do I know?  I had been completely asleep and wasn’t really processing what was happening.

“Yes,” she responds.  And gets into bed with me.

So imagine my state of mind.  I am not awake and my roommate gets into bed with me.  This is kindof weird I think, but maybe something happened or there was an accident and she had to talk to me.

And then I realize the woman in bed with me is completely nude and is trying to cuddle with me.

Alright…  so I turn around in bed and look at her to see what the heck is going on, and I am so incredibly exhausted that I can’t even tell if I’m looking at Arwen or not.  And so I keep staring at her, trying to remember Arwen’s features and voice all while attempting to understand why her hand is on my breast.  I realize this is a straight guy’s wet dream come true, but I am beyond confused.

As I continue to gaze at her, trying to wrack my brain and understand whose face I am looking at, she begins to ask frantically, “Are you OK, Are you OK, Are you OK, Are you OK, ARE YOU OK, ARE YOU OK”, over and over and over, the stale smell of alcohol on her breathe.  And I say that yes I am OK.

I am just too asleep and too confused to figure this out.

So I close my eyes and think about it and finally begin to wake up and realize this makes ABSOLUTELY NO FUCKING SENSE.  And that, in fact, this can’t be Arwen.  This has to be someone else.

So I begin to calmly ask her about herself:  What’s you name?  How much have you had to drink?  What drugs have you taken? Where were you last sleeping?  She responds to all my questions, though her answers don’t make any sense really, other than learning her name.

I get out of bed, throw on my robe (because yes, I too was completely naked) and begin walking around the apartment trying to understand where she came from.

Finally I realize that Arwen was going to have a friend staying with us over the weekend and this girl must be her friend.  I wake Arwen, who upon learning what’s happened is beyond embarrassed for her friend and we begin to try to rouse the girl from my bed.  She doesn’t want to leave and when we finally cajole her from my sheets, she tries to carry them with her.  A moment of clarity finally overcomes her and she says, “I’m so sorry”, and extends her hand as if to greet me.

I shake her hand and reply, “It’s nice to meet you too; you better get some rest.”

And that, my friends, has turned my completely innocuous Pride 09 into one of the strangest and most hilarity filled events of the weekend.

Nice to meet you; and could you please stop touching my breasts?

How to fail at pole dancing

So yeah, pole dancing FAIL.  Let me give you a breakdown of the situation.  A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine had organized a bunch of us ladies to go to take some pole dancing classes at the S Factor in the Marina.

Sure, pole dancing sounds like fun, and why not add more sexy dances to my repetoire, but there were a couple red flags:

1.  What in the name of christ is an S Factor?  I honestly don’t know.  All I know is this screams marketing lame-o talk and I can spot it a mile away.

2.  The class was held in the Marina.  Say no more.

Ok, so despite my skepticism about the location and the way they’ve branded this place, I brave the throngs of douchbags on the 22 to get there (they were in overabundance today as it’s also the SF douchebag fair Union Street Fair).  But seriously, this should be fun, right?  Me and a bunch of friends… how could this go wrong?

Well let me tell you.

So we get all set up and sign a 6 page release form (I may have handed over an unborn child.  Honestly it was ridiculous) and enter into a dimly lit room with a couple lights at either end, draped in red sheer fabric, two stripper poles in the center and a bunch of yoga mats lying about.

Our instructor, an extremely exhuberant woman enters the room with literally 200+ pounds of sass to throw about and begins to tell us that this is a place of love and acceptance.  We are all beautiful woman (blah blah blah) and there are no judgements here.  There are no mirrors, as well.  So far, I’m ok with this woman.  I like that she’s not a skinny bitch, I like that she’s got some personality and while I’m not big on the whole woman empowerment “you are a blossoming beam of light in the world” thing (which generally rings phoney to me), whatever.  I can deal.

So before we get stripper poling, or whatever it is we’re supposed to do, she asks if anyone has injuries.  Of course on the tome of paperwork I’d signed prior I did mention that I have achilles tendonitis due to a past life as a somewhat overzealous tennis player:

So I mention this, and my friend Hadessa mentions some rather serious issues she has with her knee caps just randomly popping out of place.

And with that out of the way we begin.  The lights are dimmed even further to the point where I can barely see anything and we are instructed to close our eyes (because we don’t want to judge the other woman as they warm up or work out — seriously??) and for the next 45 minutes are, literally, blindly instructed on a variety of stretching and pilates moves.

Red Flag #1: There are a lot of wrong ways to stretch and do pilates.  Not looking at the instructor is the absolute HEIGHT OF STUPIDITY.  To suggest that I have to close my eyes to do these exercises because I might judge or be judged by the other women there further emphasizes how shallow this whole “women empowerment b.s” really is.  I don’t need to close my eyes to be supportive or feel supported by other women.  Honestly, this is dangerous and very poor form.

So after our 45 minutes of blindly and presumably improperly stretching to phrases such as:

Clear your mind, open your arms and let them flow around your body the same way a fisherman casts his net into the deep blue lake of your soul.

WHAT?  What kind of stretch is that?  What does it mean?

And, my personal favorite:

Feel your vagina with your hands as you lie down and let your hands slowly caress your body as you move from the birthplace of the goddess to fondle your breasts.

Honestly it felt like a group masturbation circle.  Especially when in this process we were instructed to lie on our sides, rub our asses and on the count of three spank ourselves. Honestly, I can’t make this shit up (and no, in case some of you are wondering, the class isn’t open to men).

So finally after all this stretching we’re ready for some sexy moves.  We start learning some move to make us pounce like a cat.  The instructor mentions that we should use this to distract our boyfriends when they’re watching football (which, incidentally, if I ever do date someone that watches football and isn’t naturally distracted by my sexual prowess, please shoot me).  So we practice this move for a bit and then go onto sexy walking, which is kindof like coordinated drunk walking, slinking one foot in front of the other while thrusting our hips to and fro.

But there’s a problem, Hadessa’s knees are in pain from the 45 minutes of improper stretching and then overexerting herself while doing the cat move “entice your p.o.s. football watching boyfriend” thing.  So she moves to the side of the room and takes a break.  At which point, 200 pounds of sass comes walking up to ask her why she’s not doing the sexy drunk walk.  Hadessa explains that she’s in pain and need a break to which ‘sassy’ responds:

There are no breaks in this class.  If you’re not going to participate you have to leave the room.

So Hadessa gets kicked out.

Shortly thereafter, we are taught how to swing around the poll.  This move is dependent on placing all your weight on one ankle as you slither down the pole.  Immediately another red flag goes off.  I spent a month in physical therapy trying to un-fuck my achilles tendonitis two years ago and have no desire for a flare up.  But I give it a shot and sure enough the pain returns.  I tell the teacher I can’t do that again and she shrugs it off and says I should just try on the other ankle.

But I can’t.  See achilles tendonitis is recurring and can be debilitating.  So I leave, unprompted by the teacher, though feeling dejected and certain she’ll kick me out when she realizes that I won’t risk injuring the one ankle that isn’t in pain.

I walk outside and see Hadessa, who looks like she’s just been punched in the face and she immediately starts crying.  We leave, but not before I read the manager the riot act and get us a refund.

I wish there was a happy ending to this story; I did find the moves, the new age hypocrisy and the personal molestation rather amusing.  I just wish we could’ve ended the class actually feeling accepted for who we are and not on such a low note.

At the very least I’ve learned how to slink around the floor like a sex kitten and I’m sure one of these days that’ll come in rather handy.

How to fail at pole dancing

What, you don't talk to your bookseller about pegging?

It’s not always easy figuring out what to write on Sexistential Crisis.  Sometimes I have a story lined up, ready to blog about

…and other times the stories just form themselves out of a series of unrelated events which collide together in one sheer moment of sexistantial hilarity.  This would be one of those times.

A few days ago my friend and mentor, John, suggested I pick up a favorite book of his.  I’m always looking for recommends, so I filed the suggestion to the back of my mind, to be retrieved at a future date when I was at the bookshop.

On an entirely unrelated note, I happen to be taking a photography class and decided today was the perfect day to takes some pictures in preparation for my homework assignment.  I took a leisurely stroll through Hayes Valley, snapping photos as a I went, making my way towards the beloved Blue Bottle.

Whilst meandering, I happened to see Bibliohead Bookstore — what an opportune moment to finally getdsc_02282 that book John recommend!!  How perfect!  Of course I can no longer remember the name of the book, having been lost in the dark recess of my memory, but I’m sure the bookseller will be able to help me figure this one out.

I enter and happen to run into my co-worker Peter who is also meandering and we chat for a bit before I can locate the bookseller and find my next book.

Finally I meet the bookshop owner, Melissa, and she begins trying to help me figure out the name of the book (considering there are 190,000 new titles published in the US every year, this is no small feat).  Anyhow I’m at a total loss, and can recall nothing other than the author being male and that it’s not Victor Hugo.  You can imagine how helpful this information is.

I was about to give up and go home, but then it hits me!  I had actually put the book in my Amazon shopping cart.  So I ask to use their computer and Melissa and I stand anxiously over the monitor as I see there are two items in my shopping cart.  Yay!  Mystery solved!

I click on the shopping cart and this is what appears:


First off let me just say that is the best price for the Bend Over Beginner Kit in town.  Good Vibes is selling it for $99

Secondly, where is the book John recommended?  I am still trying to figure out this conundrum.

But more importantly, the bookseller looks like she’s just been ass raped and I don’t tend to help the situation when blurting out, “I don’t think you sell anal plugs, do you?” … never mind my coworker who is lurking on the other side of the counter witnessing this exchange.  Total disaster from so many dimensions and all for one book (which btw, I still do not know the name of).

Fortunately, I think I managed to smooth things over before heading out to finish taking pictures, but it just goes to show you that you’ll never know what happens when you walk out your front door.  You might think you’re on a photo assignment and before you know it you’re talking about pegging with a bookseller.  Just one of those days.

What, you don't talk to your bookseller about pegging?

Naughty Knitting

(Borrowed from corporatemonkey on Flickr)

Always up for an adventure, I was thrilled to hear that the local dungeon had a monthly knitting group.  Tired of meeting women in other groups that just weren’t moving at the same speed as me, I thought this could be a good way to get my knit on, meet some interesting ladies and probably come out with a good story.

And boy did I ever.

I show up at the dungeon, knitting gear in hand, meet April, the woman who puts on this knitting circle and am introduced in rapid succession to about a half a dozen other ladies.

So I sit down at the knitting table and get my knit on. Mind you, this wasn’t actually a knitting circle–everyone is actually crocheting. Fending of my disappointment at realizing this, I figure there must be some conversation I can at least feign from the experience.

Come to find out that everyone at the circle is very well acquainted. It becomes apparent that April is a Domme and many of the other ladies (if not all?) were her submissives.

Okay… kinda weird…

They begin talking about a recent event they’d attended for the opening of another dungeon. As part of the deal, April’s dungeon did an objectification scene at the opening party.

And here’s where things get funky.

Turns out that the objectification scene was done with two of the subs at the table, being dommed by April. Of the various conversation threads, I pulled together two vital pieces of information:

1. The subs were dressed at ladybugs
2. The domme ripped out the tampon of one of the subs and smeared it in her face.

Wait. What was that? The dom ripped out the tampon of one of the subs and smeared it in her face?

That’s right.  So imagine my surprise/revulsion/confusion over this.  I am at this point, brought to complete silence, because really, what the fuck do you say after someone tells you they smeared menstrual blood all over a woman dressed as a ladybug.

Somehow I keep knitting.  The ladies keep talking and laughing it up at which point April turns to me and says:

Now I don’t want you to judge me, but I almost did acid while I was at that party.

Ok, so now you’re blowing my mind.  Did you see that?  That was my brain exploding.

Because in the scheme of things, acid would have been the most normal thing you could have done that evening.  That would have at least signaled to me that you had some shred of godonlyknowswhat in your core.  So no, no judgement passed.

At this point I have no choice BUT to go back to the knitting group next month.  Unless of course they get wind of this post and try to impale me with a pineapple or something.

But even that would make a good story.

Naughty Knitting

Why a sexistential crisis?

  • If you orgasm alone in the woods, does anyone feel it?
  • If your primary partner in a polyamorous relationship is yourself, where does that leave you?
  • Theorem #1: Your parents are nihilist nymphomaniacs, do you exist?
  • Does the use of the modern day ball gag refute Maslow’s Hieirarchy of Needs?
  • Jesus, Moses and Buddha all go into a bath house…
  • Does thinking outside “the box” lead to rampant hetero-flexibility?
  • How much wood could a wood chuck chuck, if a wood chuck could chuck wood?
Why a sexistential crisis?