Owen Wilson Eats Ass (for 2 Hours)
It just occurred to me to think of myself, starved of sex, the way I think about those women with eating disorders that are so bad they look like living skeletons. They can’t see how bad it is, so I assume I can’t see how bad I am. Sure, it’s been over a year since my last sexual encounter, but it’s the lack of desirable male attention over the last… 8 years that makes me feel starved. I’m talking no consistently desirable conversations, cuddling, meal sharing, errand sharing, hang time, kissing, petting… on top of no sex. Men have become vocal about how this effects them. As a woman living in an era of silent women, I know I’m not living a healthy, balanced life — that I’m seriously deprived of a vital necessity to being a human, let alone, an animal — but I don’t know what the consequences of that are in my day-to-day life.
I do work… a lot. It definitely feels like working in a “running in circles” kind of way, but progress is being made.
When I’ve shared my faithful exclusivity to Jim Carrey, the resounding response I get is, “Yeah, but it’s not like he’s doing the same for you.” True, but I wasn’t thinking of my purpose with this man as tit for tat. I know that some of my assumptions about what he needs, wants, and expects are created from my experiences from a lot of other men — bad men— and so he’s naturally something of a villain in my mind. The bar is high for disappointment. However, there is a very large concrete fact that is definitely not a projection of my imagination: He also, let’s say, inspired his ex to kill herself. I’ve been reminding myself of this tiny little detail a lot lately. It just ain’t right, and it’s definitely cocky of me to think I’m better than her, but, well, I am. I mean. C’mon. Look at her. I’m not saying this to hate on women, but, as women go, she physically and energetically is no match for The Great Jim Carrey. I’ve had this thought a lot while growing up about every woman in Jim’s life, but, even compared to the others, Cat resembles a mouse more than a cat. They were as far from a power couple as you could meander and resembled something foreboding and sinister: a powerful, wealthy man paired with a poor, foreign girl is a recipe for a toxic power dynamic. It only makes sense when you realize how much his sick mother shaped his identity and understand how much we are attracted to the relationships that defined us growing up, despite how harmful they may be.
I’ve been faithfully exclusive to Jim Carrey all these years for several very reasonable reasons:
- Every time I strayed I was met with pain. Sheer, searing pain.
- Every man I interfaced with I’d compare to Jim Carrey and only continue encounters I’d decide would help me with him. For example: The last time I gave a blow job was to check myself if I could really be a “Champion Cocksucker.” The answer is “yes.” I’m very creative, can suck for quite the duration through utilizing variation, and will swallow based on its health and emotional benefits. I now have the confidence to go forth and brag to Jim as such, whereas, before, it was definitely something I wasn’t sure about. I totally wish I responded to his having “another girl in the picture” rejection to my proposal with, “but is she a Champion Cocksucker?”
- Every time I’d see his face, hear his voice, or learn of his presence I’d experience a joy, elation, and undeniable, unconscious, genuine smile and/or laugh, that made every struggle I’ve ever had worth it.
You see, it has had very little to do with traditional ideas of monogamy, but, I will admit, there’s been a delusional side in me I’ve both inherited and developed where I’d ruin my chances with Jim if I even so much as think about another man.
Enter Owen Wilson.
I saw him on his bike the other day and, suddenly, he wasn’t just on my radar, but on it the way Jim was — is… somewhere — but louder, closer, larger. Like, in my mind. It’s in that same place where I can feel my bestie in the UK think of me and later confirm in our video calls that she was.
It’s telepathy.
Or could it also be another trick sent by the devil himself? Not the telepathy part, but the Owen Wilson part.
Ever since I prioritized following my heart, it’s become more and more obvious that everything between that and who owns my heart is a trial I must pass to get closer. When I fail, they come back around. For example, after delivering my card to Jim I had to quit the post office three times.
THREE TIMES.
OMG. As I wrote that, my phone went off and it’s an interview with a gallery for a sales position. Talk about a sign from God… His divine timing.
Obviously, I’m going to do the interview. I need another part-time job not just for the income, but because I need more exposure to people (period). I used to be very selective with what thoughts I’d share in this blog, but, lately, I’m unraveling. My loneliness is at an all-time low. My carelessness is at an all-time high.
It was just my birthday a few days ago. I got my first 1-million view viral video on my birthday. I tried to be excited about it, but was ashamed to realize I’m not. I care more about being a “viral sniper” than getting just a plain, ol’ viral hit. Anyone can get a viral hit, it seems, multiple times, and often by chance, and often without connection to a platform to migrate that attention to. That sounds kinda orgasmic… now that I write it out. See!? This kind of digression must be a result of my sexual starvation. ANYWAY. A “viral sniper” (a term I just coined) is when you know which video you shot and edited is going to blow up, and you’re right (it blows up), and you send those people right on over to your platform for more and make bank from merch sales. THAT’S what success looks like to me in the virality game. I want it as a business. Eventually, a cult.
I’m sitting on what I think may be that sniper shot right now, and it’s the clip I thought would be my first million-view video before I got it from another one. I know. I know. I should be more excited about this million-view video. I don’t know how you can control your emotions like that, because I can’t. When I met Jim in the ocean, my disappointment over “how I’d thought he’d seen my boat to find out he hadn’t” completely overrode the elation I should’ve felt that I was literally finally meeting Jim Carrey after so many years of trying.
Sigh.
No one disappoints me more than me, but I’m learning to accept the parts of myself I can’t control.
Back to this gallery interview: my “sniper viral” clip happened right before a salesperson at the gallery I’d gotten up to and down from my stilts on my car in front of told me I should try interviewing to work with her. It would be easier and makes more than my postal carrier job. True. And my heart isn’t in it now that I’ve got 1 year of experience under my belt and would have to tough it out an entire additional year if I were to tell people I have “years” of experience as an United States Postal Carrier. You know: For when I make my way into office. Aisha for President. Anyway, I emailed this woman, this artist’s, manager. Her own art is for sale in the gallery she’s been hired to sell at. Interesting. I’d like to do that. Sounds easier than selling my art from my stilts, albiet less exciting. That’s the email I just got back, despite having sent it over a week ago. I got dinged the moment I told you I had to quit the post office 3 times.
I still don’t know if I’m officially removed from their system yet.
Anyway, I want to get to the title of this blog post, but, first, I want to point out that at this point in time I only have 63 readers. Everything I’ve shared is as much truth as a truthful human can muster. I know it’s interesting stuff, highly controversial, but well-written, and it’ll only become better the more I splash around in the world. On my viral hit, half the reason it may be viral is because people read my writing in the description. They literally lost it. I say something like “you Zoomers” and “Boomers” and other key buzzwords, and they were highly reactive as if I personally assaulted them. I didn’t even try for that. I think I’ve been writing alone, with no feedback, in my little well on the internet, for so long, that my writing has become way more extreme to the, even, above average reader. It could be that my blog is so explosive, that it is collectively being ignored by the collective unconscious until it’s meant to be read. It could explode any day. Really.
Just please be nice to me if you’re now reading this, years later, and NOW all these stories I’m sharing are explosive. I never intended to leave landmines… unless they’re landmines of LOOOOooove. I’m a human too who’s giving you the privilege to look into my mind, which I’m organizing for the sake of entertainment, especially humor — reprieve, really — and seeking the truth.
That’s all I wanted to say about that.
NOW to get to the title of this blog post:
“Owen Wilson Eats Ass (for 2 Hours)”
I read that in a couple online forums. Reportedly, Rolling Stone was told by one of his hookups that he ate her ass for two hours after he invited her back to his hotel room.
I’d like that.
This is, like, the information I found Googling him right after seeing him whiz by on his bike. He was immediately recognizable as Owen Wilson, even despite the hat and beard, unlike Jim Carrey.
While I’d immediately recognize Jim Carrey if you slap him in a literally anything as long as I can see him move, and he moves, a friend of mine, who saw Jim Carrey whiz by on his bike recently, did not.
Perhaps Owen’s star power may be more potent for what I need.
However, it was the image of getting my ass eaten by Owen Wilson for 2 hours that actually resonated with me. The next time I took my Hitachi out to play, I watched The Royal Tenenbaums and Carrey’s overly-plastered Kidding mental appiration was replaced by Wilson’s pouty lower lip… between my butt cheeks.
Now I started to see where Jim Carrey ends and I begin. I’ve been dreaming of getting DP’d my whole adult life. You can’t find porn of the kind of DP I’d have to fulfill such a fantasy. In my DP, I’m giving all the instructions and the men are prioritizing my commands over their own urges. The goal isn’t to show the camera two dicks plugging up a vaginal opening and anus, but to raise the pleasure meter for everyone involved, and that means they focus their attention on me, like I’m the conductor of everyone’s pleasure, and that gives them pleasure.
Jim Carrey and Owen Wilson would have to get along. A tall order. I could handle it, that’s part of the fantasy: through me these men will find peace. The only encounter I know of the two of them having is in The Cable Guy, where Carrey beats Wilson up. It’s very revealing of the patriarchal structure within Holllywood at the time, as some articles I’ve found on the internet say that this is how Owen blew up. According to Owen, he “hasn’t detonated yet,” and, when interviewed by Wired, he didn’t remember The Cable Guy as one of his movies when asked to list them all.
As you can see, it’s only been a couple weeks. Now look how much I know! He doesn’t nearly have as much information as Jim does about him online, but you really don’t need a lot to feel like you’ve had a conversation with someone. He reminds me of my sister’s boyfriend, who’s the current president of my nonprofit Aisha with an Eye. I’ve also always loved cowboys, their accents, their southern twang, and he’s already vegan.
I was told he always goes to this pizza place in Paia. I ordered their vegan pizza for pickup and the car directly in front of the flatbread restaurant pulled out as I pulled up. It was the best vegan pizza I’ve had in years, and I ate it cold. I decided it would be better eaten in the restaurant, as a date.
Maybe Owen wouldn’t say he has another “girl in the picture” if I sort of ask him out.
That really hurt, by the way. It still brings me to tears today, even though Jim did come out again, as if he didn’t have another girl in the picture.
I just thought it’d be like in Jim’s kid’s book How Roland Rolls: Once Roland saw Shimmer they were never apart again, even through to the end when they crash into the shore and merge with the rest of the sea. Even after then it’s still their story who we conclude on. It’s never just Roland’s again until the last couple lines.
But if he’s Roland and I’m Shimmer, we’ve been apart for months. That can’t be right, can it?
And then I look over at my canvas and I finally painted his face again, but now he’s got Owen’s lower lip.
Is love even something we can only find in just one person?
But maybe that’s why Jim hasn’t emailed me. Maybe he doesn’t want the pressure. Maybe what the feminine is — the ability to cultivate community — what the matriarchy is — is to create a web of connections so that any who break never leave the spider flying.
And yet… There is something awfully romantic about never being separated once you meet until you part in death.
But maybe it’s just awful.
Most of these married couples I see zombie-ing around demonstrate that.
However, it’s a hard sell to have anyone care about you, who hasn’t invested years in you, and you in them, enough to take care of you once you’re too old, weak, diseased to care for yourself. That’s how we all go out, lest by surprise.
But maybe I’m not old enough yet to “settle down,” (aka. “pick a partner to wipe your sorry ass”) and neither are these men. There’s a reason for the kinky age gap. I bet the assplay would be the best I’ve ever had.
I just need some romance, man. I need something to get me out of bed in the morning. I need a reason to dress up and go out.
On my birthday, I decided that was Owen Wilson. I saw him bike past where Jammin’ on Maui plays free live music on Friday and Saturday evenings. I dressed up with a Hawaiian princess spin on my Poison Ivy sequined corset and checked it out. It was sick. I was a scene. The stage manager said I could have free reign of the stage during the day to busk and open for another band for his lineup, if I’d like, when I’m ready. For better or worse, my music turns heads. Owen will surely see me, if not hear me, busking, the way Jim hasn’t seen me stilt and ignores my songs.
It was at Jammin’ on Maui’s event that I found out about the pizza. Apparently Owen is seen around quite often, but it’s usually only to pick up that pizza.
That pizza was delicious.
I found out today that Owen gradated from the University of Texas with an English major. I graduated from the University of Colorado with an English (and Film) major(s).
He’s also a pot head and I bought myself a $400 bong for my birthday.
What if we’re just better fits for each other because of our lifestyles?
Jim told me he doesn’t do any drugs, not even alcohol and caffeine.
He also can’t even pronounce vegan.
Maybe he hasn’t wanted to connect with me because he’s too old.
Owen is only in his mid-fifties while Jim just hit 61.
I just turned 35, by the way.
I was sitting there, on my birthday, at the end of the night, next to the best looking guy I saw all night. He was very attractive in a Magic Mike kind of way. I’d squeezed his arm earlier in the night when I’d asked for his name after he’d asked to kiss my cheek. It was chiseled like a mountain side. I’d let him before I got his name. He had to be in his twenties. He had face tats. I didn’t feel like a cougar, but when I tried to have a conversation with him, it was like talking to a wall, only I’m Jim Carrey doing it.
I’m a freak.
Maybe Owen Wilson is just another lesson along the way to Jim Carrey too. What if we need to work out some of those gay feelings he has/had towards Jim because I’m SOOoooooooo much like him, but an attractive, exotic female in her sunsetting prime, capable of ruling the world.
The sunset is the best part, but not everyone wants to be king. That would be the part I’d probably conclude before deciding Jim is the only one.
Maybe eventually Jim will finally finish processing all the messages I’ve sent his way, realize I’m the only one for him, show up, and it becomes radically apparent we are the only ones for each other.
There are infinite ways this story could unravel.
It just is. Unraveling, that is.
Please appreciate witnessing it. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed reading it.
