I’m looking for

• Everybody
• Ages 18–35
• Located anywhere
• For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating

My Details

Last Online

Today – 6:55pm
Orientation

Bisexual
Ethnicity

Middle Eastern, Hispanic / Latin, White

Height

5′ 0″ (1.52m)
Body Type

Thin
Diet

Mostly vegetarian
Smokes

No
Drinks

Very often
Drugs

Sometimes
Religion

Buddhism, and laughing about it

Sign

Aries
Education

Graduated from university

Job

Banking / Finance
Income

Rather not say

Relationship Status

Single
Relationship Type

Non-monogamous
Offspring
 Doesn’t have kids, but might want them
Pets

—
Speaks

English (Fluently), Arabic (Fluently), Hindi (Fluently), Hebrew (Okay), German (Poorly)
My self-summary
Words are such fickle things. You try to give them a meaning, and it is lost in translation. From person
to person amid the medium of its expression, it gives way to some bastard child of a deeply personal
thing. Why? Because language is for its speakers, an inherently public act, and if one is to speak, one
is to speak with the words of another, declining to their constructed meanings. To try and be heard,
and understood?

Words are finite organs of the infinite mind.

Truly, there is no private language. For even if words are intended for oneself, they speak to a self
of past; in each moment we evolve, and in each a passing we become other than ourselves. The
concept is quarry to manifest, our words lost upon ourselves. (That is to say, the rule-following of
Wittgenstein disintegrates as it is overwritten.) But words, fickle as they are, are transcendent.

Listen to the words I intone:

I have watched ocean tides, purple thistle blossoms, my dogs’ trust, and babies’ laughter. I have
heard cicada songs, whispered confessions, Gregorian chants, and the squeaking of bamboo growing.
I have held the hands of dying people in my own and tasted tears of both heartache and joy. I have
ached to describe the commonalities in all of these things; I have crumpled pages of text in my
inability to convey to my own satisfaction, the relatedness of all things beautiful, the essence of
goodness which permeates all that is.

Like a sunlight grace the soul: they may touch one's heart and soul; proffer love, comfort, and
gentle caresses one can only fathom of another; may be one's salvation.

As she gazed the cityscape. The impression of the archipelago on which it was. The gentle curve of the
Pacific on which it was. On which it was was the Earth. What she saw was as any great art does or
with which any true journey begins, anew; and anew, what she saw? The groundlessness of the Earth.

As though if she were to meet the ground with sufficient force it would give and she would soar
through into the great æther of the divine.

So I did.

And so as the character may, she did, her story a study into ecstasy - the sensation of being
outside one's body - climaxing at its end, spirit subsiding from eternity, the anonymity of an
omnipresent She, to know the ownmost limit of herself by Organism. The world exhausted of its
reason, bereft of, that is to say, Eros. Absolution, deliverance. Myself? I did not. In words I found
salvation, my reason.

In living life, being delimited.

A rogue object drifting.

But so though the true polyphony of the human song I may never capture in language,
because transcendent as they are I am a many but wordsmith, perhaps in the silences, in the
nonverbal spaces between the words, I will. But words my presentation, I offer this:

She stood on the first rail of the little splitwhite fence, barefoot, thighs leant against the second, and
in her hand she held a paper airplane. The air clear atop the promontory, little cirrus clouds hung in
the sky, wistful, befitting of the occasion's metaphysics, she slowly creases the underbelly of the plane
and at the folds of both wings, and then loosens them proud to isometry of angle. There is no
thought; all is, and is, just is - thoughtless blessed, improbable being, is beautiful. The gentle
terpsichorean rhythm of the tide, in and out, residues of sound cross-fading in roil, the smell of salt
and a young, nubile, spring affect the sense; delight it is to her to invoke, to feel as one, a part of a
greater thing, a greater, more grand, order, symbiotic, yet, still, as itself, sense sensing.

She inhales.

Lift off.

Watch as it soars steady, up and up wafted gently by a gush of cliffside caroming air. Simple majesty
as it flips, innocent, playful, and eclipses the sun—the rays of darkness, as the wings touch, forever
darkening the world.

And exhales.

If there are such as an identity and an essence, may mine be of art, love, philosophy, and
eternal reconfiguration.

Also, KITTY!
=^.^=

What I’m doing with my life

Considering what I said like just above, wondering why I am here trying to make a profile that is
somehow to capture me in all my polyphony knowing that will probably never happen because I have
no idea what affect or percept I am going for here nor the quality of the molar power which impels me
to do this (1) nor thusly the science of its reification into concatenations of words and prosaic
sentences as well as into photographic presentations (2) and calculated presences and absences à la
profile information and a panoply of other àpropos further reifications of that resemblance series and
but so doing it anyway and weeping gently about it (3) while I chastise myself for being such a cliché
in weeping gently about it (15) and for being this incorrigibly hyper-analytical ditz (16) who by the
very flaw she acknowledges and knows must work to correct has herself vera causa and yet still finds
herself weeping irrespective of the very thought, really, even while weeping knowing she has no
reason in her own self-interest to weep but does so anyway thusly substantiating her proposition of
her own thorough irrationality. So yeah... umm, check back later? (18)

1 - E.g., am I here to make friends, am I here to find a partner, if so, of either, then what type of
person may these friends or this partner be?

2 - Plural because I have, now, many photographs and may upload others later; and still a singular
meaning of presentation because if a singular photographic representation were of myself it would
imply a very, very dimensionless character thusly of myself and thus if three-many were to, as the
singular, know representation, again, very, very dimensionless.

3 - Actual tears, not the ironic tears that are probably evoked by the ironic and metafictionally
aware context of this description; tears at least half caused by the impossibility of a complete concept
and the obvious implications for a theoretically exhaustive description of myself, and general
exhaustion because my sleep schedule is all weird and I haven't been able to sleep until like two in the
morning since I was a little girl. You see, because after nine years of being with my birthmate,
Alexandria, I fell madly, deeply, crazily, and stupidly in love with her and because of her very, very
death anxious and existential parents who accepted the biological inevitability of death and, given
their life expectancy, the fool-hearted belief that they would live ever to see life-extending
biotechnology, and strove with the new hours they had every day to indulge in the riches, luxury, and
blessing, to most, that is life, she had this Da Vincian thing going about her sleep, basically the
Everyman three-nap variant of the polyphasic schedule, so she took, of course, three naps a day and,
around two in the morning had her one long major sleep episode, which was about three hours in
duration, and that was when, naturally, I went to sleep whenever I was with her despite being one of
those bodhisattva-types (4), sempiternally sleeping and lethargic, and but and then so her, this near
Übermensch, always awake and alert and beseemingly subtly aquiver with this Dionysian energy,
predictably all altogether this did not synthesize well with my Apollonian vibes and just shot my
nerves and had me sometimes all wide-eyed and like, "Daaaamn giiiiirrrrrllll, why you have so much
energy? Shiiiiiiieeeeet! Calm the fuuuck doooown," and never really ever did while we were, but I
loved her so damn much, you know how it goes, so, yeah, I cannot sleep at a godly hour anymore and
I now have a polyphasic quantity of sleep with a monophasic structure and quality, and we can all
blame her for my sleep debt which is in excess of the U.S. deficit by a factor of holy fuck. Shame,
shame. (5)

4 - Life basically a big dream of recurrent sameness, precarious to teeter about the void of
consciousness and awareness and bodiless ecstasy essentially dead in that perception has eroded
directly to sensation and my mind is like just not there and I am like not there and the world is just
like you know existing there with no interface at all with being and really I feel it is arguable this exact
state is the direct sense data, or lack thereof, that supervenes the claim the Mind is not absolutely
entrenched in being and is thus capable of being ontic, that is to be in that mode of just is, and, to the
absolute contrary, or I suppose absolute characterization of bodhisattava, being totally bereft of
cognitivistic faculty, neither noumena or noesis to color, is as a non-being or, come to think of it, yes,
absolute characterization because there is the ontic then there are the pre-transcendent, immanent
structures of being from which the Subject and Dasein, from the body, arise and thus the conditions of
differance, or ejection, and though the mind is immediately of meaning, i.e., "We are condemned to
meaning," by psychological schema, etc., what precedes, in the sense this behavior is a unfolding of
certain biological determinants that irrespective of environmental stimulus, stimulus being the only
requirement, occurs, is the pre-transcendent, immanent structures of being, that may be of
necessarily the Socius' construction, a special type of token-to-abstract-quality stimulus, that is,
imbedder of the Symbolic and Imaginary Orders, but in this case is not, and so yes, basically a
bodhisattava-esque, right sub bodhi, or enlightment, which is to imply that we all broach enlightment
every once in a while in those rare, silent moments with ourselves outside ourselves, ecstatic, but
then we are encountered by the notion of the not so easy principle of genuinely, authentically,
sincerely showing absolute acceptance, understanding, forgiveness, etc., in the face of that Other
which we would really rather be other than with.

5 - Joking, I know, I know. She couldn't help it, she is just like that. I couldn't help it, I am just like
this. Let us flirt the pragmatic side of the hard determinism/free will of the Mind, we were capable of
free will, and though we were completely exhaustively determined by a physical precedent, we were
still capable and it was a matter of a lack of this very, very special consciousness and awareness that
is quasi-free will that became the fact that we had none of that quasi-free will thus you know and thus
could not, you know, really do anything about it and thus, yup, the tragedy of both sides, a concept I
like to apply, really, to everything. Love, war, especially war.

So, no shame.

Nope.

Pout, pout, mutter, mutter, grumble, grumble, pout.

Cannot cry about this one, though.

The nights I spent up with her, talking to her about life, death, love, philosophy, thoughtfulness,
ecstasy, and all those pesky things both/neither and in between these lovely false binaries (6), and all
the talking, the late-night camisole sexual awakenings, and moreover the long summer days spent on
creaking, the sun-kissed wood porch of her grandmother's and grandfather's house secluded along the
seashore of the Outer Banks, that is, the fond, fond memories I have of every moment with
her (8) and the intoxicating romanticism of youth we both mutual (9) that was imbued to each a
moment becoming other in passing, yes, it was all worth it.

So, so much so.

6 - The only one not false being both/neither as it is the direct result and revitalization of
the dialectic, i.e., the dialectic applied upon itself, but you knew that so anyway, and, in addition, of
alternative existential modes such as [Sci], [Ref], [Rep], [Met], etc., really anything other than [Fic],
[Pol], [Att], and other quotidian modalities (7) and so that are modalities but are not really thought of
as a way to live, distinct from a lifestyle. (22)
7 - Quotidian being like most other qualifiers I use - less about precision and historian-like
carefulness about claims of universality and certainty than as a simple admission of a distinct lack of
precision and accuracy of a philosophic-conceptual sense but nonetheless including for a polyvalent
reason suffice to say to ascribe a normativity we all pretty much agree with and get where it is coming
from and thus allow despite.

8 - Remembrance of both the fantastical and unbearable mundane of her recurrent closenss.
Oh how I miss that.... Fuck.

9 - That I try breathlessly and fruitlessly to recreate, but I collapse sadly into
a (10) nihilistic (11) existence (12), oh why? Why must innocence be lost? And oh! The tragedy of
an innocence lost. (14)

10 - For the feeling, of course, that I say this.

11 - Not actually philosophically nihilistic because of [Att] to my own self-interest

and survival, viz., you are not a nihilist unless you are without [Att], i.e., without an ethic or preferred
end (as distinct from morals, which is anxiety about intentions/means), and no no-[Att] does not
constitute [Att], cf. Russell's Higher Ramified Types, oh so so clever one, but very, very pragmatic and
self-preserving, unlike the self-sacrificial neo-Marxist utopian dreams that were extinguished by
various symptomologies of a Socius subjectificated such as to be, I feel, as incompatible as possible
with such an ideal, but that is just my cynicism flaring again, and so I loved her, she moved on,
hopefully, to a, hopefully, higher place, I moved on, and may I reroute you to the learned optimism of
my Self-summary, although be it of language, to remind you that I am not totally cynical of human
nature and think a certain plasticity and compassion of the mind to allow, in time, the emergence of,
though a structurally very different, type of utopian dream?

12 - Existence, as I have said, distinctive from being, or Being. Ecstatic, or not-thereness, to put it
in words essentially though colloquially. (13)

13 - Colloquial, a heterological word if I'd ever.

14 - The purity of a pure child made ugly with a grimy, world-weary jade, something
fundamentally beautiful astray into an inclement environ, ravaged and molested by soul-killing apathy
and indifference, subjectivity and irreverant relativism, cliché and unbearable irony, historical
limitation of being attributed by the micropolitics of sex, gender, socioeconomic status, dress,
instrumental possibility, knowledge compossibility, race, ethnicity, psychologic extrinsic manifestation,
etc., all preventing us from knowing joie of again being a child, of becoming-child... fuck the
majoritarian heteronormative, white, adult, religious, metropolitan male.

Sigh.
15 - Is this not the very anxiety all of us on this damn website? All of us worrying about what
presentation of ourselves we are giving out and realizing perhaps we may be able to better present
ourselves thusly going back from our browsers to our word processors in this sempiternal cycle of
editing and restructuring and new approaches and styles and, again, a panoply of other àpropos
further reifications of aforesaid with aforesaid quality?

16 - This occurs in the same typical everyday way - I always find myself in a stasis between
intuitive creation (17) and macro-level complexity creation, which is only adequately described by the
following analogy of proportionality: programming is to the assembly language as ontology is to
macro-level complexity creation.

17 - Which I used. I could have analyzed OkTrends and read others' sociological and social
psychological analyses of OkCupid and its demographic distribution and effective profile qualities, etc.,
papers on psycholinguistics, the effects of evolutionary biology and social environment on the
contemporary conception of attractiveness, etc., etc., and constructed a profile perfectly exploitative
of the data and insights thusly extracted, but I didn't. Not this time, nosiree. I've been a good girl. I
swear!

18 - For the newest presentation of myself. Yup. Inevitably, a new facet (19) of my character will
be palpable or explicit, or, you know, so, yeah? (20)

19 - I like to think I have many. (Key word, "think.")

20 - This presentation? A few things. That I am inclined to philosophize in the weirdest of places.
That I have a very, very dry sense of humor, at times anyway. That I am that type of person to use
way too many footnotes and to summarize herself saying nothing about herself but in the process
saying a lot more than was intended. That I, I don't know, am crazy and am, consciously deliberately
by this admission, willing to accept that now 99% of the guys that I was perhaps liked or may have
been to like me now are going to be put off by this profile because perhaps people of similar interest
may message me now. (21)

21 - Before, I had said, "that is, at least until I change my presentation... again," and, through a
footnote, qualified it with, "[t]he next presentation of myself will be unironic and very sentimental,
probably..." I rescind. I will change the presentation, but I dispell the presumptuous notion I
imbedded within the statement that I would overwrite the presentation you read (excluding this,
which is a status update in the middle of a profile that I attribute ephemerality) with other character
facets, probably. I will, probably thus, supplement this content with other content that presents my
more serious, daresay I, cosmopolitan facet (via, in fashion of the irony of speaking of the futility of
communication whilst communicating quite a bit that is my profile, a rumination on the nature of
language) as well as present perfunctory tasting of the lifestyle I lead (via, in a bit uncharacteristic
fashion, an actual self-summational description and narrative). So though representation of a
complete concept (an impossibility itself), I would argue, is impossible, perhaps by presenting the
most important and 'essential' facets of my character I may approximate representation, which all in
all means I have like, assuming one facet per update, five-ish updates to go. Expect this in a
weekwhile, or so. Not because I need that long to work on all this, note to those that ask. I freewrite
all of this and apply minimal editing, meaning I glance at it, decide fuck it and save it even if it sounds
hella hella bad and scatterbrained. But yeah! The two most current updates, "My self-summary" and
"On a typical Friday night I am" are preliminary and are subject to perhaps complete overwritings
because I rather do not like them but I guess I have to test for the general effects of things, so until I
write new ones I guess I will have to be contented. ^o^

22 - And I realized how asinine this is. Our lives may be said to be a spectrum of modes, i.e., all
modes may and likely are a part of our lives. The dichotomy I said within the modes is senseless as it
attempted to equate Badiou's conditions of subjectivity to Latour's modes which is ontologically
groundless in that the flow of subjectivity must be through a network of associated modes to
constitute itself thus Badiou's conditions are a meta-concept of the modes themselves and thus may
not be sans combinations, not crossings, of the modalities and consecutive, linked information-
machines. This is what I get for streaming and not editing, oh well. I suppose no one, i.e., myself,
may now accuse me of absolute complacency in regards to the philosophical veracity of my
propositions.

I spend a lot of time thinking about

I specialize in non-philosophy, OOP, genetic structuralism, philosophical and mathematical
schemata and categories, the theory of systems engineering, technics, Borromean Knot-era Lacan,
modes of existence, engaged theory, simulation, emergence, the philosophy of computer science, the
philosophy of finance, transcendental empiricism, and post-Austrian praxeologies. Though I dabble in
many other fields, I practice a buggery pretty much simply what Deleuze describes.

On a typical Friday night I am

I am the sort to wake up, read and write and have breakfast at a little cornerquaint indie coffee shop
and bakery, seduce a man on the metro and lead him to a parking garage utility closet and lockpick it
for a bit of kinky D/s with some Domina toys I have in my knapsack, go into the Pentagon City Mall
and do a bit of shopping and end up more chatting with the employees at a boutique or bookstore
than actually shopping, bid adieu and eat lunch at Nando's Peri Peri, afterward try and slip into a gala
at an art exhibit or yacht club by a bit of social engineering and end up commingling with either DC
hipsters and intelligentsia or the aristocratic well-connected sort, come home late into the dusk doing
some parkour along the way, find a warm blanket and my lilo, bring them upstairs to the roof of my
apartment complex, set them out abreast the stone railing then laying upon the parapet - feet
dangling the side - watching the bronzing of the sunset over the city rooftops and highrises as birds lilt
about the dying sun peeling the corona back to departing flocks, eventually getting up from the
parapet and retiring to my lilo, supining as the stars and their constellations soothe my existential
heart, messaging friends whilst reading Cox's rendition of the consummate lyric poetry of Sappho and
Adler's lovely Speedboat until, at last, which is appropriately homophonically alas, my mind lulls into a
great, contented sleep, napping for an hour or two, going to a rave ecstatic by the abreast writhing
disembodied sea of bodies, transindividual, synthesizing with each other one another and the low,
thrumming deep and electro house, air ablaze with lines of color and pigment nebulae and the primal,
visceral scent of mixing chemistries, pungent with the orgiastic of night, leaving and somehow ending
53-stories up atop the roof of a highrise, shattered beer bottles, people strewn about in various states
of consciousness, stretching, groaning, distended to overlap bodily, as the sun rises over the waking
cityscape, walking over to the side of the structure, standing at the edge as I take in the indescribable
beauty and sublime of the moment; all within a day, and wherever I am pondering, luxuriating in the
ecstasy of sensation and being.

You see, I try to live each day as though it were Joyce's Ulysses, attempting to transmute life into
veritable artform. Every moment, every second a painting, a sculpting, a Victorianesque machinic
intricacy, a sonorous masterwork, polyphonic and formalist in its ambiguities as the paragons of
Modern and their literature. Why? Because, as much as we tend to forget, as much as it may pain and
anguish us, life is ephemeral and may end at each a passing, any moment, any second, and, that is to
say, how much I tend to forget, as much as it pains and anguishs me, thus I try to live in that one
way that makes me feel real, simultaneously ecstatic and, amid the omni-present groundlessness,
here and grounded. And yeah, sometimes I fail. (1) But I always remember. On my skin inkly etched
the intimate signifiers.

(Problematic and its definition has by construction its very axiomatic resolution.)

1 - (I mean fuck, if I said I didn't what the lier I'd be.)

The most private thing I’m willing to admit

Lieu of a tiring ironic comment about how that which is on a public forum is not
private, which this comment inevitably is (ironic) because it comments on that very commentary and
now thus that very commentary on that very commentary and so on, now ad infinitum, I shall admit
that I cannot twerk. Nope, nope. Cannot, tried, it was terrible, never again. Nope, never, nope. White
girl here, tyvm.

You should message me if

Disclaimer : Though based in DC, I am both nomadic-by-heart and because my job as an investment
banker requires that I be. I have been to so many countries I have lost count, so if you look up my
profile and wonder how I exist simultaneously in about five different countries and 13 different cities,
that is why.

I rarely stay in one place for more than a month, so catch me while you can... :3

And though my profile says I am single, it is not true. I have three partners scattered around the
globe, nomadic like myself. We try to cross paths whenever we can, but we are not committed and
most definitely bring other people into the mix.

Oh, and also, if you ever stumble across eclipsingthesun's profile, he is one of those lovers, my de
facto S/O, and, coincidentally, the co-writer of this profile. I'm the philosophical element, and he is the
literary element. We compound rather nicely, no? So, he has equal claim to the words herein.
Apparently, we have both had many people question us on this, so I thought I'd clear this up.
Communism, in concept:

Same as capitalism

A priori communism and capitalism are neutral - virtual systems without reference to the transcendentalism of a
human actor - but a posteriori manifest with an otherworldly failure. To put it bluntly and extremely simplistically, the
U.S.S.R. failed because it devolved into the fascism of its vanguard and U.S. of glorious A. failed because it devolved
into a polyarchy of conflicting corporate interest, and every other political configuration because of the U.S.'s,
constituent corporate interest's, and most other parties that contribute to the U.S. polyarchy, neo-imperial assertion of
a late capitalist agenda on the global theater via international interdependence, low-intensity coventional and shadow
warfare, simulated and rigged political elections via gerrymandering and shit-worthy campaign funding legislature,
tranquilizing and paralytic technology-cum-entertainment, omni-present mechanisms of State indoctrination, the
frequent repression and oppression and suppression of unprofitable minoritarian but morally luxurious groups
(historically, the interests of blacks and immigrant people, and, continuing today at a much greater intensit than the
precedent, women, homosexuals, genderqueers, et cetera), conservative judiciary interpretations of rights, further
decay of the middle class and thus further stratification of society via class differential and struggle, voiding of the
Subject and the subsequent multiplicitization of the object (lieu of Subject/object, now properly Object/subject), et
cetera. To be trenchant about it, both have failed, both have been outmoded, both have been condemned, and thus a
new system of political configuration must be forged from the problematic of its bastardized and certainly unfortuitous
predecessors.

Have you ever written something on the wall of a public toilet?

Yes

"When you realize how perfect everything is, you will tilt your head back and laugh at the sky."

Which best describes your political beliefs?

Other

Post-anarchistic post-Prometheanism infused with two-level consequentialism and the pragmatism of democratic
socialism.

Do you often find yourself worrying about things that you have no control over?

No

Eternity at its face, my existential pragma? I have inquired into the essence of impossibility. (I like to think I know it.) I
perhaps have made peace with the very existential impossible, impossibility itself. That is philosophy to me -
practical, concrete. A way for me to both come to terms with my existential death anxiety and perhaps eliminate the
drive of my organism toward death.

What's your deal with harder drugs (stuff beyond pot)?

I've done drugs in the past, but no longer.

Once a psychonaut, further an addict mourning. Life can fuck me up, but who doesn't enjoy a good fucking from time
to time?

Which is closest to your reaction to foul language?

It's ok as long as it isn't every other word.

Curse words mixed with delicious esoteric words, delightful.

Are you careful with your money?

Yes

I have a two-tier system: tier I generates a yield of ~14% and consists of very low risk investments (i.e., U.S. gov't
bonds and other fixed investment securities), and tier II consists of derivatives, generally speculative-grade bonds,
and strategic start-ups and pay-offs, which yields very, very well, rest assured. I live off of tier I and pay myself
handsomely with tier II. So, yes and no.

How much can intelligence turn you on?

A lot!

I like the expressiveness that tends to come with some intelligence, but I don't value inteligence as much as I do
kindness, humanity, and a certain hopeful melancholy peculiar to life experience and becoming jaded to again find joy
and purpose in oneself. Traits such as those I have come to know as the signs of a true individual, someone with
whom I can come to know, relate, and even possibly love.
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